True Revolution

Today Azlan is celebrating
liberation
from hostile occupying forces.
With a clearer head and mended soul
he climbs onto
and hikes over
the rubble
to see how he can clear it out.

Not soon enough
he will build
a new nation from what is left
and what can be made.

Since it takes less time to count blessings
than it takes to count the casualties,
Azlan makes a rare but sincere prayer
that the world would learn to remember:

True Revolution comes from within.

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Employee Discount

After Barbra finished her G.E.D, she was able to make enough money as a waitress at the Hominy Diner to get a place of her own in Purcell with her new baby. She went there because she wanted to be "close" (about an hour) to "the city" (Oklahoma City). She landed a job at the new Wal•Mart Super-Center where she started in the stock room and moved up to a cashier position and made an honest if not affluent living.

She lived in a small apartment above the house of a chain-smoking widow before she ended up getting impregnated, married and re-impregnated by Russ, the Assistant Manager, all within 2 years. She moved into Russ's large modular home on an open lot with a man-made pond. It wasn't a bad life, but before their three year anniversary Russ, who was being investigated for running meth to Langston, blew his brains out with a shotgun that he bought with his employee discount.

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Vestigial Organs

I'll tell you something
about careening
through the scenery
with fiends and creeps
out seeking to be mean
and
struggling to be street
living lean
and
thinking on your feet
until you're
thinking with a blade
deep in your spleen;
And suddenly you're less confused
because
you never miss
what
you never used.

www.TheTruthOrSomethingLikeIt.blogspot.com

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The Doom Looms
It's Been A Long Time Since It's Been Cool To Be A Slacker

Finals week has reminded me of why I was so eager to graduate from college the first time. Thank god I don't have to take anything like chemistry, which has cumulative exams and requires you to actually comprehend the material.

HOLY FUCK what kind of place would I be in if I had to do things that I couldn’t bullshit? I'm at a point in my life where I can't do anything that can't be bullshitted– seriously, who would want to do anything in life that required actual competence, knowledge or skills? In order to succeed in such a field you would need preparation and effort. I am not down with that these days.

The other night I had a dream that I was in some beachside shack trying to write something on a typewriter. Some of the keys were hard to push down, and whenever I got into a flow of typing I would get to those keys that were harder to push down and looking upon the page under the ribbon I saw that I had letters missing in all of my words. It was full of typos and it was more of an incoherent mess than this blog. I wondered if it was an omen of some kind.

There is no shortage of people who want to be published writers, and the odds of success are against me. It is entirely possible that I will die in poverty. Not by suicide, that is too much of a writer cliché. No, I will probably be killed by another hobo for my last bottle of Wild Irish Rose. That fucker will know that he can't get me while I'm awake, so he will get me while I am asleep nuzzling my bottle by the burning barrel at the abandoned train yard. He will probably find a cinder block and crack my skull open, or he will stab me in the chest with a loose rail-spike that he found.

What a way to go! The irony of it will be that I won’t die as the result of my own alcoholism, desperation or destitution but rather I will die of someone else’s. It will be an irony worth writing about. Sadly, someone else will cash in on it.

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The Pick-Up Artist

I Can Has Pussy!?

Mystery: So, okay here is my super-ultimate no fail move.

Kevair: ::gulp::

Mystery: Okay, so you walk up to the girl, and you touch her two finger tips on her forefingers with YOUR two fingertips on each your forefingers.

Kevair: What?

Mystery: And then you stare her right in the eyes like you're an owl, and you don't break your intense gaze.

Kevair: In the eyes?

Mystery: And then you say to her. . . "I once arm wrestled George Harrison. . .from the Beatles.

Kevair: A lot of girls my age don't know who that is. . .

Mystery: Right, well maybe I'll take advice from you? Right? Like, I think you can like teach a How-To-Be-A Virgin course if you want, I don't think we would be after the same client pool if you know what I mean.

Kevair: What?

Mystery: ::SLAPS KEVIAR IN THE MOUTH::

Kevair: Arrrahhh! What the FUCK man?

Mystery: ::grabs Kevair by the hair:: Listen to me you fuck-weed piece of shit, you think because I wear a furry Velour-lined top-hat and eyeliner that I won't fucking kill you?!

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Tally McFreckles Crosses The Line

Girl : I'm glad your really reading into it like this.

Gomez: Reading into it? What the hell do you mean(?). . .

Gomez: I oughta cut you long time ago Tally McFreckles

Girl: ::tear runs down cheek::

Gomez: But I didn't.

Gomez: And that's the most you'll ever be loved by anyone.

Girl: ::cowers on the floor, yelps::

Gomez: ::slice:: (Blood splatters)

Girl: ::cries::, ::screams:: ::yelps::

Gomez: Oh Girl! You have no faith in medicine. (With Speckles Of Blood On His Face)

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"George W. Bush took our assent, and re-configured it, and honed it, and shaped it to a razor-sharp point and stabbed this nation in the back with it."

Keith Olbermann

The other day at work I saw a woman wearing a bizarre tee-shirt. On that shirt was a picture of Jesus, Mary, some saints and a heavenly backdrop. In the middle was a picture of George W. Bush praying, and underneath it said, "We are a blessed nation." I called the attention of my coworkers to the utter ridiculousness of this shirt. To my surprise, they defended both the shirt and George Bush. In that room at that moment, George Bush had 66% job approval and 33% disapproval, which is the exact inverse of what it is nationally.

Most polls from the last several months put George W. Bush’s job approval in the high 20s to low 30s. More importantly his job disapproval has been consistently around 65%

Less than one-third of all American’s like George W. Bush. We have a national consensus that this guy is a total fuckwit. Yet there is a segment of the population that is holding on to the notion that he possesses a level of competence that allows him tie his own shoes unassisted.

The war in Iraq is not only an obvious failure, but it is the worst foreign policy mistake in U.S. history. As a nation, we are less safe, and less secure than before Bush's belligerent, baseless invasion of that country. Iran, North Korea, Russia and others have exploited our weak position in the world to work for their national interest at the expense of ours.

Nearly 4,000 troops have been killed. Tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians have been killed, and an equal number of American service-people have been maimed. These sacrifices were not necessarily, and in fact they have impeded America's ability to confront its real enemies.

But alas, the Bush presidency is not just about Iraq.


It is about an administration that so much lusts for power and control that in insists that it needs the power to randomly incarcerate American citizens indefinitely without being required to tell them or any court with what they have been charged.

It is about an administration that has promoted a culture of greed through corporate giveaways, tax cuts for the wealthy, and no-bid contracts for companies that profit from war and that keep members of the administration on its payroll to this day.

It is about an administration thats permits oil companies to receive tax-payer funded subsidies while they continue to post record profits, keep refinery capacity low, and gasoline prices artificially high.

It is about an administration with such warped priorities that it doesn't think that taxpayers should support potentially life saving therapeutic stem-cell research, but insists that they should spend $100 billion per year to kill Iraqi's.

It is about a President whom as Governor of Texas refused to commute the death sentences of five men who are mentally retarded, but somehow found the compassion to commute the sentence of Scooter Libby who protected an administration that committed treason through its character assassination of CIA operative Valarie Plame and her husband Joe Wilson.

It is about a President who exploited 9/11, whom took our well wishes and support and as Keith Olbermann has said, "re-configured it, and honed it, and shaped it to a razor-sharp point and stabbed this nation in the back with it."

Geroge W. Bush took a nation at peace, and made it a nation at war with the world.

He took a prosperous nation and gave us the largest budget deficit, the largest national debt, some of the worst job and wage growth we have ever known.

Who are these people who think he is doing a good job? I suspect that it takes the same detachment from reality to deny the utter calamity that is the Bush Presidency as it does to enable a person to deny the existence of global warming, evolution, and Eskimos.It quite possibly could be indicative of a mental illness. Perhaps support of George W. Bush should be added to the DSM IV.

It takes a rare breed to defend George W. Bush. Those who do are an endangered species for sure. They are either too obstinate to die, or too rabid to understand their survival instinct.

The S.S. George W. Bush is sinking. These ignorant predications of support are merely some final desperate gasps for air from those who will surely go down with the ship. I however which that goddamn thing would just sink already.

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The Best Kind Of Work

Is Done Before You Punch The Clock. . .Sometimes.

Since I work in summer recreation, my work week starts on Friday following a Wednesday/Thursday "weekend". It's an emasculating way to live. I was running a wee tad late on the way to my shift, but I still needed a post weekend pick-me-up. It was very important that I get to the Wesco station and buy a large can of energy drink. It was too hot for coffee, and since I don't have any connections in Muskegon I have no access to powerful amphetamines.

Because I had hit the snooze button twice, and had fallen back asleep in the shower I thought that it would be appropriate to pass a few cars on the road. At 7:30 am most people are too tired to drive strategically. I however, drive more strategically as the parts of my brain that sense danger are unresponsive.

The first car I passed was an old man in a Ford Focus. His window was closed, but I could see him yelling at me. Can't the old man understand that I the only sleep I had gotten was 4 or 5 hours the previous early evening during daylight on the beach? Couldn't he consider that falling asleep wrapped in a bedsheet on coarse Lake Michigan sand doesn't compare to his nocturnal oasis that is his Select Comfort Sleep Number Bed™? I figure that is what he sleeps on. He looked like the kind of guy who would buy any product endorsed by Paul Harvey. I imagine he likes Ovaltine too, which is by no means a character flaw.

The only reason I had gotten any sleep was because I had consumed 3 Cuba Libres and 6 beers at the beach. I was so buzzed and exhausted that the girl to whom I had given a beer might actually have been 16, although she was probably 20.


When her boyfriend showed up, I took one look at him and it was clear that he was no older than 19. "So how old is she then?", I wondered.

He was very polite, he handed me the can and said, "Neither one of us are 21, so. . ."

"Oh, yeah I'll take the can. Thats fine.

" I said I might as well make peace with this fellow, I figured. I don't know what I would think of my life if I put myself in a position where I was competing for a 20 year old girl with a fellow who might have been 17.

"I'm David by the way!" I said as I put my hand out to shake.

"I'm Cody", He said, shaking my hand. He had a confident handshake. Maybe he is older than he looks. Plus he has a really unfortunate tattoo...some kind of symbol I didn't recognize. It was either tribal or faux-alien. No responsible parent would permit this. Then again, neither would any friend, girlfriend,boyfriend, mom, dad, step-dad, step-mother, half-brother, half-sister, half-uncle, full cousin or aesthetically conscious mail-man. But somehow he circumvented all of this and ended up with this black and green thing that could be mistaken for a gangrenous wound left by some high-end panini press.

"Say, you want one?" I asked him while holding up a beer. "No, we're not 21." He replied.

Why is he such a buzzkill? His girlfriend gladly drank the beer down pretty quickly. Maybe he didn't like Busch Light. Maybe he figured that it was going to be too warm. I didn't want to believe that a man-boy would be socially defiant enough to maim himself with a sanskrit design but not enough to enjoy a beer at the beach.

"Well, shit man, it's a lot harder to get a beer if you're under 21. In the U.S. anyway. Did you know that? Are you a tourist? Êtes-vous un Canadien?"

He laughed nervously, and scratched his arm. "Alright then, more for me I suppose. Lord knows I need it!" The girl had a short laugh, but he just kind of looked at me with a look restrained disbelief upon his face.

"How could I escape this awkwardness?", I wondered.

"Well I am going to go ahead and go for a swim." I said as I stood up, stumbling a bit.

I went in the water which was quite pleasant, unlike that scene I had left behind on the shore. I gladly traded the cruel indifference of the open waters for the bizarre embarrassment that would surely ensue on the sand under Beach Bunny's baby blue parasol.

I swam and water jogged about a half mile south, all the way to the rocks. I pulled myself up out of the water; adroitly scaling seaweed covered boulders to get on shore. I got back to the beach, and I noticed that there was a 30-something woman watching me. "That's a good workout, eh?" I said to her. "Ha ha! Yeah! It looks dangerous! Be careful!" She said.

Be careful? Doesn't she know who I am? How could she though? I didn't.

I saluted her in acknowledgment and proceeded to jog at a light pace back to my beach chair. I had to dart around children making sand castles and idiot pre-teens on skim-boards. When I finally got back to my spot Cody and Beach Bunny had said that they are going to take off and that they watched my stuff.

"Oh yeah man, thanks." I said. "Hey, take a beer with you!" I said, knowing that he wouldn't take it even though girl wanted him to. It was petty sabotage on my part, exposing his uncoolness to this makeshift beach bunny of his. Perhaps I would not benefit from this, but I hoped that she would; because she knows that the cool kids drink, and that her boyfriend had just turned down a beer.

The rest of the folks left too, but I was not good to drive. So I laid down to catch some sun. I felt a cold wind at my back. I lifted my sand covered face up for a moment. The beach was virtually empty. I was wrapped in my beach sheet very much resembling Lawrence of Arabia, or perhaps a more avant garde member of the Ku Klux Clan.

I dusted off my sand doused cellphone, which was clutched tightly in my hand. Holy shit! It was 8:30 PM...it couldn't have been later than 4:30PM when I passed out. It wasn't 2 minutes that had passed, it was 4 hours! Apparently I had also had a text message conversation with my ex-girlfriend that started pleasant and got weird.

I tasted my own mouth and nearly heaved. I needed some water. I was sore and tired, but not sleepy. Besides all that had some nasty fucking sunburn, but just on my lower back and shoulders. I knew that I wouldn't sleep well that night.

And that is why I didn't sleep well. The old man in the Focus hadn't considered any of this because just as I was waking up, he was sitting in his off-brand Lay-Z-Boy, watching Wheel of Fortune and eating a Werther's Original. So I passed him, ever the cocky young bastard with my rebellious hair and aviator sunglasses. I made eye contact with him, and shrugged with a nonchalant aspect. I knew he was enraged, but I was over it. I didn't have to flaunt this constructive recklessness, but I did. I had to drive this way at this moment, because I had to get to work, but first, I need a RedBull or a Monster. So I hit the gas.

I was riding high and free on the vacant road until a taupe Mercedes failed to calculate my speed and distance and pulled out in front of me, forcing me to hit my breaks, which brought my speedometer under 20 MPH.

I slapped my steering wheel in anger. "What the hell is wrong with you!? Do you take pride in obstructing a mans destiny!?", I yelled. Either I had channeled the ghost of General George Patton or my lack of sleep had made me prone to megalomaniacal hyperbole.

I had to pass this guy on a road that might have or might not have had double yellow lines. "Any law I break now pales compared to letting an asshole in a taupe Benz slow down traffic and impede the liberty of the peasant class!", I figured. I was doing it again! I was Che Guevara on four wheels.

"Been Swank" by the Von Bondies was playing on my iPod through my cassette adapter. I turned up my music and then I passed him. I looked at the driver out through my passenger side window with a condescending smile. I recognized this guy as a lawyer from town, though anyone else would have seen his jheri curl, and his 1970's porn-star mustache and would have understandably guessed that he was the owner of a moderately successful carpet store. He leaned his body against his door and banged his hand on the window like he was an ape at the zoo and I was playing keep-away with a banana through the cage.

I pulled up to the Wesco station and parked. I was walking and saw through the corner of my eye that the lawyer was pulling in. I cascaded through the store as though I didn't notice. I reached into the cooler and grabbed a Monster. I was thinking about getting a doughnut as I heard someone yelling erratically at the other side of the store. "Hey!" It was the lawyer, trying to get my attention. I pretended that I didn't notice him "Hey!" He says as he walks up to me.

I looked at him and said nothing, still wearing my sunglasses. Apparently this is a sign of contempt and disrespect, because an Amusement Park where I had once worked had told us to take them off when we talked to people.

"Okay!" he said. "Be a smart-ass! I'll just call it in!", he said.

"Hmph? Pardon?" Call it in? He's not a cop! He said "call it in" like he was just going to add it to the big list of things he calls in to someplace. He had no witness, it's my word against his! Besides, I'm not sure I committed a crime. He was more dangerous when he pulled in front of me and decided to drive at a pace that was just a hair above idling. Who is to say that I didn't smell cheap scotch on his breath? How could anyone trust a man whose scalp looked like Borat's pubes? Surely no one who was sober would be yelling in a rage in a busy convenience store like this at 7:33am. "I have witnesses", I said diabolically just under my breath.

"Double yellow lines!" He said to me from a distance about an aisle away. I walked up to him and noticed that he was about 5 inches shorter than me. I recognized his shirt and tie from a J.C. Penny catalog. Apparently he had spent all his money on the taupe Mercedes.

"Those lines are there for a reason!" he yelled with anger and fear in his voice. He is used to confrontation, but he isn't used to a big Irish bastard like me staring him down this close. I said nothing and stared into him, struggling to contain my grin on my otherwise expressionless face. He dashed away like a squirrel does when you walk to close too him.

He put his arms up into the air and said "Be a smartass! I'll just call it in."

"Alright man, thanks for the advice!", I said. I thought about asking him his LSAT score, because I was fairly sure that my most recent number was higher than his. But I went to pay for my Monster, I had wasted too much time on this guy.

A man ahead of me in line aged about 55 he had a concerned look on his face as he was looking at the lawyer erratically get his coffee from Wesco's rather elaborate beverage station.

"Can you believe that douchebag?" I asked him to break the tension.

"He's a pretty prominent attorney in town with a lot of connections to judges, you might just apologize while you can." he said.

I had asked, "Apologize for what? The guy is a bully. You can't appease a bully, man. Remember the Rhineland?" The old man shrugged uncomfortably. I suppose that he didn't remember the Rhineland. I considered the possibility that this kind of complacency might pave the way for a 1000 Reich. But I don't suppose that is the sort of small talk you make in line at the Wesco Station to a man who just wants to get a refill on his bucket of popcorn and leave this madness behind. Little did he know was that the real madness laid within the man who was eating popcorn before noon.

"If he is such a bigshot, why does he smell like J&B at 7:35 AM?", I asked. He pretended that he didn't hear me. I chugged my Monster and drove off. I got to work well on time but I knew that the most important work that I had to do that day was behind me.

Maybe If We Mixed Them, There Would Be More Peace In The World

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The First Beach Day: No Day At The Beach.
The Beginning Of What May Be My Final Summer In West Michigan

On Tuesday there were no calls for sub jobs above the elementary school level so I elected to go back to bed and sleep in. I woke up around noon and the forecast was for a high of 80. I had decided that this was the first beach day of the year.

I put together a good beach kit. One 2 quart Gatorade bottle full of Country Time lemonade. One pint of regular Bacardi rum. One empty Danasi bottle for mixing. One salami and provolone on sour-dough sandwich. One copy of The Great Shark Hunt. One old bedsheet to serve as a beach blanket.

I drove to the State Park campground to the most secluded place I could access. There were already retirees with quarter-million dollar campers staking out prime campground real estate three weeks or so ahead of Memorial Day weekend. I never understood the purpose of camping with a plasma screen TV, satellite dish, and a microwave, but that is what these affluent blue collar pseudo-yuppies consider to be roughing it.


Left: Rustic Life


I parked in a campsite that was close to my beach spot. This particular spot is only good before summer heats up, because a month from now this pristine stretch of Muskegon Lake beach will be disheveled with the juice boxes and empty Lunchables containers of the 11 year old brats from Grand Rapids and the Detroit Proper who would rather spend their holiday glued to a Playstation 3 than gazing upon waves, sunshine and sailboats.

I am sure I looked peculiar to the old bastards in their campers as I walked out to the sand with my aviators, my square cut swim shorts, and my polo shirt which looked like it belonged to a 1960s tennis pro. I purposely wear unbecoming clothes when I go out to the beach to drink and read alone so that no one who knows me feels inclined to bother me. I spread out my bed sheet and weighed it down with the lemonade and the disguised pint of rum. I took off my shirt and pulled out the empty Dasani bottle and held it over the sand outside the parameter of the sheet and poured in rum about one-third of the way...then I filled it the rest of the way with the lemonade, much of which spilled into the beach and onto my hand. I shook it up and took a swig, but it was a little too strong for me this early in the beach season, so I had to use the rest of the unspiked lemonade as a chaser.

Before I could get my book out a seasonal park ranger pulled up to the fanciest trailer near my car. Great, I thought, the old crank in the Winnebago didn't like the look of me, so he is going to get some 19 year old girl from Grand Valley State to force me to buy a permit. So I opened my book and rehearsed what I would say...I knew that it would be unwise to tell them that I would be working at another State Park, because I am sure this would get back to the boss. I looked up to see what was going on and the ranger and her truck were gone. I was pleased that I wasn't ratted out. Maybe this guy in the camper was alright after all.

I got through one essay in my book before more than half of my Drunk On The Beach© cocktail was done. I decided to take a walk. Despite my post-college lard, the rum gave me enough confidence to feel like I was Daniel Craig in Casino Royale. After all, he is fair featured and lifts weights, just like me!

I dipped my toe in the water and it was colder than the ice water from a carafe in a nice restaurant. If you drank it, your teeth would have hurt. I had noticed that during the drive in there was a smoky haze on Lake Michigan. Suddenly it occurred to me that the warm humid air was meeting up with the cold water and causing a bizarre brand of mist that you hardly see any other time of the year. This was a problem because the best way to go to the bathroom in a secluded part of the beach like this was to go out twenty feet and let things go ballast style. The cocktail I had made had filled my bladder and I didn't quite know what to do.

Only moderately conflicted, I walked down about three quarters of the way to the boardwalk where I found shrubs tall enough to conceal my public urination. Mid-tinkle I hear a ferocious "HOOOOOOOOOONK". A cruse tour was coming through the channel and there were people on the top deck with binoculars, whom were clearly watching me piss. I was a little perturbed, but then again, I did have my dick out on state property. It was not the first time and it sure wasn't the last. After I was done, I pulled my shorts up and made as many rude gestures as I could to the people on the cruse tour. "How the fuck would you like if I drove up to your toilet, assholes!!" I am not sure if I said that out loud or not. The Drunk On The Beach© cocktail was progressively taking its effect on my demeanor, not unlike Spider-Man's black costume. (More on this later.)

I wasn't sure if the police were on their way or not, so I strolled casually back to my spot. I packed up and got dressed since I felt that I was appropriately sun-kissed. It was only 4 in the afternoon and it appeared wise that I should maximize my experiences on this the first beach day. I decided to go up to Whitehall so I could go to the A&W/Long John Silver's. My favorite thing to do at the A&W/LJS was to get a poor-mans surf and turf. In a nice respectable establishment with cold carafes of water, a surf and turf is usually a lobster (surf, get it?) and a fillet mignon (turf-, clever, eh?) , or a sirloin and tuna steak. For a fellow like me a surf and turf is a Fish & More Combo # 3 plus a cheeseburger with a root-beer float.

I chose to take Scenic Drive from North Muskegon to Whitehall. It is about a 20 mile drive along the coast of Lake Michigan with more curves, turns,highs,lows and tricks than Amsterdam's red light district. Along Scenic Drive I imagine are a lot of rich people. I have had two jobs along Scenic Drive, at one of them I worked two summers as a Waiter at a beach lodge resort and one summer I spent as a park ranger. The homes along Scenic range from old Georgian houses, to fenced in McMansions, and even a few Frank Lloyd Wright knockoffs. For a while I have longed for a stretch of land on Scenic Drive, it would be a fine place to retire, I think.

The speed limit along most of Scenic Drive is mostly 35 MPH, it is certainly never more than 45MPH, and most of it is double solid lines, which indicates that passing is restricted. Once I got past the stop sign on Memorial, I booked it up to 60. Once I got past the block house and passed a Chevy Tahoe, I cranked it up to 75. Now and then I would hoot at female joggers, who were mostly women in their late 30s keeping fit enough to keep their rich husbands interested in them to the extent that they might get laid during their bi-quarterly vacation to somewhere with a better water front view than their 2 million dollar Lake Michigan homes. I don't know if the people in the houses on Scenic have a stake in such property for status or if they have taste.

After a few near crashes I was finally in the City of Whitehall. I drove up a hill which took me to main street, near where I took my first drivers test and where incidentally received my first speeding ticket at the tender age of 16, 3 weeks after I got my license. There was an accident up ahead...it appeared to involve a gold colored Plymouth mini-van. I hoped that no one was hurt, but I couldn't help but feel as though the aesthetic of the world was made better by the destruction of that nauseating symbol of exaggerated affluence and feigned family values.

I pulled into the Shell station that housed the A&W/LJS. The A&W was gone. So was the Long John Silvers. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!", my heart yelled out tearfully. Distraught and confused about the justness of the universe I decided to buy some gas at $3.12 per gallon, since I could not put my hands on my siphoning kit. I kept my music up loud as it was when I was jetting through Scenic Drive. I was playing the White Stripes' self titled debut album, which is a lot less disagreeable to the local rubes and hicks than the misogynistic rap music I might play on any other day that I am cranked up on spiked lemonade and driving like a madman.

I drove a quarter mile down from my broken dream to the Whitehall Burger King. The best part about the Whitehall Burger King is that it is up on a hill, like an old make-out spot in a 1950s movie. So, at least there was a peaceful place to enjoy your Whopper™. Plus, at this particular time there was a promotion for Spider-Man 3. . .there were game pieces where you could win a car, cash, or more food. I have won food on such game pieces numerous times. The game pieces allow you to choose the "Red Spidey" (good) or "Black Spidey" (dark, evil). Given the nice weather this day I felt inclined to choose the Red Spidey. I don't normally order the king size value meal, but I hadn't eaten that day (my sandwich layed untouched in my cooler) and I have an unnatural affection for the Spider-Man movies.

Upon getting my food I found that this particular establishment was out of the Spider-Man 3 promotional game pieces. Rage. But I politely drove to my overlook next to the other cars, and enjoyed my towering burger, my bucket of coke and my satchel of fries, sans the opportunity to win a Maserati. Let's be honest, it is not as though anyone who routinely orders the king size Stacker™ meal is capable of fitting in such a small sports car.

As I was eating my chili I head someone say, "M'am? . . . M'am?". I turned to look out the window and apparently someone was trying to get my attention. "You mean, Sir?" I said to the scraggly looking fellow with an unkempt beard, bermuda shorts, and a topaz colored Charlotte Hornets jackets, circa 1991. "Oh..yeah..Sir...sorry, I didn't know." Anyone who has seen me knows that it is difficult for me to be confused with a woman. This guy had called me "M'am" the same way 2nd graders call me "Mrs. McSaddle*" because they do not know the word "Mr."

*Names changed to protect the guilty.

There was a troubling aspect about this fellow. He was either deranged or hopped up on smack. His very presence was unsettling.

He said, "Yeah, so I need a ride up M-20 to eh...Rotheberry." "Sorry." I interrupted, " I'm not going that way." I truly wasn't, though even if I was going that way, I would have lied.

He insisted, " I'm not going to hurt you or anything. . .Hey man I really need to get to -" Suddenly he knows my gender! I am impressed! Maybe I should give him a ride!

"Look, get the fuck out of my face, okay?" I told him.

"Hey fuck you man! Fuck you rich assholes who think you run the world!" he said to the guy sitting in the dirty 1998 Chevy Lumina.

Uncharacteristic of me, I got out of my car, still holding my chili, "Look get the fuck out of my face before I bust your fucking head open, understand?!?" I had chosen the Black Spidey.

The old couple in the late model Buick three spaces away rolled up their car window, either to protect themselves from the ensuing blood shed or the exchange of threats and profanities that is more common between the Crips and Bloods in Compton than between a transient and a substitute teacher in Whitehall, Michigan.

The hobo got a look at my 6'1, 240lbs stature and walked away, muttering unintelligible profanities. I thought about throwing my Chili at him but I was enjoying it too much. I got back in my car and drove away.

I reflected upon the insanity of that day and I embarked upon the idea that in no way do I resemble a functional adult. But then again, If I were I probably wouldn't be able to enjoy my last summer in West Michigan.

More Madness at: www.TheTruthOrSomethingLikeIt.blogspot.com

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