People Who Deserve a Heinous Beating, Volume I

“And that’s how I ended up banging a goat.”

I’ll tell you one thing. If I ever hear those words, somebody’s gonna get a foot in the ass. Hold on,… that’s not exactly true,…. Somebody will get a foot in the ass after I’ve laughed for about four hours….. Come on, goat fucking isn’t funny? What are you, high? Goat fucking is hysterical,… but then also serious enough to earn you a heinous beating.

Which brings us around to the topic of this new blog installment. Free entertainment for you, fuckers! I hope to shit you’re fucking appreciative.

Wait,… hold on,… I have to throw out a caveat…. A lot of college professors, especially when you get into like senior-year and graduate-level classes, require students to “read critically,” and “synthesize the material,” and then—“write a commentary.” A commentary, we as students are told, is a carefully considered analysis of the material we’ve read in the past week—which, by the way, doesn’t grow in an arithmetical progression once you get into graduate school,… it’s more like exponential progression—committed to paper. They are generally informal and usually very brief,… one or two pages at the most. Commentaries are not reviews of the works we’ve read; rather, they involve discussing the historiographical school of thought in which the piece is written, its thesis, its source material and evidence, the methodology of research and writing the author used, literary style, and a lot of other shit. More than one professor has told me that when writing a commentary I should “imagine [myself] sitting down with the author and having a conversation with him or her.” So that’s how I write my commentaries,… except I always add the word “naked” to the end,… in most instances. There are exceptions,… believe me,… nobody wants to see E.P. Thompson naked,… especially since he’s been dead for seventeen years.

So here are my instructions to you for reading this blog: read critically, synthesize the material, DON’T write a commentary, and DON’T imagine yourself having a conversation with me—naked or otherwise…. I don’t have a problem with you imagining me naked,…. I just have neither the time nor the inclination to imagine having a conversation with YOU—naked or otherwise,…. Although if we are going to have a conversation, naked would probably be better,…. However, I might get distracted (some of you guys out there have hogs big enough to block out the sun,… seriously,… it’s like a penile eclipse)…. But the real point is,… DON’T IMAGINE YOURSELF HAVING A CONVERSATION WITH ME. You crawl inside this mind, you may never find your way out,… it’s like fucking IKEA in there. Also, there is the damage,… it’ll remind you of Vonnegut’s Dresden.

Anyhow,… let’s get back to the subject at hand,… with one more small caveat,… this episode of the blog is meant entirely to entertain. I am neither inciting nor even advocating the actual physical thrashing of another human being at the hands of some dumb fucker who reads this blog. If you do, indeed, take my words too seriously and go out and pummel some asspuppet from the following list,… you will be Target Number One in “People Who Deserve a Heinous Beating, Volume II.”

Furthermore, I have decided to intentionally NOT include people who OBVIOUSLY need heinous beatings: terrorists, rapists, kiddie porn collectors, Michael Vick, and the dude who played Principal Rooney in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”…. I mean,… come on, give the kid a break, he just wanted to go to a Cubs’ game…. Plus, I think he fits into that third category, anyway.

And so, without further delay, I proudly present to you the beginning of what will be a continuing series: People Who Deserve a Heinous Beating, Volume I. (What a long introduction,.… Who do I think I am, Michener?)

You know who deserves a heinous beating?.... Ex-wives…. Tell you what, let’s expand that to all ex-spouses (see ladies, I got your back). I mean how can that relationship (between two people who used to live together and then thought it was so awful that they go into a courtroom and have legal paperwork written up that says they no longer have to live together) ever be any good ever again, or even mildly tolerable? Seriously,… if my ex-wife had wheels, she’d be a bitchcycle. And it’s even worse when you have kids,… ‘cause kids can be manipulated. Case in point: my ex-wife, knowing that I am a card-carrying atheist (we actually have cards,… I’ll show you mine if you want to see it), sent my then-four-year-old daughter to me for the weekend with explicit instructions to sing as many of her bible-day-care songs as she could remember. All I could do was say, “that’s tremendous, sweetie,” when what I really wanted to say was, “you sang very well, but don’t fall for that indoctrinational bullshit.” Ex-spouses stink, and I don’t like them!

Here’s another group of fucks who deserve to be strangled with barbed wire: people who say they GET ALONG with their ex-spouses. Hello? Dumbass? You are divorced for a reason. Either she got a credit card in her own name without your knowledge and got you so far into debt you had to get that shitty “credit counseling,” or he played golf four times a week and ignored you, or she blew your brother in the back seat of the minivan that YOU bought. It happened. And nothing in the world should ever dislodge that loathing from that little place in your heart where it resides. Hold on to that animosity. Own it. Wear it on your sleeve,… or your taint,… or wherever it’ll fit. Believe me, it’ll save you some day.

This is another guy who should fall in a puddle of AIDS: Phil Collins. Don’t get me wrong on this one. I was a huge Genesis fan,… “No Reply at All,” “ABACAB,” “Home by the Sea,” “The Cage.” I even liked a lot of his solo stuff: “Against All Odds,” “I Missed Again,” that duet he did with Phillip Bailey of Earth Wind & Fire, and that song “I Don’t Care Anymore,” that everybody says was about Phil Collins actually witnessing a dude drowning—by the way, if you believe that shitty story, you probably belong on this list too. But now he’s gone and released an album of eighteen covers of,… wait for it,… old Motown songs. That’s right,… the greatest rhythm-and-blues songs from the 1960s have been remade by a sixty-something, balding white English dude with a disturbingly awkward nose shape. You shoulda stuck to what you knew, Phil. Then again, you’d probably still make this list just for “Sussudio.”

Here is a group of dillweeds that I wouldn’t mind coming into speedy contact with the wrong end of a claw hammer: dipshits who don’t know the difference between identical and fraternal twins. Identical twins are the result of one sperm meeting one ovum and germinating,… and then splitting into two,…. These two new germinated eggs now have the same identical genetic makeup. That’s why they look so much alike—although in some cases it’s really very easy to distinguish between the two,… like Gigi and Jackie DiManio when I was a kid,… Jesus, I haven’t thought about them since I was like thirteen,…. I wanted to put it in ‘em both back then,…. That would have been a story I told forever,… to anyone who wanted to listen,… and quite a few people who didn’t…. Fraternal twins, on the other hand, are the result of two entirely different sperms (is that the correct plural form of “sperm”?) meeting two entirely different ova and germinating independently of the other. These twins do not have identical genetic makeup. They might as well be coming out of the mother years apart. They are completely different people. I,… you see,… am a twin…. I have a twin sister. Now,… obviously, we have two entirely different genetic codes (remember that two-sperm-two-ova exposition from above?). But if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard, after introducing her as my twin sister, “really, are you identical?”, I could buy a fucking island (not a big one, but an island nonetheless). It used to really annoy the piss out of me,… until I came up with a retort that lets the asker know what a complete fucking simpleton he is: “Yeah, we’re identical,… except for that whole penis thing.” Dipshits.

Another bunch a shitbags that deserve to die in a fiery-yet-highly-avoidable car accident: restaurant servers who say they’ll be “taking care of you this evening.” I go out to eat fairly often. I try to stick to places that either have tablecloths or those paper table covers so that kids can draw on the table with crayons and still not ruin the tabletop. I scoot my chair in as far as I can before the server gets there, and keep my hands in my lap. And I wait for the server,…. As soon as he or she gets there, I’m just waiting for that introduction,… again, with my hands in my lap,…. “Hi, folks. How ya’ doin’ tonight? My name is Candace and I’m gonna be taking care of you tonight.”…. ZZZZZZIP! That’s right,… the junk comes flying out. Wait,… you said you were “taking care of me!” When someone says they are “taking care of me,”… how am I NOT supposed to add the word “orally” to the end of that sentence? I don’t care if your name is Candace,… or Mai-Ling,… or Gladys,… or Bill. If you’re gonna “take care of me,” I can guarantee you a tip of at least thirty percent. If you tell me you will and then you don’t, I might cause a ruckus so big that it ends up annoying this whole side of the Waffle House. I actually got slapped for doing that once,…. By my ex-wife,…. We don’t get along.

There’s lots more where these came from.

Next Time: I Guess I Should Clean up the Whole Bipolar Thing