Lets just get that straight outta the gate. Life is too short for winter and I feel angry and desperate by being trapped in steel-toed boots seven months out of the year. Long pants- if manufactured out of light canvass- make some sense in hot weather because mosquitoes and ticks will drink your goddamned blood like mall-brats quaffing Diet Pepsi. That’s what they do. They drink your motherfuc’n blood, OK? This is their tick-ass job.
No debate here.
(Shorts , also,are stupid. Especially for the tragically hip Caucasian with translucent white legs who favor plaid. Different tirade- later for that..)
Hot ass clunky boots- for no prophylactically protective reason -are hellish bunions and stink-sweaty vinegar gaseous toe bloat trauma waiting to happen.
They’re great for busting bricks and bending nails at the jobsite or a Metallica moshpit- but if you step in a pile of Great Dane hooey on your front lawn in August and try to enter yer momma’s house, and track that delicacy across HER carpet- yer fuc’n done.
Toast is served, boots guy.
I wear sandals.
Nope. No fuc’n way- my hardcore East Coast dignity would never allow THAT putrid gas-hole- travesty of a fashion bomb to go off.
I have seen this rancid sandal-based Golden State cultural upchuck with my own eyes.
Yes- I have personally witnessed those Marin county Californicators wear that type of sandal.
..with something approaching a disaffected accismus of self-empowering pride.
If Jerry Garcia were still alive he simply wouldn’t countenance this Left Coast affected twee-ass blasphemy.
It should be mentioned that if faced with this fashion tragedy his band name would be tenfold more appropriate.
I’m the first to show active disgust when confronted with that special hippie-dippie west coast sox n’sandals nonsense- no! no! I mean I wear black functional heavy soled kick-ass krav maga loving Hebrew Tevas sandals that would make John the Baptist drool, throw down his staff, knee an un-baptized heathen, jump out of the Jordan River and head to the nearest Hudson Trail outfitters for a pair of his own.
Not only are my black nasty Tevas built to withstand the vicious rocky Sinai desert trails, full of Jerusalem stone, two-headed vipers, dirt devils and biblical variety poisonous rat-sized scorpions- but they are tough enough to wear while walking through( or on) water.
Their straps unbreakable truck-straps and the soles are as thick as yer Uncle Fob’s R.V. tires and yer Auntie Em’s army boots.
I Bullshit you Not.
I try to change my own oil.
It keeps me busy, saves a couple bucks and makes me look like some kind of mechanical genius to my Bethesda-raised Jewish wife. I can’t say I’m really fast at it- there’s a certain amount of showmanship involved in protracted controlled simplistic mayhem- and the harder it seems, and the more colorful a man’s cursing, the longer his oil-changing- screen-mending- garbage wrangling sacrificial man shit -the more of a world-weary and loyal hero you appear to be.
Yeah right, cowboy- I wasn’t married yesterday.
(Whatever works, right guys?)
~Editor’s note: That wouldn’t be the first recorded instance of the mesmerism of an ‘old testament girl’ by fire and wholly smoke.
One of the reasons I bought my house is that the Car Parts store is walking distance. I consider this a prudent move.
There are a few things you want to be walking distance from -just in case the power grid goes down or your transmission takes a dump or the terrorists strike.
A few of these establishments-besides the car parts store- are gas station(obvious), grocery store(obvious), bank(obvious), gun and bullet store(x-tremely obvious) and a 7-11, (for those small snacks, power drinks and coffee necessary before joining your neighborhood vigilante militia).
Shooting looters, non-Christian zombies and false prophets requires stamina.
Luckily there is also a* Kare ~Bear* dance studio next to the gun shop.
Life doesn’t have to be all stress, stress, stress.
I’ve seen some pretty hefty beef-eaters out there who couldn’t get into a combat stance without popping their pants and zinging their Levi buttons like deadly projectiles- a little ballet might actually improve their dexterity.
There is something to be said for being light on your feet when chaos reigns, zombies rove and the Rapture comes to collect the really annoying neighbors down your street.
Good Riddance. Exactly.
Knee-capping Wrangler button trick shooting could become an Olympic sport in this country.
There should be a Reality T.V. series devoted to it.
The old guy had a cane, forty-odd extra pounds, little hair or left-over visual beauty- but he did carry the definite vibe of an ex-combat Marine from ‘outside-the-beltway’ farm country.
I was in a hurry but I stopped to politely hold the door for him, even though I saw the Parts counter was busy. My oil-changing mission would be delayed by letting the old geezer butt in front of me.
My politeness and deference became inordinately taxed when,as the old guy slowly limped and wheezed toward the door, he greeted me with the remark that:
“ ‘Am ol’ thangs don’t look right on a man, “
” Yer feet ever get wet when ya piss?”
“ Yer welcome, partner- I’d like to think my aim is better than that.”
I had my instant insulted chimpanzee( I’d- like- to- slap- you-HARD!) smile spread wide on my face.
“ Never could stand ‘am thangs myself, make a normal feller look a little light in the pants.”
‘Ok,’ I thought, ‘Maybe he thinks I’m a raw recruit and this is Camp LeJeune.'
Mr. Old Phuck General Geriatric Hard-Ass (Ret.) has advanced Tourette’s syndrome brought on by sustained generational disdain.
I understand this syndrome. I guess I can keep my mouth shut and allow his gas to pass.
That’ll be me in a few years.
He chuckled at his own joke and pushed past me like an un-oiled rusty John Deere combine tractor chugging on two cylinders.
He had the wafting old guy smell. A mixture of Preparation H, joint crème, unlaundered pants, ten day old Folgers coffee and sour apple pie- he was one of those speak-yer-damn-mind old geezers.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
I was psychologically conflicted.
The old geriatric peckerweed was greeted with happiness and familiarity. The Parts Guys at the counter all knew his name. It began with ‘MISTER’.
He was a regular.
The Parts Guys and Mister Hardass (USMC ret.) began jostling good natured insults back and forth as I moved into position next to him at the counter and waited my turn.
After the wizened creaker took ten minutes to unwrap an antique part from a first-issue turn –of-the-century (19th) lawnmower and bitch out the Auto Parts Guy because he didn’t carry spare parts for this (*or his other chariot-)he took time to take a breath and look me over.
“..‘ave youz ever seen sich a thing? Look at ‘am shoes! I go down to Flerdah every winter, got some French neighbors wear them things around all day long..”
General Geezer-Jigger looks back to his buddy, The Parts Guy and zings his punchline;
..”but hell, they’z French-whadda ya expect?”
The entire store of grease-worshippers, Parts Guys, undocumented Toyota owners and one large woman ,with a name-tag that read SAL, holding a re-manufactured piston, laugh in my face and look at my footwear.
Like this was some kind of insect petting zoo and *POOF* I’m the roach.
They are deriding my manly Teva sandals in public. The whole fuc’n store.
And Geezer –Twat (USMC ret.) has equated me with some dastardly French snowbirdy touristas from Montreal.
There are times Alzheimer’s is just no excuse for sequacious verbigeration.
Ditto for public displays of wandering redneckism.
Age be damned. His shark oil greased ass would be mine.
This pinguid rack-of-dust just called me a French queer in front of a bunch of mechanics at the car parts store.
This is like pissing on a monk’s feet in church.
Still -I repress my need to strangle all humanity, starting with General Hard-Ass-Ass (Ret) and smile genially, and say in my most even tone:
“ If they are good enough for the Son Of God, they should be good enough me to wear while I change my oil.”
“ What you say there?” Old bag scowls, “ ain’t no call to be sacrilegious, son.”
He glowers at me, slacking his jaw and opening his mouth wide enough to drive Sarah Palin’s tour-bus through.
“ You appear to be a devout follower of Jesus Christ, sir..and Jesus wore sandals.”
“ You ain’t him.”
“ If I were Jesus and in this parts store my guess is one of three things would happen.”
“ Such as?”
“ Well, the way I figure it- either y’all wouldn’t recognize me, or when you did I’d immediately be offered a job..in which case I'd lay hands on the collective Toyota there would be damn little need for this parts store.”
“ What’s the third thing?” piped in Parts Guy. I had his attention.
“ Stick his righteous sandaled Jewish toe up anyone’s asshole that insulted an innocent consumer in public by calling him a French tourist.”
I glare at General Geezerpenis(Ret.) and lean on the Parts counter like an experienced oil-changer wearing psychological steel-toed boots.
“ Now look here, son..I fought for this country in KO-rea, I have a right to say what I think.”
“ You ever heard of Joshua? The mega-kick-as Jew in sandals who beat the shit out of entire armies, charred their heathen bones and danced around the pyre howling like a wolf with a boner? I bet you might coulda used HIM in KO-rea. Or how about ol’ King David, the mega kick-ass pussy hound who wrote poetry with one hand and decapitated his enemies with the other? Was he wearing construction boots? I’ll bet no one in here would laugh at them fellers chosen footwear, would they now?”
“ No cause to get riled up and call Our Lord Jesus Christ a Jew.”
“ You shouldn’t say boner.” Added Sal. “ They never said boner in the bible.”
“ Not only was he a Jew, he was a sandal-wearing peace and love hippie. He ate figs and hummus. He ate lamb with a parsley garnish, drank wine and herb tea…babes flocked around him, dudes wanted to be him; in fact the entire Sermon on the Mount was like a mixture of a Hebrew Rave and Poetry Slam- minus the sub-woofers, of course..talk about free ecstasy! AND he woulda hated Wall Street..you betcha.”
“ Ah think yer talkin’ out yer blaspheming ass, son..”
“ That’s a matter of perspective, General Sandal-Hater.”
“ Ahem…fellers..fellers;” interjects head Parts guy,” ..let’s stick to car parts. No need to get in a pickle.”
“ Or say boner;” adds Sal.
Sal has a very sour look upon her face.
“ Ok now- Mr. Sandals..what can I do you for?”
Head Parts guy is being sequacious. And condescending. And making a stupid redneck sales-quip I’ve heard too many times before.
He is also looking at my footwear and mentally pissing down my leg.
“ Tell y’all what..lemmee have six quarts of 5-30 S.A.E. and 2 quarts of that S.T.P. smoke treatment…I gotta Burning Bush out back I need to deal with.”
“ Yer Hell-bound, son-I’m damn sure;” (Ret.) General Gawd-Dong righteously wheezes.
“ My guess is yer a lot closer to meeting yer maker than I am. Maybe you can put in a good word for me?”
“ Thur ain’t no reasoning with you sandal-types-izzair?”
I ruminate carefully my response and opt for :
“ Soaking figs don’t stay wet long under the harsh biblical sun of an open air market.”
The deer-people in the car parts store stand, eyes wide in perplexed confusion, their assembled thought processes annexed by my random psychedelic wisdom.
Right. I’m wearing sandals.
You twats wanna dance?
Let’s do this thing.