America: Wimps, Fatsos & Crybabies
by Martin Higgins
Fat people are driving up American fuel costs by $2.8 billion a year just hauling around the extra gut, ass, and fatback meat. Kids are as lazy as Belgian bricklayers and get little exercise other than reaching for second, third, and fourth helpings at the non-stop American feed that has all the nutritional value and food-group variety of a Moose Lodge Pancake Breakfast.
This is the result of our educational system; a loser-take-all racket operated by also-rans, set-aside malingerers, social just-us blowhards, and, lest we forget, a double scoop of Rubber Room Pedos. Contrary to common sense, many schools have outlawed handguns and Bowie knives, but not French ticklers.
Some blithering dickstring District Supervisors have banned Dodge Ball, Tag, and giving out-and-out slippered pantaloons a playful swirly or cutting their hair into a bowlless Moe Howard mudflap. No wonder they're labeling anyone with a functioning frontal lobe and innate survival instinct a bully.
Imagine where America would be today if the brave men of the 82nd Airborne Division never played Rock Fight war, set rubbish fires, or mastered the intricacies of an Indian Rub Wrist Burn as a kid. Trust me, McDonald's would be selling McSchnitzel Meals, and we'd be buying our cars from the Japanese – not the faux-Jap Redneck dudes who assemble rice-burner compacts throughout Dixie – but the slack-jawed, masochistic, Salary Men who buy soiled schoolgirl panties from vending machines at high-speed rail stations and spend every night sopping up more sauce than Bukowski on his birthday.
Roll that around in your head for a couple of minutes, and you'll be ready to get serious about making men out of our boys and women out of the ones who have the requisite gear. Face it, Gleedom is here to stay, and when Hymietown West is done screwing up kids, there will be Glee -The Next DeGeneration, Deep Space Nonce, Boyager, and Enterplease.
Playgrounds no longer feature natural, physically challenging apparatus like abandoned refrigerators, derelict boxcars, and burned-out cars. Sure, everybody wants to ensure safety, but hell, how much damage can a kid do hanging out in a shack made out of pallets, exploring condemned factories, or hanging from a rope swing over a heap of concrete rubble? Got a booboo? Go to the E.R. and get your card punched.
When I was a kid, we didn't need video games to have fun. Hell no. All we needed was one match, one firecracker, and one cat. What could be simpler... or more sustainable? Hell, given what they do with abandoned dogs, PeTA would wind up being the Felinecracker Licensing Authority.
But just that's the lost dream of an old man, too full of Trulys to yell at the Cumulonimbuses.
Now, we all end up just getting fat and lazy, drinking and drugging ourselves into a state of simulated complacency. And, after years of carefree continence, having no future but to line our boxers with shopping bags.
What a choice, "America... paper or plastic?"
We are a nation of wimps, fatsos, and crybabies because we have created a hypersensitive social and legal environment. Any risk may be actionable in court even if you have the most excellent Bergsteinfarb lawyer in the world. I once had a Dupa Jaś from Kraków sue me for defamation because I called him a douchenozzle. He won the lawsuit and wound up having to pay me $1,600. Know why? Drunk Irish prosecutor, a dumb Kielbasa-bending client, and a puffy Landsman shyster who needed cash for his whelp's radical rhinoplasty and a valve job on his Lexus.
At school, kids are discouraged from playing - slapping, kicking, biting, horse-play menacing - that might make someone "feel bad." As if hurting someone's feelings was a bad thing. If that were so, marriages would be illegal and half of the U.S. population would be making brooms and license plates.
After all, a little dodgeball or rock duel never hurt anybody. Well, not for very long anyway. If you get smacked, get medical attention, reconstructive orthodontia, a durable medical device, and get over it.
You'll be a better person for it.
As Warren Spottswood once said to a snotty, snaggletoothed waitress, “Well, I guess we don't need ALL our teeth, now, do we?”
Next time, pay attention when someone yells, “HEY! DUCK!... JACKASS!
- end -
Copyright 2024
Martin J Higgins
all rights reserved
This is the result of our educational system; a loser-take-all racket operated by also-rans, set-aside malingerers, social just-us blowhards, and, lest we forget, a double scoop of Rubber Room Pedos. Contrary to common sense, many schools have outlawed handguns and Bowie knives, but not French ticklers.
Some blithering dickstring District Supervisors have banned Dodge Ball, Tag, and giving out-and-out slippered pantaloons a playful swirly or cutting their hair into a bowlless Moe Howard mudflap. No wonder they're labeling anyone with a functioning frontal lobe and innate survival instinct a bully.
Imagine where America would be today if the brave men of the 82nd Airborne Division never played Rock Fight war, set rubbish fires, or mastered the intricacies of an Indian Rub Wrist Burn as a kid. Trust me, McDonald's would be selling McSchnitzel Meals, and we'd be buying our cars from the Japanese – not the faux-Jap Redneck dudes who assemble rice-burner compacts throughout Dixie – but the slack-jawed, masochistic, Salary Men who buy soiled schoolgirl panties from vending machines at high-speed rail stations and spend every night sopping up more sauce than Bukowski on his birthday.
Roll that around in your head for a couple of minutes, and you'll be ready to get serious about making men out of our boys and women out of the ones who have the requisite gear. Face it, Gleedom is here to stay, and when Hymietown West is done screwing up kids, there will be Glee -The Next DeGeneration, Deep Space Nonce, Boyager, and Enterplease.
Playgrounds no longer feature natural, physically challenging apparatus like abandoned refrigerators, derelict boxcars, and burned-out cars. Sure, everybody wants to ensure safety, but hell, how much damage can a kid do hanging out in a shack made out of pallets, exploring condemned factories, or hanging from a rope swing over a heap of concrete rubble? Got a booboo? Go to the E.R. and get your card punched.
When I was a kid, we didn't need video games to have fun. Hell no. All we needed was one match, one firecracker, and one cat. What could be simpler... or more sustainable? Hell, given what they do with abandoned dogs, PeTA would wind up being the Felinecracker Licensing Authority.
But just that's the lost dream of an old man, too full of Trulys to yell at the Cumulonimbuses.
Now, we all end up just getting fat and lazy, drinking and drugging ourselves into a state of simulated complacency. And, after years of carefree continence, having no future but to line our boxers with shopping bags.
What a choice, "America... paper or plastic?"
We are a nation of wimps, fatsos, and crybabies because we have created a hypersensitive social and legal environment. Any risk may be actionable in court even if you have the most excellent Bergsteinfarb lawyer in the world. I once had a Dupa Jaś from Kraków sue me for defamation because I called him a douchenozzle. He won the lawsuit and wound up having to pay me $1,600. Know why? Drunk Irish prosecutor, a dumb Kielbasa-bending client, and a puffy Landsman shyster who needed cash for his whelp's radical rhinoplasty and a valve job on his Lexus.
At school, kids are discouraged from playing - slapping, kicking, biting, horse-play menacing - that might make someone "feel bad." As if hurting someone's feelings was a bad thing. If that were so, marriages would be illegal and half of the U.S. population would be making brooms and license plates.
After all, a little dodgeball or rock duel never hurt anybody. Well, not for very long anyway. If you get smacked, get medical attention, reconstructive orthodontia, a durable medical device, and get over it.
You'll be a better person for it.
As Warren Spottswood once said to a snotty, snaggletoothed waitress, “Well, I guess we don't need ALL our teeth, now, do we?”
Next time, pay attention when someone yells, “HEY! DUCK!... JACKASS!
- end -
Copyright 2024
Martin J Higgins
all rights reserved