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The following is from a publicly shared Facebook post by a woman who lives in Morrison, CO. Incident took place in what sounds like Lakewood, the southwestern-most suburb of Denver
on June 23, 2015.
“If this is your child or you know who this kid is please make sure this gets to his parents. So they can be proud of him(sarcasm). As he is pulling out of King Soopers parking lot he gets in line slams on the horn when the light turned red with six cars in front of him (mine being in front) and then sat there flipping everybody off and got on everybody’s asses and weaved in and out of traffic speeding– you could hear the car. He does have Green temporary plates and is driving a gold car headed down Kipling going south with a bunch of kids in his car. Not to be a winch but I don’t want it on my conscience if he’s driving and ends up killing somebody because of his driving skills and temper/road rage.
“If my son was on the road doing this I would hope it would get back to me so I could take his driving privileges away and vehicle. Kids need to be taught how to drive and not just thrown the keys, they need to learn its a privilege and not just something they get at 16, they need to earn the right to be behind the wheel imo. This kid could of flipped the wrong person off and they follow him and shoot everyone in car- he could of cut the wrong person off and same happened or he over corrects his car and rolls it killing all in car while he walks away. Parents please be responsible for your children…
You might be wondering why I’d be sitting out here in the Central Valley of California worrying about some crazed teen terrorizing the streets of Jefferson County, CO, but the thing is I see a whole bunch of dipshits like this every day of the week.
Of course, they don’t all look like this: some are older (lots and lots of them actually), some might be younger. They could be shorter, stockier, have a fuller face. You know, less of the “Meth Freak In Training” going for him than this kid. With that little Heisenberg beanie cocked back on the zenith of his pin head, the look of an in-bred crypt keeper who couldn’t cut it in “Remedial Nose Breathing 101” and failed “Introductory Chewing with Mouth Closed”.
But the lady shared a rather decent picture of this moral eunuch, of course looking so proud of himself for being such a bad-ass. That brain-dead arrogance often shown by people who have so little respect for themselves they have to talk their self-absorbed psyches into believing they can force it out of other people by, well, acting like a total asshole.
You probably know what it looks like when a runt-of-the-litter chihuahua is backed into a corner.
In this instance it would seem the punk’s rage was ultimately directed not at any one individual who might not have realized who he IS but at the fact that there was traffic.
In his way!
In HIS way!
And it’s just getting worse.
Here’s a thought:
In a wide variety of criminal infractions, there are what is known as Special Circumstances that can be added onto the original charges. Think “Hate Crime”. Or “Lying in Wait”.
special circumstances : n. in criminal cases, particularly homicides, actions of the accused or the situation under which the crime was committed for which state statutes allow or require imposition of a more severe punishment. “Special circumstances” in murder cases may well result in the imposition of the death penalty (in states with capital punishment) for murder or life sentence without possibility of parole. Such circumstances may include: rape, kidnapping or maiming prior to the killing, multiple deaths, killing a police officer or prison guard, or actions showing wanton disregard for life such as throwing a bomb into a restaurant.
We need to get legislators on board to make “Road Rage” an actual “special circumstance”. Tack in on to speeding or reckless driving or vehicular assault.
There needs to be a mandatory license suspension for one year upon a court’s finding of Road Rage. Anger management classes also made mandatory for those twelve months.
Formal report-every-month probation.
Six months house arrest. Ankle bracelet. Offender goes to work (or school) by a court approved manner and route and nowhere else that doesn’t involve a doctor’s note or further court approval.
Along with the suspension and counselling comes a mandatory psychiatric evaluation at the offender’s cost, once upon the finding of Road Rage, a second one after the tenth month of the license suspension to see if the return of the license is a safe option.
Shouldn’t be a problem. A motor vehicle can be a dangerous, deadly weapon.
Even the NRA says it pretty much sort of almost doesn’t want any seriously unbalanced individuals having their hands on any weapons (unless, I’m figuring here, that individual is a dues-paying member who always votes the way Charlton Heston would want them to), so why would they want that same sociopath with their hands on the wheel? Why would any of us?
The thing is …
it’s a pretty safe supposition that any self-absorbed prick (or prickette) who gets away with taking their life’s frustrations out on anybody travelling in front, behind or alongside them for having the nerve to be travelling in front, behind or alongside them will likely keep doing it.
Their ego tells them they’re justified in doing so.
After a while, they’ll just look for excuses.
And sooner or later someone could very conceivably die.
All because some punk (or punkette) had their fragile little feelings hurt and frankly couldn’t give an enema-fueled shit about who has to pay for it.
Some of the best advice I received when I retired was to try to learn new things. Take up a new hobby, read different types of books, watch more documentaries instead of horror movies.
I even brush my hair with my left hand every now and then, try eating European style where I don’t switch the fork to my right hand after using it in the left one when I cut myself a bite.
I spent fifteen years using my brain at least eight hours a day on the job, wouldn’t be good to just basically shut it down.
My shrink was right.
Guitar. Hadn’t even touched one in, like, twenty-two years. Twenty-three.
Remember more chords than I expected. Even some of the strange fret patterns I came up with just finger-fumbling around.
Picked up a number of instructional books, so now I know what those strange fingerings were. I know which of them are diatonic, non-diatonic, sustained, extended, augmented, all that good stuff.
After five decades of listening to CSN, The Band, the Dead, Bruce and the guys, Stephen, Neil (only really need to know about three chords there), B.B., Buddy, Slowhand, Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters …
… you kind of pick up on stuff. Progressions they use, variations they’ve tried, and you like the sounds of them.
Now I’m learning how to do it.
First song I ever learned was “Wooden Ships”, and I would get a run going of E minor and A minor to play behind Stills’ solo. Now I do one of five chords with three variations on top of that.
Nice to know my mind is still sharp enough to pick up on that stuff.
My fingers, however, remain sixty-three years old, and at times this is exactly what it feels like:
Of course, with practice, patience and perseverance, one day I hope to see genuine improvement:
Gotta give it this much:
it’s cheaper than therapy, and at least ol’ Max never calls me the last minute to cancel ’cause some hysterical gum-clicking little cheerleader can’t figure out the chords to “All About That Bass”.
(Parenthetically, as you can see, I looked on-line for those chords just out of curiosity. Can’t find them, BUT…
(… you CAN find something like six different sets of tabs on ultimateguitar.com for the bass line, one of which is supposed to sound “real boss”.
(I guess it is all about the bass.
(Melodies are so, like, y’know, so old school.)
It’s also Ray Davies’ birthday, true grounds for worldwide celebration, but …
it’s Father’s Day!!!
Was just sitting outside with Gracie, got to thinking about the three most important lessons I tried to teach our kids. The ones I’d love the opportunity to pass on to our grandson:
1) Don’t ever – and I do mean EVER – tell someone they shouldn’t feel the way they do. Never ever. There are many times people don’t even understand themselves why they feel the way they do, and there is no way you know how they feel better than they do.
And it they do have a barely tenable grasp on why they feel the way they do, and it doesn’t make sense to you? I don’t give a shit, ’cause that means less of a shit than the one I don’t give. It doesn’t have to make sense to you. You’re not that important in the scheme of things. You actually don’t matter. Really. You don’t.
If you want to help them try to understand why they feel that way, God bless you, because that might be one of the reasons He put you in their lives to begin with.
If all you want to do is tear them down for feeling that way, shut your damned pie hole and consider the fact that you really, really don’t have all the answers for yourself, much less anyone else.
2) Whoever talks the loudest and the longest and the last doesn’t always “win”. More often than not, they’re not even in the running.
Someone’s silence in response to such a buffoon usually doesn’t mean concession, it means they’re just fed up with trying to actually converse (or maybe even compare opinions) with someone who is obsessed with being “right” even when there’s no possible “wrong” answer to the question at hand …
meaning to say –
opinions are never wrong. They’re never right. They are neither irrefutable facts nor brazen and outright bullshit, and very often there are really no verifiable facts that can support those opinions or render them useless.
These days you can just mention in passing that you like the taste of Coke over the taste of Pepsi, and I guaran-damn-tee you more people than you might think will tell you that you’re wrong.
There are some people out there that are obsessed with being right or winning the “argument” when it’s just not possible. Even when there isn’t any argument.
And that is when they start talking the loudest and the longest and will keep going long after they’ve run out of words or coherent thoughts on the subject.
The infamous, and thoroughly over-rated, “last word”.
And finally, Number Three.
And this might be the most important out of the bunch.
Write it down for future reference. Cross-stitch a sampler, frame it, put it on the living room wall next to the big screen:
3) Never stop laughing at farts.
When the urge hits you to go out and play in the mud, then go outside and play in the mud. Middle of summer? The ground is the consistency of concrete? Break out the hose and play in the mud.
Eat desert before you even touch your veggies.
And never, ever, EVER stop laughing at farts.
It revives the childlike enthusiasm that too many of us buried under the shroud of adulthood way too early in life …
AND it’s the Great Human Equalizer.
You’re sitting in your fourth grade class, taking a math test, you can hear a pin drop in the classroom all the way down the hall, and someone tosses out a cheeseburger?
Ain’t gonna be a single person in the room who isn’t fighting back a chortle or chuckle or two.
The saintly, hallowed chambers of the Supreme Court of the United States of ‘merka. Nine semi-continent geezers in robes deciding the fate of Roe v. Wade or Obamacare or Citizens United or the Satanic onslaught unleashed upon the moral fabric of fine upstanding citizens by a bunch of faggots wanting to get married.
A little gastric melody floats gently – yea, even subtly – into the open air outside of one of those robes? Ruth Bader Ginsburg might burst a blood vessel trying to stifle a giggle. John Roberts (who seems to harbor a certain proclivity for blowing it out his ass) might actually concur and smirk at the very least.
Scalia would blame Obama.
Farts are the one parcel of common ground upon which all mortals have trodden. They neither acknowledge nor kowtow to insignificant specifics such as race, creed, color, national origin, gender, sexual orientation, native language, political affiliation or how many weapons one keeps in an unlocked, Stars-and-Bars flag draped cabinet in their bedroom in case the black helicopters are circling late one night and they need to lock ‘n’ load on a split second’s notice.
You quit laughing at farts and you’ve pretty much abandoned all vestiges of humanity remaining in your hopelessly shallow soul.
never swing at the first pitch.
And rock ‘n’ roll is made to be played loud.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
It seems that for some people to feel truly free
they find it necessary
to keep someone else in shackles.