The Rantings of Bob: The Retard in 54A

Back in December, I boarded a plane. Was going to meet up with friends to celebrate Christmas and New Years. I was excited, but of course, living where I live, flying isn't always a pleasant case. Up until I actually sat in my seat, everything was going smooth. But for some reason, the habitants of this country love their cell phones. It's like they were born with one, as if it's a third kidney. Anyway, people have no respect for rules anymore, "please don't use your cell phones" means exactly that. It doesn't mean "ok, I make one call more and then over." Stupid cunts, turn off the damn phone, it's a two hour flight. On that note, allow me to sidestep. I set up my voicemail because sometimes I simply don't want to answer my phone. I thought my voicemail can take care of things, but people seem to be too stupid to understand the concept behind a voicemail greeting. Leave a fuckin message. The call is already being charged, might as well take up the rest of the minute.

Anyhow, back on the plane, I sat in seat 55A. Beside me was a very fat man, nice guy, but huge, and he was there first, so of course, that means his blubber already took up the entire armrest. I got lucky though because the plane wasn't full, and he pissed off to another seat. He wasn't my primary concern though, the retard sitting in front of me was. If I had duct tape I would have wrapped his earlobe over the opening of his ear and taped it up. Stupid fuck, don't use your phone on the plane. I think phones should be checked at the gate like when they tear your boarding pass. Make sure it's off, and if necessary remove the battery because it seems people get hardons over using a phone. From what I understand, the rule is turn off your phone right before the plane backs up out of its gate, or at least that was the rule for the airline I was on. But the retard in 54A, couldn't comprehend this well into our flight.

To pass the time, I picked up the complimentary magazine and flipped through it, and then I hear this, "I am very upset with you. You never said good bye." What the fuck? What was that? I look over, and my lord! The retard was on the phone. Are you fuckin insane? Have you gone mad? Or maybe you're just a dumb fucktard. We are about to be 35,000 feet in the air, are you asking to be killed? Nonetheless, we were still on the ground, so I guess it's ok, not life threatening. But then again, who the fuck cares if someone didn't say good bye to you? Grow a pair, you lifeless sack of shit. The phone went off, finally after a heated discussion over who should have contacted who before the retard's departure.

Flipping through the magazine again, this time we were ascending to our cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. How exciting, clouds outside, nothing but puffy clouds and the horizon of course. Then what do I see? The retard has his phone on, and is video taping the excitement going on outside the window. Stupid idiot. There is a formula for something like this:

35,000 feet in the air + something around a cruising speed of 750 miles/hour + oh, I don't know, around 700,000 pounds of metal + 20,000 gallons of fuel (give or take) + one cell phone + one passenger's stupidity = well, let's just say a not so good ending.

I looked around and saw the people on the flight. Useless, all of them. I imagined what would happen if we do go down and survive, kind of like the people on the show, "Lost." At least on the show there are people who are proactive and contribute to society. However the people on the flight I was on, fat, dumb, and smelled like bathing is forbidden. But who am I to judge? Just a guy who could have lost his life that day.

I'd like to point out that if we did go down, and we did survive, I'd hope the retard would survive with us too. That way, I'd find the closest cactus there is (considering we're in the desert) and tie him up against it really tightly. Then I'd take his phone and beat him with it. Hit him right on his head, hoping I'd knock some sense into him. At that point I wouldn't care for contacting a help team to rescue us. I'd just want to show the retard how he brought this onto himself. Yeah, I'd do just that.

So with all that said, Retard in 54A, I hope you read this one day, and I also hope you lose your precious phone. No, I hope you trip one day while you are using your phone and it breaks into little pieces. That way at least you won't have a cell phone for a few days. No, wait, actually, I hope you just cease to exist, and to justify my remarks, your stupidity explains it all.

The Anal Cunt

Dear Brian H, aka Writing Nazi,

Take your "empty" or "bare" hand and stick it up your "a."

Regards,

Bob


P.S. I think I put the words bare, empty, and the letter a in proper use there. However, if I am mistaken, please do correct me.

Show Me Some Satire

Buff justice: 'Bored' US man charged over naked stick up

NEW YORK (AFP) - A 24-year-old man arrested in the US state of Pennsylvania for holding up a convenience store wearing nothing but a hat has told police he did it because he was bored, according to local reports.
The surveillance video shows a man with heavy tan lines, apparently from a "wife-beater" style vest, approach the counter. Officials said the man demanded money from the clerk, who refused to hand anything over and called the police....

The robber then fled the store empty handed....

Asked by police why he carried out the attempted robbery, he said he was bored.

Ahh, how often have I sat here at my computer, jobless, looking for a way to stimulate my mind other then through cyber tantric sex on steamy Australian adult chat sites. How I admire this man's courage, and his conviction of not getting lost in that blackhole where time and ambition meet to create boredom. Let him free! I say, how many of us can really admit we haven't sought this sort've enlightenment before when we were bored?

If I recall correctly, I experienced 'boredom' in 1998, as it is so passively reffered to these days, during my time as trumpeteer in a local Mariachi band. Don't get me wrong, I lived the fast lane alright. In fact, some would say I was the least likely to be bored, a superlative category I lobbied hard to include in my high school's senior yearbook. I ended up losing the vote to Adam "Flames" Thompson, whose name alone suggests why I may have been out of my league. Needless to say, it was an eventuality; a new report written by the respected institution on 'boredom', the Beaurau of Low Attaining Statisfaction Enterprise (Blasé), suggests that every man, and most women, over the age of 18 will experience this affliction in their lifetimes. Yet we spend all this money in our never ending obsession with materialism, ignoring the plight felt by literally millions. It's truly a shame to see how wasteful we have become.

But back to my story, it hit me suddenly. Like an Arab boarding a plane, I knew this boredom wasn't going to go away. Although it has not, as of this writing, been proven to be contagious, I am sure that I got it from Raphael, my Portuguese roommate and our Mariachi's guitatarronist. He always held the fact against me that I wasn't as "street" as the rest of the band. That bastard, if only his fascination with the stock market was not as strong, I may have avoided the awful fate that awaited me.

I had realized that band practice was not for another 2 hours, and a meeting I was supposed to have with my perscription drugs dealer had to be cancelled, because of the "fuzz". To my astonishment, I had nothing to do. I looked left, and decided I didn't want to do watch television, any of my 1960's Conspiracy: The Cold War dvd's. To the right, I realized I could read a book, maybe finish up Dog Massage: A Whiskers-to-Tail Guide to Your Dog's Ultimate Petting Experience.

How revolutionary are those petting techniques, I thought to myself. Who would've guessed that there are so many ways to pet a dog! I had broken free for a moment, almost releasing my mind out of this state of boredom, but then I had remembered, my roommate accidentally spoiled the ending for me a week back when he uncautiously blurted out that the paw-claw caress was the most effective of the petting techniques. My eyes stared into a sea of black, and I fell right back in. Damn you, Raphael!

Searching for an answer, I got up from my living room sofa, barged through the balcony doors, leaned off the edge and began to scream to dozens of onlookers. "Help me! For the love of God help me, have you no honor? Is there no decency in your hearts?"

There was no reply. I was truly alone, the world had heard my pleas and turned the other cheek. Where is Jesus when you need him? I thought. Probably in Africa, I imagined. They've got a lot of problems down there .

I needed a saviour, and indeed, one would find me. Well, I sort've found him. 'Him' being the overweight, yet cuddly counter manager of the local Wok 2 Go, who had to endure my endless rant on the similarities between Nouri Al-Maliki and Dane Cook. He always let me speak, though, which I thought was polite. The day ended when a local squad car picked me up, right before I could introduce my new theory of relativity to the interested masses. Oh, and I was naked. I should have mentioned, I was absolutely naked. It's just easier that way.

I would like to use this space to apologize to the Wok 2 Go manager, and the 16 girl-scouts (and their chaperones) who had the unhonarable experience of watching my genetalia wiggle while I showcased my arsenal of topical, yet appropriate impressions Kim Jong-Il. I understand, from several "bills" I have recieved, that 4 of the girls have just finished their first phase of therapy. Congratulations, ladies. Just remember, no pain, no gain.

NOTE To the chaperons: It is inappropriate to use mase, despite how "offensive" and "illegal" a person is acting. Think of going with a harsh email next time, or a mild-yet-weighty face to face scolding.

It's On

First and foremost, KoRn, please don't sue me for having the title of this post the same as one of your songs. Don't be like Metallica.

I have decided to keep a record of all fun things that happen to me during my stay at god's gift to humans. If you don't know where, refer to my previous post.

Arriving at the airport is when it hit me. I woke up in snowy weather, and 15 hours later, I'm in the most backward place ever thought imaginable. Looking at the passport agents, I realized everyone looks the same. The black, thick head of hair, and the moustache and the goatee. Apparently if you don't grow facial hair here, you're judged to be a pretty boy, one that takes it up the ass. But then again, if you grow ungroomed facial hair you look like a retard who never heard of a razor.

Anyhow, I stand in a huge line, couldn't even see the guy working behind the counter at passport control, but what was I to expect, it is the early 19th century after all. As I got closer, I estimated two planes landed just before us, causing my status in the line, but also, here is what I think is really stupid: seven counters, six workers, three actually doing their job, and the other three socializing with the people trying to work. Does that make sense? I will try to make my explanation clearer. At the end of the day it's a group of illiterate, uneducated group of guys keying in what it says on your passport using one finger, while a cigarette is held with the other hand, chatting away with their buddies about how sexually repressed they are. Basically, a bunch of fucktards trying to work. While in line, I started wondering, if they allocate their labor properly, maybe people wouldn't get a shitty impression and flip out after a day worth of traveling. But I stood there patiently waiting my turn.

Some important information to know, I have just renewed my passport the month before, and my Visa to the lovely country I reside in now was on my old passport, so of course I had to travel with both. So, when I finally get to the counter, I hand him both passports, and explain to him my situation. He just said to go to some office and ask them to transfer the information from my old passport to my new one. So I head off, there was a man in the room, but he thought going for a cigarette break was more important than his job, so I watched him from his office through the window smoking his cigarette. Then it dawned on me, I am in a office full of important papers, papers I could have easily used, to I don't know, steal someone's identity? Just a thought. No, i wasn't planning to, but yes there are people out there, and give them the chance, they sure as the locals here are dumb will take the opportunity. So the man comes back, and asks if I'm Canadian, while looking at my passports. No shit, Sherlock. What does it say on the two documents you are holding. Anyway, moving on, I waited for this motherfucker to place a stamp on my passport. That was it, that was the transfer of information. Cocksucker. You made me wait for this?

So I go back out to passport control, and oh dear, where has everyone gone? That's right, home. After a long ass flight, home sounds good. I get back to the guy who sent me to transfer the information, and he got annoyed and pissed because I was asking him to do his job during his shift. But no, he felt like having a cigarette first. Hey home school, there is this concept, its called work. You do your job requirements, and get paid at the end of the month. Then, with that money you can go buy little stuff like bread and milk, you know, essentials, to survive.

Finally I get the entry stamp and walk towards baggage control. When I get there, I see a tall, bearded man holding my bag, dude, fuck off. He realized it's not his, and fucked off. I don't know, a simple task, took me forever, and it is all some douchebag's fault that never took the time to learn about basic fundamental, human interaction courtesy. If this was how it was for the first hour, how the fuck is it going to be for the next however long I stay here.

Change Is Good: Bullshit!

I feel like I'm at war. Trying to adapt to this new life in the heart of the desert. Yes, I have moved, and it looks like I'm here to stay. Coming back home felt like getting punched in the face, one that wakes you the fuck up. No more daydreaming about whatnot, this is reality. This is it. I have committed social suicide. Shots of Tequila will now be replaced with shots of espresso from Starbucks. What have I done? WWBD? Bobspeed my friends, Bobspeed.

The Rantings of Bob: I Got Bling Bling, But Ain't Got No Brain

My initial intention was to talk about how annoying Oprah is, but the following has been a long time coming.

Yeah! Shut the fuck up, Lil John. It seems anyone can become a singer, or should I say, "gangster." We all know the only true gangsters are the original five families in New York, or of the like.

What is the deal with this gangster rap genre? It's bullshit. There is no meaning to it, unless you're on a quest to show the world how rich you are. I got five cars and a ten door garage. Do we really give a flying fuck about what you have? You look ridiculous with pants that don't even sit at your waist, but rather, can fit three other douchebags such as yourself. Maybe you should look into that and fix it just like you fixed your teeth to say "Bling Bling."

So, let's see, the music sucks, the look is just awful, and if they were to pull their heads out of their asses, maybe they can catch a glimpse of reality. If making that crap music was a skill, then maybe I'd give them an ounce of respect and credit. Whenever I argue this point, I get the rebuttal of, "But it's the words that mean something, that's what matters" or something along those lines. You fuckin serious? The words matter? How many songs can you write that are about a gram of weed and how it makes you feel. You're as intelligent as a 14 year old when you talk about how cool smoking is. Smoking is so cool, when was the last time you heard a grown person say that?

Aside from the lifestyle, has anyone noticed how annoying the backup singer's voice is in every song? Listen to any song that features whoever, and listen to how the featured "artist" sounds like. Picture a guy with a nose plug, or a que stick up his ass, giving him a squeeky, high pitch.