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If you started to read my blog expecting to read about a homosexual dinosaur, then you'll probably be dissappointed.

I went to the movies last night expecting to see a movie in relative peace and quiet. I was sadly dissapointed also. I had barely sat down with my coke when a flock of elderly people came in. Normally, one wouldn't expect much trouble from such a group, but this was different. This group couldn't decide where to sit. Not only that, but they shared the whole discussion with the theater in that really loud whisper that people try to do. Why do people do that anyway? Everyone around can hear anyway, you might as well speak in a normal tone.

"Where should we sit?"
"How about up there?"
"No, I can't make it up there with my hip replacement."
"Down there?"
"No, my neck is too stiff."
"Did you bring the Preparation H this time?"
"Yes Myra."
"Eldridge?"
"Yes love?"
"You s**t your pants again, didn't you?"
"Yes Myra."
"God damnit."

Have you ever heard a thorough philosophical discussion expounding on the vices and virtues of where to sit in a movie theater? I handn't either, before last night.

I guess every decision becomes important when you're old because by the time you're that age, you've already made all the important choices of your life. You already know what career to pick, where to live, who to marry, and what kind of car to drive so the only thing left to depate over is denture brands, life insurance, and where to sit at the movies.

I think that illustrates that freedom of decision iswasted on the young. We take it for GRANTED. I see people all the time making horrible, horrible decisions. There was a guy riding a Harly today that pulled up alongside the bus at the stoplight. He had the whole Harly get-up. The jacket, helmet, sunglasses, everything. He also had tassels on his handlebars. That's the decision that got me.

When we were little, only the GIRLS had tassels on their handlebars. We made FUN of the boys who put tassels on their hnadlebars. We even came up with sophisticated insults such as this one:

"If you were a dinosaur, your name would be Fagasaurus Rex."

But then we got older, and it wasn't cool or funny to insult people by calling them Fagasaurus Rex, and then suddenly it became cool for guys to wear tight leather pants and have tassels on their handlebars. Did I miss that memo?

I think I did. In fact, I know I did. Many things have changed. When I was little and living in phoenix, the mail man (or...envelope technician, as I call him now) would actually PARK his truck and WALK from house to house. He'd walk down one side, then walk back to the truck on the OTHER side. Now it's different.

This led to a confrontation the other day. When I was riding my bike home from another vain attempt at finding a job, I stopped for a minute of rest and was leaning up against the backside of the mailbox. No big deal, right? Wrong. Unbeknownst to myself, I was standing in the envelope technician's spot, which is apparently an EGREGIOUS breach of etiquette these days. I found this out when the envelope technician pulled up next to where I was standing.

"You can't stand there."
"Where?"
"There, in front of the mailbox."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't."
"It's my bike, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"It's public property, isn't it?"
"Yes it is."
"I rest my case."
"You can't block my access."
"Why can't you get out and walk?"
"Because I don't feel like it."
"If you were a dinosaur your name would be Fagasaurus Rex."

No one FEELS like doing anything today. Everyone is content to belive that their own 1 gigatrillionth of the universe is paramount to the survival and success of the rest of the world. GOD FORBID someone have to WALK. It's not as if the vast majority of Americans have LEGS or anything. Maybe we should abolish the federal postal service COMPLETELY, so envelope technicians could WALK to the unemployment office.

But that will never happen.

It will never happen because making it happen would require that a whole bunch of people get off but their a** and do something about it, which is about as likely as Vanilla Ice making a comeback.

So we can't fix the FUNDAMENTAL problem. What is the answer no? The next logical step is to make life a living hell for the one person who exhibits the fundamental problem for you, in my case the mailman, which is why I shashed three glass bottles and left the shards scattered in front of that mailbox after he left.

The even bigger problem though as I see it, is that everyone in society these days has an acute case of BMS, short for b***h and Moan Syndrome. Everyone. Even me. I'm bitching and moaning about people bitching and moaning.

For example you can't call the mailman a mailman anymore as I alluded to earlier. You can't call blacks blacks anymore. Now they're pigmentally challenged. Don't worry so much, you can still call white people whites. Indians aren't indians or even Native Americans... now they're Homogenic Pasteurized Indigenous Peoples. Gays are just plain Homo, but you can't call them that, or Fagasaurus Rex fo that matter.

It pisses me off.

Everyone has to accomodate for everyone now. Most modern day jumbo jets only seat 4 passengers JUST IN CASE a morbidly obese blue whale *Ahem* excuse me, Horizontally challenged bi-ped, needs to get on board. The seats MUST be big enough. "But overweight people deserve to fly too!" You cry.

Everything has to be fair. Everything has to be equal. Everyone has to have a level playing field. There can not be a SHRED, there cannot be an OUNCE, there cannot be an IOTA of competition ANYWHERE in ANY segment of the American workforce. To hell with competition! We don't want it anymore! Get it out of here! Who needs it?

Nobody does now. We've got guys in wheelchairs getting jobs as search and rescue people, we've got women being admitted as sperm donors, we've got bald men being pitched in shampoo commercials and WHAT THE ******** IS UP WITH THE BRAILLE AT THE BANK DRIVE THRU?

That never fails to piss me off. I go through the drivethru at McDonalds now...

*cackle cackle*
"Can I help you?"
"Uh..yes. My name is Catscradle and I'm blind, but I'm also deaf, I have no arms, and I've got aids. What can you do for me?"

We've got fat people suing McDonalds because their food made them fat, THEN they sue McDonalds AGAIN because they GO BACK, and force McDonalds to adjust the width of the drivethru to ACCOMODATE for the width of the car they now have to drive, a car which they sued Ford to make to ACCOMODATE for their extra wide a** which they got from cramming their faces with McDonalds in the first place.

Accomodate, accomodate, accomodate. If ONE MORE fat person bitches about McDonalds they're going to have to accomodate my foot in their a** Red Forman Style...

I tried to tell one of those jokes the other day. You know the ones that go like this:

"What do you call a man with no legs and no arms who lives in the trunk of your car? JACK!" But I BARELY finished before I was ganged up on by the squad of Sandy Vaginas for my appalling lack of sensitivity to handicapped people.

Christ Almighty. I can barely even say Christ Almigty now...