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Monday, February 24, 2014

Nothing More than Feelings

Word is out that after a quarter century, I have gone off antidepressants in a meager attempt to save my ailing kidneys. So far it’s not too bad actually feeling things again, although it is a little odd after being an emotional flatliner for two and a half decades. Recently we had to put our beloved boxer, Bungee, down, so anytime I see a dog, see a picture of a dog, hear a dog, or even think about a dog, that I get that tingling feeling in my upper nose and inner corners of my eyes and have to lie back and think of England  before the tears start to drip. I would probably cry if I saw a Hallmark commercial, even if it didn’t have a dog in it. 

Conversely, I have started showing anger over the pettiest of things, like driving to a restaurant and finding it closed. I might not have been this way had it not happened four times in two weeks, so I think that had to do more because of total incident amount, rather than the actual individual events themselves. And for those who are aware of how few brain cells I have remaining, it was not the same shuttered-up restaurant four different times. It was four different restaurants.

My patience has thinned from pudding to water. Mostly this manifests itself in road rage. I don’t scream directly at people so they can hear me, and there are no weapons in my car, so there shouldn’t be any arrestable offenses for me or assaults upon me on the horizon. The worst of this destructive behavior is when Other Bill is in the car, and he tends to take my cursing and hissing personally while he reclines the seat and thinks of England.

I suspect my writing will also reflect this altered brain chemistry. With the exception of today, I will try to keep my rants to a minimum and maintain dignity and humor.

So, according to CNN, George Zimmerman—you know, the murderer?—is hoping to continue his education and become a lawyer “to stop the miscarriage of justice that happened to me.”

Georgie, if there was a miscarriage, first off, the miscarriage happened to Trayvon Martin, not to you. Secondly, it’s unfortunate that the miscarriage didn’t happen when your mother was pregnant with you. The world would be a better place with Trayvon back and you gone.

Note to University of Phoenix Online: Be on the lookout for George’s law school application. Hopefully he’ll have time to fill it out in between Tonya Harding-esque martial arts publicity stunts. Yes, I realize you don’t have an online law school, but George probably doesn’t, and no one else is going to take him. You’re his last hope.

Also in the news this week, Anders Behring Breivik, the Norwegian nutcase mass murder, is threatening to go on a hunger strike unless his prison improves their conditions and provides him with better video games. Whassa matter, Anders, aren’t your birds angry enough? If Norway is providing you with shelter and heat and food, I’d say your conditions are pretty decent and more than you deserve.  Perhaps the thermostat is not to your comfort level, or maybe they feed you too much fish and not enough fava beans with a nice Chianti? Poor you. So starve yourself already and save a school of sardines. Again, a better place for the world, especially if you are a sardine.

The level of entitlement on this planet is out of control. If you kill a teenager armed only with Skittles and are now an infamous celebrity, or if you kill 77 people, many of them children, and are provided with 3 squares and a place to rest your head, as a friend of mine’s mother used to constantly say: Shut up and be happy.

Locally in the news, some kid clogged up a urinal in his school with a wad of paper towels. So who got arrested and charged with a third degree felony for battery? His teacher, for making him remove the urine-soaked paper towels. According to the South Florida Sun-Sentinel: “‘The child is really upset by the incident and embarrassed by the other students knowing about it,’ Coral Springs Police Sgt. Carla Kmiotek said.”

Oh boo-fucking-hoo.

The kid denied putting the paper in the urinal. Yeah right. Who are you going to believe, a fourth grader or an underpaid teacher with a sterling employment record?

This is one of the many reasons why I would make a terrible parent. If I had a son who intentionally clogged my toilet in an attempt to make it overflow, not only would I send him in after the clog with his bare hands, but I’d make him eat a bag of microwave popcorn immediately afterward, before his hands could dry. Typhoid, as far as I’m concerned, is a small price to pay for such inconsiderate behavior.

I am by no means a “Belieber”, a screamingly wild, obsessed fan of Justin Bieber. The last time I had that kind of crush on anyone I was in third grade and was obsessed with Burt Ward, the actor who played Robin in the Batman TV series. I think Bieber is just one of those people who has exceptional looks, very little talent and got lucky and rich way too soon. Give him enough rope, and he’ll eventually hang himself. (Paging Mr. Culkin.) By the way, in case you haven’t heard, Justin wants to be called “Bizzle” now. Wow, how gangsta. Nothing says “rap master thug” more than a skinny white blond boy from Ontario. He’s just like that hip-hopper Neil Young.

Everyone knows about Jizzle’s (whatever) house-egging antics, but really, what teenaged boy hasn’t egged a house or a car in his day? True, Justin uses Faberge eggs, because what else is money for? As far as racing around in cars with quarter million dollar price tags and throwing out thousands of dollar bills around at exclusive South Beach clubs, well that goes beyond normal teenage antics and puts him smack dab in the middle of the asshole realm.

So it seems that now he is house hunting in the exclusive neighborhood of Buckhead, a fancy suburb of Atlanta, and the snooty, not-in-my-neighborhood Buckheadians are all up in arms and staging picket lines in front of houses he is considering for purchase. They think that his presence will lower their property values, which probably need reductions anyway. After all, they’ve been living in them.

People of Buckhead, I have a couple of things to say to you:
1)       Piss off.
2)      Get over yourselves.

Seriously, this smacks of Selma. You are all teenist pigs. Not only do I hope he buys a house in Buckhead, I hope he buys several houses in Buckhead for some of his best rapper buds. And I hope they all raise chickens in their back yards so the eggs they throw at your estates will be warm and farm-fresh, so on those really hot Atlanta days, you can make your own window McMuffins.  And if they get wild and rowdy and get in their Ferraris and do donuts on your well-manicured front lawns, then you can just pack up and move to a new neighborhood. Bankhead comes to mind. People will think your engraved stationery just has a typo.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not defending Justin Bieber. In my opinion he and his father are world class jackasses and are the male version Lindsay and Dina Lohan. Buckheads, you fuckheads, can do all you want with your gold plated protest signs and make it known all over social and anti-social media that you do not want J-Bizzle in your swanky community, but it ends there. You can’t keep him out any more than you can keep a Muslim, black person or gay couple away from your line of sight (which I know you’d love to do, too.) So stop wasting your time and get back to your pralines and polo, or whatever it is you do that makes you think you’re so damned superior to people who didn’t get rich the way you did, which was most likely done by profiteering from your great grandparents’ exploitation of slaves.

End of rant.

So what do you think? Should I go back on the meds and die of kidney failure or stay off them and be an emotional loose cannon? Heads kidney; tails, cannon? Cast your vote today.

Creative Commons License by Bill Wiley is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

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