The State of the Union

I'm a little over a month into my suburban relocation experience and I thought it time for my "State of the Union Address...Asshat edition".

For those of you that missed it, I recently took the State of Georgia Driving Exam. As a result, the rules mentioned in the Drivers Manual are pretty fresh in my mind. I even researched questions that might not have been listed in the Manual. I discovered the following:

1) There is no state requirement for you to leave your turn signal on for three miles after you turn/change lanes...pull your head out of your ass, moron.

2) Similarly, there is no rule or law that I can find that forbids you from actually using the turn signal to announce a turn and/or lane change...I know it's tough to walk and chew gum at the same time, but a little effort might help those around you.

3) It's not mandated that you change lanes to the left and immediately slow down. It's actually encouraged to maintain speed (or actually increase speed) if you enter the "fast" or "passing" lane. Travelling in aforementioned lanes at or near the speed limit while traffic in the lanes to your right speed by you does, in fact, make you a motorized asshat.

WTF????

I pulled in to meet a friend at a local watering hole the other day and parked next to a guy in an older Jeep Cherokee. His doors were missing, as was his tailgate.

Me: "Aw, that happened to a couple of buddies of mine up in Brooklyn. Sorry about that, bro."

Kentucky Fried Motorist: "Whuu-uutt?"

Me: "Your doors. I'm assuming they were stolen."

KFM: "Hell no, I took 'em off. It's summer!!!"

Me: "Ummmm, you realize it's been raining off and on all day, right? That's why the inside is wet."

KFM: (looking amazed that I didn't understand) "You ain't from around here, are you?"

Me: "Actually, born and raised. I did something like that when I was about 17. I stopped when I realized how tough it was to get everything reattached properly and I got tired of being wet." (translation - I stopped being a dumbass)

I was told later by my dear betrothed that this was not an uncommon occurrence among the denizens of North Cobb near the lake. To this phenomenon and the participants, I have but a single question... "What the hell is wrong with you people?"

General Rants

1) If you are truly confused by the drive-thru menu at any fast food establishment, and can't order your burger and two happy meals in less than 7 minutes...you may be too dumb to breathe the air I might otherwise destroy with a cigarette.

2) I'm a fan of maximizing your consumption of "the good stuff" at the Golden Corral. I absolutely understand the theory of not filling up on bread, or salad, or other items of less expense so you can cram as much meat, desert, and more expensive items so you get the most for your $9. That being said...Really? Dude, you have gravy on the side of your head by your friggin' ear. Really?? Hmmm, you have pizza on your plate,,,topped w/ a slab of roast beef,,,partially concealed by two pieces of chicken,,,complemented by a dousing of white gravy,,,w/ a mountain of ice cream w/ chocolate sauce on the side,,,all on the same friggin' plate. Did you think they were going to run out of anything, or were you just too lazy to use multiple plates, or were you afraid carrying two plates might make you look like a pig? News Flash...If you have gravy and chocolate sauce on the same plate, it's time to consider stepping away from the trough...Really.

3) If you really can't manage to turn your phone off while dining in a nice restaurant, can you at least take the earpiece out of your ear? It's not a status symbol anymore. On a similar note, if you absolutely must take a call in said restaurant, or on a crowded bus, or other crowded public area, please let me know ahead of time. I'd like to meet you there to punch you in the neck as a bit of relief to the people around you.

3a) If you're using your phone as mentioned above in an elevator...YOU'RE GOING TO LOSE RECEPTION YOU FRIGGIN' MOUTHBREATHER!!! SHOUTING WON'T HELP!!!! Please exit the building, drive up into the hills and allow yourself to be dragged away by the first mountain lion available. Sometimes even Darwinism needs a kickstart, and there's no reason an asshat like yourself can't do his/her part.

The New Family

For those of you entering into new living arrangements with members of the opposite sex, this is for you. There are also a few points dealing with the instances of moving into a home with pre-existing children.

Day 1:

Me: "Honey, I'm gonna grab a shower. Where's the soap?"

Her: "In the shower." (pointing) "Right there."

Me: "Ummm, this isn't soap. It appears to be a bottle of rejuvenating body wash w/ moisture beads and ancient sea widgets to exfoliate, cleanse and propagate the degeneration of testosterone within the species."

Her: (rolling her eyes) "It's soap."

Me: "Does that mean we don't have any soap?"

Her: (reaching into the closet and producing a bar of Irish Spring - Yay) "Here you go, sweety. I wouldn't want you to feel emasculated by the soap."

Me: "It's not soap. Where are the wash cloths?"

Her: "There's a couple in the shower."

Me: "There's a couple of things on strings that look kind of like a cross between a flower and a tumbleweed."

Her: "There you go."

Me: "So, we have no wash cloths?"

Lesson learned? Men have men stuff, women have women stuff. Never the two shall meet

Confession

In an effort to maintain fair reporting and the integrity of this blog, I do hereby offer the following:

Many years ago, a roomie extolled the virtues of babywipes for that extra little oomph of freshness, particularly after dropping a particularly gnarly deuce. The other day I chose to partake in this refreshing practice, as the deposit I had just made would, if made in a combat zone, been classified a war crime.

Only after removing the wipe and drawing it perilously close to the soiled area (the tainted taint, if you will) did I glance again at the box.

Authors note: Though they look similar, baby wipes are NOT interchangeable with Clorox Sani-wipes. Unless you're looking for a scented bleach enema, read the label. Here endeth the lesson.

Question of the day:

Bigger loser/stalker/manipulator/douchebag...Peyton Wellesly or Lanier Thames?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Fear and Loathing at the DMV

Upon my recent return to the land of my birth, I found myself venturing into that 7th circle of hell that all suburbanites must deal with...the DMV.

Having lived in the City for a decade, and therefore having no need of the use of an automobile, I had let my license lapse several years earlier. Now living in suburbia, I girded up my loins and trudged into the new and improved Division of Driver Services (known as the DDS). Evidently, they were seeking to avoid the negative connotations of the previous name - the dreaded DMV, and changed it.

Upon arrival, I was surprised to find an open, well lit expanse with 21 windows for service, most of which were manned. This was a far cry from the tiny, dimly lit DMV I had previously dealt with in my previous suburban life. Might they have actually improved things?

I entered shortly after 4 p.m. and presented myself to the Gatekeeper (the old gal at the reception desk) and explained what I was there for. She promptly issued me a numbered ticket and paperwork to fill out. I took a seat and began filling out said paperwork. Before I could complete the line marked "address" my number had been called. I was a tad dumbfounded.

Approaching the assigned window with great trepidation, I spoke with a friendly older gent. After explaining my situation, he directed me to finish filling out the form and wait for my number to be called for the written test (since my license had expired, I would need to take both the written and road tests). As I was walking back to my previous seat, my number was called at a different window. Wha?????

I scurried to the next window, scribbling furiously. Another kindly old gent spoke with me while I completed my paperwork. After punching information into his terminal, he assigned me to a terminal where I took the written test for the next 20 minutes or so. Once the test was completed, I returned to the window. He told me it was too late to get a road test in, but if I came early the next day, they could have me taken care of in short order.

Total time in DDS approximately 40 minutes. Total time waiting approximately 20 seconds. Could this be?

The next morning, I was third in line at the door when they opened the office. I waited about 15 minutes and was called to take the road test. After completing the test, I waited a little less than 10 minutes to be called to another window, ostensibly to pay my fee and have my picture taken. Once my number was called, however, things took a decidedly DMVish turn.

The lady at this window told me my license had a "hold" on it for unpaid tickets in Atlanta. I was stunned that it was even possible for tickets to stay in the system for over a decade. I'd have to contact the City of Atlanta and straighten things out with them and get a letter of clearance before receiving my license. After that, they would hook me right up, I was assured. Fine.

As it was Saturday, I had to wait til Monday to begin the next leg of my Odyssey. After spending the better part of an hour on hold, the gent helping me told me I didn't exist. After further explaining when these tickets were issued (11 and 12 years earlier), he transferred me to another office. I then spoke with a nice lady that said I did, indeed, have tickets on my license. She told me the tickets had been dismissed years earlier, though. *sigh*

Me: "So, what do I need to do?"
Nice Lady: "Just come down and I'll give you a clearance letter."
Me: "Oh, so no fines?"
NL: "No, just come get the letter."
Me: "Oh, well can you fax it to the DDS, by any chance?"
NL: "No, we don't do that, sorry."
Me: "No problem"

The next day, I went down to the Atlanta Municipal Building w/ a spring in my step. Sure, it was inconvenient to go all the way downtown, but it could be worse...right??? Oh, yes. It could surely be worse...and it would be.

I approached the window, explained the situation to the man working. After being met with a blank stare for several moments, he pushed a form through the slot in the window.
Lazy City Employee: "Fill this out and bring it back to me. You can pick up the letter in four days or so."
Me:"Ummmm, four days?"
LCE: "Yep. We'll call if it's earlier."
Me: "Are you fucking insane? How can it possibly take that long? The lady I spoke with yesterday said it was basically walk in and walk out."
LCE: He shrugged "Don't know what to tell you."
Me: "You can tell me it's not gonna take a week to get this done. That's absurd. I'm gonna need to talk to a supervisor, this is totally unacceptable."
Sighing deeply, he removed his ass from the vinyl of his chair and trudged out of sight for several minutes. Upon returning, I was told I could pick it up after lunch. Recognizing it would do me no good to attempt a neck punch through the security window, I retreated.

After killing several hours with the friend that had driven me downtown, I returned and retrieved the letter. Armed with the document, I hauled my butt back to the DDS to spend some more time with my new cadre of friends.

Upon arrival, I explained everything that was going on to the lady at the reception desk, who assigned me another number. Things didn't move as quickly as the previous two trips. An hour later, my number was called. The guy at this window told me I would now have to pay reinstatement fees for each individual ticket.
Me: "But I didn't even owe fines."
Surprise Guy: "Still have to be paid."
Me: "You guys can't even tell me what the tickets are for. How could they all have resulted in suspensions, simultaneously?"
SG: "Can't say."
Me: "Ummm, if you can't say, how can you charge?"
SG: "It's how it works."

THIS is the DMV I remember. All rules, no logic or interpretation.

I stopped trying to rationalize and handed over my credit card. After running it, the guy looked at me and asked "What about South Carolina?"

"What about South Carolina?" I returned.

"You've got a hold in South Carolina."

"One - I haven't been in South Carolina in 20 years. Two - It's after 5, couldn't someone have told me I had a problem earlier today, or the last time I was here? I could have it squared away, by now."

"Don't know what to tell you."

*sigh*

The next morning, I called the SC DMV and got things squared away. They were looking for a shakedown from literally 20 years earlier that I had no idea was even on my record. Ugh.

The following morning, I was back at the DDS (the artists formerly known as the DMV).

"Please. Please don't hit me with any more surprises" I said to the guy at the window.

"Well Mr. Martin, I have good news and bad news."

I began scanning the immediate vicinity for blunt objects.

"The bad news is you won't have to come back anymore."

Were they banning me from the office, now that they had extracted all the money they had asked for?

"The good news is, you can go to the window and get your picture taken and get your license."

Oh, Happy Fricken' Day!!!!

Total time spent - 6 days
Total time spent on the phone with various agencies - 3 hours
Money spent - Don't ask

Old DMV slogan - "Don't know what to tell you."
New DDS slogan - "Don't know what to tell you...but open your wallet and bend over."

Let Me Smack One More Asshat...

It's been a month since the last blog. Quite a bit has been transpired. For those of you not in the know, I packed up the circus tents and left the city that used to never sleep. My last week or so in the City went a little something like this...

Going down the stairs for the 3rd ave "L" train to head for Brooklyn, a young lady was blocking the stairs with herself and several bags, chatting on her cel phone. People were walking up on the other side of the stairwell, so obviously I was unable to proceed w/out a little help from her, and a log jam of several people quickly formed behind me.

Me: Excuse me, hon.

Phone Skank: (looking at me like I'd stuck something slimy on her face) Ummm, I'm on the phone!

Me: I can see that, hon, I'm just trying to get by.

PS: (finger comes up telling me to wait a second as she turns her back to me and continues with her call) I don't know, some guy. I know! He can see I'm on the phone!

Me: (tapping her on the shoulder) Your shit will be at the top of the stairs. (Two bags are picked up and tossed to the top of the stairs)

PS: OMG!!! What are you doing!?!?!

Me: Getting to the train, thanks. (proceeding down the stairs as she rushed up the half-flight to gather her crap). And on behalf of the people behind me that you were slowing down with your phone call...kiss my big sweaty ass, you phone skank.

Getting on the train, a hipster couple that had been behind me on the stairs approached me.

Him: Dude, I've always wanted to do that.

Her: I wanted to clap...what a bitch.

I know, it wasn't poetic. It was simply the culmination of a decade of douche-baggery.

I'm not really complaining, mind you. I've had a great run in the City.

I've met a lot of truly wonderful people.

I've seen the sublime and the ridiculous.
I've seen the absolute best and the worst humanity can offer.

I'd say I wouldn't have traded the times for anything, but that wouldn't be quite true. While I greatly appreciate my experiences, I'd gladly trade them all for an extra decade with Rita.

Since that kind of trade isn't going to happen, I'll gladly pack the memories into boxes and move the show back to the ATL. There are plenty of Asshats down south, after all. They're just a little more polite.

With my departure, I would like to single out a few people...

Erik: My childhood friend that made my early existence in the city possible. He took me in when I was dead broke and just off the train.

Gina: Gave me a job when I needed it and became a dear friend.

Autumn, Dieter, Marisa and Cameron: and the rest of the staff from the old Finnerty's that made it a joy to go to work every day and proved what friendship and loyalty are all about.

Garcia-ville and Mr. & Mrs. Ish: Showed me you can have fun with "grown ups". Well, sorta grown ups.

Ricky: One of my best friends in the city, I could always count on him to come with me to each new bar I took a gig at...and take coffee/smoke breaks that could make Teamsters say "Damn, you take long breaks".

Nick K: The Poet Laureate of 14th st and the Ambassador of Keeping it Real. Quite possibly possessing the dirtiest mind in the western hemisphere, Nick showed me you can be a caring father, still be filthy, and keep your kids from being asshats all at the same time. Kudos Nicky.

Frank: for keeping me on board after turbulent head-butting with his partners and giving me the opportunity to succeed, especially at Boss Tweed's.

Renee: I can't say a whole lot. Probably my best friend in the world besides my fiancee.

I'll miss you all.

Departing the city (for the last time?), I took the same car service I had used dozens of time before. The new driver tried to gouge me on the price, however. I explained to him I had been using the service for years and knew the price as I handed the correct amount over the seat. He attempted to argue. I suggested he call his dispatcher to verify the price, if he truly felt he was being underpaid, which of course he refused. I explained to him that I was leaving town for good. I told him to think about it for a moment, and that if he really wanted the extra $10 I would wait on the sidewalk to pay him in shoe leather delivered to the fleshy part of his ass. I suggested if he reconsidered his position, I would bear him no ill will and wish him a good day and a happy life.

He drove away, and I got on my plane.

I'll save the anti-Bloomberg rant for another day, as it would easily fill multiple blogs. I'll also save the rant of the softening up and dumbing down of what was formerly my island. The City long ago traded the seedy movie houses and dirty underbelly for Disney and Applebee's. I'm not saying it's better or worse (actually, it's a travesty), but it's definitely different. Similarly, the Community Boards are trying their damnedest to turn the best urban area in the world into a giant suburb. All rant-worthy, so stay tuned.

Good, bad, or indifferent, I'll miss a lot.

Goodbye, New York.

Gabba Gabba WTF?

Random Scenes of Asshattery and Douchiness...

ON THE SIDEWALK:

During a conversation outside the bar w/ a friend, recently, we were approached by a random young lady...

Asshat Chick: Hey guys, I hate to interrupt, but...

Me: ...but you will anyway, because anything we might be discussing obviously pales in comparison to what you have to say.

AC: Wha?

Me: Never mind. What can I do for you, hon? (knowing full well what was coming).

AC: (batting eyes) Do either of you have a spare cigarette?

Friend: I don't smoke.

Me: Sorry, this pack didn't come with any spares.

AC: (confused look)

Me: Seriously, I'm stuck here for a couple of hours, and don't have enough to share...but there's a store right down the block.

AC: (pouty) I'd go buy a pack, but they're so expensive here.

Me: (annoyed) So it makes more sense for me to subsidize your habit. I'll pass, thanks.

AC: (amazed) You're really not going to give me one?

Me: No, hon, I've only got a few left, and they are, as you said, really expensive here.

AC: (in a huff) I can't believe you won't give me one. You're such a dick.

Me: Well, opinions vary. For example, my opinion of you is that you're a selfish, self-entitled brat whose parents didn't use the word "no" nearly enough.

AC: (furious) What a dick! Fuck You!!!

Me: (walking towards the door) You said that already. Good luck w/ grubbing smokes from people that don't owe you a thing, though.

I stopped and spoke with the doorman before heading back inside, where I took a table near the window and front door. A few minutes later, after successfully grubbing a smoke from someone else, the Asshat Chick attempted to enter the bar, only to be refused by the doorman. She looked positively amazed. After pleading her case, he motioned to me at my table. I waved, removed a cigarette from the pack and broke it open on the table, mouthing the words "I'm a dick, remember?" and blowing her a kiss. She stalked off into the night.

Conclusions:

1) It's rude to interrupt people

2) It's dumb to use "I'm cheap" as a reason to bum anything off people, especially when the person you're bumming from has actually paid for the item(s) you're trying to get for free.

3) It's even dumber to insult people that choose not to acquiesce and give you something just because you think you're cute/hot/smart/charming/blah, blah, blah. Please believe me when I tell you you're not/not/not/not.

Additionally, any combination of these three points not only make you an asshat, it can get you 86'ed from the bar if you do it to the wrong person...in this case, me.

STYLE UPDATE:

Wearing sunglasses at night does NOT make you look cool. It gives you the appearance of a complete asshat. Combine it w/ a polo shirt w/ a popped collar, and you start looking douchey.

(secret tip) The previously mentioned dark glasses are NOT camouflage for the fact that you are higher than the national debt. If you seriously think you're fooling anyone with the shades, you're dreaming.

(to the tune of Billy Ocean's "Get Out of My Dreams")

"...Get out of your dreams,

Get out of my bar..."

Also, get out of the 80's. The 80's died a horribly painful death 2 1/2 decades ago...friggin' douchebags.

FREE ADVICE:

If you have a drunken compulsion to pet every dog you see without checking with the dogs owner, you run a high risk of being growled at, snapped at or bitten.

If, after a dog shies from you and turns away, you smack him/her on the hind quarter, grab the tail, or do some other rough shit, you not only deserve the growl/snap/bite, I'm hoping it actually happens.

Not so long ago, Darwinism would have claimed you for trying to pet a mountain lion and subsequently being dragged into the woods, you fucktard.

INTERNATIONAL FAILURES IN DARWINISM:

My friend Jennifer took her daughter to the matinee performance given by the Broadway road company of Annie in Ontario, recently. Needless to say, there were hundreds of kids and their parents. Jennifer and Maia were fortunate to be seated behind the only two ladies slamming beers at the 3 o'clock show. The two Miss Hannigan wannabe's proceeded to get shit-boxed and bellow along with the songs. Oh, it's a hard knock life, indeed!

I'm a barman. My job is to sell people booze. Tha being said, if you're getting soused by mid-day and going to a show like this, a ballet, a museum, or anything along these lines, I have three words for you: IT's NOT NASCAR!!!

I'm not knocking drinking or NASCAR. I'm a fan of both. I won't wear my beer helmet to the theatre, however, because...well, because I'm not a douche.

THE DEATH of MUSIC:

Earlier in the week, I got sucked in to a conversation with a young lady that insisted Avril Lavigne was not only "punk", but "hardcore". WTF?

I tried to explain, that while I didn't feel the need to shove an icepick in my ear when her music started playing, she was in no way, shape, manner or form, punk or hardcore. She didn't get it.

Shifting gears, I attempted to give a punk rock history lesson. I gave up when she couldn't name any of the Ramones...more accurately, she couldn't name them by first OR last name. (sigh - I feel old).

Raise your children well...

In honor of Graduation season (High School and College), I offer the following:

I'm told it takes a village to raise a child. Evidently, there are villages across this nation screaming for me to go on a rampage and burn them all down, because they are producing a new breed of douchebags of a stunning magnitude at an alarming rate. As a resident of the global village, and since I can't find my lighter fluid at the moment, I submit the following for your graduating children. Clean it up, if you feel they are too sensitive or frail, but share it with them. Their status as douchebag hangs in the balance. Be advised, though, if you really do feel you have to clean it up for a person of graduating age, they're probably already spoiled douchebags rapidly winding down the road to being an uber-douchebag...and that blame rests predominately on the parent.

1) You don't know the law:

"What do you mean I can't come in? My i.d.'s good, you have to let me in/serve me! This is a public place, you have no right to keep me out!! I know the law!!!" If any of these words ever come (or have come) from your mouth, you're a douche. And you obviously don't, in fact, know anything about the law as it pertains to establishments that serve alcohol.

Establishments have the right to refuse you for virtually anything, save race, sex, religion, etc. If your i.d. has been questioned, throwing a tantrum really will not help. Similarly, if a bar/club has rules re. hats, sneakers, or argyle sweaters, you have nothing to say about it. Your recourse is to take your business elsewhere

When/if you use the old "public place" argument, you show true ignorance. I've worked in bars over half my life. Never has one nickel of taxpayer money gone into opening or running one of them. A public place is a park, or a library, or any other place provided for the public good by your community. A bar ain't one of those...douche.

If you try to pass yourself off as an attorney knowledgeable in liquor law, it makes it worse. If you say your daddy is an attorney, walk away from this blog. It's much too late for you...you're an uber-douche.

2) Short and sweet, your parents lied to you. You're not the smartest/prettiest/most charming person in the world. You're just another in an endless parade of youthful dumbasses that think they can get over because their parents told them they're special.

2a) Men - All women do not find you desirable. Don't be a douche when you get shot down in a bar. Yes, I know, your mother says you're the most handsome guy in blah, blah, blah. Get over it and move on.

2b) Ladies - You're not hot enough to act bitchy and men with an iota of experience will know when you're trying to get over by flirting. The only guys that fall for, or are attracted to that are the douchebags mentioned above. If you procreate with them, you'll get what you deserve...asshat babies.

3) Also short and sweet. No one cares who your daddy is. If name dropping is your thing, save it for the other douchebags. If your daddy is the most impressive name you know, though, even douchebags will think you're douche-y. Nuff said.

4) If you regularly think you're the smartest/funniest/richest person in the room, odds are you really aren't. In fact, odds are you're just a monumentally pretentious douche in need of a neck punch. Additionally, even if you are the smartest/funniest/richest, the fact that you even take time to consider such things makes you an asshat.

5) When you show up to pick up a friend/date/whatever at their house, go to the friggin' door. Sitting outside honking the horn is disrespectful to the party you're picking up and the neighbors don't want to hear it. Yes, your Mama told you anyone would be lucky to have a boyfriend/girlfriend/friend like you, but it's another lie.

5a) If a neighbor asks you to stop honking and go to the door in an even remotely polite way, especially due to the early or late hour, do it. If you yell or curse at, or berate the neighbor, you deserve a neck punch. If I'm the neighbor, I'll beat you til your Mama cries.

6) If you're smoking outside an open door or window of a non-smoking establishment and are asked to step away from said opening to prevent your smoke from blowing in, just do it. It's generally called being considerate, or "getting along". The "you can't make me" crap may have worked with your parents, but I promise, it won't work with others...certainly not me.

6a) If you're outside, or in an area where smoking is permitted, and someones smoke is bothering you, ask them politely to put it out or change hands, etc. to alter the flow of the smoke. Making demands, being bitchy, getting preachy or citing shady statistics only make me want to chain smoke and/or shove my cigarette butt up your butt.

7) If someone gets up from the bar, but leaves his/her jacket on the chair and/or has a drink in front of the chair, he/she is NOT leaving. Only a mouth-breathing moron would make that assumption. Only a complete douchebag would argue when the person returns from the bathroom/smoking/whatever to reclaim his/her spot.

8) Pull up your pants!!! You look like a jackass!!! If you're over 21, the phase is over. Buy pants that fit and invest in a belt. Nobody wants to see your boxers or, God forbid, your plumbers crack.

9) If you BYOB to a bar and are caught with it, it will be confiscated, you will be charged a corking fee, or you will be asked to leave. At my place, I'll take the booze AND run your cheap ass out. I'm one of the most frugal guys I know, but give me a friggin' break with this. Call Daddy and have him put some money in the account...dumbass.

10) This is a big one, kiddies. No one owes you respect. No one owes me respect. Respect is earned. Courtesy should be a fact of life in a civilized society, but you can't act like an idiot and expect respect. I want to pimp slap every 21 year old douche that tries to demand respect.

Example: After finding an uber-douche trashing the bathroom at the bar (literally dumping trash from the can on the floor), I took him by the arm and escorted him to the door. There was no incident until we got to the door and I released him. His friends saw he was getting tossed, so they went outside to wait for him. He jerked away, now that he had an audience.

Uber-Douche: You better respect me!

Me: What?

UD: You better show me some respect!!!

Me: I should respect you for dumping trash on the floor? Dude, you're an idiot.

UD: (glancing over his shoulder at his pals, then back to me) You better respect me!!! You don't know who I am!!!

ME: (taking out a small note pad and pen, writing a quick note) Why don't you just interpret not getting smacked as a sign of respect, then? (handing him note) Here. Give this to your parents.

UD: (glances at the note, then looks up to say something, but I'm already back inside)

the note:

Dear Parent,

Your son is an idiot. Please don't have any more children. Consider sterilization, if necessary.

thx,

Matty

Please don't make me send a note home to your parents.

The only people that love you unconditionally are your parents and Jesus. If you're an asshat (or worse), believe me, I'll tell you.

and now for something completely different...

The asshat/douchebag documentation was on hiatus this week. It'll be back soon, but this needed to be said...

I've spent the last several days knocking around the city and county of my youth. Those of you that know me best know I spent most of the first twenty-odd years of my life plotting my escape from the suburbs. I couldn't fathom the desire of people to grow up, get married, raise a family and settle down in the same town/area they grew up in. I couldn't get out fast enough. I moved to downtown Atlanta and various points around town. When that wasn't enough, I packed up and ran away and joined the circus...I moved to NYC. I loved it.

The City was where I belonged. The nightlife, the arts, the food, the people, the general excess filled me with an indescribable energy. Everyday brought something new. Though I had been dealing w/ asshats and their ilk for years, I found steady entertainment (and annoyance) by the increased numbers of aforementioned failures in Darwinism.

I began to write in earnest, and began acting. I found new ways to express myself and new people to share with. I witnessed the devastation and heartbreak of the 9/11 attacks. The pulling together of the entire city (and country) in the aftermath showed me that love and kindness were still possible in my fellow man. It was inconceivable that I belonged anywhere else.

Then my life changed. I met her. She showed me love I didn't believe existed. My heart filled with love for her and her children. This beautiful family was willing to open their doors and their hearts to an aging Peter Pan, previously convinced that he couldn't live anywhere w/out 24 hour food delivery. Could this cynical boy have been wrong, all this time?

I find myself in new, uncharted waters. Peter Pan doesn't have doubts...right? Perhaps it's time to put the shadow in a box. Tell Tinkerbell it was a blast, and the lost boys to find their own way for a bit. I'll be in the burbs if they need me...but I still don't/won't do out of state bail.

I've found more love here in a week than I have in the previous 20 years.

Maybe, the burbs ain't so bad after all?

It's only Thursday, for the love of God

As the crowd began to thin, around 2:30 a.m., I took a seat at a booth near the door. I was checking my emails from my phone when my new friend joined me. He was a gent of Spanish origin, though I can't specify his nationality. He plopped down next to me while staring intently into his beer. His head abruptly popped up and turned to me with the old "stink eye". Evidently he was under the impression I had encroached on his space, even though I was in the booth close to the wall, while he was on the same bench at the other end, obviously there first.

Drunk Guy: Homina placenta mowli fee.

Me: I'm sorry, bro, I don't understand.

DG: Homina dooby goo placenta mowli fee!

Me: Sorry, bro, but I really can't understand you.

DG: Dooby goo coochella sibby mo quesadilla...Texas!

Me: I think I got Texas and maybe quesadilla, but I have no idea what you're talking about.

Obviously disgruntled, he turned back to his beer. He shifted his body so his back was to me and he was facing the bar. It appeared, from my vantage point, that he was contemplating his beverage. After several moments, I grew bored and restless and attempted to excuse myself. He would need to let me out of the booth, of course.

I nudged his shoulder and asked him to let me out. He grunted and nodded. After waiting a few seconds, I repeated my request and tapped more firmly. He just nodded. I leaned on the table to make sure he was conscious, and lo and behold he was in a state of perma-drool. The drunken asshat was in the early stage of full-blown dry heaves. Great.

Flagging one of the bouncers to assist, my new amigo was escorted to the door. The air seemed to do him some good, as he appeared to become more coherent and wandered off into the night. A few minutes later, however, my new friend returned. Now sitting on a chair at the door, I engaged Senor Sloppy.

Me: No more tonight, my friend. Call it a night.

DG: Mumbo dogface banana patch.

Me: (sigh) No more tonight. Go home.

DG: (in a clear and remarkably articulate voice) It's OK, I'm cool.

Me: No more tonight. Go home.

DG: Homina rondlestat moo shoo pork.

He stumbled over to the parking meter and leaned against it...or attempted to lean. He bounced off the meter, double-shuffled his feet, then executed a pirouette...before crumpling off the curb, into the street, right on his drunken ass. He remained there for several moments, looking quite confused that gravity had betrayed him. Eventually, a good Samaritan helped him up. As Mr. Helper was trying to check on the walking mess, he jumped back and exclaimed "Dude, you're pissing all over!"

Yes, gentle reader, he was dousing his dungarees...pissing in his pocket...urinating his underoos...making onesies in his big boy pants. Mr. Helper had received a liberal piss-rub as thanks for his help, and was not happy about it as he stormed away.

My new buddy pulled himself together long enough to wave goodbye as he shuffled off into the night again.

Another satisfied customer.