The TSA...Witches....White Indians..

The TSA, that last line of defense when it comes to protecting the flying public from some clown with an Ass Bomb, which is not to be confused with a Bomb Ass ( J Lo),  is in the news, again. Seems like these people are all the time in the news for one thing or another. This time it's because they fired a witch for putting a hex on a fellow TSA workers car heater. Yeah, you read me right. The MSN article didn't really go in to detail as to what the hex consisted of. I'm not sure if the woman's heater quit working, just made some strange noises, or emitted some kind of stank fumes, like the time an ex girlfriend put some shrimps in my defrost vent. .  Anywho, the article is long as hell, you can read it here, or just save yourself the trouble, read this long ass post and take my word as gospel.

The condensed version goes like this. Witchy Woman was on probationary period, learning the proper way to cup a package, (no UPS), handle a wand, which should have been an easy one, and generally slow lines to a fucking crawl. She let the black cat out of the bag at some point, told people she was a wiccan, and that's when shit took a turn down hill.  Long story short, it looks like the TSA supervisors were making her life hell after the officer training her reported that the witch put a spell on her car heater. I honestly don't know if this shit is all that funny considering the TSA worker who filed the original complaint and the retarded supervisors actually took it seriously. I'm thinking anyone stupid enough to believe in car heater hexes probably isn't smart enough to be entrusted with airport security when lives are on the line.

I don't know dick about Wiccans even though I dated a witch  for a couple of years. I never saw her cast a spell, never witnessed any late night dancing with the devil, or any shenanigans that would indicate black magic, spell casting, or black cauldrons full of newt penis (no Gingrich), bat wings, or virgin blood. We never discussed it, probably because I never asked and she realized that I was a sarcastic prick who would mock her about her beliefs the first time we got in a scrap. 

Odd religions, and aren't they all in some way or another, ain't really my bag. I've stated many times that I'm Agnostic and I plan to get religious as hell only when I think I'm getting close to cashing in my chips, just to be on the safe side.  I'm not sure which religion I'll go with, but it will be one that believes in Hell and an afterlife, otherwise, what's the point. Right?  What I do know is that some religious beliefs are best kept to yourself, lest you be mocked, ridiculed, villanized, or fired the first time someone has a malfunction with their cars heater.

As with all free world subjects, I derive much of my opinion from my criminal history, more to the point, from my time in the joint. Prison is a fucking fondue pot of religions. You name it, there is someone practicing it, or suing for the right to practice it, in the joint. Moorish Americans, sued more than a few prisons for their right to walk around in a Fez like they are Shriners, while calling all white folks European devils. More than a few Crackers are practicing some made up Nordic religion, which is basically just a reverse negative of the Moorish cats. In other words, these are a couple of made up religions, whose dogma is really just about hating on someone for their pigment, or lack there of.

The most absurd religion in prison is the Native American religion, even though I'm not sure they actually call it a religion per say. Now before you go all Geronimo on me, allow me to splain myself. I've got no problem  with real Native Americans in or out of prison, who practice whatever their brand is called. That said, 3/4ths of the dudes in the joint who sit around in sweat lodges, beat drums, and have made up Indian names, are about as Indian as Jackie Chan. Unless there was some lost tribe of super pale, freckled, blonde or ginger Indians I never heard of, then prison is full of dudes who are full of shit where their religious beliefs are concerned. I recall the first time I ever saw a group of white Indians in prison. I like to refer to them as the Whothefuckarewee, because they are clearly having an identity crisis. Sort of like white guys who try to act black. A white dude in saggy pants, holding his crotch just looks like a white guy in saggy britches who needs to piss really bad. Same goes with these white indians in the slammer.

If there was ever a more ridunkulous sight than some skinny white cat, feather in his reddish blonde hair, maybe a wolf tattoo, a little leather pouch hanging around his white neck, then I don't know what could be more retarded. These naive-hoes, heh, were the object of much ridicule, clowning, and more Indian jokes than I've made in this post. My rational fair side said " these morons have the right to play Indian if they want to" while my prick side said " these tools deserve to be clowned for sitting in the middle of a prison yard playing a tom tom and chanting like the Indians on that old flick Blazing Saddles. One day you are sportin feathers in your hair in the prison yard, next day you are wearing a Winnie the Pooh suit washing some 300 pound black dudes socks in the toilet.

I know you are scratching your heads right now for several reasons, not the least of which is over my Winnie the Pooh suit remark. There aren't really people wearing bear suits in prison, it's just one of those slang prison terms that seems nonsensical to you square world types, but is actually genius. Winnie was a cuddly teddy bear, soft like that fabric softener bear. Thus wearing a Winnie the Pooh suit means you are getting nightly colonoscopies, only not from a doctor, and not with one of those cameras they normally use.

So, there's a point to all of this random shit I've been throwing at you, and it's this. Those non Indian Indians in the Prison yard should have just smuggled a couple of leg bones back from the chow hall on chicken night, tossed em under their bunk, and done their bongo drum and sweat lodge thing in the privacy of their cells, ideally in protective custody, safe from a life of sock washing and unspeakable violations. Just because you have an inalienable right to practice your religion of preference, it's wise to keep that shit to yourself if it's not mainstream.  Likewise, our TSA witch should have kept that black cat in the bag concerning her beliefs. There never would have been allegations of Hexes and car heaters. She would still have her job.  There are people who go out of their way to be martyrs. Some people who practice religious beliefs outside the norm, not all but more than a few, go out of their way to be all sensitive and shit while making sure everyone knows their religious beliefs . Having a PHD  in human behavior, (not really), I get the sense that this witch lady is one of those martyr types. In order to be a martyr  you first need to be identified as martyrdom material. So you announce your wacky beliefs to everyone who will listen, sit back and wait for the inevitable mocking and harassment.

Fast Eddie Friday....Beware the ides of March....

Julius Caesar was warned by a soothsayer to "beware the ides of March", a few hours later a bunch of disgruntled cats broke some metal off in his ass.  ( Thats early roman prison slang meaning you just got shanked bitch) Popular theory is that Caesar had pissed off too many people and they all got together and made a move on him. I've got my own theory and it goes something like this. Ides is just the fucked up Roman way of saying "the fifteenth" of the month.

The soothsayer, who was really just a latter day Miss Cleo, minus the fake Jamaican accent, African mu mu, and 800 number, should have warned Jules to watch his ass because spring was coming. The reason he got bumped was because of the  warm weather, spring. The date was just luck on the soothsayers part, or he may have had some inside info. Point is, the killers were just waiting for the big C to get caught out running around with his guard down. Spring brings warm weather, and warm weather brings out the criminals. Fact. A fact that still holds true today.

So now that I've schooled you rubes on some historical shit, lets take a look at Spring in the metro and see whats sprung.

Here we go, fast and loose.

Something about warm weather brings out the crazy in folks, I figure that's why there will never be peace in the middle east, it's always fuckin hot over there. Right?

Take the dude pictured above with the fucked up complexion for example.  John Gallagher, 19, a former student of some Platte City High School got busted for breaking in to the school, multiple times. His crime, besides burglary? Johnny boy was burping the nephew, choking his chicken, jerkin his gherkin, and spilling his seed on underwear he found in the boys gym locker room. He allegedly told the cops he was doing it to exact revenge on a certain type of student, the same type who bullied him when he went to school there. John's explanation stinks worse than a gym sock. While I've no doubt he was bullied, I mean seriously look at the mug on this clown, still I'm guessing this crime is one of passion and not pay back. Spring not only brings crime, it makes the libido go haywire. School officials should count themselves lucky that Johnny didn't take his lust to the cafeteria. " This tapioca tastes funny".

 Anyway, blame it on spring.

Nothing says spring in Kansas City like rolling gun battles and increased shootings on the East side. I've lost count how many people have been shot so far this month, but it's a bunch. Warm weather is conducive to thuggish types for a variety of reasons. When your ass is hanging out of saggy pants you don't want an arctic wind frostbiting your crack. So they wait until it warms up before they step up spraying random bullets and killing each other over a particular block or bandanna. Fair warning, like the Robin that you see in your yard, a harbinger of spring, that Robin migrated with the warm weather. Urban criminals also migrate with weather, so expect an increase in robbery, car jacking, and all around mayhem, coming to a neighborhood near you!

If you think I seem  to have taken on a glib attitude about crime and the freaky freaks that roam this city,  you are correct. I gotta be honest, the righteous indignation thing got tired, played out. They say laughter is the best medicine, and really, who wants to read the same morose shit day in and out. I've come to the conclusion that I've wasted 3 years on this bloggy thing trying to be all serious and shit. I think that's what killed my writing mojo. So look for an uptick in my posting frequency, and a downturn in the serious factor. I'll still write the occasional tear jerker, but not nearly as often. Spring is here, even if it isn't official yet. New beginnings, hope springing eternal, and a heavy dose of sarcasm, that's the ticket.  You rubes stay tuned, shits about to pick up around here.

Fast Eddie Friday... Is that a spider on your head or are ya just glad to see me?

So last night I'm making the last stop on a new route I'm running. The route starts out in Midtown, runs up into North Central Missouri, and ends back in Midtown. Seven to eight hours of monotony. Towns like Jamesport, Chillicothe, Trenton, and several others too small and forgettable to bother mentioning.  Don't get me wrong, there are moments, little shit that keeps things interesting. My first day on the route I almost head on with some no button having Amish dude in a runaway buggy, for realz. I crest a hill out in the middle of cow country and hear comes fuckin Jedediah up the center of the 2 lane highway in a black buggy being pulled by some plow horse who has seemingly decided to go bat shit crazy and act like he is Secretariat. The rest of the trip that day was uneventful, a series of small towns, bleached out fields, old men in old pickup trucks who think the speed limit is 40 rather than 55 or 60. Fun it ain't. but it pays the bills.

I get back to Midtown and my final stop, night starting to fall. The city is lit up, a beacon welcoming me back to familiar territory. The familiar in Midtown is a long looooooong way from the Amish buggy guys familiar ground. I'm reminded of the vast difference a couple hundred miles can make as I exit my car at my final stop.

I notice her making a beeline for me, walking fast but not particularly straight. She looks like she is doing a slalom run, weaving in and out of those orange cones, except she is the only one who can see them. Stocking cap pulled low over a weave that has seen better days. The fake hair looks like flat dreads. The brown stocking cap and ragged hair extensions look like a giant spider  perched atop her head. As she approaches it dawns on me that she is running the same pattern as the Amish guys out of control horse. It also dawns on me that those hair extensions probably came from a horse. Horse hair, a fine thread that connects two people who could not possibly be more different from one another.

I'm unloading my car while keeping one eye on Crackzilla. Crack  heads really  do remind me of Velociraptors, those medium size carnivores from Jurassic Park. When she gets  about 30 feet away I can hear her repeating something, at first it sounds like she is saying something totally nonsensical. It sounds like she is saying, "Please feed the mice", but as she gets closer I realize she is talking to me, and she is actually saying, "Please be nice".  I give her my best scowl, the one that makes babies cry. The one that says "Fat fuckin chance" to whatever shpeel she is about to run on me. Normally my trademark scowl is enough to squash whatever ploy/plea for money from all but the most determined or high panhandler. It doesn't even faze her.

Like any veteran crack head the eyes are her tell, the thing that gives her away. Bright and a little manic. She looks like  Chris Rocks girlfriend from New Jack City, the one he put his shoe on over a turkey leg. If you've seen the movie you know the scene.  She starts her sales pitch, the one about how she got left behind, stranded by friends or some shit, and I'm already cutting her off as I walk away. I can't say where I was, mainly because I don't want to lose this shitty little job. Ambiguity aside, let me just say that the place is crawling with security guards. So here I am, a load of stuff on a dolly, with a 90 pound boofer trailing me like a cat following a fish monger. (Kudos to me for using the terms  Boofer and Fish Monger in the same sentence) .

I've got no idea what she is saying, she is throwing up words, machine gun fast mumbling, another tell that this whack job is in love with the glass pipe. When she realizes that the "Please be nice" mantra isn't cutting it, she starts screaming. She isn't saying shit at this point, just screaming at the top of her lungs. A cross between pure D fucking crazy and a "I'm being raped" scream. I pick up the pace, walking fast like my feet are on fire and my ass is catching. But you cannot out fast walk a crack head. I don't care if you are one of those Middle age power walker women from JoCo, little pink dumbbell in each hand, swinging your arms like an Indy Avenue hooker, you can't out walk a crack head.

As luck would have it the screams from the Velocicrackster, heh, brings 3 security guards out of their little trailer. They are looking at me like I must have done something fucked up to elicit such a high pitched sustained scream from the woman with the horse hair spider on her head. I give them a look that says, "drop the fuckin donut and get this bitch in check". I'm 20 feet from the entrance of the building, a big pair of automatic glass doors that will separate this crazy dope fiend from my heels, but the security douches block my path to freedom. "Whats going on" asks one of the 3 stooges. It's important that you readers understand, this woman is screaming at the top of her lungs, maybe 2 feet behind me.She is wearing clothes that look like she lifted them from the Nick Nolte character in Down and Out in Beverly Hills. Bag lady chic, finished off with that giant spider arrangement on her head. She is screaming like a stuck pig, my hands are full, dolly in one, big black bag in the other, and this douche bag is going all mall Cop on ME. I resist the urge to ask him if he is an idiot or just mildly retarded. I just look at the guy like he has 3 heads, turn to look at her, then back to him. The wordless exchange lasts maybe a minute and she never stops screaming. The bitch should hook up with the homeless golden voice guy. Get her some singing lessons, teach her a couple of Opera songs, she definitely  has the pipes for opera. They could do a show together, then pop some rocks back at the hotel after the show.

I guess all the screaming finally convinced the stooges that the bitch was nuttier than a payday bar. Stooge one gives me a head nod to go through the glass doors.  I leave the screaming crack head to deal with the three meat heads. when I come back about 20 minutes later they are still surrounding her, she is still screaming albeit not nearly as loud at this point. I already know that this thing will end with her in the back of a paddy wagon headed for the fruit factory.

On my way home it strikes me that the Amish dude would have probably reacted differently if the crack head found her way out to the sticks and approached him for a ride. He probably would have loaded her up in his buggy and taken her back to his farm. The missus would have served her some pie, because the Amish make hella pies. They would have made her a spot to sleep and awoken the next morning to find their butter churn missing along with the horse and buggy.

The moral of this story, if there is one, " You can take the crack head out of the city, but you cant take the".............never mind. There isn't any moral or message, just another typical evening in Midtown.