Wednesday, March 27, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #823: COCAINE HIPPOS

 Imagine you're in the Mexican town of Puerto Triunfo. Just hanging out. Maybe you're on vacation. You want to see the sights a little, so you wander off the beaten path and HOLY SHIT! WHY ARE THERE FUCKING HIPPOS IN MEXICO?


An excellent question, as they are native to Africa and shouldn't even be in this hemisphere. How did they get there? And why are there so many of them? 170 to be exact?


One man's hubris, of course. It's always hubris behind these kinds of things. Except the man in question this time is Pablo Escobar. Back in the 'Eighties he bought a lot of animals and created a private zoo for his own pleasure. Among those animals were four hippos. All 170 are descended from them, and if this keeps up, they may number in the thousands soon.


When Escobar was killed the zoo became a tourist attraction because, and I can't believe I'm saying this, the former drug kingpin's estate was turned into a fucking theme park. Disneyland. Universal Studios. Oh yeah, and Escobarland. The zoo is still there, but the hippos, for whatever reason, were able to escape and reproduce. They are now considered an invasive species with no natural predator. If hippos have a natural predator, I have no idea what the fuck that would look like. They're damned near impossible to kill. Good thing they generally don't eat meat.


The problem has gotten so out of hand that authorities, who for some reason unbeknownst to anyone have done nothing over the decades since Escobar's death, have decided to sterilize them and/or euthanize them. I can't imagine what that operation must be like. Could you imagine anesthetizing a hippo so you can clip its tubes? Picture that for a moment, and you'll realize the sheer insanity of that.


Nothing is sane about this story. Nothing. This shit got out of hand fast, and it's only going to get crazier. They plan to sterilize 40 hippos a year. Each sterilization costs ten grand and requires a team of eight. How feasible is that?


I've had all kinds of infestations in the places I've lived. Cockroaches, ants, flies, even bees one year. I can't wrap my mind around a hippo infestation. Who could? Can you grasp that?


I guess the lesson here is, if you're going to be a drug kingpin, don't buy hippos no matter how much you want to. And you might want to. Also, make sure that when you're gunned down in the future to leave property that the authorities can turn into a theme park, please and thank you.

Tuesday, March 26, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #822: LEGAL EXTORTION

 Corporations never get tired of fees. They can fee the shit out of you left and right, up and down, every which way but loose except they do loose, too. Want to get your money from an ATM? Enjoy your withdrawal fee. Do you like using the gas pedal in your car? You can continue using it so long as you pay your monthly subscription. And let's not bother looking at airlines and the Cthulhu tentacled maw of fees hanging out of their asses. Most people just pay the fee and move on, but we shouldn't be encouraging that kind of behavior. All the fees are out of control for everything. And if you don't think that's important, let me set the stage for tonight's story.


You live in Libertyville, IL, and you're a pregnant mom with two kids and a passel of dogs. You've just returned from the pet shop, and you walk your 7-year-old and dogs into the house before you go back for your 2-year-old in the car seat. Except this is the moment when two carjackers chose to steal your car. The one that still has your li'l tyke in it.


Mom power takes over, and you rush to save your kid, but the carjackers attack you before running you over with your own car. You're still alive, probably running on sheer adrenaline, but there's nothing more you can do as your car vanishes in the distance.


Luckily your car has a GPS tracker, so you call the car company to get the location of your vehicle. You get your kid back. The carjackers go to prison. Everyone lives happily ever after.


Except the car company is Volkswagen, and your GPS free trial has expired. If you want to get your kid back (not sure how you feel about the car at this point), you will have to pay a $150 fee to activate the software.


That's what happened to a Libertyville family not too long ago. VW refused to help until they had that $150 payment. Even the cops were taken aback, and you know how I feel about those fucking guys. Check it out:


"This is an abducted 2-year-old, and the response was there is nothing they can do this is their policy," added Deputy Chief Chris Covelli with the Lake County Sheriff's Office.


Holy shit. Corporations do not care about you. They only care about money. Remember that every time you see a commercial where the corporation claims their workers are all family, and it's a fun and rewarding workplace. Here's a quote from the mother in this story:


"I didn't even think that that would be an issue that Volkswagen would refuse to tell us where our son was - especially when it's a kidnapping, and every second matters," said Shepherd. "It's life or death that we're going to get him home."


And here's the bitch of this story. VOLKSWAGEN DID NOT HELP UNTIL THEY PAID THAT FEE. Only then did they activate the software and find the car. By then it was a moot point. Someone had found the kid wandering by a highway in Waukegan. They also found the car, so this story has a somewhat happy ending. I say somewhat because they never did get the carjackers. And the family suffers from nightmares. They're all in therapy now. Understandably so.


After the fact, and without contacting the family in question, Volkswagen started offering the GPS feature for free for five years. Fucking assholes. Although I can only imagine what would happen if they were called upon to help solve another kidnapping after the five year time limit. I can only guess they'll want $150 to help. Or more. I'm sure by that point it will be two hundred. Hell, why not three? If regulators are too stretched thin to, uh, regulate, then what's to stop you from charging four hundred? Five?


I'll let the mom have the last word, and I hope it's something you'll think about the next time you're tempted to pay a fee just to ignore it.


"How could you not give that information when you know what could happen to that little child?" Shepherd said.

Monday, March 25, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #821: NOT FEELING IT

 Nope. Not at all. I got sick again this morning. I also had my abscess wound violated. The doctor put a Q-Tip into the wound several times to see how deep it is. So no, I'm not feeling it tonight.

Friday, March 22, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #820: AIN'T

 After last night's GF I'm sure you can figure out that I'm not doing all that great. I'm still leaking bloody pus from my ass, so I'd rather not be sitting at my laptop and typing. I was already at work for eight hours, where I sat down all day. My ripped up jeans aren't looking so hot, but I decided to wear my trench coat whenever I had to stand up. Only the sups know about about the seat of my pants.


So needless to say, this will be a short one.


Every once in a while I hear someone admonish someone else for using the word "ain't." They say things like, "Ain't isn't a word." I need that to stop now. Yes, this is coming from the guy who fought tooth and nail to hold onto the Oxford comma. I lost that one and others, and the score is very obvious to me now. Evolve or be left behind.


The next time someone tells you ain't isn't a word, tell 'em I said fuck you. No, wait, don't do that. Sorry, I'm feeling very . . . raw. Raw is the perfect word for my current state. No, instead tell them to look at a dictionary. They'll find ain't under the A's. So yeah, that makes it a word.


Languages are supposed to evolve over time. Take a look at the earliest form of our language, Old English. It has very little in common with modern usage of English. Ours is a Germanic language, and Old English sounds kind of like German.


Ain't might not be grammatical, as it's a contraction of "is not." One would be hard pressed to find out what "ai" means. But you should still use "ain't."


If I were to say to you the word "enormity," what would you say that means? Hint: it doesn't mean "enormous." Give up? It indicates a bad act or an immoral act, one that's really, really bad. Like, say, flying a couple of planes into the World Trade Center. But so many people got the definition wrong that the language said, fuck it. Enormity means big now.


This one still irritates me, but language evolution is also why when people use the word "literally" they could be referring to something figurative instead. People literally kept saying "literally" for dramatic effect rather than its actual meaning. Watching a baseball player running fast to home plate, an announcer might say, "Look at him go! He's literally on fire!" But there is an unfortunate lack of flames on the player's body. I still hold a grudge on this one, but fine.


Heh. Fine usually means OK, but considering how many people use it who are suffering in silence? I'll bet fine will mean something else in the near future.


Language evolves. Evolve with it.

Thursday, March 21, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #819: THE RETURN OF THE ABSCESS

 Around about the time I started writing these columns I had a horrible abscess in a very uncomfortable place, ie. an inch from my sack. I don't feel like going back through 14 years of Tales of Unspeakable Taste to find the pieces I wrote about it. Needless to say, it was a harrowing experience, one I would have liked to never experience again.


The abscess didn't come back the very next day, but it did rear its ugly face again. A little while ago I was showering when I felt an odd lump on the inside of my right asscheek, right there in the crack. It was maybe the size of my fingernail. Oh shit. Well, I'm seeing my doctor in a couple of weeks. I'll mention it to him then.


And the fucker grew overnight. I wouldn't say it was as big as a baby's fist, like the first abscess had been, but this one was long and felt kind of like the first two knuckles of my middle finger. Due to my recent ER visits I didn't want to go back there. My hospital was bought out, and I think the new corporate overlords are trying to enshittify it. I hoped my doctor could lance it himself, so I called his office and was told in no uncertain terms that this falls under the purview of the ER.


So I went back, thinking at least it wasn't five yet. Five is when it gets really busy there. But my hopes were dashed immediately when I saw the waiting room was full. So I sat--on my ass, you know, the one with the fucking abscess on it--and waited for hours. They were so busy they put me on the cardiac ward instead.


The doc eventually came in, numbed my butt cheek and cut into the abscess. I could feel his findings dribbling down to the back of my nutsack. I was face down, so at least I was spared the stink, unlike last time. It felt like I lost about fifteen pounds of bloody pus, but when I sat up it looked like a watery blood stain, not nearly as big as I expected. Although it looked like it had gone down the outside of my thigh, too. When you pop an abscess, the rotten pus inside can go a fair distance. I remember the first time I saw bloody pus spots on the ceiling.


Thankfully I had experience, so I knew to wear a pair of boxers that didn't fit that well and a pair of ripped up jeans that I never wear anymore. I don't mean the knees were ripped up. If I wear pants long enough, the crotch eventually tears itself open in little spots. I still wore them because I didn't have a lot of money, but once I ran the risk of my dick poking out I packed them away.


I didn't think about my trench coat, though, nor the seat of my car. I pulled the back of the coat up so it was above my waist, and I had a plastic bag in my console. I usually keep it there for when I go to Sonic because I've never *not* had their bags rip on me. As I type this I sit on another plastic bag to protect my blanket.


(If you ever wondered what I look like when I write these, I'm sitting in bed wearing nothing but my boxers. How's that for a horrifying fuckin' image?)


Today was my day off. Tomorrow I have to go to work with the seat of my pants stained red. I will sit on a plastic bag at my desk. And I will probably be in pain, but lucky me, I held back a few pain pills. Hopefully that will pacify my ass. Literally. Anyway, it should be fun explaining to my coworkers why my pants are stained in such a fashion. Ordinarily I'd have to tell that to just one person, but they canceled work at home last week, so the office will be full tomorrow. Lucky them.

Wednesday, March 20, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #818: LIVING ON PAST DEATH

 I spent almost all of my life being a shitty cook. I could barely put a bowl of cereal together. It's weird because my dad was a great cook. So was his father before him, so it's not like it skips a generation. I can't tell you how many kitchens I've set on fire because I was a lousy cook. Scratch that, I can tell you the exact number: four.


For the longest time I thought I just didn't have it in me. Like building things or writing what my mom called "nice stories." "Do you have to write about death all the time? Why can't you write something nice?" But as I grew older I thought maybe there was a psychological block in my head somewhere. I loved my dad, but we had a few issues over the years, and I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. So maybe that was it.


A friend of mine agreed, and he offered to teach me how to make my favorite food ever: cheeseburgers. And now I make some damn fine burgers. With the cheese on top of the patty, goddammit. On top, like it's supposed to be, Randers.


I figured if I could make a cheeseburger breakthrough, maybe if I put my mind to it I can teach myself how to cook. Now that I think about it, I'm sure I've talked about this before. That's the thing about doing 800+ columns. It's hard to remember every single thing you've written about.


But I'm going into something specific here. While I was on sick leave, during a day where I felt pretty decent, I decided to make a full breakfast. Eggs, toast, bacon, hash browns. Except I have no fucking clue how to make hash browns.


But the second to last time I went out to Vegas to visit Dad, he showed me an alternate way to make them: mash up a bunch of tater tots. So that's what I did. Granted, I was using memories that were a few years old and experienced originally through an alcohol haze, but by the time I was done and eating I couldn't help but think, goddam, these hash browns are really fucking good.


I realized in that moment that Dad was living through me. He was alive again for however long it took me to make those hash browns and eat them. It was a good feeling. I may even have lamely said hi to him, but I can't be certain, especially not in such a public forum. My eyes might have been a little wet, too. It was probably caused by dust.


I rode high on that good feeling until later that night when I realized, no, Dad lived through me because I'm his flesh and blood continued. He lives through my brother, Frank, and my sister Rachael. But more to the point, I'm an uncle now. (If you can imagine that horror. And yes, I've decided that if called upon to perform uncle-type duties, I will model myself after Gary Busey in Silver Bullet, as God intended.) Dad lives on through li'l baby Jameson.


Sometimes I think that's the point of life, to keep the ball rolling. I kinda blew that one, as I have no children. I sometimes joke that I don't think I have kids, but I'm 99% certain I don't. I'm very careful when it comes to that kind of thing. But to keep the chain of humanity going ever onward, ever evolving, for as long as we can? That seems to be something we're good at.


Then again, sometimes I think the point of life is having a really good breakfast, and that day I dined like a king.

Tuesday, March 19, 2024

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #817: TIME IS A FLAT CIRCLE, REDUX


 My brother, Alex, shares his birthday with Kurt Russell on March 17. That's pretty cool. Up until 5 seconds ago I was only aware that I shared a birthday with Walter Payton, which only really means something if you live in my neck of the woods. The reason I say "until 5 seconds ago" is because I Googled it, and it looks like there are other celebrities who have their birthday on July 25. I don't really give much of a shit about Lindsay Lohan, Miley Cyrus and Matt LeBlanc, but holy shit! Woody Strode was born on July 25! So was Walter Brennan, which probably means nothing to many of you. But Natalie Portman might get your attention.

Ooh. La-di-da. Look at me. Jeez. Anyway.


The reason I bring up Kurt Russell is because he does a fantastic job as Wyatt Earp in the movie, Tombstone. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that, kind of like I don't have to tell you that water is wet. I noticed something that not many other people talk about, which is that Russell adds a particular flavor to his acting style in this one. I saw it again in H8ful Eight and in Bone Tomahawk, which others *have* mentioned, but if you really want to go back he did it in Big Trouble in Little China, where it's a lot more pronounced.


In these films Russell adds quite a bit of John Wayne to his performances. Go back and watch Tombstone again. You'll hear it in Russell's speech patterns.


It's a funny thing. If you go back to the very beginning of John Wayne's career, back when he was still signing photos as "Marion," it turns out that Wayne modeled his demeanor after this guy who used to hang out on the sets of westerns in Hollywood's infancy. He thought this guy was the toughest son of a bitch he'd ever met and wanted to be just like him. He walked like this guy, he talked like this guy. The very persona of the Duke that everyone around my age is very familiar with was all based on this one guy.


This guy was there as a consultant. You see, he'd actually been part of the Wild West. He'd been the law in cow towns like Abilene and Dodge City (yes, Dodge City!). In fact, he ran a faro table in Tombstone. It's difficult to say how many men this guy killed, but the estimates range from eight to upwards of thirty.


That's the thing, though. He didn't *just* run a faro table in Tombstone. That guy's name?




His name was Wyatt Earp.


Time is a flat circle.