Third Offence

Merry, um... "Holiday!"

Christmas… such a confusing time for many, including myself. For one, I can’t call it “Christmas” any more but now must refer to it as the “holiday season” lest I be sued, fired, ostracized or arrested for a hate crime. I tried calling it “The holiday formerly known as Christmas” but that was leading to a copyright infringement on… well, there is no key with that crazy symbol on it here. I decided to call it “Chrihanakawanziamadan” but try fitting that on a card. So henceforth I will refer to it simply as “holiday”. Generic enough, no one gets their feelings hurt or can accuse me of cramming my spiritual beliefs down their throat.

Aside from the naming issue there is also the dilemma of what to do during “holiday”. With family so far away and no one here to hang out with, I decided to let someone else do the thinking for me and so I turned on the thought replacement machine.

The television had many suggestions, like the mini-series commercials about how a woman will fall madly in love with me if I buy here a five carat diamond. She will even become prettier than she was just moments ago when she opens the box. Or, how if I give someone a Lexus, they will be filled with holiday spirit and joy that rivals even Santa Clause’s. I also know now, that even buying someone a Volvo, or FOUR, will brighten up the most hardened cynic’s holiday, but maybe not as much as a Lexus would.

I considered the Lexus but since I don’t have a car for myself right now it would be hard to get to Melbourne to the Dealership. A Volvo? maybe, I don’t know… foreign cars and all that. The diamond… yes! I will give a raven haired beauty a flawless five carat diamond and she will fall madly in love with me, forever, or until…

If  I remember correctly, wasn’t she the same woman that was in last years “holiday” diamond commercial with a DIFFERENT MAN? Did she take the diamond and run? Was this diamond better and thus more worthy of her love than the other one? Maybe things just didn’t work out. Or, maybe she’s the black widow of diamonds? She finds a man, gets a diamond, then bites off the man’s head and moves on. The hussy! What ever happened to “a diamond is forever”? So diamonds are out too. I wouldn’t want to get my head bit off.

Just as I was pondering all of this, a commercial for Publix®, one of our regional grocery store chains, came on.

It was one of their ‘holiday special’ commercials with a musical score that evokes that “something wonderful is happening” feeling. They proceed to show me a barrage of clips of happy people doing happy holiday things… family cooking together, children peeking around corners at mysterious, wonderfully wrapped packages, relatives arriving, the family pet in a ridiculous outfit... Things made possible only through Publix® undying dedication to their customer… Me!

Why doesn’t the other store, Wynn-Dixie, do the same? Don’t they care about me? How dare they ignore me and my needs during this holiday season! I spent money there and they could care less about my feelings. I will probably sue Wynn-Dixie as soon as my Publix® euphoria wears down, after “holiday”. Wynn-Dixie, the heartless Bastards… They OWE me!

Publix® generously points out to me how much they care about my holiday and how easy and delightful they will make it. Publix®, after all, is family! I know this because they tell me so. How wonderful the feeling as they whisk me away on a magical holiday experience that will leave all of life’s worries behind. They will even provide the snow in this eighty degree weather. Visions of Mac& Cheese will dance in my head as I try to sleep, the anticipation of the next day’s Publix® “holiday” experience weighing heavy on my mind.

Who needs diamonds? Who needs a car? I have Oscar Myer Bologna! Now I don’t have to spend “holiday” alone. I will awaken on “holiday” morning and there I will be amongst all my Publix® purchases. Who said money can’t buy happiness? “Holiday” is GREAT!

Publix® really cares about me. Publix® IS my family! I know this cause they tell me so.

I Don’t Swim in Your Toilet…

I live on the beach. The beach is like my front yard but I also share it with other people. I don’t mind sharing my front yard, in fact; it can be a very social setting.

I like going out in my front yard to relax. I like hearing the surf pound the sand, the gulls chirping their unique song, the occasional melodic, baritone sound of a ships horn or the laughter of children having the day of their life.

The beach is a public place, a family place, a place to relax, at least for most of us…

One day I was at the beach with my kids. Along came a group of teen- year olds that just HAD to share their “music”, at 900 decibels, with everyone within a 300 yard radius of themselves.

“Die Motherf****, Die Motherf****, Die Motherf****, DIE!” the lyrics blared out. Another nice tune continued with something like ‘I got blood on my **** cause I f***ed your bitch - bust a cap in your brain niggaz, etc. etc.’ You get the idea.

On top of that, the entire loud conversation between Brandon, Justin, Amber and Jessica consisted of 3 to 5 expletives per sentence.

“Brandon you f***ing f***, where’s my f***ing Oakleys?”
“F*** you Jessica you f***ing b**tch, I don’t know where your f***ing Oakleys are. Ask f***ing Amber.”
“F*** you Brandon, I don’t have Jessica’s f***ing sunglasses, theyre in f***ing Justin’s bag you f***.”
“I need a f***ing hit. Wheres my f***ing weed?”
“Sh**! Look at the f***ing surf. Lets ride those f***ing waves after I wax my f***ing board”

“Yes”, I thought to myself… “Let’s ride those f***ing waves while I go out and chum the f***ing water to attract some f***ing Sharks!”

Some time after this incident I was at the beach again. This time with two friends, as we often like to do on our days off. We saw a mother with her three young children gathering up their belongings and getting ready to leave. It became apparent that they didn’t live here.

One of the kids, a girl of about 10 started picking up some of the huge pile of food wrappers, garbage, paper cups, diapers, and glass bottles they had managed to generate (You go girl!). Then we saw the mother motion to her to drop it followed by a shaking of her index finger… Understand that this family was a mere 15 yards from the trash can, generously provided by the City of Cape Canaveral for their, and our sanitary convenience. 

So when they approached the crossover where we were, my one friend, being mindful that she had young children with her, politely said “Maam, could you please go back and pick up your trash? There’s glass in there and someone could get hurt”.

“F*** you a**hole! I don’t have to pick up s**t! Mind your own f***ing business you f***ing a**holes!”  She screamed back!

Now I know where Amber, Justin, Brandon and Jessica probably got their eloquent communication skills!

Blowhard Season

My favorite time of year is here again. No, not the cooler air, changing leaves (Ok, not in Florida), nor the pending smell of Turkey and cranberry sauce…

I mean Football Season. Yes, the season for very large, strong men to bash and tackle each other on the field of honor. Sound cynical? Ok, it’s not the game I dislike, but the fans.

You know the type. They scream in agony, they scream in celebration, they beat their wives when their team wins… All while guzzling inhuman amounts of Lite Beer (like that’s going to help).

I was out for a few last weekend when a guy pulled up next to me and immediately started the pat “Football conversation” with me. He droned on and on with his ‘Handi-Wipe’ breathed monologue about the entire history of some obscure players who probably died before World War I. All of which I have absolutely no idea or interest in. Then the “probing” started… “Who do you like?” “Do you think Miami will get the pennant?” “What odd do you give Patriots in the over/under handicap, AFC-East division rotunda harking Eddelbrock?”  I hate phishing! Just come on and ask me straight up if I am a fan.

I call this the “Sports Weiner Challenge”. This is the modern day equivalent of a sword duel where two men square off in a challenge to see who has the bigger appendage by way of their vast knowledge of sports. Sometimes this event descends into actual fist fighting when brain power is not enough to win the game. The winner will be reassured of his place in the macho hall of fame, while the loser will be forced to go home, light some scented candles, and take a bubble bath in shame.

Getting greatly annoyed at this blow-hard cutting off my Oxygen supply when I was obviously trying to ignore him, I finally said “I’m not much of a sports fan”. To which he incredulously, and quite loudly replied “What? What kind of faggot are you?”

“The kind who doesn’t like talking about Football” I replied. His face got red and he mumbled a few curse words as he turned to the other side and started talking to another guy. I guess he was really embarrassed that he tried to clash weenies with a “faggot” instead of a fellow macho man like himself. He now felt impure, tainted by my mental impudence that infected his very manly being, weakening the very core of his vicariously lived existence. After all, it’s ok to share a steam room with the boys, or slap your iron pumping gym buddy on the ass in a gesture of “good job”, but trying to do the “mines bigger than yours” with the terminally sports trivia challenged is a clear and present danger to ones manhood.

Are guys like this even aware of how painfully inadequate they appear? It seems to me that they are so far in the closet they’re talking to ET. What is up with this chest pounding, Gorillas in the mist, Neanderthal attitude?

Not all women like romance novels and crochet, and not all men are sports fans. So get over it, give your iron pumping gym buddy a call, and tell him how you REALLY feel! 

Finally, the Girl I’ve been Blooking for!

Got this provocative email from “Isaac”:

Hi,

Hope I am not writing to wrong address. I am nice, pretty blooking girl. I am planning on visiting your town this month. Can we meet each other in person? Message me back at ilqb@globalmobpost.com

But what I really want to know is what mean parent would name their daughter “Isaac”?

How Much for the Frosted Apples?

One of the things I love about living in beachside Florida is the casual atmosphere and care-free attitudes of the people that live here. However, some people carry it just a bit too far in my opinion.

I was in the Publix® grocery store one day, in the produce section when I noticed a man looking over some fruit. Then it struck me why this was so out of place. All he had on was a pair of shorts! No shirt, no shoes, no nothing, just shorts, and I mean “Daisy Duke” shorts!

In addition to his casual attire, he was completely covered with dirt, grime and plaster dust. He wasn’t a bum, but obviously just came from work where I assume he does dry-wall. He looked like Pig Pen from Peanuts but frosted like a sugar donut. However, from the amount of chest and back hair on him he could have passed for a wild animal with bad dandruff too.

I looked around to see if anyone else noticed this but apparently it didn’t bother anyone. Not even the store manager who was standing right there. So I guess I was alone in being grossed out as Pig Pen / Grizzly Adams sprinkled Pixie Dust on the entire selection of fresh produce that I wanted to buy.

So I finish my shopping, get in line, and pay for my groceries. On the way out I just couldn’t help myself so I looked on the door for that classic sign, and sure enough, it was there:

No Shoes!
No Shirt!
No Service!

There was also one about "No Animals Except Service Dogs".

Well, it’s nice of them to at least give it some thought.

Dat Am It A’ight!

“She am um… She am um… Um, what dat word again? IG’RINT! Yeah, dat’s it! She am ig’rint!”

Overheard on a Philadelphia bus circa 1989.

...and a Pack of Disdain Please!

I was outside of my office the other day, enjoying that sinful pleasure known as “smoking”. Yes, I’m “one of those”.

On the first floor of my office building is a Bank. The “Designated Smoking Area” is in the back right where the drive through is. All too often, bank customers will shoot us smokers dirty looks, cough hypochondriacally, make mouth covering motions like they’re under a bio-attack, and sometimes even shoot a nasty word or two as they drive away. The rear door to the bank also shares this space with the “Designated Outcasts Area”.

Anyway, as one of my co-workers and I were puffing on our sin sticks, a rather large woman exited the door. “You know", she quipped in sing-song fashion, "smoking will kill you!”. A self satisfying grin stretched from cheek to cheek as she proudly walked by.

“So will OVEREATING!” he replied… Ohhh SNAP! You should have seen the look on her face. Yes, he broke the golden PC rule and pointed out the obvious, something we’re not supposed to do any more… with ONE exception.

Before you get mad, I too am FAT. At 5’ 9” I topped out at 262 Lbs. before I changed my eating habits. I don’t chide overweight people. Some have issues, be it medical or emotional. I see that and DO feel their pain. Good golly, I’d get out of breath walking 20 feet.. I’m merely saying look at yourself before you start to throw stones.

We now live in a world where illegal immigrants are now “undocumented workers”, juvenile delinquents are “at-risk children”, and the lazy are “unmotivated”. Now people don’t really have to be responsible for their actions or attitudes because we can slap a warm fuzzy, apologetic label on it/them and everything is one, under a big beautiful rainbow.

Even war sounds inviting with our “new speak”. We no longer have to be bothered with stories of killing, murders, war, corruption and destruction. Now we can sit back comfortably and hear tales of “collateral damage” (innocents killed), “surveillance” (spying), “mis-appropriation” (stealing), “detainees” (prisoners), “secure facility” (prison), “body counts” (deaths), “casualties” (victims), “air support” (bombing), “preemptive strike” (invasion), and my personal favorite, “ethnic cleansing” (mass murder), sounds like they’re all getting a nice warm bath, doesn’t it?

One thing hasn’t changed though, smokers don’t have a cute fuzzy to call their own. It is perfectly acceptable for someone to berate a smoker and there is no legal/hate crime repercussion lawsuit available to defend against it. “You called me a smoker and now I am emotionally damaged…” Pretty soon, we’ll probably have separate drinking fountains, bathrooms, and seating in the back of the bus. Yes, I am drawing THAT analogy here.

Oh damn! Did I point out a double standard again? I’m sorry; please don’t sue me because I offended you! I am merely “politically correct challenged” and not responsible for my own actions because I am a “victim” of society.

Oh, I am also “fresh air challenged” and tired of you whiney, not responsible for any of the worlds ails, politically correct, blinder wearing, parroting puppets telling me that my cigarette is killing you from a block away. Now shut up, jump back into your Hummer, and drive away at 9 miles per gallon and leave me alone!

No Vietnamese Ever Called Me A Quiche Eater

My girlfriend told me that she was describing “her boyfriend” to a few curious female co-workers the other day. She described me as “intelligent, educated, having a fondness for fine art, literature, antiques, history, science, opera, the theater and classic movies, being an excellent cook, a decent dresser and wearing cologne that she loves.”

“Oh” said one of the women, “He’s a straight gay guy!”…

A straight gay guy? This is such a typical response in an area where men go out on Saturday night wearing the “less greasy” NASCAR hat and the Jeans with the holes only in the knees. So I guess whenever they see a man who is clean and has all his teeth, he must be gay.

I believe the latest trendy term used in the civilized world is “metrosexual” but that’s a big word for most locals. I have to admit that I had to look up metrosexual myself just to be sure.

According to the Wiki:
Some define metrosexual as "a straight man in touch with his feminine side". Others define it with more specificity, such as "a straight man, who lives in an urban environment, who is into designer clothes, art museums, musicals, and other non-macho pursuits."

Wait! Since when did these things become “gay” or even linked to sexuality at all? I don’t really see anything particularly feminine about wanting to be clean, educated and cultured. Neither do I define designer clothes as being “gay”. Just go down to Broome & Mulberry streets in NYC and ask the first Armani wearing Italian-American man you see if he’s gay.

Now in case you’re wondering, I grew up like most boys. I played with dolls, he was called GI Joe. I played with toy trucks, green army men, rode a pedal fire truck and was in the hospital so often from my rough and tumble injuries that the doctors and nurses knew me by name.

But I also had parents and grandparents who were educated and instilled in us a desire for art and culture in many different areas.

Given the above definitions of a metrosexual, then what are we to assume “real” men are? Sloppy, ignorant, close minded and filthy? Must I run with the Bulls to prove my straighthood?

I am comfortable with my “manhood” and don’t feel the need to pound my chest like a Neanderthal as a proclamation of my sexual orientation. But I swear on Liberace’s grave that I’ll scratch your eyes out if you make fun of my man bag.

Mengele Lives (And wears floral print house dresses)

Remember that play my girlfriend and I were going to when we stopped for a drink and met the observant Australian? If not that’s ok. You can go back and pick up that story if you want to.

So we get to the Cocoa Village Play House, a moderate theater that is one of the only places in the area to see a live performance, and walk down to take out seats. The theater is filling up with a variety of people ranging from teenagers in shorts or jeans to ladies in evening gowns escorted by gentlemen in expensive suits. This is not unusual here. Florida is very casual and people will wear shorts and sandals at even the finest restaurants. This has nothing to do with the story, I just like having opportunities to paint pictures of my home and local culture, but I digress.

Theresa, my girlfriend sat on my left and there were two empty seats on my right. “With a little luck”, I thought to myself “those seats were not sold and I can spread out a little”… Unfortunately, luck is not something that smiles on me very often.

The lights dim, the curtain goes up and the play begins. Suddenly I have some woman’s large derrière pressing against my cheek as she tried to squeeze it into that empty seat on my right. This wasn’t just a simple “take the seat” maneuver but rather a scientific undertaking that reminded me of the Discovery Channel series “Mega Movers”. Before you get all mad at me and start flaming, it wasn’t really her size, it was that she was just awkward and seemed confused or something. That and she somehow got past the “carry on” size limit with her bag which she was struggling with. She finally settled in with a few shifting maneuvers, a grunt or two and the positioning of her luggage at her feet… and mine.

And then it hit me… A solid wall of cheap, and I mean CHEAP perfume overtook me like a WWI Mustard Gas attack.

I hadn’t smelled anything this bad since my 8th grade graduation dance. This was some kind of maniacal concoction of wood alcohol, Moth balls, Lemon Pledge, plastic flowers, Zyklon-B, and dead Chipmunks. If this stuff is flammable, and I am sure that it is, then I would suggest running your car on it, because after all, who can beat it at a dollar a gallon? I am also sure the spray nozzle is conveniently shaped like a gas pump, or at least you would think so because NO ONE wears THAT much perfume on PURPOSE!

I took my Playbill and attempted to fan some oxygen into my lungs from my left side but to no avail. “Must… breathe” I gasped as the theater walls closed in on me and my world became blurry. Not only did my breathing become labored, but my eyes watered up too making it almost impossible to see the play.

Soon tears were streaming down my cheeks as the play went on. I almost forgot to mention, it was a musical. Yes, here I was, crying my eyes out and choking for air as the song continued, “I was deprived of a young girl's dream, by the cruel force of nature from the blue. Instead of a night full of romance supreme…”

Now I don’t know about you, but if I saw a grown man crying to the play “Grease” I would really have to wonder!