The Greatest Fucking Shows ... EVER

Hello, kiddies, this is the Devil Hisself, Evilmister, coming in to spin some fan-tastic new words.

When I was a kid growing up, one of the two coolest shows in known existence was Knight Rider. I remember being blown right the fuck away by this show. A talking car? That fights crime? It's got turbo jump, it can drive itself, it's got cameras and shit? It's fucking bullet and bomb proof, and you can talk to it on a wristwatch straight out of Dick Tracy? Sign me right the fuck up. It had everything you wanted in a show. It had the car, obviously, which was the show piece, but it also had Michael Motherfucking Knight. This dude (David Hasselhoff) was the coolest cat around, man. He had his shit so together colostomy bags ran the other way. He always caught the bad guy, and was unashamed to use his talking car to Get The Job Done. It had the patrician and ever-so-effete boss, Devon, who was head of his own very special department. Finally, rounding out the cast was Bonnie, the ultra-hot, ultra-smart (ultra-80s hairstyle) computer shiksa; this was to smooth away any unwanted homosexual feelings towards Hasselhoff, I'm sure.

When the introduced K.A.R.R, K.I.T.T's evil talking car twin, I about died. What on earth was going to happen now? They were both bombproof, both could talk, and more importantly, they both found reasons to turbo jump!

And when they introduced that titanic monstrosity, Goliath, dammit, I did die. A rig? That was like KITT? Driven by the insane son of Devon? Holy fucking shit, man, that was un-fucking-believable! This show was the shit. Of course, it was destined to die a bloated and pregnant death as people became aware that the show was pretty poorly acted, that the cool features K.I.T.T. had were by now pretty mundane and the Hasselhoff himself was actually kind of creepy. I'm sure that huge budgets and a swelled head or two didn't help.

The second greatest show in the 80s?

Airwolf. A midnight black attack chopper that is hidden away in a hollowed mesa? Driven by Jan Michael Vincent? Come on, man, get with the program! It was the fastest thing in the world, had the bestest guns, and quite frankly, was super cool. You had the boss, who was just about the neatest boss in the world, on account of he'd had an eye blown out and had to wear glasses, with one of the lenses blacked out. You had his buddy, Santini, who was played by none other than Ernest "Squeal like a Pig" Borgnine, who I think was some kind of mechanic or something, and a hot chick or two thrown in for good measure. You didn't need to have hot chicks in this show, on account of the fact that Jan Michael Vincent was always busy blowing shit up. That was, in a nutshell, his solution to everything. Bad guys in the truck? Swoop out of the hidden mesa, zoom at somewhere around a trillion miles an hour down utterly deserted roads, and blow the truck up. Guys hidden in a building with lots of guns? Do the flying out of the mesa thing, track them down, and guess what? Blow the building up. Unlike Michael Knight, "Stringfellow Hawke" has clearly unresolved issues (he spends his off-time hanging out in a cabin looking at impressionistic art and playing a cello and fastidously avoiding women who think he's hunky ........) and blows the fuck out of shit to make himself feel better. Oh yeah, and he's supposed to be looking for his brother who's lost in Vietnam, who's name is St. John Hawke. I wish my parents had named me something cool. Sadly, Monsieur Hawke is now ... um ... chock full o'nuts. He totalled his career awhile back by hitting the booze, the drugs, and his wife, and now looks kind of like you'd expect. I saw him on one of those Entertainment Tonight's ghastly 'where are they now' eps, and he's concvinced that Hollywood is against him.

The only thing that could have been even cooler than Knight Rider and Airwold apart was a Knight Rider/Airwolf crossover series. A talking car with turbo jump driven by a guy with awesome hair and all the ladies teamed up with a faster-than-light helicopter armed with more guns and cannons and shit piloted by a guy who, um ... plays cello and ignores women ... anyways, that would have been the fucking shit. I am serious. Teenage boys all across the land would have fucking died from sheer awesome-osity overload.

Airwolf.....Knight Rider.... together ... are you shitting me ... what, do the take control of the United States ... take on martians .... travel through time ... holy fuck .... this is so cool.....

The only thing that could have made it even better was if they could have contrived to have the A-Team in it to provide background support.

Oh man, do I miss 80s television.

What the Fuck is Wrong with People?

Firstly, I must say that my much anticipated freedom from Meep-Meep was a little overhasty; he has not been laid off, and since someone else has left the fold, it appears as though he is going to stay on a little while longer. Perhaps the title for this little blog should be 'Meep-Meep 2, Return of Meep-Meep, Meep-Meep's Revenge'.

That being said, along with the tyrannical tyrade, my opus of oppression, my ... blog of ... badness.

See, here's the thing. We all know the following:

• I hate people
• I hate crazy people
• I dislike Meep-Meep

It should come as no surprise then that I mention Ol' Meep is on the meds. I didn't mention it before because, well, I was being uncharacteristically nice. A person's inner whackiness is his/her/its personal business. But when some crazy ass motherfucker starts explaining to me in graphic detail just what the fuck is wrong with them, we have seriously jumped off the track of polite conversation and taken a U-turn into Nutland.

What's wrong with the Meepster? I'll try and recap as best I can, but since this conversation went on for several hours, I may miss some shit. I might wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror at the stuff I repressed, but what I do remember is good enough.

Here goes.

1. He was not born insane, nor was he made crazy by chemicals. He was, in fact, driven mad by a woman. This woman made a speech at him about how happy she was, and then he wound up staying awake for two months. Then he went crazy.
2. When he was a child, someone asked him how he'd like to meet his future wife. He said 'in an accident' and when he broke his leg as an adult, he met this woman in the hospital, who also had a broken leg. There is also, apparently, another future wife of his out there (he refers to them both as young wife and old wife) and they 'both know what I am doing, and what I am all about')
3. If you are speaking in a foreign language, and you are making fun of him, he will know. If you upset him enough, he will slam both his hands over your ears and make you deaf for life. This is a wrestling move that he picked up from the WWE, which he watches to learn self-defense techniques.
4. He somehow conveyed to Mick Foley (a wrestler) that in order to be famous, he would need the sock. Oh, and the Undertaker somehow contributed to his famousness, though not in the normal sense; I got the impression that the Undertaker somehow performed some Cabalistic rite.
5. He further informed the Rock that ovens were invented to warm up a woman's shirt so her boobs could be warmed up, and that the elements were to keep your hands warm.
   
6. When he was a young man, someone asked him who he'd like to see in charge of Russia, to which he replied 'someone who drinks'. Since the last two Russian Prime Ministers have been heavy drinkers, Meepsteronomous Bosch takes full credit.
7. He has the blood of all five prime Nationalities in him (Russian, English, Native, Crazy and Jewish). Since he is so graced, I think he thinks he is next in line to rule the planet.
   
8. If you think bad thoughts at him, he will know.
   
9. He came up with the idea of chemical driven rockets, using sulphur as the primary catalyst for flight.
   
10. He can control women through their G-spots. (this makes me shudder, because his fingers are nicotine stained to the second or third knuckle on each hand)
11. He has an alternate personality named Stan, who is smarter than he is and who has an uncle. He finds it fascinating that another person in his mind can have relatives, and that he has met this relative at Loughheed Mall.
    

The only things that didn't come up were aliens, the Illuminati, Hitler and the Bermuda Triangle. Sadly, Meep-Meep is not the first paranoiac with delusions of grandeur I've encountered. Being who I am, I draw the insane to me like moths to a flame. Far be it from me to make mock of someone with a serious problem (I say this every now and again for the hell of it), but HOLY FUCK. I mean, holy fucking fuck. Meep-Meep needs to go on stronger medication, because the shit he's on now isn't working (as far as I understand it, brain meds are supposed to alleviate chemical imbalances in the brain that hinder the proper firing of neurons, thereby tainting the stream of continual information into some pretty fucked up shit). Meep-Meep needs to go on Lithium or one of those drugs that make you drool a lot.

If this motherfucker wigs out on me, there will be repercussions. I can't handle crazy people. I have enough of them inside my own head, why should I have to put up with them in the real world?

I promise....

All right, so I turned into one massive fucking marshmallow this weekend. I did next to nothing, and at times even had to remind myself to kick the autonomic processes (breathing, blinking, thinking). I tried several times to post something, but every time I got distracted by something bright and shiny, or in the case of television, something loud and catchy. I admit that I'm easily distracted, which is probably why I'm still not in control of the entire planet (I'm about four years behind schedule at this point.)

With that being said, I received an email earlier this week regarding my idolatry of the Dog. As it is with the web, it is sometimes difficult to convey sarcasm and shit like that. I promise that sometime today or tomorrow, I will post this person's (who is anonymous) email, and attempt to explain ... nahhhhh, fuck it. I'll post the email and make fun.

Sincerely yours,

The Devil Hisself, EvilMister

Get the Fuck Out of My Way

I got somethin' to say.

I'd say that pretty much everyone who lives in a place with a mall has been in a mall. I don't care if you say you've never been there, that's a lie. You've been there. So, consequently, when you've been in a mall, you've been in a line-up, or a queue, or the soul-sucker (that's where you stand in a line for more than five minutes, and all you have is one item). And if you've been in a line-up, you know the procedure. It's pretty fucking simple. So simple, in fact, that it's kind of fucking automatic. The cashiers are there to help speed this along. Here is the procedure:

1. Present items to purchase/order food/drink/tickets
2. Wait for cashier to tally prices, then tell you how much you must pay (this is also illuminated on nifty cash register screens, so you don't even have to listen if you don't wanna)
3. present method of payment
4. take goods/drinks/food/tickets and leave the line

Does this happen all the time, like it should? Now, I'm what I call a commando shopper. I don't even leave the house until I know exactly what I want, where to get it, how much to spend, how I'm going to pay. I get in, I get out. Rambo and Chuck Norris have got nothing on me. In and out like the fucking wind.

Sadly, where I live, I am almost alone. This is a far more likely scenario. I will use a Starbucks as my locale.

1. Order a moccachino/mocha latte/caffey laddie/ask what's good to drink/ask the fat content of the buttermilk cinnamon role/ask if they have a snack food not sold since the 80's.
2. Get horribly confused by size of drink (small, regular, big, bigbig --- don't let the fancy faux-Italian names fool you), forcing barista to rely on monkey see-monkey do style selling (holding up drink cup and pointing to it, mimicking a person drinking)
3. Order five or six different drinks from a napkin in your pocket (forgetting that their is one more on the back until you're at the other end, picking up drinks, and the new line is twice as big)
4. Ask that drinks have names printed on them.
5. Ask for one very specific cookie, at the bottom, in the back, underneath all the other cookies, that is only different in so far as it possesses a mildly different geophysical location.
6. Send it back when it has nuts in it because, fortunately, you will die if you eat nuts.
7. Drop your keys, pick them up, knock down a bag of coffee.
8. Quibble over the price by mentally calculating how much it should cost in crazy world, forcing barista to go over the entire order line by line, complete with GST and PST breakdown.
9. Try to pay by debit.
10. Try to pay by credit card.
11. Pull out half a dozen Starbucks pay as you go cards and hope you have enough.
12. Let a friend at the back of the line put their order on yours.
13. Realize you have enough cash in your pocket after all and pay with cash, intentionally shorting the barista a quarter but getting busted anyway
14. Turning around and looking at the line then having the indeceny to 'apologize' by saying you've never been to a Starbucks before.
    

Let me tell you something, you cockass motherfucker. Starbucks is like, final year of University interaction with the outside world. You don't just jump in with both feet and hope to come out standing. The variables involved in a successful coffee/cash transaction are so dense it makes quantum physics math look like grade school counting with apples (JOhnny has six apples, he gives you two apples, how many apples does Johnny have left?) Everyone else in the line is suffering from the Jones, and they can hardly breathe by the time they make it to the line, the last thing they want to go through is BoBo The Chimp trying to sham his way through a Grand Magus level exchange of goods and services. The baristas can see you coming a mile away, and they've protected themselves by throwing the least efficient barista in the front counter (this is also a way to thin the herd) in the hopes that his/her/its communication skills will be to your level. They don't like it when you see the syrup rack after you've ordered and then try to con your way into some vanilla. We all hate it when you act as though your ignorance is, in some way, humorous and not your fault.

It is your fault. Your ignorance is entirely your fault. If you can't handle the line at a Starbucks, if you can't get in and get out without more than five minutes going by, go to Timmy's or McDonald's. Do I sound like the Soup Nazi? Maybe a little. I jibjab with the kids on the counter as often as I can but only when there is no line. Have I been going there a long time? Yes. More than ten years. Should I give people the chance to have my level of experience?

Fuck no. If life was a MUD, I'd be PK'ing those motherfuckers left right and center.

And I don't even wanna get started on what happens when there are children involved in the ordering process, other than to say I almost stabbed someone to death the other day with my index finger.

Alas, Poor Meep-Meep, We Knew Him Well

So, decided earlier this week that I would rename ChronicSmoker Meep-Meep, and for more than just the obvious reasons. Well, all right. Not really. Calling a dood Meep-Meep makes me laugh my ass off every fucking time I think of it. Sometimes I say it out loud, then start howling with laughter. More than one person has already looked at me funny, but I don't care. Calling a guy Meep-Meep is fucking hilarious. You might not think so, but then again, you are not me, and this is my blog. MEEP-MEEP. MEEP-MEEEE-MEEEEEEP.

As to why poor Meep-Meep, well, it's simple.

At the end of this week, there will only be one Retard from Express Personnel, and that retard is me. And once 60 more days is done, I will no longer be a retard from Express, but a gomer from the packing plant instead. Yep. That's right. My most supreme and sublime magnifence in learning how to fill bags and put them through a heat sealer (this is something any chimp from NASA could do, and I really do mean chimpanzees) has garnered me employment. A direct result of my continued awesome-osity is the removal of Meep-Meep from my personal space.

Why is this important?

I am not a friendly person unless you have something I want. I mean, come on, I am incredibly polite and nice to people who work at the places where I buy things from, and for a few reasons. One being that I don't want a 'dipper' (someone sticking their finger in my coffee) and the other being that I am a shameless flirt. If it was the 70's, I'd be the guy in the velour shirt open to my navel trying to lick my eyebrows suggestively. Unless you are in a position to give me what I need (friendship, nudity, well made coffee beverages), you should probably avoid me. I learned the cold shoulder on the beggar-filled alleys of Vancouver, and once you've been hit with my look of disdain, you might not recover. My unapproachability is only magnified before and after work.
Meep-Meep and I share the same bus route. This does not please me, nor has it ever pleased me. Your garden variety nutbag realizes that a person with headphones on playing speed metal (Rob Zombie, Godsmack, Disturbed, etc) on his MP3 loud enough to startle small children in Indonesia is someone who doesn't want to talk. To anyone. Meep-Meep, on the other hand, is not your garden variety whackjob. So I pulled out the big guns. I started reading and listening to the headphones.

This does not work. Meep-Meep is fundamentally incapable of realizing that, probably 'cuz he's insane. Nor has he copped to the fact that the process of marking my place in the book, pausing my headphones, and removing one of them so that I can hear him takes longer than his inane comments do to make it past his toothless gums. And then I have to replace the headphone, turn the music back on, then find my place again. All for him to shout "MEEP-MEEP-MEEEEmeep".

So, at the end of the week, Meep-Meep's tenure will come to a thankful close and I will be free to be the cantankerous SOB I was born to be.

Fare the well, Meep-Meep, and wear your teeth, because the sight of you gumming a sandwich will be with me always.

And I do mean always.