August 23rd, 2005

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Back In The U.S.S.A.

Things I notice more after being away for a while:
Americans:
  • …are 67% fatter than non-Americans.
  • …have bad accents.
  • …wield their bad accents very loudly in public places.
  • …really and truly are 53% more clueless than non-Americans.
Back home, I find that the same garbage bags I put out over two weeks ago are still on the sidewalk in front of Clifford. I rang Waste Mgmt (they're on speed dial now) and angrily arranged yet another special-Clifford-pick-up. Can't even begin to count how many times I've had to make this call. Lazy, shiftless trashmen, you are America to me.

Immediately upon returning home last night, I hightailed it to the Country Club for a dip and some cocktails. 735-Brian was bartending. Brian: "How's it going?" Me: "Dude. Nineteen hours I've been traveling. Nine-fucking-teen hours, and don't even get me started about the jet lag!" Brian, smiling: "Dude. Drink up. And I'll get another ready." Brian, you are America to meeeeee.

Went shopping at Ghetto Bob's today. Was astounded that the average shopper in Ghetto Bob's can take up an entire aisle — with his/her ass! Seriously, like, there's no manœuvring around all that junk in da trunk. Morbid obesity, you are America to meeeeee.

Sifting through eight feet of mail, I came across a few wedding invites from friends like her and him. I like it when people I like are liking their, like, lives. Love, you are Amaiiiiiricahhhh to meeeeeee…

Driving home from Ghetto Bob's, I am pulled over by a cop. The woman, whom I shall call Junktrunkisha, cites me for not having brake tags, and actually writes the ticket. This, in my own hood, the fact of which should be clear by the address on my driver's license which Junktrunkisha was holding. My hood, where peasants break into the backyard and steal shit. My hood, my house, in front of which Candace's girlfriend had her car stolen while house sitting for us. My hood, where I-can't-even-begin-to-count how many people have been seriously fucked with walking over the tracks at night. And Junktrunkisha has the fucking nerve to give me a citation for — what — brake tags? The pettiest of all petty offenses, in this rough-n-tumbly hood of the Bywater? In which I pay astronomically high property taxes for the benefit of — what, exactly? Misaligned governmental priorities, thou art muthafuggin' Amerikkka to meeeeeeee…