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5:46 a.m. - 2002-11-22

HIRE THE HANDICAPPED. THEY'RE FUN TO WATCH.

Today’s entry is offensive and extremely politically incorrect. Hell … I’m offended and I wrote the damned thing. Every now and then, I entertain a sickness of mine to challenge myself to write the most cringing and uncomfortable stuff that I can possibly dredge up for no other reason than to offend myself. And believe me…this entry is only the tip of the iceberg. Therefore, if you’re easily offended, I’m begging you to turn away. The last thing I want right now are angry emails telling me I should be ashamed of myself. I AM ashamed of myself, but it has more to do with my rapidly growing mid-section rather than today’s entry and I certainly don’t need a guilt trip laid sloppily on top of my shame like a dead prostitute in a dumpster. I appreciate the fact that some of you respect me as a somewhat entertaining writer and I don’t want to lose your respect, but I feel that if you read much further, I will.

But if nothing is sacred to you and you think you can refrain from sending me hateful emails, then by golly…keep reading, you twisted fuck.


Tell me something…when did the words “Disabled Veteran” become a synonym for “Painful Cancerous Chunk In My Colon”?

Maybe it’s just me, but if I get behind one more car with a “Disabled Veteran” tag on it in rush hour traffic, I’m ramming the back of the car, jumping out of my car, opening their door and beating them in the head with their wooden leg until they start screaming for their dead mommy.

I was driving home from work a few days ago, kinda in a hurry because I’d had three hours of sleep the night before and was about to pass out from exhaustion.

Everything’s going just fine until Durwood the Disabled Vet pulls out in front of me going a whopping seven miles an hour.

After I slam on my brakes and every item inside my car that wasn’t bolted down had hit the windshield, I screamed several uniquely obscene phrases at the fucking gimp, most of which ended with the term “Cockslapper”.

This dirty cockslapper totally ignored the speed limit signs that clearly stated he was allowed to drive 50 mph.

50 mph?? Who would drive at those breakneck speeds? Certainly not Durwood the Disabled Cockslapper.

This precious dingleberry decided that he’d go 25 mph and that if I didn’t like it, too bad. He had his torso blown off in WWI … the least I could do is show him a little professional courtesy and allow him to pick a fucking speed limit that he was comfortable with.

Well guess what, Sir Limps-A-Lot? It does not fucking work that way.

Naturally, behind me cars are slamming on their brakes and narrowly avoiding ramming me in the gas tank and blowing up my car because Durwood has decided that he’s in no hurry to get to his Disabled Aerobics class where they don’t do Jumping Jacks, they do Jumping Jack and then crumple to the floor and roll around like an upside down turtle for an hour.

I had to putt-putt behind this crusty old fucker for five minutes before the road changed to four lanes and I could zip around him, laying on my horn while making the devil sign with my hands and screaming “ROT IN HELL, YOU SLOW-ASSED DRIVING RUSTY DILDO!”

Now … it’s not so much that the guy was disabled. Or that he was a veteran. I mean…I’m proud of my country, God Bless America, We Will Never Forget…all that jazz … but it’s just that EVERY SINGLE DISABLED VETERAN ON THE ROAD drives like a blind three year-old.

I say that rather than give them their own little license tag thing that proudly proclaims they got their ass shot in a war and lived to pester the shit outta me about it, we just let them have free rent or something nice. Something that will say “Thank you for defending America and our right to freedom” and take away their right to keep me from getting home at a decent hour.


So I go to Pizza Hut for lunch yesterday because dammit…I was hungry and dammit…I wanted pizza.

Holy Mother of God.

First off, there’s a waitress there that I’ll call Mary. It’s not her real name, but it’s close enough. If I said “Maria from Pizza Hut” and she were to ever Google that phrase and find this page, she’d wipe her ass with a slice of pizza and then feed it to me the next time I was in there after she reads what I have to say about her.

Mary has a face like a deformed hog twat. And let me clarify, I’m not talking about the twat of a deformed hog…I’m talking about a regular hog with a deformed twat. It is of the utmost importance that I draw as clear a mental picture for you as possible.

She’s horrifically thin…I doubt she weighs more than 80 lbs.

Her hair is in serious need of another bleach job as her dark roots come down to her ears and then turn a ghastly shade of white. I’m sure that look probably works wonders for her at the zoo when she’s trying to sexually stimulate the male zebras, but outside of that she’s shit outta luck with any other male species as long as she desperately clings to that hairstyle.

She wears more makeup than all four members of KISS combined. She’s probably in her early 50s and just now beginning to wonder where in the holy hell she screwed up her life if she’s working the lunch shift at Pizza Hut. I feel confident that at some point in her life, Mary was faithfully addicted to a drug along the lines of heroin or morphine because her face is sunken to the point that it looks like someone painted clown makeup on a skull.

I enjoy the buffet at Pizza Hut, but it’s hard to relish when Mary won’t leave the dining area and go hide in the walk-in freezer until the buffet is over. Nope, she’s always stumbling around the dining area in a methadone-induced haze, asking people if they need more forks. No, you greasy butt lip … one fork should be more than sufficient.

Most times, the sight of Mary is enough to turn my stomach while I’m trying to wolf down my pizza. But yesterday, Mary was a freakin’ cherub compared to what was waiting for me.

It seems the local association for retarded citizens was meeting at Pizza Hut for lunch.

I sincerely don’t have a problem with this. The mentally challenged need nourishment just like real people do. They’ve got to keep their strength up in order to compete in those Special Olympics where they waddle to the finish line several minutes after everyone else has finished and raise their arms in the air in victory like they’ve actually accomplished something that a normal person wouldn’t really give much thought to. Like taking a shit without having your rectum fall out of your ass.

And I guess that I really should have more consideration for their condition and let a few things slide when confronting them in public. Yes, they’re going to be loud and cumbersome. Yes, they’re prone to scratching their asses and sniffing their fingers in public. Yes, there’s always a good chance one of them will drop trou and try to take a dump on their table.

But for God’s sakes…is it asking too much for their handlers to explain to them before they enter the restaurant that rubbing their booger-crusted fingers all over every slice of pizza on the buffet and then putting the slices back on the pizza pans is a strict “no-no” and will get them an extra dose of electroshock therapy when they get back to the home?

You know…I’ve paid my $5.99. I prefer to eat pizza that doesn’t have thick wads of snot smeared all over it. I’ve got to ask…is that REALLY asking too much? If so, I’ll just take my business elsewhere. I’m sure Cici’s Pizza would just LOOOOVE to see my fat ass waddle through the door once a week with a bib on and a five spot in my hand.

Several of the people were crowded around the buffet area, staring at the pizza with the same dull gaze that my nephew gets when he’s surfing for porn on my computer. It’s like they were hypnotized by the pizza.

One of the chaperones came over and started to get the line moving by asking each one of them what type of pizza they wanted. Naturally, they all wanted cheese pizza, which Pizza Hut never puts on their buffet. So while the chaperone argued with the people over pepperoni, one of the older women got the crazy idea to touch the metal heating pad underneath the pans of pizza. The thing that’s about 600 degrees and will dissolve an ice cube in two seconds.

“SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!” went the lady’s flesh.

A horrified look crept across the lady’s face. I could tell she wanted to scream but was in such shock that the sounds couldn’t come out her mouth.

So she starts making this guttural crying sound. It sounded like a walrus giving birth to a full grown porcupine.

“NNNNNNNGHHHH!” the woman cried.

One of the other handlers came over there and said “Peggy, what’s wrong? Peggy, what’s wrong?”

I fought the urge to swallow my mouthful of pizza and say “Peggy just fried the palm of her hand on that metal thing.” But I was sincerely trying to eat as fast as I could and get out of there before one of these guys started trying to eat my face like Hannibal Lechter with a single digit IQ.

They finally got Peggy’s hand wrapped in a towel with ice, everyone got their pizza and salad and bread sticks and wadded balls of toilet paper and sat down to enjoy their lunch.

Naturally, it was a three-ring circus atmosphere with everyone screaming louder than the next one, all trying to tell their stories of dead roadside animals, sticks of butter and favorite Bugs Bunny episodes at the same time. It reminded me of Thanksgiving dinner last year with the in-laws except the people in Pizza Hut were much more civilized than my in-laws.

I was going to make a second trip to the buffet but all the pizza that was left had holes poked through the cheese from their fingers. And you never know where their fingers have been. But I know they’ve been digging furiously into the seat of their respective pants and that was enough for me to decline any further pizza.

I paid for my meal and left.

As I got into my car and pulled out of the parking lot, I happened to glance inside the restaurant windows.

Sure enough...one of them was taking a dump on the table while the rest of them looked to be crying.

I had left just in time.


A lot of you are still concerned that my nephew Pervy still has a penis and a sex drive and will most likely eventually slip my entire family a batch of roofies and then use my computer to continue his quest for finding the most obscene pornographic site and how to I plan to prevent it.

Simple. I’m now a proud owner of Content Audit, the software that monitors any and all pornographic materials that may come across my computer screen.

In fact, the company was so impressed with my story and my desire to curb Pervy’s hormones that they’ve asked me to provide a testimonial for their product in exchange for a free trial version of the software.

So if you see the following testimonial pop up on your screen one day, you can jump up from your seat, point at the screen and proudly exclaim, “Hey! I know that stupid cross-eyed looking chinless bastard!”

This lovely banner brought to you by my good buddy, Edweird

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