Real Men Don’t Slap

Marcy and I got into an argument over her Parakeet crapping on the carpet. It’s technically my apartment and my deposit in jeopardy, so I’m not sure how I lost the argument or why she kicked me out for the evening. Ugh.

Whatever. I had a hankering for Taco Bell anyway. At the drive-thru I pick-up my usual: 4 bean and cheese burritos, cinnamon twists and a jumbo Mountain Dew. I used to get tacos or a couple Mexican pizzas, but those never survived for long. Soggy tacos are worse than warm lager, so I switched to burritos. Besides, those things reheat really well for breakfast.

Since I grabbed a laptop from a co-worker, I’ve been able to sit in front of a house in Waterbury, eating my fast food while snagging free wireless internet. (Funny, the guy whose computer I grabbed got fired later that week. It’s a good thing I swiped it before he took off.) I don't worry about being spotted while surfing; my Monte Carlo’s windows are tinted pretty dark. Plus, the house is on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac.

So, with a warm burrito in hand, I was in Waterbury downloading a bunch of porn—mostly videos. I found some good ones with a couple of skinny transvestites using a plunger. I was getting into it when a commotion started outside a house across the street and the cops soon showed up. I guess the rich folks aren’t any happier than the rest of us. I had enough porn to last a bit, so I left.

After I download my fill, I usually park behind the old folks home on School Street. I can sit there for hours. The parking lot is nearly full, but the residents rarely drive so there’s not much activity. I get in a few leisurely workouts and then head over to Buddy’s for a few beers. Fridays are always fun times with the karaoke. I’m usually good for an Abba tune or two.

Some Latina cross dresser was belting out “Dancing Queen” when I walked in, so I decided to skip the Swedish serenade. I grabbed an MGD and sat down in the corner. I hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when two beefy guys started shouting at each other. Before I could figure out what they were arguing about, the bigger of the two guys slapped the other in the face. The place just went silent. The smaller guy snatched up his jacket and stormed out with the bigger guy on his heels, lisping “I’m tho thorry. Omigawd! I’m tho thorry!”

Now this was the third time in as many weeks that I’ve seen one guy slap another in the face. The first time was in the bathroom at Applebee’s, and last week it was at Hooters. I don’t remember what started either fight—if you can even call it “fighting.”

Real men don’t slap. Men punch, elbow, kick, shove, grab, throw, chop, knee and maybe even bite, but not slap. I don’t understand the thought process—or lack thereof—that precedes the bitch slapping.

If you want to give the other guy a taste of the whoop-ass he’s asking for, a good shove is perfect, especially if he goes to the ground. If you’d rather scare him good, just go ahead and let him have a solid hook to the nose. If you want to drop him, nail him hard in the temple. And though I don’t like dirty fighting, I’ve got nothing against carrying a set of knuckles just in case.

I suppose if you’re not a real man, and you want to momentarily confuse the other guy—and everyone else—then that slapping shit is just what the gay doctor ordered. If you slap a real man though, you’ll likely just make him madder than hell and then you’ve got that to deal with.

The whole slapping scene made me uncomfortable. I just don’t get it. If I see it again and can get over feeling grossed out, I’ll have to ask these guys what the deal is. At the rate things are going, I’m sure I’ll get the chance again real soon.

I don’t know what’s come over Des Moines. The city used to be a lot tougher. I hope America didn’t sissy-fy itself by voting in a black president. I mean, I’m all for giving other races a chance, but maybe we should have started with someone who was only, like, a quarter black, or just really good friends with some blacks.

I’m telling you: it is possible to change too fast. In American today there’s subtle fear, unrest and a subsequent lack of trust that’s compromising America’s traditional commitments. This slapping thing is a mere symptom. America’s men can no longer commit to our God-given right to physically defend our women, ourselves, our property and our country. The entire institution of noble brawling could be endangered.

Ugh. Just talking about this shit is making me sick, but I refuse be infected by this cowardly, “open-handed” epidemic. I’ve got to be perpetually deliberate. I must be true to my X&Y. I've got to man-up and commit 110% to everything that I do—starting right now!

Another burrito and a couple more free videos and I’m going straight home. That goddamned bird is going to stop shitting on the carpet—and not because I’m gonna slap it!

Thank the Machine

I went out with my girlfriend last night. For a few weeks we’d wanted to visit the new Western Sizzler near our apartment, so we did. Marcy had the salad bar and I ordered the small rib eye plate. They brought me a New York strip that was completely overcooked and the 7-and-7s were watered down, but other than that, it was pretty good. Being a complainer isn’t going to help anyone, and our country really just needs to stick together in this economy.

On the way home, I stopped to put half a tank of fuel in the Monte Carlo. I gave Marcy a ten-spot to grab a pack of MGD cans and a jumbo bag of Funyuns. It was Friday, after all.

When I finished fueling, I hung up the nozzle. The pump beeped at me, asking if I wanted a receipt. Blinking black arrows on a LCD screen pointed at two buttons on the surrounding panel. My choices of responses beside the arrows were “Yes” and “No, thanks.”

“No, thanks?” Who the hell am I thanking? Am I supposed to be thanking the pump? I mean, somewhere, some bastard had to think about this as he created the text and programming for thousands of fuel stations.

So what was it this idiot had in mind? Is this his quiet way of reminding the country to be nicer to machines? Had this mongoloid sot watched Maximum Overdrive one too many times and simply snapped?

“No, thanks” The sick fuck even put in a comma. Like it’s not stupid enough for us to be thanking a cold, unthinking, unfeeling fuel pump, but we’re going to take the absurdity further with a thoughtful pause before saying “thanks?” That goddamned comma speaks to the detail and twisted deliberation with which this madman crafted the pump’s interface.

And this is what happens when corrupt, totalitarian regimes ship our American men’s jobs overseas. The circuit boards in fuel pumps across our great nation are now suffering the ills of being molested by slant-eyed assembly men and corrupted by perverted, curry-sniffing programmers—people unfit to clean prison crematoriums, much less construct fuel pumps that transfuse the lifeblood into this proudly mobile, motoring American nation.

I pressed “Yes” so hard the LCD display flickered and faded into faint, rainbow waves—interestingly, not unlike the rainbow waves I see in the hose water as I wash my old motor oil off the pavement and into the sewer drain near our apartment. The tab printed and curled and I tore it off with a patriotic vigor.

I didn’t want a damned receipt, but if I had pressed “No, thanks.” I would have been complicit in this crime—an accessory to the terrorist who designed this pump, an accomplice to the deranged and dumb son-of-a-bitch, foreign architect attempting to force this seemingly insignificant moment into existence millions of times each day across the United Stated of America.

The government wants to fight terrorism? Here at these subtly anthropomorphized pumps is where the homeland battle should begin. But, will that sell papers or generate viewers? No. And it’s a damned conspiracy.

“I hope you got everything you wanted,” I said to Marcy as she climbed into the car, “because we’re NEVER coming back to this Christ-forsaken, communist gas station!”

“The beer and Funyuns are in the bag,” Marcy responded with sympathetic eyes and a shrug.

I just stared at her for a moment before kissing her forehead. For a sixteen year old, she really gets it and I’m lucky to have her. I just smiled and turned the engine over without another word. She wouldn’t understand my anger, and I don’t yet want to corrupt her with the reality of this fucked-up world.

North Carolina Governor’s School Introduces “Klan Klass”

After a rash of Klan-themed graffiti attacks on buildings in and around Siler City, N.C., the state has decided to take a stand against what it’s calling “an affront to decent citizenship.”

“You would think these young men and women would know that the Nazi swastika points to the right, not the left, always to the right...like this one on my arm,” said Senator Rip Long, a Republican from Townsville, N.C. “This is North Carolina, not some Indian reservation.”

The final straw, however, according to school administrators, was the constant misspelling of “Ku” as “Klu.”

“We refuse to be undermined by simple, easily preventable mistakes after working so hard to purge our curriculum of evolution, alternative lifestyles and physical education.” said North Carolina Governor’s School Superintendant Dixie Duke. “We see the blatantly erroneous graffiti as a desperate cry for help that we intend to answer with love and support.”

“Klan Klass” will begin in the fall semester of 2009, pending the instructor’s release from prison. The course is slated to focus on fascist iconography, Proto Indo-European history and spelling. The course will also feature a recitation presenting a primer on filling out application forms for a Graduate Equivalency Degree, unemployment, as well as disability and welfare.

Duke says she’s optimistic about the progrom’s success.

“You have to goosestep before you can fly,” she said.