A Gun to my Head

Saturday, October 29, 2005, 9:53 pm.

I have a slight buzz tonight so bear with me – I had some wine after dinner (macaroni and cheese) and I'm feeling the effects. But the tipsiness of wine is a Red Ryder to whiskey's 12 gauge, so it's all good.

November approaches and with it the end of my fertility (it takes 3 months for all the sperm to flush out after a vasectomy). I couldn't be more excited about the end of condom use at my house (things are much better by the way), but the missus has been frequently nostalgic about our baby being the last one she will ever bear. I wish I could relate.

I love the kiddos, but I damn sure don't want anymore – or rather, I don't want the wife to bear anymore. Women are nutty to the extreme when they're in the family way. I have a good friend at work that is currently baking one, and she was a freaking head case before, so you can imagine. I am being moved to another location in the building and a new assignment on Monday, and the co-workers in my group are sad to see me go. So they wanted to go out to lunch on our last day together and we had to go early because one chick was leaving before the end of the day to take care of some personal stuff. I called the pregnant co-worker (who isn't part of the group being split up) to let her know where we were going, and left her a voicemail explaining that I would be glad to pick something up for her if she would just call me on my cell. On the way out another co-worker told me that Mom-to-be was on the phone with an angry customer, so it wasn't worth waiting around. When we returned, Abdominus was fit to be tied that we had left her. See, normally we all have lunch together, but this was a different day and we had different priorities. Did I get a chance to explain any of this to miss Fatty Boombatty? Hell, no! I just got the silent treatment for the rest of the day. And this is a Friday, so we won't talk again for the entire weekend. Bullshit!

I have shitloads of respect for women who make babies, especially after this last one Mrs. Mitch and I made, which she had in a birthing center with no meds (badass, huh?). [Note: There's a doctor on E right now doing plastic surgery on a really hot chick's vagina, so I'm goddamned distracted] But it's easy to get real tired real fast of the shit you have to put up with from these skirts. Jeepers H. Creepers, you sit there and pine away to have one of these freaking monkeys growing inside of you, and then you can't wait to get the fucker out. And meanwhile, I and everyone else within reach have to deal with your insanity and feel sorry for you at the same time. Where's that 12 gauge when you need it?

All I know is, if I have to die before that bitch gets over her anger so that God can teach her a lesson about not being so damned vindictive about petty little shit, I am going to haunt the fuck out of her – I'll be there while she's laboring rattling my chains and making shit fly around the room. Fuck the baby.

Poetic Justice

Fostoria, Ohio: Thieves broke in and carried off a safe in the office of a local organization that serves the poor (Fostoria Bureau of Concern), but director Susan Simpkins said that not only was the safe empty but the bureau had decided to junk it a while back and was looking for someone to haul it away. [News-Messenger (Fremont, Ohio), 3-8-05]

And the Lord did grin.

Funny Names of the Week

I've resisted this for a couple of weeks, but I'm done fighting it. My colleagues have weekly features, both of which are highly entertaining - so much so that one colleague has nearly reduced his blog to nothing more than the weekly. I have mentioned before that I am an unoriginal bastard; I have neither the comedic talent (read: hatred) of Wade nor the writing skills (read: useless education) of Bam, so it's not easy for me to come up with something. But there is a guy here at work that sends me an e-mail every time he comes across an account where the customer has a funny name. And there are an assload of people out there with funny names; you wouldn't freaking believe the number. So I present my weekly feature, the Funny Names of the Week. It could be one name or 10 names, however many I see. I'll include the name of the town where they live to give the feature a little more authenticity. Remember, these are real people who have reached adulthood and established credit in spite of their unbelievably unfortunate monikers.

Our favorite foreskin out of St Peters, MO: James Schmuck
Better late than never from Riverside, TX: William Tardy
From Mason, TX, self-pleasure specialist Mr. Jack Goff
We want him, gotta have him, from Fairway, KS: Freddy Funk
And bringing up the rear from Goffstown, NH: Brian Fanny

Let's see how long I can keep this up.

Man Sprinkles Poop, Store Manager Unaffected

A little news today for the loyal reader. I wonder what kind of poop it was. He was sprinkling fresh baked bads on fresh baked goods. Nice.

From WFAA:
The man accused of sprinkling dried fecal matter over fresh baked goods at a Dallas grocery store was found guilty Wednesday. Customers shopping at the Fiesta store on Ross Avenue complained about a stench while shopping in the bakery, which prompted managers to put in a security camera. What they found shocked them. The video captured Behrouz Nahidmobarekah reaching inside a bag and sprinkling its feces content over the bakery goods.
"This is probably the most bizarre case I've ever encountered," said Taly Haffar, prosecutor.
The prosecution said they believe the defendant contaminated the food because he was angry at the way he was treated at the store. However, medical experts at the trial said it was the customers at the store that paid the biggest price from his actions.
"To cause an infection in an individual you need essentially two things," said one medical expert during the trial. "You need exposure, which would be to the fecal matter, and you would essentially need the host. That's the defense, and that is why he pled not guilty."
Proving the action's potential danger to the public was essential to the prosecutor's case.
"It's not enough that is grosses you out, and it grosses everyone of us out, but what you have to prove is that it will probably cause serious bodily injury," said Clark Birdsall, defense attorney.
Prosecutors said the defendant visited the store at least eight times; an idea that has some customers disturbed.
"Yea, that grosses me out," said customer John Cameron. "That's disgusting. But it doesn't change how I feel about the store. It's a great store."
The defendant could receive anywhere from 10 years probation to two to 20 years in prison.

"I sprrrinkle poop on donut because managerrr trrreat me bad! I no have issue with scat! I no jack off to images in my khead of people eating my poop! I swearrrr! My turrrban is not dirrrrty you son of bitch! Please to be eating my sheet forrr yourrr brrreakfast motherrr beetches!"

Update from CBS:
Police found a pile of human feces by his bed. They believe he would dry it, either by microwave or just let it sit out, then grate it up and sprinkle it at the store.

Stolen Idea

I realze that I am a stupid unoriginal bastard, and normally, I wouldn't steal an idea (unless it's a good one from Wade). But I have to stand with Carlos Mencia and ask, "Why the Fuck Is This News?"

Am I the only person that knows that the KKK's inbred, toothless members hate gays? By the way, they're marching in support of something? Damn, maybe this is news. Nevermind.

Sunday's Drive Home

I live in the country. So that you get a good idea what that means, I offer this: My late Pekingese, Jack, was startled by gunfire one late summer Sunday morning as I walked him – it was the opening day of dove season. To get to my house one must cross the creek twice and avoid the farm implements. Bring a sack lunch to walk from the street to my front door. And so on. There is a two lane, blacktop farm-to-market road that I take to get to my house. The speed limit, in spite of the cross streets and homes, is 55. I rarely get the opportunity to drive at the limit because of the little old ladies and the asshats taking a country drive who apparently get their kicks looking at hay fields and dead skunks, armadillos, and opossums (opossi?). Then there are the complete jackasses who think that if you are an eighth of a mile away, they can pull out in front of you with no consequence…even if the car behind you won't be coming along for another 10 minutes. Apparently, math was never deemed necessary by these mental leviathans. Let's see here, 55 miles per hour equals 80.66 feet per second…an eighth of a mile is 660 feet…carry the 2…yeah, that's what I thought, a whole 8 fucking seconds!!! Eight seconds for you to pull out in front of me from a complete stop and THEN accelerate to 55 miles per hour, all while maintaining a couple of car lengths between us for safety! Unless you are driving a brilliant red barchetta on rails with a fucking jet engine, you are NOT going to keep me from having to drive my foot through the floorboard of my car trying to stop. To quote Will Smith in I, Robot: ASS!!.....HOLE!!

So I'm cruising along the other day on the way home, and I get to the really country part of the FM road with the higher speed limit. There's this car up ahead that I can tell is going slower than the limit, so as I approach I'm ready to start cursing the recycled 10W-40 lubing the cylinders of the goddamned '82 New Yorker when I start hearing this noise through my tilted roof. It's a loud sort of muffled grinding type noise that could be a stampede of bison from 12 miles away. I was so distracted I didn't notice the vibrating heads in the back seat of the Chrysler. As I edged closer to the POS, my distracted attempt at interpreting the clamor pounding my eardrums was interrupted by a piece of a tire hitting my windshield. That's correct; the douchebag in front of me (with 3 passengers in the car) was bouncing along at no less than 40 miles per hour on a flat rear driver's side tire. When my short period of customary astonishment and disbelief (along with a sense that I was somehow involved in a chase) had passed, I risked easing up a little closer to let the apparent wino know that I was not pleased with having to drive behind him and his quickly shredding Michelin Radial X. He responded by burying the needle. When the smoke cleared, he was a couple hundred feet ahead and I was left dodging a new assault of chunks of his amazingly abundant tire. The fucking thing never ran out. I slowed down and waited for a chance to pass. Once the dullard in the Mustang behind me had passed on the shoulder, ignoring both the law and the possibility of killing children riding their bikes or entire families out for an evening constitutional, I saw my chance and took it.

I have no idea what happened to the ninnies in the New Yorker, nor did I ever figure out whether they were plastered or just inbred. I didn't want to stare at them as I went by for fear that if they were stupid enough to take a Sunday drive on a flat, they were crazy enough to fill my brain with double-ought buck. Hell, for all I know they were late for a tee time.

A Social Worker's Tale

So, my brother works with a chick that's working toward a degree in social work. She says there's talk in Texas (I couldn't verify this with any news stories) of passing a law that will hold the parents of minors who father children responsible for child support. I think grandparental child support holds as much water as a trembling, six-month-old chihuahua, so I'm not sure we have anything to worry about where it concerns this becoming law. But it brought up some issues. The future (desperately poor) social worker writes papers on some controversial social issues, so she always polls her co-workers to get opinions. The majority female opinion on this particular issue was the standard "It's about time the men are held responsible! Women have been forced to take care of kids by themselves for ages!" First of all, bullshit OK? Child support laws work pretty damned well as far as I'm concerned. And I'm concerned.

My mom has been collecting child support for years, and the time that my dad was out of work and we collected welfare from the state has not been forgotten. My dad's paying that money back. That's right, the state wants my dad to PAY BACK welfare, and part of that plan requires that a portion of the money he pays in child support be earmarked toward the reduction of that debt. If a man spends time in jail for not paying child support (during which time he is not earning any money, and therefore can't pay child support), he gets in trouble for not paying child support, which gets his license taken away, which makes it difficult for him to pay child support, ad nauseum. And child support law needs changes? It doesn't work? My dad doesn't even get tax returns! It goes straight to his debt, and rightly so.

Second of all, I'm in complete disbelief that women would support a law that would require the grandparents of her child to pay child support. Holy. Crap. Do women have rights? Do rights not carry any responsibilities to others? Are your rights more important than mine? If so, who made that decision? Take abortion for instance. Why is it that a woman has the right to choose whether her baby comes into the world, but the father doesn't? The next 18 years of my life are going to be decided by a woman I had a one-nighter with? I can't believe we live in a country where that's possible. "Oh, but it's her body, not yours." Yeah, well she CHOSE to give someone her body for that one fleeting moment, so the CHOICE was made. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit if you think you are within your rights to make a decision by yourself that will severely affect another person of sound mind. Our rights under our republican constitution are our rights based on the simple fact that we are human; sex has nothing to do with it. If women can get abortions, then the law should say that the man has the right to choose as well. If he chooses abortion and she chooses to keep the baby, then he shouldn't be held responsible for supporting the little monkey. "That's ridiculous!" you say? I agree, so let's just outlaw abortion and that way everyone has equal rights.

I'm amazed that the same people that fight for abortion rights are fighting for equal rights for homosexuals. I agree that homos should have equal rights; after all, they are human. But how could you support a "right" that takes someone else's rights away and then, with a straight face, argue that everyone should have equal rights? Silly liberals, rights are for republicans; you just don't know what to do with them.

And speaking of homos…will someone please explain to me what makes them less human? I believe that homosexuality is a choice. You know why? Because you could live 100 years without having sex; it won't kill you. See, I made a CHOICE to marry a woman. I could have stayed single and/or been celibate for the rest of my life, but I didn't want to. I am within my right to the pursuit of happiness to marry a woman. So, why am I not allowed to pursue happiness if I want to marry a man? The mistake the religious right (fake republicans) makes is assuming that the constitution is a Christian document. It isn't. When did the right to the pursuit of happiness become a Christian ideal? Christianity is all about self-denial, and that is evident in the life of Jesus Christ who "…became poor on our account…" The pursuit of personal happiness is decadent. It is so rich in sinful possibility as to lead to complete degeneracy and depravity. And a true republican will support that right to the death, even if it means allowing men to marry men or whack off to women pooping or slather down a rake handle with mayo and stick it where el sol don't shine. The only limit to the pursuit of happiness is where it crosses over the rights of others or extends past the boundaries of the law. For instance, the law says you can't have sex with animals, the reason being that they can't consent to it, among others. So, sorry, but you'll have to pursue your happiness at horsepenis.com and hope they don't shut the site down. The law allows the KKK to march on Washington, but a queer who's been with his podner for 15 years can't keep the house when said podner dies because the parents he hasn't talked to in 20 years want to sell it and give the money to Jimmy Swaggart. God save the queen.

The Effect of Tight, Boot-Cut Jeans on the Psyche

I watched Crash last night. Damned good movie; I recommend it. I have to ask, though: What the hell message was that movie trying to convey?

If you've seen the flick, you know it's about racism, or at least I think it is. It could also be about how everything you do affects someone else, so be careful what you do, blah, blah, blah. But if it's about racism, the message was muddy, at best. Every racist act, idea, or attitude in the movie was in some way justified. Yet all racism is wrong…period…and kiss my ass if you think otherwise. So it's confusing as hell. I guess it's one of those "makes you think" movies.

Racism is a strange thing to me. As a Republican, I believe that all men were created equal with certain inalienable rights that can't be taken away from them no matter what, and "all men" would include any race, any sexuality, whatever. Hell, even Saddam has rights. And can you really justify thinking any one thing about an entire group of people? Don Cheadle asks in the movie who got all of the diverse races and nationalities of the Hispanic culture together and taught them all to park their cars on the lawn. Now, that's some funny shit…especially because my car was parked in the grass last night (I'm not kidding). Hey, I had a good reason, OK? A friend here at work said that her daughter walked in the street the other day to avoid 4 young Black men walking down the sidewalk. My friend witnessed this and asked her daughter why she had done it. The girl said that she was scared because the boys had on baggy pants and looked mean. She said she thought they were going to steal her clarinet. Again, that's some funny shit right there. First off, I doubt these kids were a roving gang of band nerds looking for nice instruments to steal. Secondly, unless they were roving band nerds looking for nice instruments to steal, why the fuck would they want her clarinet? I can just see these dudes pulling the clarinet out, assembling it, wetting down the reed, and then walking down the street playing klezmer music and rapping to it. "Can a nigga get a MITZVAH?!"

I used to be a bigot. Then I stopped drinking Coors Light on a daily fucking basis, listening to country music, and wearing Wranglers® and everything straightened out. And speaking of music, what's with the racial separation? Seriously, why is it so hard for some people to appreciate the gifts and hard work it takes to make music…any music? You can tell me all day that Eminem has no talent, but until I see you out-write him, kiss my ass. The dude's a fucking genius. Can you assemble sound like Dr. Dre or Timbaland? If so, go to Hollywood, muthafucka. Don't sit around here telling me how much they suck. And what's with people who think all rock is shitty music? Have you heard of King's X, jackass? Has Incubus never crossed your ears? And if they did, would you even give them a chance?

If you're a racist, go live in your shitty little world, asshat. I'll be here enjoying the varied and diverse scenery and listening to Run DMC rap to the music of Aerosmith. Now that's quality, bitches.

The Potato Salad Salute - A Tribute

One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact.
- Geddy Lee

Jupiter Hyperspace Crystalstar, people. When are we going to learn to be transparent? Who the hell wants to remain intact when your life sucks? Geddy's words should be heeded as a warning, not taken as advice. Anyway, that's my serious rant for the day. Let's laugh at the misfortunes of others, shall we?

Reported by The Guardian (London) on July 20, 2005: In July, as teams of poverty-stricken soccer players from around the world showed up in Scotland for the "Homeless World Cup," immigration officials denied entry to players from Kenya, Zambia, Burundi, Cameroon and Nigeria because they lacked funds for lodging and meals during the tournament.

Let us pray.

Lord, we thank Thee for this story of the afflictions of the poor which thou hast given in thy mercy. We thank Thee for the humor and irony therein. Lastly, we ask Thee for the ability to sarcastically analyze the story and leech out any and all humorous possibilities. Amen.

The training, the dedication, the sweat, the drinking, the begging – ESPN8, "The Ocho," presents the Homeless World Cup. We're live from the Refrigerator Box Bowl right here in sunny Edinburgh, Scotland bringing you non-stop coverage of the world's premier homeless footballers. Stay tuned for live games, in-depth analyses, and player interviews right after this message from our sponsor, Boone's Farm Strawberry.
Wow. It's just unbelievable to me that these dudes that are homeless, presumably men who can't find or keep steady work for one reason or the other, have the dedication to train for a world-class sporting event. If they're that committed, why the hell are they homeless? I just don't know what the hell to say. I'm floored by this. They lacked the funding for lodging and meals? Right. And that was maybe because they are FUCKING HOMELESS! These people actually prepared to travel to another CONTINENT without securing enough money to pay for the trip. They were planning on going to Scotland and being homeless there, just like at home. Meanwhile, I have been blessed with a job at which I am present every cursed day, and I have never been to Europe. I probably won't ever go to Europe. I want to go to fucking Europe! Why are homeless people traveling to Scotland to play soccer when all I want to do is go to Prague and drink the 50 cent micro brew? And speaking of Prague's cheaper-than-water (literally) ale, why wasn't the tournament held there? What better place, right? Look, I'm not saying that all homeless people drink, but…um…oh, yeah, all homeless people drink! I have a vision of these guys running around the field wearing fingerless gloves and trenchcoats carrying paper-wrapped bottles in their hands. After all, you only use your feet in soccer. The ball occasionally hits people in the face, teeth fall out, there's a scrim when they all jump on the lost tooth looking for gold caps, it's a fucking homeless soccer game, for the sake of Pete. Wait a minute, maybe that's the grand prize – a bottle of Pete's Fortified Homogenized Sake! Hell yeah! Where do I sign up? Get me my trenchcoat, woman! I gots me a kick 'em ball game to play. Hold my sign, I'll be right back. Potato Salad!

The Lone Star Pennant

I never thought I'd see the day.

The Meeting Minutes

So I'm in a meeting today drawing pictures of trees and little Asian houses when my boss says that 11 equals 6.

Now that's a hell of a way to start a blog entry, even if I do say so myself.

We were talking about timekeeping and how it has to be figured for the benefit of the little assholes here who want to take FMLA hours. Don't even fucking get me started on FMLA. Don't. Just google it and shut the fuck up, because I will fucking minotaur you. We have to count the actual minutes versus using tenths like they do in payroll. So since it's necessary to err on the side of the employee, we have to pay them a full 6 minutes even if they only worked 1 minute into a tenth. No problem, right? So this ditzy ass co-worker who wouldn't understand a Little Golden Book if you plugged her into that computer thing in the Matrix and fed it directly to her brain says that she's confused. No shit! You? Confused? Couldn't be! Jiggly H. Cups-O-Flesh, bitch…if I told you that your hair was on fire, you'd be confused. After it was explained to her for a literal half hour period, she finally understood, but still said we should wait to implement it until after we've talked to the rest of the department. That we should wait to start doing the right thing, the LEGAL thing, the this-will-keep-us-from-getting-sued thing, until we confer with the rest of the supervisors so that we "…can have consistency in the department." OMFG woman, you are only good for the holes betwixt your legs. No BAM, somebody fucking kill ME.

So then my manager says the second shift should have one lunch. We currently have 2 different lunches alternating half the department every quarter. I had a vision of Ziggy Marley…
One lunch….one lunch
Let's get together and eat at the same time…

Criminy, I'll just sit here and write "Mitch" in block letters over and over.

We then discussed some of the crap people have gotten fired for over the last few years. One chick had the same grandpa (pappaw?) die twice. The first time he died, it was in Arkansas. A year later he died in Houston. And the silly twat thought no one would find out. The next asshat lied about being on military duty for three months. Let that sink in a minute. There are many things in this world that will get you on the fast track to hell, but that one has got to be the best. I'd sooner make fun of retards to their big, silly faces or kick a frail, brittle-boned grandmother down the stairs than lie about military service. Then there was the chick that went on bereavement leave because her sister had been brutally murdered by her estranged husband. This chick's teammates collected over 500 samoleans to give to the family, only to find that the story was a big, fat ruse. Holy shitballs, some people are just too evil to share oxygen with.

I hope everyone in New Orleans is rooting like hell for the Astros tonight. Those fuckers owe it to 'em.

Why Men Fear Commitment

Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation. The other eight are unimportant.
- George Burns

Let me start by saying that I haven't kissed my wife in years. YEARS, you read it right. Don't get me wrong, she gave me a nice little peck before she left this morning. But I'm talking about kissing.

My wife is a beautiful woman. She is an amazing mother, and she gives me every verbal indication that she loves me deeply. Those verbal indications are important to me; I like receiving affirmation from my wife. My wife takes care of my home with the passion and commitment of someone who gets paid $1,000,000 an hour to do it. She works her ass off 8 hours a day to support her family. She is an awesome wife, a gift from God, and any man would be lucky to have her. So why am I crying myself to sleep at night?

Notice that the previous paragraph gives no indication of physical intimacy. When I say physical intimacy, I'm not only talking about sex, I'm talking about physical contact…period…just touching of any kind. The reason there is no indication of physical intimacy is because there is none in my house, unless you count the kisses I lavish on my children (to their dismay). There are a bunch of men who would kill to have a wife like mine – a woman unconcerned with foreplay, passion, cuddling of any kind (naked or clothed), hugging, or even kissing. I'm not your average dude.

My wife has issues with intimacy. She has no problem with sex, but feels too much surrender during lovemaking. See, intimacy without complete surrender is not intimacy at all. Now, think about that statement for a moment. Read it again; roll it around in your mouth and see how it tastes; run it up the flag pole and see who salutes, etc. My wife isn't interested in true intimacy because she can't make herself vulnerable to me. Making herself vulnerable to me is dangerous. After 8 years of marriage, a couple years of close friendship/dating before that, and three kids, somehow I still might hurt her. Apparently, I'm just waiting around and dealing with this bullshit looking for the perfect opportunity to catch her at her weakest, at which point I'll just be on my way, leaving her broken and spilled out with her life in a shambles.

Amazingly, though my wife's most important expression of love is talking, I can't initiate a conversation with her about this. I have tried, bringing up things I heard from friends about how people fixed their marriages, television stuff I saw, things I heard on the radio, but she won't respond. She doesn't want to bring it up because she doesn't want to fix it. Who would? I mean, I don't like to do dishes. With the passion that dogs have for licking their balls, I hate to rinse food off of plates. Why? I don't know; I just hate it. Do I want to go to counseling to learn how to love doing the dishes? Fuck no! I hate doing dishes and I don't want to love doing dishes! Those two things sort of go together; they make sense. So why would my wife want to learn how to love physical intimacy? Especially with the fucking mess of a man she's married to?

I eat. I am an eating machine. The most important aspect of food to me is how it tastes. Whether it's good or bad for me, whether it's raw or cooked, what color it is…none of those things matter. If it tastes good and I enjoy the texture, it is my heroine. I lost a bunch of weight a couple years ago, eighty pounds to be exact. I was working out like a madman and religiously governing my intake of food and supplements. I drank at least a gallon of water a day and looked forward to the alarm clock in the morning so I could get on the treadmill and try to reduce my minutes per mile. I worshipped at the altar of fitness and burned incense to the gods of sexiness, seeking the favor of the missus. When it didn't work, I gave up. I have gained back about 45 pounds, and if you told me my dick would fall off if I didn't lose it again, I couldn't possibly care less. Was I weaned too early, Dr. Freud? Does it have something to do with the 14 year old Forrest Gump who tried to get me to suck his dick when I was five? Whatever. All I know is that food makes me feel good and the woman to whom I committed my life eight years ago doesn't. She just fucking doesn't. And experience tells me she never will. My commitment was unconditional love, and it's a commitment I will never break. A true man keeps his promises, no matter what. Just ask Wade, he's a real man. You can keep all of that conquering-as-much-pussy-as-you-possibly-can crap. Keep hiding behind it and pretending it makes you masculine, you orally self-satisfying, sexuality-questioning, latently homosexual, little boy. I'm in it for the long run.

Wade, Bam, and I talk on a weekly basis (in fact, they're probably the only people who will read this). We always talk about the blogs and laugh, yada, yada, yada. But the one thing we all agree on is that this is cathartic. It feels good. It gets this crap off your chest and leaves it somewhere else for others to laugh at (or in this case, cry). So if you wonder what this is all about, that's it. It's just something that was on my chest, and now it's here. Enjoy. Make fun. I laugh about it to keep from crying.

It's Not Fair

I went to the State Fair of Texas this weekend. Cradle of the corn dog, tallest Ferris wheel in North America, largest collection of art deco exposition buildings in the United States, giant white cowboy pointing north as if to say, "Leave! This is the worst freaking neighborhood in Dallas! Run fool!"

Dallas' Fair Park is 277 city-owned acres smack dab in the middle of the city's largest collection of whores, crackheads, and gang members. Every year the people who live or own businesses right across one of the 4 or 5 streets surrounding the fair all go out and buy little orange flags and waive them around trying to attract people looking for a parking space. So the choice you have is: iron-gated, police patrolled city parking, or the front yard of a condemned house with 14 people living in it who normally panhandle but this is their working vacation. Parking in one of these yards is like presenting your vehicle as part of a burglary buffet; a smorgasbord of shanghai, if you will. And every year, people are lined up waiting to pay the measly $5 for the privilege of having to file an insurance claim for broken glass and stolen CD's. Tourists.

As an aristocrat, I park, eat, and am entertained well at the fair. I was enlightened, nay overjoyed and down-right rocked by the music of the Rob Hunt Band, who was scheduled for 3 shows, but later re-scheduled to one. Luckily, I got there in time to see the one show and also caught the end of 38 Special, who played a stirring and well-reproduced version of Hold on Loosely, among others. The kicker was that the 8 o'clock show was pre-empted by the unbearably shitty Kraig Parker (that's not a typo; the asshat spells his name that way). His claim to fame? He is the only Elvis impersonator that the colonel's widow has ever gone to see (that's Tom Parker, not the chicken dude). And this hairy-chested, big-haired, unoriginal bastard started loading crap onto the side-stage area before Rob was done with his set. Not only that, he drew a crowd bigger than 38 Special and Rob combined. Jimmy H. Kravitz, what the hell has gone wrong in this world that people would rather watch a larger-than-life caricature of a long dead icon (for what reason? The world may never know) make an ass of himself than listen to one of the best blues guitarists in Dallas regale them with the music of the common man?

I've heard it said that jazz is the only American art form. Those that make that claim either lump blues in with jazz or fail to recognize the beauty and art of the blues, neither of which is a fair assessment. How many Dallasites know that Deep Ellum is one of the birthplaces of blues music? I shudder to think how few. As a former blues performer, I may have more of an appreciation. But what music fan isn't aware that Stevie Ray Vaughn, arguably the best blues guitar virtuoso of his time (if not all time), honed his craft in Oak Cliff? People like Rob, Andy Timmons, and Jimmy Wallace are carrying on that tradition, and it's dying a slow death caused by apathy. If appreciation is oxygen to the blues, somebody get the intubation kit, stat.

Oh, well. Whatever. My 3 decades, if nothing else, have shown me that good music is never appreciated by the masses. The lowest common denominator is the brick that paves the streets leading to Bentleys, Beverly Hills, and gold bullion. I love alliteration. And without a fucking Swiss bank account, you really can't enjoy the fair. Which brings us full circle. Somebody kill me.

On Stud Collars and Tight Vinyl Clothing

From the Boston Herald, 8-7-05: Connecticut saddle-maker Mike Derrick, on why he set up a booth in Boston at the August Fetish Fair Fleamarket: He could spend six hours creating a bridle for a horse and earn $40, he said, but "make one for a human, $120."

Bridle - A harness, consisting of a headstall, bit, and reins, fitted about a horse's head and used to restrain or guide the animal.

I've never understood S&M. I've heard chicks on the radio who called themselves dominatrices, and they all deny getting their clients to the point of orgasm. I've got to figure they're bullshitting, but if not, what's the fucking point? Why would any guy want some hot, half-naked chick stomping on his balls for half an hour if it's not going to lead to getting a nut? Why would you want to get bitch-slapped, bridled, and belittled unless the payoff is a nice bukkake of the chick putting you through all that crap? Hell, I'd let my wife spray-fart in my dinner (props to Chappelle) and then sop it up with a biscuit if she'd just blow me afterwards.

Of course, this topic leads back to Freud. That asshat was completely off his rocker in a lot of ways. I don't dispute that he is the father of modern psychoanalyses and that a bunch of people have been helped because of his theories, but he was still nutty as a fruitcake. Although he recanted some if his theories later in life, admitting that he may have had too much of a fixation on sex (ya think?), he said it all boiled down to defense mechanisms caused by strong conflict.

Can somebody tell me what defense mechanism causes a dude to want his genitalia trampled by a woman in stilettos? Which one makes you want to be gimped up in a rubber suit with a fucking bridle in your mouth while hog-tied and a large Eastern European woman is giving you a Cleveland steamer? Because I want to avoid that one. It seems to me that crap like that should be treated and cured, not given an outlet. Which brings me to my next point: If you have those kinds of depraved desires, what makes you seek a dominatrix rather than a doctor? Isn't anyone scared anymore? How did Michael Hutchence get to a point where a regular, garden variety, Sunday afternoon orgasm didn't do the trick anymore? And how did that fact not make him seek help? I'd be scared shitless if I felt like I needed to hang myself to get a really good nut.

I hate clichés, but…it takes all kinds. At the end of the day, I guess that's true. After all, survival of the fittest doesn't only apply to animals. We have to weed out the weak genes in humanity, too. Getting a good nut stomping will certainly affect your ability to impregnate a woman, and if you aren't jizzing in the first place, well that's self-explanatory. Not only that, those damned curious kids would be getting into the bridles and gags and such, and we just can't have that.

Sex and the Shitty

From the AP: This past Monday, Pittsburgh, PA police caught a man having sex with a woman in the basement of a building he had broken into. He was charged with the break-in, she was charged with criminal trespassing.

This dude broke into a building, went and got the chick, and brought her back to the building to have sex with her. Wouldn't you rather get caught screwing outdoors than arrested for burglary? What the hell?

It has got to suck getting "caught" having sex. I was watching COPS one time, and they caught this dude just as he was about to bang this chick in the back seat of his buddy's Cougar. They asked him his name, and he gave them a fake. When they couldn't find any record of the name and he claimed not to have any ID, they questioned him further, at which point he finally gave up his real name. The dude had no warrants, no trouble of any kind, but he ended up getting arrested because he failed to ID himself to the cops. The arresting officer said he would have just told them to find a better place to get it on if the guy hadn't lied to him. And the chick was hot as hell! She admitted that she had just met him inside the club they were outside of, and that the name he gave the cops was the name he had given her as well. So basically, this dude wanted to bang the chick and then never see her again, so he gave her a fake name, and then didn't want to blow his cover when the cops questioned him. More power to him if he had pulled it off, but in the end he just went to the hoosegow with blue balls. Some poor, drunk little twink in the slammer probably lost o-ring to Mr. Fakename that night.

Coitus Interruptus – coitus intentionally interrupted by withdrawal of the penis from the vagina before semen is ejaculated.

Jiggy H. Cunnilingus, even the definition sucks.

I've only had one situation where my fun was spoiled, but I wasn't "in" yet, so it wasn't too terrible. And it wasn't the cops that interrupted us. I've got to figure that's the worst freakin' feeling in the world. Especially for the asshat in the Cougar. I mean, this guy was probably blessing the luck that had gotten him into that back seat and feeling like he was on top of the fucking world (literally!), and then one dumb-ass fib screwed the pooch. In my sick little brain, he had tried to pull off a one-nighter about 42 times, and this was the first time it worked. He mentioned to the cops being on leave from the Army, so I see him getting schooled by some of the older guys in basic on the proper methods for securing some part-time poontang. I imagine him trying out the new techniques for the first time with his new-found military confidence - you know that soldier's swagger? And then talking this hot horny little tramp out of her jeans, the passion, the sweat, the fondling, the wetness….. Where was I? Oh yeah, and then it all goes down in flames because the asshat couldn't think on his feet. I mean seriously, if this chick was dumb enough to get into that car with him, then it would have been nothing to convince her that he was just using his middle name or something. Or he could have just given the cops his real name, and then told the chick that he gave the cops a fake name because he was wanted in 4 states for subversion or some shit like that. That bitch would have been totally turned on by that; you know how those little whores like dangerous guys. Shit, I would have strung that 'tang along for another month like a fucking flathead on a trot line making her believe that I was on some top-secret mission or something. She'd be home pining away and writing letters to my "base" in Yemen while I was at the urologist getting a penicillin shot for the clap.

But alas, I am a one woman man. Which means I found one woman willing to let me climb on every now and then, and then I stuck with her like dog in copula waiting for the swelling to go down. Hey, I love the woman - what can I say?

The Fate of the Lardass

A few nights ago I had a dream where I was completely nude standing at the counter of a snowcone stand with some old childhood friends (who recognized me) standing behind me. I'll let that sink in a minute for those of you who know what I look like.

The angry Austrian pictured here is none other than my main man Sigmund Freud (Booyakashah!). He posited that nothing we do occurs by chance; it's all in some way motivated by our subconscious at some level. In order to live in a civilized society, people repress the urges and impulses they find embarrassing (or are illegal). Freud said that those impulses need an outlet, and dreams are the catalyst. If you ask me, Freud was an oedipal, sex-obsessed, depraved maniac who badly needed some Jesus. In no fucking way is there some impulse in me that wants to get a snowcone in the middle of the day while au naturel with a couple of kids behind me that I used to play hide and seek with.

First of all, I am unusually self-conscious about my ass. That may be in some way related to the fact that it is a stark white, lumpy, hairy extension of my lower back. I am also strangely large-titted; I think I may be a B cup, I'm not sure. As if that weren't enough to keep me from exhibitionism, my manhood is rather humble. It doesn't help that any smallish part of the body is going to seem even smaller in relation to…oh, I don't know…maybe my enormous fucking gut! How the hell is it even remotely possible that I have some depraved desire to put all of the above described horror on display? Maybe if I were an agent managing some professional circus geek who smells like cabbage I would want to exhibit someone with a body like mine. But I never, ever want anyone to see what's under my clothes. Every time I undress to bathe in front of the walls of mirrors in my bathroom, I shudder to think what my wife has to deal with. Jeebus H. Krikey, she must spend more time suppressing her gag than concentrating on having an orgasm. Thank God for my platinum tongue.

I have written about my appearance before, so this is nothing new. But the Freudian idea that I somehow want to run the streets with my fat and my phallus flopping around stretches the boundaries of the ridiculous. During my recent vasectomy, I was subjected to the horror of having to expose myself not only to the oddly touchy-feely and soft-spoken surgeon, but also to the very cute nurse, who happens to work next door to my wife. The first time I met this chick she congratulated me on the birth of my son; as it turns out, she is also a patient of my wife's office. I was beside myself at the horror of this chick seeing me unclad, and could only hope that her stupidity precluded her from being present during a delicate procedure involving the very essence of my identification as a male of my species. No such luck. She waited at the foot of the table until the doctor exposed me, caught a glimpse, and then promptly took her place in her chair next to the examination table. Bitch of bitches! I imagined her doing this to every patient, deciding on the appearance of the organ whether she would help him with the semen analyses.
"Ooh! His dick is big and he's a hotty! I'm gonna give him a happy ending when he comes back to leave a sample."

On my follow-up visit, she told me to come back and get two sample cups, then go home and fill them. The bitch doesn't even want me jerking it in the office bathroom. Such is the fate of the lardass.

That Guy at Work You Hate

Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It's what separates us from the animals….except the weasel.
- Homer Simpson

There's a guy here at work that is…let's see, how can I say this…he's an ass. An asshat. A shit-eating asshat. I hereby nominate him for asshat of the week. I know he won't win, but goddammit he deserves it. A man who asks the same questions on a daily basis deserves to be asshat of the week. A man who weasels out of doing any damned thing and keeps the mucky-mucks believing that he is the shiznit deserves it. A man who has 300 e-mails because he doesn't know how to use fucking personal folders in fucking Outlook DESERVES IT!! OK, I digress.

When you don't like your job, you don't strike! You go in everyday and do it really half-assed! That's the American way!
- Homer Simpson

This guy, we'll call him Damien, goes around telling everybody all day long how he has been here for 10 years, and how that (and only that) is what qualifies him to walk around all day telling people that he has been here for 10 years. Meanwhile, he celebrated his 9th anniversary in September (or Sebtober, as he calls it). Oh, and I already checked to see if he has any extra fingers or anything, and that came up empty. If you look up lazyfuckstick in the dick-tionary, his picture is prominently displayed on the lower half of the page. The next word has to be delegated to the following page because his goofy-ass image takes up so much space. You can't understate lazyfuckstick-edness, and you wouldn't want to with this guy anyway. The only thing worse than a complete moron is a complete moron who thinks everyone else is a complete moron. Look, stumortard (nodding in Wade's direction), your half-assed attempts at making yourself look like something more than the douchebag that you are have only served to alienate a majority of your coworkers. See, Damien thinks that the way you make yourself stand out is by making others look bad. The problem is that when you are a complete fucking stupid-head who doesn't know a schooner is a sailboat, you can't make anyone else look bad! The other person would have to be dumber than you, and that just aint gonna happen (I'm using language here that Damien would understand)!

Here's the cool thing, and I've seen this happen here before: The Company keeps putting him on higher and higher a pedestal, honing in the radar on him. While the lemming-minded masses are sitting around complaining that he gets all of this recognition, and while Damien is rejoicing in his buena suerte (nodding in Bam's direction), I am admiring the well-deserved spotlight shining on him. See, when you go into a museum and there is a fine sculpture sitting on display, there's usually something that sets it off. Whether it be lighting or an otherwise empty room (ahhh, Eddie's younger days), something makes the display stand out. That's why they call it a display. And as of November one, Damien is on display. His ass is sitting in the middle of an empty, white room with one light shining down on him. He sits there popping his Happyassitol pills with a big, goofy grin on the catcher's mitt he calls a countenance wearing a nametag on his designer shirt that says, "Damien – 9 or 10 years of service."

A wise man once said: I've learned life is one crushing defeat after another until you just wish Flanders (Damien) was dead.

Damien, here's a Marlboro 72 and let me tighten that blindfold for ya. It'll be over soon.

You Smell That?

This morning listeners of the Howard Stern show were encouraged to take a whiff by the creator of a new dietary supplement that makes poop have no odor. That's right, it makes poop non-stinky. Here's an excerpt from the segment that almost made me have a wreck:
Howard: "They should make a product that makes your poop stink even worse.'Somebody Died.'"
Artie: "That product already exists, its called White Castle."

Oh, and Whiff also makes your poop "…a distinct and rich green color."

I get the exact same effect from Froot Loops.

Family Resemblance in Automobiles

Can you tell these cars apart? I can't! I have to tell you, this pisses me off! I don't care if I work for the company, this is bullshit! The one on the left is a 2006 Jag XK8, and the other one is a 2005 Aston Martin DB9. I could have put the Vantage or the DB8 there, and it would be pretty much the same. Why would someone spend anywhere from 185 to 325 grand for an Aston Martin when you get the same look for 75 grand from Jag? I understand that a Jag isn't an AM, but in this economy making these two cars look so much alike is dangerous. As a person who is obsessed with the AM, this is just disgusting to me.

Wasn't Gray the Color of the South?

The Yankees are done for the season. God, that makes me happy. I couldn't possibly tell you the origins of my hatred for the Yanks, but hate them I do. Go Whatever-team-is-beating-the-Yankees!

I Know This is Late...

A 14 year old was having sex with the woman pictured here. He told his mommy on her. I have nothing more to say.

By the way, those are mugshots up there.

Oh, and is it just me or does she look better without make-up than with?

Oh, Kermit. It's Come to This?

I had to post just to show you this. Oh, the beauty that is the animated GIF. I just got inspired.

Animated GIF
The impossible becomes
My reality

The Billionairess, the Judge and the Fortune

Sheila Crump Johnson is America's first Black female billionaire. She is the former wife of Robert L. Johnson, with whom she co-founded Black Entertainment Television. When they sold the business in 2000, it netted them nearly $3 billion. Two years later, they were in court working out the terms of their divorce. The presiding judge was William Newman, Jr., a friend of Mrs. Johnson's from 30 years earlier. He made the decision to split the $3B fortune down the middle, and then three years later, made the decision to marry the former Mrs. Johnson. Now, every story you read will tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson "co-founded" BET, but let's look a little into the Johnson's history.

Robert L. Johnson graduated from Princeton with a master's degree in international affairs. He had earned his B.A. in political science from the University of Illinois. Naturally, he went to DC to find work. This was in the '70s, during the expansion of cable television. He found work as a lobbyist for the National Cable & Telecommunications Association, and after a few years, decided to take out a loan and start his own channel. He had recognized an empty niche and sought to fill it. It only took five years for BET to become profitable. Around 15 years later, BET became the first Black owned and operated company to be traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Johnson made the decision to buy it back in 1998 before selling it to Viacom in 2000. He remains the CEO, and BET remains profitable.

Sheila Crump Johnson graduated from the University of Illinois with a degree in music. She plays the violin.

Co-founders. Riiiiight.

It's not who you are, it's who you knew in college 30 years ago.

I Love My Wife

The story of my life.

Streptococci (Heh, He Said Cock)

My daughter had a sore throat last week (which mysteriously disappeared on its own) and I found out yesterday that my brother and his son have been diagnosed with strep throat. Ever since my buddy Wade (aka DDT) and I had the exact same symptoms a few years ago, and his doctor diagnosed strep while my doctor stuck a long wooden Q-tip down my throat only to tell me that there was nothing wrong, I have had serious doubts about the validity of this disease. Methinks it is akin to Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which is doctorese for "I don't know what's wrong with you but I have other paying customers I want to see in order to keep my mistress in her apartment and I have to prescribe something because said mistress works for a pharmaceutical company and she needs her commission."
I was surprised to find that Strep is related to scarlet fever and impetigo (gross!). One of the symptoms is "back of the throat covered with a whitish coating" which takes me back to the doctor's mistress. Have you ever seen those sales chicks in the doctor's office? Damn! Is that where chicks that are too short to model go as a second career choice? Are implants a part of the uniform? On the other hand, Bam's brother used to sell drugs to doctors, but hell, he's cute as a button.
When I was a kid, there was no such thing as strep throat. In the world according to my Mexican mother, sore throats were caused by walking around barefoot on hard flooring. As a matter of fact, cold itself is full of bacteria and various viruses, which can only enter the body through bare arms, chattering teeth and unusually thin coats. Every night when I pray, I thank God for wisdom and knowledge, then I go to my Mom's house in the winter with the kids in shorts and wife-beaters and just laugh and laugh at her incessant worrying. Isn't life grand? A large scary man I will refer to as "Bam's-dad" once said "Well, what did you expect?" Exactly, Bam's-dad. Exactly.
As much as I hate to play into any stereotyping of my people, I can't help but think that there is wisdom in the Chicano idea that medicine is a big racket where they tell you you're sick so that they can give you drugs that make you sicker so they can give you more drugs, ad infinitum. I have met the occasional doctor that actually tries to treat what's wrong with me rather than telling me to, as one doctor put it, "take some Advil." People make fun of chiropractors like they're snake oil salesmen, but chiropractors actually try to figure out what's causing the problem (if they're honest) and then fix it. Of course, the natural progression of the honest chiropractor is cured patients and consequently, an interruption in the flow of revenue. I've seen it happen first hand. How sick a world do we live in where an ex-chiropractor has to resort to the menial job of (dare I say it?) teaching children?! Science! Teaching them science! In public school! Oh, the humanity! I'd sooner walk down MLK boulevard dressed as the grand Cyclops than teach in public school. I mean, hell, look at the crap that Bam has to deal with. It's not bad enough that he has to try to corral those unruly bastards (many of them literally), now he has to play nanny to an observer whom I picture in my head as the comic book guy from the Simpsons.
Now that I think of it, the world where bare feet on cold concrete causes hoarseness and the chupacabra can be kept at bay with a clove of garlic and 20 rosaries is a much prettier world than the one in which I live. Hmmmm… I hear housing, food, and loose stools are easily had south of the border…

Dirty Evidence (A Serious Article Interspersed with Attempts at Comedy)

I heard a story on NPR this morning about the "…beautiful granite and stone…" courthouse in New Orleans. Apparently, the evidence room is in the basement and the judge, who rode out the storm in the courthouse, witnessed about 8 feet of water in the lobby. I think it's safe to say the basement had some flooding. I think it's also safe to say that New Orleans is a city that cares a lot about partying and very little about planning. It's not surprising that the basement flooded, but who puts an evidence room in the basement in a city that is known for (among other things) a need to "bury" the dead above ground so that their coffins won't float to the surface the next time it rains? Had the basement never flooded before? Did they not know (like the rest of us) that the hurricane was coming 4 days in advance? I hear hurricanes bring the occasional shower or two. NPR reported that literally thousands of cases may have to be thrown out if the damage is as bad as they think. That's the other thing; no one knows how bad it is because no one has been down there to survey the damage. With the priority being rescue and body removal, there hasn't been time. Fox News, in this interview is reporting the same story, and also that new criminal cases and filings have to be put on hold for now. During a time when it is most needed, the wheels of justice are bent and the tires are flat.
Frankly, I'm tired of hearing about the mistakes, inadequacies, and incompetence of every freaking level of government. To quote a co-worker, this shit is old. I know about the system of checks and balances on the federal level; I learned that stuff in junior high. But who polices city governments? It seems like we have to depend on what we hear on the news to know when things are going wrong.
If I were working for say, the city of Dallas and I discovered that the mayor and the police chief were in cahoots to defraud the populace, who the hell would I call? The only answer that comes to mind is Becky Oliver, Investigative Reporter. I quote from her bio: "There is nothing better than having a positive impact on your community, helping someone or exposing government corruption… I really enjoy feeling like we are a voice for the community and holding government officials accountable. I would like to think of us as political watchdogs, making sure taxpayers are getting their money's worth."
Becky claims she became interested in investigative reporting while earning her masters and decided to switch from feature reporting to investigative. Sweetie, we've seen your face. You no more decided to switch to investigative reporting than Michael Jackson decided to be black.
I guess you could argue that she made a decision since it was either investigative reporter or hausfrau.
Her bio finishes with a phone number, e-mail address, and a form that can be filled out online to get in contact with her. So this is it. This is the system of checks and balances that exists at the city level: A chick that couldn't get a job as a feature reporter or anchor because she's not quite pretty enough, never mind that she has her masters and a functioning brain.
Oh, and never mind that she can spin her "investigations" any way she wants. Never mind that her goal is getting the target demo to watch her channel so she can bill the acceptable amount of advertising to the network. Jeez of Nazareth, she probably cries herself to sleep at night after telling people all day how rewarding her job is. On top of that she probably gets death threats from angry corrupt business owners and wackos who want her to have their babies. I wonder what they pay her.
Becky's not the only investigative reporter in Dallas, so evidently that sort of news is a big thing around here. That being the case, I decided to check the N'Awlins affiliates. WWL (CBS) - nothing. WGNO (ABC) – zilch. WVUE (Fox) – aught. WDSU (NBC) – goose egg. The closest thing was a consumer advocate on the NBC affiliate. My search led me to the little end of nothing whittled down to a point. Coincidence? I think not!

The Trapper Keeper® Affair

Let's dance, dickweed. – Ron Burgundy

I hate confrontation. I am the biggest puss on God's green earth when it comes to a fight. If I were a burger, I'd be a Big Mac with no meat or onions and light Mac sauce on the side. Strangely, the desire to stay out of a fight has nearly driven me to fisticuffs. I had a drunk friend itching for a bar brawl once, and in my femininity, I threatened to open up a can of Acme brand whoopass on him if he didn't calm the fuck down. Somehow that situation worked in my favor.

I will avert my eyes at the slightest provocation; pink bunny rabbits and calico kittens frequently best me in staring contests. Jimmy Carter and Ghandi don't have shit on me when it comes to peacekeeping. I have run from field mice and brooding-hens. The day Hades unleashes from the volcanic bowels of the earth and surfaces in sub arctic Newfoundland, I will assert myself. You get the idea?

I have witnessed my dad, at 5'6" and 130 pounds (in the throes of the flu with a 101 degree temperature and a ravaging case of the green apple splatters) reduce a guy who looked like Mike Tyson to the appearance of a 3 year old with Steve Buscemi under her bed. Do you remember Steven Segal's character in Hard to Kill, the one where his name is Nico and they keep shooting him a new asshole every five minutes and then he comes out and clothes-lines the shit out of everybody? One hard look from my dad could make that dude piss himself and dance a jig while chanting "I have a vagina in my pretty little pink panties" over and over again with his thumb in his hind-end. Pops was the meanest beaner in Dallas and no man of any size could instill fear in him. He was stupid-brave, and goddammit, people respond to that. He could scare dudes out of a fight because he wasn't afraid to get his ass handed to him.

So what happened to me? Well, you won't believe me, but I'm gonna tell you anyway.
I had a friend named Carlos who lived across the street when I was in elementary school. My little brother and I would walk home with him everyday. We started playing this little game on our walks where Carlos would hit my kid brother or something, and I would come to his rescue, giving Carlos a nice frog on the bicep in retaliation. It was friendly kid crap, but apparently I packed a potent prod because Carlos started getting a little squirrelly about taking the lashing. The punch heard 'round Oak Cliff came the day when Carlos hugged his Trapper Keeper® to his chest and lowered his head in anticipation of his deltoid damaging roundhouse, slightly opening his stance in the process. As a result, the wallop alit squarely on his jaw, breaking the final tattered tendril of tendon holding in his first loose molar. The dislodged dentin took flight, never to return to the hands of its former owner. They say if you love something…..
Carlos, in the typical response for a boy his age getting bitch-slapped by his best bro, opened up the waterworks. I was mortified. The realization that if I'd been serious about hurting this kid I could have put him in traction hit me like Tanya Harding's common-law husband. I had been given a power that could cause harm. I must never unleash this power upon the earth, for my fellow man would know suffering beyond the limits of his endurance. I must humble myself, pussify, and walk away from potential conflict at the risk of my very manhood coming into question. The problem is, it stopped being a conscious decision and became my natural response. Since the most basic human (if not mammalian) instinct is self-preservation, I have become the denominator in the fight/flight fraction.
Carlos is probably pumping iron in prison and trying to remember my last name.