Clean Off Your Goddamn Car

We've been the victim of several snow storms over the past couple months in the Northeast. These snowfalls remind me of something that pisses me off each and every season: These asshole drivers that don't clean the fucking snow off their cars. Seriously, is it that hard to do?

Granted, I'm a little biased since I drive a somewhat small car, but I still see people with the same size cars as me driving around with a foot of snow on the roof and a little window carved out on the windshield so they can see. If you're in that much of a hurry that you can't clean you're f'ing car off then either invest in a garage or get up earlier.

This goes doubly for those douchebags that drive around in their SUVs. We felt a little sorry for you this summer when gas was so f'ing expensive, but you're probably laughing your ass off now as you're driving over mountains and shit while I'm spinning my wheels in my driveway. Well, if you're able to sit up on your giant driver's seat, then you should be able to clean that snow off the roof too. I understand that you've probably never seen a big sheet of ice fly off a truck and come careening at your tiny Hyundai going 60 miles an hour on the highway because you tower over us normal-sized car owners, but take an extra minute to get that shit off of there.

Don't boo-hoo about not being able to reach it either. That's no fucking excuse. There are step ladders, brooms and big extendable ice scrapers that are made just for dumbasses like you so grab one and get to work.

So please. Have some common fucking courtesy this winter and clean the snow off your fucking car before you get on the road. I took the time to take care of my car. I don't need your lazy snow flying onto mine because you're an asshole.

Comic Book Fanboys Are The Worst

I'll be the first to admit that I love comic books. I'm all over the funny pages. My screenname is "Batman McAwesome" and up until a couple months ago, I had a regular pull list at my local comic shop consisting of about 40 titles. That being said, I f'ing hate comic book fans. I can't stand them. They're probably the worst type of fan out there. They're obsessive and none of their opinions are based on any sort of fact. They're just a huge pain in the ass.

It's this reason that I try to limit my time spent in comic book stores. Now, for the most part, the owners and cashiers of these shops are pretty cool. You can joke with them and have actual conversations with them that don't consist solely of quotes from Futurama and what kind of underpants Wonder Woman wears. I just can't tolerate nerds. I get in there, grab my books, and I'm out the door before the dorks nearby have a chance to spout out why they'd punch Shia LaBeouf in the face (meanwhile deep down inside, they'd probably just request an autograph and ask him what BumbleBee is really like). I just can't deal with it.

That's the problem facing the comic book industry. Sure, there are 70+ years worth of stories ranging from superhero tales to stuff for little kids and adults, but the "comic book nerd" stereotype will stick with it for years to come. I doubt I'll see the day when graphic novels are considered actual literature or at the very least not looked down upon. Shit just won't happen because of all these crazy dorks out there writing fan-fiction and yelling at people because they buy Marvel or DC comics (Ask any comic book dork and there's bound to be a deep seeded hatred of one of the big two).

As I mentioned above, I have no qualms about my status as a dork, however there's a big difference between me as a dork and the kind of dorks that lurk around the comic book shop playing HeroClix and scaring off customers. I can talk about comic books until the cows come home, but I also recognize that not everyone can rattle off quotes from Family Guy or knows the names of all the Green Lanterns assigned to Sector 2814, so I can have a normal conversation with people. F'ing nerds.

Junior's Dream

I had a crazy dream during my Junior Year of high school where I was cutting my left hand, with a giant steak knife. I started with my fingers tips and worked my way up to my wrist, cutting the hand into half-inch slivers. I then picked up the cutting board--fingers, nails, class ring and all, and began scraping them into a wok. I nonchalantly watched the the food, er--I mean fingers sizzle in the peanut oil as they hit the pan. The aroma was alluring and captivating. My eyes focused on the red meat as it became engrossed in heat, oil and my undivided attention. I just stared and stared and stared.

I was riding the kind of bicycle a 1940s Dublin mailman might of used when delivering his mail, down a dirt path. To my right, left, and above my head were incestuous trees that kept me enclosed, so that I could only head toward a bright white northern light. The path I was riding my bicycle down could barley fit my handlebars, or my head, and I was pedaling so vigorously that my velocity was greater than that of a 1990s Dublin mailman, eating a cliff bar while pedaling at top speed towards the nearest pub. I kept pedaling and pedaling towards the light to grow closer, but it was to no avail. I didn't get closer and nor did the light grow farther, instead the bike was stationary, and the roof and wall made of entangled trees moved, giving the illusion of movement. A tree branch hit me in my face.

As I was dreaming these dreams, I felt as if I was able to view the dream from afar, as well as in the first person. At the same time I was able to see myself sleep in my bed. It was like I was practicing some sort of mediation. Vipassana?