Things that concern me: Part 1

Comments found in most online news articles.  Bonus; despite textual evidence to the contrary, most users are probably over the age of twelve, some may have even been graduated out of high school.

The money spent on attending a quality four-year university could just as easily be spent starting a small business, with the benefit of the latter offering immediate employment.

Donuts.   That was the crucial missing element.  It was 2 a.m. on that wonderful sweet spot between Friday and Saturday, and my body was aching for a taste of life. 

It would have to settle for a 12 pack of Krispy Kreme’s best.

I had a plan, I had a means of transportation, and I certainly had the motivation.

Time for decisive action.  I gripped my keys firmly, felt their teeth bite into my fingers, and stepped out the front door, tense, expectant.  Starting up my truck formed chariot I enjoyed a brief moment of exaltation as this powerful V8 beast trembled to life.  I sped off into the bounteous arms of the night, two and a half tons of black toned steel hammering down the vacant highway.  I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.

That Friday had been an idle one, characterized almost entirely by a cycle of television watching and napping that effectively disabled any higher order thinking for a good portion of the day.  I came dangerously close to taking my sedated and vulnerable brain to the Point of No Return.  I’d been there before and didn’t fancy risking my precious mass of interconnected neurons for anything less than a 12 pack of Krispy Kreme’s finest.

System of a Down’s “Toxicity” was just beginning to inch its way out of the radio when the Low Fuel Light lit up in all of its glaring orange spiteful glory.

 “Why have you forsaken me, in your heart forsaken me…”

“Fuck that,” I thought, “I don’t need gas, not when destiny is on my side.” At no other point in my life had I been so confident in the Calvinistic precepts of predestination, at least as they applied to quests involving sugar glazed holy relics that originated from the palace of Krispy Kreme.  I pushed down on the accelerator with more than a little spite of my own and watch the speedometer climb.  The white-faced “speed zone ahead” sign gave its tacit approval to my actions as I returned a warm one-fingered salute, celebrating its unwavering commitment to passivity.

A bright flash of light behind me and a moment of desolation, horror at the thought of being delayed, by anything, but even more so an officer of the law.  But no, the crackling rumble of thunder assures me that I’m in the clear.

“Officer, if I was a betting man - which I’m not,“ I added quickly, with a face of grim disapproval “that you clocked me traveling 80 mph in a 55 mph zone.  A grave mistake on my part for indeed, if I had instead been traveling 79 mph in a 55 mph zone, I would be immune to the charge of reckless endangerment.  Would you like some cantaloupe?”

The plate of cantaloupe currently residing in my passenger seat represented my only delay between the initial plan for donut retrieval and the execution of said plan.  At the time I was in fact quite hungry, physically as well as spiritually.  The cantaloupe, I decided, would be enough to sate the physical desire until I could acquire the donuts I so desperately needed for spiritual sustenance.

However, this was no time for subtleties, not that the cantaloupe really deserved such anyway.  Granted, slices would certainly have been easier to handle, and I probably could have made a better choice of kitchen implement than a butcher knife, but everyone has their idiosyncrasies.

It was an exceptional gamble.  The cop’s eyes shifted between the black plastic 13-round Glock 21 on his belt to the plate of carved fruit held in my outstretched hand, looking for all the world like a fruity refugee from a B-budget horror movie.  It was an exceptional gamble, and so of course I hedged my bet.  The cop reached for a conservative looking block shaped piece of melon, along with the Ulysses S. Grant that had also, mysteriously, found its way onto the plate.  A thin orange line of juice dribbled out the side of his mouth as he laid out an enthusiastic and well-rehearsed verbal warning.  I nodded along and offered up another melon chunk, same shape as the first, before wishing him a pleasant night.

The fluorescent blues and reds of my destination were a relieving contrast to the persistent whine of the Low Fuel Light, and I most joyously approached the drive-thru.  $6.94 for a box of the purest edible gold, I felt like a door to door typewriter salesman, coming away from a successful sale at the Microsoft central office.  I pulled a collection of presidents out of my wallet and change holder, exact change being the only reasonable offering I could make in such circumstances.  I was in a mid-change exchange with the weary eyed cashier when I was struck by a sudden wave of blissful ingenuity.  My earlier encounter with that noble employee of the state had left me with a substantial karmic burden, one which I resigned my self to resolving forthwith.  I thrust the motley crew into my pocket and instead offered up a plastic card with my name on it.  “Debit,” I said earnestly, “and pay for the guy behind me too.” 

 (an opinion article written for my journalism class)

Chuck Norris and the death of irony

             I’d really like to think that these people mean well.  The people who have been using the Virginia Tech massacre as political ammunition for their pet political stances, I mean.

Until today, I felt I was doing a pretty good job of keeping my cynicism in check; and then I came across a commentary written by Chuck Norris.  Along with other things, (notably the country’s acceptance of abortion and the presence of evolution in science curriculums) Chuck argues that “our graphic slasher media” is partly responsible for the tragedy.

Chuck Norris blames violence in the media.  Chuck Norris, the same actor who starred in such cinematic masterworks as Invasion USA, Forced Vengeance, Silent Rage, The Delta Force and many other classic children’s tales, the same “undefeated World Middleweight Karate Champion” believes that on-screen depictions of blood and physicality cause American youths to kill.

Of the movies mentioned above, half have Chuck prominently toting a firearm on the cover of the box, while “Forced Vengeance” features one stick figure kicking another in the face.

All of the above received “R” rating from the Motion Picture Association of America, for their (predictable) violent content and cheese-ball dialog.  This is a man who has an internet meme all to himself, a nearly endless series of jokes based solely on his propensity for delivering karate chop action wherever he goes.

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How can this not be a joke?  I read the article waiting for some kind of punchline, some kind of indication that Mr. Norris was aware of the irony that simply drips of his situation.

And then I realized that he’s serious.  His deadpanned tone is not the backdrop for an elaborate joke.  He’s completely, totally, unrepentantly serious. 

Serious about making serious sounding statements that is.  Not about confronting the contradiction between his lucrative past as an action movie actor and his present political position. 

I suppose that Chuck decided to omit mentioning his practically trademarked history of roundhouse kick violence, because it is completely different from the violence he’s referring to.  It’s that other, more violent, violence that is the secret trigger of school shootings everywhere.  The violence of Chuck Norris is the righteous, God-fearing, flag-hugging, warm and cuddly, kind of violence.  That it still leaves the villains bloodied and beaten, or filled with bullet holes, or exploded in a finale of special effects is a moot point.

However, even that minor disconnect could have been forgiven if Chuck included any kind serious, fact-based inquiry to find out why a student would hunt down his peers.
It’s too bad then, that that would have required some actual investigation, some kind of legitimate research.  What with all his important work teaching young kids to non-violently kick each other around in his “KickStart” program, I guess he can’t be bothered with even the briefest of perusals through recent psychological or sociological studies.  

            Maybe Chuck has had a complete philosophical turn-around.  Maybe he feels

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 guilty about starring in so many of the same kind of movies that apparently compelled Cho Seung-Hui to shoot down dozens of his classmates.  Maybe he has been secretly testing the integrity of the American media by seeing how many of his karate action bonanzas he could slip into its evil hands.

            Because otherwise, Chuck Norris just roundhouse kicked irony in the face, and everyone knows that nothing can survive that kind of blow.