The Sounds of Douchebag America

Dude.  No, seriously.  Dude.  No, just turn around.  Towards me.  Okay.  Towards me.  Hey, you!  Face me!  Over here.  Come on, over here.  Right here.  Towards me.  Right here.  Check it out.  Dude, you alive?  What are you…what are you looking at?  Seriously.  Seriously, dude, check it.  Look.  Look at me.  Right here.  Look.  Look at me.

Oh, for the love of Christ.

YO!  Over here!  Earth to YOU!  Our food’s not coming anytime soon, bro.  Just wait.  Quit looking at the waitress.  Look.  Here.  Awesome walrus.  Dude: awesome walrus.  AWESOME WALRUS, bro, check it out!  With the teeth and all.  With teeth?  Teeth?  Hello, teeth?  You tellin’ me you can’t dig an AWESOME WALRUS with TEETH?  How about chopstick teeth?  Teeth with chopsticks?  Chopsticks?  No?  No chopstick teeth?  Not a chopsticks guy?

Okay.  Okay.  Ignoring me?  Are you ignoring me?  Hello?  Over here.  Quit ignoring me.  Come on.  Eyes over here.  Quit looking behind you for the food.  Hey, eyes over here.  Come on.  You can do it.  Pretty simple.  All you gotta do is get your eyes over here.  Here.  Look.  Over here.  Very easy, no work, no effort, just…yeah, just come on, bring it on home, you can do it, come on, you can do it, just bring it on in.

Motherfucker.

Alright, enough with the food.  It’s coming, just wait.  Come on.  It’s coming, just chill.  Just chill, wait, and get your lookin’ balls aimed in, uh, in this direction.  Over here.  Come on.  This direction.  Chopstick walrus, come on, one time and one time only, chopstick walrus, come on.

Fuck my life.

You see this mic right here?  It’s not even connected to anything.  I just keep it with me whenever I’m in Urban Outfitters or Starbucks, or even Children’s Hospital.  They’re always playing something awesome, and I’m like “Hey!  I totally recognize that 80s Top 40 hit that’s been playing on the radio, MTV, and VH1 for twenty-something years, and aren’t I special for it!?”  So I just get up and belt it.  Right there, doesn’t matter.  By the way, I’m an awesome singer, aka vocal stylist, if you will.  I have perfect pitch.  Did I mention that already?  Because I do.  Yeah, I have perfect pitch.  Or absolute pitch, whichever term you like.  I mean, it’s no big deal and all, but like, you hear that radiator? It’s buzzing at an E-flat.  You don’t believe me?  Go check, jerk.

I mean, anytime Journey comes on, it’s awesome.  It comes on a lot, but still, you got to just let it all out.  I like to throw in some vibrato, a little harmony too.  Just go a third up, you can’t go wrong.  Don’t worry if you don’t know what I mean by that. No big deal, you wouldn’t understand anyway.  Music theory stuff, really in-depth.

Look, I know that riffing on good source material doesn’t make me innovative, and by no means could I write something original, but I think I can make a tune my own, you know?  Vary a couple notes, throw in a little “oo-ah” and “yeah-yeah” action…that’s how you personalize it.  That’s how you make it yours.  As for “Don’t Stop Believin’,” you should see how long I could hold those high notes.  That song goes over so well at the Children’s Hospital, you wouldn’t believe.  Ha, you wouldn’t believe.  Funny because it’s…hey, the radiator just rose to an E.  Did you get that?  Did you hear that?  Half-step up?  Sweet.

People say I should karaoke.  It’s okay, but sometimes you have to listen to other people sing and you have to wait for your turn, and that’s not my speed.  Just sing, right there.  Wherever.  Even if someone else is singing, just go ahead and upstage them.  Drown them out if you can.  That’s what singing is all about.  Or at least that’s the impression I got; I did musical theatre in college.

I’m  sorry to hear about your wife.  And, I want you to know that, no matter what you need or what it takes, I will be there.  I come to you not as a friend, or colleague, or the woman you cheated on her with, but as a human.  A human being.

See, I would drive you to the hospital, but I  have some errands.  I haven’t gone shopping in a while and I only have half a tub of Haagen-Dazs left in my freezer and I need to re-stock.  Tell you what, I’ll pray that God will find you a ride.  I just want you to know you’re in my thoughts.  Maybe God will find you a bus route or something.  I mean, people say time and time again that He manages to be more responsive to their concerns than I.  I wonder what people mean by that…

I was thinking about getting you flowers with a nice little “hope she gets better” card or something.  Flowers are the second best thing for proving the significance of your friendship.  When you’re stressed or feeling bad, I don’t even have to come see you.  I can go online, and have some odorous, allergenic flowers delivered to you.  And since they require upkeep, it gives you more to stress about.  Good stuff.  Still,  I enjoy prayer more than flowers: it’s cheaper, and I can do something for you without having to see you.  And I know you don’t like being seen when you get all sad and stuff, so it all works out.

I believe my prayers for people are heard.  I know that very rarely do things go my way because I pray for them to, and I’ll never know if anyone up in the sky hears me, but that’s not really what it’s about.  You’re in my thoughts, and, I mean, it’s the thought that counts.  See!  The thought that counts, not the actual gesture.  Alright; off to pray, bye!  Hope your wife lives!

I know I said that the last time I flew into town, and I definitely mentioned something about it the time before that, but seriously, I feel like every time you come to pick me up at the airport, it’s like I was just a passenger on a snake-ridden, turbulent, hybrid Hindenburg/Air Force One pirate-copter that is on a one-way flight to DOOOOOM!

First things first: there’s a baby.  Oh God, and of course the baby cries, because babies don’t know to keep quiet when I’m around trying to catch up on Cosmo’s “Ways to Please Your Man Without Easing Up on Emotional Manipulation.”  And I’m not really sitting in the window or the aisle, I’m sitting in that middle seat so I don’t really get a good perspective except for the balding witch-head guy in front of me, like, what’s his problem?  Why does he have to sit upright enough so that I have to look at his zombie-fied, decaying-before-my-eyes skull?  What an asshat.

Not only that, but, they were delayed for maintenance.  Maintenance!  I can’t believe they have to upgrade and inspect the planes at such an inconvenient time.  I understand you want the plane to be in an optimal condition before you fly, but do you really have to make it so right before we fly?  That just seems counterintui-whatever-that-word-is.

So, we finally get off the ground after waiting for about fifteen minutes, and then the baby starts crying, and I asked to have a complimentary ginger ale but they only had Sprite.  The nerve!  I had to drink Sprite…for free! When we land, of course, my baggage is the last one to come down because hey, there’s just something about jetBlue where like, every single time, my luggage is the last one through the chute.  I don’t know why, but it always is, don’t even ask.  Ugh, worst ninety minutes of my life.

So frickin’ terrible.  So, how was your three-hour car ride to come get me?

My mistress gives me a hard time because I’m unwilling to help those who got dealt a harder hand in life.  But you know who I don’t see helping homeless people?  Other homeless people.   Do you ever see homeless people throwing change at each other, sharing a paper bag of god-knows-what, or sharing government-subsidized soup?  No.  If they’re not willing to help each other, why should I be willing to help them?

I mean, what’s the point of helping a group determined not to assist itself?  Have you ever tried to go a day without entering your house?  Or prevent yourself from going near it?  Or just setting fire to it altogether?  I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but you have to be determined to be homeless if you’ve managed to achieve that degree of homelessness.  Sleeping outside when I’m on a camping trip…that takes a lot of discipline, too.  Honestly, I think the homeless are stubborn people.

Plus, everyone complains about how the homeless get such bad press.  Jesus Christ was homeless.  Siddhartha Gautama was homeless.  Some true greats were homeless:  Charlie Chaplin,  Ella Fitzgerald, even George Orwell!  And boy, those people never get any respect.  You’d think they were wealthy financiers these days, the way those people get so utterly chastised and mocked.  Oh, and I’m being sarcastic, in case you didn’t get that.

By the way, you know who else was homeless?  Jewel.  That’s right: Jewel.  I think I can rest my case.