Tuesday, September 18, 2012
My cat is a drunk
I put up with a lot. I don’t say that to brag or anything, but it’s true. When my lesbian dog came out of the proverbial closet, I acted as if it was as natural as the day is long, none of my business was my attitude and truth be told, it really is none of my business, what she does with another dog of the same gender much less same breed, I could care less. Really, although I don’t think she and her “partner” should raise puppies together, I am the last person who should make decisions on things like that.
I am a conservative republican and it pains me to say that, because hypocrites like Mitt Romney and drug abusing multi-married Rush Limbaugh have tarnished the brand, but the fact is, I think adults of any species should be allowed to lead complex lives of their own choosing as long as they are responsible. Which is why this morning when my freakishly sexually challenged cat admitted to being an out and out alcoholic I lost my shit.
“Look,” I said, seriously, “I can deal with your promiscuity and lack of morals, and I can deal with the different baby daddies and I can even deal with the late in life lesbianism, but really, the morning beer drinking, followed by the unpleasant afternoons of tequila shots leading to late night binges of Zeldameisters and god knows what you do when I am sleeping, I am just at the end of my rope here.”
She was passed out on the kitchen floor and not listening to a word I said. This is how she deals with my heavy handed criticism. Sometimes she gives me that unforgiving look, like I am just another man who does not understand her burden.
I know a lot about women, I have been married quite a few times and when not married, I have danced with numerous others. Just a few weeks ago my third wife Backwoods Becky asked me a very serious question, “what the fuck?” I just nodded knowingly and that seemed to be enough for her. Backwoods Becky may have been my second favorite of all my ex-wives.
Here is what I know about alcoholics, they are often fun at parties, but they make the very worst designated drivers, unless you are in Mexico, which in that case they are fine drivers. The closer you get to the equator, the less alcohol affects the central nervous system, that’s a fact, you can look that up in the medical journals.
I was recently at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and this guy named Jim stood up and said he was the comptroller for the city of Plottsberg, which is a small hamlet nearby, so I figured he was at our local meeting so people would not recognize him. He told this sad story about how his wife had left him with the kids and to fund his alcoholism he had been stealing from the cities redevelopment fund and was sure that someday, someone would catch him and he would certainly face jail time and not some cushy federal jail but probably some serious state prison where people don’t play tennis.
Jim had all sorts of sad stories and lucky for him the meeting was pretty much anonymous because telling about how he was stealing from the hamlet of Plottsberg would ruin him if word got out. Anyway, the point of all this is that at some point in history drunk people were kind of fun and funny, but now I find them more and more just sort of laying about on my kitchen floor, throwing up hairballs and spitting out countless unwanted kittens and to be honest, I am kind of tired of it.
I am a conservative republican and it pains me to say that, because hypocrites like Mitt Romney and drug abusing multi-married Rush Limbaugh have tarnished the brand, but the fact is, I think adults of any species should be allowed to lead complex lives of their own choosing as long as they are responsible. Which is why this morning when my freakishly sexually challenged cat admitted to being an out and out alcoholic I lost my shit.
“Look,” I said, seriously, “I can deal with your promiscuity and lack of morals, and I can deal with the different baby daddies and I can even deal with the late in life lesbianism, but really, the morning beer drinking, followed by the unpleasant afternoons of tequila shots leading to late night binges of Zeldameisters and god knows what you do when I am sleeping, I am just at the end of my rope here.”
She was passed out on the kitchen floor and not listening to a word I said. This is how she deals with my heavy handed criticism. Sometimes she gives me that unforgiving look, like I am just another man who does not understand her burden.
I know a lot about women, I have been married quite a few times and when not married, I have danced with numerous others. Just a few weeks ago my third wife Backwoods Becky asked me a very serious question, “what the fuck?” I just nodded knowingly and that seemed to be enough for her. Backwoods Becky may have been my second favorite of all my ex-wives.
Here is what I know about alcoholics, they are often fun at parties, but they make the very worst designated drivers, unless you are in Mexico, which in that case they are fine drivers. The closer you get to the equator, the less alcohol affects the central nervous system, that’s a fact, you can look that up in the medical journals.
I was recently at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and this guy named Jim stood up and said he was the comptroller for the city of Plottsberg, which is a small hamlet nearby, so I figured he was at our local meeting so people would not recognize him. He told this sad story about how his wife had left him with the kids and to fund his alcoholism he had been stealing from the cities redevelopment fund and was sure that someday, someone would catch him and he would certainly face jail time and not some cushy federal jail but probably some serious state prison where people don’t play tennis.
Jim had all sorts of sad stories and lucky for him the meeting was pretty much anonymous because telling about how he was stealing from the hamlet of Plottsberg would ruin him if word got out. Anyway, the point of all this is that at some point in history drunk people were kind of fun and funny, but now I find them more and more just sort of laying about on my kitchen floor, throwing up hairballs and spitting out countless unwanted kittens and to be honest, I am kind of tired of it.
Monday, September 17, 2012
It comes here to pass
I met Betty Rubble on the suburban streets of Bainbridge Island 12 years ago while I was riding my bike and she was vigorously walking a beach road. I almost ran her over and she screamed something profane at me, I had these headphones in my ears and I think I was listening to U2 at the time, so I could not hear a word she said, but I slowed and turned my bike around, and then I removed an earbud and stopped and waited, she approached and I asked if she had said something to me.
“Yes, I said you’re an asshole and should learn to ride a bicycle.” She continued to walk.
I nodded and put the earbud back in, turned the bike around, started to peddle, harder and faster until I passed her again on her left and dug in and rode away. At that time in my life I rode five or six days a week, rain or shine, almost every day at 10 in the morning. It was my ritual, it was both a punishment and a joy. There was never really a reason I started, although a painful divorce did coincide with the more serious riding, I kept at it, pushing myself, year after year, harder and faster until I was in the best shape of my life, a serious, daily cyclist.
I started to see Betty Rubble often out on the roads and in the various parks, walking. At some point I stopped at the Tree House Café for a quick coffee and she was sitting there and I grabbed my coffee and sat with her. She was wearing a tight, dark pair of runners winter tights, a gray lycra zip up top of some sort and something in her hair that pulled it all back in a bunch. Her face was clean and white, not quite a China doll, but very clear and pristine.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“I know you ride your bike a lot.”
“You called me an asshole a couple months ago.”
“OK.”
“Kind of hurt my feelings.”
“Yeah, looks like you spent a lot of time doing a lot of crying and in deep introspection.”
“That and I drink more.”
“Is that helping to ease the pain?”
“Nope, I’m still an asshole.”
“I can tell. My name is Betty, Betty Rubble.”
“I’m Matt.”
From then on I would slow and chat while I was out and about on my cycle. We would have coffee, we exchanged phone numbers and we would meet. We became fast friends. Betty was tall, dark haired, fair skinned, thin, athletic, almost always smiling, naturally stunning and alluring in the most intense way imaginable. She married Fred Flintstone 5 years earlier, they had a 3 year old son named Barney and they seemed very happy with one another. How could they not be, she was amazing, he was some sort of male model, athlete attorney or something. Perfect really.
I liked Fred Flintstone, he was a man who seemed at peace with himself. I am not sure I could pull off his calmness, because here I was a cyclist in skin tight lycra shorts, meeting his wife out on the road, for a coffee now and then, sometimes downtown for a donut, we laughed and joked. He knows she and I are enjoying ourselves and yet he does not seem to care in the least. I had met him, we had talked, he seemed like a grounded man. He did not view me as any sort of competition for his wife, which was fine, because I never had been, but my question always remained, how did he know that?
That never really mattered though, how he knew, if he knew or if he just did not care if his beautiful and seductive wife was flirting with the guy on the super sleek Italian cycle. Some men were just not the jealous type.
There is a pier at Point White and sometimes, when I was slow and tired, I would ride my speedy racing cycle down to that pier and instead of continuing to ride, I would just get off my bike and walk out onto the wooden planks and sit over the water and watch fish. I know, thinking back on it I am amazed at how incredibly boring it sounds, but when you consider days of cycling, often the same roads, sometimes over a hundred miles a day, loafing on a pier on a warm spring day staring down on fish swimming below is not really all that bad.
I was laying face down on the pier, watching the small salmon doing some sort of happy primitive dance and someone walked up and laid down next to me, uncomfortably close, I don’t really like a lot of physical contact. I turned to my right, it was Betty. She was radiant, even more so than usual. We were just inches apart, her lips gently touched with a shade of color, but her face naturally tanned and supple. Our eyes met, she did not say anything. I could sense her breath. The closeness shook me. At that point, we were friends and there was a tension when we were with one another, not necessarily a sexual tension, but certainly a palpable chemistry that neither of us seemed to know what to do with, nor to even acknowledge. I just held my stare and we were both looking at one another, but seeing more than one another, for a second, the world slowed, for just a moment we were completely alone, the salmon stopped swimming, there was no traffic on the nearby road and the wind blew to a quiet hush. There was something in her eyes and then there was a tear. All of a sudden, what had been a peaceful scene filled with some sort of hope was now dread and not a word had been spoken. My head gently shook from side to side, hardly noticeable, but then she shook her head, almost in response, subtly up and down. A tear formed in my eye and slid down my cheek.
“Breast cancer,” she sort of whispered.
“Yeah.”
“He’s 3 fuckin’ years old.”
“Yeah,” I said, not so much a response as having nothing else I could muster.
We stared at each other for a long time. Then she said, “why are you laying on the pier?”
“Watching the fish.” Then we both laid face down, side by side, and stared at the fish. Her left hand, above her head, my right hand, reaching out, holding it. I liked that feeling. We laid there for what may have been forever. I asked if Fred had known and she said she had yet to tell him and asked me what she should do. I started to cry, laying there, my tears raining down on the swimming salmon. They did not know better.
“You tell him, he loves you, he truly loves you, he will do what he does. You are a beacon and you are healthy.”
Betty held my hand and the world began to spin again, slowly, but still it spun, as it should.
All that comes, it comes here to pass.
“Yes, I said you’re an asshole and should learn to ride a bicycle.” She continued to walk.
I nodded and put the earbud back in, turned the bike around, started to peddle, harder and faster until I passed her again on her left and dug in and rode away. At that time in my life I rode five or six days a week, rain or shine, almost every day at 10 in the morning. It was my ritual, it was both a punishment and a joy. There was never really a reason I started, although a painful divorce did coincide with the more serious riding, I kept at it, pushing myself, year after year, harder and faster until I was in the best shape of my life, a serious, daily cyclist.
I started to see Betty Rubble often out on the roads and in the various parks, walking. At some point I stopped at the Tree House Café for a quick coffee and she was sitting there and I grabbed my coffee and sat with her. She was wearing a tight, dark pair of runners winter tights, a gray lycra zip up top of some sort and something in her hair that pulled it all back in a bunch. Her face was clean and white, not quite a China doll, but very clear and pristine.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
“I know you ride your bike a lot.”
“You called me an asshole a couple months ago.”
“OK.”
“Kind of hurt my feelings.”
“Yeah, looks like you spent a lot of time doing a lot of crying and in deep introspection.”
“That and I drink more.”
“Is that helping to ease the pain?”
“Nope, I’m still an asshole.”
“I can tell. My name is Betty, Betty Rubble.”
“I’m Matt.”
From then on I would slow and chat while I was out and about on my cycle. We would have coffee, we exchanged phone numbers and we would meet. We became fast friends. Betty was tall, dark haired, fair skinned, thin, athletic, almost always smiling, naturally stunning and alluring in the most intense way imaginable. She married Fred Flintstone 5 years earlier, they had a 3 year old son named Barney and they seemed very happy with one another. How could they not be, she was amazing, he was some sort of male model, athlete attorney or something. Perfect really.
I liked Fred Flintstone, he was a man who seemed at peace with himself. I am not sure I could pull off his calmness, because here I was a cyclist in skin tight lycra shorts, meeting his wife out on the road, for a coffee now and then, sometimes downtown for a donut, we laughed and joked. He knows she and I are enjoying ourselves and yet he does not seem to care in the least. I had met him, we had talked, he seemed like a grounded man. He did not view me as any sort of competition for his wife, which was fine, because I never had been, but my question always remained, how did he know that?
That never really mattered though, how he knew, if he knew or if he just did not care if his beautiful and seductive wife was flirting with the guy on the super sleek Italian cycle. Some men were just not the jealous type.
There is a pier at Point White and sometimes, when I was slow and tired, I would ride my speedy racing cycle down to that pier and instead of continuing to ride, I would just get off my bike and walk out onto the wooden planks and sit over the water and watch fish. I know, thinking back on it I am amazed at how incredibly boring it sounds, but when you consider days of cycling, often the same roads, sometimes over a hundred miles a day, loafing on a pier on a warm spring day staring down on fish swimming below is not really all that bad.
I was laying face down on the pier, watching the small salmon doing some sort of happy primitive dance and someone walked up and laid down next to me, uncomfortably close, I don’t really like a lot of physical contact. I turned to my right, it was Betty. She was radiant, even more so than usual. We were just inches apart, her lips gently touched with a shade of color, but her face naturally tanned and supple. Our eyes met, she did not say anything. I could sense her breath. The closeness shook me. At that point, we were friends and there was a tension when we were with one another, not necessarily a sexual tension, but certainly a palpable chemistry that neither of us seemed to know what to do with, nor to even acknowledge. I just held my stare and we were both looking at one another, but seeing more than one another, for a second, the world slowed, for just a moment we were completely alone, the salmon stopped swimming, there was no traffic on the nearby road and the wind blew to a quiet hush. There was something in her eyes and then there was a tear. All of a sudden, what had been a peaceful scene filled with some sort of hope was now dread and not a word had been spoken. My head gently shook from side to side, hardly noticeable, but then she shook her head, almost in response, subtly up and down. A tear formed in my eye and slid down my cheek.
“Breast cancer,” she sort of whispered.
“Yeah.”
“He’s 3 fuckin’ years old.”
“Yeah,” I said, not so much a response as having nothing else I could muster.
We stared at each other for a long time. Then she said, “why are you laying on the pier?”
“Watching the fish.” Then we both laid face down, side by side, and stared at the fish. Her left hand, above her head, my right hand, reaching out, holding it. I liked that feeling. We laid there for what may have been forever. I asked if Fred had known and she said she had yet to tell him and asked me what she should do. I started to cry, laying there, my tears raining down on the swimming salmon. They did not know better.
“You tell him, he loves you, he truly loves you, he will do what he does. You are a beacon and you are healthy.”
Betty held my hand and the world began to spin again, slowly, but still it spun, as it should.
All that comes, it comes here to pass.
Zelda Marcos hates the Yankees of New York
“Oh dos fawking Yankees,” she said and pushed through my front door and into my kitchen, handing me a meat pie, a warm bottle of Pyramid ale and a swift punch in the face. Zelda Marcos is many things, bank robber, republican operative, season five Spanish language Idol runner up and low priced prostitute and sometime meat pie delivery person. She was all those things and a woman who likes gloves.
Zelda liked to say that you can judge a woman by the gloves she wears. That and how much hatred she can muster for the Yankees, which for Zelda was a lot. This I knew for a fact because a few weeks ago when the Yankees beat the Orioles Zelda stopped by and when I opened the door she kicked me in the balls and said, “what you think about that you fawking Yankee lovin’ son of bitch.” Then she left a really good turkey pot pie that the kids and I had for dinner.
I am a small business owner, the type President Obama seems obsessed with putting out of business and the type Mitt Romney would just as soon buy, bankrupt and sell off to China, so I am one of those. But as a small business owner, one of the things I pride myself on is customer service. See, the thing that makes me different from, say, WalMart is that when you call me, I answer the phone. When you call WalMart, someone in Bangalore answers and they hate you.
When you call Zelda Marcos House of Meat Pie Delivery Service a lot of the time you get a message that says this: “hello, this is Zelda.” That’s it. Nothing about what it is, why you might want to leave a message, nothing.
Then, if you are like me, you might leave information, like your address and that you would like to schedule some meat pie deliveries, something like that, what you get next is something you might not expect. You might even leave your phone number. If you are like me, you would then expect to get some sort of confirmation phone call, but if you were me, a phone call would never come. Instead, you would begin to have infrequent meat pie deliveries and sometimes a beating, ass kicking or just a beligerant rant from an angry Zelda Marcos who may or may not be drunk, high or both. She hates the New York Yankees, as do most people in America, but she hates the Yankees with a passion most people reserve for hating, well, the New York Yankees.
My greatest fear at this point is the dreaded possibility that the Yankees win the World Series, I can only imagine what Zelda would do if that happens. That said, the way they play and choke, I think, for this year at least, I am safe with just a severe beating, nothing more serious. Then again, her pulled pork meat pie was delicious after last years surprise playoff win against the Brewers.
For that, I kind of hope the Yankees at least make it to the second round. October for me means two things, a good ass kicking from Zelda Marcos and some damn fine Meat Pies.
Zelda liked to say that you can judge a woman by the gloves she wears. That and how much hatred she can muster for the Yankees, which for Zelda was a lot. This I knew for a fact because a few weeks ago when the Yankees beat the Orioles Zelda stopped by and when I opened the door she kicked me in the balls and said, “what you think about that you fawking Yankee lovin’ son of bitch.” Then she left a really good turkey pot pie that the kids and I had for dinner.
I am a small business owner, the type President Obama seems obsessed with putting out of business and the type Mitt Romney would just as soon buy, bankrupt and sell off to China, so I am one of those. But as a small business owner, one of the things I pride myself on is customer service. See, the thing that makes me different from, say, WalMart is that when you call me, I answer the phone. When you call WalMart, someone in Bangalore answers and they hate you.
When you call Zelda Marcos House of Meat Pie Delivery Service a lot of the time you get a message that says this: “hello, this is Zelda.” That’s it. Nothing about what it is, why you might want to leave a message, nothing.
Then, if you are like me, you might leave information, like your address and that you would like to schedule some meat pie deliveries, something like that, what you get next is something you might not expect. You might even leave your phone number. If you are like me, you would then expect to get some sort of confirmation phone call, but if you were me, a phone call would never come. Instead, you would begin to have infrequent meat pie deliveries and sometimes a beating, ass kicking or just a beligerant rant from an angry Zelda Marcos who may or may not be drunk, high or both. She hates the New York Yankees, as do most people in America, but she hates the Yankees with a passion most people reserve for hating, well, the New York Yankees.
My greatest fear at this point is the dreaded possibility that the Yankees win the World Series, I can only imagine what Zelda would do if that happens. That said, the way they play and choke, I think, for this year at least, I am safe with just a severe beating, nothing more serious. Then again, her pulled pork meat pie was delicious after last years surprise playoff win against the Brewers.
For that, I kind of hope the Yankees at least make it to the second round. October for me means two things, a good ass kicking from Zelda Marcos and some damn fine Meat Pies.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Paper or plastic
I spent a majority of this past summer in Seattle and while that city gets many things right, from planting itself next to great mountains and ending near beautiful water, it got some things wrong, requiring most women to belong to tribes of lesbians to name just one, but clearly one thing Seattle is getting right is requiring people to pay attention to the choice of being stupid or smart.
The choice of paper or plastic for most lazy Americans is really so 1980’s that it should be illegal in every state except Texas which is not really so much a state as it is a penal colony at this point. No, Seattle allows you to use plastic at the checkout at your favorite store, but if you choose to use a plastic bag you pay for it, as you should.
See, the problem with most of us, is we don’t pay for the damage we do. We waddle through life, using and abusing all that is around us, throwing garbage on the ground and expecting someone else to clean up our mess and waddling off as if big momma government will fix all our problems. Then, as if we are spoiled idiotic children, we demand the big momma of government lower our taxes and cut programs, the very programs that hire even more idiots who carry bags around to pick up the trash that these same idiots throw on the ground, see how it works?
So what should we do? Could we just be adults and stop throwing our shit on the ground? No way in hell. Just a few weeks ago I was walking off a ferry in Seattle and a young man was walking in front of me, holding hands with what I presumed to be his hideous girlfriend and in his other hand, he was drinking a large McDonalds sugar filled drink and oh how the god mayor of New York would have a field day with a moron like this guy, because not a minute later this pathetic excuse for a human would decide he was done with his drink and not bother to use one of Seattles numerous trash cans, no he just dropped it into the street. That is how people deploy their garbage, not just in Seattle mind you where hippies and liberals actually have a say in how people behave, but in super conservative enclaves like Denver and the super porcine state of Florida.
The problem, one of many, is of course we have become a nation of imbeciles and self centered assholes. Who else feels entitled to drink gallons of soda and on a whim drop the container into a street? Imbeciles and assholes, that’s who.
One easy solution is to charge morons for the right to do things, like drink large sodas that most humans can neither drink, hoist or carry (like New York City is planning to do) and charge these same lame idiots to use a plastic bag, which Seattle does now. Why charge for a plastic bag? Because stupids can not be trusted to do anything the right way. It’s true, we can’t trust stupid people to do much right, they can’t drive, they can’t raise children and they most certainly can’t dispose of plastic bags in any sort of proper way. Seattle charges you if you want to use a plastic bag and it’s about time.
I think the charge is five cents a bag and that is not nearly enough. In a more perfect world the charge should be 5 dollars for the first plastic bag and fifty bucks for any bag after that. Why? First, it would limit the use of the bags, which really is the purpose of the charges and second, it would stop stupids from using bags at all, because quite honestly, what we are trying to do as a society at this point is limit the stupids from doing more damage than what they are already doing, isn’t it?
Seriously, smart and caring people never did use plastic, they always carried recycled bags into Whole Foods and you know it. No, the law in Seattle was designed to punish and embarrass the stupid and the immature, like the soda drink dropper I witnessed, it is a way to teach the stupids a lesson their stupid parents were too lazy to instill in them. As a society we have grown weary of prisons and schools that do not have the time to keep repeating and teaching morons the same things that responsible parents should have instilled into children during formative years decades ago, so we now just charge them for the lessons.
Seattle and New York may be testing grounds, but the rest of the country will catch up, because the truth is, we can’t allow the idiots and the dummies to run the country. We see it all the time, stupids demand better roads and better schools and at the same time deeper cuts in taxes, never bothering to wonder how you can have both. So, while we can not go back to teach fundamental math to morons, we can still do the simple things, like charge meatheads for the damage they do to the world, at a nickel a shot.
The choice of paper or plastic for most lazy Americans is really so 1980’s that it should be illegal in every state except Texas which is not really so much a state as it is a penal colony at this point. No, Seattle allows you to use plastic at the checkout at your favorite store, but if you choose to use a plastic bag you pay for it, as you should.
See, the problem with most of us, is we don’t pay for the damage we do. We waddle through life, using and abusing all that is around us, throwing garbage on the ground and expecting someone else to clean up our mess and waddling off as if big momma government will fix all our problems. Then, as if we are spoiled idiotic children, we demand the big momma of government lower our taxes and cut programs, the very programs that hire even more idiots who carry bags around to pick up the trash that these same idiots throw on the ground, see how it works?
So what should we do? Could we just be adults and stop throwing our shit on the ground? No way in hell. Just a few weeks ago I was walking off a ferry in Seattle and a young man was walking in front of me, holding hands with what I presumed to be his hideous girlfriend and in his other hand, he was drinking a large McDonalds sugar filled drink and oh how the god mayor of New York would have a field day with a moron like this guy, because not a minute later this pathetic excuse for a human would decide he was done with his drink and not bother to use one of Seattles numerous trash cans, no he just dropped it into the street. That is how people deploy their garbage, not just in Seattle mind you where hippies and liberals actually have a say in how people behave, but in super conservative enclaves like Denver and the super porcine state of Florida.
The problem, one of many, is of course we have become a nation of imbeciles and self centered assholes. Who else feels entitled to drink gallons of soda and on a whim drop the container into a street? Imbeciles and assholes, that’s who.
One easy solution is to charge morons for the right to do things, like drink large sodas that most humans can neither drink, hoist or carry (like New York City is planning to do) and charge these same lame idiots to use a plastic bag, which Seattle does now. Why charge for a plastic bag? Because stupids can not be trusted to do anything the right way. It’s true, we can’t trust stupid people to do much right, they can’t drive, they can’t raise children and they most certainly can’t dispose of plastic bags in any sort of proper way. Seattle charges you if you want to use a plastic bag and it’s about time.
I think the charge is five cents a bag and that is not nearly enough. In a more perfect world the charge should be 5 dollars for the first plastic bag and fifty bucks for any bag after that. Why? First, it would limit the use of the bags, which really is the purpose of the charges and second, it would stop stupids from using bags at all, because quite honestly, what we are trying to do as a society at this point is limit the stupids from doing more damage than what they are already doing, isn’t it?
Seriously, smart and caring people never did use plastic, they always carried recycled bags into Whole Foods and you know it. No, the law in Seattle was designed to punish and embarrass the stupid and the immature, like the soda drink dropper I witnessed, it is a way to teach the stupids a lesson their stupid parents were too lazy to instill in them. As a society we have grown weary of prisons and schools that do not have the time to keep repeating and teaching morons the same things that responsible parents should have instilled into children during formative years decades ago, so we now just charge them for the lessons.
Seattle and New York may be testing grounds, but the rest of the country will catch up, because the truth is, we can’t allow the idiots and the dummies to run the country. We see it all the time, stupids demand better roads and better schools and at the same time deeper cuts in taxes, never bothering to wonder how you can have both. So, while we can not go back to teach fundamental math to morons, we can still do the simple things, like charge meatheads for the damage they do to the world, at a nickel a shot.
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