Observing a small group of non-threatening adolescents commit a lazy act of tomfoolery should not lead me to contemplate my own life ending within the hour in a shootout with the overzealous and entirely unnecessary SWAT team of the local police department. But in the progressive 21st Century West, all actions other than self-emasculation and enthusiastic surrender are countered with a swift paramilitary response and/or “#AntiHate” hashtag campaigns, so my own death – courtesy of surplus Pentagon weaponry disseminated into the overcompensatory hands of brave local law enforcers itching to use their trigger fingers for something other than writing traffic tickets to minivan moms for rolling stops at trafficless intersections – was the only logical outcome of taking any basic, sane, principled and needed action. So what did I see that required such an unremarkable response and how would this lead so swiftly to my demise? Read on – but first make sure you hashtag #AntiBullying. Oh, and #FuckIrony.
Tomorrow is trash day. My neighbors got a jump-start and put out their trash bins this afternoon. As I glanced out the window, three middle school shitbirds on bikes passed by and one kicked over a bin that was overflowing with bags of garbage. My immediate reaction was to chuckle. I actually felt relieved to see a thirteen year old boy do anything other than send a text message, sag his too-tight jeans below his ass, draw the Monster Energy logo on his body, or generally piss, moan, and menstruate about how hard life is despite living in greater comfort than most royalty throughout human history. It’s nice to know that some kids are still out there causing safe, traditional trouble rather than soliciting rape on the internet or planning record-breaking schoolhouse slaughters, as popular culture seems to believe are the only options available to teens.
As the initial chuckle wore of, though, I realized that this type of trouble, safe though it may be, must be addressed. If it’s not – one overturned trashcan turns into blocks of rubbish scattered by increasingly brazen little assholes, and before you know it, not only is the neighborhood littered with infant feces and rotten banana peels, but you’ve got big assholes to deal with because they’ don’t stay thirteen. Unchecked, thirteen year old assholes eventually penetrate the walls of the anal canal and, by eighteen, enter full-fledged cunthood. Neighborly is one thing that’s actually worth being, especially in the pursuit of cunt prevention. If someone else saw my trash overturned, their intervention in the matter would be most appreciated. We’ve yet to formally establish a Neighborhood Cunt Watch and erect signage, but right about now it’s time for me to do my neighborly duty and intervene. I don’t have to be Mr. Tough Guy. I don’t have to hoist my slacks to my nipples and draw down on them with a rifle like Walt Kowalski (I mean I should, but I don’t have to) – they’re only thirteen. I just have to go out there and tell these three zilches to pick up the garbage they knocked over. That should be all it takes.
But what if it’s not? What if they run? Worse – what if they’re a bit too stupid for their own existence, or are already so emboldened by the “nothing is your fault, please defecate into my mouth” philosophy of their parents and schools that they choose to talk shit? Well, that’s no insurmountable dilemma. It’s quickly remedied by grabbing the one that toppled the garbage by the collar of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt, dragging him across the lawn back to the scene of the crime, and not letting go of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt until everything gets picked up, no matter how much shitty cologne he sprayed on his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt and how hard it is to breath because of the aromatic holocaust resulting from cheap chemicals and pubescent body odor homogenizing in the fabric of his stupid fucking Monster Energy t-shirt.
But why take this simple defense of decency upon myself at all? Why not just call the police department and tell them what happened? Then they can come and deal with the boys, right? Wrong. And fuck you for asking. And burn in hell for perpetuating the sackless mindset of “call the authorities, I think my vagina hurts!” that has decimated all traces of productive human interaction. Cinch up your diaper, plug your nose and asshole, and prepare to be deeply offended by a practical perspective: not every single disagreeable human action that occurs on planet Earth requires police intervention.
You may now dial 911.
The fucking cops are not the fucking referee-nanny-mommy-daddy-judge-jury-executioner of all that happens everywhere at all times, unconditionally. Except that they fucking are. Because pisspantsing halfwits refuse to intervene in their own lives on their own behalves because what used to be real life is so unendurable for them that everything existing outside of social media and butthurt litigation is to be overseen by armed mongoloids recruited specifically for their low intelligence. Unless of course something gets posted to social media that reddens someone’s delicate cyber-heinie – then the badge-adorned ‘gloids are dispatched to bring the big bad cyberbully to justice – which is to say lock him inside a rape cage or slaughter him should he not assist in his own abduction. Because, again: #AntiBullying.
[A brief aside: That “cyberbully” is an existent word commonly used and understood by the average person is the surest sign yet that humans have overstayed their own existence and should self-detonate for their own good.]
And that’s why, aside from both sheer principle and complete lack of necessity, I will not call the cops. Nothing escalates violence and stupidity more rapidly than police presence. Police don’t keep the peace, nor do they restore it. There is no peace that police don’t stand ready to breach with an unlubricated rape. With this being the mindset of modern American “law enforcement,” why ever would I call them to report three middle schoolers toppling a trashcan? I’m not trying to destroy these kids’ lives, I just want them to pick up the fucking garbage and not do that shit anymore. They don’t deserve the cavalcade of weaponry, manpower, and authoritative assholery that would descend upon them after a call to 911. Nor am I interested in having that same swarm of frivolous military surplus come crashing down on me because some mustachioed madman that uses a riot shield as a huggy pillow at night decides the kids are alright so let’s go find something wrong with the guy that called us. If nothing else, at least one non-aggressive neighborhood dog will end up on the receiving end of 794 rounds of ballistic service and protection because specialweaponsandtactics, motherfucker!
More likely, though, before the arrival of the full SWAT unit, some four-foot-zero female in a police outfit would materialize. Things would quickly deteriorate when I ask her why she has handcuffs and a sidearm instead of a broom and dustpan – since she can only possibly be here to assist with garbage cleanup. ID would be demanded… laughter/refusal would follow… mounting gynic frustrations… references to my dick… shrill, impotent cries for compliance… references to my ballsack… eventually, I would be told to put my hands behind my back. Of course at this juncture I’d be left with no choice but to disarm the flustered lass, confiscate the keys to her big-girl zoom-zoom cruiser, pat her on the head, and tell her to go shave her pussy. If she pushed the issue further, my only remaining recourse would be to pick her up and place her inside the trash receptacle until such time as she was able to regain her composure, acquire a razor, and – without fail – shave her pussy. Sometime soon after this, the events described in the preceding paragraph would take place.
All the above is the thought process that occurs within three seconds of witnessing three teens topple a garbage can. All the above is the thought process one must endure en route to total inaction if one wishes not to become the story on the internet about the guy that got slaughtered because he stuck up for his neighbor’s trash can in a brief moment of negligence wherein he failed to remember how fucking insane it is to take any sane action in a Tolerance Or Death culture where doublespeak is disseminated by triplespeak, emotional hashtagging trumps fact finding, and every day is Opposite Day.
And this post should now be done.
But just as I thought the agony of analyzing my own mental cage was subsiding in the fallout of the downfall of my neighbor’s trash – not five minutes having passed – the same three zit-riddled shitcunts came lollygagging right back through the scene of the crime without a goddamned care in the world. Wait, did I say lollygagged? Sorry, bruh – I shoulda said they fuckin’ swagged back through like fuckin’ YOLO.
Son of a bitch bastard cocksucker motherfucker. Are you fucking kidding me? This is where the nightmare becomes reality. They’ve never been dealt with. They’ve never been scared – I mean, other than when Facebook crashes and they don’t know if they exist because they can’t post selfies – but, like, they’ve never at any moment had it enter their Monster Energy minds that human fists are a thing – a thing that can be smashed at high velocity into their underdeveloped faces. If I’d only not seen them pass back by, or even if they’d rushed by sheepishly, clearly hoping not to be caught – my bottom lip might still be attached to my face instead of causing the indigestion I’m suffering as I type this. Just show me something that shows you’re self-aware. But no. Three give-no-fucks peckerwoods that have not, and will never, earn the right to give no fucks. Fuck!
And whose fault is this? Mine. Dammit to hell. Well, credit where due, it’s firstly the fault of their absentee fathers, their dating site mothers, their government school administrators, their victim-identity-philosophy espousing guidance counselors, the culture they’ve inherited of self-empowerment through empty gestures (#Awareness, anyone?), and a relentless societal psy-op against any and all things masculine. But it’s me that’s aware of this reality. And it’s me that saw three kids kick over my neighbor’s trash. So it’s on me to be the impetus for a reversal of course back toward sanity – the kind of sanity where thirteen year old tools still kick your trash over, but have the common sense/self-preservation instinct to stay the fuck away from your property for a timespan greater than three hundred seconds after they’ve kicked your shit over so as to not get Walk Kowalskied.
So what do I do? Nothing, of course. Because, yet again, my functioning self-preservation instinct informs me that any act of logic will be met with deadly force. This is true, and is the precise reason why I keep telling my self-preservation instinct to look around and reconsider its own existence so that I may do the same for mine, but, ironically, logic holds no appeal for instinct. The conversation always ends with self-preservation condescendingly telling me, “Why don’t you go blog about it, fag?”
So here I sit, bitterly existing, fingershitting onto the internet at the tail end of 2,000 wasted words, seeking solace in the fact that, despite everything else, at least these three reprobates-to-be weren’t wearing the same goofy fucking helmets that every other marshmallow-domed middle school milksop’s helicopter mommy shoves on his cranium before he leaves the house. Safety first, fags! But also #ToleranceAwarenessEqualityAcceptance equally first! Because there are #NoLosers in #Equality. Except for sanity. And my neighbor’s trash can.