Inappropriate White Upper Middle Class Rage

For those either too liberal, too intelligent or too non-white to decipher it, this note, which is placed at a Boy Scout Troop's canned food drive in Michigan, reads as follows:

This is the last time I will donate anything to any charity. It's Obama's problem not mine.

Good on you, sir. Knock those uppity, coddling Boy Scouts down a few pegs. They may not be old enough to understand the delicate political issues at play in your odd choice of public forum, but they'll put it in their tiny pipes and smoke it anyway. This plan also has the added benefit of not only punishing the Boy Scouts for their audacity, but will also punish those truly less fortunate by forcing your disgusting almond milk upon them. Pow! Double whammy!

Don't want to drink nut milk? Should have voted for Romney, you commie dickhead!

As a triple bonus, when the tiny boy's minds invariably finish "reeling" from your "dealing" you dished out, and realize that helping people and being generally good-willed, is nothing more than a steaming pile of democratic horse tits, they'll finally earn their coveted Wrinkly White Butthole badge.

Public Transit: Paddywagon O' Crazy

Reminded by a friend recently moving to a new city, and having to rely on public transit to shuffle him to and from his job, I flashed back to just a few years ago when I, too, relied on the moving petri dish that is public transit. Akin to Vietnam, it brought back horrible, awful, smelly memories.

I'm sure many of you haven't ridden on a major-metropolitan transportation system before, but despite the many glaring downfalls and drawbacks to the system, it's really not as bad as you think it would be. Sure it took me two hours to traverse the same distance I could cover in a car in 20 minutes, but where's the fun in that?

Public transportation isn't JUST about a cheap and painfully slow means to get anywhere you want to go, but really it's about the sights, smells and sounds you take in while en route to your destination. There's a venerable cornucopia of freaks, degenerates, foreigners, losers, social outcasts, disease infested carrier monkeys, people with only few functioning body parts, people with MORE functioning body parts than the rest of us, gang-bangers (in both the guns, and herpes varieties), prostitutes, drunks, crazies and should-be-shots, that all call the bus their ride.

Granted, I've never used public transportation in any other city, but I imagine that southern California's city bus experience is second to only places such as New York or Paris. Although many of you perhaps have not ridden on a city bus before, I'm sure the normal rules of the bus aren't foreign to anybody. There's three simple, and easy to follow rules that are posted on all buses and trolleys, probably in every city in the world:

What many don't realize however, is that these three are not the only rules that govern public transit etiquette.

Nay.

These three were just widdled down from a much larger list of do's and do not's for riding successfully and correctly. Through many months of careful observation, and a few leaked internal memo's, I've been able to track down the full list of rules.

		If you're too old and crippled to live without assistance, and you are barely (just barely) mobile...then the bus and all it's boarding procedures are right for you. Yes, there are approximately three steps required to getting on and off the bus, but you shouldn't be able to do any of them without everyone helping you. Ideally it should take you between 2-3 minutes, compared to everyone else's 10 seconds, to get on the bus and move 4 feet to the seats meant for old people. In a perfect world, you'd be so crippled that any steps at all are beyond your scope of operations, so that the bus has to deploy its little ramp/lift thing to hoist you up 16 inches, all so you can go to the Ralph's three blocks away, get some diapers, and do the whole process over again on the return journey.
		You must be this fat *hand estimation of ginormous* in order to get the full effect out of riding the bus. If the heavy duty air suspension of the bus has to give way, leading to it listing to one side as you board, that'd be great. And please have an ass so fat that you can't fit down the aisle between seats on your marathon to the back of the bus. Don't let this discourage you from attempting to and brushing everyone's shoulder with your ass-lard on the way, however. You couldn't get out of your house without a special door being installed, but don't give a second thought about trying to squeeze into the bus.
		Under no circumstances is any one to use the rear doors of the bus. There are two sets of doors on the bus, so that entering and exiting can take place at the same time; but it's far better if everyone uses the front doors concurrently, resulting in a time wasting clusterfuck for all parties involved. Even if you're near the rear, take the extra time to walk to the front so that the people waiting to get on have to wait just that much longer. Any amount of time wasting is appreciated.
		While some people may prefer to sit with the person they wish to communicate on the bus with, it's preferred that you sit so far apart that it would warrant using two cups on a string to communicate. Just go ahead and shout your poorly-constructed, and idiotic conversation through as many people as required to speak to your friend who chose to sit six seats away. Silence may be golden everywhere else, but you should try your best to fill the bus with your important conversation about purchasing stamps. Or that old chestnut "Shandra had her baby this weekend and it was totally cute, and as soon as she determines who the father is, she'll be able to afford a crib".
		You know what the best place to practice your dope-fresh rhymes is? The city bus. Your crazy, silly, whack-ass, bomb, sick, shit-dope, retarded rhymes, that 're are totally off the chain are great, and everyone knows it. What better place to free-style rap about your hard-knock, white, suburban, teenage, middle-class life than within earshot of 20 other mostly silent riders on a city bus. Nod your head to the invisible and silent beats as you come up with asinine after asinine limerick, about your life; which I'm sure is worthy of many MTV documentaries about. Sure the buses may not have a radio for our listening enjoyment, but surely you can do us all a favor and fill the silence with the majesty of your songs.
		While shirts and shoes may be required for service in any normal establishment, they merely hinder normal bus operations. Ideal candidates for bus/trolley travel will have the top half of a shirt on (so that it looks like some shitty version of a midriff shirt, if they were made by wolverines), three or four pairs of layered pants on, all of which are sagging and being generally worn improperly, and shoes made out of trash bags. The purpose of this glorious wardrobe decision is so that their bloated, distended, sun burnt belly can hang out freely and become both a source of disgust and puzzlement for all passengers on board.
		Sanitation is a good practice for most people. By most people I mean those that don't ride the bus. It's your civic duty as a public transportation passenger to reek of as many disgusting and confusing odors as possible. If I can properly identify what the fuck you smell like or I'm not breathing through my mouth as a last defense, then your job isn't quite done. Piss yourself, have others piss on you, roll in some chemicals, and bake in the sun for a few hours then get back to us.
		Let's say for argument sake that you as a full-grown adult, for one reason or another, shit your pants. Great start to a story, I know, but let's continue with it. Your pants are full of loaf; what do you do now? Find the nearest restroom and attempt to salvage your pants? Quickly hide, and find a way home that involves the least amount of being seen? Kill yourself? The correct answer is, of course, get on the city bus and continue on your busy, shit-filled day. When you sit down, be sure to lean to one side at a steep angle so as to not sit directly on your own feces. But don't worry, no one will have to guess what you're doing as the smell of shit will be quite strong. Once you reach your destination, simply get up, and walk your stained pants out the front door, dragging as much smell with you as possible. Then just wander around aimlessly on the streets paying no mind to the nutty situation brewing down south.
		Be a grown-ass adult Get on the bus Get to seat Calmly sit down Begin weeping uncontrollably and loudly Make it so loud and powerful that people move away from you Mission accomplished
		Drinking when under 21 is generally frowned upon by most responsible adults. Drinking when under 13, however, is always a good idea as far as the bus is concerned. Don't let 'the man' tell you what you can and cannot do. You're 13 now goddamit and you make your own choices! That's why you drink the only beer manly enough for a 13 year old: Natural Ice. And you drink it at the back of the bus in plain site of all people. From the six-pack you carry around in your backpack. Which you probably bought from bullying milk money out of other 13 year-olds. No beer tastes as sweet as ill-begotten bus beer.
		Fare: Check. Idea of where you're going: Check. Shame: Check that shit at the door. One thing you may never bring with you on any public transportation medium is your sense of shame. For if one brought their shame with them, they might have reservations about dry humping their woman in the back row of the bus, while she's trying to restrain her child from climbing out the window. There's nothing wrong with public displays of erections.
		Not only can you get to your destination economically, but only on the city busses can you also get delicious chlamydia at the same time. It may be cold or hot outside, so the best and most comfortable environment for hookers to conduct business is, of course, on the bus. All the potential John's come right to you, and are trapped for long periods of time where you can entice them with a combination of dirty talk and that "cold sore" on your upper lip. Is that a shit or cum stain on my bus seat? Yes! Mixed together! "Hey baby. You want to watch me put this umbrella in my ass? Only $10."
		No one can understand your troubles and the issues affecting your life better than you. So who better to have a loud and borderline-violent conversation with about said issues than yourself? Fucking whore? I agree! My medication costs too fucking much? That's correct! Charlies in the trees? True that!
		Buses are tricky and sneaky urban beasts, and as such they can easily sneak right up on you. With this is mind, it's totally acceptable to wait until you're on board the bus to dig out and rifle through all your money to find your fare. Once you've dug out your money, feel free to argue with the bus driver over the fare you actually have to pay to get to where you need to go. It's a little known fact that each bus driver makes up the fare for their own bus, so there's plenty of room to haggle with them. When you agree upon a price, simply take the required bills and slowly and carefully force them into the bill receptacle, so that they bunch all up are aren't accepted. When the machine beeps and attempts to reject your bills...and it totally will if you fuck them up like you're supposed to...simply keep pushing them into until the bus driver has to do it for you.
		If you know where you want to go, but aren't sure how to get there, feel free to just hop on any bus. Once in motion simply ask the bus driver about all the other routes, and what it is you should do to get to where you want to go. It's best to not have the foresight to research what buses will take you where. Who has the time for all that noise, when you could just look like a a dipshit who doesn't realize there's 75 bus routes and maybe they don't all go to the Yarn Barn you want to get to. But in the grand scheme of things, this foresight is unnecessary as it's common knowledge that bus routes aren't rigid structures, and are instead open to your input and needs. Where you need to go is only three blocks off the normal route, so the bus driver will be happy to adjust his and everyone else's needs so that you might get to where you're going with the least amount of walking.
		All children ride the buses for free, so go ahead and crank them shits out! 2, 3, 6, 15 kids, the more the better! And whatever you do, don't sit with or have any control over your spawns. It's best that they freely roam around the bus under their own guidance, and take up as many seats as possible by laying in them and climbing on them. With as cheap as it is to load all the screaming, misbehaving kids up into a city bus, there's simply no reason to not have 15 of the fuckers. If you can get 50% of them crying and/or pulling the cord to stop the bus, you can also ride for free! Everybody wins!
		You see those people on the bus that look pregnant? Don't be fooled...they're not. Whatever is brewing inside of them that allows them to maintain the physique of a woman harboring an eight pound larva inside, is strictly a lifestyle choice they've made. Is she an alien incubator? Is it a giant tangled web o' tape worm colony? Perhaps storing things in her snatch is cheaper than a purse? No one can say for sure, and we'd all be truly horrified if we actually found out. But no matter what's causing her physical distortion, the point is, don't feed her. Whether it's worms or tiny Mexicans being smuggled across the border, feeding her will only exacerbate the problem.

Nature's Majesty

A truly wondrous thing has happened. A once in a lifetime glimpse into the magical and mysterious inner workings of nature, and her bewildering creatures. Hidden from even the prying eyes of many a nature documentarian, a truly rare event was witnessed by many stunned and awestruck layman onlookers.

For the first time recorded visually, allow me to unveil to the public the royal glory that is the the Queen Brotato.

We're all used to seeing the average worker Brotato drones scurrying about, collecting outrageous t-shirts and Milwaukee's Best for their collective.

But it's exceedingly rare for the queen to leave the nest, let alone be documented doing so. Entomologists believe that global climate change is likely directly responsible for this isolated and uncommon event. Citing that, due to increased temperatures, the hive the Brotatos were occupying before most likely ran out of bronzer and black muscle tees, forcing the colony to locate a new mall to call home.

How To Exit In California

The trick is to know several miles in advance that you need to exit at a specific place. And then, once literally on the threshold of that place, jerk the wheel to the right and pray for all the families involved in your genocide. It's an exact science.

Like a champion jackass, you see the solid line indicating that the exit lane is done forming, and has been committed to by others, and see it as a challenge to fit in regardless of the consequences. The fucktastic logic even applies to surface streets. Want to turn left, but are in the right-most lane 45 feet from your turn? Fear not, the solution is a mere 90 degree turn, and six insurance claims away from being a reality.

Driving in the wildly incorrect lane, and expecting all others to yield to our ill-thought-out whims is a God-given right of every American. If a bunch of hatchet-wielding men on horseback couldn't stop us from taking the land this four lane road is built on, what chance does you hatchetless car stand of stopping everyone from pilfering your lane? Exactly none.

It is easier to ask forgiveness (blame it on all the other motorists using the roads correctly) than it is to ask for permission (use your frontal lobe ahead of time).

This Isn't Mogadishu, There Are Rules

Listen here, dickhead neighbors, it's bad enough I have to listen to your constant outdoor phone calls, and 10pm-1am toddler shouting matches; but when you start stealing my mail-delivered cheap and nearly useless car parts, we have an issue.

I understand that the allure of a small, padded, delivery-confirmed envelope sitting either on top of my mailbox, or on my doorstep is simply too tempting. It could be anything! My god! What riches could the 3"x5" envelope contain?! Treasure? Handjobs? Winning but unclaimed lottery tickets? Hard British candies? It could literally be anything!

What it was, in fact, was the part #4 in the diagram below, which is a strut tower cap for my BMW

It's one dollar and eighty-seven damn cents of black plastic that has zero application outside covering my car's strut tower. Zero.

The real question then becomes; which of you thieving prick neighbors thought you cashed in big time, only to obtain an ill-begotten plastic disc? Chubby forever-alone white girl, was it you? Downstairs constantly-shuffling crackheads? Or how about you Ethiopian family? Maybe it was you, second Ethiopian family?

Even though your larcenous nature rendered you incapable of passing my private mail without pilfering it, could you not have just returned it when you realized you lacked the mental capacity to comprehend how you could benefit from such an influx of thermoset plastic? Perhaps your constant public-transit use is only a clever ruse to hide the fact that you are simply rife with 135i's, which are also lacking strut caps?

Here you go, sir. I am returning to you this opened package that I mistakenly took from your door because I thought for sure that the addressee and geographical information tied to its delivery to your domicile was incorrect. Despite your name being on it, I was sure it was intended for me.

But upon seeing that it did not meet my reserve price for the eBay auction I posted it to, I'm being a good samaritan and returning it to its rightful owner. These things happen.

Regardless of who amongst us has the light-fingers, I hope you'll enjoy these new purchases I made:

eBay Item 2002334264181: Open glass jar of hungry and threatened South American bullet ants

eBay Item 2032332267982: Medium vial containing Ebola virus with missing lid

eBay Item 21326443247949: Electromagnetically suspended 2 gram anti-matter sphere in absolute vacuum shipping package with easy-to-open top

Let me know how you like those packages as well. I'll be looking for the screaming / flopping / twitching / annihilated body in the courtyard to indicate which of you savages is the swindler.

I Want Out...Permanently

I'm want out of this spam operation.

95% of mail is the following, by volume:

• 12 page booklets of local grocery coupons
• Perpetual reminders of the "one weekend only" local furniture sale that's been running for over 6 weeks
• Tempting 45.8% APR credit card offers
• Balance reminders that I still owe $0 on that credit card from two years ago
• Buttplug and sex swing mail-order catalogs addressed to a resident who probably lived here during the Nixon era
• Local "buy 7 entrees, 7 drinks and 7 desserts, and get 1 entree of lesser value for free" coupons

The mailbox is nothing but a reverse trashcan, and I'm done with it all. You're dead to me, mailbox. You hear me, you filthy metal cocksucker!?

YOU'RE DEAD TO ME!

Calm down, everyone. No one's cancelling any mail.

Oh, yes, I am.

What about your bills?

The bank can pay 'em.

*Scoff* The bank... What about your cards and letters?

E-mail, telephones, fax machines...

...Fedex, telex, telegrams...

...holograms!

All right, it's true! Of course nobody needs mail. What do you
think, you're so clever for figuring that out?

Powers of Ten

It's often wondered why it is that I don't seem to give of a shit about anything. Briefly holding my lack of shit giving at bay, allow me to take you on a magical journey to find exactly how much of a shit I give on any given subject:

10⁰ Meters

Me as usual, just being consumed with not giving a shit. Food, books, out-of-place clocks...I can't be bothered.

10^-1 Meters

Just a hand. No shits here. Move along.

10^-2 Meters

Hmmm, no shits found yet.

10^-3 Meters

Damn my skin looks like a freaky anus. An anus containing no figurative shits.

10^-5 Meters

One of my many magic white orb guardians. It's no doubt that they've destroyed many of the shits I might have given.

10^-6 Meters

Just a normal cell nucleus vagina cluster. Could any of the invisible shits be hiding in there? Let's find out!

10^-7 Meters

Fuck, my chromosomes are even less organized than the rest of my life. Sadly, no mysterious shits found yet.

10^-8 Meters

Those double helix's are up to no good, no uncertainties about that. But alas, even this scale doesn't reveal how little shit I give.

10^-9 Meters

I'm sure there's something witty to say about these DNA base pairs, but alas...not enough shits given. And still we delve deeper...

10^-10 Meters

Fuck you, outer electron shell of a carbon atom. Where my hell is my level of shit-giving hiding?

10^-12 Meters

What's all this now?

10^-14 Meters

Hey! Carbon nucleus! Have you seen anything that resembles a shit being given around here? No? Alright then.

10^-15 Meters

Certainly, this 1 Fermi scale should reveal what we've been looking for. But frankly, it doesn't because it's still much too large of a scale.

10^-18 Meters

Finally! At the scale of quarks, my long lost shits have been found. It appears that the majority of the subatomic universe is comprised of shits that I don't give. Neat!

As we can see, it takes theoretical physics to uncover the amount of shit I give. At the string theory level, my ungiven shits may actually be composed of even tinier shits that I don't give. But, frankly, I don't give a shit enough to dig into it.