Friday, September 10, 2010

Who I Am, Without Apology

I don't dance.

I don't know how to dance, I won't learn how to dance, and I don't drink enough alcohol to ever attempt to dance. Have you ever seen an old lady drop a lit Camel unfiltered cigarette down her blouse, barefoot on a newly waxed floor with a high turbine industrial fan blowing at her straight on? That's me when the music starts. Not a pretty picture. I won't apologize for that. .


I have plain taste in food

I don't like exotic foods at all. Anything hot enough to burn a second asshole in me is not what I would call comfort food. The thought of eating something that came out of an animal's head is appalling. A plain steak with a side of fries is more succulent to me than a raw fish head with squid scrotum as a side dish. I won't apologize for that.


Cats serve no purpose

Cats suck. The only time they ever show any sort of affection to you is when they are hungry. And how do they let you know? By shoving their pink balloon knot in your face, sticking up their tail as if to say " Hey, look at this. My asshole is pink and clean. Which means I haven't taken a dump yet. Which is due to the fact that you haven't fed me yet. Feed me, asshole." I'd rather have a dog. Any living creature that can lick his own junk, and yet stop right in the middle of that in order to greet you at the door because he is happy to see you is OK in my book. All cats do are rip your new couch to shreds. I won't apologize for that.


I hate Al Gore, and most Liberal agendas in general

I won't buy a Hybrid. So, you want me to pay an extra $15,000 in order to save the environment? But yet Al Gore's energy consumption for his Nashville estate is 20x the national average? How about you make it affordable for people to make that switch and maybe more people would? If not, I'll buy a 1976 Mack truck with a softball sized hole in the exhaust and let it idle in the parking lot all night until it runs out of gas. Then I'll fill it up and start all over again until he decides to do as he says. I won't apologize for that.


I won't apologize for who I am. Who am I, then? I am the most loyal, family oriented man you will ever meet. I am the best father that I know how to be who devotes his entire life and choices to his daughter's best interests. I am a son who knows how lucky he is to have parents who loved him and cared for him the best way they knew how. I am the one who will tell it like it is when asked, and yet comfort you when you cry because of the truth in those words.


Oh, one last thing. I am sorry to all the spiders I killed over the years due to hysterical women who have no issues cleaning up baby shit and dog puke, but yet scream like mental patients when a 1" fury bug with 8 legs happens to crawl up the wall. Those poor things never hurt anyone. That, I will apologize for.

Older Brothers, Bikes, and Pavement - Why You Should Always Wear a Helmet

When I was maybe 7, I was riding my bike in the street. This was my first bike, and I hadn't been riding it long.

Anyway, my older brother and his friend Sean were over the house and just hanging out. I imagine my asshole brother must have said to him " Hey, let's mess with Dave. I'm kind of bored," This is strictly a guess, but it wouldn't surprise me. My brother seemed to get "bored" a lot when I was around, and subsequently made me his entertainment for the day. I should have charged him Ticketmaster prices, maybe he would have left me alone.

Suddenly I hear "Hey, Dave. If we catch you, we're going to kick your ass." So, like the little wuss that I was, I took off. Peddling as fast as I could down the street. I was huffing and puffing and kicking my little white Irish legs, wearing my Jack Tripper shorts and athletic socks up to my knees.

I look behind me as they are getting closer, laughing like two evil scientists who just discovered the formula for immortality. Or, like two 12 year old boys with their first tittie magazine.

As I was getting closer to the end of my street, I had a dilemma. You see, my street ended at the crossing of another road running horizontal. And that road always had cars zipping down it, and it was around the corner from the end of my street, so anyone coming by wouldn't see me until it's too late.

So I did what any smart 7 year old would do. I jammed on the brakes and got ready to take my beating. Except......

I hit JUST the front brake. Yup, I flew like the Greatest American Hero over the handle bars. Flapping my arms and legs like 4 pieces of wet spaghetti during a wind storm.

I put my hands out to brace my fall as I hit the ground. And skidded.

Far

I had road burns all over the palms of my hands, knees and forehead. I looked like two pieces of tenderized meat that the Swedish Chef from Muppets pounded on for over 2 hours.

I was crying " Take me home to Ma, you asshole!!!!!!" Having that type of language at 7 years old is the only benefit to having an older brother.

So, I limped up the street with my bike in hand, sniffling and hobbling the entire way.

I don't remember what happened next. But from then on anytime my brother said he was bored, I grabbed my helmet and gloves. And the bacatracin.