This means you, Europe.

That kind of line-cutting bullshit may fly outside the New World, Pierre, but this here is the good ole’ U. S. of A., and you’d be well-served to check your inconsiderate deplaning practices right alongside your Speedos and neckerchiefs before you go crossing our borders. You can use the space where you’d have packed your deodorant, were you an American.

This guy was leaning against the wall of a building, eating something out of a Styrofoam container and, right when I got to him, stumbled out onto the sidewalk in front of me and our shoulders touched. I kept walking because I didn’t really think it was an issue, but then I hear someone screaming behind me and when I turn around to see what’s going on, there’s this guy walking towards me.

“You make me spill my food and I’ll kill you, you fucking faggot.”

So I’m all “I’m sorry, what?” and he repeated it as he got closer. “You make me spill my food and I’ll kill you, you fucking faggot.”

Now this is probably going to come as a surprise to you, Internet, but I’m not really the aggressive, macho, street fighting type of guy. I know, I know… it’s shocking. “But you’ve got such a chiseled physique” you’re thinking, and correct about that as you may very well be, I’ve still never really been the fighting sort.

I am, however, the “doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut” sort (not to mention occasionally the “kick him in the nuts and run like hell” sort). But I wasn’t alone at the time, and not wanting to upset Kristin (what with her being a vegetarian and all (i.e. pacifist (i.e. hippie))), I decided to play it cool and just started walking away, my head turned towards him long enough to make sure he wasn’t going to follow me but my mouth firmly closed.

And he didn’t follow.

Whew.

Danger averted, thanks to my cool head and quick thinking. It was the sensible, mature thing to do, really. And taking the high road had pretty much everything to do with me not wanting the situation to escalate, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the guy was roughly three times my size, nor the likelihood that in all probability he really would have killed me.

Also he was black, and I was worried I’d get his blood on me and catch the sickle cell.

That sucks hard. Right people?

Right.

And I had been having such a great time in Boston, too.

Chinese characters, incidentally.

On a white guy.

I guess we’ve evolved as a society so much so that the lack of any personal cultural significance doesn’t necessarily prevent someone from choosing a particular design for their tattoo. Which I’m totally on board with, truth be told, because it means I can finally get “Thug Life” tattooed across my stomach in a nice big calligraphic font. Just like I’ve always dreamed of doing.

But it would seem I’ve gone off on a tangent.

So, would that still be called a tramp stamp? Fag tag is the term that immediately popped into my mind, but that’s already taken.

In Australia, they use the term arse antlers which roughly translates into English as “ass antlers.” And to me at least, “ass antlers” sounds kind of gay.

So yeah, I guess it’s fitting.

Here’s a haiku:

it’s no tribal band,
or barbed wire on your bicep,
but it still looks dumb.

Look alive, Boston! There’s still the matter of our unfinished business, and I’m coming to settle the score.

I think I strained a pec this weekend, Internet. I was cutting down some overgrown weeds in the yard there (because I know how they play havoc with your allergies (and we all know your comfort is my utmost priority (so long as you keep putting out))) and apparently I tried to put a little too much of the “strength of the bear” into it. My, did it hurt.

I’d consider inviting you over to rub some Bengay on it, but I know you, and I can’t risk you getting carried away and slowly letting your fingers wander south. Not without washing your hands first.

Hey! Here’s a haiku about that retard comic what won the “Last Comic” a few years ago. Remember him? The retard that had that one joke about how he was retarded, and told it over and over? And he won?!? LOL!

i am quite impressed
you can type on the myspace
with that palsy arm.

Bye, then.

As I am without anything of substance to write today, please accept the following as a haiku quintet honoring a man of the people, an entrepreneur who strives for perfection in everything he does, a man who — no matter what he says — it draws controversy (sort of like the abortion issue), a messiah to nerds everywhere as the Donkey Kong world record holder and, most importantly, a real American hero: Billy Mitchell.

USA! USA!

patriotic ties
hanging from the neck of a
real american.

barrel-jumping skills
the blueprint for your success
to best that monkey.

the record stolen
shortly thereafter, regained
in your face, weibe.

billy, oh billy,
your glorious hair blowing
in the arcade breeze.

never has a beard
filled me with so much desire
to clutch a joystick.

It’s funny. If “funny” is the right word. Which it isn’t.

And I’m pretty sure by “ordinary” it meant “you.”

Here’s something that has come up recently with which I take much umbrage: in the commercials for that new Billy Ray Montana show where they appear to take all these hillbillies and have ’em sing hillbilly songs — like “Dooley” or “Don’t Mess with My Toot Toot” or whatever the devil it is the hillbillies sing when they’re blowing into a moonshine jug while walking barefoot to the fishin’ hole — and then judge them on which one has the purtiest voice, it says something about country being “America’s music.”

OMFGWTF?!?!?!?

Um, jazz? Blues? Rock’n’fucking-roll? They even on the ballot? Way to blow yet another election there, red states. Have you learned nothing?

Hey! Check out my new tattoo.

Trust me on this, and you are wont to do regardless but occasionally need some reassurance.

Here’s a haiku:

little gritty bits
lathered up in the shower
will chafe your scrotum

But my Wii Fit age is 32, so stick it.

She says things like “real women have curves” and “more cushion for the pushin’,” her greasy pores all the while staining the spandex shorts she ought not be wearing as the glare from the sun reflects off the bottom of the belly creeping ever so gently from beneath her tank top, blinding the other shoppers at the outlet mall who knew full well the price they might have to pay for discount Liz Claiborne cargo pants yet chanced it anyway.

I like it when a fat girl proclaims that she’s big and beautiful, that those skinny model girls are the abnormal and unnatural and unattractive ones, that it takes a real man to love a real woman.

You go girl.

But you’re wrong.

Very wrong. Dead wrong, as if from a heart attack or complications from type two diabetes, or possibly even choking on a whole chicken fried steak you forgot to chew. In fact, you could not be more wrong if your next five or six grilled cheese sandwiches with mayo depended on it.

If you aren’t sure whether or not you qualify, here’s a quick and easy test:

Go look in the mirror.

Are you fat?

If the answer is “yes,” then the answer is “no.” Cappice? After all, it’s MILF, not MBGLF*. The “I” is key, and you must never forget as much.

But if you still aren’t sure, send me some photos and I’ll tell you. The nakeder, the better. But please please please take the test first.

Hey Chicago!

Remember that time last week when I saw the entrance for your pink line? And I got excited but when I went down I opted to ride your brown line instead, over and over for what seemed like an eternity? I enjoyed the ride so much that, when I did finally get off, I hadn’t even noticed that at some point along the way I’d transferred over to the red line. Get what I’m saying? OMFGLOL!!!

You’re an okay city, I suppose. The Sears Tower is really imposing and magnificent (especially from the back), and while I wasn’t too sure what to think when I saw elk on the menu, you really managed to pull it off. Goose Island beer is average, though. Sorry to tell you so bluntly, but better it comes from me than a stranger.

And then there’s this:

Why? Just… just why?

Call me old fashioned, but once she hit 35 I’d have been all “look babe, I’m sorry but you’re just not doing it for me, what with your premature aging brought on by living in the dark with no exercise or vitamins or fresh air.” How could I not, particularly with my 19-year-old granddaughter grunting and growling her nubile Austrian ass around the basement? A man has needs!

Oh sure, I’d have stayed around awhile for the sake of the kids. Always for the kids. But that’s because I’m a man of responsibility and integrity and especially compassion. You could learn a thing or two.

And with that, I’m off to Chicago for the week. Toodles. Horns.

Jesus is not, in fact, my homie.

Not really, nor has he been for quite some time.

I know the hat I was wearing led you to believe the contrary and prompted the “hey, I like your hat” brand of compliments you showered me with upon my arrival, but you were unwittingly deceived. The hat is a joke, a clever gag to those who know me. He isn’t even real, the Jesus. Get it? OMFGLMAO.

But hindsight being 20/20, I suppose I concede that sarcasm translates poorly in both email and novelty trucker caps. True, the use of ALL CAPS should have clued you in, but you never were the brightest taco in the combination platter. And for that I do apologize.

Sorry to disappoint, Hartford. I’ll understand if you want to break things off.

My, what a healthy tan.

Hey Internet! Wanna know how to make fun of the retardeds and get away with it?

Step 1: Make fun of the retardeds.

Step 2: When people give you their scornful looks complete with furrowed brow, tell them this:

“Scorn me not, mother, for it’s not that I’m making fun of the retardeds but, rather, I’m pretending to be a retarded so I can better understand their plight.”

That will most assuredly shut their smug mouths, as the guilt of false accusation overwhelms them momentarily. Most assuredly. And after dying a tiny death inside, they’ll respond with a paraphrased version of the following:

“Well done, Internet. You’re a far better person than I could ever hope to be. Carry on with your noble deeds of empathy and compassion. Limp a mile in their shoes. Just please wear socks. Don’t want to go catching the hoof and mouth.”

And together you will laugh, and laugh, and laugh…

OMGLOL.

Just kidding. It’s not funny. I mean, hey old man: really? You sure about that?

Also this weekend, I found out that that Vanessa Hudgens girl is coming to the local water park this summer to sing or perform skits or whatever the devil it is people like her get famous for doing. I’m not really into the Hannah Montana myself, but I’m thinking about going because — and you’re probably not going to believe me about this, but I swear it’s true and it’s on the Wiki and everything — I hear she likes to show off the big bushes.

That may be the one single area where retro hasn’t made it back in vogue, the big bushes, and I do so applaud her attempt to buck the trends and change the status quo.

Be your own person!

Rock your own style!

You go, girl!!!