If there is one thing in this whole world that I cannot abide it is how you drive. Nothing personal but you are a boring/dangerous/slow/fearful driver and I hate that about you. Come on, man! Lets pick it up a bit out there! Or maybe you should slow down. And get out of the way for Pete’s sake! C’mon! People have places to be!
Now this hostility is not born from some delusion about myself that I am great driver. I admit I am not. At least not by that retarded defensive driving school standard. But that is only because I do not trust you, my fellow motorist, to not kill me. Combine that with the fact that I actually enjoy the feeling of not being surrounded by death on every side and I tend to try to get the devil away from the rest of you as fast as possible. That means I tend to go as fast as I can, maneuver a fair amount to get around and away, and look as far ahead down the road as I can. Again, not because I love speed (exhilarating as it is) but rather because you terrified, law abiding, overly cautious drivers kill each other with horrifying frequency.
The nice thing is that I am hardly ever bothered by how people drive when I am riding in a car, which is why I allow the otherwise emasculating experience to happen on occasion. I think I am not bothered by the near misses and general tomfoolery I observe as a passenger in the same way soldiers in combat learn not to be bothered by constant peril. Once you accept that nothing can stop the icy cold hand of Death from reaching out and choosing you as his next victim you can sit back and enjoy what is going on around you. It is when you see the Reaper coming for you AND you can do something about it that you feel your emotions rise, start making decisions, and feel compelled to act even though you are powerless to stop some frightened soccer mom from first creating a death pack by staying steady with a semi and then killing everyone when she slams on her brakes in unconsidered fear.
All of this is why if I had Bill Gates money I would be chauffeured everywhere. I know I would still be subject to a sudden brutal death underneath a pickup with sixty inch lifts that has never hauled more than a country frat boy’s sense of insecurity, but at lest I would be able to be placid and calm as I meet my fate.
But if I had the immense wealth of Bill Gates, I would not be driven around in some mere limousine. No sir. I would use my filthy lucre to travel in true conspicuously consumptive style.  I would build a means of conveyance that would make a mockery of all other forms of land travel.  I can see it now.
First, I would buy a 1929 Duesenberg Model J Lebaron convertible and a 2009 Rolls Royce Phantom.  I would then link these two vehicles together with chains of gold and steel.  I would need both vehicles, obviously, so that I can ride in classic style with the top down in nice weather and have comfortable modern accommodations in unpleasant weather.  My flocks of man and maidservants can cram into whichever vehicle I am not using.
Second, I would hitch a team of 24 Clydesdale horses to my new vehicle.  They would provide the power to move my vehicle.  Of course to steer my vehicle of greatness each Clydesdale would be ridden by one foulmouthed jockey dressed in my own personal livery.
Third, I would have a team of motorcyclists ride before me to make way for me and my mighty man-moving-machine.
Fourth I would have to have a bobcat tractor and pickup follow me to clean up after my vehicle.
How great would this be! Never again would anyone cut me off. Never again would I need to cut anyone off. The sight of my audacity would be enough to put a hush over everyone who saw me. The peasants would kneel and doff their caps at the sight of my Mighty Machine! It might even be enough to convince some people to support me in a bid for absolute political power (which I would have no interest in.)
True, this particular manner of travel may take longer than simply getting in a car and driving somewhere. And it certainly would use more fuel, what with the fact the engines would be running at all times just in case my jockeys get into a drunken fist fight.
But I ask you, can you think of any more safe and dignified way of paying your late movie fines or of picking up a laxative from a pharmacy?
So there.

-Bob

Share and Enjoy!:

In case you hadn’t noticed my general opinion about showing compassion for people or things is that I don’t. And if you do you are a racist. There, I said it. Compassion is for racists.
Not that racism is compassion, cause that would just be nuts and deny what racism actually is. Rather I am saying that to be compassionate is to be racist.
Who else but a bigot would pour out their emotions and let themselves feel bad for someone who feels bad? I mean it is an empty gesture anyways! It isn’t like your feeling bad for someone else feeling bad is gonna fix anything. So number One it is illogical to show compassion. And what else is illogical? Answer: Racism.
Number Two: If you feel compassion for one person or thing that is in trouble I’ll bet a month of monkeys that you don’t feel equal amounts of compassion for other people and things that are in pain or in trouble! And what is that? Answer: Discrimination.
So if you are feeling compassion right now you are a racist. There I said it.
But here is the third thing that proves compassion is a form of racism: Everyone has a little bit of it inside of them. It is true. Everyone is a racist. Everyone illogically pours out their emotional strength in a futile gesture for one suffering person or thing over another equally or more deserving suffering person or thing. Even Barack Obama. (Dude, my spell check thinks I misspelled “Barack Obama”! How racist is that!? Gotta stop using Windows 95.) Even the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Even the Dalai Lama. Even Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Even me.
I personally am racist towards local models/actresses who appear in locally produced advertisements. I pity them more than most other creatures on this Earth. Who on Earth is more pathetic than the poor pretty niece of a local car dealer or girlfriend of a pool hall owner? Maybe she is cajoled into doing the commercial by loving and proud family members or maybe she willingly sought out here thirty seconds of fame by going to a regional talent agency. It doesn’t matter. Either way she is about to be just another reminder to everyone in the tri-county area that she and the product she is peddling will always be a provincial second rater.
Now it isn’t that she isn’t pretty! No. You can tell from the second you see her advertisement that she is pretty enough in THE REAL WORLD, but this is television! And all of that natural prettiness and personal kindness that everyone who knows her knows and cares about will disappear she will be going head to head with a perfectly packaged, professionally produced mini-masterpieces that national commercial campaigns produce.
There is no way that a pretty dress out of a closet is going to not be beaten by something from a professional wardrobe! Especially not when the professional wardrobe lady is working alongside a trained hair and makeup team so that a professional lighting director and tens of thousands of dollars worth of equipment can capture a perfect three seconds of digital footage! All our local spokes-girl has is a windy parking lot blowing her hair and knocking her mike off her lapel while her brother tries to get the shot on VHS before the sun moves. Why she may not even realize that if she is going to play the sexy angle she actually has to play the sexy angle by putting on the tiny skirts and slinky dresses that will horrify all five generations of her onlooking family. While the national advertisers will simply overdub their actresses voice with the smooth tones of a much more pleasing older woman our little star has to shot at the shot gun mike over the sound of the highway while trying to speak for the first time ever in a non-regional accent and overcome the natural camera shyness that overtakes nearly everyone.
All of this disparity and we, the viewers, will still automatically compare her afternoon of work in front to the coiffed, primped, and surgically improved babe with no speaking lines.
Is it any wonder that local commercial girls rarely make a second appearance? Course then again the perfect, lustrous, mute babes on the national commercials never appear more than once. I mean I guess that makes sense. I suppose they only have like five or six months tops of peak beauty due to a perfect storm of youth, intense diet and exercise, lack of long term stress, and well timed cosmetic surgery before they start to wear down a tiny bit and are handily discarded like a single slice American cheese wrapper.
At least the local girls are still loved by their boat and tanning booth selling relatives. And if they get dumped by their chicken wing selling boyfriend after failing to be as great on TV as he expected they can just chalk it up to him being a jerk and not to them being trashy enough to get fooled by a jerk. What does a 23 year old former model/actress babe have to look forward to? She is too pretty to be accepted as a mainstream actress. Her enhanced physique and small belly will mean she can neither sell products to women nor have a speaking role in anything more highbrow than Married… with Children. And all of the local commercials are taken up by less talented and connected nieces and granddaughters of local merchants.
Man this almost makes me feel some compassion for the national models/actresses. But no. Racism has to end somewhere.

-Bob

Share and Enjoy!: