Back in the United States, and no longer in Kansas

View of the Danube from Gellért Hill in Buda, Hungary on a rainy, foggy day. The right side of the river is Pest.

Hi Erika,

I got a cultural shock when I arrived in Hungary, and I got a cultural shock coming back to the United States. When boarding the plane in London, people were speaking in somewhat ugly, Germanic sounding language. I was familiar with this language -- I knew the words, as it was English, but I heard it for the first time as a foreign language. Something seemed very wrong because people were not speaking the beautiful Hungarian that, while I understood hardly any of, I was comfortable with. And the people boarding the plane were so ugly. I had never seen so many ugly people before in one place. In Hungary, hardly anyone is ugly. Hungarians are incredibly beautiful people. I was not used to looking at people who were not beautiful. It was shocking. (There are of course exceptions like Eszter. Don't believe the crap I said in front of Zozo about Eszter being beautiful. Eszter does not look very Hungarian to me; she looks Germanic.)

When I got to Boston, Customs really, really fucked with me. They of course had nothing on me, but they interrogated me, asked horribly personal questions, and looked through every inch of my luggage -- even the dust they inspected. Finally, after clearing Customs, exhausted and really pissed off, having two suitcases, one in each hand, I ran to the bus that would take me to a train, that would take me to my apartment. The rear doors of the bus were open, so I hopped on with all my luggage, and the bus driver closed the door while I was half way in. I managed to squirm in, dazed and confused by why anyone would do something like that. A passenger said to me, "You have to pay." I had to pay? Then I finally realized that I was no longer in Budapest. In Boston, like every place in the U.S., you pay the bus driver up front. They open the rear doors in order to let people out.

I was in a big department store in the U.S. called BJ's. A woman was getting annoyed and frustrated with her son, because her son wanted to wander around. That is what children do; it is in their nature. Very rarely do parents get annoyed with their children like that in Hungary. People love the hell out their children in Hungary. Americans do not understand children. Children in the U.S. are often treated much in the way you might treat luggage. You lug your luggage around, and it is a hassle. In BJ's when I wanted to get around people in crowded aisles, I would have to resist the urge to say "bocsánat." Something seemed horribly wrong to be living in universe where you don't say "bocsánatot kérek" to get people out of your way.

Yesterday, when I was driving on the hi-way at night, I thought about the view from Gellért Hill and all the places and people and things I missed about my Buda. It was of course not "my" Buda, but it was the only place I had ever know that felt like home. I cried.

This is probably my last post, assholes

My life has taken on a new trajectory. In a few months I will be living many thousands of miles away.

I now have to protect my privacy for professional reasons. I will be disabling or deleting this blog within a month or so. I may start a new blog, where I will be more vigilant about protecting my privacy.

The enemies that I’ve made as a result of this blog will be very happy about this move, as it means that my posts will not continue to embarrass them. I am still not sure what to do about Wediko. I am considering shaking the motherfuckers down for their domain name – I can certainly use the money; I also might just continue to embarrass them. I haven’t decided yet.

It’s highly dubious if I have many regular readers, if any. I would like to say that I hate all of you, with exception to L.A. Woman, for whom I love. (But it is not a romantic love, don’t worry.)

At a certain point I had prevented people from commenting because of all the trolls and assholes posting their brain farts on my blog. About a year later, I turned the commenting back on, but restricted it to blogspot members only. There hasn’t been one comment since. This, to me, says a lot about the human race -- what fucking shits you all are, in that you can only squeeze out your reeking brain farts when you can do so easily and anonymously.

I think you are all fucking scum. And I have one word of caution for you men not living in the U.S: You’re days of pussy may be coming to an end, for your woman may be fucked by me, and I intend to dish out the best fucks that your woman has ever had.

Tables are turning motherfuckers; time that I got mine. And I’m not only after your woman, and in a much better position to take your woman -- I’m also going to take your job, because I’m probably a lot smarter than you are, I work a lot harder, and I don’t take shit for granted. And when I’ve taken your job, I ‘m not going to feel guilty. And I’m going to hope that you end up hanging yourself over your sudden loss of pussy and revenue. You will feel lonely. It will rot your soul -- your entire being. Most of you assholes, who think you are so fucking superior to me, would probably not last a day in my shoes. I hope you get the chance to see the world as I do. I hope it is your woman and your job that I take. I hope, dear reader, that I fuck you real good, for you probably have it coming.

Have a shitty life, scumbags.

Kevorkian dead. Good riddance, scumbag

Kevorkian snuffed someone I knew – she was not terminally ill. Don’t believe everything you hear about Kevorkian, even if it happens to come from so-called humanitarians and liberals and progressives. He was fucking cocksucker.

The Kevorkian freak showing off his “suicide machine” in 1991.

Dr. Death in his later years

We need assholes like you in the service

I watched The Patriots, 1994, directed by Eric Rochant, starring Yvan Attal, and I thought – where has this movie been all my life? With exception to Three days of the Condor, it is the best spy movie ever made. It is about the Mossad. There is this great line in the movie where the protagonist was asked why he was chosen for an assignment. The protagonist did not know. The protagonist was told that it was because “we need assholes like you in the service.” The protagonist, you would think, would say something or at least have some affect – but, like a true asshole, I guess, he did not seem to mind being called an asshole – or he might have just been playing it cool. It was a tremendous acting performance. The characters in this movie will make your skin crawl.

At first I thought it was an Israeli movie, but it is a French director; it figures – only the French could make a movie this devoid of sentimentality.

Life in slow motion

I was supposed to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, but ended up playing online poker until well after the bastard birds started tweeting. Shouldn’t I be trying to get my ass into gear? Shouldn’t I be prepping for the fascist EFL fucks in Belarus who will be interviewing me and busting my balls for no good reason other than the thrill of displaying dominance? I just don’t seem to care. I don’t care about my graying and depleting hair, nor my limp dick. What is the point? If by miracle I land some shit gig in Southeast Asia, what fertile woman is realistically going to want to fuck me? And, say they do want to fuck me, how am I supposed to get this limp cock inside of them so that I may seed them with my brood? I don’t even seem to care about my existential dilemma. I just want to play poker – poker is way better escape than drinking – I haven’t drunk all month and have lost 12 pounds because there is never time to eat when you’re playing poker. I’m not winning, but for the first time, I’m breaking even. I can play poker for real money until the end of time now for free. I play poker because I don’t care. I used to drink because I didn’t care. I don’t even feel suicidal anymore because I simply don’t fucking care. In the past I would say, look at the horror of my life being flushed down the fucking toilet; but, really, what life was there ever to get flushed? What future where I am not neck deep in shit do I have?

Donald Trump, you are a moron and asshole

Donald Trump, who wants to run on the Republican ticket for president, is a fucking moron. Below are grammatical errors he made in about two minutes of conversation on CNN on March 29, 2011.

TRUMP: If it wasn’t for us, OPEC wouldn’t exist.
WHAT'S WRONG: Improper use of the Second Conditional.
SHOULD BE: If it weren't for us, OPEC wouldn’t exist.

TRUMP: I also say that NATO is us.
WHAT'S WRONG: Linking verb complement needs subjective case.
SHOULD BE: I also say that we are NATO.

TRUMP: When NATO goes in, this is us going in.
WHAT'S WRONG: Linking verb complement needs subjective case.
SHOULD BE: When NATO goes in, we are the ones going in.

TRUMP: I just looked at polls today that showed me doing very well.
WHAT'S WRONG: Case of pronoun “me” is wrong. Needs to be subjective case.
SHOULD BE: I just looked at polls today that showed that I’m doing very well.

This asshole, who averages about one grammatical error every thirty seconds, wants to be president. I saw Trump in another interview today bitching and moaning about Obama not providing proper evidence of citizenship. It was the purist shit I have ever heard. He impressed upon the interviewer how he had gone to the best schools. How good can these schools have been when a 95 IQ asshole like me who graduated from Northeastern University, which is a school for mental retards, can speak better English than the mighty Trump? It’s a myth that one has to be smart to make money or be successful. All one needs is a rich daddy. If we did not all have our heads up our collective assholes, we’d take back from these motherfuckers all their undeserved shit. I say we take Trump’s private housing and turn it into public housing for the poor. We deserve it. We speak better English. We’re not on national news blabbing away like banal fucking idiots.

I couldn’t believe how gay that dog was

I had a date today at Jam’n N Java in Arlington, MA. Yes, I know that I said I was going to quit dating. I don’t really want to discuss the date beyond saying that I was grateful she extended her hand to me after the date so that I could avoid the awful awkward hug that I didn’t want to give her.

Jam’n N Java had incredibly shitty service and shitty coffee. They overfilled my cup so I couldn’t get any cream in it. There’s a pretty good chance they charged me for the ceramic coffee mug that I requested. Since the girl ran off after she gave me the coffee, I couldn’t request a receipt. She gave me a Canadian penny in my change. I put the Canadian penny in her tip jar. That was her tip. A Canadian penny was way more tip than she deserved. She wasn’t worth a rusty washer that you find on the sidewalk. The coffee made me nauseas, but then again all dark roasts makes me nauseas. This is New England, home of Donkun’ Donuts. Natives (I’m not a native, but have been living here forever) don’t like their coffee bitter, but the yuppie coffee shops are fascist and only serve dark roasts, and if you are not yuppie enough to enjoy it, you can fuck yourself. It’s funny that one of the people who worked there knew my date by name – my date was obviously a regular.

There was a bike path that actually cut right through Jam’n N Java. Unlike the Google snapshot of this bike path below, there were a million bike riders swarming in and out of this bike path. It was like a yuppie hornets nest. They and all their bicycles made me really nervous.

What is also not present in the snapshot is the big blue sign that said “America’s Revolutionary Bike Path.” Now, I could be wrong, but I thought that the big decisive battles of the revolution were fought in Lexington and Concord, not Arlington, but who knows, maybe this path went through these towns, or maybe it was just a stupid sign. I am way too lazy to find out.

As I waited for my date, there was this guy walking around with this really tiny and really furry dog. It was the gayest dog I’ve ever seen. It must have taken countless generations of gay dog breeders to create an animal that looked this gay. While the guy with the dog was well-dressed, he didn’t look gay – he just seemed to be a heterosexual with a curiously gay dog – maybe he didn’t realize how gay his dog was – but then he gave me “the look.” I have gotten this look before, but never from a man, if you exclude the time ten years ago when I ventured into a Castro bar to take a crap.

Harassment and intimidation of Romani citizens by anti-Roma vigilante groups present in Roma neighborhoods

I was horrified to learn about what these fucking neo-Nazis are doing to these poor gypsies in Hungary.

http://www.errc.org/cms/upload/file/hungary-gy%C3%B6ngy%C3%B6spata-letter-march-2011.pdf

I would gladly suck your penis or vulva for money

A few months ago, I came upon some article online that said that a Las Vegas brothel was looking for male prostitutes, and that this was the first time that a Las Vegas brothel had ever sought male prostitutes.

I went to the brothel’s website. If my memory is serving me correctly, they said that they were looking for men 30 – 40. They wanted head-shots and full body shots. They warned that if you sent nude shots that this would disqualify you. They did not specify whether you would be prostituting yourself for men or women – nor did I care.

At first I was like, “Woo-hoo!” maybe I can become a whore and finally make a decent wage. All I would have to do is suck some cock. I have never sucked a cock, but I’m sure that the worst, most gnarliest cock can’t be nearly as bad as the worst minimum wage day labor job I’ve ever had. Sucking cock for good money cannot be remotely as humiliating as working a minimum wage job for cocksuckers.

Then reality set in. I was no longer 40. I was 45. I was fucking old. But then I though, I still look good, I’ll send them the photos anyway. But then I thought, no, I don’t look handsome anymore. I’ve lost too much hair, gained too much weight. I’m not going to bother.

I read an essay in an Ethical Humanist newsletter, written by a man, asserting that prostitution was really rape. This is the most absurd argument I’ve ever heard. If the prostitute is forced, against her or his will to have sex, than that is rape. But if a person consents to sell her or his body for sex, to say that is rape is to completely ignore the violence of rape. If you’re going to call the man who buys a prostitute a rapist, then by that inane logic, you should call McDonald’s and Walmart and day labor outfits rapist institutions, for they exploit people’s bodies just as Johns do. Whether the exploiter wants you to grasp his penis or his mop is really irrelevant. Exploitation is exploitation. The feminists get so ideological and crazy that it really starts to turn me off. In fact, it becomes downright revolting. I believe in an egalitarian society. I don’t however like to define myself as a feminist because the label makes me very uncomfortable -- because I know that there are extremist wackos in this camp. And no, I have never paid for a prostitute. The reason why is because I have always looked at it as humiliating and demeaning. Being a prostitute I’m sure is demeaning too, but I doubt if it is nearly demeaning as working for assholes for wages that could barely get you by, living in your car.

The read-between-the-lines rejections are so demeaning

I wrote this nurse on OkayCupid – she was curvy, had some serious breasts, dreamy wide hips, nice legs, and a really tight belly in the one photo where she was not a little plump. (I like ‘em plump – no big deal … breasts and booty are a good thing, not a bad thing – unless of course you’re not into women.)

As you can see below, I didn’t have much to say when I wrote her. She was an incredible longshot as she was gainfully employed, good-looking, relatively young at 37, and seemed to give the impression that she was awfully cool.

My friend is a Nurse Practitioner. When I recently got my CPR and AED certifications I left a message on her voice mail proclaiming that she was not the only one around here who can save lives -- that I too was a medical professional! I was of course exaggerating.

-Dickie

Usually when a woman writes you back, she’s interested. Once in a blue moon she politely tells you she is not interested, and I always hate when she does that. It’s better not to respond. This woman gave me the worst rejection imaginable – the read-between-the-lines rejection.

Thanks for the message! It's good to have skills. Especially ones that save lives.
-A

These types of rejections make my skin crawl. And let me add that with exception to my friend, LA woman, whom I am referring to in my e-mail to this nurse on OkayCupid, I hate nurses. My feeling about them is that, for the most part, they’re a bunch of fascists and control freaks. I mean, what the fuck? – look at that duplicitous, fuck-you rejection – look at the controlling way they treat you in hospitals. They complain about doctors, but a doctor you can at least deal with – when a nurse, for example, doesn’t want you to get out of your bed after surgery to take a piss and, after you have asked her when you will be able to piss and she just ignores you, and you decide to ignore her authority and attempt to get out of bed anyway to take your piss, what she will do is pump you full of drugs and render you unconscious. I can give more anecdotal examples of what type of fit-for-the-Third-Reich behaviors these people engage in. I’m sure you could too. Nurses are no Florence Nightingales. Florence Nightingale herself was probably a fascist and just in it for the power.

Fuck I hate nurses and okaycupid and these bullshit subtle-ass, insulting rejections. I am disabling my okaycupid profile. All I’m doing is embarrassing myself on that site. The unemployed have absolutely no business being on a dating site for any reason, whether that be for dating, sex, friends, activity partners or whatever. The unemployed should accept their bottom-feeder status, buy a suitcase (thirty pack) of Budweiser (preferably from tax free New Hampshire where they don’t even need to redeem the empties) and bitch and moan on blogspot. (I’m not prepared to accept this status, at least not permanently, but I do need to stop embarrassing myself on OkayCupid.

Letter written by a depressed alcohol abuser, with a big fucking existential crisis.

Dickie! Actually, the reason why I'm leaving OKC behind me is... I've met someone great and we're bf-gf. He's the sweetest guy on earth, too. [UNDISCLOSED BF NAME.] He's tall, adorable, works in nonprofit and is a film critic for fun. I can scarcely believe my good luck, after 2.5 years of being unattached. It's still pretty new, but it's going pretty well. Would I sound like a jerk if I say hang in there, Dickie, and it will happen for you, too? Because it will, just gather up your faith and keep hoping and wishing and acting like the lucky soul you are. Enjoy your corn chips, but don't you give up!
What are you doing for fun lately?
-L


Hi L,

I'm afraid that I have become so cynical that it never occurred to me that someone might want to leave OKC because she or he has found someone.

But, good for you. I hope you get some good love.

I am not seriously looking on OKC, and will probably disable my profile again. My priority is to get out of this asshole country so that I can put a roof over my head. It is quite beyond belief the obstacles I have faced and continue to face to make this nightmarish dream of teaching English in some other God-awful country come true. Patriotic assholes love to say "love it or leave it!" Well, I fucking would if I could! Their simplistic view of the world and problem-solving belies their position and diminishes my view of them as intelligent beings.

Christ, L, the most fun I have these days is drinking copious amounts of Budweiser, and this, as you may or may not know, is not that fun. I should stop being so blatantly honest with people, but I'm just like, ahhh, fuck it, who cares?

-Dickie

Spirit of Aquai

I was so disappointed when the Mohegan Sun casino in Uncasville, Connecticut changed their website to make their job offerings more accessible, because I had planned to blog about it. Before, they made people who wanted to look at their job listings go through a seven step process. You would have to click a button that said “Can you continue the Spirit of Aquai Continue” after each step. What was funny is that they never explained who or what Aquai is;

Thanks to the Internet Archive’s WaybackMachine I was able to find a copy of the old version of Mohegan Sun’s site so that I could write about it.

My second favorite step is step 4, “Grooming Standards,” where they asked you to agree to “bathe” and “brush teeth daily” and “use an effective deodorant.” (And, remember, this is just to look at their job listings.)

Now, I can understand why the Mohegans might want to insult the white man, as I’m sure the white man has fucked them over pretty well, but my family came off the the damn boat at Ellis Island. My family was way too busy being fucked over by gentile white men to fuck over a Mohegan. There is no reason to insult me like this personally; my family never did anything to fuck over a Native American. (It is arguable that my being here is an invasion of their turf; however, I have been trying desperately to get out of this asshole country for my whole life and have not been able to afford to do so, so, again, I am not responsible for fucking Native Americans – I cannot help that I was born here.) Furthermore, the Mohegan tribe has profited off of me by taking 10% of my poker winnings and from collecting the many two dollar blinds I have posted in order to immediately get into poker ring games. They were not just insulting a potential employee, they were insulting a customer whom they have made money from. It’s just not cool.

My favorite step is step 6, “Your On-Boarding Journey Begins…”

They said in this step:

“If selected, the map below represents what your on-boarding journey will be. It outlines the steps you will travel through, from the time an offer is presented, to your 90 day follow-up orientation.”

They showed you the map below:

Notice in this map how you start in Northwest Connecticut and must make a long, arduous, non-linear journey to Southeast Connecticut.

Do you see what this is? This is an allusion to the Trail of Tears. They are symbolically telling us that they want to make us pay, just as we made them and their Native American brothers and sisters pay.

In step 2, “Core Values,” the first core value they listed was “Blowing Away the Customer.” I don’t think this is a good value to strive for. As a customer, I never want to be blown away. It makes me nervous when people are too enthusiastic about pleasing me. I just want to get what I paid for and have people act courteously and professionally, that’s all. I’m pretty sure that this is what most people want.

After you had agreed to all seven steps, they gave you a few crappy job listings and did not post salaries or benefits. In the current version of their website you no longer have to go through the seven step process in order to get to the job listings, but they still don’t list pay or benefits. There is no mention of the Spirit of Aquai either. I guess that didn’t go over very well.

I don’t recommend working at Mohegan Sun or its neighboring casino, Foxwoods, because, although they have finally instituted no-smoking sections, you’re still inhaling a lot of the second hand smoke from the smoking sections, which are not properly sealed off. You’re just getting less smoke. I would put my money on both places being toxic from second-hand smoke, and you don’t want to spend thousands of hours of your life in places like these. Maybe they are good employers. Who knows? But whatever they pay is not worth the physical suffering and monetary costs of emphysema and lung cancer.

I never play against the house, so can’t really judge Mohegan Sun as a casino, other than it being smoky and tremendously tacky, as the building is designed to look like a giant wigwam. If you’re interested in poker, Mohegan Sun actually has a superb poker room with very professional dealers. The problem there is finding a full-ring table. I think the reason why this is is because they operate too many tables at once. If you are like me and you hate playing short-handed games, you are better off playing poker at crappy, zooy Foxwoods, with its abominable dealers, tasteless large-breasted waitresses with breasts hanging out all over the place (while you don’t see any nipple, there is more breast to be seen from these women, then three completely naked breasted women combined – it’s simply garish), and gimmicky, waste-of-hard-earned-money Bad Beat Jackpot (which also encourages idiot players to be river rats in hopes of hitting that asinine Bad Beat Jackpot, which nobody ever really wins because you probably have a better chance of being struck by lightning.) At least you’re pretty guaranteed to get good action at Foxwoods.

The dreaded i93 and how I became a supporter of the Republican cause

My shrink – my cognitive behavioral guy, wants me to take things slower with my highway driving phobia – but he is not the one hemorrhaging his life savings on $3.50 gallon gas. I need this money for my lofty retirement in the trailer park of my nightmares. I need to try newer and harder targets. I don’t have time to keep hitting the same targets to reduce anxiety, which is really very minimally effective. My shrink tries to impress upon me that while driving on the highway I am safe – that I am creating the fear. But this is pure bullshit. It’s very unsafe. I drive a fucking 2000 Toyata Corrolla. It handles like shit. It is made for durability, not driving. A strong gust of wind will make that car wobble at 55 m.p.h. It’s disconcerting. Very. You have to either be a better driver than I  (and perhaps I am a shitty driver) or a fool to drive that thing much over 65 m.p.h. And then there are the fucking maniacs – especially the truck drivers who get two feet behind you, literally, to bully you into getting into the slow lane, but you can’t because you can’t even see out of your rear view mirror because they are so close that all you see is truck! I am afraid that if I ever meet one of these sociopathic, aggressive motherfuckers face-to-face, that someone is going to get very hurt, and I am going to end up very in prison.

The Connecticut drive was far less scary than I thought. i385, which runs down the state from Massachusetts is a wussy interstate with only two lanes. A joke. Yes, you must drive on a major highway -- the MassPike to get to i385, but it’s only 35 miles, and considerably less scary than i95.

Taking i95 to Providence provided a lot of fodder for driving terror, with its Route 128/i95 bottleneck and, as soon as I hit Pawtucket, Rhode Island (you, know, Pawtucket Ale – “Family Guy”) it got zooy, and increasingly zooier as I hit downtown Providence. The plan was to turn around farther down in the Providence suburb of Cranston, but my feeling was, fuck this, I’ve gone far enough, let me get the fuck out of this madhouse before I wig.

This weekend I attempted i93 North. There was the i95/i93 intersection, where the lanes go from four to three that always freaks me out, but this time, instead of staying on i95 I went on i93. While the trip to New Hampshire was 20 miles less than the Providence trip, this drive was scarier because it entailed going from one interstate to the other.

I managed to keep it together for the last 5 or ten miles of the trip. When I got off at the exit at Salem, NH, that’s when I really started getting nervous. This was New Hampshire – there was not supposed to be many people in this state, but there was a huge traffic jam on the road taking me to Walmart. I had plotted Walmart into the GPS as a piss stop before I went back. There was so much traffic. That’s when I started to get that get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here feeling. I kept going though. It took me ten minutes to drive one and half miles to Walmart.

I don’t shop at Walmart. To do so is to donate to the Republican cause. But this was tax free New Hampshire. I needed some cheap beer. I was too freaked out to go fishing around for liquor stores. Walmart was selling 30 can cases of Budweiser for $17.00. It was insanely cheap. And, since this was the “Live Free or Die” state – its motto is written right on its license plate, I didn’t even need to return the empties. It was an alcoholic’s paradise. (Beer isn’t even allowed to be sold in Massachusetts outside of liquor stores because the liquor store lobby successfully persuaded the moron voters to preserve their monopoly in a ballot initiative.) The only reason why I didn’t buy ten cases of beer instead of only one was because I knew that I would drink myself into oblivion. Then I saw a case of Dasani water for only $4.00. Holy fuck I had to have that. I bought two. One more than I needed or probably will be able to drink in my remaining time in Boston. And then I saw these teeny Dannon Greek yogurts for only a dollar and put it in my wagon, and then I saw a whole shitload of cheap Gatorade, and I said to myself, fuck my boycott of Walmart, let someone who actually has money boycott Walmart. I need the savings. Fuck this. I wanted to buy a bathing suit. I wanted to stuff my car with as much tax-free crap from China that as I could get my greedy little mitts on, but the need to get the fuck out of that state before I completely freaked out was more powerful.

It took me a long time to get back on the highway due to all the traffic. Salem, NH is really a shopping Mecca. All the big stores are there, including Macy’s. This is all probably to cater to people in Massachusetts who don’t want to pay their 6.25 sales tax. Who can blame them? Massachusetts once had a ballot initiative to go from a flat income tax to a graduated income tax. Had the moron voters voted for it, we probably could’ve gotten rid of the regressive sales tax, which hemorrhages a lot of our money to New Hampshire and the Internet and lived off the fat of the multitude of rich assholes in Massachusetts – the same rich assholes who have our asses kicked from nine to five each week, if we are lucky enough to have a job. But, this is the U.S. – we do things backwards, even in Massachusetts, one of its most progressive states (technically a Commonwealth.)

Coming back is always ten times easier. I deliberately took a harder route coming back: i93 to 495 to 3 to i95. Four major highways in a row. It was easy coming back, but the shit had been sufficiently scared out of me going there. I needed to do some heavy drinking with my New Hampshire beer when I got back, though I did it at night, after more driving. The thought occurred to me that I should clean the empty beer bottles, but then I thought – why? – you don’t need to store them because they don’t need to be redeemed, because where I bought them, in New Hampshire, you “Live Free or Die.” So I just threw them out. What freedom! What a state!

The next target will be the i93 going into Boston from the South – the SouthEast expressway, a really scary highway. Ten miles of this is a lot harder than 40 miles on the interstate to New Hampshire. If I do not need to be scraped off the SouthEast expressway, there will not be much else to do after that, and I will probably push for graduation from therapy soon after, probably against the protests of my therapist. Fuck him. Had I listed to him I’d have spent half my life savings on gas and gone a fraction of the distance.

The MBTA gets back to me

Commentary about this e-mail sent to me by the MBTA is below. Keep reading…

MBTA Reference # 02720524

March 17, 2011

Dear Dickie Richards,

Thank you for contacting the MBTA. We appreciate your business and value your feedback. 

We appreciate you taking the time to write and sincerely apologize for the Operator’s dangerous actions while driving Bus Route 60.

With the information you provided, the Operator was identified, interviewed, and reinstructed on safe driving.  Any further infractions may result in more severe disciplinary action.  The MBTA has a progressive disciplinary policy, up to and including termination.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.

Should you have additional questions or concerns regarding this issue, please contact the MBTA’s Customer Communications Department at 617-222-3200 or 800-392-6100, Monday through Friday, 6:30 AM to 8:00 PM and Saturday and Sunday from 7:30 AM to 6:00 PM or visit our website at www.mbta.com.

Thank you again.

Sincerely,

Flora

Customer Communications Department

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This was sent a month and a half after I reported the incident. Here is my bitching and moaning about their not responding to me the first time.

First of all, there is a serious grammatical error in the MBTA’s response. The MBTA says:

We appreciate you taking the time to write

This is wrong because you need to use possessive pronouns in front of gerunds. So it should be:

We appreciate your taking the time to write

You could argue that President Obama makes this very same error, so what’s the big deal? Obama’s job is to bomb babies and children in Asia and Africa, take away people’s subsidized heating oil, fuck federal employees, and raise the taxes of the poor while keeping taxation of the rich unsustainably low. Obama should know proper English to set a good example, but, as an executive officer, he is really not in the field of customer service.

Because the MBTA failed to provide me with any evidence that they reprimanded this individual, there is absolutely no reason to believe that they actually did. I think that what I am receiving from them is a load of sugar-coated crap, but even if they did reprimand this individual, it would not have done anything to correct the undesired behavior. The driver does not remember what happened a month and a half ago. In order for punishment to be effective, it must be unambiguously and immediately paired with the undesired behavior. You learn this in any introductory psychology course in behaviorism. We’ve known this fact for about 70 years. It is not revolutionary or earth-shaking.

Furthermore, the MBTA completely failed to address my demand for the videotape of the incident. This is not a private bus company; this is a public bus company being paid for by your state and federal tax dollars. Any videotape that was made of the incident should be public domain. I have a right to it, and I would’ve put it on YouTube had they met my demand, so that the entire world could see the psychotic assholes at work on the MBTA. You have a right to see this! It’s your tax dollars at work on your public property!

They left me no e-mail address to respond to. What I think is funny is all the legal mumbo-jumbo at the bottom of their correspondence. I love how they say:

Any unauthorized use, dissemination, or disclosure of this email/electronic message and/or its attached files is strictly prohibited.

They are a public agency. By definition, any record that they create should be freely made available to anyone. What they sent me is PUBLIC DOMAIN -- it is not their fucking intellectual property. What the MBTA doesn’t understand is that this is not North Korea. We, supposedly, live in a free and open democracy, where the public has a right to know what its government is paying for.

All I can say is that the MBTA sucks elongated and discharging gonad.

Jam your lousy senior discount up your ass, Dunkin’ Donuts

Walking out of Dunkin’ Donuts, something seemed wrong to me as I looked at the receipt. Why was the small coffee I had bought so cheap?

In horror, I saw that the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier, Lasiah C, who was probably about 18 years old, had unilaterally decided that I was a Senior Citizen and therefore eligible for a 10% Senior discount. At first I thought that I must have been given some other customer’s receipt by accident. But this was sort of like believing that fairies exist, or that when you die you will remain alive through an afterlife, or that if you think positively enough, good thinks will happen to you.

I always knew this day would come, but I thought that the universe would at least hold off for another ten years before it deemed me old. I mean, I’m a young 45. I’m slightly encrusted, yet considerably less encrusted than men my age. I have at least some sex appeal left, don’t I? Certainly, I could not possibly be categorized as a Senior Citizen. The reality is that that is what happened, and the reality is that I need to live in reality.

This prompted me to make the decision to apply for the EFL course in Hungary before every fertile woman on the planet believes that I’m a Senior Citizen -- and for all I know, they might already. I was heavily leaning towards this decision anyway. This was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This will mean that all the money I had saved up and planned to use to live in some glorified trailer park in this asshole country will be used on a course to give me certification to work as an EFL teacher in God-forsaken third-world countries, where I will probably be exploited and still live a life of shit.

What was I thinking to think that I could get a crappy job in some place like Dunkin’ Donuts and persuade some woman to gestate my brood? Maybe my age will be too great a hurdle in a poor country overseas too, but I have at least an opportunity there to not live the total life of fucking shit that I fully suspect I would live here, taking shit jobs.

I don’t have to commit myself to working overseas yet. I can take the lousy course overseas and make my decision about working overseas later. It is the middle road decision. It will give me a taste of what it will be like without having to take the complete plunge. The decision is costly -- it will be a lot of savings hemorrhaged, but I don’t want to live in this asshole country if I can help it. I believe I have slightly more to offer this world than serving up donuts in Dunkin’ Donuts or towels as a cabana boy. I think it’s better to live in China and help them speak English so that I can enable them to sell their cheap crap full of lead and God knows what than to be on the front-lines here, wearing a blue fucking apron, stocking Walmart’s shelves with China’s leaded merchandize.

And fuck my asshole father who says I need to see a shrink because I refuse to submit to a life of shit here. He thinks there are better options in this country for a middle aged guy (now, apparently a Senior Citizen) without a fucking resume, yet when I ask him to name one, he can’t. What homeless shelters has he ever lived in? What cars has he ever slept in? What cockroach infested rooms in bad neighborhoods has he ever endured? He has no clue how mean this countries’ streets are. It’s my life. It is not his! Even if I were to find a shrink who actually gave a fuck, he or she wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to help me. I know this because I’ve literally seen a hundred of these depraved motherfuckers.

If I fail I fail; let me fail on my terms!

Scintillating!

I reopened my OkayCupid account. I’m not really dating though; I’m primarily interested in sex. I make this clear. I’m sure I’ll disable the account, soon, once I feel I’ve embarrassed myself enough.

As a writing exercise, I wrote a college professor who said that she didn’t want someone who was "easy-going" or "laid-back. This is what I wrote her:

Look, there is nothing wrong with "easy-going" or "laid-back." I am the most laid-back person in the world up until the point where I have a wig out.

I'm writing to you because I just can't resist sexy college professors, not that I've ever had one. Also, I saw that photo of you by the beach, and I know you must know the butterfly stroke. I know that you can help me!

(Okay, running a little long for a personal ad intro -- can't write too much or I will look desperate, and I am only moderately desperate.) You look really sweet. I hope you find someone, whomever that might be.

I wrote this off the cuff. I am a good fuckin’ writer. Had I lived a life of gainful employment, I am sure that I would have gotten a lot of nookie from smart and horny women.

I don’t’ feel any loss that this woman never wrote back. She said in her profile that she wanted “scintillating conversation” and “international adventure.” I’m not sure what “scintillating” conversation is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in this type of convo. As for international adventure, I can’t afford it. Brainy women like her, I think, want their cake and want to eat it too. They are perpetual losers like Heather.

I took the interstate, mofo!

I took the (MassPike) Massachusetts Turnpike to Interstate 395 to Mohegan Sun. The MassPicke is a major highway. The irony is that i395 is a pissy little two lane highway. Could you image all the time and aggravation spent avoiding i395, all the fear involved in the thought of accidently getting on this road when I would take alternative routes. It was three and four lane highways that gave me major panic, not two lane highways.

I ate the MassPike and i395 for breakfast today. Tears came to my eyes while I was driving because I realized that I was not as fucking hopeless as I thought I was. I had to stop the emotional outburst, as I needed to be able to see the road.

Maybe, I thought, other things were possible. Maybe I didn’t have to be a pool boy and/or a lifeguard and/or a Walmart worker. Maybe I didn’t have to listen to the negative of people like Heather or my father, who told me that I couldn’t do certain things. I begin to seriously think about going overseas again. Maybe if I can drive out of state on the interstate and also obtain a CPR/AED certificate – maybe I can do more. Maybe I can take the EFL course run by the EFL fascists in Hungary or Boston. Maybe if I can do that I can carve out an existence somewhere in China or Vietnam or some other God-awful place. It will suck major cock, but maybe it will be lesser cock than my bleak future as a member of the working poor here.

I busted Heather’s ovaries too much

I went too far with Heather in my last post. What you saw was an angry, immature, slightly mad person. I’m not going to edit or delete what I wrote, for that’s how I feel. I’m a bitter and ugly person. It’s just the way it is. It’s not pretty, but that is who I am. Psychiatric professionals tell you that you should love yourself, but it’s really quite impossible to have self-love for a person as ugly as I am. I have a grudging respect for myself. That is all. And that came only after nearly 40 years of self-hatred.

I wish I were more of a man. I wish I could say to Heather that there are no hard feelings and that I wish her the best of luck. I really do wish that I could say these things, but I don’t entirely believe them, so can’t. Maybe in the future I will be man enough to do this.

I can fly, Heather. You can’t!

I am no longer friends with Heather; however, she may still be reading this blog. One of the myriad of horseshit excuses Heather gave me for why I was not good enough to create children with her or anyone was that I could not drive on a highway. “You want to have a child, and you can’t even drive on a highway,” she said.

I would like the opportunity to tell Heather that I can drive on the highway now. I am seeing a cognitive/behavioral shrink in order to get over the phobia. I am still working on it. Getting rid of phobias is a long hard process, but I am succeeding.

It was such an utterly stupid excuse that you gave, Heather. The inability to drive on a highway does not preclude one from being a good parent. Ironically, Heather could not fly. I have always been able to fly. So now I can drive. I can drive anywhere on the the entire continent, and if I want to visit Budepest or China, I can do this, and might be doing this soon. Unlike Heather’s, my fate is not yet sealed. I am still free, still vibrant, and my world, unlike Heather’s is not closing in on me.

Why couldn’t you have had the ovaries – Heather, to just tell me right away that the reason you would not like to be with me is that you are one of the myriad of excruciatingly boring, bourgeois assholes, that money is your God and whore. You have no vision. That it your problem. At least an opportunistic bloodsucker like Nancy had vision. Yes, money was her God, but it was a means to end, which was to create children. She at least was preoccupied with creating something greater than herself. She was on a mission. You might even call it a spiritual mission.

Now, I understand that you have economic concerns. You have your family to take care of, but, really, there are ways of letting people whom you are already friends with know that they are not right for you without fucking forcing them to bare their soul to you over skype, because you are too freaked out by the fact that a poor man might like you. You could have extended me the courtesy of speaking to me in person. It was really not a lot to ask. In addition, you didn’t need to get all wiggy when I arrived at your house, still out of breath, after having a panic attack on the highway. You did not need to disrespect me by so diligently impressing upon me the importance of my leaving your household, because of your need to do work. Certainly this could have waited until I caught my breath. (I mean shit, you were planning to see a movie with me – so you had a few hours to spare.) You would actually have been slightly less of an asshole had you suggested a nice hotel for me to drive to in order to catch my breath in order to recover from my highway terror. You didn’t need to be such an asshole. I knew you had a deadline. But you didn’t need to be so motherfucking rude. I have never shown you that level of disrespect.

Of course, you dismissed my having a panic attack. And, because you said I didn’t have one, it must not have happened. You are superior to me, aren’t you? It is ironic that you always accused me of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and one of the hallmarks of this disorder is a lack of empathy. It is you who seems to lack the ability to put yourself into other people’s shoes. It is not I who said, nonchalantly, “you’ll get over me.” You also lack affect. There is something wrong with you. I am not a shrink and, unlike you, I don’t give armchair psychiatric diagnoses of friends’ psychiatric disorders, unless of course they are ex-friends, and I am trying to impress upon them what a fucking loser I think they are, in a final fuck you farewell.

I can honestly say that I say these words to you not because I am angry at you (which I am), but because I truly mean them: You are a loser. I am a loser. I may continue to lose, but at least I think like a winner and play to win. I’m not interested in you. I fell in love with your sweetness. But now I finally realize that you are not really sweet, that you have nothing whatsoever to offer me. You have no vision. Perhaps you have passion in your area of expertise, but I have not seen a lot of passion from you. While you are vastly more intelligent than most, you seem to lack the ability to formulate cohesive arguments. (I lack this as well, but I’m not the one with the Ph.D.) I was impressed by how someone with your knowledge and brainpower could use such a pathetic argument to defend your war-mongering, poor-bashing, Republican wannabe president. But, I guess, your love of Obama is only natural. You are defending your class, of which I was born into but find, as I have mentioned, obscenely and excruciatingly boring. But, hey, as Robert Gibbs said, I wouldn’t be satisfied if Dennis Kucinich were president. (But, unlike Gibbs, I understand the subjunctive and have at least some grasp of the rules of English, unlike Secretary Clinton, Obama himself, and the other fuckwads in Obama’s cabinet.)

Let me get back on point. You always used to nonchalantly say to me, “I’ll get over you.” It was your way of writing off my pain and/or discrediting your own importance. Well, you’re right. I have gotten over you, finally. In fact, I’m forgetting you already. So there’s no need to get all bothered about some heavy-breather like me wanting to move in with you, eat your food, hog your bed, and create embryos that stick to your uterus. I can find better women. Women who want to fuck (me), who have emotion, who feel and who love and laugh and cry. I want a woman who has vision. Passion. Who sees the beauty of children. Who is not deceived by the bourgeois mirage.

I have a nice penis. I have never mentioned this before. The few woman whom I’ve been with have complimented my penis and asked to either suck it or get it inside them. I don’t blame them. It is, after all, a pretty nice penis. I have never asked a woman to suck my penis. I don’t really enjoy it because felatio is way too toothy for my comfort. What I’m into is licking vulva. I am good lover, not just because I enjoy giving a good lick, but because I am sensuous and truly enjoy making love, not just shooting my load into a vagina, which I have a freakish capacity to do many times without even losing my erection. You are and were deserving of none of the good love that I can give -- sexual or otherwise, nor my DNA. My sister had a niece. My niece is cute as fucking hell. My sister’s baby kicks any baby’s ass that you’ll ever see in movies. My sister and I share virtually identical DNA. I know that I have the ability to create a baby as cute as my sister did. I am however looking for a winner to have a baby with. There will be no lick and no penis for you! If you are still reading, you are probably thinking how you have no desire to be licked and fucked and impregnated by someone who is as immature and Narcissist-Personality-Disordered as I am, and that is exactly why I don’t want you. My penis is yum and I am a fun and lovable and loyal as fucking hell. My penis, my lovemaking, my DNA, and my soul will be saved for a more deserving woman.

I’m sorry, but I am not quite done with you. I must attack you some more, because you were such a fucking insensitive asshole to me. Your days of soft and tight skin are numbered, Heather. Your DNA is breaking down as you read this. Evolution no longer sees you as a breeder, but as a caregiver of someone who has already bred. Your hold-out for your fantasy bourgeois breeding partner and mate has and will continue to fail. You offer nothing at this point. Yes, you are smart, but, newsfash – most men don’t give a flying fuck about intelligence. You certainly aren’t sweet. Ironically, one of the excuses you gave me why you weren’t good enough for me, which I believe you actually believed, was that your breasts were too small for me. Like all of your hair-brained excuses for why we wouldn’t work out, this one was quite wrong. Your breasts were perky and felt quite heavenly when I hugged you. You have – or at least you had nice breasts. Your breasts made me hard. If they haven’t already, your tight breasts are going to lose their shape sooner or later, as you begin your inexorable menopausal decline. You are stuck in your little asshole town with your not-able-to-take-care-of-themselves family. I, on the other hand am free. I can move out of state. Unlike you, I can fly out out the country. I plan to do one of these things soon. The world is still mine for the taking. Your world is closing in on you. You live in a world of shrinking possibilities. I am still aging gracefully. Unlike you, I still have time.

Have I gone too far? Have I been really mean? Absolutely. But you had it coming, Heather. You really had it fucking coming. You disgust me. I regret having not told you to fuck yourself that day when I visited you when I had the panic attack on the highway and you got all wiggy. When you asked me where I was going to change my clothing, did you expect me to just get naked right in the middle of your living room? What did you expect me to say? Had I ever acted inappropriately with you before? Was there anything that I did or had said to deserve that insulting fucking question? So don’t be insulted by anything that I’ve said today. You’re an insensitive fucking asshole, and I’m just putting your ass in its place, though knowing you with your affective disorder, it probably won’t even phase you. It is one thing being a bourgeois asshole – I’ve dated hundreds of them -- it’s wholly another thing to FREAK out when someone who is not a bourgeois asshole says he desires you. You didn’t have to wig. You didn’t have to make inane excuses. There was no need to embarrass me like that. All you had to do was just say no, and I would have understand and not wigged myself. Had you just been honest we me, you would not have told me anything that I hadn’t heard a hundred times before. It would not have been a big deal. It was all the fucking bullshit that was the insult. So don’t be hurt by anything I say now. Take it like an adult. And don’t fucking call me, don’t skype me, don’t e-mail me. Piss the fuck off. I am writing this to get you out of my system. I never want to think about you again. I have found another person to help me with my English. I can do my own hack proofreading for now on, so I won’t be needing any of your services or need to contact you again for any reason.

Do you know why I saw you after our first date? – I felt guilty. After our first date – the Christmas date, when I got home and you sent me a photo of your little spider-like dog, I cried. You seemed so lonely, so needy. I know what this loneliness is like. Against my better judgment, because of guilt, I went on a second date with you. After that I knew I just couldn’t do it anymore and weaseled out of calling you as I said I would when I got back from Florida. A year later you complained about my lack of wanting to walk through all the dog shit on the ground during that second date. You reasoned that because of my lack of wanting to walk through your town (Beverly, MA), which is literally full of shit, I was somehow unqualified to father children. Prima donna maybe. Unfit to father children because I dislike shit on my sneaker? Just another of your myriad of offensive excuses for why I was unfit to father children. And then there was more talk of Narcissist Personality Disorder. Jam the fucking Narcissist Personality Disorder up your ass, Heather. I mean, jam it. Jam it good. What the fuck would you know about empathy. You have about as much empathy as one would expect an extra terrestrial to display, who has no concept of empathy.

Yes, this all is payback; I am saying all this in anger, yet in truth. Take it like an adult, Heather. Don’t cry. Don’t become indignant. I’m just paying you back for all the shit treatment you gave me. You have it coming. Just take it.

I’m not hopeless, Heather. You may have given up on me, but I never did. I am not inferior to you, Heather. Even if I weren’t able to drive on the highway, you would still not be better than I. So please fuck yourself, Heather. Your little bourgeois prying eyes are not wanted on my blog. Please piss the fuck off.

By the way, I hope your little dog is alive and well. I don’t dislike your dog; I dislike you.

Put the damn Christian in the YMCA, will you?

Those assholes at the YMCA want $36 a month for a scholarship membership on top of their $50 annual membership fee. They wanted my financial information. So I gave it to them. I can’t talk about money here, but it is beyond pathetic how little I make. Without the help of the remnants of LBJ’s moribund War on Poverty I would be out on the street. I tried to tell the YMCA that I already plunked $350 (full price, non-member) for their lifeguard course. (I recently failed their swimming test though did obtain their CPR/AED certification. I nearly needed a lifeguard to save me after attempting to swim 500 yards.) I tried to tell them that I just need to use their pool for five hours a week for two months in order to pass their lifeguard certification. But they just don't fucking listen. My mother offered to pay, but I want the goddamned YMCA (Young Man's Christian Association) to honor their Christian mission of helping the poor to help themselves. Who knows, maybe I’d find Christ if they actually fucking helped me to help myself. It is their fucking job to help me find Christ -- they are at heart a Christian organization, and I am a poor Jew badly in need of a fucking savior! I might just demand my money back for the course. The Aquatics Director did tell me in writing that I could get a refund minus the Red Cross handbook in the event that I couldn't complete the swimming requirement.

But that's not really why I would abort the lifeguard course. I'm having second thoughts about the Walmart Strategy. There is no more money coming in, and for the first time in five years I'm feeling that cold hard bite of poverty. I had forgotten how painful it is to buy gas and to buy even the simplest things. And you know what? I fucking HATE poverty. I think I have a better chance of not living in poverty as a hack EFL teacher. And you know what? --fuck my father who thinks I should see a shrink because I feel the only real escape from abject poverty is overseas. I would like to see him try to get a job as a middle-aged man with a severe fucking learning disability, with no marketable skills, and no resume. I would like to see him make it as a $9 dollar an hour life guard or pool boy and moonlighting 30 hours a week as a $8 dollar an hour Walmart worker. What a shit fucking life. And I’m living in a dreamland to think that I could find a woman who would be interested in creating a child with a grunt like me. In the miracle event that I find a woman to impregnate, how in the fuck could I afford to provide a life for this child that is not complete shit? The answer is that I can’t! Love is not the answer. Love is not enough in this asshole world. You need cold hard cash.

I don't fucking have to listen to my asshole father. I am my own man. I don’t have to listen to anyone who I feel has his or her head up his or her ass. The only person I really need to listen to is myself. I think overseas EFL may be a better option. I'm going to play three thousand more hands in poker rooms. I can do that in the next month while I continue my medical treatment here and possibly work on trying to pass the lifeguard course. If I can't reliably make at least minimum wage at 2/4 poker, I think that I may seriously reconsider teaching EFL overseas, despite what a tortuous job and shit life this looks to be. I need a safety net, even a small, shit one, if I am going to condemn myself to the life of the working poor. As unqualified as I am to teach English, my English is better than President Obama’s. At least I know to use a possessive pronoun in front of a gerund. It is also better than Secretary of State Clinton’s English. She mixes singular and plural pronouns, and it’s really pathetic and embarrassing. I think I’ll probably be able to at least fake being an EFL teacher who knows what he is talking about. I’m no longer thinking about teaching in Central/Eastern Europe. I’m thinking about teaching in Vietnam. They pay a lot more, and their language is a lot easier than Russian and Hungarian!

MBTA ignores me of course, so I waste more time by writing the gonad suckers again

On February 4, 2011, I reported to the MBTA via this web form a driver acting inappropriately and endangering my safety as well as the safety of other drivers. The bus route number was #60. The date of the incident was February 3, 2011. The time was approximately 6:15 p.m.

I'm puzzled why no effort was made to contact me. I am curious how many complaints the MBTA ignores before bus drivers like John McCarthy are fired. (John McCarthy was an MBTA bus driver who was recently fired by the MBTA after being charged with being drunk on the job.)

Let me reiterate my demand for a copy of any electronic recording of the incident I reported on February 4. Also, I would like to know if there was any attempt by the MBTA to investigate this incident.

I have a right to this information, and I am exercising my right. I hope that we can resolve this issue amicably without my having to bring in a third party. You have two days to respond.

I will continue to keep the public informed, using my blog, of the MBTA’s lack of effort to ensure the public’s safety.

The Walmart Strategy

I followed my dream today of being a pool boy by buying a swimsuit at Target for the lifeguard course I will be taking next week. As pathetic and comical as this dream is, a dream is a dream.

Target didn’t have much in the way of swimsuits. A lot of stupid, loud colors and patterns; however, I came across a navy colored swimsuit with little white anchors stitched all over it. It was the most gayest swimsuit I’ve ever seen and, despite the fact that it lacked a front pocket –- I had to have it! I was in love with how cute it was. I wouldn’t be caught dead in something that looked overtly gay, but this swimsuit sent an understated yet overwhelmingly powerful message that you are gay and you are proud! -- and I loved the concept. The large swimsuit was too small on me, and they didn’t have an extra large, so I opted for a very plain and boring swimsuit for fifteen dollars.

I saw a baseball hat that I fell in love with too. It was a Bud Lite hat, and normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in a hat like that, but this hat had a bottle opener embedded in its bill. It was so trailer trashy that I instantly fell in love with the hat and needed to have it, but I am like, very low on funds and opted to deny to myself the object of my love.

While I looked for the swimsuit, there was an old guy talking on his cell in Russian, using very common Russian words and phrases that I had learned last year in order to live in Siberia or Moldova. The plan was to find a woman there to create a child with and teach English; now that I have switched my strategy to looking for impoverished women in the U.S. to create a child with, the Russian and the English that I devoted so much time to learning is fairly useless. A year ago I could understand a lot of what he was saying, but now I had no idea what his words meant. It made me sad to know that I will never be able to live in a foreign land where the most beautiful language in the world is spoken. English and Spanish and German are ugly and vulgar languages. You don’t fully realize this until you’ve studied Russian. I have always despised and wanted to escape the U.S. I hate its right-wing assholes (including its right-wing wannabe --Barrack Obama) and I hate its fuck you attitude. I will not have the time nor money to ever escape this place, as I will be up to my eyeballs in shit soon. I have Obama to thank for taking away my publicly funded fuel assistance and for taking away my tax credit for the poor, and thus raising my taxes. I need these things, for I will be joining the ranks of the working poor soon, if I am lucky enough to get jobs. (This is plural, for I will need more than one job.) I will still be fucked up the ass by the drug companies. I am not sure if Obama’s overly-confusing healthcare program will cover me at all. It won’t help me in the near future, when I will need it. That I know.

I voted for Obama and he fucked me. You liberal-minded middle-classers with your spending cash (even if it is not too much) and your semi-comfortable lifestyles are next in line to be fucked by this wolf in sheep’s clothing. I hope that you will remember my words before casting your vote for Obama again. Obama is a war-mongering, right-wing suck-up. I advise voting for Mickey Mouse. Our democracy has been bought and sold. If you really want a change, start a revolution.

Hell might possibly be South Florida

“Come to Florida,” my father said. “You can buy cheap real-estate.” You have the money! Such shit.

Everyone wants to be in South Florida. Everyone loves South Florida. It is so warm. What a wonderful place, with its densely packed wide roads full of SUVs and trucks and plain old cars driven by rednecks with memorial tributes to their dead friends on their rear windows and their bumper stickers that say “God bless our troops especially our snipers.” Such good people in Florida -- and what scenery -- a Walgreens on every corner; no, I’m exaggerating, some corners actually have CVS’s. Drive any rode and you will either see a strip mall or a condo complex. They really know how to pack them in in South Florida. Condos litter the landscape. What little orange groves and farmland is left is rapidly being converted to condos. Why buy food locally when you can burn more fossil fuel and make the world good and hot by importing your food halfway across the world? They live in their condos behind gates, surrounded by palm trees. An illusionary island in a sea of congestion, sameness, and madness. The strip malls look alike. They all feature a Publix, Walmart, Walgreens, Subway, a pizza store, and a Asian restaurant. Yes, occasionally there is some variation; but they are the same entity. Often there are zombies standing outside the strip malls waving signs to entice people to come in. Sometimes they are dressed up in stupid costumes. It is all normal in this anti-universe.

I was awed by how fat people’s asses were in South Florida. South Florida is barely above sea-level as it is. How do they pack in all that ass into all those cars and condos and shopping establishments without weighing the bottom half of the state down? I really thought that. I’m not talking about a lot of people with relatively fat asses, I’m talking about a huge mass of people with giant elephant asses. At some point the weight of all this ass is going to cause the bottom half of the state to sink into the ocean. We don’t need to worry about global warming sinking Florida.

MBTA–they suck smegma pungent gonad.

What are the chances of this request (below) being honored in our lovely free and open and transparent democracy? I think zero. The MBTA is the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority. The MBTA is comprised of high-salaried civil servants who run our public transit system. Do you think that they are grateful to have their cushy jobs and to serve the people? No. The MBTA contains some of the rudest and most belligerent motherfuckers on the planet. I once saw a bus driver literally using his bus as battering ram to knock down some poor guy in front of the bus who wanted to get on. Every time the guy would regain his balance after being knocked back by the bus, the bus would inch forward to hit him again. The bus driver did not want to let the guy on because he had already closed his door. And this happened in the middle of winter. I can tell you many stories about these fucking scum. The MBTA is one of the reasons why I hate humanity.

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Dear MBTA,

On February 3, 2010, at 6:15 p.m., I was exiting the Chestnut Hill Mall from the Route 9 side, with my car.

An MBTA bus #60 was behind me as I attempted to take the left onto Route 9. It was especially difficult and dangerous for me to make this left turn, as there was a snow mound obscuring my vision and, as you can image, given the time of day, there was a lot of traffic.

Within 10 seconds of my attempt to take this left onto Route 9, your bus driver started honking his or her horn. I stuck my hand out of my window using a halting gesture, indicating to your bus driver that I acknowledged his or her wanting me to proceed and that this was not helping; however, it was still not possible for me to safely take this left. Your bus driver menacingly inched his or her bus in back of me as I attempted to exit. Your bus driver increased his or her honking until it was non-stop.

I don't believe that it took longer than 30 seconds for me to take this left onto Route 9. I believe your bus driver's behavior towards me was unwarranted, discourteous, and very dangerous.

I demand a copy of any electronic record that you may have of this incident.

Thank you,

Dickie Richards

I fucking hate cooperate art

I want to destroy corporate art, as they did in Fight Club. I especially despise this piece of corporate art, as it is right in the middle of the fucking sidewalk.

A big turd-like piece of cooperate art, right in the middle of the goddamned street in Boston.

It lies right in front of the Bank of America building. It no doubt belongs to BOA. BOA property blocking a publicly owned property -– the sidewalk, while public funds are used to bail-out BOA after fucking us.

What I’d like to know is how BOA gets away with blocking our sidewalk with this monstrosity. It is fucking criminal. Probably a good thousand people have accidently stumbled into it at night. It has probably bruised, battered, and broken the bodies of poor unsuspecting bystanders.

Work here because we are assoles with pissy attitudes

All this ballbusting and not one mention of how much these fuckers are willing to pay. I betcha it’s minimum wage. Shits.

Good Work Ethic (Hialeah, FL)

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Date: 2011-01-06, 8:35AM EST
Reply to: job-qeuvg-2146342538@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}

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****** Please read this posting in its entirety before responding to this job posting. ******
Looking for a person that meets the following criteria:
1. BE DRUG FREE
2. GOOD WORK ETHIC
3. VALID DRIVER'S LICENSE WITH YOUR OWN TRANSPORTATION TO AND FROM WORK
4. MUST HAVE A BACKGROUND IN CARPENTRY AND/OR MANUFACTURING
5. SPEAK FLUENT ENGLISH (SPANISH IS A PLUS)
The individual that gets hired for this position will be expected to perform the following:
* Be on time for work every day and work a full day
* Be ready to put in a full day's work
* Be able to take direction and work with minimal supervision
We normally work 5 days a week and 8 hours a day. However we may require you to extra hours that may include weekends. This is a very physical job so be ready and willing to work. Our company specializes in the cabinet industry. You will be trained to use the different types of machinery in the shop. Sometimes you will be running the machinery and sometimes you will be cleaning, packaging or delivering material. In other words, do not apply if you do not want to work. Also, if you can not get along with fellow co-workers and you are the type of person that likes to complain and/or be lazy then please do not apply for this position. Do not expect us to beg or try to entice you to work for us as we will not waste our time in doing so. We want to be impressed by your sincere attitude and work history.
So, if you are still reading this ad and you feel that you can become an asset to this company then please forward your resume via email for review with your contact information. It is EXTREMELY important to provide your resume. We will not bother to contact you or even consider you for this position if you do not provide a resume.

• Location: Hialeah, FL
• Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
• Please, no phone calls about this job!
• Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.

Douglas State Forest

The most fun part of my journey from Boston to Southeast Connecticut, where I play poker, is driving through the Douglas State Forest in Douglas, Massachusetts. From Massachusetts, once you drive through the forest, you’re in Connecticut, only there are no signs telling you so. I choose this unusual route because I can no longer drive on highways. On this day, I encountered a strange animal while driving through the forest…

Forest road,  at one point it gets exceptionally narrow.

 

Notice there is green to the left and right – you are in the middle of a forest. Garmin GPS device, which I have since returned, was wrong about the street. It’s actually S.E. Main St.

 

I came upon some type of wild animal while I was coming back, perhaps a baby moose.

No, it wasn’t a moose, it looked dog-like, but it couldn’t be a dog – it way way too big to be a dog. Maybe it was a hybrid moose/dog. Perhaps it’s genetically possible to combine both moose and dog.

Whatever it was, it scared the crap out of me. It looked mangy, so I threw it some bologna that I had, but there was no way in hell I was getting out my car.

Then, the weirdest thing happened. Some young and very hot looking woman going the opposite way stopped her car and asked me if I was the dog’s owner. She got out of her car and inspected the dog, completely fearless of both the giant dog and a strange man (me) in the middle of a forest.

The dog had a collar yet no tags. It might’ve belonged to a hiker, yet it might also have been lost. The woman cell-phoned some animal shelters. I had tried to feed the dog some water out of my hand, but that didn’t work. The dog didn’t understand what I was trying to do. There was nothing more that I could do. I left. I didn’t take any photos of the hot young woman. That would not have been polite. You’ll just have to trust me on this.

Just another damn day above ground…

Hi Kitty,

You don't have to be sorry. We never made firm plans. The English teaching job situation for Americans wanting to get full-time work (with work permits) in Hungary seems very gloomy, as it is in all of Central Europe. So, taking the course in Hungary probably won't afford me any real advantages beyond seeing Europe. I really did want to see Budapest; however, your language scares the living crap out of me -- and I do not have time to study even enough of it to get by, which would take months. This creates an additional disincentive not to go. I still haven't made up my mind; I will in about a month. Despite my anxieties, I might go because I know that if I don't see Europe now I never will, as I have no more money coming in. Maybe, if I go, I can get one of my classmates or students to drive me to Lake Balaton. (I'd of course pay for a rental.) I'm actually more interested in seeing the countryside than the city. I feel suffocated by cities and want to escape.

I have no idea what is going on with your stay in Italy. I am a little afraid to ask. I don't know if this is work-related, you have a mysterious Italian lover, or this part of your duties as a secret agent. Your mastery of English exceeds that of all Hungarians who teach English on OkayCupid. You are perhaps a spy, trained by some spy agency. I am of course kidding, but, well, you never know...

-Dickie

Some type of predatory bird