Scream

Do you ever wonder if you are suddenly, and without warning, going to come down with a case of Tourettes? And for those of you who don’t know what that is, I’m going to stop here and ask you why you’re reading words instead of looking at pictures or coloring on the walls.

In my day, I’d get spanked for writing on the walls. Now that the hippies have done away with any civility, and our world is littered with little “artists” with no respect, I have to pretend to be patient with kids and young adults (can you tell that I’m pretending to be patient?).

Back to the subject at hand: screaming in public for no good reason. Since “good” is rather ambiguous, I should define my standards of when it is appropriate to scream in public:

YES! Scream away!

1. You found out that you have been diagnosed with a terminal disease via text message from your doctor.
2. They played a Lady GaGa song on the radio.
3. You are, or will soon be getting eaten by a Bengal Tiger.
4. The person walking in front of you did not match ANY of their clothes.
5. Someone sneezes on your face.

NO SCREAM ZONE! What are you thinking??

1. Kanye West tells your wife-to-be that she could have done much better during the middle of the wedding ceremony. PUHleeze, Kayne is just saying what we are all thinking, and he can’t be blamed for that.
2. A car ran over your foot. Get over it.
3. Your baby has been stolen. There are TOO many babies in the world, who keeps track of those things? It’s like that biblical story, if it’s really yours you won’t want it- or something like that.
4. You’re in the bathroom. There is never any screaming in the bathroom. No exceptions. (Except for number 4 in the above category. What? You say that number 5 should also be allowed? Make your own damn list then, asshole. NO Exceptions to the Exceptions!!)
5. A person from the state of New York properly signals before crashing into your car in a perfect 90 degree angle. There’s a rule in New York that you should already be aware of, and it’s that as long as you use your turn signal, anything else that you do while driving is legal- including letting your pet llama drive while you climb to the cooler in the back for another beer.

"There is NEVER any screaming

in the bathroom."

Great! Now that you have a general idea about screaming laws (see local laws in your own state and county at www.e.s.a.d.com. (don’t actually click that link, I have no idea where it goes, and I cannot be held responsible for any judgment from the almighty onto your tarnished soul)), I can continue.

Say you are walking down the road at a constant 1 meter per second rate, and the male walrus in front of you is [walking] at a slow, but steady 0.20 meters per second. Now, despite the many books about very slow walruses winning races that have been translated from Walrus to English, and back to Walrus again- this manbeast is not going to win anything short of an eating contest. That is, assuming that he makes it on time for the eating contest

If you had red hair and an anger problem, you’d be screaming the same things that I am screaming at this point in my head:

“Unlike a treadmill, you can’t just pretend to walk here.”

“Obesity is a serious epidemic in and is responsible for over 100-300 thousand deaths a year in America alone-- fat face.”

“Thar she blows! Avast ye mateys! Cast the anchors on the starboard side and ready the harpoons!”

If you have any other color of hair, and just have a genuine distaste for people, these are also things that you would be screaming in your head.

But do you ever stop and wonder if maybe you ARE actually saying them?

I know I wonder if I do. Like the one time I was trying to order a twelve-inch oven roasted chicken breast on honey oat bread at subway, and that chick was all skimpy with the lettuce. I couldn’t help but scream “BITCH!” repeatedly in my head, and then I thought maybe I was speaking out loud. So I asked her a question that only she would know in order to see if she would respond.

It was this: “How was your day.” And it’s true, only she would know how her day went.

When I got an elaborate response about how she was tired from shoveling baby kangaroo corpses into a pizza oven at an abandoned Pizza Hut all day, I knew it was just my mind telling me that- because that is how my day went, and I was very tired.

So if you are ever wondering if you are screaming out loud (and strange stares or middle fingers aren’t an indication because they are a normal part of your life) then ask the people around you questions.

Ask them why their parent’s stopped loving them when they had another baby to love instead. Ask them why they lied about cheating in third grade on that multiplication test. Ask them where they keep their guns.

Ask them why they have to ruin your day by being so self-centered.

The Latin Gang

The Latin Gang

I live above a Latin gang;
Six inches of wood cannot contain
The weekly dog fight in their den
And poker games for twelve to ten.

For seven hundred dollars rent
In a perfect housing development,
The revving of their cylinders eight
Outside my window in the night,

Won’t quite prove their gangliness-
For any Latin gang who lives
Where sprinklers sprinkle bright green grass
Is asking for a kick in their ass.

Hate Your Job

You hate your job. You know you do, and you know you always will. It’s on a dead-end track to antidepressants, then depressants, methamphetamines, and then finally death. You’re like someone who drives a Ford F-150: angry for no good reason, always in a hurry to get nowhere (and by God you will kill someone to get there), and you try to pretend like you actually made a good life decision by getting it. But you still feel inadequate.



I go to the bank. It’s Monday, but for some reason I still think it’s Sunday. “Oh thank God the bank is open on Sunday!” -- Note to self: you’re an idiot. Anyway, I go to the bank, and on this particular day of the week, “Laquifa” aks me if she can help me wit somfin.

It’s not the “It-would-be-my-pleasure-to-help-you-because-it-is-my-job” greeting; no, it is the “All-my-money-goes-to-birth-control-and-rent-at-a-shitty-motel-that-agreed-to-lease-to-me” kind of greeting.

I informed her that I usually just go to ATM’s, after she was all like “usually when you make a deposit you get a receipt, too.” I should have informed her that a machine does her job faster, and with 30% less ghetto attitude.



I go to a clothing store of your mental preference. One of the employees is engaged in a riveting conversation on her cellular device while she’s supposed to be catering to my every whim.
“I’m so sorry to burden you, but if you could please do your damn job for me that would be great.” Paraphrased, of course. She gives me the stink eye. I hope she’s fat AND pregnant instead of being just fat.



I go to the financial aid office at a college of your choice. I walk up to the secretary with a smile. She’s too busy. Another one turns around, “Can I help you?” Yes, I need blahblahblah. “Do you know your student ID number?” Oh you mean the 10 digit number that is so important that you can’t find it unless you type my 10 letter name into the damn computer? No, I must have forgotten it when I was studying my book 101 Useless Numbers You Will Get Bitched At For Not Knowing. She writes it down on a card for me: “That is your student ID.” Thanks, because I didn’t pick up on the context blues clues, now where can I throw this away?

I’m sure she was just groggy from having to get coffee for the people with real jobs.



Maybe you’re just angry because you wake up the same time plants do each morning. Maybe you’re angry because you could have sworn there was one more anal bead that was supposed to come out last night. Maybe your job is too hard- the same way licking an envelope is too time consuming. Or maybe the people you work with like to put burlap sacks over your head and beat you with frozen oranges in the broom closet. There are plenty of reasons why you hate your job. But there’s only one reason why you’re still working there. You like feeling sorry for yourself. Oh, and you probably need money for diapers and hookers too.

Sucks To Be You

With this blog, I promise to uphold the infinite sanctity of internet literature. To write about things that you could have lived without hearing. To waste as much of our time as possible, so we don't have to go back to our miserable lives. And to hopefully prove to everyone that, yes, it sucks to be you.

Life is short, and we don't have enough time to do the important things that truly matter. Thank God for that, because the important things usually require a lot of planning, and writing things down, and remembering to do them, and then actually doing them. So we fill our lives reading blogs, driving to Walmart at 6:35 pm, and then again at 11:19 because you forgot to get socks, and then again at 2:01 am because the socks were the wrong length, and then updating Facebook to inform your "friends" that you're busy doing important life tasks.

It's all too much. So I've decided to hang up the towel, and let others live my life for me. It sounds lazy, but there's another word for it. I just don't want to try to think about what that word might be right now. Responsibility is overrated. If the IRS wants my tax money, I'm sure they will eventually get it from me, and I won't have to do a bit of paperwork. If my car needs oil, I'm sure someone else will be concerned enough to fill it for me. Basically, I just don't give a shit anymore because there are plenty of other people to give shit for me.

So this is my life, and it's not exciting. You probably shouldn't even be reading about it because that's kind of nosy. But so is looking in my neighbors windows, pulling into residential areas for free WiFi, sifting through elderly people's purses of whom I have gained trust... So I won't tell you what to do.

So play it safe until next I blog. And if you're lucky, it may even be about you! But I doubt it, because your life sucks.