August 16, 2005

I'm officially announcing my intention to become a Son of A Bitch.

I've been fighting it for too long.  I would make an excellent Son of A Bitch.  I have a lot of repressed anger, deep self pity, and a poor self image.  And it's time for me to pass those qualities onto others.  You can only do that by being a Son of A Bitch, and being the best Son of A Bitch that you can be.

I'm going to cut people off in traffic.  It should be easy, because my tires are so bald I can rarely keep the vehicle in control for very long anyway.  And if they flip me the bird, well, I might just shoot them.  That seems reasonable, doesn't it? 

I'm going to call people at random at eight o'clock at night and demand they buy my book to support the Police Department.  And if they say they don't want to buy my book and they doubt it will actually support the Police Department, I'll report them to the FBI as members of Al Quaida. 

I believe I'll start referring to my girlfriends as "bitches" or "hoes."  They secretly like it.

Bank of America sucks ass, by the way.  That has nothing to do with anything else I'm writing about, I thought I would just throw that in as a public service announcement.  My last good deed before becoming a Son of A Bitch.

I'm going to get another ex-wife, because one isn't enough if you want to be a true Son of A Bitch.  I need one that I can make miserable for the rest of her days.  One I can fight with constantly.  This time, I'll fight to get the car, the house, and even the little doilies and napkins she loves so much.  And silverware.  I'll get the silverware this time.  I'm tired of eating chicken with a spoon.  A true Son of A Bitch eats his chicken with some sort of exquisite cutlery and he has his bitch or hoe cook it up on something other than the George Foreman Grill.  And ex-wives are great for so many things.  Because every time you start feeling like a normal human being, they'll call you and remind you of every deep flaw and deficiency you have, which ferments a wonderful, bubbly concoction of self hatred that sits in your stomach and keeps your Son of A Bitchness in top form.

I'm going to smoke in bars and fuck the lily livered asshole that coughs.  God help the poor bastard if he coughs, because I'll blow such a thick cloud of pollution his way so that he gets cancer and dies before he even leaves the bar.

I'm going to complain.  About everything.  I've already started to do this, and it's extremely gratifying.  But only the best kind of a complaints...ones that can't be addressed.  These french fries are too crisp and fresh.  There's too much meat on this burger.  You smile too much.  Complaints that make someone just wonder "What the fuck?" and cause them to brood unhappily all day.

I'm going to start beating children.  I'm so hardcore, they won't be my own.  They'll be other people's children.  The ones that play in the parking lot when I'm trying to park.  I'll just stop the car and whoop the tar out of them.  And then I'll run over their bike.  And I'll tell them they're ugly and no one will ever love them.

I'm doing this first thing tomorrow.  Unless you buy my book.  Do it for the poor, ugly children.