Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Time Travel Discovery!!

  Yes. Time travel. I came across this amazing phenomenon scientists,nutjobs and Michael J Fox have been in search of for years. The key does not lie in some worm hole in space, or anything like in the movie Donnie Darko. It has been at my finger tips for all these years. I have been practicing the science frequently, yet never executing the feat. On my travels across America last month, I discovered and channeled the powers of said "time travel". Here is my story:
  I will start of with mentioning my time traveling abilities only takes me into the future. You can't go back into the past. Idiot.


DATE: Friday April 15th - Saturday the 16th
END LOCATION: 4th Floor Conference room, Omni Hotel, Downtown Austin
METHOD: 3$ Vodka Redbulls, Yeager Bombs
EFFECTS: Vomiting, Confusion, Difficulty walking, Not reachable by cell phone during travel

  It was our third day of our road trip from Los Angeles. We had made a quick escape from Roswell, New Mexico in search of something actually interesting. We headed east with our new inflatable friend Carlos (an alien, I know some of you have sick stop it), making a couple stops along the way to satisfy our stomachs and cameras. Our trusty Hyundai blasted through the southwest and headed to the heart of Texas. The skyline of Austin finally was on the horizon after nearly 10 hours of navigating the single lane roads. All with the sight and aroma of smoke from the Texas fires blazing 30 miles north of us. Giant smiles inched up our faces as we approached the La Quinta, just blocks from the famed 6th street. A street welcoming its visitors with practically free drinks, live music, UT co-eds and minus all the annoying parts of Texas.
  We narrowly made the cutoff of 9pm for the local liquor store to grab some Vodka and energy drinks and headed back to the room to prepare for a Friday night of success. We freshened up, clogged toilets and took some practice drinks to prepare us, then headed out. The first location we hit was the Dizzy Rooster. This still remains the only bar name I recall in Austin. It instantly became my favorite within 10 minutes. This is where I discovered the Time Travel Fuel.
"Three vodka rebulls!" I yelled over the music and cramped crowd. Three well poured 12 oz glasses were pushed my way over the sticky tan colored bar.
          "Nine dollars" shouted the bartender.

  I handed her the $20 bill, and received my change. Then turned to my friends to show them my excitement measured in $11 of change. Shocked by the price, I placed down a generous tip....knowing this was the start to a great night. After the three of us exchanged rounds and rounds of drinks, I made a friend, had an extremely awkward and threatening handshake and we moved on across the street.
  While on our drunken quest, we were also pushing some product. My friend came strapped with 10 pairs of  his girlfriends invention and product known as "Pocketflops". ( Our goal was to find girls interested in the product, "educate" them on the product, have them take a picture and then let them have a pair. Overall a successful mission, and very easy ice-breaker. After more fuel at the following bar, I strayed away from the marketing project and inevitably my friends. The street containing all these bars closes to traffic, and boozing patrons pile off the curbs onto the pavement in a free for all. Amid all the chaos, i decided to initiate into "Time Travel Mode" at approximately 1:45am, Saturday April 16th.

5:39 am, Saturday April 16th.:
  A long rounded table with roughly 10 office chairs surrounding lay in front of me. A projector screen pulled down with a scrambled picture of white and black dots, similar to the scene of the TV in Poltergeist, sent bright lights through my body. Was this my time travel portal? Did I travel back in time to a classroom in Loyola? Was I dreaming? Why is there vomit in the corner by that 3 foot palm? Quickly I stumbled out of the room, finding it difficult to walk. Apparently time travel not only causes you to vomit, but also requires you to recirculate your blood to your legs in order to walk. Kinda like being in a coma and your muscles atrophy. I then plowed through the double doors and zombied through a long hallway. Nearly taking 20 minutes, I finally found an elevator, discovering I was on the 4th floor. Maybe I was back at my hotel? I was in room 427 at the La Quinta, and perhaps this was it. I don't recall La Quinta's having business conference rooms, but just maybe this one did. I have later noted in my discovery that it takes some time for logic to return to the brain once time travel has become complete. The next situation will provide further evidence for this claim.

  I took the elevator to the lobby floor. I walked out and to my surprise, an extremely luxurious lobby with an atrium and decor resembling something similar to the Rain Forrest Cafe. A stone path leading me through palm trees and ferns, with a tranquil river running under a half moon bridge that I walked across. Then all of a sudden, a voice called out.
"Sir? Can I help you?" 
  A man in some form of enforcement uniform cautiously approached me.
"Uhh, yeah. I need to figure out what room I'm in. This place is confusing." 
 "I'm in room 427. I think I lost my key, and my friends are asleep" I explained.
"Ok Sir, what is the name the room is under?"
  I gave her the name, and she quickly replied that the name was incorrect. She then said she would check for all the rooms under that name....
"Look. There is no one by that name checked in to the Omni Hotel sir. Do you know where you are right now?" she asked sarcastically.
 DING! A light finally went off.
"Well obviously I'm not at the freaking La Quinta, am I?"
   At that very moment I came down from the effects of time travel. Finally I was able to piece together some thoughts and recollection of where I needed to go. She politely rolled her eyes with a slight grin, pulled out a pink highlighter and a local map. She traced the path I needed to take to reach my actual hotel, and I was on my way.
  I walked outside to find darkness still laying on the city, but not for much longer. I followed her directions through the city, and after about 25 minutes of walking I finally reached my destination. The entire time walking back, I was preparing my furious speech directed towards my friends as to why they didn't search for me.  I called my friends, and finally I was home and let into our room.
"WHAT THE FUCK!?!? You guys ditched me?! You just left me!!! I'm wondering around the Omni, and you assholes are in bed?!!?" I screamed, waking up my other friend comfortably asleep.
"Chris, you idiot!! You left us. And we did try to find you...look at your phone you asshole!"
  I pulled out my phone, and noticed 27 missed calls, 14 texts message, and even a facebook request to pinpoint my location by "checking in" which I had become some obsessed with over the road trip. I felt like an ass.
"Ah shit. Sorry. Well, but..still!!! Why did you let me walk off?!"
 After 15 minutes of arguing that eventually turned to laughter, I went to sleep. We rested, woke up and had another great night in Austin. We arrived to a bar that we had yet to go to the night before. We walked in, and I was immediately hit with a vision and could describe the entire floor plan of the bar which was two stories.
"You guys, what are you talking about? We were just here yesterday" I assured them.
"Nope, never came here man" said my friends together.
"Hmm...well I was here for damn sure."
  They laughed and both commented on my insanity. I became even more puzzled as to what happened in my travels, and was just happy to be in one piece.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Short and sweet

  Just so you know...I will be going on the road-trip of destiny...and booze. I will make my best efforts to document and narrate the journey through the southwest to Austin. Followed by a flight to Boston, ending up fist pumping at Karma with the intelligent and cultured peoples of the "Jersey Shore"
  The journey begins this upcoming Wednesday, April 13th and will conclude on the 26th. This is the end of my transmission. No pictures, no thoughts to rest your heads on. Simply a warning to blow your minds with the mischief that will occur in Tucson, Roswell, Austin, Boston, New York, Jersey Shore, Atlantic City...and finally ending at home....PHILLY!

On a final thought...Damn! I haven't been this happy in awhile. And this has nothing to do with my road trip.

Sunday, March 27, 2011


If only life was mapped out for us on a chalk board,
with white arrows pointing and leading the way.
But arrows can be changed when we get bored, 
using dusty black erasers when we cant control the way we play. 

Erasers can only stand being used so many nights, 
before they must be cleaned of all their broken arrows.
Clouds of your chalk must be sent into flight,
leaving your vision in front of you far too narrow.

Remaining space is smudged and shrinking, 
forcing you to look for green that is bare.
You wonder what you were thinking, 
when your head was on the ground and feet in the air.

There is no time left to stumble 
or make curves and correct frustration.
That previously used chalk will only crumble; 
time for ink to arrow your final destination.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Improving the Romantic Comedy

  I'm sitting here in my tv room, looking at my stacks of DVD's...most of which I have watched only once. Except for the zombie flicks of course..which have gotten the most use. But now I'm trying to think back to why I would get so excited about buying all these movies, going to the stores on Tuesdays for the new releases and indulging on those 3 for $20 deals at Target. "Loaded with extras" "Deleted scenes" "Commentary" and my favorite...."Alternate endings!!"

   Hmm..why does it seem every alternate ending really just ends the same way. Maybe a couple different lines, or a slightly different sequence of events that change the outcome in no way. I think this is bullshit. I want something shocking, mind binding that leaves the viewer wondering why wasn't that the real ending!???

  For instance..take the typical romantic comedy. Guy meets girl. Someone has troubled past or issues they are dealing with. Guy somehow messes up, typical, and girl leaves him. Girl starts seeing another guy. Guy shows he can change...blah blah blah....they get back together. Movie ends and they have sex. the alternate ending: 
   Guy gets girl back..and everything seems to be going according to plan. He sent her flowers, but they have not arrived to her home yet. They make up, cry and express their never-ending love for each other. Soon after, guy is still puzzled why flowers have not arrived. He goes to check the front door to see if they have been delivered during their makeup session. He sees the neighbor's Labrador running through the street and goes to grab the dog. Unsuspectingly he is run over by the Florist Delivery Van, driven by a jealous ex-boyfriend! And no, not an ex to the girl, but ex to the guy. Turns out the whole time he was gay, couldn't come to terms with telling his family. So he decided to hide it once more by getting back with said girl. (She seriously should have caught on though. He enjoyed hanging out with her friends too much, and loved blended drinks)

  Now, a romantic comedy. Imagine if that were the actual ending...completely hijacking the movie and stunning the audience. No hint in the trailers, no foreshadowing of the events that were to come. All just a giant punch to the face in the last two minutes of the film. It would be the talk of Hollywood. Okay, maybe I am getting a little ahead of myself. I think I just always hope those cheesy films end that way, making the women around the world jaws drop. From that point on, they could never watch another "romantic comedy" again without thinking that some cargo van will come plowing down the street, striking the protagonist dead at the end. 
Look both ways before crossing.
"Oh, I've seen this ending before! Don't go outside!"

"Oh my gosh...are you gay?!?"
  Mission accomplished. This would quickly turn predictable romantic boredom into a high intensity suspense thriller. Now that is cinema!

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Bieber...You got it all wrong!

  For the millions and billions around the world that watched the Super Bowl this past Sunday, the commercials unfortunately are typically the biggest talk on Monday. As usual, most were terrible, unoriginal, and not funny. A couple were shocking, such as the low blow and direct kick in the balls to Tibet. If you don't recall, it was an ad for "GROUPON" and has Tim Hutton enjoying a fresh bowl of Curry from Tibet, in Chicago, delivered by a Filipino man. I found it to be hilarious and original, but unfortunately people have apparently lost their sense of humor. Why should anyone be exempt from being made fun of? Tragedy or not, comedy makes the world go round. But this is not why I write today. I write because of the Best Buy commercial with Ozzy and the Bieber.
  The Best Buy spot was about the ever changing technology in the world, and how fast we are moving. 3G to 4G to 8G get the point. They used the ever slow Ozzy Osbourne as the initial pitch man, who seemingly, and obviously could not keep up. Clever choice, considering it probably takes him 2 hours to wipe his own ass. If he even knows where it is anymore. Then enters Justin Bieber to replace Ozzy for the commercial. Now we have moved on to 6G, and Bieber exclaims, "Its Bieber, 6G Fever!" and then goes into a tantrum he calls dancing. The scene then cuts back to Ozzy and his wife Sharon:
Sharon: "Whats a 6G?"
Ozzy: "What the fuck is a Bieber?"

(great question)

Behind them, in disguise is Bieber playing a set worker. Makeup, fake beard, and wig.

Set dude (Bieber) : "I don't know. It kinda looks like a girl."

  Hahaha...NO! Now we all love when celebrities/athletes are able to make fun and poke at themselves. This was a decent attempt by the Beaver. But he got it all wrong. He has completely missed the joke about his appearance and school girl voice. I have said, along with many, that the kid looks like a lesbian. So perhaps he has taken this the wrong way, in thinking that we feel he looks feminine. 
  Yes, there is a lady look to him, but only in the slightest. That hint of lady, mixed with the rodent on his head he calls hair completes his look. I wonder if Ozzy tried to bite Justin's head off while he was having an acid flash back to eating heads off of small squirrels and rabbits? Would make for a far better Monday conversation. But what I'm trying to get at, is that we call Bieber a little lesbian. And obviously not the good kind. His lesbian look is butch, or what some may call, "Bull Dike" (Frightening term). When you see some typical ladies lezing out, one generally is feminine, and one is generally masculine. Funny how that works.....but we can talk about nature vs nurture another time. 
Actual Picture of liberal Bull
  So Justin, nice try, but you got it all wrong. People don't say that you look like a girl and have a vagina. Essentially, you look like a man, do have a vagina, and actually still like girls. Good on ya. Too all the parents out there; if you want your little girl to grow up, have a family a produce some "old fashioned"  grand kids, I suggest taking Bieber out of their lives...because in 8 years there might be a lot of lesbians running search of the "Bieber Bull".
  Oh...and Beaver...figure out what German is. Dumbass.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

My Broken Arm Story

 January 27th 1998:  I broke my arm. In Hawaii. Playing hockey. Yes, I was playing hockey and lived in Hawaii. Thirteen years later I am here to share my experience with you. My seven followers. Here is the story of one day that ruined my 8th grade, and for all I life!
  In Hawaii I lived in a very tight knit military community. About 130 homes in an enclosed military housing area, planted right next to Pearl Harbor. My back yard lead up to the water, which held the Arizona Memorial and a breeding ground for Hammerhead Sharks. No joke! When my friends and I weren't discovering the beaches, messing with dead sharks washed ashore covered in battleship oil or playing "manhunt" (a cool name for tag at night, primarily used to flirt with 7th grade girls), we were playing street hockey. We had all the gear. Two goals, two sets of goalie equipment, and hoards of middle school kids begging for the chance to get cross checked by me and this other fat 9th grader named Nick. He sucked. Not at hockey, but severely at life. are going down!
   It was just like any other day. We all met at the house at the bottom of the hill, tossed the goals in the street and strapped on our roller blades. I was pretty good, and played in an actual league on Sundays at the local Air Force base. I was like Wayne Gretzky out there to these kids when I came to play in the local pickup games. Kinda like Mark Wahlberg in Invincible when he comes back to play backyard football with the boys in south Philly. This game was no different from the others. Me scoring. My team winning, and pretty much just being as much of a bad ass you could really be in 8th grade. Then it all took a turn. Skating down the hill, stick in hand came Eric Burgstrom. My fucking neighborhood nemesis. He was tall for his age, and probably smoked cigarettes already. Blond crew cut, just like his Marine dad. If you could look like a future douche at age 13, he nailed it! Watch Mighty Ducks D2...I am Adam Banks and he is the whole team from Iceland combined in one soulless body.
"You punks ready to get whooped?" he yelled while skating directly into the game. "Chris..You want to play on my team so you can win?"
(Oh hell on!)

  The puck dropped, and the battle began. Each team going back and forth. Drago and I battling, exchanging blows back and forth. Slowly I was wearing him down, and the smoke filled longs of the 13 year old were catching up to him. I began blowing by him. Stole the puck right from his stick, leading to a breakaway goal.
"All day Eric. All day!" I cheered. The adrenaline rushing through my body, leading to excessive celebrations, more trash talk and a bright red Eric. 
"That won't happen again!" he threatened. 
  I chuckled, and banged my stick on the ground repeatedly in a mocking fashion. I poked and prodded. I was taking down the bully in front of everyone, and nothing felt better. Continuing to dominate, I stole the puck from him once again with a slight hip check and swipe of my stick. Effortless I broke onwards to another free shot on goal......

!!!!!! CRACK !!!!!!!!

  Eric tomahawk chopped my right skate, sending me into a superman dive towards the pavement. Bracing the fall was my right wrist. Enraged by the cheap shot he took on me, I shot up back to an upright position, ready to swing my stick in retaliation like Elin Woods. Or whatever her last name is now. But something was extremely wrong. I felt my stick fall out of my hands, and a shooting pain sent from my right arm to my brain took over my body. I looked down to see a odd curvature, similar to a "U" or valley. My sister could tell that I was hurt, and told me we should go home. I declined her offer. Attempted to calm down, and not behead my enemy with my stick blade. Foolishly I thought I was able to diagnose my injury, and determined that's just what a sprain looks like. A broken arm. I attempted to play for another 15 minutes until a neighbor walking by saw me favoring my busted wing, and urgently recommended me to go home and show my mother.
  My sister and I skated back home up the hill to our single level Hawaiian bungalow. We won Yard of the Month a time or two. But that was not important at the moment. I was preparing my self for the tongue lashing my mom was about to hand down on me. Its funny how we you get hurt, your parents get pissed at you. And of course it was while my father was gone on business for about a week.
I think its a sprain.
     "Everything always happens when your father is gone! You realize this Christopher?!" She would always say this to me. I guess she had a point. I showed her my wrist...
"Yeah, pretty sure its sprained." 
"Pretty sure you're and idiot! Its broken! What did you do?!" she screamed.
  Once the story was told, she hushed me up, grabbed a bag of broccoli from the freezer, slammed it on my wrist and strung industrial size rubber bands around it to keep it in place. No clue where she got those things from. We jumped in the Ford Taurus wagon and speed off to the clinic.
"We aren't going to the emergency room. They will take forever!" she informed me.
  You seem to think this is an emergency, I thought. Emergencies should be taken care of immediately. I didn't understand, and still don't to this day. But health care is a topic for another day. We arrived, and I was seen instantly. X - Rays taken. Wrist broken. Radius to be exact. It was wrapped in a soft cast, and we were informed to head over to Tripler Military Hospital for further treatment. Tripler is a huge pink building that sits embedded in the south facing mountains of Oahu. You can't miss it, and can always see it from the plane flying in to Honolulu. I will forever hate this place because of the chain of events following my visit. I was seen quickly once we got there. (Most likely thanks to my last name and them knowing who my father was...being an officer in the intelligence community does have some perks) The x-rays were examined once more, and a cast was placed on my right arm..from my knuckles to elbow. I was extremely unhappy. Sports were my life, being right handed..this was not a good situation. We were instructed on the typical procedures in dealing with broken bones, given medication and told when I needed to return to get it checked again and re-casted.
Dear Tripler: Why?
  A couple weeks passed, my cast was covered in writing and previously unknown odors. The first to write something was my girlfriend of the time. She thought writing PEN 15 was amusing. It was finally time for my return visit to the Pink Hospital, and everything was going smoothly. I was excited to think I was almost done with this mess. Baseball season was approaching, and I wanted to be ready for spring ball. They took the cast off, sent me into the x-ray room, slapped my wrist to those cold plates...radiated me and told me to leave and go wait in the doc's office. After 5 minutes of waiting, a tech brought in some x-rays and slipped them up on those big boards that are just light so you can see the X ray. It was a large waiting room, with numerous patients and beds so I was not alone. I examined the x-rays just delivered and figured they weren't mine. (Sucks to be that guy I thought) I for some reason glanced over to my mother, and noticed a puzzled look on her face.
"Chris." she said with concern. "That's YOUR arm."
 It couldn't be. That arm is...well for a better lack of an explanation...all fucked! The bones were crooked, and looked like the bone structure of a pigeons wing. Then entered the Dr.
"Well....." he paused. "We seem to have an unfortunate problem" ( I remember this to this day) "Chris, that is your arm. Apparently we did not set your arm before we casted it. And it looks like you drink a lot of milk. You are a fast healer."  
 Shit. "So what do you mean? Is it gonna be okay? Will it just kinda go back to normal?" I pleaded.
  "Not exactly. We could just let it heal, but you wouldn't be happy with it. You are young, so this needs to be fixed." he explained. "We can hopefully fix it right away, and this situation would just have set you back a little."

Okay, cool I thought. But do you fix that? Maybe they can just move it around.
    "Okay, so what do we need to do? Can you just pop it back or something?"

  "Well, yes. Sort of. We can tell the the calcification of the bones here have already started, so we just need to break that, and reset your arm in proper place. Hopefully it hasn't fully healed."

 "Break it?"

"Yeah. It will hurt a little, but should be quick."

  Entered a man resembling a blend of Shrek and Andre the Giant. They sat me on a chair next to the bed. Shrek sat up on the bed. Not even an introduction or anything. It all happened so quickly, and I was still confused as to what their plan of action was. Apparently my mom knew, and started to shed a tear. Flashing lights and alarms sounded off in my brain and I quickly questioned...
      "What are you gonna do?!"

     "He needs to put your arm over his knee...and then he is going to 'lightly' apply pressure in order to re-break your arm in that calcified area."

   "Whoa...ummm, can we talk about this?!" i cried.

Accurate depicton
  My mom walked out and I swear I think she nearly fainted. My arm was quickly placed over Bunyan's knee...and that light pressure quickly turned to the worst pain I ever could have imagined. With both of his Popeye sized forearms, he pushed down on my arm with all his force, attempting to split my wrist in half. He kept trying. Again and again. At first I tried to hold back the tears, but quickly the waterworks and screams followed. Flowing from my eyes, I wanted to die and screamed "uncle"! My wrist apparently grew steel and I was on my way to being the next freaking Iron Man. Five minutes of attempts and failures. I sat there, beaten. Ready to die. Packed it in, called it quits and just wish I passed out from the pain. But no luck for anyone.
  After the Chinese torture failure, I was brought into a private office. The head Doc gave me and my mother and extremely long apology. I did not accept. He explained the only option we had was to have surgery. They would have to put me under, saw through my wrist and insert pins. Fantastic. So surgery was scheduled 3 days later. A day prior, I would meet with the anesthesiologist. People always ask, why we didn't sue or something. I don't know the extent of the bullshit my parents went through in this whole circus and what, if any repercussions there were, but it was free health care. Military health care. I think the feeling was as long as they made it right.
  Surgery day came and was a success. I woke up, once again, in a cast. Weeks passed and finally the time had come to re inspect the disaster that was my right "wing". Second time apparently did the trick. All in all, the whole process took 4 months of me having my right arm hindered. One benefit was me being able to improve my left handed layup, and, well...etc. Etc was forced and needed. When taking off the caste this time, I noticed some new additions to my wrist. Metal. Seriously. Three pins were stuff into my wrist like stakes you use to hold down a tent. Three small hooks appeared curling out of my skin. It was cool at first, but then I realized the were going to be removed. Removed how? By a very advanced medical device. We all know it as the "pliers". It was swiftly clamped on to the first hook, twisted to the left (lefty loosey, righty tighty) and pulled out. I watched the whole event in shock. It was a miniaturized horror movie on my wrist. Resembled a knife or dagger being pulled out of a fading body. Hurt like a bitch! At first no blood at all, then the hole turned into Pompeii, spewing dark red blood like an elementary school science project. One, then two, and finally three. (I actually got to keep these...and still have them to this day) * weird ? *
  Finally, it was all over. Except for two months of physical therapy and still only having 70% range of motion, everything was just chipper. My 8th grade was ruined and I place the sole blame of my declining baseball career on this event. And Eric. If I ever find you....I swear I will drop kick you in the neck. I hate that asshole.


Friday, January 14, 2011

Blue Haired Drivers!!

Comments you have made while driving: 
"OHHH...MY...GOD!! Step on the gas!!! Damnit!"   or   "Look at this asshole! Slow down!...He is gonna really hurt someone. I hope he gets in a fatal crash!" Or something like that.
  The fact of the matter is, we all think we are driving the perfect speed. Whatever pace you are going is the only speed that is correct. People faster than you are crazy assholes, and people going slower are annoying. Now these are all facts, and feelings we all have.  We have even arrived to the point in our culture to where we can predict what the driver looks like, down to a science. I am pretty good at this. It's sort of like in the SAT's. If you don't know the answer, your best odds are picking "C". Well, in the driving world, "C" = Asian. Now stereotypes are bad, but unfortunately derived from truths. Yes, Asian's are terrible drivers. Now I'm sure some are good drivers, but pretty sure they were all used in the Fast and the Furious trilogy. And maybe have something to do with TRON and those stupid light bright bikes they are zipping around on.
Why not the peace sign?
  Women are deemed as bad drivers, however I don't really agree with this. Danica Patrick sucks and is not attractive, and she has nothing to do with why I disagree with the stereotype. I have been in the car with plenty of women that can drive just fine. There are some that scare the shit out of me, or are so timid behind the wheel that they start to break down and cry while trying to parallel park. But we all know that comes from some inner issue there.
  Men are aggressive, competitive, blah blah blah. Yeah, sometimes you just have to race, OKAY!? Thanks to my accident 8 months ago, I no longer have my sweet 300 horsepower Accord coupe, and have transitioned to the standard mom edition Accord. Sigh. Not taking too many people off the line anymore these days, but I guess its for the best. At least I just tell myself that.
  Teenagers are terrible drivers. Simply because they don't know how to drive and bump Kesha while doing their makeup all at the same time. But great multi taskers. They are able to drive to the high school football game, swig some Mike's Hard, text their bff about how they hope "that bitch" doesn't show up, and all while relaxing with their left foot resting on the driver side mirror. (Seriously, when I see people do this I hope they instantly get in a collision and split in half. Not only are you stupid, but you are gross. No one wants to see your busted toes airing off at 50 mph) The only problem with teens ability to multi task is they prioritize incorrectly. Typically driving their 98 Jetta or Tacoma is last on the list.
God Help Us!
  Now, getting to the bread and butter. My least favorite driver to see on the road. In reference to the Blue Hair title, I was not talking about confused kids dying their hair. I was talking about your Grandma, Abuela or whatever childish name you have for them. (Mum-mum) Every time I nearly bite the dust on the freeways or roads is because of some 70 plus driving their Buick Regal like a complete crash test dummy. How do we not have laws restricting these oldies taking to the road, thinking its 1935 at the county fair, and enjoying some pop while at the bumper car ride?? There are numerous stories of old timers plowing through crowds of people, like at the Santa Monica Farmers market. Driving the wrong way on off ramps and freeways, mistaking the brake for the gas pedal and killing poor Timmy at the ATM, etc etc etc. This is 2011, not the 1950's. Poor people and minorities even have cars and everyone is on the road. You have to be observant!        This really isn't meant to be amusing, but makes me extremely frustrated.
   I pose the question why we don't have some form of law or legislation that requires people over the age of 65 to retake a drive test every other year. And I realize that if it came up to having to vote on this, these are the only people that vote in this damn country, so it would probably never pass. So I leave this to all of you, lets keep Betty and Chester from getting behind the wheel and save some lives. Take away your grandparents keys to the Lincoln or Family Van. They most likely will refuse because they are stubborn assholes. If so, go disconnect the battery from the car. Offer to drive them to the grocery store, thrift shop, or early bird dinner special. It's a win win for everyone. Safer roads, quality time with your grandparents, and maybe they will add a couple extra things in the "Will" for you. Cha ching!