Where are All the Billionaire Candidates?

Mike Bloomberg is not running for president.

Let that sink in.

This means we only have Howard Schultz. We only have one fatuous billionaire to not vote for on the Democratic ticket in 2020.

How are we going to get through the election cycle with only one narcissistic, out-of-touch, ignorant, bloviating, pontificating, flatulent, misguided, egocentric, shit-for-brains, fuckwit billionaire to mock and spew our bile at? We’re doomed.

This is the American form of democracy. It all breaks down if billionaires aren’t trying to buy the presidency. I know that the rest of the 73 candidates are likely millionaires. So what? A millionaire compared to a billionaire is like watching the Andy Griffith Show after Don Knotts left or requesting to listen to heavy metal music and they play Bon Jovi. It’s not the same.

We need more clueless, unwanted, nefarious, criminal, uncaring, pettifogging, arrogant, oily, humorless, morally bankrupt assclown billionaires to revile and send home to cry in their bitcoins.

CNN, MSNBC, FOX and other news outlets have hours of airtime to fill with the recitation of stupid ideas, made up stories, false equivalencies and lies wrapped in prevarication. Who better to present this literally unbelievable information than billionaires who haven’t spoken to a regular American since they excoriated the parking valet at their private club for leaving a palm print on their Bugatti.

The Democrats are going to run a thousand different candidates up the flag pole to see which one can flap in the breeze strong enough to defeat Captain Meathead in 2020. More of them need to be billionaires to show us definitively who not to vote for, who can’t run the country, and who needs to hide away in their mansion and shut the hell up.

When Bad Football Happens to Good People

This past Sunday we were all hurt. Go ahead, let it out, we’re all feeling it. Football season is over and that, that is how it ended.

We expected some discomfort because we were being forced to watch the insufferable Patriots again. But the level of pain we were subjected to was a shock. Missed field goals, dropped passes, bad passes, bad officiating, missed blocks, missed tackles, punt after punt after punt, no scoring.

At the party I attended people were openly weeping, begging deities of all religions to save us. My brother converted to Rastafarianism thinking the music of Eek-a-Mouse would calm his transient nausea, but the last I saw he was in the corner mumbling about not having enough hair to grow dreadlocks. The rest of us called in a pastor for an explanation. We had done nothing wrong, so why were we being punished? As the seconds wound down on the first quarter the pastor himself was on his knees crying to the heavens “Oh God why hast thou forsaken us? They can’t even kick a field goal!”

Mid-way through the second quarter we were so lost we called in a philosopher to help us with our existential dread. His Jean-Paul Sartre quotes of “man is a useless passion” and “nothingness haunts being” were not helpful. By the time he was deep into Nietzsche’s treatise on the abyss we were angry. Punching him wasn’t soothing so we kicked him instead which acted as a mild balm for our wounds. We left him outside contemplating the puddle of snot pooling around his nose and mumbling Heidegger nonsense.

The game was a brutal examination of ineptitude that we dragged behind us like a boat anchor. “Maybe the half time show will cheer us up,” we thought. Music is a great healer.

I think it was my sister who snapped first. “Turn it off, turn it off!” she yelled. “Music isn’t supposed to sound like that!” Every note was like a pill caught in our collective throats. The air became heavy and unbreathable. With each article of clothing Adam Levine took off, the songs got exponentially worse until it sounded like a combination of Mongolian throat singing and Coldplay.

We were barely hanging onto our sanity by the time the second half started. We watched the whole 3^rd quarter under the influence of peyote, hoping to hallucinate a good game. It started off ok as I saw Joe Montana riding a white stallion, throwing passes with both hands to a thousand receivers named Jerry. Unfortunately, a dragon from my niece’s delusion invaded mine and ate Montana. After that the field melted into an ice cream bar filled with trolls, loose change and multiple Walter Matthaus.

The end of the game was chaos. One of my brother’s had his head buried in the cheese dip murmuring “I can’t watch anymore, I can’t.” My sister, on the edge of a nervous breakdown since halftime, was reading Dickens loudly to drown out Tony Romo’s voice: “ ‘IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES, IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES . . .’ ” My other brother was on eBay trying to win an auction for an ICBM to blow up the stadium but kept getting out-bid by a penny by some Russian account. My niece took more peyote and was lying prone on the floor. “I’m righteous,” was all she said when asked any question. I was outside walking the neighborhood ringing a bell shouting “10 o’clock and all is not well, 10 o’clock and all is not well.”

What happened to all of us on Sunday was unfair. As football fans, casual gamblers and people who just like eating at parties, we deserved better. Baseball season starts in a few weeks. Perhaps the boredom of that will erase the bad memories of Super Bowl 53.

The Death of Journalism

By the title of this piece you’re probably thinking it’s an erudite, in-depth look at print journalism through the decades and how it has affected all of our lives, from “Dewey defeats Truman” through Watergate to present day treatises on our divided population.

Nah. I’m not smart enough to write that 5000 words of scholarly insomnia cure.

This was an actual headline on the NY Post web site today:

Leonardo DiCaprio keeps his sunglasses on indoors at Lakers game

I searched the entire site but couldn’t find a follow-up article called:

Leonardo DiCaprio wears pants to Lakers game

Of course, what I really wanted was the scintillating story of:

Leonardo DiCaprio packs bag lunch to Lakers game: egg salad and applesauce

What has happened to our nation’s newspapers? How did an actor wearing sunglasses indoors become a story? It wasn’t just a headline, there were several paragraphs breathlessly detailing Leo’s entire sartorial ensemble. The writer’s conclusion was he was wearing the sunglasses indoors to stay incognito. But that didn’t work. Another celebrity, comedian Kevin Hart, spotted Leo right away, giving him the secret Hollywood handshake and double wink of celebrity Illuminati.

Where was this headline:

Thousands watch Lakers game with doctor-prescribed eyewear or contacts

Or this:

Hundreds occasionally look up from phones to watch moments of Lakers game

I’m all for light hearted entertainment news, I read Entertainment Weekly. But this. This isn’t “news” of any kind. This is an ego-centric douche wearing sunglasses indoors like ALL egocentric douches do. It’s evolution. Once Leo was human, but with increasing fame and success he metamorphosized to a clothes-wearing douche. Once that happened, the sunglasses indoors were part of his DNA.

The NY Post didn’t have to write about it, they chose to because journalism is dead. The Post didn’t kill it, they just drove the knife in a little deeper.

Another Story about Mom

This will be my family’s first Christmas without mom. A weird feeling has inhabited me knowing there are no gifts to buy for her and not seeing her stocking shaped like a teddy bear hanging over the fireplace at my sister’s house. Certain Christmas songs have left me weepy when listening to them which never happened before. We’ve been combating that by telling stories about mom that make us smile. This is one of mine.

Mom loved tennis. She watched every tournament on TV, even the older, retired players who developed their own tour. She always wanted to go to one of the 4 majors. Three of them were ruled out because they were overseas in England, France and Australia and mom was afraid to fly. She once asked me if it was possible to get to Wimbledon by boat.

That left the last major of the year, the US Open in New York which is a convenient 3-hour train ride from where we live in Pennsylvania. Mom found a travel agency whose whole business was booking tennis tours. They get you tickets, hotel rooms and have a shuttle to take you to and from the tennis center in Queens. The last piece of the puzzle was someone to go with her because this was something mom would never do on her own.

It was 1998 and mom caught me at a time in my life when I had money in the bank, so I agreed to go with her. Our tickets got us assigned seats in Arthur Ashe Stadium, but we could sit anywhere we wanted at any other court. One day we got to the Louis Armstrong Stadium early to sit in a courtside box to watch Jonas Bjorkman of Sweden and Cedric Pioline of France. It was a great match. It went 5 sets, and the quality of play was very high.

At some point during one of the change-overs where the players change sides, Bjorkman was directly in front of us facing the other way. Mom leaned into me and said, “You know, Jonas has a really cute butt.”

Now, understand . . . I know . . . I mean, I get . . .

Look, I know she had every right to admire Jonas Bjorkman’s backside. It’s just not what I expected my 70-year-old mother to say to me. I believe I responded “Ooooookay,” which made her laugh. Then she doubled down.

“I know it’s a silly thing to say, but he does have a really nice butt.”

So, I looked for myself.

“Yeah, ok,’ I said to mom. “You’re right. He does have a nice butt.”

This made her laugh again.

Merry Christmas.

A New Theory

In my department at work we have a mix of introverts and extroverts which can make for interesting conversations and vivid reactions to life events. Recently a team member got married and didn’t tell anyone. When another team member found out, a week later, there was a rainbow explosion of questions, accusations, congratulations, more questions, incredulous expressions and open-mouthed staring. Guess which one was which, vis-a-vis extravert vs. introvert?

The whole scene was extremely amusing, and a vision popped into my head of how introverts and extroverts exist and interact.

We introverts live in our own private bubbles, meandering through space, sometimes bumping into one another. A quick wave or head nod and we’re on our way into the opposite direction.

The extroverts exist in the theoretical space between our bubbles, zooming all over with jet packs, yelling to one another, screaming with delight as they tell each other absolutely everything they think or feel, absorbing each other’s energy to fuel their rockets.

When an extrovert sees an introvert bubble they can’t help themselves. They fly over and pound on the bubble begging “Let me in, let me in, let me in, let me in, let me in, let me in . . . .” We try to float away but our bubbles do not have jet propulsion. We glide on a wave of peace and quiet contemplation. We try to hide behind our books or iPads but the extrovert knows we’re home because we’re always home.

“Let me in let me in let me in let me in let me in let me in.”

Eventually, through sheer force of will, the extrovert bursts the introvert bubble and the onslaught begins.

“Oh my God, you got married? Why didn’t you say anything? When did this happen? Why did it happen? How did you decide? Why didn’t you say anything? Where did you go? Is that your ring? Why didn’t you tell us? What is wrong with you? Are you happy? Why didn’t you tell me? How long have you been planning this? Was it your idea? Was it her idea? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh my God!”

Finally, the extrovert will run out of steam, leaving to find another extrovert to tell the story to so they can re-fill their jet pack. The introvert repairs his bubble and floats away into the ether.

A Story about My Mom

My mom passed away a few months ago, in August. I miss her every day, but this is not to mourn my mother. I’ve done that, so now it is about celebrating who she was. To give a small illustration of that I’m going to tell a story that happened about 15 years ago.

Mom was all about her family, taking care of us, being with us. There was no one she’d rather spend time with than her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

My siblings and I like to get together and play games. We’ve had poker nights or hours of 500 Rum. We also enjoy board games, especially trivia games like Trivial Pursuit. Mom always played too. She was good at cards, pulling out a full house when you thought your 3-of-a-kind was good or laying down 3 aces in 500 Rum with a sheepish smile. She struggled more with the trivia but liked to play because she said she learned so much during the game.

One night, years ago, we were playing Trivial Pursuit and one of the questions mom got, followed by the answer she gave, will remain with me forever because of the boisterous laughter it produced.

This was the original version of Trivial Pursuit. Mom landed on the science category and I was reading the question:

Where is the medulla oblongata located?

The answer is the brain. My brother, sister and I gave each other looks that indicated we all knew the answer so we’re just waiting for mom.

I watched mom’s face as she scrunched up her mouth and said “Oh boy” under her breath. She dropped her eyes to the floor as she thought. After about 30 seconds she looked at me and said, “I don’t know . . . Italy?”

The laughter that followed was unrestrained, and after her children’s heads dropped to the table because we couldn’t breathe, mom joined in. Soon all our faces were red from lack of oxygen. I looked at mom and she said, “I guess that’s not the right answer.”

I found enough breath to say “No, no it’s not.”

Bad jokes were bandied about like:

I hope to get to Italy someday to see the medulla oblongata.

I hear the medulla oblongata is beautiful in the spring.

Is that where the Pope sleeps in the Vatican?

When I was finally able to speak I said, “The answer is the brain.”

Mom replied, “The brain? I’d rather go to Italy.”

And the laughter started all over again.

Miss you mom.

Jeff Flake and Susan Collins Go to Dinner

Waiter to Susan Collins: What can I get for you?

Susan Collins: Nothing too spicy, but nothing too bland. Not sure yet.

Waiter to Jeff Flake: Are you ready to order sir?

Jeff Flake: I don’t need a menu, I’ll have the alfredo.

Two women behind Flake begin chanting.

Two women: Jeff Flake he’s the best, he would never order without seeing the rest.

Jeff Flake: Perhaps you’re right. I will look at a menu.

The women begin swaying in unison and singing.

Two women: Jeff Flake we love you, oh yes we do . . .

Jeff Flake, eyes misting: This is such an important decision. I don’t want to be locked in a room and forced into anything. I’d like to bring my wife down to the restaurant and get her input.

Waiter: What?

Susan Collins: Hmmm, such a difficult decision. I’m going to call Chuck Grassley for advice.

Collins gets out her cell phone.

Susan Collins: Chuck?

Chuck Grassley: Can’t talk now Susie Q. Just told a democrat to piss off and it gave me a hard-on. First one since ‘06! Taking advantage and jerkin’ it as we speak.

Susan Collins: Jerkin’ it?

Chuck Grassley: You know what I mean; you’ve been doing it to Maine for years. Ohhhhh Louie CK! Damn that felt good.

Susan Collins: Well, he was no help.

Waiter: I just need a dinner selection . . .

Susan Collins: I need time to study this menu. It’s so voluminous it’s like being assaulted. And this separate list of specials keeps staring at me.

Jeff Flake: My wife is here.

Waiter: Why don’t you just have the salmon? It was Mr. Weinstein’s favorite.

Jeff Flake to his wife: Honey, could you please investigate the dinner choices? Take your time.

Two women: Jeff Flake, he’s our man, he listens to women . . . sort of

Flake’s wife: I’m doing this against my will. I’ll be back in five minutes.

Jeff Flake: That’s fine, but if the beef looks fraudulent in any way, I don’t want it.

Susan Collins to waiter: What do you think?

Waiter: I wish you two weren’t my customers.

Susan Collins: Do they massage, braise, bruise, touch or lick the chicken breast before cooking it?

Waiter: Why would they . . .

Jeff Flake: Oh good. My wife is back.

Two women: Jeff Flake . . . we thought he’d do the right thing

Flake’s wife: Get the Cobb salad.

Jeff Flake: Did you check out the kitchen?

Flake’s wife: No.

Jeff Flake: Did you sample any of the food?

Flake’s wife: No.

Jeff Flake: Did you speak to the chef?

Flake’s wife: No.

Jeff Flake: Good enough for me. Waiter, I’ll have the Cobb salad. I feel drunk with power right now.

Flake’s wife: I feel used. I’m going home.

Two women: Jeff Flake, he was our man, until he let us down . . . again

Waiter: One Cobb salad. And for the lady?

Susan Collins: This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had.

Waiter: It’s dinner.

Susan Collins: The chicken would be the intelligent and respectable choice. But the T-bone steak just keeps yelling at me. It makes me feel dirty.

Waiter: So, the steak then?

Susan Collins: I’m leaning that way but . . .

Mitch McConnell walks by . . .

Mitch McConnell: Get the ghost pepper chili Suze, it’ll put hair on your chest.

Susan Collins: I don’t know.

Susan’s seat is surrounded by Lindsey Graham, Orrin Hatch, John Cornyn and Joe Manchin

Lindsey Graham: Get the chili Susie, it’s good for you.

John Cornyn: Get her a bowel of the chili.

Orrin Hatch: It’s what she wants, and she knows it.

Mitch McConnell:  Even Manchin ordered it and he’s a liberal.

Susan Collins: All right, I’ll take the chili.

Lindsey Graham: That a girl.

Mitch McConnell: Come on boys, let’s get some beer.

Brought to You by . . .

My sister and I were listening to a football game on the radio and chuckling at all the sponsorship reads the announcers had to do. When they gave scores for other games there was a sponsor to mention, when they discussed a great play, it became the “play of the game” which of course had a sponsor. It made me wonder what a broadcast will be in a few years:

“Hello everybody this is Big Dave Stucky comin’ at ya from Met Life Stadium where the Jets are taking on the Patriots. My introduction was sponsored by Overbrook Electronics of Trenton New Jersey. And now let’s welcome my partner, former all pro running back Glenn Forster and his sponsor Taco Bill’s on route 1.”

“Thanks Dave, I love me some tacos.”

“Sure, who doesn’t. That banter was brought to you by Moon Mobile, more talk for less money. Glenn what do the Jets have to do today to stop the Pats?”

“Well Dave, your question was brought to us by The Puritan School, a charter school for all ages. The Jets need to pressure Brady early and often to keep that offense off-balance. When the Jets are on offense they need to run the ball to control the clock. My opinion sponsored by News Channel 7, home of the news and views that help you not to think.”

“All right, we are ready for the Cheese Wiz opening kick-off. Andre Roberts receives the ball at the Nestles 3-yard line and after a few jukes sponsored by Melanie’s School of Dance of Secaucus New Jersey, he’s pulled down at the McDonald’s 24.”

“The Jets really need to get stronger on special Teams, Dave. My opinion sponsored by Haberstroh’s Haberdashery New York, New York.”

“Ok, we’re ready for the GE first play of the game. Darnold drops back and flicks a pass to Bilal Powell for a 4-yard gain. Those positive yards brought to you by Tony Robbins. Second down, brought to you by Second Chance Animal Sanctuary, and Darnold hands off to Powell who goes up the middle for 3 more yards. That puts the ball at the Quaker State 31-yard line.”

“The Jets need to establish a run game today Dave. My analysis sponsored by The Schlichter Group, a nonpartisan think tank from Washington D.C.”

“It’s Arby’s third down and Darnold throws incomplete down the middle. That incompletion brought to you by Cadillac. The Jets are in the Jack Links Beef Jerky punt formation . . .”

“They need a good kick to pin the Pats deep.”

“Glenn’s comment sponsored by Dell. The kick is taken at the Acura 15-yard line by Edelman. He cuts right and is tackled at the Snickers 25. We’ll be back after these messages.”

*****

“Welcome back everyone to the Jeep second drive of the game. Glenn?”

“Thank you, Dave. My commercial break bowel movement was brought to you by Quilted Northern. Let’s see if the Patriots can jump on the Jets early. Analysis sponsored by Wells Fargo.”

“Right you are Glenn, the Patriots love to get teams in an early hole. My agreement of your analysis brought to you by Royal Farms. Brady drops back and throws a Kentucky Fried Chicken deep pass to a Pepsi open receiver.”

“He caught it! My excitement sponsored by Texas Roadhouse!”

“Edelman has it at the Home Depot 40, he’s at the Lowe’s 35, cuts right, breaks a Pizza Hut tackle at the Netflix 29, slips another Subway tackle, he’s at the Regal Cinemas 17, the WaWa 10, Vizio 5, Apple Watch touchdown!”

“Wow! Sponsored by Jim Beam!”

“What a Stephen King’s latest blockbuster start to the game. We’ll be Miller Lite right back.”

Introvert Beach

I’m an introvert. There, I said it.

And a word to all you extroverts: There’s nothing wrong with being an introvert. We’re not broken, we don’t need fixed, we don’t need to change, we don’t need your help to socialize. We don’t WANT to socialize unless we choose to.

Here’s the deal. Introverts and extroverts are simply wired differently in the brain. Being around people fills an extrovert with energy, with an introvert it drains us of energy. You’re like a Duracell battery and we’re like the Chinese knockoffs I bought at a flea market once called Durracall that lasted for an hour.

With all this in mind here is what I really want to talk about. I was at Bethany Beach in Delaware a few weeks ago. It’s off season so the beach wasn’t full. I was able to find a spot to enjoy the ocean but still be an introvert-acceptable distance away from everyone else. About twenty minutes into my stay I hear newly arrived people walking behind me. Then I hear the snapping open of beach chairs. The ffflhhh of blankets being unfurled. All this is happening no more than twenty feet away from me.

Seriously? You have an entire beach to plop down on and you choose do it closely enough that I can hear you unwrap the tuna sandwiches you brought along while talking on your cell phone to Jan back home in Lancaster? I came to listen to the waves crashing not you describe every millisecond of your vacation to your friend who hasn’t left the house since 1972.

I am proposing the incorporation of Introvert Beach. This stretch of sand will be open only to introverts who will instinctively know:

How far away to construct their beach-day kingdom so we don’t interact with each other.

If you’re thinking about getting in the water but someone else makes their move first, you will know to stay seated until that person is finished frolicking in the waves.

There won’t be any forced small talk, shouting for no reason, or screaming children. The sounds of the waves will battle only with the sound of book pages turning.

More than one person will be permitted to look for sea shells at the same time because heads will be down so there won’t be any eye-contact.

I’m aware that the powers-that-be (in other words: extroverts) may fight this amazing idea because they want everyone to be like them; befouling the air with jibber-jabber, making phone calls to hear their own voices and gathering together in large groups for made-up days of meaning. “Hey, Dan finally cut his toe nails. We’re meeting at the pub after work to celebrate!”

“Mary and Dave replaced the water heater in their condo, time to party!” “I’m still breathing, come to my house for jalapeno poppers and wine!”

In this case, I have an alternate proposal.

Before entering the beach, all extroverts must put on a wrist band that will provide electrical shocks if they try to put up their tent or umbrella too close to an introvert. The shocks will continue until you have moved an appropriate distance away. An extrovert may say hello to an introvert but if they attempt unwarranted small talk, shocks will continue until they move along.

Hopefully by next summer on the eastern shore introverts will have their own private beach. Next I’m going to work on a restaurant, the Introvert Bar and Grill. There will be twenty tables but seating for only 8 at a time.

Who?

“Jedediah Bila is Leaving The View” the headline blared on Facebook. 

Oh no! Someone I’ve never heard of is leaving a show I don’t watch!

What will I do? How will I wake up tomorrow knowing something happened that I don’t give a shit about?

Will the Sun still be yellow and send trillions of photons of light hurtling toward earth at 186,000 miles/sec? Or will there be an enormous grapefruit in the sky squirting us with gallons of citric acid? Will a year still last for 365 days or will it feel unending, like watching an episode of Dr. Phil?

Will dogs still bark or will they now make high-pitched vocalizations that sound like “glub-glub, cooka-cooka”? What about chickens? Will we as a society still cook delicious chicken breasts in 2000 different ways or will we suddenly be eating broasted prairie dog while chickens now sit on school boards and city councils discussing redistricting or adopting a new history textbook?

And what about the other hosts of The View. Will they be the same insufferable hags doling out life advice from their ivory towers and pandering with clichéd interviews of other pompous celebrities? Or will they have changed?

What if, instead of just thinking they shit rose petals, they actually do? And they demonstrate on air. What if, instead of just believing they’re better than you, they actually are? What if they’ve grown taller, stronger and with perfect dental hygiene? What if you asked them a politically charged question and they answered in a way that satisfied evangelical conservatives, tree-hugging liberals and hard-line communists at the same time?

Now imagine it changes in the other way. What if they’re worse? What if watching an episode of The View goes beyond the brain-cell destroying anathema to quality and intelligence it has always been and becomes a monster so heinous even Maury Povich shouts “They’ve gone too far!” while hiding in a closet with three of his unwed mother guests telling them stories about when people respected him.

Then again, none of this will probably happen just because someone I didn’t know existed has decided not to do a show I didn’t know they were on for reasons I don’t care about. And it will not change my feelings about The View which is I would rather you rub my eyes with a Q-tip soaked in ghost pepper hot sauce than watch that wet pile of elephant dung of a show. With or without the person whose leaving that I didn’t know was an actual person until yesterday.

Narcissus Goes to Yard Sales

Seemingly on a daily basis I come in contact with a certain kind of person that believes they are the only person on Earth, so therefore they can do whatever they want. Their actions have no effect on other people because they are alone on the planet.

I was at some yard sales this weekend and had another encounter with such a person. I don’t know this man’s name so I will refer to him as “Asshole” for the remainder of my tirade. My story begins now:

It was an ethereal morning. Sunlight beamed down like a stairway to Heaven, birds sang madrigals of love and prosperity. Lawns were verdant. Men stood hale and hearty alongside their women whose skin carried the ruby blush of health and vitality.

Having finished my perusing at one yard sale I was walking to another just up the street when the ground shook and the sky was choked with black smoke. I turned just as a goliath pick-up truck passed by. Each wheel taller than a man, made of rubber the color of night, the tread baring teeth covered in the flesh of its victims.

This truck was so large it blotted out the sun as it rumbled by. People in the neighborhood cried out believing the world was ending, the Apocalypse upon us. I glanced into the cab and saw a family of 6 living in the back seat. Grandmother was cooking breakfast for the children while mother did laundry and father mulched a grove of Larch trees planted in the truck bed.

The next yard sale was set up in the home’s driveway. It turned out that the Asshole driving the 2017 Ford Overcompensation was going to the same sale. His tiny penis pulled his behemoth over to the side of the road and instead of parking next to the house’s yard, Asshole parks directly in front of the driveway, thus cutting off access to the yard sale from anyone else. To get there myself I had to put on heavy boots, carve a walking staff and hike around Asshole’s truck. Thankfully I made it ok, but my Sherpa wasn’t so lucky.

I can’t stand this type of narcissism. There were dozens of people walking the neighborhood from sale to sale, enjoying a nice summer day, but only one magnificent Asshole driving his manhood and parking it front and center for all to see. He might as well have walked pants-less into the middle of the road and yelled “Hey everybody, look at my dick. Ain’t it purty?”

So be careful. These zombies of self-involvement are everywhere and as far as they’re concerned, everyone wants to see their junk.