Insomnia

I always promise myself. Next time, I'm not going to just lay in bed waiting to go to sleep, I might as well get up and do something.

Well, this is next time. I'm up, dammit, and I'm pissed about it but it's too late to take a sleeping pill so here I am.

What does insomnia mean to me? Well for one thing it's tied to depression, but it's not as obviously correlated as you might think. It goes like this.

My mind is like a big hungry beast. I picture the Tasmanian Devil, spinning and spinning, taking up all the dust and tumbleweeds and everything in its path, and throwing it back out again in a big messy cloud. The problem comes at night, when I want to shut it all down. It just keeps on spinning, and if it doesn't have anything productive to think about it starts looking for shit.

Like: What an idiot I am. What an idiot I was when I was (12, 15, 24, 32, 38, 42). I'll replay idiot scenarios again and again, sometimes I'll think of what I should have said or done, sometimes just cringe at what I did say or do. If I do that enough nights in a row – Hey, presto! I can depress myself right down!

Or even sometimes I'll just lay there while this thing goes on spinning in my head on completely neutral topics. Who did I like on American Idol? What's the strategy I'd take if I were on Survivor? What would I do if I won the lotto? What do I want to take to Burning Man this year?

I try to distract myself. My best trick is, to start obsessing over something completely boring. That's a hard trick – if it's too boring I move on to something else. If it's too interesting I get too engaged with it. Sometimes I have success with this game: Imagine a series of rooms. For each room, I make up a person, a color, and an activity. Picture the room in the right color, with the person doing the activity. I usually organize this by alphabet. Annie in the aqua room is doing acrostics. Betty in the burgundy room is playing basketball. I have to go back and try to hold all the pictures up to the latest in my mind at once – Betty's basketball has to be moving while Annie fills in the acrostics or it doesn't count. If I can keep it going much past Ellen in the ecru room with her etch-a-sketch, I've got a chance at sleep.

I usually have a theme for the activities – all sports, or games, or something. One time it was all sexually charged activities. That didn't work, I got too involved and made it all the way to Mary in the maroon room masturbating before I had to stop for a wank myself.

Tonight? I dunno. Got off on the wrong foot. Too much TV, I've got a bad cough coming on that keeps me from settling in, something is off. I'm really tired from the gym, I did a really good workout tonight and pushed myself really hard. But I'm just not sleepy. I laid down to sleep and SPROING! Wide awake. Nothing good to worry about. No good stories to tell myself. Just endless brain cycles, spinning spinning spinning.

I'm an idiot.

Terri's Birthday Party

Terri was the girl who carried a rose with her books at high school. Dark curly Italian hair, and the fiery temper that goes along with that. Terri wrote poetry in notebooks covered with florid script. Terri was our class Romantic. Terri was one of my permanent crushes in high school.

I was terrified of girls during those years, stuck somewhere between an old-fashioned gentlemanliness that I'd been brought up in and the raging lusts that held my body hostage. Any girl who didn't treat me with outright disdain was likely to be the subject of at least a short crush, and probably one or more of that night's fantasies. (Ok, who am I kidding? ESPECIALLY the girls who treated me with outright disdain.).

But Terri was different. I had a crush on Terri for years. My fantasies with Terri involved working our way around the country together in a van, having adventures every day like a TV series. At night I'd play my guitar and sing her Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" by the firelight.

I was an idiot.

My romantic approach was simple: Moon about from twenty yards away and hope to be noticed. I guess my persistence paid off with Terri, because we actually managed to become sort-of friends. Well, and we had a lot of classes together. I was close enough to truly torture myself in my elegant longing. Her best friend, Lisa Shallcross, even invited me to a birthday party she was throwing for Terri.

It was actually a dual party, Lisa's older brother Scott and Terri together. It was a pool party. I didn't really know many people there, especially not Scott's loud friends. I was aware of most of them only by name and reputation from school. Our reputations were not at all similar. I could just feel line of division forming between me and them. They were being boisterous and obnoxious and I retreated further and further into my shell. I felt every laugh and shout as though it was directed straight at me. Every laugh said, "You don't belong here, kid. If you don't want to rough-house with the boys you're probably a fag". Terri was completely absorbed with other friends and oblivious to my torture.

The party migrated out to the pool, the big boys were jumping off the porch into the pool and Terri was being mostly impressed. I slunk into the pool and was sitting there, realizing that I just needed to leave. Lisa's dad was in the pool I stood near him for a bit.

Lisa's dad said to me, "You know, in this world, some people are just … soft spoken, and that's just fine."

Lisa's dad is my hero. This story has been in my mind for decades waiting to be told. Here we were, in a place on the border between suburb and hick town, a place where we had a word for cowboy wannabes (we called them "goat-ropers" to piss them off), a place in the mid-seventies, about ten years and 50 miles from a place where Brokeback Mountain could have taken place and this kind man was giving me shelter. He didn't care if I was gay or not (I'm not) but he saw a kid needing a kind word and he gave it.

I spent another few grateful minutes in the respite of his kindness and left the party.

Mr. Shallcross, wherever you may be, you are not an idiot.

Be a man!

Last night I saw possibly the most inspiring hour of television I've ever seen. It's a show called "Only in America" on Discovery Times channel. This journalist, Charlie LeDuff, goes out and explores weird little corners of Americana. He did a session a while ago on Burning Man, and it was decent – about as good as you can expect on national TV. He seemed to "get it".

But last night's episode was just amazing. It's called "Fight Club". Charlie investigates a motorcycle gang/men's club in Oakland called the East Bay Rats. They don't seem to deal drugs or shoot rivals; they don't seem to be a direct threat to society. They just hang out together, look out for each other, throw parties, and fight. They throw semi-regular fight parties where anyone who wants to can climb in the ring with gloves and mouthpiece and duke it out until it's over – until one fighter can't or won't get up and keep going. They show men fighting men, women fighting women. Charlie, decides to challenge the baddest mofo of all for the cameras, and proceeds to learn more about the members, the club, and a little about fighting.

When he interviews the members, many of the guys tell how they didn't fit in with general society until they found this brotherhood. Most of the guys have interesting backgrounds, these are pretty intelligent guys. The most striking thing to me is, each one of them seems to stand in a deep personal integrity and each one of them had absolute confidence in every other member of the club. "These are my brothers and they won't let me down."

One individual in particular stands out. This guy runs a motorcycle shop that seems to serve mostly Rats. He's a big dude, shaved head and beard. He's one tough hombre. If he took your beer in a bar, you'd probably let him keep it. You might even buy him another one, just in case. He tells about how, before he met the Rats, he got stomped by a bunch of other guys and his friends didn't wade in to help. It would have been two-to-one against if they had, and his guys just stood down. Our man took a severe beating, cracked skull, cheeks smashed in. He lived in a shadowy world of post-traumatic stress for a few years. Then he met the Rats. He knows that the Rats would back up a buddy at two-to-one against, ten-to-one against, whatever. Tears came to his eyes telling his story.

And that gets us near the core ethos, the Man Ethos, at the heart of this story. The Man Ethos is about standing your ground regardless. If you're going to take a beating for standing your ground, you take your beating. They say things like "Pain is temporary, pride is forever." There's no shame in getting beat, there's only shame in giving up.

Our man Charlie faces up to this by challenging the baddest guy in the club. To become a full member of the Rats, you have to fight them. Lots of them. At once. This guy, Big Mike Jackson fought nine Rats for half an hour before they were able to beat him down. It's a record. You can't win in these fights, you're not supposed to be able to. You just have to fight until you can't fight anymore. Big Mike weighs 320 pounds. Big Mike wears a tee shirt that says "I like you. I'll kill you last."

Charlie figures, if he fights someone his size, the best he can do is win and just be another guy. If he fights Big Mike, it's almost impossible for him to win, but if he stands his ground he's a Man.

So Charlie talks to other fighters, gets some coaching, works out. He talks to a doctor in the neuroscience department at UCLA medical center about brain damage and what happens when you're knocked out. Finally the day arrives, and he shows up at the Rats' clubhouse in the (pardon the expression) faggiest outfit I think I've ever seen worn by any man outside of the world of figure skating. (Seriously, if somebody came to a party of mine in that Errol Flynn looking shirt with the poofy sleeves, the lace-up front and the frills? And that scarf tied around his neck? I'd kick his ass. It took a whole other type of courage to walk into that club full of hairy-scary nasty-grimys in that outfit.) But the distraction of the clothing ends when he changes into his fight clothes. And then he climbs in the ring with Big Mike.

Maybe Big Mike has been coasting on his rep for awhile. Maybe he doesn't want to hurt this guy on national TV. Maybe he underestimates him. However it happens, skinny Charlie LeDuff actually sticks him pretty good once. But it's not anything close to a contest. Charlie gets knocked down a couple of times, but he keeps getting up and lasts a whole round. In the second round he takes a kidney punch and staggers to his feet but can't go on. He retires with his pride intact. He's a Man.

At the end of the show, I realize: That's what I need in my life. I need some kind of direct challenge, probably a physical challenge that I can stand up to and say, "I'm a man." It sounds so trite, so Robert Bly, but I've never had that rite of passage. I've never felt like a Man. What's worse, I can think of lots of times when I've equivocated, stood down, bided my time to fight (metaphorically) another day. I'm a diplomat. I'm a mediator. I'm a wuss.

So what am I going to do about that? I don't think I can just go jump in a ring somewhere. Our man Charlie had some serious backing and some time to prep and train, and a pretty good base level of conditioning. Besides, I think I need to grow this thing, I think I need to practice at it.

Ok, here's my goal. Out here in front of the gods, the internet, and everybody. The first of May, 2006, I'll join a local boxing program. That gives me 73 days to get my base conditioning in good enough shape to stand respectably in the program. I need to go to the SF area for a week in March – the Rats offer a boxing class Tuesday and Thursday nights. I'll go to one.

I'm an idiot.

I hate my body

Ok, no apologies for the title this time. I've always hated my body. I was always the weenie kid, the last picked for sports, too skinny, too fat, too weak.

Or at least I've always believed that. I remember going to the beach when I in high school, wearing a tee shirt even out body surfing partly because I didn't want to get sunburned but really? I was ashamed of my body. I thought my soft little belly was fat. I knew my scrawny little arms were weak. I didn't want anyone else to know, and it didn't occur to me that the effect of wearing a tee shirt was to announce as loud as I could: "Hey everybody, I'm ashamed of my body!!"

I'm an idiot.

I'd love to have that body back. I could lose those few pounds like nothin'. I could put some muscle on that resilient little frame, I'd be so happy if my body today was like it was then.

And I suppose in 15 years I'll look back on this body now - 30 pounds overweight, still not much upper body strength, and yearn for these days too. That's the beauty of self-hatred, how ever bad it is, you know it's just going to get worse.

I remember a couple of times, being stuck into some kind of remedial PE class. Loser class. Guess what? They don't really try to help you become a winner in loser class. They just make sure you know you're a loser. I have so much more sympathy with people who didn't do well in academics for my experiences in PE. How can you possibly expect anything from people when you stick them into the Loser class?

In fifth grade, though, I managed to harness my leg power and Climb the Rope. All the way up. Touched the top. I knew I was in the fifth grade loser class, but that was ok. I had climbed the rope. It was when I realized that the fifth grade loser class was lower than my neighbor and sort-of pal Jimmy Herringer's fourth grade normal class that I gave up.

In high school one year they made a remedial class for us losers. We went to the weight room every day. I think the teacher really hoped we'd make some progress. Which is not the same as helping us make any progress. We mostly fucked around and made fun of the worst losers. Guess what? The pecking order is even stronger at the bottom than at the top. You think people fight and struggle to be the top dog? You don't even know how ugly it gets when you're fighting to not be the bottom dog.

And over the years, I've tried: martial arts (Korean Tae-Kwon-Do, Brazilian Capoeira, Thai kickboxing), best-seller book exercise programs, "Boot camp" exercise class, and dozens upon dozens of self-generated exercise plans. Spreadsheets to track progress. Exercising with a friend. You name it.

But I've got a new plan. Anger and pain. I'm going to punish this body, I'm going to make it suffer for making me suffer over the years. I'm at war with my body. I went to the gym on Sunday and worked my legs so hard they're still sore today, Wednesday. I love that. Today I busted on my abs, doubled the count on one of the crunches I do and added a medicine ball to another one. I did bench press until I had total failure, I had to humiliate myself and wriggle out from under the bar and wrestle it back on the rack.

I'm gonna hurt tomorrow. I'm going to like it.

I'm an idiot.

I hate my mother

Well, of course I don't hate my mother. And the teenage angst implications of the title are a little annoying, but it seemed in context with the headline of the last post about my daughter, so it stands and to hell with you.

I'm an idiot.

I talked to Mom on the phone this past Thursday, right before Survivor. I knew better than to try to interrupt Survivor. (Who am I kidding? I didn't want to miss it myself. Those people are idiots!)

I tried to get a clear picture from the ongoing drama of Mom's health. She just turned 70. The depression and anxiety seem to be coming along fine with the double whammy of prozac and Seroquel. I read about her meds on line, the fact that Seroquel is called an anti-psychotic really disturbs me. But it's better than the zyprexa that made her gain 30 pounds on an already-overloaded 5 ft frame. Her shoulder pain is just bursitis, she's had that for years, no arthritis joining the party. Her back pain is probably overweight, combined with osteoporosis. Core systems (heart lungs & liver) seem to be just fine thank you very much.

No comment on the memory degradation. I can't tell if she's getting vague from the drugs or starting to seriously lose her memory, but I think it's some of both.

Overall prognosis? Ten or more years of steady degradation of her ability to get around and care for herself while her mind goes away and her heart just keeps on tickin' like a Timex. Probably 20 years.

(Those who know me well know my fondness for the idea of euthanasia. Just fuckin' kill me when I'm done, don't keep the body around. If I'm alert enough to figure out that I've crossed the line I'll do it myself, save you the trouble. )

Where was I? I guess this phone call was where it finally sunk in. Mom's an old lady. And, all she really wants to do is be comfortable and entertained. That's the part I hate.

She's been staying with us during the summer for the past 2 years (we bought her a small place a few blocks from our house). (Yes, it's a trailer, thanks very much for asking. But a very nice trailer. An artist used to live there. Fuck you.)

So every time she's here I keep trying to convince her to get out and explore the world. We live in a very beautiful corner of the Pacific Northwest, some of the most gorgeous scenery you can imagine is a half-day's drive away. There are interesting cities near by, quaint villages, outdoor sports of all types and descriptions. There are hikes and walks and about the highest per capita ratio of parkland in the country. Wildlife galore. Cute little galleries. Art classes.

So the first year I really expected her to take to it, to get out and enjoy this bounty. Go out walking and get healthier, take music lessons, SOMETHING. But when we don't go get her and take her somewhere she mostly just sits, or goes to Wal Mart. She loves cruising the aisles at Wal Mart. My wife did a great job with her that first year, getting her out walking around the lake fairly frequently, overcoming a little pain here and there.

The second year, last year, she was worse. She'd gained a bunch of weight from the drugs, she couldn't walk very far, walking Wal Mart was about the maximum physical challenge she could take. I talked her into going to a doctor to get off the Zyprexa and it was partly a good decision - the weight gain was horrible for her - it was in very large part a bad decision. She went into a downward spiral of unbearable anxiety. Her hands would shake uncontrollably just talking to you. I partly think the drug is a part cause of her problems - her hands never shook like that before she took the drug - but I'm positive you could never prove it.

My main reason, though, was that I saw her getting less and less engaged with the world, more absorbed in a little imaginary world of NASCAR racing, old horror movies, Wal Mart shopping, and the occasional pre-cut craft kit project.

I kept putting ideas and opportunities out for her, but she'd never take any.

And now I accept it. My mom is a passive person. She just wants comfort and entertainment. That's why I hate my mom.

What's so bad about that? What else is it that I want? Challenge, adventure, beauty, self-expression - what are those? Are they just other words for comfort and entertainment?

But the worst of it for me is, there's a big side of me that just wants comfort and entertainment. I dream big dreams of going out and training my body to a hard machine and using that machine to conquer mountains. I dream big dreams of sharpening my mind to a keen edge and using it to go out and write great books or solve the world's puzzles, or build something new and wonderful.

But, all things considered, I think I'd just rather sit and watch Survivor. Shhh, it's starting.

I'm an idiot.

I hate my daughter

I'm about this close to losing my shit entirely. I hate my daughter, the middle girl, the 9 year old. The stubborn little 9 year old.

Now, anyone who knows me in real life knows that I ADORE my daughters, I dote on them with a fierceness and intensity that no non-parent could ever understand. The 9 year old is especially sweet, she's a loving child always on the lookout for a hug. I love hugs.

But right now I want to throttle her, like Homer Simpson strangling Bart. "Why you little...."

We're in the parking lot outside of Walgreen's. I've got a bottle of eardrops and she's decided that she's afraid for me to put them in her ear. The ear that hurt so much this morning that she couldn't bear the thought of spending the day at Disney World (yes, still stuck on Disney stories) without going to the doctor's office. The ear that we've just spent the past three hours patiently waiting, waiting, waiting over. Waiting for the doctor at the clinic to see her. Waiting for the admins at the clinic to get her paperwork and prescription done. Waiting at Walgreen's while the pharmacy clerk tried to attend to us and also the lady whose husband nearly died of a heart attack last night. Apparently he's on oxygen at the hotel, she's trying to get his drugs but the pharmacy clerk can't make out the doctor signatures to fill out the paperwork and the hospital can't help her. So I'm trying to be patient. Not like I got problems, in comparison.

Three hours of being patient, of choking it down, being the designated martyr for the day, waiting, waiting, waiting. Now we've got the payoff, here's the medicine, and she doesn't want to take it. If she doesn't take the medicine, that whole three hours will have been exactly worth: nothing.

But instead of choking her, I choke back my anger and we agree that she'll try again after lunch. We've got three medicines, an antibiotic pill, ear drops, and some liquid tylenol with codeine for kids. We go across the street to McDonalds.

I haven't eaten yet today, I wolf down some lunch and we start again, this time with the pain medicine. She. Won't. Take. It. I cajole and wheedle and bribe. I'll buy her anything on the menu to get it down with. Or a tee shirt when we get to Disney World. I threaten: we'll go back to the rented condo and spend the afternoon doing homework. She's sobbing. She puts the measuring spoon up to her mouth, gets all primed and.... no. She just can't do it. I seriously consider just chugging the bottle of Tylenol with codeine myself and to hell with everybody, I'll just spend the afternoon stoned at McDonalds with my 9 year old until the police come. More sobbing. The sweet fiftyish cuban lady cleaning the floors at McDonalds brings her toys from the kids meal, she's so sorry for this poor thing.

Finally I decide to back off. This is just the pain medication, let's focus on the other two that might help her get better. We go out to the parking lot and I get the drops in her ears, the pill down her throat. We spend the other half the day at Disney/MGM studios (the Rockin' Rollercoaster is the best ride I've ever been on. It's all about acceleration.)

That night my wife mixes the pain medicine with some juice. My daughter decides she likes it and slurps it up. She gets a little high and thinks that it's fun.

I'm an idiot.

random humiliation

I think it's in moments of pain and humiliation that the best stories lie. I don't know if that's true. badnewshughes.blogspot.com is my idol. I'm an idiot.

I don't know if this story is going to work, but I'll try.

So there I am, with my twelve year old daughter in line for Space Mountain. I'm looking around, idly checking out the people for either interesting or horrifying people to look at. My vision is not so great anymore, and it's a little dim there in the loading zone for Space Mountain, so I have to work on the focus a bit. I focus on the woman in line ahead of us, just now getting into the front of the Space Mountain car. My first foggy glance registers probably an attractive young woman. My brain is just starting to process the first, most important question - is she a kid? Like I said, I've got a twelve year old, and I've gotten totally conservative about admiring any woman under about age 30. Anyone closer in age to my oldest daughter than to me is pretty much eyes-right look-away. Well, that's a lie. I wouldn't touch anyone that young, but over 20 is lookable. Well, that's a lie, I don't touch anyone anyhow except totally fraternal sorts of hugs. But 20 is still lookable, in a guilty sort of way.

So all this is roiling around and my brain is just registering: "twenty or so, I think, and pretty" when she gets into the car and her short khaki shorts ride up almost to her crotch, showing a fair bit of thigh. Primal instinct, pavlovian training, whatever, snaps to work and wooohooo, I'm trying to look up her shorts for about a second before more developed parts of my brain regain control. I'm not usually an ogler, it's just the sudden flash has caught the attention of my reactive animal brain. Then I look at her face again and she's seen me peeking.

So here's the question - what was that look on her face? Anger? Humiliation? Shame? Embarassment? All of the above? How would you feel, 20 years old, dressed not-immodestly, and some old geeze at Disneyworld is sneaking a peek up your shorts? The car glides by us, and she looks pointedly away with a blush on her cheeks, I think she's furious.

I'm an idiot.

Sorry about all the Disney stories. I'm an idiot. It just happens that my real life is pretty fuckin' quiet so all that gadding about with the hoi polloi loaded me up with stories of loathing and despair.

I hate EPCOT

I looked around the French exhibit at Disney's EPCOT. Overpriced berets. Overpriced "Minnie Mouse as a French girl" dolls. I went next door to seek respite in a croissant from the fake patisserie. It took ten minutes in line to get a fat doughy overpriced croissant. I looked around at the cheesy faux-fauborg and realized that I hate EPCOT. They've managed to take EXACTLY the worst parts about traveling and bring it all together in one place. The tourist traps stuffed with overpriced tschotchkes, the crowds, the soulless token architecture; it's all here, and for eleven different countries. You can travel the world and it's all just like home, just a bunch of crappy stuff to buy.

I realize that this is as close to travelling as some Americans are going to get. Ever been to France? No, but I saw it at EPCOT. Of course, that's all some actual travellers see in the real France, a few tourist landmarks and some crappy stuff to buy in some tourist trap. But at least there you've got the risk of being insulted by an indignant French man for sullying his beloved Paris with your slack-jawed polyester grabbiness. You've got the risk of buying some cheese that looks completely harmless there on the shelf but takes your head off with its raw moldy intensity.

You've got some risk of life surprising you.

But we're not in France, or Morocco, or China, not even in Canada for gods' sake. We're at EPCOT. There is no risk. There is no life. There's only this purgatory.

I'm an idiot.

Disney and ecology

I got really sick of the ecological pitch that Disney kept throwing at us. "If we all work together, we can save the earth!". Well, first, I figured out a long time ago that we cannot save or destroy the earth. We can save or destroy ourselves, we can make the earth inhospitable for human life, but this ol' rock gonna keep rollin' along for a long ol' time with or without us. Earth don' care.

Second, the consumption of energy, the ruination of wetlands, the consumption of paper goods and plastic and every other renewable and non-renewable resource on the planet is probably tripled for every moment you spend at Disney.

And it's not just the parks. For miles around the parks, there are the ugliest of strip malls with huge facades carved into faces and animals selling cheap disney knock off crap. Mile after mile of hotels and condos on what used to be wetlands. Gallon after gallon of water sucked up out of the water table to water lawns and fill pools. There was a huge mini-golf place with a water feature, we'd drive by and see gallon after gallon of toilet-blue water washing down over the sides.

Yet Disney continues to send the message "if we work together we can all take care of the planet." Pocahontas does a little stage show (when she throws those colored "leaves" in the "Dance with all the colors of the wind" song, are they biodegradable? Or just some more plastic to last forever in the landfill?). There's a Lion King show where Simba teaches Timon and Puumba about the unanticipated consequences of building condos all over and blocking up the stream.

My favorite was the Kali River Rapids in Animal Kingdom. They show one part where the rain forest has been destroyed by the greedy developers, there's a faux burned out rainforest section. So let me get this straight. They had to fill how much wetlands, and truck in how many tons of plastic and cement to simulate the destruction of the environment somewhere else?

I just wanted to scream, "SO SHUT THIS MOTHERFUCKER DOWN!!" There must be a special hell for people genuinely concerned about the environment who work at Disney.

I guess that became a theme of my trip. Spotting the existential hells that people were walking through in the park. Everything from the special minimum wage hell where you MUST SMILE AT ALL TIMES to the "characters", poor kids dressed up in disney costumes signing autograph books as Cinderella 300 times a day, to the guests, the visitors, accepting this dumbed down pseudo reality as the most magical place on earth.

I'm an idiot.

I'm an idiot!

Just finished a week's vacation with my family at the Happiest Place on Earth(tm). Don't get me wrong, I had a great time, but there was a constant undercurrent. You see people at their worst at Disney World, it's a place scientifically designed to bring out the greed, the desire to be passively entertained. It turns people into human ticks, living on the blood of this country, this economy, this world. And of course, every vile thing that I saw in the faces of the slack-jawed, the mouth-breathers, the idiots, I knew was reflected back at them from my own face. My kindergarten teacher said, "whenever you point a finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at yourself."

And she was right. I'm an idiot. We're all idiots.

So repeat after me, you there. Yes, you, in the electric wheelchair because you're too fat to walk. "I'm too fat to walk. I'm an idiot!".

And you, teen-aged girl with the short-shorts stretched across your fat ass, enough camel toe to carry your lunch and a can of soda, "I'm an idiot".

And you, with the clever saying on your tee shirt. "I'm unique, just like everybody." It's not that fucking clever, trust me. What it really says? "I'm an idiot".

This guy here, with the video camera stuck on his belt and 40 pounds of gear in each cargo pocket so he can hardly walk. Oooops, that's me. "I'm an idiot!"

You, college kid, holding up your digital camera to take pictures of the Cinderallabration, where all the Disney Princesses (tm) come out and dance? You're blocking the view of people behind you. It's a show for little girls. Why are you trying to record this at all? Idiot!

You, lady, taking video of the shuttle boat back to the parking lots. You'll never ever watch that video again. It's pretty boring just being here real time, you want to capture it and relive it? Why? Because you're an idiot! Say it now, "I'm an idiot!"

And you, Cletus-talking fat-assed white trash, pushing your way onto the bench that I'm on, CROWDING MY PERSONAL SPACE, you're an idiot, if I had a weapon you'd be a dead idiot.

I don't know why terrorists haven't struck Disney. If you can get explosives into the country it would be easy to get them into Disney World. Think what a splash you'd make, destroying It's a Small World. A few pounds of C4 oughta do it.

Then on the plane, the guy giving me stink eye because my six year old daughter was briefly disturbing him, playing with her dolls on the tray table and rattling his chair. Do you know how close you came to getting your hair trimmed later while you slept? I was so tempted. But, I'm an idiot.

So stand up, say it loud and proud. I'm an idiot. You're an idiot. We're all idiots.