Like a Cart Outta Hell

Go to any dealer of fine comestibles and/or goods which allows the use of shopping carts, and you'll likely find a parking lot littered with said carts.

Despite many stores' implementing of cart returns and the like—designed to make it as painless (and brainless) as possible to return a cart from whence it came in order to prevent damage to vehicles, among other things—a large number of jackasses still have not grasped the concept. These douches, upon seeing that there is no return area within 5 feet of their vehicle and they may actually have to walk, surreptitiously wheel their cart to a nearby curb and leave it there, completely assured that they have done the correct thing.

The problem comes in, however, when a gentle breeze stirs and easily jars the cart from its weak-ass lodgment against the curb. It then, through the course of gravity, becomes a projectile which more often than not dents several vehicles and kills quite a few small animals and children. All the while this is occurring, the one-time cart owner is decrepitly trying to fit his or her ass into their shitty 1993 Oldsmobile, never realizing the pain and suffering their failure to return the damn cart to the damn steel thing causes everyone damn else.

And what is the excuse for not performing this common courtesy? Some might sympathize and claim that some store-goers are too damn old to return their carts, and that they shouldn't have to walk to a cart return if they don't feel like it. True. The one hole in this theory, though, is that these geriatric bastards just got done running the damn supermarket mile and now they couldn't possibly walk another 15 feet. Good luck, Grandma. The little blue sign doesn't excuse you from everything.

On many occasions, I've had the notion to slyly grab the cart, wait until the fatass is pulling away, and then heave the cart into their fender as hard as I possibly can. Or if I'm lucky, the jackass will swerve to avoid the cart and crash headlong into another vehicle or an outdoor garden display. Honestly, these are the things I think about. Every day of my life.

Please people, put your shopping carts where they belong. Nobody likes a body shop bill.

Boneheaded Typing Styles

I think it's safe to say that since the advent of both the internet and cell phones, or any sort of communication device with a keypad, the world's collective mind has gone down the metaphorical shitter. With the anonymity and overall lack of cohesive thought which is the intrawebz—I mean internet—people have been handed unlimited power to mutilate the English language lyk... sorry; like never before.

Now running rampant are useless acronyms, dubious capitalization, fuck-all spelling skills, and a general air of stupidity. I'm sure you've run into many of these examples in the course of your playful romp through the internet, but now for no reason at all, I shall point out several examples of the varying degrees of brain death.

We begin with, unfortunately, one of the most common offenders encountered on websites and in emails—the "Caps-Lock Cunt."

2 OF THE MOST MIXED REACT FANS AND HATERS OF THERE GENERATION WHO HAS MORE TALENT? BY THIS IS TO ALL THE SMELLY GURLS OUT THERE FROM SOULJA BOY!!!!! GURL U STANK LOL

- I think this retard is shitting on Miley Cyrus or something.

For many reasons unknown, those over the age of 50 seem to have the most trouble figuring out that their Caps Lock key is engaged. Perhaps it's because of their myopic eyes, or perhaps the triumph of turning on a computer is still much too intoxicating to actually pay attention to what their arthritc fingers are tapping onto the screen; I don't know. The other class of All-Caps Asshole is the young'un, as exhibited above, who types in caps simply for attention. She is easily spotted by the use of use of trendy misspellings ("gurl"), bandwagon text-speak ("u", "LOL"), and insipid pop culture references ("Soulja Boy").

Next, we encounter the (somewhat rarer) "First-Letter Fucktard."

Well I'm 14, And We Had A Movie Night 2 Nights Ago And Watched This. All Four Of Us Had To Go Upstairs When One Needed The Toilet, God Sounds Pathetic xD Well Obviously This Isn't Real Footage, But Ain't It Based On A True Story ??

- On The Blair Witch Project

I just really don't understand this one, and I certainly can't explain what would possess someone to capitalize the first letter of every word. Every word. Throughout the whole goddamn paragraph. Note also the "xD" figure, an emoticon symbolizing receiving head. Or maybe it's supposed to signify a corpse receiving head.

Finally, I've yet to encounter anything surpassing the senselessness and the absurdity of... the "Alternate-Letter Asshole."

WhAt Is ThE ScArIeSt ThInG U EvEr seen or experiened?

- To which the obvious answer is, "Your grammar."

Generally employed by excitable girls aged 13-19, this is another style designed solely for getting attention. Though they may think it looks "pretty," these girls usually end up looking like utter cockasses to anyone with half a brain. Note also the ubiquitous, stale "U" and the lack of "have" to go with "seen." TyPiNg LiKe ThIs TaKeS mUcH lOnGeR aNd HaS mInImAl EfFeCt, BeSiDeS bEiNg HaRd To ReAd.

Walgreens and Migrant Beings

Don't get me wrong; I love old, smelly, degenerates. I love seeing them frolic and play shoeless and worm-footed in green fields and golden sands. I love their joyous, toothless grins upon tasting a morsel of uncontaminated meat for the first time in three years. But it seems that every time I go to Walgreens, I'm either assaulted by a god damn heckler or made uneasy by the presence of one.

It began a long time ago. I had gone to a local Walgreens for something or other—probably pencils and KY jelly—and upon coming out, discovered there was a migrant person near my vehicle. (I prefer the term "migrant person" to "homeless fuck." It sounds much friendlier, don't you think?) Trying to pay no mind, I was about to drive away when the thing came up to my door and asked if I wanted my windows washed. Mind you, the guy's hands (he didn't have a rag) were as brown and soiled as F. Scott Fitzgerald's tighty-whities. While conjuring up as polite a response as possible, so as not to aggravate the potential killer, I was surreptitiously opening my trusty Swiss utility knife under the dashboard. Luckily the thing walked away, but it was a frightening situation, believe me.

A few weeks later, I again found the need to go to Walgreens (this time for a bag of Snickers bars, some candles, and a drain plug, I think). Recalling my experience the last time, I decided to visit another Walgreens location, one of which is always no more than a block away from the first. Seeing no filthy creatures around, I inched my way out of the car and started to dash toward the door when—

This guy carrying a decrepit portfolio stopped me and asked if I could help a starving artist. God dammit. I'm a starving fartist myself; I don't have money to be throwing at other crackpots. He was still there when I left the store, harassing other people.

Just yesterday I went to yet another Walgreens and when I came out of the store, lo and be-fuckin'-hold, there was a shabby-looking guy that just appeared out of nowhere, standing on the sidewalk and looking intently at something in his hands. He didn't harass me, but I maced him anyway.

What is it that brings these malodorous, soulless harpies out from the plywood-work? Perhaps it's the Walgreens EasySaver™ catalog. Perhaps because it's The Pharmacy America Trusts®. I don't know. But I do know that next time, I'm going to CVS. Although I hear the religious zealots rule those parking lots....

Funeral Extravaganza!

Recently, after attending the wake of an acquaintance, I got to thinking about how incredibly dull wakes actually are. Once you arrive at the funeral parlor (or the deceased's home, depending on which backward-ass town you live in), you generally find a bunch of people dressed in black, feigning solemnity, all the while wishing they were instead at home having sex or drinking. There is a guestbook which people must sign, mass cards, flowers, and all that other creepy dead-people shit. The organ music blows and, frankly, having the corpse prone in a peaceful position in a coffin is pretty lame.

Anyway, I was contemplating all these things, and I decided to plan out my own funeral (a.k.a. The Bash of the Century), which may be six days from now or six decades from now. Either way, I have it all planned out in advance so as to avoid having to return from hell to make my wishes known. The plan goes something like this:

• Tropical attire for all (à la Jimmy Buffett)

• Valet parking

• Hors d'œuvres (deer testicles and celery)

• Guestbook in which everyone contributes a Your Mom joke

• Ray Manzarek on keyboards playing Doors songs (Hey, he needs the cash.)

• Everyone can bang freely... in fact, it should be an orgy. Nothing says "you will be missed" more than ass-to-mouth on top of the casket.

• On second thought, fuck the coffin. I'll just be propped up on a La-Z-Boy where people can come and say whatever.

• Kids have the opportunity to get a photo with the corpse for 25¢.

• I'll have my earthly remains rigged with motors and gears, then when some mourners least expect it, I will robotically rise from the recliner and Riverdance.

• At least one supermodel will be invited to what she is told is a bulemia convention. When she arrives, she'll be sacrificed and buried nude on top of me (oh yes).

• All guests will be required to drop acid, then try to take down a piñata with automatic rifles.

• Finally, when the party's over, one lucky couple will get to take my body home for the weekend, over which we/they will enjoy many humorous escapades (a la Weekend at Bernie's), except I'll realistically decompose.

Yes, you heard all that correctly. I truly am going to put the '"fun" back in funerals.

Finnish Fashion Scene

Do some of these people realize how incredibly stupid they look? There's something to be said for individuality, but...

• Pimpin' the Rick Nielsen. Click
  

• "I hear the baglady look is all the rage this fall!" Click

• She's actually pretty hot. The chick on the right ain't bad, either. Click

• This guy wasn't cool in '81, and he still isn't. Click
  

• You mean the wigger virus has spread to Finland, too? Click
  

• I just... can't... god damn.... Click
  

• DIO LIVES! Fuck yeah!!! Click
  

• Due to an unfortunate reverse-spoon accident involving bandmate Billy Filth, he's now stuck this way for life. Click
  

• The "anorexic vagrant" look is taking Scandinavia by storm. Click
  

• Does this girl have a load in her pants, or does she just have a very big secret? Click
  

• Influences? "The Bee Gees and Ali G." Click
  

• "We've received another video from Al-Qaeda, sir. It appears the terrorists are now wearing fruity colors and have moved to Finland." Click
  

• Dee Dee Ramone hair died... with Dee Dee Ramone . But don't tell this guy. Click
  

• Not surprisingly, this guy spends a lot of time on his knees. Click

• This woman hasn't changed her clothes since the day Nixon resigned. Click

• If he were a president, he'd be Babe-raham Lincoln. Click

• The kid on the right is cleverer than he seems. Not only does the drumstick net him chicks, but it doubles as a self-defense weapon when people constantly kick his ass for being a dweeb. Click
  

• OK, she's attractive; I won't knock her. Or will I? Heh... heh. Click

• "Hey, get the hell back in the cab! You're running up my fare!" Click

• "Excuse me, sir. Perhaps it's not my place to meddle, but you seem to have a tree root erupting from your cranium." Click

• "A whale of a tale and it's all true; I swear by my six-color tattoo!" Click