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Sunday, August 9, 2015

100 Scenes I Love: #1. Cassandra's video shoot (Wayne's World, 1992)

Over the years I’ve presented and ruminated upon the literally hundreds of songs I love; gushed over my most beloved episodes of televised entertainment; listed the hundreds of snack foods I know I shouldn’t introduce into the Wonderland that is My Body, but have anyway because crunchy/salty/greasy/clogging things are absolutely scrumptious (chemicals make ‘em that way!); poked all manner of pop culture with the sharpened stick of wit, from reality TV to video games, situation comedies to movies for dum-dums, entertainment “news” to reality TV; and tackled some of societies biggest problems with the seriousness and aplomb of a seasoned reporter (like the time I used the "Paula Deen making racist comments" debacle to make fun of fat people!).  Well, now here’s something else.

Today begins an in-depth exploration of the 100 Scenes I Love, those pivotal moments in motion picture history that have moved me to tears or laughter or vomiting or teeth chattering or hysterical giggling that lead to a brief period of unconsciousness that one time.  These are the scenes that sculpted the goofy brain of the weird man who occasionally posts on this ridiculous blog.  Most of the entries in this exclusive series will not mention Taco Bell, dentistry, the television program Mystery Diners, Bush’s-brand baked beans or Juggalo culture, so, sadly, very few folks will just happen across them while sailing across this great World Wide Web we all love so much.  But maybe they will come, after all, I am building it, "it" being a place for lovers of fine scenes to come together and read short blurbs about things I like, from movies I enjoy.  Maybe you’ll find that you and I share the same love for a particular scene.  Maybe you’ll think that makes us soul mates.  Well, I’m flattered, but I’m happily married.  Take that soul mate shit somewhere else.

I thought the best place to begin this magical journey would be with a movie that is actually more of a collection of scenes rather than a traditionally structured film with a satisfying story arc and genuine pathos.  Of course I'm talking about Wayne's World, the 1992 film based on the popular Saturday Night Live sketch that gave young Americans so many of our favorite comical, early-90's phrases, like "schwing" and "not," which when strategically placed at the end of a sentence, negates all information in said preceding sentence.  Gosh, I miss "not."  NOT!

Funny side story about Wayne's World:  In middle school, the Drama teacher would occasionally convince a handful of teachers to throw their lesson plans in the garbage for the day and drag their respective classes down to the cafeteria to watch the Drama students perform short sketches and scenes they had written and rehearsed.  I know this because I took Drama and was part of one of these sketches.  I was in a scene with a bunch of upperclassmen--8th graders--a scene in which I had very little say, but oddly enough, the role of the de facto narrator.  The scene involved four or five Mafia bosses, each one of which had a body guard.  Obviously, the 8th graders were the the bosses and us lowly seventh and sixth graders were the body guards.  I remember exactly nothing about the scene, only I introduced the action and closed the piece with a short, closing monologue, both performed in front of the curtain to a dark room full of disinterested middle school students.  I don't think there was a written script, I think one of the 8th graders told me what to say.  It was dumb.

Anyway, before my involvement in said class, as a sixth grader, I remember my best friend Graham and I watching a Drama class performance, and two exceptionally creative young men decided to forgo the heavy lifting involved in creating their own original scene, and just did Wayne's World.  Again, I don't remember any of it--I assume there were a lot of "schwings" and "as ifs" and "nots" and Top 10 lists--but I remember me and Graham thought it was funny.  I should add, neither of us knew what Wayne's World was.

"What was that?" Graham asked as the curtain closed.  He had obviously perceived something I had missed.  He had figured out there was no way in Hell a duo of 8th grade doofuses had come up with something so funny on their own.

"I don't know," I answered, wiping the tears away from my eyes (probably).  "I guess they made it up."

And then, like an avenging angel from on high, a faceless classmate turned in his seat, looked at me and said, "It's from
Saturday Night Live, stupid!

Saturday Night Live?  I'd never, ever heard of something called Saturday Night Live.  That weekend, Graham slept over and we watched Saturday Night Live for the first time.  I wasn't allowed to have a TV in my room, but my parents, understanding that the main focus of this particular sleepover was to watch and initiate ourselves into the cult of SNL, let me borrow the portable, black-and-white television they kept in their closet for the occasion.  It was love at first sight.


If you've seen
Wayne's World--and who the hell hasn't by this point?--you know the good parts, have them eternally burned into your brain.  Every time "Bohemian Rhapsody" (a title I used to, in my brain, see as "Bohemian Rap City," and was honestly perplexed when there didn't seem to be in rap involved in the song anywhere--it took getting a copy of the Wayne's World Original Motion Picture Soundtrack to set me straight) comes on the radio, American citizens of a certain age can't help but immediately picture five grown-men-as-teenagers headbanging in the Mirth Mobile (complete with it's own red licorice dispenser--man oh man, I wanted one of those).  And everyone loves the not-subtle stab at product placement in movies, a scene that many of you probably assumed would be the subject of this first entry into the 100 Scenes I Love canon.  I'm not going to lie, it almost was.  I decided, however, to go a different route because the product placement scene is the one everybody talks about all the time.  It is great and funny, but it's been done to death.  Oh, you know what's also good?  Wayne's interview with Noah Vanderhoff where he's added offensive remarks on the backs of the interview question cards.  Or when Wayne and Cassandra have a conversation in Chinese, but then settle on reading the subtitles because it's easier.  OH, or when Stacy buys Wayne a gun rack and he has that great line.  OH, OH, OH, or Ed O'Neill being creepy.  And who could forget Alice Cooper chatting with our heroes about the origin of the name Milwaukee?

All great scenes, yes, and I like them all, but I'm partial to the scene in which Wayne takes one last stab at getting his girlfriend back, visiting her on the set of her band's first music video.  I couldn't find a clip of the complete scene, but I did find my favorite part:

The absurd amount of film shooting out of the camera and coiling on the ground make me laugh every time I see it.  There's also a bit before where Wayne questions the validity of said video shoot by pointing out that none of the other members of Crucial Taunt appear to be on set, just seconds before the band strolls by and exchanges pleasantries with Wayne.  The moment is silly and dumb, and it makes me so happy.

In fact, this scene, in particular the ridiculous stream of film spilling everywhere, reminds me of a scene I love from another movie, but I don't want to get ahead of myself.  We'll get to that in the installment of 100 Scenes I Love.   Read the rest of this article.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

The Most Horrific Thing I've Read This Week!

Movie theater shootings!  Police brutality!  Institutionalized racism!  The last few weeks have been rife with pain, violence, death and destruction.  But did you know you can now purchase a ribeye steak from your local Dollar Tree?  For eating purposes?!?  It's true, and the worst part is, I think I already knew this at one point and had successfully pushed it out of my brain.  But then, silly me, I go bopping around the internet this week and come face to face with a horror I thought I'd left behind.


Ribeye steaks for sale at the Dollar Tree?

It sounds to be good to be true, but the store's latest craze has the Internet sizzling with reviews.

"To be good to be true?!?"  First of all, you got a "be" too many in there, pal.  Secondly, what sounds "good" about a one-dollar steak?  I'm not some corporate fat cat who eats out at fancy steakhouses every night, treating international clients to cocktails and choice cuts, with high-end hookers and cocaine for dessert, but when I eat a steak--which I've been known to do on occasion--I want a quality slab of meat, not a construction-paper thin slice of beef with-painted-on grill marks.  There is a reason steak is considered a "special occasion" food to us Average Joes and Janes.  It means we saved up a little, put some cash aside for something nice, something quality, something we've seasoned ourselves rather than cutting it out of plastic bag "preseasoned in a brine."

That "preseaoned in a brine" bit gave me pause.  I decided to consult my favorite cook, my wife, on this topic.  The following is our high-octane, super-exciting text conversation on the subject:

In her defense, she was very busy doing actual, meaningful work.  She did tell me at dinner that night though, that some steaks (i.e. not of the $1 variety) come pre-brined and that I, in fact, I've eaten a pre-brined steak on many occasions.  So, OK, maybe the "preseasoned in a brine" thing isn't that gross, but still, I like to season my own steaks.  Little pepper, little salt, grilled fast on a high heat, rare to medium rare, occasionally a small ramekin of steak sauce on the side for dipping purposes (not used as often now that I'm an adult, but sometimes I indulge), maybe a baked potato and a house salad (mostly cheese) on the side.  That's a steak dinner.  And that's a steak: simple, not-overcooked, delicious.  I don't want to make excuses for the steak I'm eating.  "Well, it's chewy, but it cost a dollar, so I'll cram into my mouth.  No big whoop!"  If that's how you view eating a steak, then stopping eating steak RIGHT NOW!  Show some respect!  A cow died for that meal!

OK.  I got it all out of my system.  Time to forget this whole Dollar General steak story again.

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Saturday, July 11, 2015

100 Songs I Hate: Songs of Summer Edition: #46

Last summer, as you might recall, I used this blog to express my extreme disgust with the song "Rude" by Magic!, a song I considered both a serious contender for "Song of Summer" status and one of the most putrid hunks of flaming garbage to have ever been shat into existence.  I hated "Rude" so much and with a passion that most people reserve for genocidal dictators or reality show participants.  I still hate "Rude," nightly praying for it to perish in a fiery shuttle crash or have its skull caved in by a falling, poorly installed AC window unit.  

But now there's something out there far worse, like, more horrible than your most horrendous nightmare.  You know the one.  You're in front of a large group of people in a public venue, about to give a speech about something for which you are extremely passionate, and you suddenly notice that all of your notes are out of order and written in hieroglyphics.  Not only that, but you've forgotten your pants and all of your teeth have just this moment fallen out of your mouth and onto the lectern.  And the audience is entirely made up of clones of your worst ex-girlfriend and grizzly bears.  And you're on fire.

By no means did "Rude" ever grow on me, but I did learn to tolerate it.  I had to.  My daughter, who was three at the time, caught wind of the song, and would burst out with snippets of it from time to time - at the dinner table; on a road trip; in the middle of the night, hunched over my sleeping body, her face hovering over mine, our noses touching.  She'd either sing "why you gotta be so rude?" or "marry that girl," and she'd do it over and over and over.  In time, "Rude" lost it's shimmer, and she moved onto the next thing (i.e. saying "spaghetti" in a weird, unrecognizable foreign-ish accent for fifteen minutes straight), but while we were in the thick of Summer '14, I didn't mind it so much when my little girl would regale with us with a few bars of the song.  This new, worse song, however, will never reach the ears of my precious daughter.  She will never be exposed to it's evil, her brain shall remain untouched by this parasitic earworm from Hell.

Of course I'm talking about Andy Grammer's "Honey, I'm Good," the worst song of all time.  Let's give it a listen, shall we?:

How the fuck do all of these people know this song?!?  Sorry.  Look, last year I probably wrote something, like, "Hey, if you enjoy "Rude," good for you.  Enjoy it.  Roll your car windows down and blast it while you're driving around town.  Learn it front to back and perform it on your next karaoke outing.  Play it during your wedding ceremony.  Play it at your great-aunt's funeral."  That looks like something I'd write.  I can't say any of that when writing about "Honey, I'm Good."  It isn't OK to like this.  This is not good music.  All of the people in this video should be ashamed of themselves.  I hope all of the ones who do not have children were sterilized immediately when the government found out this video existed.

"Honey, I'm Good" makes me want to listen to Pharrell's "Happy" on a loop for 17 hours.  It makes "Rude" sound like a masterpiece.  It makes me want to reconsider my belief that Don McLean's "American Pie" is the worst song ever written.  I don't know what "Honey, I'm Good" is, but I know it's evil and we must kill it with fire.  In fact, the only way I'll ever give this ridiculously dumb song another chance is if Kelsey Grammer records a cover version.  Holy shit!  "Honey, I'm Good" makes the Frasier theme song sound as good as anything The Smiths put out in their short tenure as the world's greatest band.

TL;DR: I hate Andy Grammer's "Honey, I'm Good."

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Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Re: The plea to "Be Nice"

Following last week's landmark decision by the Supreme Court, social media went apeshit.  I'm not aware of it causing any shockwaves anywhere else, as I am shut in with very limited contact with the outside world, but I remember sitting at my computer and thinking,  "Wow!  My Facebook news feed hasn't been this cluttered with passionate proclamations of personal beliefs, celebratory fist pumping and serious Biblical debate since last week when everybody was buzzing about the Confederate flag."  Like I said, apeshit, which I'm going to keep typing as one word because who cares.

For the record, I was, and remain, a celebratory fist pumper.  I don't know if it's the government's place to make the call on who can get married or not, as a handful of Libertarian folks I know have posted, but I'm glad the Supreme Court just went ahead and did what they did.  This is the United States of America, every citizen deserves equal rights, done.  There's no debate.  If you'd like to debate, please present your opening statements in the comments section of this blog, so I can ignore them until the end of time, because there is no debate.  If you think there is, you are a gigantic asshole.

I'm sorry.  Was that mean?  I'm also not sorry.  Look, when I typed "apeshit" before (twice so far by my count), I was mostly referring to the comments of a weird sub-section of Christians I'm apparently connected to through Facebook somehow, who for some reason believe a) they personally lost something the day gay marriage was made legal and/or b) the logical next step is a return to days of yore in which Christians were fed to hungry lions for sport.  I'm serious.  I read that exact sentiment more than once in my news feed.  There are a handful of Christians who honestly believe that now that gay people can legally marry each other, Christianity will become illegal and they will be hunted and murdered for the entertainment of the heathen masses.  Maybe they're being hyperbolic, but I don't think they are.  

The people who play up the religious persecution angle, are the same ones that want you to know that they are friends with gay people.  Really?  Are they?  I'm as liberal as they come--annoyingly so, probably--I support gay rights whole-heartedly, but I can count the number of close gay friends I have on exactly zero hands.  I know and am acquainted with a handful of homosexual individuals, I like these individuals quite a lot, but none of the friends I spend a significant amount of my free time with are gay.  There isn't anything nefarious behind it, that's just how adult friendship shakes out.  But somehow, every Christian who felt the need to speak from their heart and bleed all over Facebook last weekend has scores of gay friends, gay friends farther than the eye can see.  And they love each and every one of those gay friends so much, except the part that indulges in the sin of being attracted to and desiring loving relationships with members of their same sex.  Wait, what?!

"Love the sinner, hate the sin."  I've heard this refrain all my life.  Man, is it sick.  A Christian might say, "Well, Matt, we're all sinners, so, you know, this just means we love everybody.  It's just a big old love fest over here at Billy Graham Incorporated." (I don't know if that's a real thing.).  OK, we're all sinners--and let me just say without any sort of follow-up that I find the whole Christian idea of "original sin" momentously childish--but, um, if you hate the "sin" of homosexuality, you kind of do specifically hate gay people.  I mean, tell me how I'm wrong.  DAMMIT!  They aren't committing a sin!!!  The Bible says it's one?  You believe in the Bible? OK, fine, then it is a sin, and you hate the sin, which means you hate the sinner as well.  Being a homosexual is not just about sex, guys!  It's just like what you have/want with a member of the opposite sex, but with the same sex.  This is mind-numbing.  My brain hurts.

Attached to all of these proclamations of belief and reminders that "we don't all have to believe the same thing," is the plea to "be nice."  Well, I refuse.  I'm not going to be nice.  There's no reason to.  You're not being nice.  You're not being rational either, but that's not the point.  

We don't all have to agree, I agree with that, but don't treat me like an idiot.  I'll try my hardest to do the same.  But as far as being nice in the battle to get everybody on the same playing field, I believe this emoji says more than I ever could with words:

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Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Hey, Bush's Baked Beans Guy, Take It Down a Notch!

There are so many great pop culture stories out there right now to report on—Caitlyn Jenner on the cover of Vanity Fair; Kim Kardashian pregnant with her second child; Kylie Jenner blowing the lid off the chemtrails conspiracy; Kris Kardashian getting a haircut; Brody Jenner doing a thing—but I’m going to ignore all that and talk about the new Bush’s baked beans spokesperson for awhile, specifically about how endlessly awful he is.  

In a perfect world, there’d be a scene in the blockbuster film San Andreas in which Baked Beans Guy (BBG) is, naturally, shopping for Bush’s baked beans when the earthquake hits.  Losing his balance, BBG falls to the floor of whatever grocery store chain they’ve got out there in Los Angeles, and is crushed to near-death by a Bush’s baked beans display, can after can beating a death march drum beat on his skull and rib cage.  So, there he lies, crumpled and moaning under an avalanche of bean cans, still doing his best to smile through a mouth full of shattered teeth, reciting his love for the many varieties of Bush’s baked beans now available to the buying public, when a CGI sink hole swallows the grocery store whole, and BBG disappears forever into gaping maw of Mother Earth.  There is no Dwayne Johnson to save him from his doom, there is only darkness.  And beans.

Baked Beans Guy is the latest in a string of bad ideas hatched by Bush’s baked beans.  First there was Duke, that insufferable pooch whose passion in life seemed to be discovering a way to bring down the Bush’s brand by exposing the company’s secret bean recipe to the world. What were they doing to that dog to make him hate them so much?!?  Duke has never relented in his quest to ruin the Bush’s brand, though he seems oddly loyal to it as well, as even he will occasionally request that the director of the ridiculous commercials in which he is featured roll that “beautiful bean footage.”  I realize that Duke, the character, is a creation of cheap computer effects, and that the dog actor who portrays him has no feelings, good or ill, toward the Bush’s company.  Duke, like the Noid before him, is an adorable villain, a creep we all root for because a) he’s super cute and b) he is essentially plotting to take down a large corporation, and America hates large corporations, unless said corporations produce tantrum-quelling animated films or offer discount prices on all the stupid products we’ve been told we need in order to be happy, productive members of human society.  Duke is the ultimate anti-hero, like Walter White or the Hamburgler.  I guess the Duke-related issue that still chaffs my bean shoot is when Bush’s wouldn’t let Julie Klausner pet—PET!!!—Duke’s soft, red fur.  C’mon, Bush’s! God made that fur for pettin’!

Just before BBG set the advertising world ablaze—like a tire fire or a flaming paper bag of Duke poo—there were the scientists who informed a table full of children that baked beans were vegetables, and since said children had just before this revelation informed said scientists that they greatly enjoyed said beans, these children, who had earlier professed a dislike of all vegetables, in fact, did enjoy vegetables.  Here’s the problem: beans aren’t vegetables, at least, according to my wife, who, every time this commercial shows up during Guy’s Grocery Games on Sunday night—this is when I see all of these Bush’s commercials, because Guy Fieri is apparently in bed with "Big Bean"—growls “beans aren’t vegetables” through gritted teeth.  I'm inclined to believe her as she a) knows a lot about food and b) is way smarter than me.  In an effort at journalistic professionalism, I typed "are beans vegetables" into Google, and discovered that beans are technically legumes, which might make them a fruit or a flower or an orphan protein that was adopted by a vegetable family or something else entirely.  If you care enough, you can read more about beans here or check out this non-helpful Yahoo answers explanation.  Whatever beans are, these two fake scientists don't have to be so smug and condescending about it.  Children are our future, and they deserve better than half-truths and conjecture.

And now we finally came to BBG, seen here losing his shit over the wide variety of baked beans offered by Bush's:

Just pick a can of beans, guy!  Is it really that difficult?  If you find that you can't leave the store without a cart filled to the brim with every conceivable flavor Bush's has to offer, maybe you should simply pause, take a breath and call your wife.  Maybe she had a specific flavor in mind.  Maybe she didn't.  If the latter is the case, then just choose a flavor, two tops.  This guy is infuriating.  And such a ham biscuit (my wife's term for our daughter when she "hams" it up in pictures).  I mean, this guy doesn't have a genuine bone in his body.  He's a goof-bot, built by a misguided ad agency and powered by baked beans.

Bush's, either bring back Duke (i.e. the lesser of three evils) or hang it up.  I mean, you're pretty much the only bean game in town as far as I know.  Do you really need more commercials?  Maybe you do, granted, I don't know much about the mass-produced canned baked beans industry.  Maybe you like this character, I mean, somebody signed off on him (probably the bald dude), so maybe you retool him a little.  Nobody is this excited/perplexed by beans.  It doesn't ring true.  He doesn't make me want to eat baked beans.  He makes me want to commit murder.  Figure it out!

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Wednesday, May 27, 2015

On mutant powers and being a pedestrian

A weird summit of Raleigh commuters met in secret at the start of 2015 to discuss whether or not crosswalks and those who use them on a regular basis should continue to be paid attention to and/or respected.  Following an unprecedented unanimous vote, it was decided crosswalks should be utterly ignored and the lives of those who use them on a regular basis be devalued  to something below lice on a worm.  Satisfied with their unholy decision, this cabal of sinister motorists sacrificed a virgin to their devil-god and gorged themselves on the blood of infants.

I don't have substantial proof that the above event actually took place, I'm just making an educated guess.  I've nearly been flattened while using crosswalks more times in the first four months of 2015 than I have in the last seven-and-a-half years I've been walking to the office at which my day job is located.  Obviously something strange is going on.  It may not be a secret cult of demon-worshipping baby-eaters, but something unnatural has happened to the brains of the commuting public.
I used to have this fantasy about what I would do if I had the good fortune of narrowly avoiding being steamrolled in a crosswalk and also possessed eerie, man-frog powers.  I developed said fantasy after I was almost smashed to pulp by an idiot, who after nearly causing my death, felt the need to pull over to the curb, roll his window down, shout the word "asshole" at me and then screech away like a getaway driver post-bank heist.  You see, in this scenario, Dum-Dum believed that I was the asshole, when in reality, it couldn't be clearer who the asshole was.  Just so we're clear, the asshole is always the person who almost/definitely commits vehicular manslaughter.  You don't hear a lot of victims of hit-and-runs or police brutality or rape being called "assholes" by the press.  There's a reason for that.

Oh, the fantasy!  Yes, in that moment, as the garbage person drove off into his unhappy life, I imagined I had superhuman frog powers, kind of like Spider-Man if instead of being bitten by a radioactive spider he’d been licked or had licked a radioactive frog.  In my fantasy, I leaped from my spot on the sidewalk onto the hood of the dickhead’s car, smashed the windshield with my superhuman frog strength (???), and using my tongue as a bullwhip or lasso, lifted the man from the driver’s seat by this neck, leaped into the nearest parking lot with him firmly gripped in my prehensile tongue and bashed his face into the concrete.  His car, of course, would veer off into an abandoned lot and explode for reasons unknown.  Finally, I imagined me standing the dude up—he’s now crying like a baby, snot, tears and blood running down his dumb face—removing my tongue from around his throat and spin kicking him through the plate glass window of an abandoned storefront.  Slurping my super tongue back into my mouth, I’d look down at this guy, who is now just a sobbing, blubbery mess, and say, all nonchalant and suave, “Asshole.”  This actually happened—the fantasy, not the man-frog street fight.  I have a rich imagination and should be hired by Pixar immediately to write and direct films.  What do you say, Pixar???
For a long time, I thought the frog-man bit was the best way to deal with shitty drivers. Now, I’m not so sure.  I think I found a better way, an easier way, a way that would take away the interaction, the confrontation.  Whenever I want to punish someone for almost killing me dead, I suppress it because I don’t want the confrontation part.  You don’t know who you are about to scrap with if you decide to make a scene, could be someone with nothing to lose—I often assume it is, because I think people who chronically refuse to respect and acknowledge the human beings they share the planet with are soulless monsters without love.  I’m opposed to getting into a shouting match with someone who might, without a seconds hesitation, punch my nose into my brain or shoot me in the heart.  There are people like that.  George Zimmerman, for instance.  Side note, can we get that guy away from the general public, please?  He’s already killed someone.  The next thing is going to be even worse.
What do I currently do when I’m almost run over in a crosswalk?  I’m glad you asked.  I mumble curses like an elderly gypsy woman.  I’ll typically flip the classic bird, let the driver in question know I do not support what he/she just did.  I’m almost 100% certain they don’t care even a little bit.  “Gotta get to the office, even if it means committing a murder.”  I hope you choke on your Starbucks, you rat!
I give bad drivers the finger and I fantasize revenge scenarios.  The scenario I fantasized last time I was nearly killed, however, may be the best revenge fantasy I’ve had to date; in fact, I’ve found a way to make it work for situations outside of the crosswalk paradigm.  And I owe it all to the film X-Men: Days of Future Past.

If you haven’t seen the film or somehow don’t know the scene by this point—I feel like it’s the only thing people were talking about in the podcast-iverse last summer—you can check it out here.  Doing so is vital to fully understanding my fantasy plan for dealing with the crosswalk-illiterate in this town.  For those who refuse to click the link, I will tell you the scene features Quicksilver, a mutant who can run/perform tasks super fast, running and performing tasks super fast.  This moment in the movie so inspired me, that I immediately upped my already rigorous training game—did I mention I’m running a 10K through Disney’s Epcot amusement park in January?  Oh, I didn’t?  Stay tuned!—in the hopes of building my running speed to Quicksilver-like levels.  This will never happen, obviously, but if sleeping has taught me anything, it’s that it’s all right—nay, necessary!—to dream.  Anyway, here’s my fantasy.  It requires both Quicksilver’s mutant speed abilities and a paper sack full of nails.
So, I’m almost flattened by some thoughtless commuter with coffee stains on his work shirt or a cell phone crammed in her ear, and I leap out of the way—not a Quicksilver leap, just a regular fat guy leap, a leap I’m quite familiar with, being, as I am, a regular fat guy.  I take a second to smile deviously to myself, while removing a paper sack of nails from my work bag (my daughter refers to it as my "purse"), and using my mutant speed powers, I do a few hundred laps around the perpetrator’s car, jamming handfuls of nails into each tire as I do so.  Then I dash back to the curb, stash the nail bag and watch the results of my super-powered revenge.  The crappy, almost-a-murderer is stranded at morning rush hour, a chorus of honks and swears serenading him or her and there are no witnesses to how the driver’s four tires got the Cenobite treatment in a matter of milliseconds.  Oh, man, just seeing this fantasy in print brings me so much satisfaction.
I’ve found, between the time I started writing this article and having returned to it weeks later, that Quicksilver powers could come in handy for non-crosswalk-related revenge situations as well.  For instance, there was a little girl at my daughter’s gymnastics class last Monday who refused to follow the directions of any of the three Little Gym instructors who have been tasked with the difficult duty of teaching three-to-six year olds to tumble, walk a balance beam and perform all manner of potential neck-breaking activities.  “Like herding cats,” is my wife’s weekly refrain, and if you’ve ever witnessed a child’s gymnastics class, you’d agree said statement is pretty apropos.  Anyway, this girl isn’t listening.  She’s running to whatever station she wants to whenever she wants to, she’s jumping off of things when she’s supposed to be sitting quietly, in essence, she’s being a little shit.  And what are this little shit’s parents doing about it?  Well, they were seated right in front of me in the parent’s viewing area, so I can tell you exactly what they were doing: nothing.  Literally nothing.  They just sat there, slack-jawed and vacant, as their little shit kid wreaked havoc all over the Little Gym.  It’s almost like they couldn’t see what was going on. I’m pretty sure they weren’t blind though.  They weren’t wearing sunglasses or brandishing white canes, and I’m pretty sure I saw them drive away in a car.  They just didn’t care.  At all.  I was enraged.  I know every kid isn’t like my daughter, but, dammit, they should all strive to be.  She has a blast in gymnastics class, but she also listens and follows directions.  This little shit did nothing she was told, and it was fairly simple to figure out why.
So, what if, using my Quicksilver powers, I dashed into the gym, picked up the little shit, ran her out into the parking lot—making sure to cradle her neck to avoid whiplash, like Quicksilver does for Magneto—leave her there and dash back to my seat.  To be clear, I don’t want this little girl to get hit by a car—I would make sure the parking lot is clear when I pull this stunt and, if need be, I can dash back outside to grab her if anything goes amiss—I just want her parents to notice her.  My brain won’t let me believe these two want to raise a child who does whatever shitty thing she wants and thinks it’s OK, so, it must be that they view gymnastics class as a break, and when she’s in there, she becomes a blank, or, rather, a blind spot crystalizes over their eyeballs, and they become blissfully ignorant for an hour.  Only you’re not allowed to do that.  You’re not allowed to unleash an unruly kid on an unsuspecting world and force us to deal with your parenting failures.  So, you watch your kid, you pay attention, and when they come up short in the behavior department, you correct them, right the ship as it were.
By moving their kid into a potentially dangerous situation, I would be testing to see if they were truly paying attention.  Your kid, who has been running around like a headless chicken, in and out of the gym, jumping off of this and that, is suddenly in the parking lot alone, scared and possibly in the path of a rampaging monster truck—I live in the South, where we do have free range monster trucks, so it could happen—now what are you going to do?  I’m using my Quicksilver abilities here for good, you see.  I’m waking everybody up.  I’m teaching a lesson.  Or maybe I’m just being a dick.  Maybe everybody has a different parenting style, and maybe it’s dickish of me to think I’ve got all the answers.  I mean, people constantly rave about our daughter’s behavior and politeness to us, but maybe me and my wife don’t have all the answers. Maybe I should just stick to jamming nails into people’s tires.

I understand that I will never possess the quickness of a Quicksilver or a Flash or a Fasty the World’s Fastest Toddler (patent pending), so, what do I do when the next thoughtless driver narrowly avoids turning me into a road pancake?  Do I continue my ineffective campaign of subtle bird-flippings or do I, as I’ve also fantasized, pull my umbrella out of my work purse and toss it at the driver, praying it won’t actually hit their car because then they’ll yell at me?  Middle finger salutes haven't helped so far, and umbrellas don’t grow on trees.  Do I write more posts about how important it is to watch out for pedestrians?  Honestly, I don’t think anybody will see them.  Maybe if I mention Taco Bell a lot.  People seem to find my blog when I write about Taco Bell.
What I’ll probably do is continue being the cautious one.  I’ll watch out for the drivers who so callously take my life for granted.  I’ve been doing it for seven-plus years at this point.  If I hear anything about creepy experiments to give  people actual, real-life speed powers, I may volunteer, but until then I’ll just watch my back and fantasize revenge scenarios; sweet, sweet revenge scenarios.
UPDATE: Because I’m lazy, it took me a long time to finish and post this essay, but during this time, something happened that I feel compelled to mention here in passing.  Last week, while walking to work, I was nearly flattened in a crosswalk by someone ON A BICYCLE!!!  We’re on the same team, bike riders and pedestrians!  I was horrified!  We exchanged glances, the bike rider and me, and she seemed pretty apologetic, and I didn’t scowl at her or flip her off or throw a paper sack of nails at her face, I was just kind of shocked.  I encounter this particular bike rider a lot during my walk to work and in the past we’ve been nothing but friendly (i.e. ignored each other), so I didn’t get too fired up.  Seemed like something I should mention though. 

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