Charles Barkley for Governor, 2010

Seriously considering printing this up as a sticker. Want one?

Dateline: Highway 280. The Road to Nowhere.

Take one major metropolitan area; mix in a dozen outlying suburban communities; fold in eight miles of single main thoroughfare connecting them all; throw in 47 traffic lights and a dash of road rage; add a pinch of gunfire. Bring it all to a slow boil and viola! Highway 280. Serves 680,000.

For me, the best thing about Highway 280 is that I’m one of the 17 people in Alabama who don’t have to drive it on a daily basis. The worst thing about it is that I had to today.

It doesn’t take long to figure out one of the most important intricacies that makes successfully navigating 280 possible: It’s pretty much martial law out there. Traffic laws aren’t so much “laws.” I wouldn’t even categorize them as “guidelines.” They’re more like “suggestions.”

For instance, changing lanes is done on a whim. If the mood hits, you don’t have to bother with pesky turn signals or inconvenient head turning. Just go. And being able to take two or even three lanes at a time is a God-given right, which no mortal man nor Buick Skylark can deny.

Intersections are great places for chatting it up on the celly while waiting out a red light. Ignoring irate honking cross-traffic makes it go away.

Fortunately, the constant state of gridlock makes high-speed crashes all but an impossibility. However, the constant state of elevated blood pressure, coupled with our state's permissive gun laws, makes homicidal rampages a statistical probability.

With so much stop-and-go, aside from properly functioning brakes, you need to make sure your horn is in top working order before running the 280 gauntlet. The horn is an effective way of saying, “Go!!", “Stop!!”, “Who the hell do you think you are?”, "Hey, you almost died!", and "I have a horn!”

Even though there is a constant crush of humanity clogging 280 at any given time, there are actually only a few types of drivers that make up the entire teeming mass.

The Professional Commuter.
As if his job and home life didn’t suck badly enough, he’s got to traverse 280 to get to them both. Recognizable by the distant, vacuous eyes. Not truly a zombie in the traditional sense, but as close to the living dead as you’ll find anywhere. He’s made this trek so often he could drive the entire length of the highway with his eyes closed. And judging by the random, non-sensical maneuvers he makes, it seems he oftentimes does.

The Shopper.
One of life’s great mysteries. Why anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to the ravages of 280 is beyond the understanding of today’s scientific community. There’s no quality Target savings or unmatched Best Buy selection on the planet that should be able to drag a not-insane individual out into that abyss. Yet untold numbers of people willingly plunge headlong into it every day. In truth, this person is the biggest problem on the road. She’s got nowhere in particular to be, and all day to be there.

The Soccer Mom.
The kids want McDonalds? The girls want to meet for coffee? The Suburban needs another $120 worth of premium unleaded? She makes it all happen on 280.

The Commercial Trucker.
This poor schmuck has no choice. He’s just trying to put food on the table for his family back home. And punching that meal ticket involves a trip either to, or through, Birmingham. Which means a healthy dose of 280 funtime. Negotiating the crawling snarl in a 2-door sedan is one thing. Piloting an 18-wheeler under the same circumstances deserves some kind of award. Except that everybody else on 280 hates The Commercial Trucker. He’s too slow to get going, loses power on the hills and generally scares the bejeezus out of everybody else by simply looming in the vicinity. Things are claustrophobic enough out there without this guy blocking out the sun to boot.

The Ambulance Driver.
Make no mistake, there’s a wreck out there somewhere. Because there’s always a wreck out there somewhere. Let’s just hope nobody bleeds to death while Soccer Mom plans her next trip to the Wine Country from the convenience of the intersection.

Yearbook Memories: Hide in Plain Sight

RICKY LEE BARRETT
Scorpio

Achievements: Semi-finalist in District II Shop Class Skills Competition (Speed Lathe and Metal Boring Relay); Mr. September, Flag Corps Fundraising Calendar; Tied 3rd Place, 12th Grade P.E. Dead Lift.

Clubs: GQ Junior Achievers; 4x4 er’s of America; Class Ring Committee.

Activities: J.V. Football; Hall Monitor; IPS Lab Assistant.

Quote: “Seniors rule! F@#* yeah! Seniors rule!!”

Voted Most Likely To Be Clubbed To Death By A Cop.



TRACI LYN COPELAND
Pre-Certified Cosmetologist at Lake Torino Community College

Favorite Music: Nick Lachey; Pink; No Doubt.

Favorite Movies: Scary Movie 4; Failure to Launch; The Wedding Planner.

Fondest Memory: The Homecoming party at Rhonda’s house (when Trent showed up with Brianna!! ;) lol!!)

Quote: “I’m gonna miss you guys so much! Seriously! Come see me at Payless this summer!”

The World Needs Heroes

And, eventually, therapy



Faster than a speeding four-wheeler!
More powerful than a double spritz of Axe body spray!
Able to leap Daddy’s empty tallboys in a single bound!
Look! Up on the sectional sofa! It’s a girl! It’s a…wait…is it a girl? No! It’s Maxi Boy!

Yes, Maxi Boy, strange step-cousin from somewhere out in the county who came to town sporting hair with powers far beyond those of mortal children.

Maxi Boy! Who can change the course of water running in the gutters using only some pine cones, a few rocks and maybe an old rusty license plate; bend his sister’s naked, headless Barbie with his bare hands; and who, disguised as Dylan Dakoda Rhetterson, cutesy mild-mannered child spokesperson for the Uncle Diddy’s Pontiac GMC franchise, fights a never-ending battle for Spaghettios, Monster Truck Rallies and poking small dead animals with a stick!

And now another exciting episode in The Adventures of Maxi Boy! Tonight’s episode: Are You My MotherSister?

Café Olé!

You might think that a coffee shop would need to have hours of operation conducive to selling coffee. Like, say, some time in the morning. Well, sappy, you’d be wrong.

One particular coffee shop chain that resides in the mall next to my place of business refuses to be burdened with the trappings of such minor things as customer convenience or common sensibility.

Most coffee shops open at the crack of dawn and are geared toward helping people start their days with a friendly little eye-opener. Apparently, the one in my neighborhood decided to buck the system. To be the rebel. To stick it to the man. In this case, the man being me.

I suppose their business plan never addressed the fact that someone might want a cup of joe prior to 9:00 a.m. Or perhaps that far-fetched possibility just lost out to the more attractive idea of being able to sleep in. After all, if you’re looking to hire half-stoned slackers with zero ambition to grudgingly dole out your product, requiring a 4:30 a.m. wake-up call isn’t necessarily in your best corporate interest.

But then again, neither is supplying coffee as a breakfast-time beverage, it would seem.

Yearbook Memories: Little Johnny Chen

Johnny: I’m looking for something different.
Barber: Does your shirt not already accomplish that goal?
Johnny: Hey, don’t underestimate how quickly the “Gay Aztec” look is likely to catch on.
Barber: Have you considered adding any accessories?
Johnny: Well, along with this gold stud earring, I’ve also got a peace symbol, a Diamondelle stud, a yin-yang symbol, and…
Barber: …and a gold cross?
Johnny: Yeah, how’d you know?
Barber: Call it a wild guess.
Johnny: Anyway, I thought having different earrings might get me noticed.
Barber: Well?
Johnny: It just got me ass beatings.
Barber: Yeah, some guys are threatened by that kind of stuff.
Johnny: It was mostly girls.
Barber: Oh.
Johnny: Do you think the moustache makes me look distinguished?
Barber: What moustache?
Johnny: Right here…I think it’s starting to come in nicely.
Barber: Hmmm…I thought maybe that was just residue from your BuffBoy, Jr. Chocolate Protein Shake.
Johnny: Chocolate makes my face break out.
Barber: Why am I not surprised?
Johnny: Anyway, I was thinking about doing something cool with my hair.
Barber: (…please don’t say Mohawk…please don’t say Mohawk…please don’t say Mohawk…)
Johnny: My friend Chewy got a Mohawk.
Barber: (DAMN!)
Johnny: I wish I’d thought of that first.
Barber: Uh…yeah, too bad.
Johnny: So I was wondering…how much midnight-jet-black dye do you have?
Barber: You sure black’s not too Goth?
Johnny: Nah, it’ll bring out the mini uni-brow thing I got going on.
Barber: Good point.
Johnny: I want something that will make me seem taller than 4’8”.
Barber: Have you considered making shorter friends?
Johnny: Maybe something vertical. Like, potential danger of impalement vertical.
Barber: Sure. The threat of imminent blinding to those around you might actually be a plus.
Johnny: And shave the sides. Really tight.
Barber: How about something akin to a Beagle’s scrotum?
Johnny: But leave it long in the back. The chicks dig the flowing locks.
Barber: All the better to yank you to the ground in a terrified hysteria.
Johnny: Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Barber: A one-way ticket to the Pepper Spray Club.
Johnny: Perfect! Just like that.
Barber: Oh man. I need to grab my camera so I can truly capture the magic of this moment.
Johnny: Wait, are my eyes crossed?
Barber: No more than usual. Now, say cheese.
Johnny: Chiz.

This photo deserves so much love, but where to start? Hell, I couldn't even decide on a caption to run with it. I guess I'll just throw several out there and let you guys decide which is your own personal favorite.

1. My doctor said I need to cut back on my dork intake.

2. Alright! I LOVE barboo shoot!

3. Might I suggest the Braised Dork? At only 26 crippled stick men, it's quite a bargain.

4. The lady will have the Braised Dork with barboo shoot, and I'll try the Dingleberry Salad with douchebag dressing.

5. Is that boneless dork?

6. Can I subsitute French Flies instead of barboo shoot?

7. We use only free-range dork.

8. Our dork is dolphin safe. But we do manage to take out more than our fair share of dweebs, wanks and dillweeds during the harvest.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

And two of them start with "F" and "U"


Ah, take a look at that little angel. What do you see? The easy answer would be something along the lines of, "I see a sassy punk in need of a beat-down." Okay, fair enough.

But is that the whole story? After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And far too many people are far too quick to judge these days. All too eager to draw snap conclusions and make their own opinions heard first, eschewing minor details such as "facts" and "context." All you gotta do is turn on Fox News, MSNBC or any other glorified talk show masquerading as "news" and you'll see no less than a dozen screaming "experts" clambering to prove my point.

It's a simple enough image, the one above, albeit one you don't see every day. Well, unless you're kicking it in the infield at Talladega or glued to the ubiquitous 48-hour "Best of COPS" marathon.

Even though you might look at it and immediately think you have the entire back-story worked out, just how do others see this otherwise banal photo?

The Pessimist
Her parents have failed her. Her parents have failed themselves. Her parents have failed us all. They no doubt engage in this type of behavior at home...likely even teaching it to the youngsters. That is, if they can work it in between lessons on when to drop an "F" bomb and the proper way to tell a teacher to "stick it."

The Defeatist
Why bother? You correct one form of undesirable behavior and it's replaced with another. Cut out the obscene gestures and they're just replaced with offensive t-shirts like "Vote for Pedro."

The Atheist
See? She's proving my point.

The Nihilist
It doesn't matter what she does. There is no right or wrong. There is no true morality. The little girl simply is. The little girl simply does. Just like Geraldo Rivera.

The Existentialist
This individual is expressing herself. That is all that matters. It's neither offensive nor acceptable. Those are merely labels. Her action is an expression of being, and her being is an expression in itself. Now pass the bong and get me some Doritos.

The Realist
Kids are growing up too fast in today's society. They learn too much too quickly. And we, as adults, are more lenient than we should be. But times have changed. You have to pick your battles, and the issues facing our youth are far more serious than whether or not some 5 year-old has finally reached the breaking point with Uncle Ricky's incessant picture-taking.

The Optimist
The little girl is simply misunderstood. All she's doing is showing off the plastic eyeball ring spat forth from the quarter gumball machine this morning. It just so happens to fit her middle finger more snugly than any of the others, making her innocently egotistical flashing of the bling seem wildly inappropriate.

Her Father
You want to date my daughter some day? Take it up with her. Just don't come crying to me.

If the Soda Fits...

"So, do you have anything in a 7up or Sprite? Anything green, really...a Ginger Ale or Mountain Dew would be fine, but no Frescas. That's so last season. I'm about a 2-liter, but if they run big I might be able to squeeze into a 33 ounce."

Dateline: The Surface of the Sun

It's hot. But unlike Eugene Morris Jerome's observation in Biloxi Blues, it's not "Africa hot." It's flat-out reaching blast furnace levels. And it's only July 2. I'm thinking that by mid-August, kittens and senior citizens might just be bursting into flames while standing in the front yard or even sitting too close to a window in the living room.

And this isn't some gobbledy-gook global warming scenario. Subscribing to that particular school of thought, the earth is gradually getting warmer. A few degrees on average over the span of decades. No sir. Not in my neighborhood. There's nothing incremental about any of it. Somebody left the freaking oven door open and went on vacation.

Cook an egg on the sidewalk? Ha! I could broast a buffalo in the shade of my oak tree. A 20-pound bag of ice inside a cooler in an air conditioned vehicle has a life expectancy of about a minute six.

You know the old saying bantered about in the desert southwest when the temps creep into the triple digits, "Oh, but it's a dry heat"? Well, in my neck of the woods, it's a wet heat. 218% humidity is like a soggy wool quilt pulled from the broiler that envelopes you from the minute you step outside. Curled hair? Flat. Pressed clothes? Depressed. Squirrel in the tree? Well done with a warm gray center.

Do sweat glands ever wear out? Am I in danger of needing gland replacement surgery one day in the not-so-distant future? Will Blue Cross even cover something like that? These are the thoughts that cross my fever-addled mind as I stuggle to find ways to stay cool. But I'm beginning to think that's all but impossible these days. When you're sweating while floating in the swimming pool, you know things are spiraling out of control.

Some people might take it as a sign of the apocalypse. Personally, I think it's much worse that that. I think the human race has screwed things up so badly that we've ALL been damned to hell already. I think we're beyond saving. And our God, still being a loving God, is throwing this godforesaken heat our way to help us get acclimated to the eternal hellfire we're all doomed to endure. His final gift to us. It's like a little preview for our first day in the depths of the cauldron. As the fire and brimstone rage all around, and the flames of damnation lash at our backs, we can look around, shrug and say, "Well, at least it's a dry heat."