Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
You would be surprised how often an artist had to try before he came up with his masterpiece. Michelangelo had to carve countless dongs out of marble to get “David” just right. I don’t know what he did with all the extras, but I’m pretty sure I have a guess.
This is also true with FWTC. As Tresckow pointed out here, many an idea for an article is shit canned, dies on the table, or sits in the queue until someone takes responsibility for it. It’s not that all of these ideas suck (well, none of mine). It’s just that, sometimes, we can’t make them work. Even if we can, something comes along to ball- tag us into submission. The server could shit its pants just before we hit “save.” One of our computers will lock up and give us the finger. Some dipshit (Tresckow) could click the wrong button and end up using a later version of the write-up and derail the train. In any case, it happens to me, sometimes. This instance isn’t because the subject sucked or that I couldn’t make it work. It’s more like it was killed with an over abundance of laziness and cyber-bullshit clusterfuck.
Towards the end of 2010, Facebook’s Friend Finder bullshit was on everyone’s monitor. It would outright lie and do its best to con your dumb ass into signing up for their thinly veiled market research campaign. It pissed me off. I know, it’s hard to imagine. But, I shit you not, it sent me on more than one curse filled rant. So, I figured I’d write an article about it. Why not? If Ren can pull a bit about ConAir out of her ass, I surely can spin hate-fueled gold.
At this point, I’ve got a pretty good handle on things. I’m raring to go and stayed up all night looking for new ways to say, “dick bag.”
I remember when I never used Facebook. Those were wonderful times. I’m naturally pretty adverse to most technology; smart phones, navigation systems, online social media, shoes… Look, the point is that I like life to be simple.
Here, I proudly admit to my complete monkey-dumbassary as far as technology goes. As with most pieces on comedy websites, a well-trained author will throw in a little self-deprecating humour in an effort to pretend he’s on the same level as the readers. That’s not true. In actuality, the author is on a completely different plane of existence; too advanced to be understood by simple mortals and their love for ass-chapping reality television shows.
It took many a round of convincing by the wife that Facebook was a good tool to keep in touch with family and friends. You know, the fuckers I try to stay away from. But, as usual, I caved. Yeah, I’m a complete sucker for my wife. From angrily watching Glee with her to removing the frozen pizza from the box BEFORE I put it in the oven.
Yes, another jab at my baffling incompetence with being a functioning part of society. Please note that I have, once again, put my wife on a pedestal, calling notice to her ability to both deal with my shit and walk through life doing every-ever-fucking-loving thing perfectly. That, and I figured it’s a pretty good half-assed attempt in getting laid. You know, build her up while making myself look like a stooge. In case you’re wondering, it didn’t work.
I signed up for FB, after answering a thousand shit eating questions. Sure, I could have just opened an account and left it at that. But, FB doesn’t play that game. It mocks you every time you sign on. “Hey! Your profile is empty!” “Why not add some interests? Everybody else is doing it!” Even if I can manage to avoid that social networking bastard’s taunts, fucker goes ahead and tells the world that I’m a slack ass.
Now, I still have a pretty tight grasp on where this article is going. Remember, 1. I hate technology, 2. I hate Glee, 3. Facebook is a bag of dicks.
After I waded through all that touchy-feely bullshit I Ronco-ed that bad boy; set it and forget it. One of the reasons I chose FB (other than my wife’s mysterious, yet sexy power over me) is that it didn’t have as many of those annoying aps as MySpace. As soon as I got somewhat comfortable with my virtual existence I was hit by a shit storm of game invites, survey results, and constant advertisements calling me by name.
Yeah, another compliment to the wife. Look, I need all the help I can get. I tend to get banished to the couch a lot. But, my point is clear. Facebook exploits a human’s basic need to play online games that aren’t worth two shits in Wyoming.
Oh, Adel questioned the reference to Ronco; saying no one born after 1978 was going to get it. As with everything else I’ve written, my philosophy is “Fuck you.”
Fuck it. It’s not 100% intrusive. These fucktarded ads are just in the left column. There are ways to ignore bullshit Mob Wars and Whose-it-fuckis FarmVille/town/empire/concentration camp. Wait. FarmVille Concentration Camp may be something I’d get into. Build your barbed wire fences little by little. Earn enough funds from the government to hire all the guards you need. And bullets… lots and lots of bullets.
I’m particularly proud of this section. “FarmVille Concentration Camp” is the best idea in the history of social networking. Someone get on this NOW! I once hammered out a complete schematic of how this game would work. I had to draw it in pencil, because as you can tell, I suck royal ass at photoshop. Once completed, I showed it around to a few friends for their take on it- you know; railway stations, mines, labour groups, random executions… No one really said anything. I just got a call from Amnesty International.
Then, that’s it. It went off the rails. No, my writing didn’t spiral down into a pit of hellishness not seen since Ugly Betty. I banged out another page or two of ball-grabbing hilarity. But, oh no. Life gladly took my efforts on top of Mount Son-of-a-bitch and threw them over the side.
My computer and the FWTC server decided to have a pissing contest. It didn’t matter who won, because I lost. FireFox told me that my session lasted a little too long, so it had to shut it down. So what? The FWTC server generously supplied by wordpress updates and saves every few minutes. I may lose that last joke about vagina hockey, but I can add it once I reopen the file. See? Easy!
Firefox decided it was imperative that I leave the website’s dashboard IMMEDIATELY! Something got its panties in a bunch and it wanted to shut the whole fucking system down. Alright. Fine. I’ll just click “save” on the dashboard and Bob’s your uncle. Wait a second…
What in fuck’s name just happened? the WordPress dashboard won’t let me save my work. In fact, it’s just staring at me like a retarded kid during a school bus ride. I click “Save” once. I click it twice; the little bastard just stands there. The “Save” button doesn’t give a shit about me or my needs. I can’t go forward, because Firefox won’t let me. I can’t reason with the dashboard, because it, flat-out, wants to see me in a rage that will take the house and half the block with it. Hmmm. The back arrow isn’t all grayed out. It’s my only choice, I guess. Otherwise, I’m going to be sitting in front of this fucking computer forever.
So, as I usually say when cars, computers, alcohol, and kids are concerned, Fuck It! The back arrow is my friend. It has to be. I just lost a day’s work here. Something has to still be hanging around on one of the previous windows. Right?
FUCK! That sure as hell didn’t work! It skipped a few dozen pages and took my ass to a page visit from two days ago? Why? Who’s fucking with me? One of the greatest masterpieces of all times is getting shit-canned because, the cyber-world is being a little bitch. All I wanted to do is complete this article, get it copy edited, then click “send.” BAM! Off to the next.
Well, when there’s hope, there’s someone to kick you in the head with an iron boot! I backtracked all the previous versions of my article. WordPress makes it relatively easy to compare and contrast versions just in case you want to include that line about that fat lady being arrested for causing a ruckus (to all you motherfuckas- sorry, I was channeling Busta Rhymes for a second) on that quiet car on that Amtrak train going from Oakland, CA to Salem, OR. I can’t quite remember if I called her a “douche bag with a phone attached” or “illiterate, obnoxious fat ass.” So, I go back into my archives (or versions as WordPress calls them) and check the older saved versions. That would have worked on any other day. Today is not any other-fucking day.
The most recent version that was saved was waaaaay back when I first started the article. It had a title and the by-line. That’s it. I was miffed. Maybe, a tad upset. Fine! I threw my keyboard out the window.
But, I couldn’t let my loyal fans (fan?) down! I diligently pieced together the article, calling upon my photographic memory to fit the puzzle together. After a couple of hours I was stoked. Screw the last version of the article! This one is IT! THIS ONE! It’s funnier, more offensive, and more ROODE than all the other versions combined. I AM ALL THAT IS MAN!
I hit “save” and sent a message to Tresckow that my future Nobel Prize worthy article was ready for copy editing. Now all I had to do was sit back and wait for the final product; a few funny pics here and there, some grammar correction, maybe a new variation on the term “ball sack…” That’s right, Jack. I was sitting pretty.
Somehow, some way Tresckow managed to fuck it up. Who the hell knows what happened? He hit the wrong key? Spilled whiskey on the keyboard? Called the server a reach-arounder? In any event, once again, my article was thoroughly punched in the taint. Half of it disappeared like in a bad Chris Angel sketch (sort of redundant). What I was left with was the original half of the article I lost a day before. Whether I was sabotaged, because of jealousy of my AWESOME writing skills or the server really wanted to dick me over; one thing was very clear:
I enjoy the Terminator franchise. Alright, “Rise of the Machines” left a bad taste in my mouth, but I could stand it. Many a person via comments section, blog, or pointless water cooler discussion wax philosophical about the Terminator Universe. How many possible timelines are there? What was the Catherine Weaver T-1000 planning? If Kyle Reese dies after Judgement Day would it really matter? Would John Connor cease to exist or would that timeline just play out? I don’t care a bloody bit about any of these questions. I just want to know why the bloody hell John Connor insists on making the same shit mistakes. Isn’t he paying attention?
I am not really complaining about the versions of John Connor in the first three movies or in the television series. Those incarnations seem to have their collective shit together. Well, the John Connor of T3 was a whiny little bitch. I would embrace genocide if he were the only hope for mankind.
The worse offender is the John Connor of “Terminator Salvation.” Wait. Stop right there. Don’t complain that I’m late to the party with this one. Yes, the film came out an eon ago. It’s been playing non-stop on the premium channels. So keep your smart ass comments about my timeliness to yourselves.
Seeing it so many times got me to thinking that this John Connor is not a man groomed his entire life to lead the human resistance against the holocaust-happy machines. This bloke has seen, fought, and been pursued by these rampaging killbots before. So why the screaming fuck does he act like this is his first rodeo? Things like:
If one thing has been hammered into our heads repeatedly, it’s that the terminators don’t sweat small arms fire. Shotgun blasts? Sure, it will damage their pretty faces, but it won’t really phase them. What about rifles or machine guns? It depends on the calibre. It’s painfully obvious that your basic beer can shooting rifle isn’t going to do a damn thing but piss the metal harbinger of death off. Something attached to the side of a military-grade aircraft will do the trick. We know this. The terminators know it. Why does JC keep forgetting?
In the first few scenes of T4 we see John-John crawling out of an over-turned Huey. Then, WHAMO; a T-600 (or T-700; it’s all a little dodgy) with its legs blown off starts throwing him around. What’s the first thing Johnny does? He shoots it in the bloody head with a wimpy pistol. Seriously? You essentially grew up with virtually indestructible man-shaped machines and you still pull this bollocks? Someone didn’t pay attention during terminator school.
The Savior of Mankind tries it again toward the end of the film. He kicks his firearm up a notch to a relatively small calibre automatic rifle… expecting different results? Or, did he just say “sod it,” and figure he needed to use the ammunition anyway. Waste not want not. The little woman back home may be cross if Johnny Cakes comes home with leftovers.
2. He keeps trying to hit, smack, and punch the terminators
Right, then. This makes even less sense than #1. Toward the end of the film, after the prototype T-800 bursts from the cell and wreaks all sorts of havoc upon Connor’s person, an unbelievable thing occurs. He bitch slaps the CGI Arnold with the butt of his rifle. Isn’t this the equivalent of punching your concrete floor? At what point during his life did he learn that the Achilles Heal of the murder-death-kill bot was a stiff slap to the face? Was that a deleted scene in the second film?
With all that God-like knowledge J-to-the-C has about… well… everything, you would think he would remember this basic principle. Sissy-slapping the machines only makes your inevitable beat-down more pathetic. I’m not saying that he should just lie there and accept that his skull is about to be crushed like a peanut shell underneath Herman Goering’s patent leather jackboot, mind you. It’s just that this method of defense is slightly less effective than launching a barrage of “Yo Mama” jokes.
3. EVERYTHING is a trap
Is your young-adult father on a SkyNet kill list? Has a bloke who’s really a prototype infiltration unit shown up out of nowhere to help? Resistance Command hand you a foolproof plan to turn off the machines? Congratulations! You’re about to be buggered. You don’t need to be Admiral Akbar to realize it’s a trap.
Everything‘s a trap. JC knows this. Mama Connor told him via outdated audio cassette tape. The machines are cold, calculating sods. Come on, Johnny Appleseed! You’ve been fooled a few times before. Remember your injured mom calling out for your help in the smelting plant? TRAP. Remember the T-850 in “Rise of the Machines” telling you it was able to get close and kill you because of your emotional attachment to the model? TRAP. This isn’t news, John-a-ling-a-ling. What are the odds of a SkyNet built and programmed machine practically delivered to your door is going to help you rescue your pop without it being a trap? So what are you supposed to do? “He has to save his father or he’ll never be.” Firstly we don’t really know that. That’s using “Back to the Future” temporal math. If you use Star Trek Mirror Universe math, killing off dada while Connor is an adult may not effect things at all. JC already exists. There’s nothing written in stone that he HAS to send pops repeatedly back in time to protect and bump uglies with mother. For fuck’s sake, he already knows all the bloody moves the machines are going to make.
But, I suppose if you want to play it safe Connor-mania could launch an all out search mission for daddy, then lock him in a closet for ten years. Here’s an idea, call for him during one of your fireside chats. Tell him to meet you at the burned out Starbucks. Too risky? Well you know he lives in Los Angeles. There are three people left in that burned out husk of a city. Kyle isn’t going to be hard to find.
4. If you can’t blow the bloody thing up, just run
As I covered in #1, anything short of a 80 calibre or a Howitzer isn’t really going to do jack. Sure, it may make you feel like you’re accomplishing something, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just wasting everyone’s time.
Here comes mechanized death. You have an axe, lead pipe, and nunchucks. What do you do?
A: Break out your finest Bruce Lee moves.
B: Smack its head around with the lead pipe and hope it gets dizzy and has to lie down.
C: Use the axe to smash your way through the door and get the hell out of there.
If you chose anything but C, you are destined to die a horrible, painful death. It makes as much sense as starting a fight with a motorcycle club armed with a juice box and fuzzy dice while wearing ONLY a speedo.
Run! Don’t think. Just run. Unless you have a portable rocket launcher and/or a small thermonuclear device, just beat cheeks out of there. There’s no shame in it. You’re a pansy if you run away from a bee. You’re just being realistic when running away from a soulless killing machine that wants to rip out your spine.
Running away from this = PUSSY
Running away from this = SENSIBLE
IF there’s a sequel to “Salvation” I do hope they put together some sort of Idiot’s Guide for fighting terminators and other machines that want you dead. These little facts are like the laws of physics. They do not change. They cannot be changed. You look like an asshole attempting to change them.
For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again. For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say: Those damn bastard kids!
I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit. “Don’t run.” “Don’t play in the street.” “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.” And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.
But, then I grew older. I’ve matured. More or less. OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read: Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it. I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim. And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.
A complete and utter conspiracy that this movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards. It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it? Fucking racists.
But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult. I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society. Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses. You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire. That bunker isn’t going to dig itself. Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).
Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator. Everyone is protective over what they have. Stuff breaks. Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor). Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP. We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us. With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.
One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read: way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken. OK. Fine. I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath. I won’t jump to the worst conclusion. There was one hell of a windstorm the night before. Shit was flying everywhere.
It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh. Suck a dick, Mother Nature. I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning. I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3. It throws me off kilter. But, I should have known better.
I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window. My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell. Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there. Staring at me. Mocking me. It was a big ass rock. Not just any rock. It was a throw’in rock.
Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood. They do not deserve to exist. They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored. You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet? Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis. Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house? We’ve got that too. Throwing rocks through car windows? We fucking have that! In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck. And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened. Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in. Those shit stains didn’t know either way.
I know what you’re thinking. No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip. It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children. These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job. Their parents don’t seem to give a shit. Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.” Nice parental guidance, cornholes. Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.
The rock still sit there. I’m not sure why. Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes. Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon. It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up. If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.
It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers. It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it. I’m not paying for this shit. You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police… Oh, yeah. The police. Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit. Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem: they take your report over the phone. You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end. For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”
I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences. And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them. How is this fair?
Yeah, you read the title right. After a series of retarded, drug induced, and batshit nuts events I was asked to attend a Playboy playmate casting call. Yes. Me. What? No, I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk at the moment, just buzzed. It happened, damn it!
How did this happen? I’m not 100% sure. Apparently, a few months back, a few other girls and I were partaking in several mind altering substances and left to our own devices. So, as usual when you have a small group of hot, stoned, and drunk chicks by themselves, we took naked pictures of each other. That happens at other parties, right?
At some point someone came up with the idea that we should send in pics to Playboy. Look, some people get angry when they’re drunk, others send in applications to a men’s magazine. As it turns out, I was the only one stoned, drunk, and determined enough to actually send my shit in. Everyone else backed out. Fuckers. “Oh, let Ren submit nudes of herself to Playboy… we’re going to be lame.” The eerie thing is that my porn star prophecy seems to be coming true.
Then, I outright forgot about the whole thing. I mean, it’s Playboy. OK, pictures of naked women are awesome, but Playboy has been on a serious decline over the years. This is part of the reason they cut their circulation by 38% in 2009. That and we’re all pretty desensitized due to an over abundance of hard core internet porn.
So some chuckle head at Playboy gave me a call and invited me to a casting call. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Was this a fucking joke? I would have bet some serious cash that it was Roode pulling some shit. It was legitimate. After a fun game of “What the fuck did Ren do now?” I pieced it all together. HA! That’s hilarious. I would have posed for nudes sober. I don’t really have many inhibitions for alcohol and pot to let loose.
I tracked down the biography I sent to them. After reading it a few times, I was surprised I got a call. OK, Momma can put butts in the seats. But, as Tresckow so thoughtfully pointed out, it should have been obvious to them that I was a complete Irish nutjob. Go ahead. Click on that bad boy below and look for yourself.
Ladies and gentlemen, that application isn’t just some goofy illustration for humor’s sake. That is the, honest to Guinness, genuine article. There was something about the way I came off in that bio that grabbed their attention. Other than the hot ass nude pics I sent in. I mean, on looks alone, I could be the grand poobah of my own nudie mag. They get thousands of submissions from tons of young ladies every year. Some want to use Playboy as a stepping stone into C-list movies. Others want the gig for the cash and the chance to be a washed up C-list actor. No matter what, all these chicks have one thing in common: they care. The quality that set me apart was the fact that I didn’t give one iota of a goat’s shit. Jesus O’Nazareth, I wouldn’t have remembered the whole cockeyed stunt if someone didn’t give me a call.
Did I mention I got the call at work? Yeah, I did. It’s one thing taking a personal call from a drunken buddy when you’re at the cube farm. I mean, what’s the office protocol when you get a call from naked chicks monthly? Naturally, I maintained a demure and refined disposition. By that, I mean, I yelled, “HA! People want me to pose naked!” For reasons unknown, the entire office came to a dead stop. Dude? Why? I mean I had to put up with that sort of shit when someone’s kid shot a baby out of their cooch. “I’m a grandmother,” some dipthong would bellow. Big fucking deal. Women in China and India are churning kids out like it’s the diaper shitter industrial revolution. Posing butt ass naked in Playboy is an achievement. Someone, decades from now, will be researching the evolution of hot, naked, Irish blonds and BANG there I am. It’s on the fucking record, baby. History has been made. No one is going to remember some mouth breeder’s dipshit kid a hundred years from now. Unless the kid turns out to be another Abe Lincoln or Black Gallagher. What are the odds of that?
A parent can only dream.
I mulled the offer over in my head. I had to do this right. Make a list of pros and cons. That’ll help me make a sound, adult decision.
- Free plane ticket to casting call
- Bragging rights
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
- Casting call held in Philadelphia
- Coach flight
- Family horror
- The whole objectification of women thing
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
Well, shit. Who doesn’t want to be objectified now and again? This is the sort of thing I would put on my resume (try not to take a double take at that, fuckers) and … fuck it. I don’t need good reasons. Momma’s doing this shit.
Surprisingly, my father supported me. He trusts my decisions and knew I would just have fun with the whole thing.
I’ve never been on the East Coast before. I’ve never really wanted to be. It would just be little ‘ol me in the big, scary City of Brotherly Homicides. In an effort to keep me safe (and to keep others safe from me) I was assigned a chaperone. A cousin. An older cousin who, let’s say, belongs to an adult version of the 4H Club.
So, everything was set for my drunken naked East Coast extravaganza. Almost. Hmmmm… who do I know in that triangle of pigeon shit known as the Delmarva area? Who? Oh yea, Tresckow. That’s it. Being the only one on staff at FWTC not to be in a part of the country where grizzlies roam free and engage in the occasional zucchini fight, he was in the prime location to suffer my wrath. I mean enjoy a visit from me.
Fast forward a month and I was on my way. We landed around 10 at night. Or 8. Fucking time zones. Let me take a moment to tell you about my first impressions of the Philadelphia International Airport and Bus Station. It’s a low brow version of a sewage treatment plant. Tresckow pretty much nailed it on the head when he said it was a piece of shit bundled in fancy gift wrap. Those fuckers like to play a cruel game of checked luggage roulette. No only does it take FOREVER to get your shit off the plane, it’s NEVER at the noted carousel. Flight from Seattle to Philadelphia luggage: carousel B. WRONG! We’re fucking with you. It’s really coming out on carousel D. HA! Wrong again! It’s carousel A. This time, we’re not kidding. FUCK YOU! It’s spewing out on E. Muhahahahahaha!
Being a good friend and pseudo-sister-in-law, I called Tresckow, non stop as soon as I stepped off the plane. I called him when we got into a taxi. I called him when we got to the hotel. I called him when I found the mini bar. I called to tell him what I ordered from room service. I called him incessantly, is what I’m trying to say here. That’s what friends do.
We arranged to meet at the hotel the next morning. My appointment was around 10 AM, but I wanted Tresckow to be there to meet us earlier. I figured he would keep my cousin company while I was getting all naked and shit. I didn’t think either of them would mind waiting for me in a hotel full of hot potential centerfolds and whatnot. I sure as hell enjoyed myself.
Leaving Tresckow and the cousin to their own devices, I took my bag-o-outfits to my interview. They tell you to bring a bikini, nightie, a sexy dress, and be prepared to be naked for a while. I’m always prepared to be naked. So, no biggie. I sat around outside the room for a few minutes sizing up the competition. HA! Competition. No such thing. It begins and ends with me. Fuck-a-yucks didn’t know who they were up against. I’m all charming and shit.
I was called into the room and met a tribunal of interviewers, including one of the hoity-toity photographers. I did the typical dog and pony show that chicks in that situation do; modeled different outfits, went through some awkward poses, and did the whole nude thing. I guess I did well. They didn’t throw a brick at me. A rack full of different clothes was on the opposite side of the room. The photographer told me to pick something out to wear. I went simple- white dress shirt, a Seattle Mariners cap (which I brought with me), and… well, that was all. Dude, those pics turned out smoking hot. I mean, dayummmm. Want to see one? OK, maybe one pic.
After all that, the interview segment began. They fired some of your standard questions at me: “If you cold be a tree, what kind would you be?” “Why do you want to be a model?” “Tell us about your craziest lover.” “What’s the square root of 3044442.008?” I answered each trying not to roll my eyes. Finally, I blurted out, “BORING!” That derailed the interview like locomotive hitting a pile of dead cows.
“Boring?” the dude with the power tie asked. “Are we boring you?”
My parents always told me to tell the truth. What did I care if I offended a bunch of people interviewing me for something I really didn’t want? “Yeah,” I responded. “These questions suck. I’m interviewing for Playboy, not a fucking job at an insurance company. Ask questions with some balls. BIG balls. You know, like ‘If you could dispose of British rule in Northern Ireland how would you do it?’ ‘Why are you so awesome?’ ‘How do you make an Irish car bomb with just a corn cob and a piece of dental floss?’ Those questions have big ‘ol brass danglers!”
Contrary to what you may think happened next, I didn’t get thrown out by security. After I answered my own questions, (start an underground campaign to overthrow the figurehead monarch- because, I fucking rule- hollow out the corn cob and use the floss as a fuse after soaking it in gasoline) they kept talking to me. It all went a completely different direction. I told them about my drunken rampages throughout Northern Ireland, Idaho, and Montana. I told the story of my drunken excursion/invasion of Alberta. Hell, I even pantomimed what it was like to jump out a window, landing on a nun. I was the opposite of everyone they’ve ever interviewed. They loved it.
Apparently, I was so utterly fascinating, they bumped the next interview so they could spend more time with me. Well, duh. I’m a fucking treasure. It’s like I was the first little militant Irish girl from Idaho they’ve ever met. Okay, I may have told them that I fully plan on ruling the Pacific Northwest and the Canadian province of British Columbia with an iron fist. The tribunal just laughed at the joke. Yeah. Right. Joke.
I left after an hour interview (they’re usually less than half that) with a request for another in LA and an invitation to a party later this year at the Playboy mansion. Nah, I’m kidding. No. I’m not. Am I? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
What does this all mean? Hell if I know. One of their talent dudes told me there is an excellent chance of being on, at least, the cyber magazine with better than average chances at something bigger. You know what? I still don’t care. Either way, I’m cool with it. I’m just along for the ride. And that ride is taking me to LA. For free. FREEEEE! I can handle that.
Once I left the premises with Tresckow and my illegal firearm carrying cousin, I took some time to explore the area. I’m not sure why. It was hot. You people in that area may be used to that. I’m not. Momma wasn’t built for that kind of ass crack moistening heat. Humidity? What the fuck is that? How do you people live like this? Although, I hear winters in the central Atlantic states is pretty mild. It only gets to 30 degrees with a few feet of snow. We call that Spring in Montana. For fuck’s sake there was a winter weather advisory in motherfucking August.
The three of us explored all the excitement interstate 95, northern Delaware, and northern Maryland had to offer. Which was nothing. Delaware? Why are you pretending to be a state? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re living a fucking lie, fudge sacks.
The absolute best thing we did during this whole trip was visit Tresckow’s house. That’s right. He let me into his home. Reluctantly, but he did it nonetheless. We drank whisky and beer. Then more whisky. We gave him a gift bottle of whisky then proceeded to drink it. I raided his liquor cabinet and rooted around in his fridge. Did I forget to say that the fucker put a bag of used, stinky cat litter under my bed when he came out to our place for Adel’s wedding? I did? Well, it was payback time! In the short time I was in the heart of Fortress Tresckow I managed to deal him the pain. I glued all the caps of his toiletries shut, toilet papered the second story of his place, and committed another atrocity he has yet to figure out. That’s right, pugnuts. It’s not over.
The only person I feel some sort of remorse for is Tresckow’s wife. She found herself in the middle of our little Jihad and was an unintended victim. She was none too pleased to see her stairway encased in Charmin.
We were leaving from BWI for home. I planned that so Tresckow would have to drive us there. Yeah, I forced quality time on him. Who wouldn’t want some quality time with me? Anyway, we did manage to stop and see some of the sights.
Somewhere north of Baltimore, Treskcow took us to a place of goodness. A place I never imagined was real. A place that made this little Mick’s dreams come true. What is this wonderland of fun and artery rotting awesomeness?
At first, I figured “big deal, it’s a gas station.” Oh no, my friends. This is no mere gas station. This is a junk food eating, coffee drinking Mecca the likes of which have never graced the Montana, Idaho, Washington area. I ate, my friends. I ate everything I could: schmuffins, schmiscuts, hot dogs drenched in nacho cheese. I basically came in my pants due to sheer gas station grub delight.
I may have gotten slightly hopped up on Sheetz coffee and was an unholy terror on the flight back home. Who’s to say? All I know is that when Playboy offers me a contract, one of the stipulations will be payment in the form of Sheetz food. Oh, and Delaware. I’m talking total annexation. The first state? No. It will be the NO state. I will build Delaware up to Greek City-state status and be the first Playboy model to rule an annexed nation inside the continental United States. It’s a win win!
Far be it from me to associate myself with Roode or any of his articles, but I felt the need to expand upon his Earth Day piece (of shit). It got me thinking. No, not thinking about how Roode has kept out of prison for this long. Not this time. I started thinking about how, exactly, would society have to tackle environmental issues in a way that matters. Then it occurred to me, most of the big changers would never be done, because society is only willing to go so far. Sure, some will toss a plastic bottle into a recycling bin, but you bet your ass someone will drive a block to buy their lottery tickets and cigarettes instead of undertaking such an arduous journey of walking.
So what would the Earth’s population have to sacrifice to make a dent? I have a few ideas. But, we all know none of them are ever going to happen….
1. Make Country Leaders Give Up Personal Jets
Right out the gate I’m taking a swing at politicians. Well, sort of. I’m not talking about government policies. I’m talking about the non-stop, gas guzzling trips made by most of the world’s leaders. General air travel has skyrocketed after that pesky Luftwaffe was grounded in ’45. The “lower prices” and bigger airline fleets made air travel a practical reality. Until the early 21st century, that is. Now it’s nothing more than nickle and diming, TSA strip searches, and big shiny targets for terrorist groups.
Our world leaders need to be able to travel at a moment’s notice. They have to tour earthquake areas to acknowledge that, yes, buildings have been reduced to rubble. They need to attend state funerals for people they never knew for PR and, during election season, be able to drop themselves in whatever state they need to whore themselves in for electoral votes. But, isn’t this all outdated and nonessential? Let me answer that for you. Yes. Yes, it is.This is the modern age, you silly pillack. Everything’s virtual or digital… and other things that end in “al” I imagine. First, invest in a Skype or WebEx account. You don’t have to physically be everywhere to give your partisan speeches. Pipe that digital goodness into the Brazilian government‘s multi-purpose room. You don’t see Bin Laden jetting all over the West to distribute his messages of death and infidel fueled rage. It’s all recorded, baby, and posted online. Yes, he’s got a blog and their whole operation is hiding in a cave!
Second, downgrade the bollocks out of the fancy pants transportation. Air Force One, do you really have to be the size of a jumbo jet? I’m thinking more of a Cessna or a Piper Cub. What? It’s just as secure as a gigantic jet aircraft. In fact, it’s even better. Everyone knows that small planes are infinitely harder to hit and easier to land when damaged (The Big Bopper thing was a fluke). Cram the president’s entourage into one of those things with a WiFi ready system and, Bob’s your uncle!
What about the children? Surely, they need transportation to school. Why bother? Each generation is getting progressively dumber. Society might as well admit defeat now and end schooling of any kind. Not only would it save billions of dollars, it would finally usher in the downfall of society we’ve all been waiting for.
3. Stop using electricity. Everywhere.
You read that right. I’m not talking about simply turning the lights out when you leave a room. I’m talking about turning the lights out forever. Do you know how much fossil fuel is used to generate electricity to run our televisions and industrial strength wall outlet powered marital aids? Neither do I, but I’m guessing it’s a lot. Imagine the money your average Joe would save by jumping off the grid. Citizens of nations everywhere would save thousands of dollars a year without electricity bills! Alright, so some of that money would have to be invested in glow sticks. I suppose most households would have to find an alternative heat source, too. Our ancestors managed without electricity. They used fire for warmth, light, and cooking. What’s that? Burning wood is still polluting the environment? For fuck’s sake! You can’t have your cake and eat it too.
Kicking electricity to the curb may even enrich our society. Without electricity there will be no computers. Without computers there will be no blogs. It will no longer be easy for any half-witted dipshit to vomit typed out dumbassary for the masses. It will be like the old days, the sheer expense and effort weeding out the posers. We’ll have to go back to reading actual books and newspapers. I hear you, an increase in newspapers means the death of more trees, yadda, yadda, yadda. Well, society is going to need to wipe their asses with something. Newspaper is one hell of a multi-tasker! Just be sure to read BEFORE you wipe.
4. Wipe out big chain stores.
Nothing embodies the crushing of the very soul of world commerce like the Wal-Mart or Target empire. Mom and Pop stores went the way of the Utah Raptor and Hammer pants. At first, we all cheered. Finally, there is somewhere to go for our economy sized enema needs! Want to buy a pair of boxers and a head of lettuce? At the same store? Well, my friend, you can do that. Never again will you have to make multiple trips to buy condoms, baby lotion, and duct tape.Well, I guess you’re not really serious about healing the planet, then. These gigantic chain and bulk stores are generating enough waste and energy consumption to make Mr. Burns blush.
According to this article, states have accused Wal-Mart stores of polluting their water with shitty construction practices. Do you know how much electricity retailers need to refrigerate food, power lights, and operate the exit theft alarms that go off for no apparent reason? Our research tells us it’s a shit load . Even when the store is closed the energy consumption keeps trucking on. Do we really want to hurt our environment for a cheap 12 pack of socks and a case of Dr. Thunder? Well, I’m fine with it, but that’s just me.
Bring back the Mom and Pops. Not only will that diversify the market, it just might bring scurvy back in style. Quick, it’s the middle of winter in northern Saskatchewan and you want an orange. Tough luck. I guess you should just get used to those bleeding gums. Mom and Pop stores, although romantic and quaint, probably won’t be able to carry anything out of season. Your average corner shop may never be able to buy and stock anything outside of an affordable geographical radius. If a store owner was lucky enough to get a hold of a crate of Spanish clementines, they would have to jack up the price to, about, $10 an orange. Scurvy is cheaper.
5. No more concerts, rallies, or protests.
How many of us have a brilliant sexual, drug, or cop beating concert story to tell? Maybe at that Screaming Trees concert the midget next to you projectile vomited so hard at he actually propelled himself through the air. Or what about that rally/protest for something or other you’ll remember for the rest of your life? There’s nothing like showing up somewhere, en mass, to support/protest the troops/president/lactose/soap…. Seriously, there are rallies for anything these days. You don’t really have to know what you’re protesting about.
It’s nice to know that people out there are willing to express their opinions and use their right to free speech while punching the environment in the face. The millions of people around the world that go on pilgrimages to see Winger live are also killing the environment. Well, in addition to murdering musical taste.