1. If there is an illegal handbag to be sold, there is an African there to sell it.  And I don’t mean African American, like polite white people like to say.  No, I’m talking straight up African, right from the soil on the mother land.  I’m talking “pray to God that they’re smiling so you can see them” type of African.  I mean “I’m African and I make sounds and not words” type of African.  And they’re a diverse bunch - they sell umbrellas, too.  But it’s the Indians that sell touristy trinkets.  That part isn’t surprising, is it?

2. People everywhere else in the world are afraid of American’s because they know about Texas.

3. It costs you more to take a dump in a public restroom than it does to buy a bottle of wine at a local grocery store.  Which means that in Europe, they’d rather have you shitfaced than taking a shit.  That explains French people.

And what is Barack Obama’s deal? He needs to be way more pissed off! He needs to be like, so super pissed off that I don’t even have to be pissed off anymore because he’s so pissed off. I mean, after all, isn’t it the government’s job to step in and fix all of our problems (well, except when it’s stuff that Republicans care about). Man, you sure dropped the ball on this one, Barack. Can’t you just go enforce some laws that don’t exist, like our last president did?

I definitely don’t know the name of BP’s CEO, but he shouldn’t have to wait for you to clean up his mess, either. I’m sure he’s got plenty of personal interests to be concerned with, but since you haven’t stepped in yet, he’s probably working 9 or 10 hour days.  Where is the government when we conveniently need them?  Can’t they just give me income tax credits, public transportation, home mortgage deductions, Medicare, Medicaid, social security, and veteran’s assistance and leave me alone already?

I bet he doesn’t even know that hurricane season started. And a month from now, when I haven’t adequately protected the house that I can’t afford, his ass better be there with a big truck filled with all of the things I’ll need to get back on my feet - or maybe on my boat! So if you’re not too busy, can you at least try to handle this oil thing before a hurricane strikes? The oil spill is only worth about another three weeks’ worth of good headlines, anyway. Then all of us notoriously whiney Americans will find something else to get pissed off about.

Because I’ll be damned if another Hollywood movie star gets cheated on by her husband and I don’t make a lot of angry posts on my Facebook about it. How’s THAT for action?

Bank of America isn’t the only company to do this. Everyone’s doing it now, but it’s completely retarded. Is the pleasant sounding voice supposed to somehow make me forget that I’m still not talking to a real person? Is this really supposed to make me believe that I’m having a better customer service experience? No, absolutely not. But if they want to play this game of make believe, then I’m all for it.

If you want me to believe you’re a person, then you’re getting the full range of emotions and words that I’d use with a real person. And I could care less if it’s outside of the range of the five words you’re programmed to understand.

First off, they always have a chipper attitude, even when I’m clearly pissed off. Show a little sympathy, will you? I just got my debit card stolen, dick head. I’m clearly upset and I know you can hear it in my voice. If you can’t use more of a comforting tone of voice, then you deserve to have your ass chewed out for not doing a better job of handling my complaint.

And yes, this means that I yell at machines that are not designed to understand more than three words at a time. Sue me. Here’s how my conversation went.

AUTO VOICE: “If you’re calling about your checking account, please press one. If you’re calling about your Bank of America Credit Card, please press two. If…”
ME: “Representative.”

AUTO VOICE: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your selection. If you’re calling about your checking account, please press one. If you’re…”
ME: “I said ‘representative,’ stupid ass.

AUTO VOICE: “You’re calling about your Bank of America Credit Card. Is that correct?”
ME: “Seriously? Does ‘REPRESENTATIVE’ sound anything like ‘checking account’ or ‘credit card’? ”

AUTO VOICE: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your selection. Please hold while I connect you to a representative.”

See what happened here? They don’t listen; they just keep repeating their question. And when they can’t resolve it, they just give up and let someone else handle it. Oh thanks, automated call person. Way to show off your work ethic.

Of course, in the midst of all of this, I look like an ass because I’m yelling and taunting a computer. Not even a real person. If someone were to witness this display, they’d think I was incredibly rude - only to learn that I was actually yelling at an audio recording. In which case, they’d just think I was a total dumbass. Which I am.

It’s about time we stood up to the Roethlisberger’s of the world, who are harming the reputation of upstanding players like Antonio Cromartie who has, like every generous lover does, 8 children by 8 different women.  In fact, Cromartie has done such a good job of spreading his love, that I suggest the NFL donate that $2.84 million to the newly minted “Antonio Cromartie Bastard Fund” to honor his name.  This way they could send a clear message to the rest of the league that when you impregnate a girl and seven of her closest friends, that it’s far less offensive than just laminating her in a public restroom.

Oh, and by the way.  That $2.84 million donation would bring the balance of the “Antonio Cromartie Bastard Fund” up to $3.34 million, since the New York Jets already gave him $500,000 to handle the child support payments before he even plays a down for them. At least the Jets have their priorities in order - I wish we could say the same about Ben Roethlisberger. 

And why are these women crying about child support payments anyway?  Is the overwhelming joy of giving birth to a child with no father figure somehow insufficient for you?  The man gave you a child!  He should be getting community service hours for his service, not subpoenas to pay you for the privilege of carrying his seed.  Women are so greedy!

I only wish the NFL could straighten those women out, and send a message to them like they did to Ben Roethlisberger.

I’ve copied and pasted a story that I wrote for a class a few years ago about that night. For one, maybe you’ll read it and learn something significant that you didn’t know about me, and two, I think it’s one of the better stories I’ve written. Plus, I rarely get personal on my blog and this is one of those rare instances.

April 4, 2003

I had never seen the inside of an ambulance from this angle. Staring straight up at a small metallic panel on the ceiling, I finally got a glimpse of my reflection, my face and hair now fully covered in dripping, crimson colored blood.

Beep, beep, beep. All of a sudden, my confusion was interrupted by the sounds of machines and wires attached to my body by needles in my arm, and the anxious conversation of the ambulance workers. The coldness returned to my fingertips along with the cold sweat seeping through the blood on my skin.

Any attempt at moving became a painful reminder of what the ambulance worker told me were my injuries: a compound fracture to my collar bone, four broken ribs, torn tendons in my neck and a deep, four inch gash to the left side of my head, two inches above my ear, that severed an artery.

“You better hurry it up, man, this kid doesn’t have much time,” shouted one ambulance worker to the driver. I was still foggy-minded from a concussion, but now much more aware of the gravity of my situation: I might die tonight. The 20-minute ambulance ride seemed to take hours, and though my mind felt fine, I became terrified at the prospect of my body disagreeing.

The only thing flashing through my mind was my mother, father, and my little sister, Sarah. I didn’t say goodbye to my mom, I hadn’t seen my dad in two days and my sister was gone at school before I even left on this trip. My mom had warned me about the weather for the first week of a frigid April in upstate New York, especially at night.

“God no, please God, no,” my heart anxiously cried, but with no words. I felt as if I couldn’t speak, as if I were looking down at my impending corpse and telling myself all of the things I could’ve done differently, and dreading the fact that I’d never have a chance to answer these “what if’s.”

Is God going to accept me when I get there? Where has my heart been? Why didn’t I leave twenty minutes sooner, before the roads froze over? A million tears were just waiting to burst into a flood from behind my bloodshot eyes, but not yet. I’ve always agreed with the philosophy of ‘mind over matter.’ If you tell yourself you’re not sick, then you aren’t. Now, if I tell myself I’m not going to die, then I won’t. Right? Isn’t that how this works?

My next return to reality came as we slid across a patch of ice into the entrance of the emergency room and into a reception of late night emergency workers. I had made it this far, and my makeshift hospital bed was rushed through the hallways of Strong Memorial Hospital with a crowd of nurses surrounding me. A few jolts here and there, a turn, a pull backward, and I was in an operating room.

“Where are my parents? Where are my parents?” I begged. But no one was quite sure, and seemed more interested in my physical being than my mental well being. Unsatisfied, I became irate, I needed to see them. “Where the fuck are my parents?” I demanded. “David, we don’t know,” were the calm words of my nurse, who was apparently now on a first name basis with me.

In all of my anxieties, I had no interest in my well being at that moment, I just knew that if I was dying, I wanted to say goodbye. A flurry of emotions hit me all at once: rage, physical pain, regret, sorrow, loneliness. I wanted to burst, but I contained all my emotion behind my clenched fists and pouring streams of blood.

Snip, snip, snip. A nurse, who had already cut right through the ‘L’and ‘F’ of my favorite Tommy Hilfiger hoodie, was now snipping at my pants and my Curious George boxer shorts, leaving me bloody and completely naked on the operating table.

The one thing that gets lost in situations like these is how humiliating the whole ordeal feels: you’re vulnerable in so many ways. And these ER workers, who don’t know anything about you except your situation, see you exactly as you are: emotionally weak, physically broken and in so many ways, naked in front of them.

Conversation around me continued, but I heard a new voice emerge. “Dad? Dad! Dad I’m right here, I’m right here!” I tried looking forward, but the pressure of the neck brace against my broken collar bone created an excruciating pain. I lay back down and into my field of view entered my father. The man with the rigid, defined jaw line and a voice deeper than Barry White, began crying for the first time I had ever seen in my life.

I became overwhelmed also, and the flood gates of tears opened up. I began sobbing like I never had before at the sight of my father. “Grab my hand, dad; squeeze as hard as you can,” I begged. He clenched my open hand as hard as I’ve ever felt from his wide grip, and I squeezed back with strength just as great.

A cat-scan, intestinal exam, a bone setting and nine surgical staples later, the doctor walked in to my hospital room. “David, you my friend, are a miracle. I’ll be honest, when you were wheeled into this hospital, I did not expect you to leave alive. But you’re going to be alright. You are a blessed individual. You can go home with your parents tonight.”

Oh, and RSVP means “Répondez s’il vous plaît,” which is French and the French are soft and sucky at men’s Olympic swimming.  I bet next time you’ll make sure you know what you’re saying before you sound French and stupid.

By the way, contrary to what you may be hearing on the radio, Trey Songz did NOT invent sex.  Sex was created by God to be enjoyed by a man and a woman in the holy confines of marriage.  Trey Songz has been around for what, three years tops?  Sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Songz, but people have been doing each other for way more than three years.  Try FOREVER years.

You want to know how sex was created, Mr. Songz?  THIS is how.  Once God created Eve, Adam thought “well, she certainly looks different than I do. And I suspect that it would be nice to find out how different her body feels from mine.”  Right?  Nothing sexual at this point, just curiosity.  So he went to sleep like usual that night (presumably in the nude, since Eve hadn’t yet tempted him into eating the fruit, so he felt no guilt for showing off his package.  But I digress.)

But then Adam woke up with morning wood, as all men do, and thought “wait a second.  She’s got something that goes in, and I’ve got something that goes out.  So maybe, just maybe, we can see if this thing goes in and out.”  And BOOM - sex was invented.

Adam is somewhere in heaven right now, frowning down on Mr. Songz, and saying “GOD created sex.  And I was the first one to have it, Mr. Songz.  And it was exquisite and wonderful, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.  But you need to cut it out with this blasphemy that you created it.  No one believes you.”

Class dismissed.  Have a great weekend!

I’m sure we all had the same impression of Johnny Rockets before we ate there for the first time.  “Oh, what a nice idea!  This is what appears to be an affordable 50s style chain restaurant with burgers and milkshakes.  This will be so fun!”

As a good American, you order the cheeseburger and a milkshake.  “Ahhh, a nice juicy burger with some fries and a milkshake will undoubtedly fill my belly.  What a time this will be!”

But after that, everything goes down hill.  The cheeseburger comes first.  It looks like it was taken from a spare parts bin at McDonalds.  What a disappointment!  Then you notice that the waitress forgot to deliver fries with your $7.00 burger.  Hey, maybe the accompanying french fries will compensate for the crappy burger, right?  So you say, ”oh excuse me Miss Waitress, but you must’ve forgotten the fries with my burger. May I have those along with my awful-looking $7.00 burger?”

“Well sir, fries are actually separate.  The burger doesn’t come with fries.”

You reply - “What?!  How can this be?  You just walked over to my table and placed an inferior burger in front of me with a straight face, and now you have the GALL to tell me that it doesn’t come with fries?!  Do you mean to tell me that you delivered to me an inferior burger at a price that could’ve yielded me a far superior burger, replete with value meal accoutrements such as fries and a tasty soda if I had gone to Wendy’s?”

She replies - “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.  In fact, it’s our corporate policy to provide our customers with the worst food available at the highest prices, all under the guise of a family-friendly environment that will sucker your kids into spending your hard earned money on crappy food and barely passable customer service.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pick up your watered-down and undersized chocolate milk shake.  That will also cost you more than the value meal you should’ve bought while you wasted your time here.”

Are you getting the picture?  I know we’re fighting wars overseas right now, but there’s a war that needs to be fought right on our very own shores - the war against Johnny Rockets.  I bet it’s owned my terrorists.

My problem? I use my heart 100% of the time and I use my head 100% of the time.  Rarely does one give way to the majesty and simplicity of the other.  Instead, I’m a mindfuck 100% of the time, because my heart and my head don’t agree as often as they should. 

Part of me believes that if something feels right, then it probably is right.  Live for today.  Take chances. Love like there’s no tomorrow. Things like that.

The other part of me, unfortunately, is far too calculated to let my heart rule all of the time.  Live for today?  Sure, but what about tomorrow?  Take chances?  Only if the risk is low.  Love like there’s no tomorrow?  Unfortunately, I know that what comes tomorrow may call into question the way I can love today. 

This whole New York thing is really screwing with me.  A place I’ve never lived in (the city, at least) is making all of my decisions extremely difficult to navigate.  New York City has never been my dream.  It just happens to have most of my closest friends in it, and it’s a relatively short drive back home to my family.  It makes sense.  It’s logical.  And the logical part of me is telling my heart that the two of them can finally get along great!  You’ll have family and friends all within striking distance again! 

So does my heart agree?  Of course not.  My heart says “look at everything you’ve done in Miami and look at the people here who love you.  Plus, you loveee Latin girls. And what about Chicago?  You love Chicago.  You don’t love New York.”

That’s the problem.  I don’t love New York.  I love the people there.  I love Chicago, but don’t know anyone there.  I don’t really like Miami, but I love my lifestyle and a few select people.

What do I love that makes sense too?  At this point, I don’t have the answer.

I’ve learned that attraction isn’t all about butterflies and sparks.  It’s also about mystery.  And it has nothing to do with your looks.  In fact, a person’s overall attractiveness has a lot more to do with the mystery surrounding them than it has to do with their looks…or boobs.  That’s why an average looking girl who leaves her intentions unclear seems much more attractive, simply because you want to find out more about her to get the whole picture. 

Think about it in your own situation.  You have two guys who like you.  Here’s what you say about them.

GUY 1: “He’s so hot, but he’s so annoying! He texts me all the time.”

GUY 2: “He’s not the best looking guy, but he’s got something about him. I don’t know what it is, but I want to touch his peen.”

I’ll tell you what it is - you want your ass kissed, and he’s not kissing it!  So you want to find out what it would take to get him to kiss it.

Truth be told, though, guys are usually the worst at this.  We find something sexually appealing in almost every girl, but we’re not used to actually liking a girl.  So when we do, we have no idea how the hell we should be handling it.  So we say too much or buy you too much shit.  Or we don’t kiss you because we’re terrified that you might reject us and then you think we’re not attracted to you and then it all falls apart and then we feel stupid and then we go after whores because that’s easier.

So how do you avoid these pitfalls?  I think the most attractive girls are the ones who answer your calls and agree to go out with you, without ever having to justify it by saying a word about why.  She is who she is and that won’t change just because you said yes or no to her.  Again, actions reveal your intentions.

Oh, and she shouldn’t blow you too soon, either.  Kiss like you mean it for a while.  Build some anticipation and excitement.  So when it finally is time to touch eachother’s goodies, it’s more than sexual.

**Thanks for the idea, Laysi**

HE SAID:  Mandy thinks that guys and girls who are friends cannot have sex because it has the potential to screw up the friendship.  When a guy hears that, he asks himself the question - “How did I screw this up so badly that I’m now just a friend with no chance of boning her?”  Oh wait - did I just answer the question? 

Guys don’t care about messing up friendships!  We’re guys - we know the consequences of using our dicks.  And as the gate keeper of the vagina, it’s your duty to let us know if we can or can’t use it.  Whether or not its right, we have the ability to separate our genitals from our hearts.  Alas, this is something that girls have yet to master.  So even if we do have sex with a girl who is our friend (aka - vagina in waiting), we’d have little difficulty maintaining a friendship with you just because we saw you naked.   But girls don’t operate that way, do they?

SHE SAID: Alright, now HOLD ON. First of all, I am talking about legit friendships with people, friendships that have taken years to build. When I have sex with a guy, it usually turns into one of two things: either I lose interest in that person immediately and they’ve lost their appeal (sure we can still be friends), or I start to develop feelings for them. Usually it lands in the first category.
But if I were to have sex with a really good friend, it is unlikely that I will lose interest in them since I already care about them so much. So I can only imagine that I would start to develop feelings for them. You’re right, it’s hard for women to separate their genitals from their hearts, especially with someone that they already trust and respect and are close with to begin with. 

I always believe that the longer you wait to have sex with a person, the more likely it is to become complicated. Once things start to get complicated things get weird, and nothing makes a friendship more weird than having romantic feelings after your “no strings attached” sex. Suddenly, the rules change. I mean, what is the “morning after” etiquette for hooking up with a long time friend? Think about it. Things just wouldn’t be the same. I’d rather not risk it. Do you disagree?

HE SAID:  There are two different issues here.  The first is that you shouldn’t attempt to bone girls that you’re sincerely friends with because of the rejection potential; the fear of rejection is greater than the fear of awkwardness after the fact.  I personally don’t have many girl friends whom I would consider myself close to.  So for the few I do have, I respect them and don’t intend to cross that line to begin with.  Unless of course we both decided that we were interested in something more than sex, which is a different topic altogether.

The second issue, though, is ‘letting things get weird.’  Let’s say, for instance, that you do cross that line with a close friend.  Things don’t get weird if you don’t let them.  Honesty and being forthcoming will always prevent things from ‘getting weird’ or ‘awkward.’  So if you and your friend boned, without the intention of it being more than that, then one or both of you should say ‘listen, what happened was fun, but I want you to know that I respect our friendship first and foremost.  That’s what it is and that’s what it’ll be.’ Or, if you like the person, then say so!  You risk more, in my opinion, by keeping that to yourself.  Am I right?

SHE SAID: Ok, you make a good point. It doesn’t need to get awkward if you don’t want it to. I still think that it’s likely things won’t be the same though. Either way, I am still not having sex with you. BEST FRIENDS FOREVER, DAVID! mauh-ha-ha!