I'm sorry...call me ignorant, or completely oblivious to the current trends in this God forsaken world...but what in the holy fuck is the purpose of those big fat mufflers on cars? You know, those obnoxious noise makers that make the car sound like the Seven Dwarfs sodomizing Mother Goose? I don't get it. Remember when you were young and you took a baseball card and clipped it onto the fork that holds the wheel of your bike? The card would flutter against the spokes as you rode, making your bike hum like a Harley (of course it took a little imagination and a wicked Cocoa Puff high). It was the cool thing to do. But now it's been taken to a new level...a new level that can be easily summed up in two words: FUCKING RETARDED!!! I don't typically make it a point to use the word "retarded" in my every day slander, but when I see these morons whizzing by in their 4-cylinder go-carts, my natural instinct sends a rush of, "YOU FUCKING RETARDS!" racing through my head. PC? Not quite, but it is what it is...and it is fucking retarded.

Anyway, as far as I understood, the muffler acts as a device who's sole intent is to reduce the noise coming though the exhaust from the engine. It essentially "MUFFLES" the obnoxious sound. But somewhere down the line, some jackass thought it would be clever to say screw the muffler! My little souped up lawn mower needs to sound more like a muscle car!!

And of course by "muscle car" he was clearly stating his desire for his vehicle to sound like a 3 foot long bumblebee in heat...caught in a barbed wire fence...with a rusty prong up it's hole (let your imagination decide which hole). What the hell are these bastards thinking?

I saw the most amusing example of this act of lunacy today. I was driving down I-4, when I saw an old, beat up, rusty, piece of shit 1987 Honda Civic hatchback approaching in my rear view mirror. I mean, this thing looked like a toaster. It wasn't one of Honda's shining moments. So anyway, I see this jalopy approaching in my side mirror when I hear a faint buzzing sound. It's was a high pitched whine that made me believe I hit something and was dragging it mercilessly across the asphalt at 70 mph. And as it drew near, it became louder and louder. And then I recognized it. It's that dumb ass giant muffler! As this trash can on wheels passed....with it's dingy, faded, chipped and rusted gold paint...one thing stood out like a sore thumb. It was the brilliant shine of a brand new, enormous, anti-muffler (as I now call them). This poor son of a bitch couldn't afford even a fraction of a decent automobile, but forked over the cash to MAKE HIS CAR SOUND LIKE SHIT. That's right, it;s not enough that you're driving a piece of shit, but let's spend my own money to MAKE IT SOUND LIKE SHIT! Brilliant my friend....absolutely brilliant.

I really have no true point or funny story here. I just needed to take a moment to vent the frustration I have for sheer imbeciles. We're simply becoming a dumber and dumber nation.

They pay money to make their cars sound like ass. Do you get it? I sure as hell don't

Boyce

When I was first introduced to "myspace", it was by a good friend of mine who eventually coaxed me into giving it a shot. The concept was very foreign to me, so I checked it out, created what was a barren shell of a home page, and off we went. As I checked it from time to time I was absolutely amazed how many people were actually on this strange little highway. And in the passing weeks...probably months by now...it just seems to grow and grow and grow. People's sites slowly evolve into more elaborate concepts of their own free imaginations. The layout and content are a reflection; a representation of you - the individual. Of course you ultimately dictate how much will be known of you. After all, we're not going to bear our hearts and souls to the general public and the world on a little blog site. At least.....not yet.

The interesting thing about "myspace" is how it's drawn people closer to each other. People know more about each other now than they would have if the site never existed. For me personally I've found people I haven't spoke to in years, I've reconnected with friends I've just been to busy to see, I've had many laughs at the sick and demented humor of the people I know, and I've been able to share in the hilarity of my daughter's brilliant wit. Amazing results for such a simplex technological concept. A concept I admittedly know jack shit about, but come on...how hard can it be?

And as I sit back and watch this evolve with the speed and ferocity of your every day gossip, I can't help but wonder...is this the next step in our de-evolution? Or as the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson once said, "...the downward spiral of dumbness in America." It's evidently known by anyone with a pulse that the amenities in our every day existence have made things easier and easier for us. We no longer labor in fields or work our children in horrible factories and sweatshops, paying them sinful wages and working them 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. We leave that to the kids in China and India (coming soon...Afghanistan and Iraq). The point is, we are becoming more and more dependant on technology and machinery to aid in the tasks we once worked for. And as generations pass and our bodies move less and less, requiring minimal effort for physical tasks, we essentially become the bitches of technology. It's a raw and simplistic illustration, but effectively conveys my point nonetheless.

So as our physical dependence on this thing...this "Skynet-esque" technology (that was a stretch on word usage, I know), we are left with the one thing that separates us from all species on Earth. The one thing the machines don't have...our minds (our opposable thumbs help our cause in the animal world, so props to them). As long as we have our minds, we can create more advanced technology to continue to make our lives seemingly easier.

I must ask...Where does it end?

When is enough, enough? Would it kill us to chill the hell out for a year or two..hundred...to stop and appreciate how far we've come? Every week a new technology appears that betters the one that was introduced only weeks before. The fucking IPod is the size of a credit card now, and it's as thin as the skin on that weasel in the White House (would I be me if I didn't bash the little fucker in a blog...or every day conversation?). WHY?? Are we fucking shrinking? Is there something we don't know about, but are secretly preparing for? Is Lily Tomlin making an incredible shrinking comeback? Our cars get bigger and meaner and our technology smaller and faster. And there's no way to have "the latest thing". By the time you tear open the package another one 3 times as fast is ready to be launched.

"Step aside son...that gigabyte shit's for the birds. And that flat "Razor" cell phone of yours mind as well be a fucking rotary phone!"

It's happening...and it's coming fast. Right now as I type I will be publishing my thoughts to the world. People I know, love, and don't even know exist are free to indulge themselves as they wish. And if you listen closely you will hear the next step in this evolution...or this de-evolution. It's silence. Only the pitter patter of keys and whatever background noise you have lurking within your walls. We are connected by something most of us know nothing about. We are communicating more openly and more freely across this "highway" or whatever trendy phrase they will soon use to hock it. We "talk" through programs, entering and sending codes and information, back and forth. All the while losing the human element.

Pick up the phone. Call someone. Get the hell off your computer, go into the other room and talk to someone you love or just tolerate. And if you're alone, talk to yourself. You know you do it anyway. Which leads me to me....why am I here? Well, everyone's asleep but me. No one to talk to.

I know.......I'll go talk to God. We used to have some good chats.

Boyce

There are few things in this world more ruthless and heinous than a Sangria hangover - particularly at 7:45 in the morning as I type this. I was getting together with "the boys" last night to watch some college football and made the much needed trip to the local liquor store. I picked up the usual: beer, booze, wine, moonshine...and out of the corner of my eye, I spy a shelf with giant jugs on it. I glance at the jugs and see that they are filled with Sangria; courtesy of our dear Spaniard friends Carlos and Rossi. "Sangria!" I thought to myself. I hadn't had that in years! What the hell, at $7 a gallon, it was sure to be a cost effective buzz. I heave the 10 lb. jug off the shelf and the night is ready to begin.

I get home and forego the usual beer that is typically shared in testosterone-laden gatherings and whip out the old trusty plastic cup. The kind of cup you get from a gas station for filling up your tank. It usually has the picture of a local sports figure on it, but by now it's so chipped and faded it looks like a map of the Bikini Islands. We all have them...the cup you've had since college and just can't seem to get rid of because it's capacity far exceeds any glass on the shelf, or any pitcher for that matter. It's a behemoth...it's perfect.

I fill that bad boy to the top and take a sip...."Ahhhh". That hits the spot. It's an interesting blend of processed fruit juice and cheap wine. Fruity yet tangy. It tingles the palate and sends an array of sensations through your mouth all the way down to your tummy. If I didn't know any better I'd think I was drinking Juicy Juice, or Hi-C. Better keep this away from the kid, lest she mistake it for one of her sugary concoctions. Saturday morning cartoons would be an entirely new experience when you’re trashed at 10:00 in the morning. But I digress...

The night proceeds, the games forge on...we're barbecuing, eating, laughing; a good time is had by all. I'm refilling my cup like I refill my SUV, every 30 minutes (or 30 miles in the case of the Durango). I've got what is seemingly a light buzz going, but pay little attention to it amidst the night's festivities. The process continues...I'm thirsty, I refill the cup, it's refreshing, it's gone. Damn I'm thirsty again...you see where I'm going here.

The games wrap up and no one knows who won or lost. No one cares for that matter. It's not necessarily about the games as much as it is about the camaraderie. A few last laughs are had and the boys depart. I shut the door behind them. I turn to walk into the living room. Good God I am so fucking drunk. When did this happen? It hit me like a two-by-four, square across the head. A sudden surge of intoxication that is unique only to this brand of alcohol. It is sneaky and evasive. It almost stores itself in the crevices of your head and waits for the perfect moment to pounce on you. And my moment was now.

The details of the remainder of my night are hazy at best. But I know one thing for sure...I hit the bed early and I hit it hard. I somehow managed to set my alarm for the dreaded 6:00 morning hour. I was rudely awoken by the indescribably painful sound of 50 Cent blaring from my alarm clock at that cruel hour of the morning. And being that 50 Cent is painful to listen to WITHOUT a severe hangover at 6am made it all the worse. I thought the roof had collapsed and landed directly on my head. The reverb in my brain lingered for 10 minutes after I shut it off. As I reluctantly arose from my drunken slumber I felt dizziness that I had not felt since I was a reckless boy in college. Back when drinking Red Dog and 151 was the cool thing to do. Life was short and we lived hard. Looking back, I was a complete dumbass.

They say the human body is comprised of 90% water. Not my body. Not on this morning. My head was a veritable desert, and my sight a vicious mixture of blurry double vision. I cursed the day before it had begun. I needed water and I needed it fast. I somehow managed to crawl to the refrigerator, I pried open the door...we're out of water. Fuck. As I glanced down in deep and traumatic sorrow, I saw them. The two bastards who were responsible for the hell I was deeply immersed in. Smiling down on me...almost mockingly. I cursed their names and the names of their children. I cursed the long line of descendants that would surely follow them as "their kind" tend to breed like rabbits.

And as I lay there on my kitchen floor, I gathered what little energy I had. And in a dry, coarse and scratchy voice, I shouted to the heavens, "FUCK YOU CARLOS, AND FUCK YOU TOO ROSSI!! DAMN YOU BOTH TO HELL" The jug was empty. A gallon of their toxic juice was infesting my body. This would surely be my last encounter with Sangria.

And I say, Good riddance.

For whatever reason, I am not among the general population of individuals who enjoy meaningless conversation. And as you read this, I know what you're thinking…who is?! Now I'm not talking about the typical mindless conversation. When a friend shares a story about what his or her pet did, and how cute the damn thing is. And not the kind where a new parent flaunts pictures of their baby's first day of existence.
You know, the pictures that are taken mere minutes after the baby is born. The kid's face is beet-red, it still has traces of vaginal sauce on it's face. Eyes slanted like you'd just given birth to a Korean. Disgusting, right? Damn right it is. But yet the parent STILL brags like it's the most beautiful sight ever seen. I don't care who you are. Whether it's your kid or not. Ugly is ugly. And when a kid is first born, fresh out of the womb …the little fucker's ugly. That's all there is to it. If they had only waited 36 hours to take their stinkin' picture, you'd be looking at a whole different kid. And a whole HELL of a different picture. In just 36 hours the kids turns from an alien life form, to a somewhat cute kid.

But this is merely a means of illustrating my point. That point being: why the hell do people have to make conversation for the sake of making conversation? Particularly when they are cashiers? Have you ever encountered that cashier at a Target or the cafeteria in your work place, or a music store? The guy who has decided that this was his career, and his only goal in life was to excel at this mindless task?
I feel bad for these people, but they are in the unfortunate position of being in a place where they are the finish line to a long and arduous marathon of capitalism. People have spent hours upon hours wandering up and down the isles of the store like cattle. Filling their baskets with products that your establishment hocks. And when their journey has commenced, and their lists have been fully checked off, it is you - the cashier - who seals the deal. Our needs have been placed in a wheeled basket, and you ensure our needs are ultimately met. For it is you whom we hand over our hard earned money. If you are pleasant and quietly engaging, you end the journey on a positive note. And your establishment wins the battle of consumerism in your local community.

But unfortunately, I encounter quite the opposite.

There are those who thrive to do a good job, but they're so socially challenged, that they become obnoxious. We've all encountered them. There was a guy at the cafeteria where I worked. I'd buy lunch there every day, and for a long time it was the same, reliable people who you came to know. They did their job humbly, and never gave you attitude. Some were quiet and didn't say a thing. But they did their thing quick, and you never had an issue.

Then there were those who did a good job and were a bit more social and engaging. They possessed strong service skills and went the extra mile to remember your name or who you were. It made you feel important. Like there was a quality about you that stood out in their minds and allowed them to remember you. Or perhaps they were just observant enough to read your name-tag. Either way...they were my favorites. I would then take the time to remember their names. And each day it would be, "Hi Kris!" And I would graciously reply, "Hey Herve! What's up?" It would be the simplest, 'how ya doin' that would make your time there a little better. Short, sweet, and movin' on.

But then….there's the dreaded new guy. We had this guy recently at work. Every time you'd be next in line at the cash register, you'd be the sole member of the audience for his shitty one-man comedy routine. Every time he told you how much you owed, he'd tell you as if the cost had no decimal point. So if your lunch totaled $4.17, he'd say, "That'll be four-hundred-seventeen dollars." Genius…pure comedic genius. He was a short rotund guy with a weasely little moustache and 5 chins. I felt bad for the guy because I could tell that his quirky personality rooted from a very desperate lack of social existence. I would have continued to feel bad for the guy had he not been so completely fucking obnoxious. Each and every person in line, "That's Two hundred and fifty-five dollars." Most people would forcibly crack a pathetic half-assed pity chuckle just to get their change and get the hell out of there. But not me. You see, my tolerance at that time of day was short - very short. I work my ass off and the fact that I am even eating lunch is a miracle in itself. So I want to get my shit, get it without a hassle, and get the fuck out. So when I see this guy, person after person, day after day, say the same old bullshit, it begins to irritate me. So I'm 3rd in line and I hear his routine once again. Trying to be the cool, social guy who people will love…but failing miserably at it. So I'm next in line, and I am BEGGING him to pull that shit again so I can tell him what I think of it. I'm ready for his monotonous crap. Go ahead, say it again! I dare you! I double-fucking-dog dare ya!!

He rings up my order…Caesar Salad wrap, Fig Newtons. He punches my order on the touch screen, hitting the obscenely large buttons with the exact words of what I ordered. The simplest task a human being can encounter. And my total pops up on the screen…$3.85. And I wait for it….he looks up at me, and I begin to cringe in anticipation of those heinous words that are about to pour from his crooked jaw. He glances up with through those bottle-cap glasses and says, "That'll be Three Eighty-five."

Shocked, I nearly dropped my tray in disbelief. Had I been the beginning of the end? Had the "I think I'm the wittiest guy on Earth" finally resigned to his fate of being un-fucking-funny? I began to grin as I was waiting for my debit card to process the charge...the "Three Eighty-Five" that I owed this fine gentleman. And as we waited, he looked up at me. The void in time was clearly too much for him to handle. He had to have an audience, and he felt the spotlight fading. So he turns to me and he says, "So…working hard? (long pause) or hardly working?" The look on his face was as if he cracked the most brilliant one-liner on the planet. That son of a bitch just spouted out the most despicable cliché ever created by a half-wit. I looked down on him in complete disgust. Over top of those Hubble-thick glasses, straight into the pupils of his beady little eyes.

And then I smacked him. Hard! It was the best free lunch I've ever had.