Gotta die of somethin'...
What are you shootin' for?

The Right Stuff For The Wrong Reason, i.e. Accidental Political Correctness

I spent a total of $85.49 on gasoline in 2007. I ride my bicycles and walk nearly everywhere I go, with one large grocery haul per month in my 1986 Mazda 323. My 1988 Dodge pickup has racked up 20 miles total in the past twelve months. My dear Harley only got a few miles also, and I feel bad about neglecting the magnificent beast.

I have been accused of left-leaning, socially-minded, and ecologically-conscious progressive thinking. Nothing could be further from the truth. Those crass accusations carry the implication that I care about people.

I don’t.

Let the globe warm and the ice caps melt. I don’t care if your skin melts down around your ankles into a simmering mound of Crisco. I would enjoy the sight of it, even as my own eyeballs were liquefying.

No, my motivations are purely selfish. I just don’t want to contribute to the seven-figure bonuses of the pasty-faced assholes at Exxon and British Petroleum. I don’t like being sucker-punched, so when I have the opportunity to bob and weave I do just that.

I’m still being raped a thousand ways from Tuesday. I have to heat my home to a survivable temperature. I have to absorb rising transportation and distribution costs via my higher grocery prices. Of course, I don’t absorb as much of the grocery costs as does the typical fatassfoodstuffed American.

I don’t pretend to be altruistic as I pedal my old bikes to the Y and the mailbox. It’s hard to be altruistic while dodging the errant, luxury SUVs commandeered by inattentive housewives yammering on cell phones. Housewives who are never in the house because they are continuously navigating an 8 mile-per-gallon loop from boutique to bistro to big-box-store. It’s hard to be altruistic when Al Gore is awarded a Nobel Prize for recognizing an old problem and offering a movie as a solution. Remember when Nobel Laureates discovered and cured problems, instead of garnering Oscars and a cut of the box office? If Big Al’s body fat were set to a rolling boil, it could heat the Tennessee Valley until the End of Times. Now that’s Nobel Prize-worthy.

I don’t think I’m better than you are just because I don’t burn massive quantities of fossil fuel. I don’t need another reason because the list is already so long.

So don’t confuse my conservation efforts with a concern for your Mother Ship. I’m not a righteous man.

Hell, I’m not even likeable.

Don't Blame Jesus ... He Voted For Nader

My conversations are always interesting. To me. That’s all that matters. If the target of my conversation isn’t interested, I don’t consider that a lack of conversational prowess on my part. Some people just aren’t wired to appreciate a fine wine. Or a good fart. And I can’t beat myself up over the inadequacies of others.

Xmas is a real icebreaker for the conversational aficionado like me. It’s the one time of year when people can exhale their vapidity with every breath. The assembly of xmas displays at Target provides lucidity to those who struggle to have a thought throughout the rest of the year. And now that Target erects its retail xmas shrines on or about Labor Day, the chronically insipid have a full four months of thought to bang around in their heads and knock the barnacles off their craniums. No more shyness, tonguetiedness, or vacant stares — they just engage autopilot and utter "Merry Christmas."

‘Tis the season that makes my job easier, too. Sometimes I hit dry spells during the bleak doldrums of spring, summer and fall, and I just can’t come up with new ways to fuck with people. I become reclusive and uncommunicative, because "What Up?" just doesn’t open the doors that "Merry Christmas" opens. Don’t get me wrong. "What Up?" can get my juices flowing when it’s delivered from the piehole located beneath the male pattern baldness of a middle-aged annuity salesman, but it’s a shame to waste good material on someone that stupid. It begets nothing but self-entertainment, and I don’t need that. My relationship with myself, like any good marriage, has matured well beyond any enjoyment of my own conversation. If I can’t offend someone else, it’s a waste of verbal ammunition.

But "Merry Christmas" is a window of opportunity. It’s a chance to spoil the holiday spirit of the most devout christian, even before the VISA bills are mailed in January. Here, for your entertainment pleasure, is an uninteresting example of my machinations. You’ve read this far, so you obviously don’t have anything important to do.

"Merry Christmas, Brad!"

She is one of the mucky-mucks at my YMCA. She is of indefatigable spirit year-round, but particularly gushing with christiness during the holy season. How can she not be of indomitable spirit, given that her career path delivers unto her the muscular, sweaty bodies of young christian men every day? Sure, she could be the administrator of a drum circle camp for born-agains, but those guys are confused and clothed. Here, she has the kind of titillation typically reserved for congressmen and evangelical church leaders.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." That’s my most heartfelt expression of the joyousness of the season, and I share it only with a special few. "I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the xmas thing, since you clearly don’t heed my contributions to the suggestion box. I don’t see any of the Executive Directors with sand packed in their asses."

"Oh, Brad, why don’t you lose the curmudgeon act? I’ve seen and heard of your compassion towards others, and I’ve even caught you blowing kisses to the little girls who rap on the window and wave to you when you walk past the daycare. Your cover is blown — you’re a soft touch, and you love children."

"What’s not to love? They taste like chicken."

Christians react badly to images of children roasting over an open fire. Her face contorted like a sphincter suffering its first taste of badly digested holiday lutefisk.

I wasn’t about to allow her to change the subject by deflecting my assholiness. I was on a mission from god, and I demanded satisfaction.

"How is it that you can close this place down all day on the 24th and the 25th? Seems to me you should offer extended hours. What’s a good christian to do when an important ritualistic behavior is removed for two days running? My idleness could lead to arts and crafts in the devil's workshop. Like murder. Or masturbation. I may wield the weaponry, but the blood and cum will be on your hands!"

Pause for more facial contortions, followed by lascivious pondering of the cum-on-hands thing.

"Brad, we have lots of employees here who work hard year ‘round, and it is one of the guiding principles of our organization that they be allowed to enjoy the Christmas holiday with their families and loved ones."

"I fully understand the import of the xmas season, dear. It is a critical economic indicator, and bears great impact on the portfolios of fat, rich, white guys the world over. Santa included. Word on the street is that he’s taking a financial hit on Xbox deliveries in contemplation of highly profitable software sales between now and the resurrection. If he doesn’t meet Wall Street analysts’ expectations, that stone might not roll come next spring break. Also consider this little bit of holiday cheer: while our families and loved ones are trading sweaters on Monday, six soldiers will get their legs blown off while pursuing the infectious crusade for christio-democracy in Baghdad. Let’s call it the Twelve Legs of Xmas and set it to music. This disheartening reality is not lost on our Imperial Wizard; it makes him sad and we know he is sad because he says he is sad. He understands the sacrifice, because his only begotten daughters are facing the insurgence of purse-snatchers in Buenos Aires. He is feeling the pain, and he implores us to go shopping."

This is probably the last time she will confidently expect a benign you, too in return for her equally benign Merry Christmas. She shook her head and shuffled toward the door. I blew a kiss to a kid in the daycare, then demanded that she answer my question.

"Well, are you gonna stay open for the holidays?"

"Nope. Start wackin’."

Reprise: When The Natives Are Restless, Dazzle Them With Fireworks

Yooze people spend hundreds of millions of dollars at the box office to watch crappy remakes from the uncreative, untalented Hollywood money-mongers. Here's a freebie from July 2005. Pretend it's new. Make your own damn popcorn.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Happy 4th of July.

"The history of the present King…is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States."

Over a period of 229 years we have become independent of one sovereign rule only to become hostage to another. We gained freedom of religion so we can decimate foreign lands to prove that our god is better than their god. We are free to speak, and the CIA and FBI are free to document our speech in their files. We are free to assemble as long as we have purchased the necessary permits and acquired the proper security clearances. We are free to attend parades displaying political propaganda and military might. We are free to take ownership of our health and welfare while our government is free to take ownership of our property to build a WalMart. We are free to fly an American flag, the manufacture of which was the first example of outsourcing.

"…all men are created equal." Line up according to net worth, and equality will be dispensed while quantities last. No rain checks. Thanks for playing.

I am patriotic. I am patriotic for the memory of a nation that once was but is no more. A strong people...resolute, resourceful and self-sufficient…once populated and governed this country. But my country has been sold, in a leveraged buy-out, to the pedigreed 1% that hold title to my freedom, my property and me. I am not patriotic with them; I am patriotic in spite of them.

"He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance."

While some civil servant at the Department of Homeland Security documents this essay in my dossier, I’m going to mow my lawn. Maintenance of curb appeal should lend me illusory negotiating clout when my property is targeted for eminent domain proceedings.

"A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people."

For a spine-tingling experience, take a fifteen minute recess from today's celebrations and read the entire text of the Declaration of Independence. I did. I feel a bit nauseated.

Deja vu. Happy 4th of July.

The Insurance Is Free — You Pay Only Shipping And Handling

Today I received my annual greeting from my health insurance carrier, Bob’s Insurance and Live Bait Emporium. Bob hasn’t heard a peep from me this past year, although he expresses no remorse over that fact. Bob has lots of correspondents, and he’s happy that I don’t burden him with inconsequential inquiries, claims and invoices.

Bob has offered to extend my insurance against doctors for yet another year at a modest 39% increase in premium. All of this is subject to underwriting approval, of course. Bob will need to conduct a thorough review of my empty file if I should decide to pursue his gracious renewal offering.

Bob’s been my buddy for two years now, and I haven’t contributed any clutter to his file room. I have kept my nose clean since partnering with Bob. I learned my lesson two years ago when I applied for health insurance from Blue Cross. Blue Cross didn’t want to be my friend because I went to the doctor too often. I didn’t go to the doctor because I was sick or injured. I went to the doctor because my doctor told me I should go to the doctor. The manila folder bearing my name at my doctor’s office is bereft of anything remotely related to medical treatment. It is simply a repository for copies of invoices related to our semi-annual chit-chats.

You see, my doctor also conducted regular reviews of my file. When he reviewed my file in light of his current mortgage payment, travel needs, club dues and the new Lexus model year offerings, he determined that my checkbook and I needed to visit him twice each year.

The visits consisted of a 30-minute wait in the waiting room. When I was practicing as a certified public accountant, my office had a reception area. When the client arrived for his appointment, I was typically there waiting to receive him. If I was delayed for some reason, the receptionist greeted the client by name, apologized for the delay, and offered him a refreshment. Not so at the doctor’s office. The doctor has a waiting room where you wait until 9 o’clock for your 8:30 appointment. Doctor Standard Time is unrelated to Greenwich Mean Time or any arrangement of the moon and stars. Your appointment may be based on Central Standard Time, but that appointment is with the waiting room. Doctors are bent on the efficient utilization of all of their service offerings, and the waiting room is always fully utilized. Not only is it comfortably appointed in steel and vinyl, but it’s also a great place to build your immune system via exposure to the flying snot produced by the hacking and coughing of fellow waiters.

Once my medically-prescribed wait had been completed, a "technician" would appear from the hallowed halls to summon me with a mispronunciation of my name. The "technician" became a "technician" by rigorous response to a help-wanted advertisement and purchase of floral scrubs. The "technician" would perform the weigh-in, then take my blood pressure and pulse just to make sure I had some. She would ask me if I were taking any prescription medications. Grabbing the invoice file bearing my name from the armpit of her floral scrubs, I would peruse it with furrowed brow and declare, "it doesn’t appear so."

This confirmation of my vital signs and drug use was followed by a 15-minute wait in the examining room. The examining room is a private waiting room that is customized to the individual patient’s needs. Mine was always furnished with six-year-old copies of Arthritis Today and a mint on the examining table. I think it was a mint. It may have been a suppository spilled by the old lady whose butt cheeks unclenched when the doc administered a breast exam here a half-hour ago. I never ate the mint.

The doctor would enter, glance distractedly at my file, and press his stethoscope to my heart and lungs just to make sure I had some. He would ask me if I were taking any prescription medications.

Another self-serve consult with my invoice file. "It doesn’t appear so, doc. It also doesn’t appear that I have cancer, heart disease, tuberculosis, bird flu, genital warts, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, Crohn’s Disease or dyspepsia. At least not as of my most recent invoicing."

I felt offended that my doctor would even think that I could be cheating on him. After all, I loved waiting in his waiting room and I couldn’t live with the guilt if I entertained any other doctor’s waiting room. I would assure the doc that his invoice file is the only file that I have penetrated and filled with my seed. Sure, I have occasionally closed the bathroom door behind me and auto-medicated with ibuprofen, but only because the urgency of my need preempted waiting in his waiting room. I had to take my throbbing head into my own hands, but I was fantasizing about him when I did it. The Medical Gods are disdainful of this activity, but don’t kid yourself — everybody does it.

My semi-annual rendezvous with the doctor ended two years ago when Blue Cross told me to go pack sand in my ass. Imagine being declined for automobile insurance because you get too many oil changes. We regret to inform you that the frequency of your automobile maintenance indicates that you are actually driving your car. Driven automobiles do not meet our underwriting standards. Should you desire to purchase hypothetical insurance for a hypothetical automobile, we welcome your reapplication.

When I joint-ventured with Bob two years ago, we agreed with a wink and a nod that I would stop juicing myself on doctor visits and live a clean life, free of any medical-related fixes. I would steer clear of the bad influences peddled by that gang in white coats. Now that I know the dangers of visiting the doctor, I just say no. Scared straight. And Bob’s life is easier, too, because his file bearing my name consists solely of a Post-It note reminding him of my annual coverage renewal date.

Bob is benefiting from my education at the school of hard knocks. I now have hypothetical health insurance. I have insured myself against doctors that I dare not visit. Yes, hypothetical health insurance is expensive. But if it can deter but one wayward soul from the evils of preventive medicine, the greater social good has been served.

Could be worse. I could live in Canada, where the government meddles in health care and doctors live in your crappy neighborhood.