Bad Scooter

Rants that are not sports related

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Thursday, March 10, 2005

My New Letter

I was spammed by the Republicans shrills this morning -- The Judicial Confirmation Committee or some such bullshit. Basically, they wanted my help in getting rid of the kiddie porn and gay marraiges by signing their petition. I pissed in their Cheerios with this letter: Gary, You better never contact me again, you slimy piece of shit. The fact that you are a big enough cocksucker to use the Internet to spam solicitations so your morally bankrupt President can further his efforts to trample the Constitution speaks volumes about your lack of character. People like you should die in painful car accidents before you propagate and pollute the gene pool. If you were bleeding on the side of the road, I would stop only to laugh at you as you died. Where did you go to school, Gary? Your vernacular screams a lower middle class public school. Your GOP recruits dipshits like you at a young age with false promises of new wealth. People like yourself need to be reminded of your meager backgrounds, lest you think you have risen above your poor, pitiful past by stabbing your fellow disadvantaged in the back. You are a fucking whore, Gary. Had you been fifteen years of age in Nazi Germany, you'd have been blowing Der Furher in your spiffy Hitler Youth uniform. Let me explain what is going to unfold since you invaded my privacy with your spam. I am going to ruin your day today, Gary, and I then I am going to fight your silly little petition drive. If you are still driving around the nation (I bet you never did; it is just another one of your lies to appeal to the "grass roots"), I am going to show up with my private army, and we are going to loudly laugh at you. We will expose you as the fraud you are and make you slink away into the night as those to whom you were speaking jeer. Your only companions will be desolation and failure as you slink back to your hotel room to console yourself with pay per view porn. Spare me any nonsense about how I was accidentally added to your mailing list. You jackoffs may be able to get the public to believe a man whore imposing as a reporter receiving a top security press pass was an accident, but spamming me is another matter. You have to deal directly with me Gary, and I am tired of the GOP's accidents, which include being unable to prevent terrorists from flying planes into buildings. Yes, Gary, that happened on your President's watch. The Pentagon was hit hours after the Trade Centers. How in the hell do the headquarters of the most powerful military in the history of civilization get hit by hijacked civilian aircraft? Your President has never explained that because he is too busy bending over to please the religious right who want their share of the pie. Are you a church going man, Gary? When you are sitting in that pew with your significant other, does she have any idea what an asshole you are? I bet she does, which is why she is fucking the college boy down the street. You can't even satisfy your own wife, Gary, so she finds her solace from a young boy. Do you ever receive solace from young boys, Gary? I bet you do, Gary, I bet you do. God bless America, you say. Fuck you, Gary. God should strike down your hypocritical ass. When you meet your God, which will be soon, He is going to be very pissed at you, Gary -- pissed enough to cast you into the fiery pits of Hell. You are going to burn for eternity, Gary. Do you know how long eternity is, Gary? Probably not, since your letter writing ability indicates you were not much of a student. Eternity is forever, Gary, and since you spammed me, I am going to make sure you start getting a taste of eternal damnation right now. Yours in Jesus, Bad Scooter P.S. -- And guess what, Gary? Jesus is on my side. My Jesus is bigger and smarter than your Jesus, and He is extremely upset that cocksuckers like you have been using His name for ill things. My Jesus is going to fuck you up, Gary.

Meet My Bat, Asshole

Construction equipment blocked my way to the right, and a new Volkswagen Jetta blocked my way in front of me; it driver oblivious to my presence. I waited patiently with no traffic behind me. We were on the outskirts of a parking lot at a new shopping mecca, an altar to the American god of consumerism. The young driver who from a distance appeared to be male might have been balancing a checkbook or picking the seeds from pot. After a short while, the driver looked up and noticed me, then returned to what he was doing. Normally behavior like this would have immediately drawn my ire, but I was in a rather ambivalent mood. George W. Bush had just been re-elected, so I knew four more years of ass fucking was on the way, so getting mad at some dipshit who was wasting my time in a parking lot seemed frivolous. A little more time passed, and the driver looked up, obviously annoyed to still see me there. I shrugged my shoulders and opened my palms above the steering wheel in a placating manner. The driver angrily motioned for me to go around him to the right, despite the fact there was a large road paver about four feet from his car. I pointed to the construction equipment and then my car to show that it was physically impossible to go through. I even mouthed, “please” to the young driver.The driver gave me a look of disdain and pulled forward five feet, allowing me a very tight squeeze. He then shot his middle finger in the air as I passed. I thought to my self “Was that really necessary?” The driver then returned to whatever he was doing, oblivious to any consequences a giving a much bigger human being the finger. The audacity of the youth rankled me, not so much the bird, but the fact that he felt he could commit such an act of rudeness at close proximity and then dismiss me without even driving away, as if there would be no sort of retaliation.I threw my Sequoia into park and stepped from my car to have a chat with the lad. When I came to his window, I realized that there was a possibility that the driver might be female; I couldn’t distinguish the androgynous features. I calmly asked it was its problem was and received a look of indifference, as if this scenario unfolding was passé’. I’ve seen that look a great deal in the past four years, always from Republican zealots who dismiss protests about an unjust war, a sputtering economy, the follies of No Child Left Behind, and Dick Cheney’s penchant for pig fucking. It is the look of an old, corrupt man. While passive aggressiveness is an unbecoming trait of youth, this kid was entirely too young to be flashing that look at someone he had just offended. Suddenly I felt a civic calling.The youth’s eyes asked me. “What, you are still here?”My folded arms across my chest said, “Yes, I am here. I am going to be here for a very long time. I’m not going away.” The youth rolled his eyes to say, “Whatever.” and returned to what it was doing, in another attempt to dismiss me.”“That might work at home, Kiddo,” I said to myself, “but I am not your daddy.” I walked to the rear of the Sequoia, popped the hatch and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat. It felt real good in my hands, so I twirled it a bit, and returned to the driver’s side of the Volkswagen. The youth looked up, a bit startled that I had returned. I twirled the bat and smiled. Fear was racing from the youth’s toes to its head, but it managed one final look of bravado, saying, “Go ahead, bash my head in with that bat. You don’t have the guts to do it. This is Redlands, CA, not South Central.”I pursed my lips and shook my head to show that using the bat on the youth’s face was not my intent. I smacked the sweet part of the bat into my left hand and then pointed at the front quarter panel of the Volkswagen. From then on, I had the youth’s full attention, and there would be no more insolent posturing from the whelp.What most people do not understand is that threatening Americans with bodily harm is not there way to get their attention. A bunch of disillusioned and duped mercenaries can fly planes into very tall building in an extremely symbolic and deadly act of defiance against what the United States of America has come to represent, and Americans will not respond in fear. No, they will dust jingoist tunes off the shelf and player their cars with flag decals to keep the Boogeymen away. They will embark on the rite of passage known as “coming together” as they buy sweatshirts that say, “These colors won’t run” to show they belong. Threaten an American with death, and you piss him off, especially if it is around the time the fall TV season is starting. “Don’t fuck with me today; The Sopranos season premier is one in forty-five minutes.”To get an American’s attention, one must threaten their material goods. The barrel of an aluminum bat moving towards his new car is the fire bell that will wake any American. Once upon a time, Thomas Jefferson wrestled with the guilt of slavery, today, Americans wrestle with the guilt of accumulated material wealth. The damage a new car receives from a bat is trivial, taken care of by the insurance companies except for the deductible. However, the threat of something one owns getting royally fucked up, well, that is an attention grabber. Why is this so? Because obtaining material goods is how Americans keeps score. The more toys you have, the better your standing in the community. However, in the dark recesses of the American mind (the part that has not yet been eaten by the reptilian brain), there is a sense of guilt over this material acquisition. This guilt is usually suppressed by holiday sales at the mall, but deep down, Americans know that the reckless pursuit of material wealth is not in the best interest of their soul. Sure, and electric Jell-O cutter is not going to send one to hell, but having one is probably a sign that one has started the road to ruin.When an American’s material goods start getting destroyed, the American feels a tide of retribution aimed directly at him. “My home stereo system was just destroyed by a bunch of bat wielding psychos. It wasn’t even good enough for them to steal. How can this be happening to me?” “Because you deserve it”, comes the reply. “You know damn well that the acquisition of all that stuff was a sham. Your Best Buy credit card has been maxed out for years, but you manage to always upgrade. Well, now the Reckoning is upon you, and you certainly are fucked. Come get the ass beating that you know you have coming.”The youth is the Volkswagen had this epiphany as I played with my bat. It hadn’t “earned this car; mommy and daddy had bought it. The youth hadn’t been worthy, and now the Dark Angel was here to even up the score. “Please, please, give me one more chance,” screamed the spinning, kaleidoscope scope eyes of the now very frightened youth. Being the charitable man that, I am obliged, stepping aside to let the youth drive off.The kid threw the car in gear and sped off, holding back the tears as it dared to hope. The youth probably should not have depressed the accelerator as far as it did, but we all know how kids make mistakes, especially when they are scared shitless (Warren Zevon once told us we’re whole different people when we’re scared). Thankfully, the youth’s mistake with the gas pedal had no terrible effects, although smacking that curb could not have been good for the rims.I returned to my car and drove away, feeling a sense of civic pride as for a brief time, I had awakened a member of my community. I realized that this scenario offered hope for the future. The Election showed us that Americans will not listen to the truth, even if it presented to them in the optimum sound bytes. No, to get America’s attention, one has to threaten their material acquisitions. Had Kerry countered Bush’s bogus anti-gat pamphlet campaign with a “George Bush’s foreign policy is going to break your HDTV” pamphlet campaign of his own, he would have won the election.Alas, he didn’t, so we move forward, but at least we know now know how to proceed. As Steve Earle says, “The Revolution starts now, in your backyard and in your own hometown.