10. Employers don’t seem impressed with the Linkedin profile pic of me laying on the sofa in my underwear scratching myself with a turkey leg.
9. Meow Mix doesn’t leave my breath as fishy as other leading brands.
8. Those chicks on Springer really need testing. I mean scholastic… bacterial, whatever.
7. Wednesday matinee strippers have the sex appeal of Rosie O’Donell teaching nude aerobics.
6. The liquor store lines are pretty short first thing Monday morning.
5. My proposal to become the inaugural Wal-Mart sniper tasked with cleaning up the customer base has apparently been rejected.
4. There’s a bar downtown that’ll serve me in my bathrobe and slippers.
3. The woman next door must be expecting a large package because the mailman seems to stay there for at least a half-hour or so each day delivering it.
2. At least 60% of the dog’s ball-washing is purely recreational.
1. Apparently, HandJobs.com is NOT an employment website despite the hours I’ve devoted to it.
You don’t mess with a man’s munchies. You just don’t.
First, I’d like it to be known that I am in my fourth decade as a drooling gorger of the snack world’s greatest creation, the Oreo Cookie. Barely a day goes by that I don’t gobble, grind and swallow a sleeve or two of these wondrous caloric delights. Prior to a heavy snacking session, I’ve even been known to crush, powder and snort a few choclatey biscuit rails as a preface to the joy that will follow. The very concept of these marvelous stacks still seems revolutionary to me a full century after their inception! The Nabisco Research & Development team must’ve really been smoking the good stuff back in 1912. I mean, who else would have thought of bookending a pair of cocoa wafers around a patty of pure-white poisonous paste?! Well, technically, of course that would be the Sunshine Company that created the Hydrox sandwich cookie years earlier, but who even tracks those things other than Wikipedia? My point is that I have faithfully stuck by the Oreo brand even in the face of their colossal fuck-ups such as watermelon, banana split, and ass-fudge filling. In return for such loyalty, Nabisco has sunk to a low that qualifies as their most heinous crime ever against the Oreo institution and billions of rabid snackers, stoners and trans-fat fans.
To be direct, I hereby charge The Oreo Institute of America of shortchanging the public on the amount of jizz between their wafers. You should know that my allegations don’t stem from the mere musings of a munchie-driven ganja fiend. Physical research has been conducted in order to verify what started simply as paranoid suspicion. Extensive lab testing has confirmed the beat count you are attempting to pass off as a satisfactory volume of frothy filling. In essence, The National Biscuit Company has been skimping on the neuro-toxic wadding in order to save money. Well, let me tell you something you lousy crumb-counters, the pasty sweet stickum has fallen far below the quantity needed to effectively provide structural integrity to the cookie. We are not talking about a simple single-layered dessert organism here. Physics come into play with a creation as complex as a sandwich cookie. You more than anyone should realize that the security of the assembled piece hinges crucially upon the contact area of the bleached-putty, patty-face. Vacuum is a principle you seem to have forgotten, which is surprising when one considers how much you really suck for fucking with a good formula. Cream filling to a cookie stack is much more than what frosting is to a cake; it functions as a sealant to bond two bisections. Yet, you’ve allowed your manufacturing minions to reduce it to meaningless gelatinous muck. This attrition in volume not only robs connoisseurs such as myself of the Oreo’s very essence, but creates an unstable snack structure that falls apart as soon as it is airborne en route to the gullet.
My testing began with calipers ensuring that the thickness of the two pseudo-chocolate discs hadn’t changed, which they have not. At least that much is held sacred (for now.) However, using a freshly calibrated drop-gauge, I found that the cream filling itself (or lack, thereof) was negatively effecting the overall thickness of the snack. Worse than that, ultrasonic testing revealed that there were gaping air pockets within the filling which would ultimately act as sink holes denying the wafers the proper vacuum seal needed to hold the entire assemblage together. Collapse is inevitable under these conditions. Even the more progressive-minded munchers that dissect the confection for de-creaming across their central and lateral incisors are essentially robbed of the complete noshing experience. “Hollow” is just not a word that should describe a dessert. I realize that sugary lard may not be the cheapest ingredient in the world but with increased sales due to marijuana legalization, Nabisco can certainly afford to give us a properly constructed cookie that doesn’t fall the fuck apart between the daintiest of fingers. Granted, the dog is quite happy with my lapful of crumbs but then again, he isn’t the one paying for the damned cookies, is he?
I’d also like to take issue with the Oreo Marketing Department. No favors are being done to the English language by dropping a crucial consonant from your “Double Stuf” cookies. Was this initially a typo that you decided to ride out as opposed to eating crow? By any stretch of logic, the pronunciation is no different than the properly spelled “stuff.” I can assure you that there is nothing clever about acting stupid, my friends. I am desperately trying to look past the fact that this abysmal creation of a cookie holds barely a pittance more filling than the original cookies once possessed. Double, my ass! I see where this game is going. Nabisco is once again trying to stiff the consumer, or should I say “stif?” So, thanks for shitting on the last cornerstone of American awesomeness, you greedy cream-scrapers. The terrorists have officially won.
Whether by blood or human bonding, the father figure has historically been treated with great reverence. Hence, our annual celebration of the ones we know as Dad, Papa, Darth or StepFucker. Sadly, an alarming number of fathers are undeserving of these accolades but, as Americans we do our part to grease the gears of capitalism by taking part in the charade, nonetheless. After all, somebody has to rape the forests of their life blood. Why not, Hallmark?
Ahmnat Ward is an international banking professional and father of an unknown quantity who prefers to spend time by himself than with what he refers to as the “sack dwarves.” “Look, I got kids. A mega fuck-slew of ’em. I think of them as my little anonymous army. I travel you know, so I’ve sprayed my seed halfway ’round the country and even dropped a few shots in some border towns for color. Overseas, too. I’m sure there were dry loads along the way too but who keeps track of these things? Point is, I just don’t like kids. BUT, I really like gifts, LOTS of them!” Ward’s shameless admission speaks to the selfishness of the Gimme Gimme Generation. When asked if he feels any responsibility for the poop-jockeys he’s brought in to the world, he exclaimed with excitement “My birthday and Father’s Day are the best! I get so much cool shit in the mail from kids I didn’t even know about! Some don’t even spell my name right, ha, ha. I love the ones written in crayon that matches the ribbon! But seriously though, the gifts are great. Their Mom probably put them up to sending me something, which is pretty awesome. Way to go, forgettable females! No clue how they ever find me but I’m always glad they do. Kids never have much money but they’re desperate to please which makes them damned good gift-givers, in my book. That’s from the heart, too. I feel that shit. I really cleaned up last June. Not just cards, but calculators, radios, neckties and pen sets. I even got some of that celebrity cologne so I can splash on the sweat of Andre the Giant. No re-gifting, either. That shit is mine, baby, mine. Some teenager named Helmut sent me a shoe-stretcher! No idea why anyone would want to stretch a shoe when you can get two for one at Payless but I love anything that has to be unwrapped! Oh, and for the record that kid’s name definitely wasn’t my idea.”
Thankfully, most father figures don’t subscribe to Ahmnat Ward’s particular brand of parental dickishness. Positive role models still exist here and there but looking to popular culture for moral guidance might not be the best idea. Even Ahmnat rejects television icons as role models, albeit not for the expected reasons. “You’d have to have anal warts on your brain to adopt three more kids than you already have like that guy on TV did, especially on an architect’s salary. I mean, the number of presents you get would be totally awesome and almost worth it but you pretty much pay for them yourself by shoveling grub into those dirty face-holes all year round. Shit, no wonder the guy became a gay alkie.” As a final stab into the heart of the paternal institution, Ward added “To me, every day should be Father’s Day. I love the discounts and free admission to the zoo… by myself, of course. I even love the smiles from flirty women who seem to know I’m wearing a pair of socks given to me by a faceless kid in Bangladesh.”
Straight from the Ant’s Rants travel log comes the sordid tale of a man on a quest. He seeks no gold, no fame, no worldly wisdom. The only treasure sought along this road is the mighty Porcelain Throne. Enjoy the ride…
Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages
Hundreds of miles lay in my wake. The hours of cross country trekking were finally catching up with me. My gut was grumbling and my bodily functions were screaming for action. By the time I hit the backwoods of Georgia, my Hanes were in danger and my fountain was on the spritz. As much as I hated to push a nugget in the porcelain jungle of a public piss pen, it seemed a far better choice than inside my $30 American Eagles. Problem was, it was about three o’clock in the morning. Any clean and respectable establishment was closed until the AM. Technically, of course it WAS morning but not the time generally suited for bacon and eggs. This hour was ripe for hookers, cocaine and curious clergyman… possibly all as part of the same transaction.
I’d been fighting my inner needs for the better part of two hours and I knew I’d never make it until the cock cried. If my eyes weren’t already brown they sure would have been after the level of urgency rose as high it did. Let’s just say things can really back up on a guy driving for hours on end with nothing but Slim Jims for sustenance. Waiting any longer was just out of the question. I’d simply have to settle for less than ideal conditions. Sure, in a perfect world I would calmly place myself on a heated velvet toilette and gracefully let nature take its course but that seemed like a rather tall order that time of night. I mean, a scantily-clad French maid to mop my crack with a silken cloth would have been stellar but equally as difficult to obtain on such short notice. Especially, with the wages I was offering. Besides that, I hadn’t seen any kind of man-made structure in fifty miles. Anybody actually living in the woods I was driving through was bound to be a white-tail deer rapist. All I knew was that if I didn’t take care of business within the next few minutes, I’d have to renege on my personal oath to never again poop in the woods. Decades earlier, the Scouts taught me to wipe my ass with leaves, but not how to identify poison ivy when I see it. Needless to say, several youthful days were spent dripping ice cubes down nature’s valley for relief. A debilitating addiction to Calamine Lotion ensued. Eventually, I was weaned off the sauce with bacitracin and cold cream. Since then though, I’d held my vow to never drop my drawers in a non-tiled room. Miraculously, that promise would remain intact as the opportunity soon arose for me to complete the most fetid of bodily functions. Salvation stood alone in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited roadway and came in the form of a rundown gas and food-mart. I would later find that the gas came about an hour after eating the food.
My eyes saw the Gates of Heaven and its sign said Fuel. That building contained everything I needed to feel complete again; sugar, caffeine and most importantly Porcelain. Of course, the dirty deed was top priority and not to be delayed. I careened into the parking lot driving at highway speed with my foot dragging outside the door in anticipation like Fred Friggin’ Flintstone. I hobbled as fast as I could over to the store, swung the door open with full force tearing out the bottom hinge and knocking over a newspaper rack. Standing in the doorway amidst the broken glass, not a soul could I see. As if no other words or action were necessary, I barked out the lone word “Bathroom!” to the open air in the center of the store. Pause. Nothing. As I prepared to paint the place brown, a head slowly popped up over the counter from underneath a wrinkled newspaper. Without ever actually looking at me, the head’s owner mumbled, “outside” while holding out a key tied to a 2×4. I grabbed the pebble from his hand and left the temple posthaste. Outside again, my head spun around like Linda Blair on a coke binge, but I failed to see the bathroom anywhere. In fact, I found no doors at all other than the store entrance. I felt panic setting in as my underwear feared the worst. After circling the perimeter twice, I scratched my head and pondered aloud, “Where the fuck is the damned crapper?!”
Minutes later, something caught my eye at the far end of the rear parking lot. It was a tiny shed-sized building standing alone in the darkness. Surely, this must be the place for which I seek. Indeed it was. It was a cold, dark, and damp little shithole in the middle of nowhere. A thing of beauty, indeed. My chapel. My church. My saving grace. Tears of joy welled in my eyes as I waddled across the lot with my legs squeezed tight and my arms stretched before me like Herman Munster on his way to the parlor.
At first, the door seemed locked, stuck or rusted shut but with a few sharp kicks and a pulverizing head-butt it scraped open to reveal my soiled savior. Moments later, I remembered the key in my hand and decided to keep it as a souvenir. The only light inside came from the moonlight shining in through the vents in the roof. That luxury skylight was probably the only reason the smell in there wasn’t worse than it was. The sensation was gag-inducing. I cringed in Poe-ish horror as I imagined being entombed alive like Fortunato. That stony crypt could easily have become my final place of residence if I hadn’t used my emergency pocket shoe horn to prop the rusty door open. If it came to pass that I got trapped in there though, I’d be forced to live on toilet water and excrement until someone found my decaying remains still trying to claw their way out of that Walnut Grove hell-hut. All my mail could be forwarded to the rooftop air vent and dropped below. The thought was almost enough to initiate retreat, but at that point there was no way I could turn back without shitting to regret it. I’d come too far to walk away with funky undies.
Shunning the darkness and all its horrors, I unfastened the butt-flap in the back of my Michael Landon long-johns and mounted the porcelain pony for that joyous ride to Relief Town. Sure enough, pulling open the chute doors allowed ten years of life to return to my broken body replacing the buckets of junk food that just departed through the Southernmost exit. I unleashed weapons of ass-destruction never before thought possible. I slumped forward in post-orgasmic satisfaction unfazed by the fact that I hadn’t even covered the seat with anything protective. If I hadn’t been so pressed for time, I probably could have fashioned some type of sanitary wreath out of mud and twigs. Surely that would have blocked at least a few germs from getting in through the out door. Nevertheless, as I sat on that toilet in the Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M., I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m sitting on a toilet in a Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M.” As comfortable as that sticky ass-ring felt on my tired backside, I knew it was best not to rest there for too long. As dark as it was, there was just no telling what kind of matter might me festering beneath me. Besides, I would only get more tired if I rested there longer. Worse than that even, I would procure an unattractive oblong indentation around my posterior. Nope, not for me. It was best to buckle up and clean up… although not necessarily in that order.
As I stepped up to the basin, I encountered yet another unpleasantry. Not at all to my surprise, there wasn’t a single drop of water running in the little prison style sink with which I could wash my hands. Nothing but rust stains from the corroded faucet covered its chipped porcelain skin. The shadowed moonlight revealed what might have been a roll of paper towels lying in a rain puddle on the floor, but I couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been the slumped cadaver of some poor animal that got trapped inside while seeking shelter. Or perhaps, some drunk the night before stumbled in and missed the commode after bingeing on Captain Morgan and Cool Ranch. Too chancy. Just as my Aunt Jemima always told me, “Never touch unidentifiable objects in dark Southern outhouses without rubber gloves, tongs and a friend that works in the germ ward.” For lack of a better idea, I washed up by way of the ole’ Denim Dry Rinse Method. Thanks to dark jeans, nobody would ever know my dirty little secret, sans the smell. It was just me and the open road, anyway. With my intestines contracting back to normal, I split that concrete hellhole as quick as my rubber legs could carry me. Problem was I was still exhausted and now famished. I hadn’t eaten anything of consequence all day. Let’s just say the quality of snacks that went into me was similar to the way the snacks came out. I needed food. I was starting to feel as hungry as the Olsen twins look. In the middle of nowhere, I had no choice. Fuel.
According to comic book lore, human beings possessing the X gene have the potential to become one of the mighty X-Men, whether it be for good or evil. That is of course assuming that they survive the blast of radiation that initially empowers them without later suffering the horrors of cancer. Without a doubt, all of our favorite X-Men possess powers to be reckoned with such as mind control, magnetic influence and extreme weather forecasting. But, what about the other mutants whose powers never develop into something useful like making ice cream materialize out of thin air? I’m sure there’s plenty of people that have opened the microwave door too quickly and sucked up more than their share of Chinese gamma rays. However, the radiation just isn’t strong enough to effectively alter someone’s body chemistry much less properly cook their baked potato. So, if palm freckles are all that type of incident can result in, I’m pretty sure the exposed victim doesn’t deserve a leather bodysuit and a bad-ass nickname to prefix his gender. So, aiming slightly higher than glowing skin blemishes, let’s look at the lamest powers ever possessed by nameless mutants that will never be cool enough to be X-Men.
10. Toe knuckle hair as strong as piano wire but harder to tune
9. Can swallow bullets and shoot them out the ass while sustaining only minor injuries to internal organs
8. Fat rolls in the breadbasket can project small objects with the force of a lemon lobbed by a leftie with his right arm
7. Ultra strong ass-breath can weaken mortar with 6-7 precisely aimed exhales
6. Hurricane force eyelid fluttering can flatten anything with 14 centimeters
5. Super steely sideburns can scratch the shit out of any opponent foolish enough to get lured into a hug
4. Flabby side skin stretches out like wings on a partially malformed sugar glider
3. Razor-sharp detachable nipples serve as retrievable throwing stars so long as the wind is cooperating… in both directions
2. Flame retardant belly button lint can be used as… well, nothing
1. Vaginal vice grip can twist open stuck peanut butter jars yet gracefully flip phonebook pages without ripping them
2013 was a celebratory year for gays and lesbians throughout the country. Numerous states voted to legalize gay marriage entitling same-sex spouses to medical and tax benefits as well as gratuitous groping of each other’s junk in public. Heterosexuals nation-wide rallied behind the flag of equal rights in an effort to win the political favor of those that enjoy the same kind of genitalia they see naked in the mirror. Although many lips and tips have been pleased with the support, not every homosexual appreciates the elevated level of attention.
Womanizing lesbian, Edie Berber is a professional arc welder that’s fiercely defensive of her lifestyle. She describes herself simply as “your average ho, looking for free drinks and some fresh moose-knuckle.” Edie has been working the downtown scene since the early eighties when she says “we all just wanted to strap one on and have fun. It was about getting laid. Nobody cared about marriage, white picket fences and all that Leave It To My Beaver bullshit.” The crop-haired Berber insists that the media frenzy surrounding gay marriage has adversely affected her ability to engage in meaningless dalliances with other fur traders, “Look, I ain’t lookin’ for nobody’s help. I’m at the Labia Lounge three nights a week picking up raw stank and I’m pretty good at it too. I just wanna keep my average up, ya know? But all that domestic talk scares away the fresh fish. Either that or I give ’em a sip of my drink and they’re ready to buy Hers & Hers towels together. The whole scene is whack now. It’s like all you people are clam-jamming and don’t even know it. You think I wanna keep some bitch named Frankie? Get real.”
Despite being off the marriage market, Edie Berber appreciates the right to wed if she were to ever choose to do so…. well, sort of. “Shit, I guess if you always want your mouth tasting the same, that’s great. Ain’t for me, though. I ain’t tryin’ to be part of no damned Brady Munch. I’d shit thumbtacks before I wake up face down on the same carpet every morning.” When we reached Edie’s trailer for a follow-up interview, we found her naked and alone grinding her drunken privates against an old bean bag chair as she wept. She quickly finished herself off before wailing how she’d struck out on Nipple Night at the Tuna Club. “I got slapped twice for one grope, had my hand sat on once and had three drinks thrown in my puss. On top of that I got two marriage proposals. Two! What the hell am I supposed to do with that, rub it in my bird’s nest?” Edie sobbed. “Why do you self-righteous assholes always gotta be goddamned saviors? I should be motorboating some bitch on a barstool right now! Instead, I’m home alone… yet again, with an unopened bottle of rufies and a pair of dead D-cells. Fuck off, you meddling breeders!”
In the years since he’s held office, former vice president Al Gore has made quite a name for himself doing two things, espousing the dangers of climate change and shaming millions into recycling yogurt cups. Recently though, his credibility has come under fire as temperatures around the country have plummeted far below the pointy-nip range. Even his own supporters have been taken aback by such frigid conditions. In fact, many of his self-professed Gore Whores are now crying bullshit and disparaging Al’s doomsday theories on global warming.
According to Gore’s award-winning documentary, An Inconvenient Truth, rising atmospheric temperatures are chiefly caused by the abundance of fossil fuels burned by human beings. The film foresees flooding, disease, glacial retreat and shitty beach movies as a result of the warmer climate. But instead of melting in our shoes of late, billions of Americans have been buried under arctic conditions and forced to snap icicles off of our gennies.
Retired field hand, Ernest Keep spoke candidly about his record of supporting Al Gore’s cause “You know, I bought that there Incontinent Truth video at a yard sale coz I really like the earth and it was only a buck. Fell asleep for a bit in the middle but the rest was really good. It made me care more, I think. But yeah, I totally believed in that big old Tennessee boy. He seemed honest and it’s not like just anyone could run that giant slideshow. Can’t trust him anymore, though. He made it sound like we’d be running around on burnt toast by now and here I am like Jack fuckin’ Frost trying to find my goddamned carport on the ice planet Hoth. I mean, what the shit? I was saving my beer cans for that guy and everything.”
The former vice president rejects the notion that he was wrong, misleading or deceitful in any way. In fact, he insists that recent sub-zero temperatures actually support his theory of earth as a flaming hemorrhoid. Gore insists “Science is full of variables, it’s not perfect. Everything I’ve predicted is coming true, wacky weather and all . The only difference is the temperature itself. So, I was off by a few degrees. Big deal. Go make a snow angel. You still shouldn’t throw your Slurpee cups out the car window. Everybody’s jumping on me like I lied to them or something. I didn’t lie. I’m a good man. I played football, you know.”
Despite such justifications, nature’s cabana boy continues to draw criticism in the wake of record shattering low temperatures. Former environmental fund-raiser, Alberto Denaro pulls no punches when it comes to these recent climatic shifts “I raised a millions of dollars for Al to stop it the global warming. It all look it like horsey shit now, and all the hottie womans are burritoed up in the wool and down. Alberto no see nothing now. Maybe real global warmings mean skimpy bikinis because parka and mittens shit not so sexy. Fuck him this Al Gore.”
When we caught up with Mr. Environmental Savior himself, he was clearing his driveway with a custom built plutonium-fueled atomic snow dematerializer. Gore concedes the weather hasn’t been quite as he anticipated, “So yeah, ok. It’s cold, seriously fucking cold. I get that. I didn’t say it would never be cold again, just said that the planet would eventually implode like a marshmallow in the microwave. What am I, the cracker Al Roker? Maybe, it’s just not time yet. Be happy. What do you want me to do, update my PowerPoint every time it freakin’ snows?” In defense of his character, Gore adds “I don’t know why you all don’t just trust me on this. I’m honest as they get. Why else would you have almost voted me President, second only to George Weasel Bush?”
Yesterday, investigators announced a major breakthrough in its ongoing federal case against North Pole, Inc a division of Kringle Enterprises. A former hand in Santa Claus’s workshop, Ruderalis Elvin Jr. has come forward to yank the tinsel away from the reclusive organization’s nefarious practices. His statements corroborate longstanding suspicions about the red and white empire.
Among federal allegations is the charge of civil and humanesque rights violations within Santa Claus’s workshop or as Elvin calls it “the coldest goddam sweat shop you’ll ever see.” The diminutive toy builder recently made his dramatic escape from his lifelong home within the confines of Kringle’s dictatorship. He cites “poor working conditions, incompetent management” and the existence of “only one employee bathroom” as the main reasons for his flight (Elvin admits he has digestive difficulties.) The pointy-shoed squealer explains “You know, folklore has really perpetuated this myth of joyous wonder surrounding Christmas but listen up kids, at least half of it is total bullshit.” The informant elf isn’t referring to what’s expected however. “I mean, sure Santa is real and you all get toys but at what cost? Elves work for free with no benefits. You think we don’t get sick? Try whittling toy trains out of tree branches for 15 hours a day and see how you fucking feel. We don’t even qualify for Obamacare for god’s sake. We’re not human! Have you seen these ears? We look like Mr. Spock’s shit sticks for chrissakes. Besides, who plays with wooden toys anymore anyway? All these kids want nowadays are iPhones and eCigs, whatever they are. I can’t build that stuff. Do I look like a friggin’ Chinaman to you?”
Federal prosecutors are also focusing on anonymous complaints of preferential treatment among Santa’s workforce. The grievances span several decades yet have never been substantiated by reputable testimony, until now. The allegations have pertained unanimously to Kringle’s mistreatment of darker-skinned elves. According to Ruderalis, “All that stuff you hear about White Santa is what it is. The guy is as conservative as they get so go get your happy on, Fox News. The boss-man just doesn’t like anyone that’s different than him, which makes no sense with his big round hearing-holes and big-ass belly full of whisky. I mean, that blowhard clearly ain’t an elf no matter what the legends say. At that height?? He could probably shit my body weight and wipe himself with my kids! But yeah, he definitely didn’t like the black elves… oh, sorry I mean the Dirty Snow Elves. This’ll be public, right? Anyway, he hated my wife. I’d met her on the south side of the north pole five years ago. Great gal with tiny hands. We married and I got her a job in the workshop. Santa couldn’t stand her, though, or me ever since that day. He treated her different, not letting her take poop-breaks and things like that. He’d always give her the shit jobs like dragging away the dead elves from their workstation or making her apply hemorrhoid cream to the reindeer when they were sore. Santa Claus can be a real asshole.”
Although the feds have thus far been unable to penetrate the veil of secrecy surrounding North Pole, Inc., top agents are hopeful that Elvin’s testimony will help bring their case to the World Court. Inspector Jorge’ Sativa of the FBI comments on the bravery of Ruderalis Elvin Jr., “It takes a lot of sack to come forward and set the record straight on an institution as sacred as Santa Claus. That little elf has put the safety of his family and himself in jeopardy in order to pursue good ‘ole American justice. I’m sure he doesn’t have any real interest in those gift cards we’re offering in exchange for his testimony. This Kringle organization has long arms and will stop at nothing to stifle the truth and totally eradicate the existence of this brave, loose-lipped elf. Fortunately for Ruderalis, the U.S. government will pull no stops in protecting him and his phallic-eared family from harm as soon as we get back from our holiday vacations in mid to late January.”
When misfortune strikes me in such a way that I am forced to replenish stock and procure supplies, I do so out of pure necessity. Superstores aren’t exactly my natural habitat. In fact, I think any time spent in one should be applied as advance payment on purgatorial punishment. My mission is simply to attain my goods and depart the premises post-haste. Instead, I find myself embroiled in a social experiment gone horribly wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Wal-Mart is nothing but a giant Petri dish of humanoid dysfunction.
My movements are such that I circumvent the crowds in a stealth-like fashion. Nary a blur is seen as I bob and weave through the mass of gluttonous consumers as they graze like demented cattle. As I swiftly navigate the jungle of Chinese plastic, I am in tune to the path of least resistance. At all costs, I will avert elbow-knocking with the gaggles of glassy-eyed gawkers.
My purpose is pure. My list is short and free of fluff. My visit is one of unadulterated functionality. Yet, most of those around me seem lost. They spin around in place eye-raping the shelves and drifting from aisle to aisle with strings of drool connecting their lower lip to their chest. The lack of certitude in their motion hints at a recent sale on Benadryl and wine coolers. The slightest breeze seems to move them along like farts in the wind carelessly aflutter.
Gizmos and gadgets are randomly plucked from the shelves, groped and prodded. Boxes are shaken and opened before being tossed askew from whence they came. Cancer-grade hygiene products are sniffed, sampled and slathered upon the necks of the vendees. With such a fondle fest going on, it’s like a DNA Swap Meet at the local fairgrounds. With every item cuddled and caressed, customers expose themselves to a grab-bag of pathogens, surface yeast and crotch-crickets. Biological warfare could be waged with the microbial funk residing on a Wal-Mart shelf. Look with your eyes, people! Not every item needs to be fingered, fidgeted and fucked with!
I enter the final stretch only to find more ragamuffins loitering about in their baggy-ass sweat pants. I can never tell if they dropped a deuce or if they’re trying to steal DVDs. If only shopping carts were rigged with cow catchers I could plow through the peeps like bowling pins sending them pell-mell to the wayside. I just have no patience for the shuffling dim-witted patrons of a dung gallery. I just want to pay for my AA batteries and make my escape to the great outdoors where I don’t have to share my oxygen with anybody within sneezing distance. Thank you for shopping with us, folks. Come again!
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Ant's Rants 