Traffuck

Let me ask you a question.
If, while walking along sidewalk, possibly humming along with your IPod to Sloan’s Everything You’ve Done Wrong while dripping the last, little bits out of your double-double coffee into your gaping maw, and you saw a gigantic, 16-wheel flatbed truck trying to navigate a corner at the smallest of small-town intersections, would you:
A) Stop, for no other reason than because you have the last vestiges of coffee-swill drooling down your chin and, depending on the angle you held your coffee cup, sticky, mucous-like sugary-cream pooling in your eye-sockets, making depth of vision a little bit difficult to discern;
B) Stop, because the truck-driver is clearly in over his head at this intersection, trailing close to 15 tons of flattened metal & rubber around an intersection barely big enough to handle a crosswalk littered with school-kids, and the look on his face isn’t even a reasonable facsimile of the calm, cool detachment one would expect from the seasoned truck-driver who would laugh-off such a pickle in long, looping cackles in between drags off the cigarette he‘s holding in his sagging, illiterate mouth;
C) Look the truck-driver directly in his face, walk out in front of his straining, severely-rotating front-end with a blitheness bordering on obliviousness, and as the incredulous truck-driver comes to a screeching stop, thus halting all intersection traffic, you, with the most vulgar scowl you could muster, throw your empty coffee-cup on the back of his flatbed, continuing on your walk, diagonally across said intersection, while throwing a vile glare and a vague shoulder-shrug at the beyond-words-enraged truck-driver.
The answer, as I watched with my own two eyes this morning, is, astonishingly, C.

For Fuck’s Sake

I really dislike being bored.
For me, boredom only comes from one place, and that place is the barren wasteland of boring conversation; if left to my own devices, I can keep myself entertained for hours, but if A&E happens to flicker on soundlessly while they’re doing an "expose" of the Ku Klux Klan’s "secret" history, well, fuck...
Try and stop a conversation about racial intolerance once it’s gotten started.
I dare you.
Now, I’m not, nor was I, trying to avoid the subject - I’ll yell about whatever and/or whomever at the drop of a hint - but seeing a bunch of dentally-handicapped, fat, sweaty, mullet-sporting, southern fucking retards gather together with their sunglasses and rat-tail-wearing children shouting "white power" while cloaked in hooded dresses...let’s just say that I don’t also need to see grainy, black-and-white footage of blacks being whipped to become angry.
I certainly don’t need to get into a conversation decrying racism; isn’t it obvious, at this point, that racism is, LITERALLY, the most horrifyingly repellant thing we could have done to ourselves as a species? Doesn’t that seem, among other things, ridiculously arbitrary?
“Look, we gotta come up with a way to keep this little club of ours to ourselves.”
[silence]
“C’mon! Think, dammit! We’re the edumacated types, right? What can we use as a basis for exclusion?”
[more silence]
“What about...I know! What about keeping people who have brown eyes out?”
[from the back of the room]
“But I have brown eyes.”

“Oh, yeah.”
[from the corner]
“So do I.”
[silence]
“Shit.”
[more silence]
“What about brown skin?”
[silence]
“Whaddya think?”
[from the doorway]
“But then we’d have kick Scully out.”
“Naw; Scully just got a little too much sun yesterday...”
Whatever; my point is that the conversation was fruitless, was going to be fruitless, and though that doesn’t mean that racism is something that should be forgotten about, EVER, it does mean that coming up with overly-simplistic, white-guy "solutions" for an age-old problem on a drink-fueled Saturday night isn’t exactly what I would call a good usage of time or energy.
Granted, the simplistic solutions were mine, but still...it was kind of like trying to shut the TV off in the middle of a Simpsons episode I’ve seen a thousand times; “what, you don’t like The Simpsons any more?”
What?
No, it’s just that I’ve just seen this...
Yes, I know it’s a classic episode...
Fuck.

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Randumb

Numbers are only words that haven’t the vocal-chords nor the gumption to speak the language;
The delight of a small, whole-wheat Mr. Sub veggie-sandwich is equaled only by the physical and metaphorical dragging of a non-complicit onlooker into an otherwise self-indulgent story;
The slang-phrase, "B", as in, "yo, B, getchyo fizzace outta my bizzatch" was inadvertently created when Scottie Pippen apologized cross-court to BJ Armstrong after an air-mailed pass during the Chicago Bulls’ title run in 1993;

The word "sinkhole" spelled backwards is "elohknis", an old, Egyptian carafe made from the walked-on mud of political prisoners and the broken shards of even older Egyptian carafes;

If Ian McKellan had fallen in love with my grandmother, in an atavistic and misguided attempt at not being gay, he’d totally be my grandfather...if, indeed, he managed to spawn before he gave in to the overwhelming pull of his sexual birthright;

The colour purple has a smell, and it’s a cross between crushed wildberries and dingy tattoo-ink from a decrepit tattoo-parlour;

Short-term brain-malfunctions are just the result of one’s soul attempting escape through the imagination-gland;

Free-time is a luxury afforded only to those who work so hard all day that when said free-time emerges, there isn’t anything of any consequence to relate...just slapdashittery & purposelessocity.

Randumbening