mockable.org

Welcome back to mockable.org, ladies and gentlemen.  Apparently we are no longer an attack site, which is nice.  I was enjoying all of your credit card numbers and baby pictures, but we finally decided that we would appreciate your company much more and knocked all that malware stuff off…Except for that one lady in Corpus Christi.  We’re still spying on her personal information because she is hotter than doughnut grease and has the pictures on her c: drive to prove it.  I would say that she is built like a brick shithouse, but I have recently promised myself that I won’t use phrases that I don’t understand anymore.  I mean, I’ve gone “head over heels” for that girl…wait, strike that.  My head is always over my heels…what an odd thing to say.  Anyway, we’re glad you’re back…and to the chick in Corpus Christi, we’re glad you’re hot and mostly naked a lot.

So yeah, clowns…Never, ever, not even once in my life have I been happy to see a clown.  I mean, I am not scared of them or anything – and I have taken a balloon animal from them once or twice at parades or during a Friday night family get together at the sizzler,  but in general they have always just pissed me off. I don’t know why, but I am sure that if a guy tapped me on the shoulder and I slowly turned around in response only to be surprised by a dude with a wig, face makeup and a big rubber nose, I would punch him in the face in a manner similar to the guy in one of my favorite youtube videos of all time.

I know I am not the only person that hates/is afraid of clowns, but I have never really been able to figure out why…until today.  I mean, how can I hate someone whose primary mission is to entertain and make little kids laugh?  The obvious answer is to examine what they have to do to get these laughs.  If I want to make my nieces and nephews laugh, I make a funny face…or a fart noise…or I let them have cake or caffeinated beverages that their parents don’t want them to have…or maybe a cigarette or two.  It’s actually pretty easy to get a kid to like you.

Considering this, if someone is so socially inept that they have to paint their face and put on giant shoes just to get a laugh out of a kid…well, they’re obviously a fucking sociopath.  They are clearly donning the facepaint and giant nose to act as a mask through which they can channel another person – a person that is able to interact with little boys and girls without wanting to go all Catholic priest on them…except the masked beast almost always wants to get out.  I think Andre the Giant said it best when he uttered the famous phrase, “People in masks cannot be trusted.” Crazy clowney pederasses.

I am not a commissioned law enforcement officer.  However, the requirements of my job cause me to be around a lot of commissioned law enforcement officers every day.  I have had my problems with asshole cops over the years, but when you deal with them on a daily basis, they tend to become human.  Most of them are actually pretty cool.  It has been my experience that there are three types of cops in the world.  Those who became cops because they got their asses kicked their entire lives and wanted to finally have some authority – this is the worst type of cop.  Those who needed a job and police officer was available – these are generally decent and harmless people. And then there are those who genuinely want to contribute positively to society.  The ones who run toward problems rather than away from them.  These are the types of cops that I seek out and attempt to learn from.  I have spent years asking them about how they became who they are and listening to their stories.  There is a lot that one can learn from a good law enforcement officer.

Usually I ask them questions about major cases they’ve worked or times they’ve been in harm’s way.  I’ve asked them about working in the inner city.   I have asked how they coped with years of depressing and macabre stuff in the homicide division.  I have learned a ton, but I have never hit a home run like I did this morning as I shared a cup of coffee with two cops that started on the street and spent over thirty years each coming up through the ranks.  These are, relatively speaking, distinguished and important men.  I took a sip of coffee, looked up at them and completely out of the blue asked, “Have you ever arrested a clown?”  I have no idea where it came from.  I wasn’t thinking about clowns at the time and I hadn’t encountered a clown in years.  I just popped my head up from my coffee and hit them with the clown question.

Both of their ears perked up and they looked at each other and smiled.  It was clear that this was a new question for both of them and, while they work closely together on a daily basis, they had not yet gotten to the all-important stage in their relationship where they talked about how many clowns they’ve busted.

The stories poured forth like so many busted dams.  They had each busted a handful of clowns – all male and all of sex-related crimes. One of the clowns was even named “Buster the Clown.” They also had a handful of stories where their colleagues had busted clowns.  Other than the fact that they were all men, there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it as far as age or location was concerned either.  While these guys work for the same agency now, they did the majority of their work in cities that were over 500 miles apart from one another.

So now I know exactly why I get the clown-hate feeling every time one is near or I see them on television.  I am not Coulrophobic; I am simply doing my part to protect the children.  In fact, I have no idea why these guys are allowed to roam free about the country, preying on children with their creepy vans, facepaint and balloon animals.  I encourage you to write your congressman and urge them to write and pass “Buster’s Law” – a landmark piece of legislation that prohibits anyone except ladies over the age of 70 from going out in public dressed as a clown.  If you love clowns, that’s great.  Either find an old lady or do it in the privacy of your own home sicko.  In the meantime, I am going to fight the good fight and get Buster’s Law passed.  You know, for the children.  Thank you for your time and kind consideration.

Thanks for staying tuned and now the conclusion to the story as convoluted as it may be.

We parked the disabled insect off to the side of the road and loaded our pockets with refreshments and started hoofing it back to the main road.  It was soon discovered that we had no means of fire and that lighting a smoke would be out of the question until we made contact with civilization.  We did have one lit cigarette between us.  So we decided that we would keep at least one lit at all times.  Now if you think you’ve had morning breath.  Try that for about an hour.

After about 30 minutes of walking we had made it back to our original stopping point, across the river staring at the lovely fire that was just out of our reach.  Up to this point we had seen no other car for over three hours, and when headlights appeared we were giddy with relief, until we recognized the vehicle as belonging to a park ranger.  Looking up we happen to notice a sign that told us we were in the parking lot for a state park and in addition to identifying where we were it expressly prohibited possession of alcoholic beverages.  When the headlights hit us we each were holding a beer in each hand.  A feeble attempt was made to disguise what we were holding as the car pulled slowly in our direction.

No one said it but it was understood that our night was a fixin to get a whole lot worse.  The occupant of the car exited the vehicle and began to inquire as to our reason for being in the parking lot, with no car, at this late hour.  At this point I remembered Proverbs chapter 17 verse 28; in other words unless it appeared that speaking in my own defense was my only hope of avoiding a night in the hoosegow, shut up.  The roommate eloquently explained our last three hours and why were in the area.  The ranger chuckled out loud and indicated had we taken the second road to the left we would now be enjoying the warmth of the fire we could see across the river.

When asked if he could give us a ride he indicated that he could but that we would have to get rid of the beer first.  That seemed like a fair trade, but then he added he meant that we would have to pour it out.  That seemed a bit harsh, but given the situation, and our lack of a bargaining chip, we acquiesced and disposed of our fire brewed goodness, with much sadness I might add.  Then just as we had poured the last drop of liquid fun out on state property another set of headlights appeared in the parking lot.

A familiar voice called my name and I knew we were saved.  The ranger seemed a bit relieved that he wouldn’t to haul a bunch of shit faced teenagers across the river, and risk getting a floorboard full of recycled Strohs.  He bid us goodnight and reminded us that drinking was not allowed in state parks, but added that our campsite was not in the state park so we were free to consume to our hearts content.

I must say that he was extremely decent about the whole affair, as has been my experience with rangers in Tennessee state parks, and let me add that this was not my first encounter under similar circumstances, nor my last.  One would think that it would be difficult for anything else to happen that would measure up to the previous three or four hours that we had just lived through, but there was one more moment of excitement yet to come.  After our encounter with the park ranger, thank you kind sir for not taking us to jail, we proceeded to our final destination.  We made our way to the warmth of the fire, but not before stopping at the wounded bug and collecting the balance of the suds, which was considerable.

With that our story draws to a close.  Thank you gentlefolk for going along for the ride.

remember nuthins free, so send money

caveboy out

  I used to write a weekly “comedy” article called “And For No Apparent Reason” for a cool little website that is no longer with us.  I basically picked a topic almost at random, did a google search and mocked the results.  Since these don’t exist anywhere except the wayback machine anymore, and my real life is making it impossible for me to be “funny,” I thought I would share this little article that I wrote way back in 2005.  The google search term was “annoying neighbor” and my comments are in blue.  Hope you like it.  I also hope I am back next week with something new.  Love – metten 

 I recently relocated to quaint Emmitsburg, MD. Population: me, my fiancé at the time, my annoying neighbor with the mange kid, the town drunk,
the guy who backed into my car at the post office, my landlords who own the local liquor store, and a handful of other useless rednecks. That’s it.
http://www.sparechangemagazine.com/features/homes.html•        Depending on how many people constitute a ‘handful’, I am curious as to why such a place would have a post office.  Let’s talk about mange kids for a second:  My annoying neighbors have three kids – the boy is frequently home from school due to expulsion and once told me a story of his positive experiences doing community service at “a horse place”.  The older girl is somehow relatively smart but she is a victim of circumstance, she doesn’t bother us too much unless she is in cahoots with the other two.  There is no nice way to say this – the younger daughter is a retard.  I once came home from work to find her sitting in the front yard all by herself with her legs crossed, screaming the lyrics to the ‘Head Start’ theme song.  My neighbors don’t wear shoes.  They don’t care if it’s the middle of winter or if the pavement is 115 degrees.  They are dirty and they smell.  I don’t remember what age I happened to be when I started getting b.o. and had to don the deodorant, but these kids are way past whatever age it is.  The little shits have fashioned what was once our beautiful large cobblestone porch into nothing more than a prop – a platform of annoyance.  No matter what we are doing, if we try to do it on the front porch, the kids will run from their yard into ours and parade up the steps onto the porch and take part in whatever we’re doing, all the while peppering us with little factoids like, “If you swallow your gum, it will clog your lower liver.”  I know they are children and I know that the way adults treat them will affect the outcome of their lives, and I’m ashamed to admit this – but I hate them.  I often find myself looking forward to the day that they become problem adolescents and run away to the big city.  It’ll probably never happen – they’ll stay there, cook meth and blow up the whole damn block.

And apparently my annoying neighbor has given his door code to these high schoolers so he could no doubt molest them or something. So now I get these puck ass kids smoking in my stairwell and in the common area hanging around waiting for some overweight, ugly, leather skinned, too-old-to-be-wearing-those-clothes loser to get them their drugs.When did I become a bitter old senior citizen? (ed – this site is now gone, but it used to be the blog of a gay Filipino software engineer from San Diego)
http://www.akahaas.com/2004_11_01_archive.shtml•        Throughout my years, I have always found that the best source for reliable information on how to deal with just about any problem is the 23 year old gay Filipino software engineer.  I’ll tell you what, the matriarch next door is enough to make anyone move to San Diego…and become gay.  She has a voice designed for outdoor theater in the 1800’s.  She can often be heard wailing at her children from deep inside the  ouse.  Everyone knows that if your kids are juvenile delinquents, the only way to deal with them is to scream louder.  Her charm is completed by her incredible wardrobe.  She happens to be about 6 inches shorter than me and about the same weight (and I’m a fat guy).  Most of the time she can be seen wearing about a yard worth of fabric over her massive udders and lower torso.  I’ve always meant to snap a picture of her during one of her fat, naked attempts at installing ‘yard art’ to accompany this article, but I’ve always been too afraid that I would get caught in the act and she would get mad and dispatch her kids to come try and set my house on fire – AGAIN – so no pictures.  What a woman…I got married way too soon.

We had neighbors from hell for 3 years until we said fuck it and moved in July. It was pretty bad, barking dogs CONSTANLY, loud music, and the woman had a bad attitude that was so bad when I had to call the cops on her music she told me to “go ahead my husband is a cop, he will take care of it” which the cop on the phone heard so that was a interesting day.

We also had a second neighbor who loved his Harley and diesel tow truck and rebuilt Monte Carlo with extra loud muffler so much, he would let them idle in the drive way for hours at a time, and I swear to you, he let all 3 idle at the same time at times.  The Harley he loved so much he would let it idle in the drive way for an hour, then ride up and down the street 2 or 3 blocks and let it idle in the drive for 30 mins before he put it away….So I know what BS is when dealing with others…..

http://www.xnations.com/showthread.php?s=810c0747205d91add43bdec0596737a4&postid=76502•        The man of the house must’ve moved up here from Florida after forcing this guy out of his home.  He is a replacement.  Despite the fact  that he once gave me advice on how to defraud the city into buying me “a really nice deep freeze or something like that” the original dad was  actually kind of cool.  He worked nights so there wasn’t much noise during the night, and if the kids were too loud during the day and woke him up, there would be hell to pay.  This was a nice feature considering my wife also works nights.  Once Dad was tragically killed in a car accident, all bets were off.  After a few weeks of mourning, the new guy moved in.  This guy should be the pitchman for Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Skinny, wife-beater and do-rag wearer who constantly works on his truck and screams obscenities at this ‘family’ whenever they do anything.  I can see the relief on his face when my family tries to come out on the front porch because the kids come running to our place and leave him alone to bang
wrenches, cuss and dream about Jeff Foxworthy.  We gotta get out of there…

Okay the results are in and it’s official.  People hate their neighbors.  Thanks to the Internet, we all know about it – except the neighbors.  God forbid any of us should address the problem at its source.