So, getting home today was fun. I took the number 5 bus from the central MTA station and, near Hume Fogg, the bus was involved in an accident with an Izuzu Rodeo. I don’t know who was responsible, since I was reading a book by Carl Sagan, but I do know from experience that the bus driver isn’t the best. At several points over the last couple of weeks, he’s almost been in wrecks, and I knew it was just a matter of time.
What I do know, however, is that the people who were on the bus alongside me had some serious issues centered around dealing with the compulsion to shout out stupid shit. To whit, I provide the following quotes. Context appears where necessary, but, by and large, the quotes are unedited.
- “I got you son, I got eyes like a bald eagle, watchin what happen. In slow motion, man.”
- Another one of the West End corridor buses passes by: “Yo, shit that’s the bus I need! What the hell bus am I on? 5? What’s that shit, I need to be on the 3! Yo, driver, why you make me get on the 5, yo?”
- The woman in front of me, who had developed her own musk to the point of ripeness, and had a purse bulging with Whitney Houston memorabilia, was on the phone: “Yeah, dumb bitch was on the phone. Stupid to be on the phone when you drivin. Everyone knows that. Idiots always on the phone.”
- The same woman: “You can’t drive anywhere. Everywhere’s an accident. Maybe one or three of em. What you watchin? Tyler Perry? That’s good, funny shit. Good for you. You need to laugh.”
- A man with a prodigious, blonde mullet: “Man lookit her. Drivin an Izuzu Rodeo. Idiot.”
- After six times telling his version of what happened in the wreck, a man’s version was countered by a woman’s. “Bitch, I got good-ass eyesight I know what I’m talkin about, you wrong. It was HER fault.” Good-ass.
- “Supervisor. Yo. Listen. Lady had her phone–hey, yo–dog, listen–no I saw what happened.” “She only had her phone on after the wreck! Didn’t you see that?” “Oh, she had her phone on after? Shit.”
- “Homebody! Supervisor, yo, I know what–no I didn’t see it.”
- “Bitch probably got some nigga insurance.”
- “YO! BITCH! WHEN WE GETTIN ANOTHER BUS? I GOTTA GET TO MY DESTINATION!”
And that, my friends, is why we need to fund education in the U.S. So idiocy, which knows no racial, religious, or ethnic bounds, may be expunged from the nation.
The following is a transcript of Aaron Simon’s appearance as the new sole writer of Spider-Man at Comic-Con, San Diego, where he was the featured speaker on a panel of Marvel writers. It is notable since he was fired shortly thereafter.
MC: So join me in welcoming the new writer of Spider-Man, Aaron Simon.
[Applause. Simon walks in from stage left. He wears what could be described as hobo clothes, has about three weeks’ facial hair growth, and it does not look like he has bathed in a while. He carries a bottle of whiskey in his right hand. As he approaches the table, a stage hand runs out of the wings and grabs the bottle. Words are exchanged, though it is unclear what was said, and, after a couple minutes of grunting and struggling, Simon lets the whiskey go. He sits at the table in front of him and positions the microphone in front of his face.]
AS: Hi. So. Uh. [He shields his eyes from the glare of the auditorium lights.] Fuck, those are bright. Can we get that shit turned down?
MC: Can we? [MC holds his hand to his ear.] No we can’t. Okay, Mr. Simon, how about you introduce yourself to everyone here. You’re kind of a newcomer to the comics industry, aren’t you?
AS: Fuck yeah. I don’t read this garbage.
From: Darlene-Lynn Brown
Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 9:46 AM
Subject: Missed a phone call???!!(!)
I got a voice mail from a female asking me to return the telephone call to 573-1729. The only other thing I could understand on this message was “this is very important to me, have a blessed day.” When I attempted to return the telephone call, I explained to her that she had left a message, but I couldn’t understand the rest of the voice mail and I was returning her telephone call. She told me that if I didn’t know who I was calling, I had the wrong number. The person I spoke with was clearly the same person that left the voice mail. I have no recollection of anyone with this number and think I may have gotten the voicemail by mistake. Have any of you all attempted to make contact with someone at this number? I sure don’t want her to fall through the cracks!
From: Aaron Simon
Sent: Monday, 13 February 2012 9:52 AM
To: Darlene-Lynn Brown
Subject: RE: Missed a phone call???!!(!)
I’m so, super psyched that you felt the need to tell us that you received a phone call. Here I was, wondering whether or not Darlene keeps her work phone hooked up throughout the day, and then, verily, the Lord blesses me with an answer in the form of a missed call. Truly, we live in Holy times.
Often, I receive odd calls. Sometimes, they are in Spanish, as it turns out that the previous owner of my cell phone number was an immigration lawyer. Now, the only foreign language I can speak is French, and—even then—I sound like a mentally deficient five year old. (Or, alternatively, you. I’m joking. Or am I?) So, naturally, being as compelled as I am to get in contact with these people, I will return their phone call, but only to shout, “JE NE PARLE PAS ESPAGNOL! JE NE PARLE PAS ESPAGNOL!” The people then start shouting in Spanish, and I have to continue shouting in French until either my throat starts bleeding or they hang up. Generally, after that, they don’t call again. May I suggest trying that?
I have a very important question for you, and I want you to devote all of your mental faculties to answering it: In your wall of text, you mention that a female called you. My question is this:
A female of what species?
Darlene, I know you are Southern, and thus believe science is some Satan-led plot to destroy Christianity, but you must realize that a female of any species other than homo sapiens using the telephone would be earth shattering. The way we view life would change monumentally and it would be you in the spot-light.
Maybe you could afford some language classes so you wouldn’t tack on an extra eight syllables to every word. You know. Food for thought.
Anyway, please let me know. Unlike you, I have many friends in the hard sciences would would be absolutely pumped to hear about this sort of stuff.
While I’m working on another book, there’s been a distinct lack of posts on the site. You have my sincerest apologies. In an attempt to make it up to you, I’ve gotten in contact with a certain street urchin who’s posted on this site before. He agreed to “write” a guest post for you in honor of Charles Dickens’s birthday.
The only edits I’ve made have been spelling when it hasn’t taken away the charm of Tim’s distinct writing style. Clarity and cohesion be damned.
Hullo there, friends! It’s me, Tim Timiny Cheerio Idiot again and let me tell you, it has been a long while since I was last able to put me thoughts down on paper. It is like that mostly because I had a job at a steel mill! That was fun! There was all sorts of men who looked at me all weird-like and said, “Boy, yer accent is fuckin fake, don’t fuck with us.” But my accent isn’t fake because I’m from London Town and this is how we all talk at least from the time when I was born. I can’t die, you know. It’s because a Gypsy woman put a curse on me when I was ten and stole a pocket watch from her because it was shining in the light and my boss the man who takes things said, “Timothy, you go steal that watch or I’ll beat the piss outta ya” and so I did. But the Gypsy woman caughted me and said, “No,” and then put a curse on me that made me never age or die.
So you’ve found yourself in a den of racism—oh, no!
What was until this point a gathering of like-minded individuals in a social setting, filled with hope, promise, and joy, has suddenly turned into the Nuremberg Rally. And you happen to be the sole minority in a crowd of goose-stepping fascists.
But don’t worry, there are ways out of this predicament. First, though, you have to figure out what kind of racists these people are. Let’s take a look, using the scientific Simon Strata of Shitheads, Racist Edition.
- Overt Racists – These are the fellows who have barbed wire tattoos on their biceps, wear shirts that feature either Confederate flags or swastikas, and have no qualms about telling you what they think the NBA stands for.
- Casual Racists – The name tells you everything you need to know. This is a group found quite often in the South for various reasons, each as stupid as the last. While overt racists mean to really take down other groups by any means necessary, casual racists just don’t really know what they sound like to anyone that’s outside of their own social strata. While overt racists are to be hated or feared, casual racists are to be pitied.
- Casual, Stupid Racists – These are people whose brains are little more than silly putty. Like silly putty, if they view mainstream media, they will repeat—ad nauseum—everything they see that draws laughs, even if they don’t understand the context which makes it funny. Especially when they don’t understand it. You’ll be able to spot this person by hearing incessant quotes from Family Guy, South Park, and regurgitated, horrible memes from the /b/ board of 4Chan. The CSR is harmless because they lack a working mind, but that shouldn’t stop you from mocking them and/or throwing a punch as the case may be.
So, now that you’ve identified which group you’re dealing with, you need to get out of this. In my never-ending mission to assist my fellow man, I’m going to provide some suggestions. But, above all, good luck. You’re gonna need it.