Essa’s Hurricane Preparedness Checklist

So apparently Governor Scott decided to declare a state of emergency over “Hurricane” Erika.  Now, I could be a skeptic and claim that this cry for help, (over a relatively moderate tropical storm) is nothing more than misdirection designed to keep people from noticing that he just openly admitted that he lacked training regarding how to manage civil rights in open forums and town hall meetings. I could point out that he forced someone to step down without due process or proper, constitutionally granted, civil procedure, by using inappropriate backroom dealings and questionable ethics.

Gerald Bailey…cough… Gerald Bailey.

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But I’m not. Instead, I’m going to pretend this ‘hurricane’ is the real deal and not a form of misdirection designed to get the population to look in another direction while he commits a relatively minor crime. In short, I am going to do just what his PR people want me to do and pretend I’m fucking dumb.

So here’s my hurricane preparedness checklist.

#1. Bleach

Look, no one in Florida knows why people recommend it. We don’t know why we buy it during a hurricane. We just do. Maybe we want our whites to be whiter than white when people identify our bodies. Either way, you need it. I don’t know why. You just do.

#2. A smashing hammer.

I know number two should be water, but like any intelligent person capable of rational thought, I know that I don’t need to buy water by the gallon. Simply stopping up my sinks and tubs, well after the electricity is dead, will allow me to drain a minimum of 32 gallons out of the tap.

The smashing hammer? Well that’s for smashing my way into my neighbor’s apartment, in order to drain their water from their taps as well.

#3. A stabbing knife.

So me and my kid tried to do the responsible thing. We set up a bag in the event that we were told to evacuate. Then, my mother showed up and she said “Evacuate? Fuck that! I want a new TV. We’re going looting.”

Have I mentioned recently how much ass my mother kicks?

So the Alrocs will not evacuate.  We will not back down to this ‘hurricane’. Instead, we will do like our Irish ancestors and use it as an opportunity to make money and get drunk.

And any good looter knows you need a stabbing knife. Guns just don’t work as well in a highly windy, salt water environment. Only a knife is a guarantee when you’re trying to steal a 32” plasma from your neighbor’s apartment.

#4. A highly cynical attitude

Look, governor Scott, your state of emergency means shit to me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s political miss-direction. You know when I start worrying about a hurricane? When the Keys people evacuate.

If you live in Florida, you understand. See, the Keys people are a special kind of people. They have this magical laid back gene that makes it nearly impossible for them to become upset about anything. They sit around, smoking weed, listening to Jimmy Buffet, and being chill under just about any circumstance. Much like the Zen Buddhists, they have reached a higher state of being. They have lived out hurricane, after hurricane, simply with the saying ‘just be cool, man. Be cool.”

I know a Keys guy who lived out Wilma by living off the water he collected outside and cooking hotdogs over a candle. When I asked why he didn’t just evacuate he said to me…

“But where would I bring my bong?”

Only when Keys people panic will I panic…and Keys people never panic, not even when our governor is trying to draw attention away from his inappropriate behavior by pulling the hurricane card. I’d listen to a middle-aged Key West, high as shit, openly gay, chicken hawk before I’d ever listen to a dude who spends like two months a year in his home state…at best.

#5. A Life lesson

Recently, my mother’s car battery died while we were at a gas station. A few months before, she’d had her rear tire replaced and while there, the people tried to upsell her on about 2k worth of car parts. Some of the parts were bullshit. Some of the parts were real.

One of the real parts was her battery.

Here’s the deal. She’d become so used to mechanics lying to her, that she took any suggestion with a grain of salt. When they told her the battery was broken, she didn’t listen. The mechanic became the boy who cried wolf.

Then her battery died.

That wasn’t her fault. She’d been lied to so much, over so many silly things, it became impossible for her to tell the real from the fake. Through no fault of her own, she suffered.

“Hurricane” Erika is the same damn thing, and it bothers me. It bothers me because so many politicians have used natural disasters as a form of misdirection that it’s impossible to take those warnings seriously anymore. We see a politician who doesn’t spend most of his time here spouting off nonsense about national emergencies and we don’t listen, because those politicians like to talk about national emergencies when their ratings are down.

Just look at what Sandy did for Obama.

Then shit like Katrina happens and we don’t take the order to evacuate seriously…because we’ve seen it before, and before it was nothing.

Natural disasters are not a political platform and they are not misdirection. They are serious and lots of people die. I expect my politicians to take them seriously too. It’s fucking disgusting to me that they would be willing to leverage human lives as an opportunity to pull ahead three percentage points.

But that’s the way things are. So I adapt. I don’t listen when Florida politicians tell me to evacuate. They don’t know me and they don’t know my Florida.

I listen when Florida lifers tell me to evacuate because those are the people that have the same intimate and unconditional love for Florida that I do. I respect them in a way I will never respect a politician, because they actually know Florida and they know when she’s about to turn on us, much like a drunk high-maintenance chick at 3 am. They know her and they know when to run. I’ll run when they do.

So God bless you my Keys and Panhandle people. Thanks for keeping it real.

The Pumpkin Agenda

pumpkin-beer

What’s with all the pumpkin flavored crap coming out in August? Usually, I only have like two months of pumpkin to deal with.  But now, pumpkin is slipping its way into my coffee and my beer earlier and earlier.

Look, pumpkins are useless. They’re only relevant for about two weeks a year, and usually used as decorations. I mean, when was the last time you sat down to a hearty plate of raw pumpkin?  When have you ever seen anyone bite into a pumpkin like they would an apple? Never? There’s a reason for that.

Pumpkins are disgusting.

And don’t bring up pumpkin pie either, because you can accomplish the same results with sweet potatoes, and not have to spend four hours dismantling a 25 pound gourd, peeling it, cleaning it, cutting it, etc. Also, you can eat sweet potato pie any time of year and have the added benefit of not looking like a crazy person.

You see someone order pumpkin pie in July, it’s safe to assume they have some deep rooted childhood issues.

Even the ‘pumpkin spice’ you get doesn’t really taste like pumpkin. It tastes like the stuff people add to pumpkin so it won’t taste like wet cardboard. Pumpkin would not be remotely appealing if not for sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon.

I have a conspiracy theory about pumpkins. I think the whole ‘pumpkin flavor’ craze got started after some politician’s idiot child bought a pumpkin farm, thinking they’d only have to work like two weeks a year.

Then, they realized that the average household’s pumpkin needs came to less than one pumpkin per year. So the idiot kid went to daddy for help, and their dad snuck an addendum onto a bill he knew would pass. That sneaky addendum read;

“All popular franchises must find a way to incorporate pumpkin into their product for a period of no less than 8 calendar weeks per year.  Businesses that exceed the requirement will receive a 1 million dollar government grant for researching the use of pumpkin as a mind-altering substance.”

No joke, if pumpkin got you high, I’d eat like forty a month. But they don’t. They don’t get you high and they have no redeeming value. They don’t taste good. They’re expensive, cumbersome to carry, rot in like 15 minutes and carving one always makes it look like someone vomited marmalade all over your house.

I’m old school. I like my coffee to taste like coffee, and my beer to taste like beer. I don’t need the flavor of pumpkin to make me feel like it’s fall. I live in Florida. I know it’s fall the first time I’m forced to give directions to Disneyland to a European tourist that speaks broken English.

So to the people pushing the pumpkin agenda, I have three suggestions for increasing pumpkin sales.

  1. Make it the next trendy superfood, and market it to idiots with the promise that it will make you better looking, more energetic, or give you a nine inch penis. It worked for acai berries, coconut oil and kale. Why not let it work for pumpkin?
  2. Find a way to get high on pumpkin. There’s got to be a way to turn it into a smokable hallucinogen.
  3. Throw away all the pumpkins and plant a food people want to eat…like twinkes or skittles.

Look, I clearly know very little about farming. My closest experience to farming came when I tried to dig a hole to China in my back yard. I was so stupid in my late twenties.

But I do know what I like, and I don’t like pumpkin. So please stop trying to slip it into my food. I will not be swayed by your pumpkin agenda.

No… We’re Not Going to Argue Anymore

I recently took down my “responses to hate mail” page. When I first started blogging, I wasn’t familiar with online politics and I thought the whole ‘responses to hate mail page’ was funny. I was so proud of my ability to hurt a person’s feelings that I felt the need to show everyone how great I was at being a bitch and how easily I could make these people who emailed me look like morons. In short, I was an arrogant asshole who thought she knew everything. And like any know-it-all, I am making this video my change of perspective announcement.

Let me explain the reason I had to to respond in the first place. I have a hair trigger temper and I’m intensely paranoid. I think a few of the readers of this very page have been victims of that. While I might not show it, I am the kind of person who can become extremely angry even over the slightest slight and hold onto that for years.

So when someone emails me, harshly criticizing my writing (often times without reading the article) I get blindly furious. I have been in my share of online fights, that extended all the way from angry emails, to digging up personal info and posting it online, to website hacking.

It’s also part of my industry. While I don’t read my reviews, I know many other writers who do, and even get into arguments with people who don’t agree with them. Lots of reviewers don’t behave any better, using their online clout to attack authors that they think have crossed the line. While I never actually got involved in any of these fights, I’ve watched them from the sidelines, eating my virtual popcorn and saying “wow, these people are all idiots. I’m so much better and more professional than them. Don’t they understand that they’re arguing in circles?”

Somehow, I thought that by only attacking people who attacked my blog, and not my books, I was being a better, more professional writer.

Then I met Russ.

Well, I’m calling him Russ to protect his privacy. We’ve known each other since I released an article called “No, You Don’t Have PTSD. You’re Just Being a Pussy.”

Russ was one of those people who did that thing that irritates me. He read the title of the page without reading the article. Then, he posted about 400 comments on my page and sent me an angry email. I did nothing to diffuse him. I did the opposite. I got angry at him. I deleted his posts, responded to his email by signing off “I hope you get cancer” and wrote an angry blog post correcting his entire hate mail message.

Russ later apologized, agreed to disagree, and then moved on…for about 3 months. Then, I said something that set off his own hair-trigger temper again. He sent another angry email. I again got furious when I read it. He flooded my page with angry comments, using a bot system in order to change his IP repeatedly so he could continue posting without going to spam.

So I found his phone number and posted it on the NSA section of Craigslist with a request for cock pics. Again our fight ended with him apologizing. We both moved on…until a few months later, when something I said angered him again.

I have been playing out this cycle for three years now, with the most recent cycle being him gaining access to my Facebook account and posting a fuckton of messages spamming products like Viagra and adult diapers. Russ has followed me for years.  I should be angry and afraid of this man. He’s threatened me repeatedly, as well as threatened my family. He’s sent me emails in  graphic detail of what he’d do to me if we ever met.

I should be afraid of him, but I’m not. I’m not because I have to admit that as fixated on me as he is, I’ve become fixated on him.

There’s something about the thrill of knowing you’re about to get into a fight. There’s something about wanting to top the person you’re arguing with and make them look stupid, that’s kind of addictive. It becomes easy to make it into the focal point of your life. It becomes easy to make it into the sole reason that you write. You get positive reinforcement for it. Whenever I argue with an idiot online, whenever I post about hate mail, my page views and likes go through the roof. People love a train wreck. They love watching it, breaking out their virtual popcorn and saying “wow, these people are idiots. I’m so much better and more professional than them.”

Because the people watching, they didn’t care about who was wrong or who was right. By the time they reached me, that was impossible to tell. Nothing was in shades of gray. My reactions to Russ’s emails turned me from being the bullied, into the bully. But in my riotous indignation, I just felt superior.

whale_bullies

The fact is, no one cares about the argument. The only one who really cares are you and the person you’re arguing with. In the end, everyone else is in it for the enjoyment of watching a train wreck. It’s why people loved “Jersey Shore” and every other copycat show that’s been created since. It’s human nature.

trainwreck

The last time Russ hacked my page, I posted his name, address and social security number on Facebook. Per usual, Russ sent me another apology email. But this time, I decided I was done with this love/hate stuff. No joke, the dude has been threatening me and following me for three years. This needed to end. If he needed an argument, I was more than willing to be his Huckleberry.

I'm your huckeberry

So I told him I was done with his bullshit apologies and asked one question I never asked before.

“Why do you keep bothering me?” I asked, expecting some kind of explanation of how I reminded him of his absentee mother or overbearing aunt.

“Because you keep responding.” His answer was simple. Stupidly simple. Turns out Russ is reasonably smart, but socially awkward. He felt invisible. Getting my responses kept him from feeling invisible. How I gave him attention didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was good or bad. He barely even read or acknowledged my responses. It was the fact that I responded at all that made him keep coming back.

I was arguing in circles, getting into a fight with a person I knew would never agree with me, because actually agreeing with me would defeat the purpose of the contact in the first place. By arguing with him, I created a connection that neither of us was willing to let go of.

I wasn’t willing to let it go because something inside of me needed to make this stranger, this person who I had never met, agree with me. Make him admit he was wrong, and I was right. Make him admit he was the bad person and I was the victim. But I certainly never behaved like a victim. There were many things I did to him that were far worse than what he did to me, simply because I’m more tech savvy. I knew I had the advantage and I used it. At the time, it made me feel strong.

But after talking to the dude, it makes me feel like the kind of asshole that would beat up a person in a wheelchair. I’m not stupid. I knew I was dealing with a person who was not at the same level of computer knowledge as me and I used it against him.

Why did I do it? Did his opinion really mean that much to me? Or was I so desperate for attention, even bad attention, that I was willing to engage in an online war that I knew would end badly?

I knew I wasn’t doing it to make peace. I knew we wouldn’t agree on anything. But there was something so enticing about the argument that I kept fighting anyway.

But through writing, through interacting with people, I’ve finally grown. I’ve realized that when you respond to a troll argument, you never win. You are never going to make these people agree with you, because they know from the second they send a message that they are never going to agree with you. This is not what they care about., They only care about the response. They only care about you emailing them to prove they are not invisible. It’s a game and they want you to play with them.

I’m not playing anymore. I don’t want the cheap publicity an online fight will bring. I’m not going to be desperate for you to agree with me. There is a very good chance that we will never agree. There is a very good chance that our opinions on everything differ even at the most basic level. This is not something I can change.

I’m not responding anymore. It’s not because I think I’m wrong, but because I need to believe that things are going to get better. I need to believe that people are interested in more than petty arguments and stupid squabbling. I need to believe I’m a little bit more than a bad car crash on the side of the road that you pull over to look at.

I can’t stop you from saying horrible things about me. I can’t control the way you react. But I can control the way I react to those reactions.

Words are words and the words you use have no power over me. Use them whenever you feel like. I have a delete button on my computer and my phone for a reason. There is nothing in the world forcing me to interact with you. Unless you physically threaten me in person, we have nothing left to talk about. We don’t agree and I can be cool with that. It’s the whole “if a tree falls in the woods”, thing.

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If an asshole says something about you that you never read…did he really say it?

I’m going with no. Unless you’re actually, physically in my life, you don’t exist to me. I am not going to argue in circles. I am not going to give you the attention you seek. We can disagree and I can be cool with that.

So the responses to hate mail page is gone. The responses to anything are gone. I refuse to be the online equivalent of the Jersey Shore. I’m better than that and I’m smarter than that. I’m not a fad or a car crash. I’m just Essa and I’m cool with that.

Nothing about me needs to change. It’s only the way I’ve responded to dissenting opinions that does. Trust this; I now, and always will, think I’m right about everything. Essa on Everything remains an aristocracy, with me earning the title of “Dictator for Life.” Your comments will be approved should they pass my stringent quality control test of not pissing me off.

Email comments will go into my spam email address to be reviewed every six months or so, much like the system I already have in place for reviews…where I delete them without reading them because in  my opinion, life’s too damn short to spend it arguing over ‘the principle’.

Because my principle is this, taken from one of those 1980’s movies I love so deeply.

You want to hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I’m an easy target. Yeah, you’re right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you… but I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I’m not changing. I like… I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I’m the real article. What you see is what you get.

That’s all there is to it people. I’m Essa and what you see is what you get. That is the very last response to hatemail I’m ever going to make and the only one that matters.

Because I like me, and I don’t give a flying flippedy fuck about your opinion on the subject.

. .

Desperately Seeking Facebook Friends….And No, I’m Not Trying to Nail Your Husband

So I have a limited amount of Facebook friends. While my fan page does ok, my actual friend page is embarrassingly low. Most of my friends have at least upwards of 300 friends. My page has a pathetic 140 friends. While in real life, that number would be impressive, online the number is abysmally low. Like “smelly kid in class’ low.

So I did what any normal person would do. I went online and sent out at least 50 drunken Facebook friend requests to anyone who looked even vaguely familiar.  The results were mostly positive, with me reconnecting with many new (old) friends that I forgot even existed.

But it wasn’t all nice. Especially not nice was this message.

bitch facebook message

That response made me do a double-take, and then a triple take. I was shocked and offended at the same time. And it’s incredibly hard to shock or offend me. I get a lot of hate mail, after all. I actually write off the time spent responding to hate mail on my taxes, so I’m used to it. But this was so out of nowhere that it blew my friggen mind.

This person I friended was not a person I dated.  This was not anyone that I’ve had an ongoing flirtation with. This was a person that I went to school with, that I haven’t talked to in at least 15 years that I was like “hey, cool, he’s on Facebook. Maybe he wants to be friends? I shall send him a friend request.”

This was not “hey, this is my ex-boyfriend from high school and I’m lonely divorcee who wants to flirt with this guy I haven’t seen in twenty years.”  This is not a person I would consider fuckable even after my worst possible bender…and trust this, my benders are impressive. I once sent topless photos to the dude that plays Tyrion on Game of Thrones. There is just something about Peter Dinklage that gets me going.

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Great, now his wife is probably going to send me an angry Facebook message.

But it was so upsetting, I decided to address the issue here. So crazy chick who emailed me? This one’s for you.

I’ve found that most women who think everyone is trying to fuck their husbands are married to dudes that no one wants to fuck in the first place. Meanwhile, the chicks who have utterly fuckable husbands are the first ones to say “OMG, you should friend my DH. He thinks your friggen hilarious!”

Insecurity breeds bad choices. When you’re not confident, you tend to settle for whoever will have you. So the fact that you’re a “WIFE’ does not impress me. Just about any girl could be a “WIFE” if she settled for whatever came along. You’re clearly insecure, so that tells me you’re the kind of person who settles for the human equivalent of the rotten potato that is always buried under the good potatoes in the produce section.

Just to clarify, your email tells me;

  1. You’re incredibly insecure
  2. Your husband is very likely that rotten tuber that no one wanted anyway.

So to the lady who emailed me, thanks for being a cunt. I’m sure your husband is incredibly happy that he married a shrew that goes through his Facebook friend requests to ensure that no one attractive gets through. I’m sure you guys will be very happy together…until you wind up on an episode of divorce court.

I’ll watch that episode with glee, but I’ll never again send a friend request to your husband, though it will be hard to resist. I mean, who could resist an overweight middle aged day laborer with a drinking problem?

On the flip, if you’re a normal chick, or the husband of a secure woman who does not feel the need to send offensive messages to Facebook strangers, I welcome your friend request. Rest assured, I will make every effort to resist the urge to try to have sex with you or your significant other. You can find me here.

https://www.facebook.com/essa.alroc

Or You Could Try Not Being a Dick

Check out the below eye roll inducing video.

For those who don’t want to watch, some Texas idiot decided based on his extensive legal expertise of…well, not being a lawyer, that’s for damn sure, he was going to a disobey a lawful order and got his window smashed in for the trouble. It amazes me how many people I see trying to get out of a speeding ticket or other minor charge by offering some kind of ‘loophole’ legal argument. Here are some of the most idiotic ones I’ve heard.

  • If I ask an undercover cop if he’s a cop, he has to say yes
  • I’m never required to give ID
  • I don’t have to talk to the cops at all, because of the 5th amendment
  • If they don’t read you your Miranda Rights at the time of the arrest, it’s a get out of jail free card

I don’t know how these fallacies get spread. Maybe it’s movies, maybe it’s the magic of the internet, but in reality, if there is a loophole to be found in your case, don’t play street side lawyer. Let your real lawyer handle it.

Otherwise, like the above guy, you’re probably going to fuck it up royally.

You really want to walk away from a potential arrest, here’s an idea and you won’t have to pull legal research on off of some shitty internet forum.

Try not being a dick. That’s it. Just not being a complete dick works about 99% of the time. Let me give you an example.

Officer: So the reason I pulled you over is because you were going 95 in a 60 while snorting coke off an underage hooker’s ass, and also, a bunch of AK-47s fell out of your trunk. May I have your license and registration?

Wrong Response

I don’t have to say anything or give you anything, because of the 5th amendment and this isn’t Nazi Germany, and you’re worse than Hitler. I saw on Law & Order that before you pulled me over you were required identify yourself as a police officer, and you were waiting on the side of the road and that’s entrapment and… is that a Taser? Wait! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZTT…AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Right Response

Here you go (smart person hands cop their identifying credentials and then SHUTS THE FUCK UP. Cop returns with paperwork and decides to let driver off with a warning)

Hey, I’m in Florida. If everyone in this state who drives around with illegal firearms, with underage hookers, while high on drugs was arrested, there’d be no room in the prisons.

Not being a dick is an arrest defense that has worked time and time again. It works whether you’re a man or a woman, whether you’re black or white. It works because it keeps a bad situation from escalating.

Sure, you might still get arrested, or a ticket, but if you pull the “I’m a street side lawyer and I’m going to be a condescending dick” routine, you’ve just given the cop more reason to want to see you in prison. However, not being a dick gives you the possibility of getting let off with a warning.

The time to use loopholes is not at the time of your arrest. It’s when your case goes to court. Lawyers are experts at loopholes because they get their info from places other than the internet and crime shows. Help them help you by not being a dick.

The Mystery Bruise

I have a bruise on my ass. It’s not a little one. It’s one of those scary “Tupac black” bruises that leaves pasty white people like me wondering if we have leukemia. It’s large and black, and in the shape of Texas.

I have no idea where it came from. Did I mess with Texas? I’ve heard that you just ‘don’t mess with Texas.’ I’d never do that.

…it’s not nice to pick on retards.

(Sorry Alejandro, I just couldn’t let that joke go unsaid. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the least Texan Texan I know.)

Anywho, this mystery has been bothering me all day. Here’s the thing. I’m a bit flakier in real life than I come off online. Like flaky in the “I nearly put wart remover in my eye because I thought it was eye drops” kind of way. Like flaky in the “I found my cell phone in the freezer this morning” kind of way.

So I am no stranger to mystery bruises. I get them all the time. The minor ones I just brush off as general clumsiness, but the major ones always leave me wondering.

Because the major ones always have a story.

The worst one I can remember happened several years ago. It was the day after Saint Patrick’s Day when I woke up with a pain in my foot. It wasn’t a little pain. It was a broiling, bleeding, blistered “holy shit do I have foot cancer?” pain.

And I had no idea how it happened.  Try as I might, my drunken, hazy memory would not release the story of this horrible injury. So I simply assumed that it was far too traumatic to remember. Then, I made up my own story.

A bus filled with puppies and orphans was careening towards a cliff. I was the only one around and the only one who could save the day. With only courage and determination as my fortitude I ran towards that damned bus. Using my MacGyver-like skills, I quickly created a system of pullies and ropes (that just happened to be laying around) and lassoed the bus, keeping all of the puppies and orphans from plummeting to their certain deaths.

While this was happening, the rope caught on my foot and I got rope burn.

Satisfied with my story, I went on about my day. I had to wear flip flops, but at least all those puppies and orphans were safe.

Then my friend Mike called.

“How’s your foot?”

I gave a long suffering sigh, having fully convinced myself of my foot martyr status. “It’s ok. I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

“Why would anyone get hurt? I still can’t believe you did that.”

My illusions were about to be destroyed. “What did I do?”

“You said you were so drunk you couldn’t feel your legs. Then, you bet me $5 that I could put my cigarette out on your foot without you screaming.”

“Why the fuck would you agree to that?” I was outraged.

“That’s exactly what you screamed at me when I did it!”

Illusions destroyed, my serious injury that I got while being a selfless angel became a simple drunken bet that I’d lost. I lose a lot of drunken bets.

I imagine my last words will be “Hold my beer. I bet I can do this.”

So I’m not sure I really want to know where this bruise came from. In fact, I know I don’t, because I already know how I got it.

See, there was this busload of puppies and orphans, careening towards a cliff….

Idiots…Idiots All Around Me

I have a theory. I think at any given moment, at least in the state of Florida, you are surrounded by at least ten idiots. From the idiots who can’t handle the lofty task of flipping on a turn signal, to the idiots who’s retirement plan is nothing more than ‘buy lotto tickets,’ we are all swimming in a veritable pool of idiots.

I want to drain the god damn pool.

Today, I got stuck behind what I like to call a “Mr. Nice Guy” in traffic. Traffic was heavy, and Mr. Nice Guy decided to slam on his brakes so he could let not one, not two, but four people in front of him.

I had to wonder, do the idiots that do this realize that while they’re making four dudes happy, they’re also pissing off the 50 fucking people behind them? No joke, while this dude was thinking he’d done his good dead for the day, he had no idea that I was behind him, fantasying about strangling him with the alternator belt that’s about to snap on my car.

Idiots.

Idiots are the reason that bleach comes with the warning ‘do not drink’. Idiots are the reason kids have to wear helmets for everything from rollerblading, to jerking off. Idiots are the reason Nickelback is still touring.

And us smart people, we’re enabling the idiots. We’re the ones who put the warnings on bleach in the first place. We’re the ones who design the helmets these idiot kids wear. We’re the ones that teach these idiots how to use a computer so they can buy those Nickelback tickets. Half the problem is the fact that idiots don’t understand sarcasm, so they don’t know they’re being idiots. Let me give you an example.

The other night, I got an email from a webmaster who wanted me to write some articles for him. But he didn’t want to pay me for these articles. As he pointed out, because he was such an impressive webmaster, the exposure alone would make me as a freelance writer.

The subjects he wanted me to write about? Penny stocks and anal bleaching. Not joking, this really happened. Here’s how I responded.

Dear (name redacted)

Thanks for contacting me about your project. It’s super ironic, because I actually don’t do this for a living. It’s a hobby. See, I actually write articles about penny stocks and anal bleaching just for the fun of it. Just recently, I was forced to shut down my website “Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole”, which was a website for enthusiasts of the ‘pump and dump’ on two different levels. I thought I was going to have to get rid of all the articles I wrote on the subject, then I got your message. What luck!

I figured no one could miss the sarcasm in that, but I vastly underestimated the idiocy of others, because all I got back was a two word message.

That’s great!

I ignored it, thinking the dude was fucking with me. Then today, I got a follow up message.

 So are you still interested in working with me?

So I sent another response.

Sorry. I recently died of cancer.

I can only assume that in the next few days, I’ll receive another email offering his condolences for my untimely death. Because I am indeed, surrounded by idiots.

Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go. Full Bank Account/Clean Asshole needs updating.