Hello, this is Jeff typing, and I have an unfortunate announcement to make.  A few days ago Metten and I acknowledged the 350 lb mama’s boy in the room, and finally had a conversation about the future of this website.

And we’ve decided to take it down.

This is something that makes me sad, because it’s been a lot of fun.  We’ve been at it for roughly a year, and, at the risk of sounding self-congratulatory, there’s some really funny shit posted here.

But, for whatever reason (needless to say, I blame myself), Mockable never attracted a large audience.  At one point there were roughly 500 visitors per day, which ain’t too shabby, but it’s decreased over the past few months.  Not a good sign.

When I came up with the idea for the site, I envisioned it as a depository for comic bitching about the little everyday things that irritate us.  I thought we’d get to the point where Mockable pretty much ran on autopilot, as readers provided the content.

Indeed, we received a lot of great submissions, and I thank everyone who participated.  You guys are awesome!  But the large, vibrant community I imagined never gathered.  Again, I take the blame.

I want to thank everyone who visited the site on a regular basis (both of you), everybody who submitted a guest Mock, and especially Metten.

Over the years I’ve attempted to collaborate on various projects with people, and it hasn’t gone well.  There’s usually a disparity in passion, if you know what I mean.  One of us is more committed than the other, and it leads to hard feelings and the wheels quickly flying off the project.

But Metten has been committed throughout.  In fact, he’s largely responsible for keeping the site operational over the past few months.  At the end I was posting fiction one day a week.  WTF?

So, anyway.  Thanks for everything.  And you haven’t heard the last of the Metten/Kay collaborations.  This one didn’t work, but the next one will.  I’m convinced of it.

Metten might want to post a goodbye, as well.  Or maybe he’ll let this one speak for both us.  I don’t know.  But we’re going to leave the site as it is for a week or so, then remove everything but our farewells.  We agree that Mockable shouldn’t just sit here dormant and sad and flaccid.

So, if you’re interested, revisit the archives while you can.  And we’ll see you guys elsewhere, real soon.

Thank you!

America, still reeling from the news of Scott Baio’s untimely passing, enters its fourth day of mourning on Tuesday.  Candlelight vigils have been held nightly at dozens of locations around the country, and devastated fans worldwide are tying bandanas around their right legs, in remembrance of the fallen actor and cultural icon.

The tributes have been glowing and unceasing.

“(Baio’s) contributions cannot be overstated,” said U.S. House of Representatives Minority Whip, Eric Cantor.  “I think it’s safe to say he was the voice and face of a generation.  The man was a giant, and there will never be another like him.  Someday I hope to see his face on Rushmore.”

Eric Schmidt, CEO of Google:  “For one hour on Thursday afternoon, all search results at Google dotcom will return nothing but Scott Baio-related results.  Also, for the remainder of the month, the left O in our logo will be Chachi’s head.”

Breaking an almost thirty-year silence, legendary author J.D. Salinger released the following statement to the press yesterday:

“I, like so many, was and am an avid fan of Mr. Baio’s immense talents and contributions.  Indeed, in early 2002 I was involved in a minor fistfight in a Cornish bar, when another patron insinuated Dr. Jonas Salk was the greater man.  I had to set the fellow straight on the matter.”

L.L.L. Anderson, Director of NASA:  “All of us at the institute are devastated by the news of Mr. Baio’s death, and our best wishes go out to his friends and family.  In recognition of his unsurpassed contributions to the human race, we have received signed statements from seventeen world nations, all agreeing to refer to Earth’s moon as “Scott” for the balance of the year.  Godspeed, my good man.”

Jerry Hill, president of Pretentious-Ass Blog Commenters of America, left the following identical comment at dozens and dozens of websites and forums over the weekend:  “Goodnight sweet prince.”

On Monday’s edition of NBC’s Today Show, co-host Matt Lauer teased an upcoming segment with the following words. “Move over Jesus?  Was Scott Baio the greatest human who ever lived?  In a few minutes you’ll meet two people who are making the case.”

Scott Baio began his career as an actor, famously portraying the character “Chachi Arcola” on the 1970s situation comedy Happy Days, as well as a short-lived spinoff, Joanie Love Chachi.  He later enjoyed success in many fields, including physics, chemistry, physiology, race relations, bluegrass music, soccer, and animal husbandry.

Baio died Friday, following a freak accident involving a “potato gun.”

Like many people, I was deeply impoverished as a young adult.   I had student loans to pay.  I had a shitty entry-level job and no money in the bank. Of course, I could always find money for beer and other related shenanigans – but paying the rent and keeping food, clothes and shelter around always seemed like an incredibly tall order.  That’s where The Street came into play.

The Street is a buffet-style franchise that’s never really made it out of the Kansas City area.   Their claim to fame used to be $2.99 all-you-can-eat pie.  The weird thing about it was that it wasn’t really that bad.  If one played their cards right they could go to ”The Street” late in the day, gorge themselves as much as possible and have their food needs covered for about three days.  Nobody could quite figure out exactly how it was so cheap.  There were several “soylent pie”-based theories that no one was ever able to confirm or deny.  The explanation I liked the best was the “angry sauce” theory:

My friend Mitchell realized that every time he would eat their food, he would suddenly and inexplicably get angry, be a dick to people and have a terrible day.  He theorized that the franchise was actually operated by Satan himself and the reason that the food was so cheap was  because Satan wanted to widely distribute the angry sauce and turn people against one another.  I don’t really think he believed the theory as he was an aggressive atheist, but he never wanted to eat there after he developed the idea.

So anyway, I moved away from the area for three years and I’ve just now gotten an opportunity to return to “The Street” .  The price has increased to $4.49 (hey man, even Lucifer’s got overhead), but other than that, nothing’s changed.  The food was halfway decent, the clientele was the epitome of the “holy shit, we’re broke” demographic and I’m sitting here, two hours later, pissed as hell for no reason.

These here colors don’t run

Now, because the food is unlimited and cheap as hell, the clientele is similar to what one might find at Wal-Mart…and like Wal-Mart, one of these guys must be on duty at all times.  You can’t see it because of my shitty cell phone, but there’s a bald eagle on his shirt.  I’ve always found it strange that the people who have the most right to be pissed at this country are the ones that are usually the most vocal (and tacky) in their support of it.  Hey, nobody’s mocking patriotism here…just the tacky assed shirt that was probably made in China anyway.

Nonchalantly Keeping an Eye Out for Her Eyebrows

This lady sat behind me.  She was obviously out for a Saturday night dinner.  Her blouse was silkesque.  Her boobs were appropriately exposed for family dining at a discount buffet.  She was all set for a night to remember.  Except her brows apparently had other plans…

This installment of our award-deserving Friday Guest Mock series is by our pal Chuck in Belpre.  Enjoy!

I see you out there in the driveway next door.  I see you have the hood up on that piece of shit Cavalier you bought last Spring from your brother-in-law.  It has one blue door even though the rest of the car is red.  That front driver’s side tire looks kind of low.  I wonder if you know that?  I notice that you have to prop the hood open with your snow shovel.  Is that the same one you don’t use to shovel your sidewalk?

I see you have your Super Pro 100 piece tool-kit.  The one you bought at Wal-Mart for about $15.  It has a nice plastic case and everything.  The tools look nice and shiny like they have never been used.  Ratchets and sockets in all sizes both metric and standard, each in its own fitted compartment.  Pretty.  But, I know you have no idea what you are looking at under that hood.  And you know I know.

So, I take it that the car won’t start. Again.  Could that have anything to do with the fact that it was close to zero last night with a light snow?  Or the fact that the battery that came with the car was pretty much dead when you bought it?  Probably.

Ah!  You turn to look toward my house…just like I knew you would.  You see me standing here in the kitchen window looking out.  You wave.  I don’t wave back.  I can’t fucking stand you.  What you can’t see is that I already have my battery charger in my hand.  But I’m not coming out to help you until you walk up here and knock on the door.  Then I will make you wait out there in the freezing cold another five minutes before I answer the door, that greasy mullet of yours blowing in the cold wind.

You also can’t see what’s tucked into the waistband of my pants at the small of my back.

So, we go out into the cold and I give you the battery charger and you hook it up to the battery and plug it into the outlet on the side of your single-wide with a long orange extension cord.  I tell you to get in and try it, but, of course it won’t start yet.  I walk around to your window and look down into your stupid eyes and watch them go wide as you see what I’m holding.

The sound of the shot echoes across the flat fields and I’m glad I bought this farm way out in the middle of nowhere.  The closest neighbor is over two miles away and I know no one is home this time of day to hear the sound.  I have just the spot for you and your rattle-trap Chevy, out in the middle of the apple orchard.  Every time I eat an apple next Fall I will think of you.  Down there among the roots and the grubs.  Good riddance.

I look up at your bedroom window and see your wife’s eyes and that shy smile she is so quick with.  The one that makes most men go all watery in the knees.  And before you are even frozen stiff I’ll have her bent over the arm of your favorite recliner.  It’s not like I haven’t done it before.

I just considered typing the following phrase into a serious academic effort, “If this assertion is to be believed, there would be little to no crime in the petrified forest of Lesbos.”  I think I might need a couple hours of sleep.

Here’s a facebook conversation I had yesterday:

9:50pmNathan

can i get an opinion on something

9:50pmMetten

Whether or not you should use punctuation? Yes, you should.

9:50pmNathan

is this worth it or not

i run a lot, and i was thinking about getting nike+ (with a new ipod)

9:51pmMetten

Sure…if that’s your thing

9:54pmNathan

damn jason, i wanted a yes or no

9:54pmMetten

Okay, then no. Buy one of those vagina-in-a-flashlight things.

9:55pmNathan

i haven’t seen that

9:55pmMetten

Evidently it’s called (WARNING, LINK NSFW) “the fleshlight”

9:56pmNathan

nice

9:57pmMetten

“it looks light a flashlight, but feels like a vagina” I wish I had such a gift for writing copy – I wonder if there’s some point in the lives of all fleshlight owners where they realize that they’re fucking a flashlight and start sobbing uncontrollably?

9:57pmNathan

i love it

9:58pmMetten

“runner up, the butt fleshlight!”

9:58pmNathan

ha ha ha

9:59pmMetten

and at $64.95, you’ve cut your recreational spending in half!

9:59pmNathan

It really resembles an anus and what’s great is that it looks inconspicuous compared to the other anal toys I’ve used — with and without my wife.” he used anal toys with his wife?

10:00pmMetten

“Here honey! watch me assfuck this flashlight!”

10:00pmNathan

ha ha ha. i could see it happening

10:01pmMetten

so yeah, no. Don’t buy the Garmin. Stay home and fuck a flashlight for exercise. You’re welcome and glad I could help.

What did you guys do last night?

I share this because I found the conversation funny and I thought you might too.  Unfortunately, mockable seems to be going down the shitter pretty fast and I can’t conceive of any way to save it.  I have written more, I have written less.  I have written better, I’ve used more guest mocks.  I’ve asked Jeff for more (this whole thing was his idea btw) and even tried to follow that asshole Jauncho’s advice.  I thought it might help if I encouraged you to write your own mocks in the comments about the type of person that would insert their penis into a flashlight…because that’s in the “make your humor site more popular for dummies” manual.

Here’s another one from Emily.  Have I mentioned that I love mocks from Emily?  If this girl gets any cooler (and if my number 4 pipe somehow becomes a number 10), the wife better look out.

Um Steve, I think you may have exaggerated a bit on the size of your pipe.

So I know that it is human nature to fudge your numbers a bit-and men and women tend to fudge different numbers. For women it is age and weight and for men it is height. Now I’m all for lying about my age- I like to tell people I’m about 7-8 years older than I am as this allows for all kinds of compliments on how young I look and how great and perky my breasts still are. Now I know others go opposite and try to get by with being younger, but you’re really setting yourself up for failure as someone walks away thinking if that if that is all the older you are then you must have been rode hard.

Now for weight I will admit I have a range and it has a lot to do with the time of month and what the blizzard of the month is at Dairy Queen, and my driver’s license reflects the low end of that spectrum but on half the days of any given month, I’m right there. This brings me to my mock. Come on people by all means fudge a bit but you have to make it believable. I mean I could say I weigh 20 pounds less than I do but since my name isn’t Mary Kate or Ashley, nobody would believe me or take me seriously, they might even think me delusional.

That being said, the rest of this is for all the men that try to convince me that they are 6-8 inches taller than they really are. Average height for women in the U.S. is 5 foot 4 (or so says my 3 minutes of online research) so I am slightly taller than average at 5 foot 7 but I am not freakishly tall. Now I have arrived at this number based on medical records and I don’t believe them to be wrong. Average height for a male in this country is about 5 foot 8. Average meaning about half will fall above this number and half below. There is nothing wrong with being shorter than this, it is what it is and one has to learn to live with ones height, but there is something horribly wrong with being 5-2 at best, eye level with the bottom of my head and trying to tell me that you are 5-8. I will go along with this as I am nice like that but if, at this point of a conversation (that I did not initiate) you try to tell me that I am some sort of amazon I will laugh. It is one thing to lie to yourself but it is a bit over the top to try to tell that I am wrong about my height and if you are one of these men who suffer from little man’s syndrome and habitually add a half a foot to your measurements, there is no doubt in my mind that you have left in your wake a bunch of disappointed women who didn’t realize until it was too late that your 10 inch pipe was really 4.

Due to my profound douchishness, we are down to one guest mock.  As there is no end of my douchishness in site, please send more guest mocks to mockable (at) gmail.com.  Either we’ll make you famous or I will make you feel all creepy and gross by talking about my pipe…either way it should be fun.

Dear Carnie Wilson:

Seriously, I understand that being the daughter of a crazy man like Brian Wilson may have molded you into the annoying butterball you have been, then not, then were again, but I really need to express how I feel about you.

You and your sister, and that really hot blonde chick (Phillip?), somehow parlayed your singing talents into a somewhat successful musical abortion known as Wilson Phillips. You endured the stigma of being the fat one, but you just maniacally laughed it off in interviews and counted your money. Then, you went away, and I was happy that I would not have to see your frying pan face again.

Then, since fellow overeater actress Ricki Lake had her own talk show, you threw your size eleven hat into the ring and followed suit. It was called CARNIE! The exclamation point was a nice touch, but you lasted about as long as a cow in a lake of piranhas, which should have led you to realize that most people could not stand you. For a brief time, you made me happy, and went away again.

Then you got your pie shaped face out there again and had an internetally (I made that word up myself) broadcast stomach staple surgery. You lost 150 pounds, and they didn’t have to cut off your head to get those results. Then you went away, again, bringing me hope that I had seen the last of you. But no! Then you came back, posed for some ridiculous Playboy pictures. Who told you that ANYONE wanted to see you in Playboy? That landed you a somewhat gay husband, even though you decided that you were a lesbian when you were a teenager. Then, you rode that wave out of town. I don’t know where you went, but the buffet caught up with you, and you came back. To Celebrity Fit Club, no less. You vowed to get back in shape again and pose for Playboy again, even though no one asked you to. Then you went away again.

Why won’t you fucking stay away? Somehow, you got Bob Eubanks’ old job. Bob is the ONLY host of the Newlywed Game in my opinion, and it should always be that way until Bob passes on to Game Show Host Heaven. Just like Richard Dawson should be the only host of Family Feud. Look what happened to Ray Combs. Get the picture, Carnie? What’s next—Steve Harvey will be the new host (Oh, wait, that’s fucking happening!) Upon getting Bob’s job, Carnie said “My personality and energy is perfect for something like this. First of all, I’m married, and I loved watching The Newlywed Game when I was younger. I watched it all the time.” Therefore….my knowledge of Tom Seaver would inevitably allow me to strike out Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez back to back. Therefore…..my knowledge of John Holmes….Okay, never mind.

You are only annoying, not funny. You are only loud, not talented. But you didn’t stop there. Now, as if ANYFUCKINGBODY cares, we have now been blessed, on GSN (why?) with a reality show about YOU, your gay husband, your two future high school dropouts and your money problems to go along with your calorie intake problems. I don’t know what type of voodoo you used to suck my wife into this show, but she CAN’T FUCKING MISS IT! I was happy to get a wide-screen TV for Christmas, but I didn’t know your wide-screen ass was going to come with it. So you’re broke. Where did all the Wilson Phillips money go Carnie? The Playboy money? The Newlywed Game money? Oh wait, you just turned around. I see where it went.

Sure, there are other people I would like to see go away. Jay Leno. Deion Sanders. Gene Simmons. But not nearly as much as I would like to see you sent to Antarctica. But you would probably figure out a way to get a show filmed there about you, too.

I pray for you to go away. Hopefully things will go my way, if I hold on for one more day….hold on for one more day.

As always, Zazu rules…

I have a married son soon to be the same age as I.  He is seriously responsible.  He and his wife have been together 12 years.  They have a nice home and a really good relationship.  I think that is why we have to play out this drama every so often.

Periodically he likes to sit me down to have “the talk”.  The where he explains to me I need to find someone to spend my old age with.  The he will go on and explain why.  He tells me he worries about me being alone.  Personally I think he is just afraid I might want to come live with him at some point.  He doesn’t know I am way more afraid that he will want me to come live with him some day than I am that I will actually want to do something that foolish.  It have nightmares just thinking about the possibility that he thinks he might actually be able to boss me around some day.

Since these little talks usually happen around the holiday dinner table my other sons are present too but not worried.  They don’t live in nice houses.  The youngest, our resident smartass, does live in a fashionable suburb of Atlanta but rents the house with about six other guys.  I wonder what the neighbors think of the smell of sweat socks and beer that must permeate the entire lot.  The other one lives in a van down by the river, and is too happily laid back to sweat over my future.

So they slump down in their chairs and listen but don’t say much. They might roll their eyes a bit, but they know this doesn’t concern them.  They know no old ladies (me) will ever ask to come live with them.

I never know what triggers it but, out of the blue, the talk always starts off like this:

“Mom, you really need to find someone.”

“Why?”

“You don’t need to be alone.”

“I am not alone.  I have 5 cats and 3 dogs.  I don’t even get to go pee by myself.”

“That is not what I mean and you know it.”

“I am really OK. “

“For now.”

“Hey, I like my life the way it is.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I like being able to go where I want and do what I want, when I want, and if I want.”

“But you need someone to take care of you!”

If you ask me this means he is worried that I might want him to come fix things around my house for me.  After all, he is pretty handy and he has nice tools.  I always make sure I buy him some nice new do-dad every Christmas.

“Look son, there are good reasons I don’t ever want to get hooked up again.”

“Yeah, I know.  You are down on all men.”

“No I’m not.  Just the ones I gave birth to.”

“Then why aren’t you interesting in finding anyone?”

This is where I trot out the logical.  Yes logic, and don’t think it is feminine logic.  Logic is logic.  Everyone should be able to understand logic; even my son.  I’ve always been very good at logic. Probably one of the reasons I am single.

“Look son, consider the statistics.  To start with, more girls than boys are born and the girls live longer.  So that means over half of the population at any given time is not even male.  Half of the males are not even straight.  Out of the straight half, half of them are too young for me and half of them are too old.  Of the half that is in my age group, half of them are probably married.  I am not home wrecker.  Half of the ones that are left are divorced.  There is at least one good reason why they are divorced.  The other half were probably never married.  There is usually more than one good reason why no one would marry them.  That leaves only the widowers.  Half of them probably sent the wife in an early grave.  The other half would have been divorced if their wives had lived long enough.  Of the half that are widowers who were good husbands, half of them probably have kids.  I don’t want kids.  I have too many of those already.  So that only leaves me a few middle aged guys who don’t love mama best, never had kids, and never killed their wives.  How many of those do you think are hot or even have hair?  Maybe one and I can assure you, he doesn’t even live anywhere near here.  So you see the statistics are not in my favor.  You can’t argue with statistics.”

I wait a minute while he is thinking up his reply.  To forestall any snappy come back, I pull out the big guns.

“So I guess I have to stay single…”

“No you don’t.”

“…unless you want me to become a lesbian.  I always said I’d like a wife – someone to cook and clean and tell me how great I am.”

He gives me the look.  My son, the liberal, can’t even picture having a gay mom.

“Mom, that is just a bunch of rationalization!”

Silently I think to myself he could be right about that.  My first skill is logic but my second is rationalizing.

“At your age, you know that you don’t have to get married to have a “relationship”.”  He ends with air quotes.

“I know that!”

“Then, why won’t you just go out with someone?”

The youngest, Mr. Smartass, pipes up for the first time.  “Because no one will ask her.”

Carefully chosen racially diverse men touch each other.

On February 3rd, Jeff Kay posted An Open Letter to the People Who Insist On Touching Me All the Time.  As the guy who posted this on September 24th, 2009 – I am all for personal space and the banishment of people who seem to think that it’s okay to engage in heavy petting at a business meeting – but Mr. Kay’s effort goes too far.

Mr. Kay begins the article by spinning the tale of the fat lady who smells like clove gum (likely this woman) telling him a story and punctuating the story’s climax with a series of unwelcome touches.  I get this.  There’s a good chance that if I ever find myself in this position that I would gently grab the woman’s wrist and remove her hand from my person.  If she continued, I might punch her.

Kay then attacks the handshake as “men who expect me to hold their hand for a few seconds when we meet…just as gay as a shoe with bells on it.” It is at this point that a line is crossed.  According to Wikipedia (rule of thumb, when someone begins a sentence with “According to Wikipedia” they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.  In this case, there’s a direct attribution to Gentleman’s Quarterly, so you know it’s legit.  Except for the obvious fact that one may not want to quote Gentleman’s Quarterly if they wish to disprove that something is gay.) the purpose of the handshake is to convey trust, balance, and equality.  None of this has to do with homosexuality.

In fact, I would go so far as to contend that the handshake is a little test.  If you can manage the proper grip, eye contact and duration of the handshake, then maybe you can handle something a little more complex, like my daughter’s heart surgery…or whatever.  If you freak out, try to break my hand and then refuse to let go for several seconds – well, you may not be the guy for the job.  At no point, in contrast to Jeff Kay’s homooversexed ass, am I wondering about your sexual preference. I swear to God – it’s amazing when one compares the level of acceptance that the homosexual community enjoys today (it’s nowhere near acceptable, but you gotta admit it’s better than it’s ever been) with the amount of fear that straight guys have of someone mistaking them for gay.  I am currently reading this book and let me tell you something brother – dudes were into each other in the mid-nineteenth century.  They often slept in the same bed and they said stuff to each other in general correspondence that, if said to a lady at a local club, would get you kicked in the stones faster than feeling up her mother.  Now we can’t even shake hands without being branded a homo?  Seriously?

So anyway – I get that you might not want to touch the strange hand of a woman that could easily have been “auditioning the finger puppets” over lunch for all you know, but to brand the handshake as “just as gay as a shoe with bells on it” is going too far.  I have long maintained that Jeff Kay is “the Woody Allen of people” (a joke which has yet to receive one single laugh) and I suspect that this position is but another piece of evidence that Mr. Kay is a slave to his own neuroses.  A gay sex slave, in fact.

Kay then gently walks onto sacred ground and takes a long, steamy piss on my beloved fist bump.  “And don’t even get me started on the fist bumpers.  That one really bothers me.  It seems to be a hip and jaunty way of fulfilling the bizarre need for dermis rubbing, made to seem manly and cool and sporty.” Look, just because something has been wholly co-opted by assholes doesn’t mean that it is now only for those assholes.  Most of us early adopters co-opted it from unsuspecting black people.  As we all know, this is the only way for white people from central Iowa to appear cool.

First – from the perspective of germaphobes (or, in this case, neurotic weirdos) it doesn’t get any weirder than Howie Mandel.  His struggles with irrational fear are both monumental and well documented.  This is a guy who would use his own money to sanitize private planes just to get to gigs.   Yet, despite the level of illness that he managed to  reach before going public and getting help, he was still able to bump fists with strangers to show that he was a decent guy.  It appears that if the Jeff Kays of the world ran the place I would walk into the room, extend my hand or fist to his and he would respond, “Not gonna happen faggot.  Keep your booger hooks to yourself.”

I would think that the opportunity to convey a similar message and a proper amount of respect by simply touching knuckles rather than rubbing the parts that hold the toilet paper would be a welcome opportunity for Mr. Kay.  Unfortunately, his need to reject all those things that assholes do as “uncool” causes him to eliminate the possibility of the fist bump.  I understand how the fist bump, the high five and joining a frat might be seen as a display of latently homoerotic behavior, but once again – there is a time and place for everything (except rape…and Garth Brooks…however, it would be funny if Garth Brooks was repeatedly raped for that “Friends in Low Places” piece of shit).  When cheering for your sports team devolves into touching…well, that helps to advance the theory that watching sports in the first place is a Freudian replacement for a desire to do it with other dudes.  Simply touching knuckles in a greeting or to show one’s commitment to a shared business venture seems pretty harmless to me, if not admirable.

Finally – There’s nothing cooler than when a guy from the midwest tries to emulate black culture.  Everybody loves it when I call my friends dawg and when (after looking around to make sure that there’s no black people within earshot) I refer to my friends as “nigga”.  We all get a good chuckle and I’m sure everyone thinks better of me for it.  Besides, if it’s good enough for Elvis and Eminem, it’s certainly good enough for me dawg – word. *daps all around, bitchez*

Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with the bumping of fists – just don’t give me a fucking back rub.  Further, when I meet you for the first time and extend my hand in greeting, and you look at it like I’m trying to hand you feces – you’re the weirdo.  Just thought you should know.

Today’s Guest Mock is provided by Chuck in Belpre, and it made me want a cigarette.  I was able to resist, but if you want to come over and smoke several cigarettes in my general vicinity…well, I wouldn’t be opposed to that. You can see more from Chuck at cwahart.com. On with the mock:

I enjoy smoking. There, I said it. I enjoy that first hit of nicotine in the morning, that rush of well-being that greets me as I pour the day’s first cup of coffee. And after a good meal there is nothing that can compare to leaning back in satisfaction and lighting up. The smell of fine Turkish tobacco lit with a wooden match is like the finest perfume. A cigarette held lightly between the fingers looks somehow cool and elegant. The slow curl of smoke under the bedside lamp is a dramatic way to end the day, the cares and worries of the day blown away in a fragrant, gauzy cloud. Yes, I enjoy it.

Oh, I know that my lungs probably look like the inside of a truck tire. I look at it as a toughening process. I am able to stroll through forest fires and Indian restaurants without so much as a choke or wheeze. Weekend BBQ or brisket smoking contest? Let me in there, a little dense mesquite smoke is nothing to me.

Smoking was once a socially acceptable form of slow motion suicide. Now those of us who still maintain the habit have been branded as social lepers and the Health Nazis are closing in on us. It’s only a matter of time before they finally get us. I can only imagine that smokers will find themselves meeting outside of towns across America under cover of darkness to share in the joys of our evil habit, trading brands as if they were collectibles. It will be a dark time and I fear it’s not far off.

First it was only dire warnings on cigarette packs and snotty looks. Then they lobbied to ban smoking in public places and the politicians went blindly along. From there it was a small step to ban smoking in the workplace. Then it was restaurants and finally bars. We were herded outside to huddle together in all sorts of weather and made to suffer the stares and jeers of non-smokers. I maintain that the collapse of the economy is due, at least in part, to the actions of these health nuts. Productivity dropped as more and more workers were forced away from their desks and work stations to grab a quick smoke.

Never mind that these same Health Nazis allow their own children to gorge themselves on fast-food, deep fried pastries and sugar laden colas. Oh, some of these health nuts insist on eating things like tofu and sprouts but, by and large, vegans are still looked upon as strange and sinister so meat-eaters are safe. For now. But, don’t get smug. Make no mistake you are next. Be afraid, be very afraid.

So, there you have it. If, like me, you still enjoy a good smoke then be warned. Our time is short so enjoy that smoke while you can. I know I will. In fact, I have a Winston burning in the tray even as I write this. It smells wonderful…like Freedom on a warm Spring morning.

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