Get 2 Choppin

Sometimes I feel that I need to carry around an oversized pair of scissors, the kind normally used for ribbon cutting ceremonies, to cut through the red tape of the world. The saying goes that you need to grease the gears of government but what does this accomplish when those gears are square and don’t work according to any logical system? 

I was recently sent an email about a student loan that I needed to start repaying (of course the email was sent a month after the first payment was due and apparently I signed up for the “no paper bill option” and the email also recommended for me to log on to my account for the quickest method of solving this issue). The next logical step was to log on to my account and access the damage and take care of my financial obligations. Thus started the bureaucratic buffoonery because when I went to log in I could not remember my password and after three failed attempts I was locked out of the system until the next day. I then followed the instructions on password retrieval and bided my time.

After numerous failed attempts to receive said password, I decided to contact the customer service department via email and let them know that something was wrong with their system. The first response, of course, is a response saying we received your email please don’t respond to this email. The second response was from a secure email service that said I had an email but before I could view it I had to register with them. I then took the time to register with them and the next obvious step in this process is that they would send me an email to activate said account. After activating my account and reading the useless information I already knew, I was back to square one.

The funniest thing from my perspective is that the last time I checked people weren’t stealing passwords to log on to people’s student loans to repay them. That individual might go down as the dumbest yet most philanthropically minded criminal in history if that was the case. I appreciate the Fort Knox type security that they have placed on their system but seriously. I recently sent them another correspondence that if they needed me to send in a lock of hair so they could test my DNA I would more than be willing to accommodate them to retrieve my password. I’m not sure how this bit of sarcasm will go over in this rigid environment because all I can imagine these pencil pushers finding funny would be something like if they were golfing and one of the group yelled, “Fore-bearance” after he hooked a tee shot or they are around the water cooler and one of the guys gripes, “man I’m sick of my wife and her constantly filing for a deferment if you know I mean”.

Being out in the Pacific Northwest for five weeks now has been an exhilarating experience. The mountainous backdrop combined with the lush greenery provides some breathtaking scenic panoramas. The hustle and bustle of Seattle’s diversely and eccentrically populated urban landscape offer numerous opportunities for one of my favorite past times, people watching (I believe I have the raw data to prove that there are more tattoos and exposed cleavage per capita here than in any other urban area). The one thing though that just sticks in my craw, that claws at my nerves, that grinds my gears is all the douche-bag Lance Armstrong, Levi Leipheimer (FYI: I did some research and this is the 2nd best American cyclist), or Greg Lemond wanna bees that are all over the roads and trails like flies on Ethiopians.

These annoying assholes get donned in the latest multi-colored cycling club gear that is tighter than a leotard on a jazzercize instructor and parade about like tie-dyed roosters. I get that cyclists tend to have massive legs and skinny bodies and arms like a little miniature T-Rex – but for some reason they are hell-bent on showing this to the world by wearing tight clothing on their upper bodies. The best is the guy with the half-zipped shirt with the shaved chest wearing a big smile because of the breeze that cascades across is pierced left nipple with the replica-steel bicycle wrench nipple ring.

Then these biking brethren mount up (and click in) in their two to five thousand dollar bikes (Shit the wheels alone cost at least 250 a piece) and go whipping by everyone like they own the fucking road, like they are on the fucking home straight away in the Pyrenees stage of the Tour de France and it is their first chance at a yellow jersey. I get it you are better than me on your Specialized Cannondale or your Limited Edition Greg Lemond but when a 60 year old grandma on the same bike whips by me, it just proves that it is all machine and not man doing the work.

I’m not even sure I can consider it a sport because the only thing fun about watching a cycling criterium (they are so snooty they don’t even call it a race) is the possibility of seeing one of these geeky fuckers get tangled up in the peleton and scrap his knee or yet even worse (gasp) break a collarbone. Nascar is ten times better because 1) the crashes are better 2) the woman fans drink beer, not Chianti and we know what that means 3) and besides Jeremy Mayfield they aren’t all doped up on performance enhancing blood thinning drugs and 4) because rubbing is racing and that shit don’t fly when your wheel is half an inch wide.

I don’t know if people remember the old Sega Genesis game Road Rash but every time I’m on my bike and one of these lint-lickers goes by I want to stick a tire iron in the spokes of his back wheel and laugh my ass off as he goes flying over the handle bars. I would just leisurely peddle by and say, “Do a fucking pull-up”.

I hate to ruin an otherwise lovely experience but who ever designed the parking structure next to Joe Louis Arena must have gotten his civil engineering degree from a fucking cracker jack box. This no talent ass clown must’ve been sleeping with some fat broad in charge because the flow rate of this parking garage is lower than the cumaltive ACT test scores of the Detroit Public Schools. I don’t want to come off sounding like a complete jerk or smart-ass but there has to be some formula, like for instance, and this is just off the top of my head and I’m not claiming to be a civil engineer wizard but maybe how about you take the amount of cars parked divided by number of exits and if it is over a certain number than the viability of the parking structure becomes a safety hazard. 

Another thing that these shit-for-brains morons forgot to take into effect is the stupidity factor of people (one: that are drunk, two: that are hyped up from a Red Wings victory, three: that may be Canadian, four: that may be a dumb fucking Canadian who is about four seconds away from taking full advantage of their country’s socialized health care because I’m going to rip the hoser’s fucking eyes out) that think they are better than everyone else and can just cut in front of everyone because they see some short cut. There are no cut-zees.

Listen you dumb motherfuckers, we all see the shortcut but the reason traffic flow comes to a screeching halt is because you are violating the social contract that states “If you follow the flow, look how smoothly things will go. If you try to cut, I’ll fucking stick your hot muffler up your butt”. Seriously this isn’t kindergarten and you ain’t the cute kid with the extra cupcake trying to movie up in the lunch line in front of the fat kid and this isn’t the keg stand line at the fraternity party and you aren’t Miss “Popularity”. So get the fuck back in line before I really get mad and slash all your fucking tires and leave you to suffer the wrath of 1000’s of cars honking their horns inside a swirling concrete echo chamber of chaos. 

It is a simple process when two lines are merging, this line, then that line; one for me, one for you; It’s my turn, it’s your turn. Get it! Pretty fucking simple you rag tag bunch of stumbling bumbling biscuit heads. This simple every other pattern keeps everyone happy and it keeps my anger genie in the bottle and if you have one wish it is that he doesn’t come out. You may think I am throwing a tantrum or going on a tirade but trust me this is nothing. In the heat of the moment my response of retribution will be of epic proportion. Mark It.

I understand the focus for the multitudes of mere mortals who visit the gym on a semi-regular basis is to hammer out their one-arm seated bicep curls (which are handy for instance because you never know when you will need to save a baby by lifting it off the ground from your lazy boy) and to “pound the pavement” on the elliptical trainer at a blistering pace that brings them right up to the point of breaking a sweat (but not actually sweating, which is funny because when fat people step outside in the summer they sweat faster than a Hindu at Dunkin Donuts during a shift change at the local precinct but yet in the gym the tubbies seem oblivious to the natural cooling effects of the body). It is these same easy, me-get-no-queasy exercising nincompoops whom simply ignore the elements of Feng Shui in the gym because it is not be a huge concern to them, but to John E. Bravo the Meathead Mojo is the number one priority when it comes to getting in a good workout. 

It is all about the Chi. If the weights in the gym are not properly aligned in the correct and optimal Feng Shui position then my chakras will be tighter than a straight guy’s butthole at a San Francisco techno festival. The Meathead Mojo can be easily thrown off by the jackasses that place the 25lb plates where the 35lb plates should be and God forbid some Tough Guy Tom decides to put the 45lb plates where the 10’s should be, the only pr (pr is short for personal record for you Jane Fonda jackholes or you Muscle and Fitness mimicking morons that couldn’t power clean their way out of a dirty snatch) that is going to be shattered is that dudes puckered rectum when I shove a ez-curl bar up his ass sideways and trust me there ain’t nothing ez about how that will feel.  Man that shit grinds my gears as if I was Driver’s Ed teacher that was stuck with the only manual transmission in the fleet and a car full of blondes.

I understand alot of you Machine Circuit Work It types don’t ever make your way over into the free weight area except to use the dumbbells for your sidebends but somehow this area is always messed up. First, if you are not strong enough to put the weight back where you found it, then go jump off a fucking cliff (I’d say hang yourself but I’m not sure if you’re strong enough to tie a decent noose knot to get the job done). Second, if you are not smart enough to figure out that the heavy weights go at the bottom and then the lighter weights follow up the weight tree accordingly then you need to adminster a fucking self-labotomy with a rusty drill and enjoy the rest of your days getting spoon fed pudding and staying the fuck out of my way.

Just know that if you fuck with my Chi (pronounced Chee) then me, Bad Boy Bee, and Dangerous Dee will be be all over you like Gene Simmon’s tongue on a popsicle.

It is time to tuna in to the sound of gears grinding because I am one pissed off hombre. I am normally not much of a market watchdog but this is one time I don’t mind being your seeing eye-dog. Most American’s have tightened their belts and pulled out the scissors for the super saver section of the Sunday newspaper. We are all looking for deals that can save us a few cents here and a few cents there and we love the companies that in these trying times have thrown us a bone. Yet to my dismay, I have to report that not all companies are helping out the American consumer.

One of those companies is the Spartan brand of food. These cheap S.O.B.’s recently cut the size of their tuna from 6 ounces to 5 ounces while keeping the price the same (loud gasp in the background for dramatic effect). They have cast their greedy fishing rod into the sea of consumers without one iota of compassion for the families that feed on the chicken of the sea. If you didn’t think I would notice you are wrongly mistaken Mr. Spartan brand. You could sure take a lesson from the legendary tuna man Howard Humprey, President of Schooner Tuna, who in the financial hardship of the early 80’s came out with this advertisement:    

My fellow Americans. I am Howard Humphrey, President of Schooner Tuna. All of us here at Schooner Tuna sympathize will all of you hit so hard by these trying economic times. In order to help you we are reducing the price of Schooner Tuna by 50 cents a can. When this crisis is over, we will go back to our regular prices. Until then, remember, we’re all in this together. Schooner Tuna. The tuna with a heart.

Sidenote 1: Unfortunately, you also to have to be on the watch for these companies that try to lure you in with great deals but then everything isn’t quite as it seems. Take for instance Outback Steakhouse who has been advertising the Outback Steak Special for $9.99. This definitely got my taste buds going and drew me into the restaurant but then I came to find out you only get a 6 ounce steak for that price. It took about three bites and I was done. Good news is that there is no reason to kill cows anymore, I mean hell you could cut 6 ounces off a cow and they would even know it. Fucking PETA is probably doing back flips, those granola eating tofu turkey trotting freaks, except for the fact that the price of produce has skyrocketed through the roof.

Sidenote 2: If you don’t think PETA has influence, check the breakdown of the stimulus package. There is like 50 million going to help the dwindling population of honeybees. WTF?