Drunky Drunkerson from Drunktown

Thanks to a vague reference by one of my best friends on a facebook post, I have been fielding messages regarding one of the most ridiculously stupid, humiliating nights of my life. So here it is, laid out there for everyone to see. The whole story. The story of the night I beat the living hell out of myself.

It happened a while back, maybe 7 or 8 years ago. My good friend Wendy and someone else we worked with at the time whose name is also Wendy, and I left work and headed off to a hole in the wall bar where the drinks are strong and cheap. It was hot that day and I gulped down three screw drivers right off the bat. I admit, this was stupid, but I was thirsty and it was happy hour. This means that the drinks that were normally $2.50, already an amazing deal, especially since the drinks were heavy on cheap vodka and light on orange juice were now $1.25. I mean the drinks are so strong they’re translucent.  After my initial thirst quenching binge, I was averaging about four an hour. The price was right and I was just in the mood to drink. Feeling that I was nearing the point of no return, I handed Wendy my wallet for safe keeping. You may be wondering why I did this. Let me explain. Apparently when my brain is swimming in liquor it believes that I am a very wealthy person and everyone is my friend. I am a bartender’s dream. Being the good friend that she is, when it appears that I am channeling my imaginary trust fund, Wendy holds my wallet. She’s awesome like that.

After several hours, I noticed that Wendy is missing. Apparently the party was moving to a different bar and I was riding with fake Wendy, but I was unaware of this. I turn to fake Wendy and ask her where Wendy went. She looks confused.

“Umm. I’m right here.”

“Noooooooo, fake Wendy. Where’s MY Wendy.”

“Oh, we’re heading over to Rodeo. She just left.”

Here’s where I panic. I know she has my wallet and I also know that if I arrive home without it, Dewie is going to murder me. I run out of the bar just in time to see Real Wendy getting into her car. As I step down out of the doorway my flip flop gets caught on the metal grate door mat thingy and I fall face first into the concrete. I actually knock myself unconscious. When I come to, the owner of the bar is kneeling over me. He was a biker type fellow with long, gray, wavy hair, and the porch light was shining through his hair creating kind glowing halo around his face. In my barely conscious, drunken state I looked him in the eye and muttered, “Oh my God, was I wrong? Are you Jesus? Am I dead?” To which he laughed hysterically and continued to hold a wet towel to my bleeding mouth. Meanwhile, fake Wendy is horrified and real Wendy who is barely visible behind Weegie (the bar owner) has fallen to her knees with frenzied laughter. My head slowly clears and I realize what just happened.

Fake Wendy says, “Maybe we should just take her home.”

To which I stupidly reply, “Nah, I’m fine. Who’s driving me?”

To which real Wendy says, “Go get in my car. I got this.”

 I slowly get up and head in that direction.  On the ride over to Rodeo it suddenly dawns on me that I can’t feel my teeth. Thinking I left them on the front stoop of the bar, I turn to real Wendy, smile really big and ask her if I still have all my teeth. She recoils, which scares me until she says, “Don’t bleed in my car.” And I realize that the face was a reaction to my BLOODY teeth, not missing ones.  We arrive at the new bar and real Wendy turns to me before we get out, hands me a napkin and says through giggles, “You still have blood on your face. Oh and fix your hair.”

As we walk up to the door, real Wendy is walking a few steps behind me. The door is glass, but blacked out with some sort of tinting which my stupid swimming brain registers as “open.” It was not. I walked right into the door. I don’t mean I bumped it. I walked into it with all the confidence of simply walking over a threshold. With my face. I vaguely remember the bouncer snorting with laughter before I once again, you guessed it, lost consciousness. I had managed to knock myself out twice in one night. Real Wendy is actually shaking with laughter and can barely stand as she “helps” me into the bar and parks me at a table.

 I remember very little from that night after that point, other than there was a strange step up into the bathroom that once again caused me to bite it, but that time was physically unharmed, not that I would have noticed an extra bruise or two. 

**RIP Weegie. We miss you.**

Drive Me Crazy

I drive like an old lady. I totally get how that’s irritating to a lot of people. I’m cautious… very cautious. I rarely take yellow lights. I always leave at least a cars length between me and the car in front of me, well, truthfully much more than a car’s length. I change lanes blocks before I actually need to just in case I can’t get over. I rarely go more than 10 miles an hour over the speed limit. I’ve been in a lot of car accidents, but only one of which was my fault. I am all too aware that I cannot control what others do, so I hyper-control myself. I’m afraid of stupid drivers and I’m annoyed with inconsiderate drivers. I know I’m not a perfect driver, or even a good driver, but compared to a lot of people I should be teaching a national class or something. It amazes me that people complain about other drivers doing exactly the same thing they’re doing.

For example, I have ridden with a particular person (who I will not embarrass with mentioning names, but it starts with a “D” and rhymes with chewy) who has complained about being tailgated while leaving approximately three feet between her car and the car in front of her. Really? You find that rude and dangerous? Hmmm. Interesting. It occurred to me that maybe some people don’t realize that they’re being douche bags. I feel it’s my civic duty to educate. So here they are:

Molly’s Rules of Non-Douchey Driving.

1.       Driving ridiculously fast in residential areas or downtown.

 Residential neighborhoods are full of oblivious children and pets and the streets are fairly short.   Unless you’re driving a DeLorean with Michael J Fox riding shot gun, there’s no reason to attempt to generate one point twenty-one jiggawatts between stop signs. It should also be noted that this produces no results in a city environment either; the most obvious clue being when I pull up beside your “badass” self at the next red light. No matter what the movies tell you, driving fast does not make you cool.

2.       Shopping Center Entrance Etiquette

When entering or exiting a shopping center or mall parking lot, the people entering the parking lot always have the right of way. If you look really closely, they do not have a stop sign. However, the people exiting do have a stop sign. Do not turn into the entrance and stop. Keep going. It is not a four way stop. You don’t take turns. If you are exiting the parking lot, you wait until the light changes and people stop coming in to exit. Yes, you might have to wait a few minutes, but that’s why we put music in cars. Chill.

3.       The turn lane is not a parking space

This one is specifically for truck drivers. Don’t get me wrong, I know they’re doing a job and I’m down with that. As a matter of fact, I often go out of my way to help them on the highway. I move so they don’t have to slow down and I slow down to hold up traffic when they need to get over. I've got no beef with the big rigs in general, BUT it is never ok, not for any reason at all, to park your giant vehicle in the turn lane and “run in” to anywhere. Especially a Waffle House. Those emergency flashers don’t create a parking space and your immediate need for smothered, covered and scattered hash browns does not constitute an emergency. If you don’t fit in the parking lot, go somewhere else. Which brings me to my next point:

4.       If you don’t fit in the parking lot, go somewhere else

This problem may be unique to Florida. Huge, bigger-than-a-Greyhound Winnebago’s, driven by people who clearly have no special driving skills, just rolling through town, crushing everything in their wake like King Kong on wheels. Your insatiable craving for some chicken McNuggets or a stuffed crust pizza is not reason enough to park your rig sideways in 8 parking spots or worse, in the middle of the parking lot, completely blocking the drive thru. I’m sorry that those parking lots do not accommodate your vehicle, but you know those wobbly things that catch you when you finally exit your fortress? They’re called legs and they can carry you for more than 10 feet. Park somewhere else and walk. Also it is never acceptable to pull across and block three lanes of traffic when making a left hand turn and wait for the traffic to clear in the other direction. You’re the one driving that ridiculously huge vehicle. You get to be accommodating, not the other way around.

5.       When merging, slow down, don’t speed up.

If two lanes suddenly turn into one, the world will not implode on itself if the person beside you merges ahead of you. It would just be horrifying if that person goes slower than you would like and causes you reach your destination 3 minutes later. Small children may suddenly take ill, puppies and kittens will die, and rain forests will burn brighter and hotter. All because that guy in the other lane pulled in front of you when you merged back there. Bad things happen when you’re not first. You. Must. Be. First…because you’re a douchebag with control issues.

6.       GET! OFF! MY! ASS!

I brake suddenly for squirrels. Real and imaginary. Back off. 

UGH!

I knew something was wrong when I took a three hour nap two days in a row. I don’t sleep during the day. I make fun of people that sleep during the day. My favorite game is something I call “nappin’ stack.” The object of this game is to stack as many handy things on top of the napper as possible without waking them. A good session provides 10-15 minutes of hilarious amusement. My point is that I’m just not a napper. Then the very slight nausea started. It was barely there at first. I wasn’t even sure if I was just hungry or my stomach was upset. Maybe it was just stress.

I soon found that the addition of solid food eased the nausea… and added excruciating stomach cramps. A very generous dinner of smoked ribs at my favorite barbeque joint courtesy of my visiting parents resulted in an evening of feeling like my stomach was trying to strangle itself. The next morning I felt a little better but didn’t chance anything more than coffee and water. When Dewie got up a little before noon (she worked the night before) she talked me into drinking some Ovaltine. I was nervous, but it settled surprisingly well, so she talked me into some toast. Mistake. I headed for the bed, holding my stomach where I proceeded to roll around and whine expletives. I hear Dewie come in.

“Your belly hurting again?”

“YESSSSSSSSS.”

“Maybe it’s your gall bladder. You remember that gall stone you passed a couple of years ago. You thought you were dying.”

“Owwwwwwwww. I didn’t think I was dying, I thought I was going to give birth to something. This is different. Bloody hell!…I may be dying this time.”

“Maybe it’s your appendix.”

“Son of a…  motherfu… owwww… it’s not my damn appendix. It’s not my gall bladder. It’s not my intestines. I don’t have to poop. It’s not some vague pain in my general abdominal area. It’s my actual stomach.”

“Well, you have to eat.”

“I got this from TOAST! What the hell is lighter than toast? Little capsules of air?!?! It feels like my food stirring monkeys are trying wring out my stomach. UGGGGHHHHH. ”

“Maybe some broth.”

“Gaaaaaaah! I’m not drinking hot water. It’s dumb. I think I can afford to go a couple of JESUSSSSSS! days without food. I’ll just drink plenty of water. Like a new diet program.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, probably some kind of HOLY SHITBALLS!! OWWWW stomach virus … with an unfortunate Tourette’s side effect. “

“If you don’t eat, how will you know when it’s over?”

“I’ll know I can eat when the HOLY HELL! UHHHHH! water gives me diarrhea. I just hope my immune system knows that this is not a job for the rabid moneky squad. It better break out the pirates.” 

Streaming Pile of Television

Streaming television is a fantastic thing. I love watching an entire season of a show consecutively without being tied to any kind of schedule. The drawback is that occasionally Dewie will flex her age difference muscle and force me to watch some awful show from her youth. Admittedly, I got into Dark Shadows, mainly because the over the top dramatics cracked me up. We still use the “Barnabas stare” as a punch line. Bewitched is entertaining enough, especially if it’s an episode featuring Endora. Her condescending, snarky attitude makes me feel better about douche-y Darren saying things like, “I forbid you to get involved!” and “I expect you to concentrate you efforts on keeping this house!” The westerns are tolerable on a periodic basis, though I had to develop a song to tell them apart. It is set to the tune of the Bonanza theme song and goes like this, “Little Charles Ingalls on a show as Little Joe it’s called Bonanzaaaaaa! It was on a long time ago, and it’s not in black and white (that’s Gunsmoke).”

However, recently Dewie has been watching this show called Adam 12. The writing and acting is painfully horrible and the plots are predictable within the first 3 minutes of the show. There is only one way to fight these shows. Pick it to pieces. It goes something like this…

“So… why is no one named Adam?”

“The car is called Adam.”

“So the show’s about a car?”

“Ugh. No. The show is about Jim and Pete.”

“Does the car have special powers or something?”

“No! It has nothing to do with the car.”

“Then why are they saying Adam 12 every 30 seconds?”

“It’s the name of the car!”

(Pete wrecks his car and is apparently injured.) “Did he just announce that his spleen is ruptured? How could he possibly know that? Does the car double as an MRI? Is that its special power?”

“No. The car is not an MRI and it does not have special powers.”

“Wow. Jim just told that other coppy guy that they had to find Pete because they were close. Real close. 

This show is pretty homo-tastic. I think they’re like share a shower close.”

“That is funny. I never noticed that as a kid.”

“Yeah, in the last episode they were buying potholders and doilies from an old lady.”

“The pot holders were for Jim’s wife. He’s married.”

“I think he bought them to so he can make breakfast for Pete. After they share a shower.”

Dewie giggles. “Maybe.”

“Look at how close they are. I think Pete is gonna kiss him. Look at him!”

“I think I would remember if he kissed him.”

“Yeah. Probably.” The next episode starts. “Oh. Come on! You’re telling me a 78 year old woman remembers those kinds of details when a burglar is waving a gun in her face. He was on smack? Are you serious? The old granny not only knows what heroine is, but knows its street name in 19 sixty whatever?”

“Maybe she’s just a sharp old lady.”

“Hey! Look! That must be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Just like the old lady said. Wait up… he doesn’t appear to be on smack. It may be a case of mistaken identity…”

Dewie giggles. “Shut it.”

“Look at how he’s wrestling with that guy. I think the ambiguously gay duo was based on these guys. These guys are so Ace and Gary. Well, gracious me! There’s another guy that looks like he could be the bad guy. Six feet tall, sandy hair, green button down, gray slacks, brown boots. Oh and wait a minute…I think he may be on the smack.”

“We don’t have to watch this.”

“No. I love it.”

Part of This Nutritious Breakfast

Ok, so I kept telling myself that it was none of my business, but I’ve been asked to weigh in directly at least 4 times. Here it is. The Time magazine cover with the breast feeding three year old creeps me the hell out. I understand the point. I really do, but in its haste to get people’s attention, they have crossed the border into vigilante mom land and no one but other vigilante moms can tolerate being there for even a miniscule amount of time without breaking into seizures of eye rolling that persist until you spontaneously and repeatedly yell, “Shut the F@#$ up!” like some crazed Tourette’s soaked mental patient.

Now, admittedly, I have to turn on my cerebral brain when I witness anyone breastfeeding an infant. Frankly, my emotional self is just uncomfortable with it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I don’t have children. Maybe it’s because I have never viewed breasts as meal receptacles. What I do know is that this is my problem and no matter how weirded out I am by it, there’s nothing wrong with it. I do have issues with people that glare at a restaurant full of customers as if they are daring someone to say something as they plop their engorged boobie on the dinner table. I know it’s natural, but if there wasn’t a baby attached to it, that same woman would go to jail.  Have a little class. Throw a blanket over your shoulder. Or better yet, don’t schedule dinner at the same time as your baby’s next feeding. We get it. You’re all maternal and what not.

The specific problem I have with the magazine cover is the age of the child and the pose of the mother. If that very same woman was wearing a hooters uniform, those same vigilante moms would have already organized a posse to hunt the responsible party down like a scared animal. I’m not buying the whole “nutritional value” crap either. That kid probably spent the morning playing Xbox followed by a lunch of Crustables and cheese doodles. If your kids eat three meals a week at McDonald’s you don’t give a rat’s ass about his nutrition. This leaves one of two possible scenarios. Either the mother refuses to admit that the child is no longer an infant (he probably also drinks out of a sippy cup and has a pacifier in his mouth while he stomps hookers to death playing Grand Theft Auto) or she is getting some sort of emotional fulfillment out of it. Either way, it has nothing to do with the kid or what’s best for him. Call me old fashioned or anti-woman or whatever, but a kid shouldn’t have to run in from recess to breastfeed. 

Can You Hear me now?

I walked out of Weezie’s Salon when I’d just had my hair cut. As I was opening my car door, a man in the passenger seat of a car parked two spaces down from me caught my eye. He was looking right at me. His scraggily hair and trucker hat perfectly accessorized his grease stained pocket t-shirt. All of his windows were down and there was a teenaged boy in the back seat. He was also looking at me.

The man yells in my direction, “You know where Weezie’s is?”

The front door of the salon is no more than 30 yards from where he is parked. Confused by his question, I point at the door. “Um… Right there?” The boy in the backseat starts to giggle.

“To the right of it?”

“To the right of what? It’s right there.” I point again. The man pulls his eyebrows together in confused aggravation. He stares at me like I’m an idiot. The boy in the backseat is emitting a full on belly laugh.

“You know where Domino’s is?”

I point to two doors to the right of Weezie’s door. Now I’m getting annoyed. “It’s right there. Is this a test?”

He looks angry now. Maybe I insulted his (ahem) intelligence. He turns around to look at his son who is now having convulsions in the back seat. As he turns, I catch a glimpse of his left ear. He is wearing a bluetooth. It takes me a full 5 seconds to realize that not one word of his conversation was directed at me. I look at his son who is now so hysterically tickled that he is drooling on himself. As he meets my eyes. I grin at him.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

He manages to form the words, “My pleasure.” between gasps for breath. Giggling, I get in my car and head home. 

Temper Tantrum

I woke up feeling like I needed to be productive today. Still in my jammies and my bare feet I gathered all the laundry from various rooms and carried it to the utility room. I was met with a full basket of clean clothes that haven’t been folded and clean clothes in the dryer. I start to feel a twinge of aggravation flaring up in my gut, but I push it aside while I gather the clean clothes and bring them to the closet to be folded.

We have a very limited amount of space and I have developed a carefully planned system for storing clothes. The majority of our clothes are folded neatly and stored in cubbies. It only takes a few items out of place for the whole thing to look like rabid dingo has made a nest in the closet. I sigh as I look at the wall of what was beautifully folded clothes. There are sleepy pants in the t-shirts, work shirts in the good shirts and nearly half of the clothes are folded stupid. That itch of aggravation is growing into anger. Damnit, Dewie! Realizing I can’t repair it, I just take everything off the shelves and start refolding it. The more I fold the angrier I get.

I’m about halfway through the pile when Dewie shuffles in all sleepy eyed and happy. This makes me even angrier. What in the hell does she have to be so damn happy about?! She rubs her eyes and innocently rasps, “Morning babe. You doing laundry?” Oh, it’s on now.

“I was trying to do laundry, but apparently someone can’t manage to put anything where it goes. Or fold anything right. Or fold anything at all. Why are your clothes all mixed up and folded stupid?”

“I don’t have enough room.”

“You’d have room if you actually FOLDED anything.”

“I can’t fold them like you.” She sweeps her arm toward the wall of clothes like she’s showing a brand new living room set on The Price is Right. “It looks like a damn department store!”

“You could if you tried. You just don’t want to. And why was there two loads of clean laundry in the utility room?!”

“I needed underwear.”

“Ok, new rule! If you wash it, you fold it and put it away! You know what? Even better, you’re banned from laundry!” Wait, what? Crap. I know as soon as it comes out of my stupid face that I have made a tragic mistake. That same carefree grin slides back over Dewie’s face.

“Ok.”

And thus my idiotic tantrum reaps its just reward. 

Dog Business

It was lovely outside yesterday. For some strange reason we have enjoyed cooler weather this week with a refreshing breeze and bright, sunny skies. My favorite time of day is late afternoon when the sun is starting to sink and the earth is lit in a beautiful golden light. It’s like nature’s dimmer switch. It was on such a perfect day and such a perfect time that Dewie and I set off on our nightly dog walk. Scout had already obediently relieved herself in the vacant lot on our street and we were on the back side of the block when we approached the house with actual sod. The grass is so appealing that Scout can’t help but throw herself to the ground and roll around in it. She does this nearly every single day.

A couple of years ago, the house with the sod was one of the unlucky ones on the block that suffered the wrath of the falling tree epidemic. Though the house itself has been nicely repaired, it has remained strangely empty while its residents occupy what can only be described as a two story shed. I don’t know the whole story there, but I would wager that it involves jackassery of the highest caliber and a family whose collective IQ might form one normal person.

Yesterday, as Scout dropped to roll, I noticed there was a scowling man standing beside his truck outside the barn-shed with his arms crossed. Thinking nothing of it, I waved at him and went about my conversation with Dewie.

As we walked closer to him, the man yelled out, “Keep your damn dog out of my yard!” A little taken aback, I initially thought that this man must be someone I know who is messing with me. I try to get a good look at him, but he is in no way familiar.

So, I call back, “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“I SAID KEEP YOU DAMN DOG OUT OF MY YARD!! I’m tired of stepping in dog shit when I park my truck over there!” Ok, so clearly I don’t know this guy and he is a first class douche bag. We pass this house every day. Scout rolls in his yard every day. She has never pooped here, and there has never been a truck parked there.

“She wasn’t actually in your yard, and she has never crapped by the road in front of your house.”

“I was standing here the whole time! I saw what she did!!” Ok, now the adrenaline is flowing. It’s go time.

“If you were standing there the whole time, you clearly don’t know the difference between crapping and rolling. Besides, she is on a 6 foot leash. The city owns 5 feet from the street. Since you were standing there the whole time (yes, I did imitate him when I said that. Sometimes anger brings our my inner 5 year old) then you could clearly see that my feet were on the street, so technically it is not possible for her to have been in your yard (yes I did it again, I know)!” It’s then that I notice that I have actually taken several giant steps toward the man and I am actually standing in his driveway. The man pushes off the truck he was leaning on and hobbles into the house. His limp is pronounced and his hip seems to be the culprit. The thought actually enters my head that I could probably take him. I mean his balance isn’t that good. I am strangely disappointed when he walks away. How dare he walk away from me when I’m winning!

We spend the remainder of our walk talking about the crazy man and what a horribly unhappy little person he must be. I very briefly consider taking a dump in a bucket to leave on the edge of his yard so he is clear about what crap actually is. It occurs to me that in a sick way I actually enjoyed the encounter. I am getting confrontational in my old age. If things keep progressing this way, I have a feeling I’m going to be one of those mean, belligerent old people. Fortunately for me, elderly people get a pass on terrible behavior. I think I’m going to need it. 

Egg-sactly!

Grocery shopping is usually one of my favorite pastimes. Let’s face it. I enjoy food. A lot. I also enjoy putting together delicious dishes with as little money as possible. It’s become a kind of a game for me. I spend the morning perusing the ads online and make a game plan as to which stores I am going to patronize and in what order. I know it’s sad, but it gives me a buzz. I love it.

This afternoon, my last stop was Publix. It’s one of my favorites because it’s clean, well lit, beautifully merchandized and the customer service is amazing. I also know when they get their shipments so I can snag the freshest produce and hit the amazing “buy one get one” sales before they’re sold out. Yes, I have put THAT much effort into this. Today however, Publix was a madhouse. It’s Thursday and I’m already aware of the sales, so I can’t fathom any reason for the crowd. I decide to brave it anyway. Apart from the masses of rude people, everything seems pretty normal, until I get to the dairy case.

I round the corner to pick out some eggs and the whole area is demolished. It looks like a midget has been river dancing on the shelves. There’s broken eggs on the floor and strewn over into the yoghurt cups. Almost all the cartons are open with smashed shells stuck to the inside. I’m so shocked that I muse out loud, “What the hell is up with the eggs?”

An adorable old woman in turquoise linen capris and matching blouse walks up beside me. I notice her white hair is wound into a perfect French twist as she reaches over and pats my arm as only little old ladies do.  I immediately feel bad for swearing in front of her but before I can apologize she croaks, “It’s Easter, dear.”

“That’s right, I forgot about that. What is wrong with people?”

The little old lady leans in close enough for me to smell the peppermint on her breath and points to the wreckage in front of her. “You said it, dear. They’re fucking animals. You’d think people will die if they don’t color their damn eggs.”

Pure joy. I love old people. 

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I’ve never been a big fan of newspapers, mainly because they are printed on ridiculously large paper and unless you’re reading it at a table the size of an airplane wing they’re just awkward to handle. Admittedly, I acquire most of my news online. There’s really only one problem with this; almost every single news site online offers a space for the ignorant masses to voice their idiotic opinions.  I know I don’t have to read them, but something in me needs to be reassured that there are reasonable, educated people left in this country. Unfortunately these comments are peppered with stupid, offensive, borderline literate musings that make me long for the days when I could just skip the editorial page.  I can’t help myself; I have to read them even though they often leave me feeling hopeless and skeevy. Here are the worst offenders:

1.     The “everything comes back to politics” people

It could be an article on bird flu, stupid baby names, or the discovery of a rare dinosaur bone. Inevitably, there will be people that blame this on either Obama or the conservative party. I’m pretty sure neither liberals nor conservatives had any hand in naming a kid “Apple” or conspired to hide and then find a rare fossil to further their careers.

2.       Trolling

Because there are no consequences for running your mouth or purposefully picking a fight with someone over the internet, those people who can’t win a fight in real life pick one online. It’s never been funny in the past, and it is not funny now. You know if they said that crap in real life, they would be rewarded with a throat punch.  They know it too. That’s why they stick to the web.

3.       The “every problem in the world can be solved with Jesus” people

Often this is a response to real social issues like gangs, rapists, murderers, etc. Sure. If only Ted Bundy and Charles Manson had been approached by a Jehovah’s Witness, none of that unpleasantness would have happened. I don't know why experts on the human mind have never thought of this! Religion can’t fix mental illness any more than prayer can mend a broken leg. This kind of dismissive attitude is incredibly dangerous and infuriating.

4.       The “conspiracy” people

Not everyone is trying to trick you. You are paranoid and probably smoke too much weed. Sometimes it really is just a coincidence.

5.       The “why did I read this article, this is not news” people

Now, clearly you were interested or you wouldn’t have clicked on it. Did you open the link just so you could berate people that like a little human interest or sleazy celebrity story? You’ve created quite the hypocritical conundrum.  We all bow to you, oh superior one. We look to you to determine our own moral compasses, for you are clearly the most evolved person on the planet. Feel better?

If only they would print newspapers on reasonably sized paper…