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You know, humanity as a whole is a fairly civilized group of primates. We generally coexist peacefully, we largely follow the same basic principles from group to group, and we invented bacon. We even have laws, edicts, guidelines, rules, handbooks, procedures, statutes, ordinances, and other methods for keeping the unruly in line with the rest of us who just want to get from point A to point B without some turniphead interrupting our flow. However, all these lines of text on paper don’t cover the full rainbow of transgressions that occur; they only hit the big stuff. There’s no real legal retaliation available for the minor things that affect us all. The police aren’t going to step in when people commit these small crimes against each other, and we the people aren’t permitted to exact the kind of revenge/justice these crimes warrant. But we should be allowed, shouldn’t we? I’m not talking about grievous bodily harm or death, just…appropriate ramifications. What I’m saying is, for some types of actions…
…some people just need to be smacked.
Now, by “smacked” I mean just that – smacked. Once, on the side of the head, preferably. The proper protocol for the punishment should be a smack on the head, an announcement of the offense, a curt nod and a rapid departure. So if you see a mom talking on her cell while her offspring is running amok through men’s wear and pulling all the IZOD pullovers off their 30% off hangers, you walk over to the mom, say “You are not watching your child, and he is running amok.”, then smack her in the head, give a short nod, and walk away. Mission complete.
Here’s my list of smackable offenses. Please add your own via comment, and when I have ‘em all, I’ll make this post a static page with everyone’s pet peeves listed. If I don’t, you can smack me.
Smackable Offenses
- Cutting people off in traffic when there’s no emergency
- Taking the last doughnut/pork chop/whatever when you’ve already had your fair share
- Overdramatized crying sequences on reality shows (like “The Biggest Loser”, for example)
- Condescending service people (plumbers, secretaries, DMV personnel) who treat you like you’re an idiot
- When I drop my son off at school in the morning, parents walk in the middle of the parking lot, taking their sweet time, and hold up traffic by a long ass while (from HDW)
- Talking on the cell phone in the bathroom stall and getting pissed when other people have to flush (from HDW)
- Cheering for the University of South Carolina
- Showing off pictures of your kids/cars/bowling pin collection when no one asked to see it
- Forcing your way onto the elevator before the other people can get off (from HDW)
- Yelling at your girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse in public
- Not paying attention to important information, then asking 39028345 questions about shit that was already covered
- Wearing bikinis when you’re clearly outside of the bikini-wearing demographic
- Complaining about problems, seeking advice for said problems, and then not listening or attempting to follow the aforementioned advice before complaining again
- Wearing Aéropostale
- Wearing plaid shorts when you’re over 35
- Assuming your experiences encompass all others’ experiences
- Cutting people off in conversation without listening to what they have to say
- Driving in the emergency lane on the highway when traffic’s at a standstill, and you’re not a cop/EMT/firefighter (from DWW)
- Texting/talking on the phone while out at dinner with someone (from DWW)
- Being late to meetings that YOU set up (from DWW)
- If you’re a meteorologist, cutting in on a popular TV show to show me how far the damn clouds have moved in the last 4 minutes (from DWW)
- Drying your hands on someone else’s face towel after using the bathroom (from HDW)
- Being mean to the elderly for no reason (that’s important – sometimes the elderly are jerks)
- Being shiftless, never keeping a job, never repaying debts, and never acknowledging other people’s kindness to you
- Burning popcorn at work, or cooking fish in the microwave at work
- Leaving the car on empty when others have to drive it later
- Being Coldplay
Let’s get it rolling, people. I know you’ve got some things that you wanna slap the taste out of somebody’s mouth for. List them! Power to the people!
Peace.
(Editor’s note: I began writing this blog post the day after MJ’s death, but then I put it on hold for some reason. Even I don’t know why. So forget the fact that it was written for a particular time and date, and soak in the words. The words, people. Salud.)
Like many people, I was saddened by the news of Michael Jackson’s death on Thursday. Despite his increasingly bizarre behavior in his later years (not to mention the criminal allegations), he remained a very strong influence on the world, myself not excluded. I mean, the man ushered in the Age of Jheri Curl and zippered attire! He proclaimed himself as the King of Pop – and no one argued with him, ’cause the shit was true as hell. Like Martin Lawrence once said, “Who else can say they’re jamming in Bucharest?” For a long while, he was the Pied Piper of popular culture, and the world followed his merry tunes like heat follows light.
Beyond his musical and overall entertainment impact, he had a social and cultural impact that transcended race, age, gender, nationality, religion, and every other social barrier that we humans work so hard to maintain. He broke those barriers down, routinely and effortlessly, and did it in such a way that we all were happy for the service. He made music three-dimensional; we didn’t just want to hear his songs, we wanted to experience them. We all wanted to do the moonwalk. We all wanted to do that sick gangster lean from the “Smooth Criminal” video. We all wanted to spin around and turn into a pillar of sand like in “Remember The Time”. And we all did the bad-ass zombie dance from “Thriller”. Yes, even you did it. Don’t lie. We did not, however, want to grab our crotch 3087948903 times and turn into a panther (“Black Or White”). That was probably a stretch. Think of it like this: he was so huge, Weird Al Yankovic had TWO absolutely enormous hits by mocking MJ’s songs, thus establishing that even the by-products of his success could become successful in their own right (see Jackson, LaToya; Jackson, Janet; Jackson, Jermaine; Jackson, Randy; Jackson, Tito. Okay, scratch Tito.) A complete cottage industry evolved around people mimicking his dance moves and looks, and some folks (Alfonso Ribiera and Chris Tucker spring to mind) became known, in part, due to their ability to move like him. People wanted to dress like him. How many people did you know with red leather jackets covered in zippers, or with a single white glove covered in sequins (or Elmer’s Glue and glitter, if you grew up on the poor side of the tracks)? He was what so many entertainers yearn to be: he was ubiquitous. Look it up.
Yes, he was strange in his adulthood. But since age 4, he was in the burning spotlight, and you have to surmise that it affects the way he grew up, much like it affects nearly every other child star who is raised under its penetrating glare. How could a kid worth millions (by his own talents) be anything but abnormal, particularly considering his family situation?
And as I sit here at the airport, something occurred to me: as bad as the tragedy is for him, his family, his friends, associates, business partners, pets, and fans, there’s one person in particular who is by far the most directly affected by Michael’s death:
Farrah Fawcett.
Now, before you get into an uproar, please note that while I am indeed about to make a joke about the deaths of two very famous and influential people (I defy you to say that Farrah wasn’t influential to every horny teenage boy who had her posters on his wall. If you don’t believe me, I guarantee a blacklight would definitely show off all her “influence”), I plan to be as tasteful as possible so as to only offend 50% of the audience, rather than the projected 84%. I’m nice like that.
Farrah suffered. She suffered from anal cancer, which pretty much sounds like the worst cancer you get besides Random Penile Explosive cancer. She dealt with her condition with dignity and pride, even after losing the hair that in part made her so renowned.
Yeah, this hair. The HAIR, pervs.
“Farrah’s Story”, the documentary covering her 3 year battle with cancer, got 9 million viewers and earned her an Emmy nomination. When she finally passed on June 25th at 9:30 am, she had become the celebrity equivalent of a saint, canonized by popular culture in death to an even greater degree than she had been in life, quite possibly. From media darling, to star, to icon, to victim, and back to media darling again, Farrah had come full circle. The peaceful bliss of death propelled her across the skies of our mind like a shooting star, and the whole country paid attention and homage.
And that lasted approximately 3 whole hours.
Once word hit the street that Micheal Jackson had died at 12:20 pm that very same day, Farrah got bumped from Page 1 to Page 3, below the fold, just beneath whatever the hell Lindsay Lohan had done the night before. She was utterly marginalized – hell, she couldn’t even GET space in the margins after the King of Pop winked out of existence. I’m betting that she was even overshadowed in the waiting line for Heaven.
Farrah: “Wow, I’m finally here…it’s even more beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined!”
St. Peter: “Welcome, Farrah. Please step this way, into our VIP area….wait, what’s that over there?”
Farrah (looking around): “Um, I’m not really -”
St. Peter: “Holy crap, is that Micheal Jackson? ‘Scuse me, Ferret…”
Farrah: “Seriously?! It’s FARRAH! Farrah Fawcett!”
St. Peter (moonwalking away): “Yeah Farley, I heard you. Be a dear and grab that Welcome Kit and Executive VIP packet for the King of Pop, please and thank you.”
I bet she still has a sternum bruise from where MJ elbowed past her to get in, grabbing his crotch, singing “Leave Me Alone” and looking for Bubbles the chimp.
"Let me just eeeeeeeease by you, Farrah...sha moan..."
Rest in peace, both of you.
“My dear child. You are the poem I dreamed of writing, the masterpiece I longed to paint. You are the shining star I reached for In my ever hopeful quest for life fulfilled. You are my child. Now with all things I am blessed.”
Happy birthday, 9YO 10YO.
Peace.
TSA - Transportation Safety Administration
DIA - Denver International Airport
TLC - tender loving care, or R&B group from the ’90s. Take your pick.
Dear TSA:
I just wanted to drop you a line about the marvelous service I witnessed while traveling through the lovely and heavily-trafficked Denver International Airport on the weekend of June 26th. Truly, I’ve never seen such a display of human kindness, emotional restraint, empathy, rational thought, courage, discipline, or competence in all my airborne travels since the tragic events of 9/11. You fine government employees working at DIA should stand tall, chin high, and chest out.
Then you should kick each other square in the ass. Repeatedly.
Honestly, we travelers know that your job is tough, low-paying, and often pretty thankless, since the closest thing to a terrorist you’ve probably seen is a drunk brotha yelling at his toddler named J’haad to stop pulling on the ropes. We completely understand that you look at all of us as potential day-breakers, and think we look at you like the human speed bumps preventing us from getting to the Sbarro at Gate A32 in a timely fashion. And, well, we DO look at you like that, so your paranoia is founded in truth there, Bucko. We know that you get an endless stream of crap and agita from weary and/or stupid travelers who still think it’s acceptable to pack swords, firearms, live snakes, aerosols, bows and arrows, throwing stars, flares, dynamite, spray paint, or snow globes (now, I have a bone to pick with this last one, ’cause I really did have a snow globe, and you let me right through the line even though it’s clearly listed on your list of prohibited items. I would’ve been pissed to the highest of pisstivity if you had confiscated it, TSA, but still…do your jobs, people) drive you insane on a daily – nay, hourly basis, but do you have to paint us all with that broad brush of scorn? To wit:
Exhibit A: The Phantom Line
As a group of Frontier Airline passengers made our way towards the screening area, we all noticed that there was a line of people to the far right, waiting to be screened by the TSA agent at the top of the line; an immobile moving sidewalk in the middle; and an empty area to the left where a 2nd TSA agent sat, calling people over from the far right line. Being wise and enterprising folk, we began a line leading right up to TSA 2 so that (a) the lines would be shorter, overall, and (b) there could be a line right in front of ol’ T2 there. So we set up shop in front of him, patiently waiting to be called up to present our ID and boarding pass, but…nothing. He didn’t even so much as look at us. After about 10 minutes, there were about 25 people in our new line, and an additional 25 or so in the original line. At that point, TSA 1 turned to TSA 2 and said “Why are all those people standing over there in front of you?”
TSA2: “Who, them? I have no idea. The line is over there.”
TSA1: “I know! Are they airport employees or VIPs?”
TSA2 (to us): “Are any of you employees of DIA or VIPs?”
We all looked around, discovering that we were just regular folk.
TSA2 (to TSA1): “Nope, looks like a bunch of people in the wrong damn place to me.”
TSA1 : “Tell them to move back over here and quit acting like VIPs!”
TSA, there was no sign stating that we were in a VIP/employee line. In fact, there were no signs at all, a fact hammered home hard and loud by an irate passenger, irate because we 25 misguided folk then had to go to the end of the OTHER line, meaning we were way, way farther back than we had to be, if you had simply told us that we were in the wrong line in the first place. Asshats.
Exhibit B: The Angry Agents
As I mentioned earlier, I get that many people who fly from point A to point B are cripplingly stupid, some on the borderline of being criminally dumb and mortally ignorant. Be that as it may, it may behoove you to not act like rabid howler monkeys high on acid and peanut M&Ms to everyone who passes through your metal-detecting gates. A lot of us plan ahead; for example, I had all my toiletries in see-through bottles, gathered in a ziploc bag for your convenience. However, that wasn’t good enough, TSA of DIA. Oh, no it was not.
You see, I had my stuff in a gallon sized bag, but you needed a quart sized bag. As I contemplated whether to toss away my precious $1.00 shampoo and Axe spray, one of your fine agents came blazing through the metal detector, grasping someone’s poorly packed items that had the misfortune of going through the x-ray machine. He looked at us like we had just slapped his mama, screaming the following (and I’ll paraphrase):
“LISTEN, PEOPLE! IF YOU PACK YOUR THINGS LIKE THIS, YOU’LL JUST HOLD UP THE LINE AND CAUSE PEOPLE LIKE ME TO THROW IT AWAY, WASTING OUR TIME AND YOURS! CHECK YOUR BELONGINGS, AND BE SMART ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE PACKING! THANK YOU!”
And then he slammed the woe-begotten bag of someone’s stuff into the trashcan with a crash. This activity caused me to raise my right eyebrow in surprise. I was about 4 people back from the belt, and I was now about 75% sure that I was going to throw away my bag o’ crap. That 75% got pushed to 100% when 1 minute later, the same TSAlien came out again with a different bag of someone’s stuff, making pretty much the exact same speech, only this time Mr. Happy slammed the bag HARD into the trash can, so hard that a lonely bottle of lotion flew back up and out of the can and landed in the x-ray bin that a lady was filling with their things. Her confusion became my determination…to not have my items mistreated by that dude. I can slam my own stuff, thank you very much, and that’s precisely what I did.
Not to be outdone, another wonderful TSAgent dealt with an elderly woman in a wheelchair. Ordinarily, a person in a wheelchair would be pulled to the side and wanded down away from the metal detectors to help the line keep moving, and to account for all the metal in the chair itself. Oh no, not in Terminal A of DIA on THAT day. No, Mr. TSAgent wheeled the lady (who had to be about 85) up to the metal detector…and made her get up and walk through it! He had no mercy, no compassion…he stood there impassively as this poor old lady struggled to get up, struggled to take the 3 or 4 steps needed to pass through the detector, and then struggled to sit down again. My bad – he did at least offer her a hand when it was time to sit down again. Nice chap, him. The person she was with was flabbergasted. And incidentally, he simply pushed the wheelchair through the detector, lights and horns a-blazin’, and never even so much as looked at it. In other words, the chair made entirely of metal was absolutely no threat whatsoever, yet the 85 year old woman was. This is brilliance in action.
In closing, I just want to point out that while TSA folks are charged with ensuring the safety of all passengers and crew in the skies, there’s no need to fall to douchebaggery and general assholery to perform that job.
Simple incompetence will do nicely, thank you.
Peace.
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