Couple weeks ago, my brother and I stopped at a gas station featuring “Sudden Service.” I thought that meant that, while you’re pumping gas, an attendant aspirates out of no where with a cup of steaming hot coffee. But in actuality, it meant unintelligible mumbling and receiving no eye contact when presenting a check card at the counter.
Read a couple weeks ago that military women are barred from seeing front line combat. This has been policy for ten years and counting. But is this what a female signs up for when she joins the military? To become part of a supply chain, or to pose in pictures featuring a stack of naked Iraqi “dead-enders?” How does the military recruiter sell that? Does he use a separate brochure? “Look, this can be you right here, loading a truck full of delousing powder to be used at the front!” I’d be like, “So when do I get to fly an Apache?” Heh, heh. Don’t worry your pretty little head, young lady. Somebody’s got to do the cooking and cleaning at HQ, you know!
Learned the secret identity to Deep Throat this week. Yawn. Compared to today’s racy menu of abuses and scandal, a little breaking-and-entering seems downright patriotic. You think Rumsfield and Cheney would let their mouthpiece go down over a simple case of theft? Forget it. Everyone remotely involved would be shipped to Cuba for “indefinite detention.” Woodward’s bullet-ridden body would have been discovered stuffed in the trunk of a Dodge Duster if Cheney had been in charge.
How long must the public exile be before Memphian’s reelect disgraced state congressman John Ford back into office? One year? Two? Just wondering.
Alone in Knoxville, I decided to take in a viewing of Star Wars Part 6. That’s when you know your life is in disarray. When you are watching Star Wars 6 all by yourself. I ended up sitting between a teenage couple who clearly wanted to make-out, and some burly dude babysitting four kids. The Burly Dude was the worst. He had a friend sitting a row ahead of him. Before the movie started, the Burly Dude was bragging to his friend how that, during an airing of Lord of the Rings, he told some people to “shut up” because they were “ruining his movie.” Real tough guy. So guess who talked during the entire two hours of Star Wars 6? You guessed it.
The Angry Czeck’s assessment of Star Wars 6? When I was twelve years old, my grandfather asked me which movie I wanted to watch for the afternoon. Two blockbusters were playing at the time: Return of the Jedi and Superman III. With only a brief deliberation, I opted for Superman III. So what did the Angry Czeck think about the latest Lucas effort? Can’t wait for the Bryan Singer directed Superman.
The Angry Czeck is the only person in the whole wide world who is responsible for an automobile accident. It sounds impossible, but it’s true. I’ve never met a person, other than myself, who owns up to causing a car wreck. Me, I caused a car wreck by running a red light. I’ve met people who admit to being involved in an accident, but it was always the other guy’s fault. For once, I’d like to hear somebody say, “Man, I totally fucked up and rear-ended an old lady because I was too busy flipping the pages of my new Penthouse magazine instead of paying attention to the road.” But if you took a poll around the office, I guarantee that nobody has ever been at fault for an automobile accident but the Angry Czeck. Which explains my atmospheric insurance rates.
Speaking of Penthouse, there’s a magazine that’s hit the skids. I found more satisfaction from an episode of Joey than I did from the June issue of Penthouse. And it ain’t exactly easy to buy Penthouse in Knoxville, either. I had to drive a considerable distance to the world’s loneliest Books-a-Million to make my shameful purchase. I grabbed the issue from the kiosk like a Memphis politician selecting his favorite flavor of crack cocaine. To legitimize my purchase, I swiped the world’s worst sporting magazine, The Sporting News, and put it discreetly on top of my Penthouse, as if to say, “I’m really here to buy the totally uninformative brand of reporting only the Sporting News would dare charge $5 for. This Penthouse? Heh. Heh. Good Artie Lange interview, I heard.” Hoping to find a check-out guy as seedy as myself up front, I instead discovered a pretty teenage girl manning the only open register. What a nice example I set for her. Now she probably thinks all 30-year-old men are lonely and gross. She’ll tell all her friends about the slightly overweight guy who tried to disguise his porn purchase with a Sporting News. I’ve ruined it for everyone. I paid for my pornography with the layer of shame administered to my fragile psyche added free of charge. But at least I had my Penthouse! A magazine I hadn’t paid for with my own money since 1994. Then I discovered that the Penthouse of the early 90’s is not the Penthouse being published today. Man, you used to be able to depend on Penthouse for a little girl-on-girl action, at least. (Remember those “art-y” Vanessa Williams photos?) Not anymore! Just a few tired spreads of dopey eyed girls you don’t necessarily want to see tastefully naked, let alone stretched out on a shag carpet. One girl looked like someone recruited from the same gas station where I received Sudden Service. Somewhere along the way, the immortal Bob Guccione totally lost his testicles and decided to remake Penthouse, the only magazine with the stones to challenge Playboy, into a less entertaining version of Maxim. Now I’m minus six bucks and still coping with my shame.
The other week, I found this in my bathtub:
I thought somebody had left their mustache in my shower, but it turned out to be a house centipede. In case you’re too much of a pussy to thoroughly examine the picture I provided, allow me to offer a description: It has a long, flat body with about a billion daddy-longlegs…er…legs attached to it. As I nervously completed my not-so-sensual shower, I could hear it breathe, “Quaid….open your mind…” The house centipede is to Knoxville what cockroaches and crooked politicians are to Memphis. One person described a house centipede as “fast.” I’m waiting to wake up one night with one in my mouth.
Upon rejecting the EU Constitution and throwing the whole of Europe in an uproar, it’s nice to see France fucking up other country’s shit, and not just ours. Viva France.
Think Bush breathed a sigh of relief when Tony Blair was re-elected as British Prime Minister? It’s like in Lionheart, when Van Damme is getting his ass kicked by Atilla, and Joshua confesses that he had placed all their money on Atilla to win. And Van Damme starts shaking his cheeks, and you could tell Joshua felt real bad for fucking up Van Dammne’s shit, so he looks extra happy when Van Damme finds the lion within to overcome his broken ribs and beat Attilla to a bloody douche bottle. I’m sure Bush called after Blair’s victory and said, “Sorry about that WMD thing, Tony. Ooops. I knew you’d win anyway.”
I’ve been telling you about? Pure bologna! Heh heh!”