Special Olympics and the St. Valentine‘s Day Massacre

The Special Olympics… what exactly are the Special Olympics. It’s supposed to be an athletic gathering for the “mentally retarded” persons nationwide. Now they’re expanding it to the Winter Games style events. Yeah, skiing is exactly what these kids need to be doing. What, you trying to Sonny Bono-ize them? Damned, I’ve heard of 86ing a plan, but 150 million participant strong program? Anyway…
So I was thinking (which I’m prone to do on downtime at “work”) about the Special Olympics. And I got to thinking about how other sports and athletes are. These are possible the most humble of any of them. They train their asses off all year to run a race, or participate in this event or that event. And little, to no one comes out to support them (at least around here). Of course that may have to do with the parking. What, are all of the spaces handicapped? So, you park across the street.
Don’t treat this any different than any other sporting event though. Go there early, tailgate, cook out, drink beer in the parking lot. Drink yourself retarded, that way you are on the same playing field as the athletes. Set up a tent, and chill in the shade it provides for the event. Hell, what do they care, they’re thinking about their Fruit Loops (refer to my previous rant). These kids love attention. They want you there to cheer them on. Hell, take booze in with you in a Dixie cup. Sit in your shade and cheer on your favorite athlete. Take your buddies like you would to a football game, make bets, it’s all in fun. That said, let me break down some of the stuff I’ve said.
Bet on the races. The thing is, you can’t do like you would at a normal race (like a horse race, dog race, whatever). You can’t go down to the stable, holding pen, whatever you want to call it, and inspect them. “Ooh… look at number 5, he’s shitting in the corner, that’s got to be good. Put me down for $5 on him.” Hell no, that’s a disadvantage in these games. “Ooh… he’s shitting in the corner… he didn’t even take his pants down. Look at that fucking bulge. No way I’m taking him in the third.” You also can’t assume all of them will finish or even start. You’ve got 35 kids crammed into 4 lanes. (Hey, there are only so many events they can do there.) You don’t know if they’re going to take off running their 2 minute 100 yard dash, or if they’re going to stand there and hug the starter. You also can’t tell if they have 2 left feet and if they’re going to cause the “big one” as they like to refer to it in NASCAR (yeah, another subject for a different day). Hell, some of them kids didn’t even know they were competing. They showed up in their blue jeans and tennis shoes and they got put in there because Sally Shitpants has diarrhea. It’s unpredictable like that. And that’s the beauty of betting. There are no odds, you just pick a guy and what you see is what you get.
Hell, you yourself can change the outcome of the whole race. Go along the race course and cheer for your guy’s opponents. (I know, you’ll understand in a minute though.) Whatever you do, don’t cheer for your guy. Remember, retards are attention whores. They love attention. You go and yell “Go Timmy Two Toes… come on 35, you can do it.” That’s not going to propel them towards the finish line. Noooo… not hardly. What are they going to do when you cheer for them? “Hey, who sed’ dat‘? Ohh… haaaay… (waving of course with the one arm extended waaaay overhead). How are you today…” Hell, by this point, they’ve stopped running entirely, and are making their way towards you to talk to you, or hug you, spit on you, something like that. Your guy’s gonna run right the fuck past them, and onto victory lane. “Winner by a chest (cause you know they run like a retarded monkey on crack rock) #14 Little Billy Brain-dead…”
And for them not having a lot of events. Umm… can you blame the people putting these events together for limiting it to basic skills events? Can you see them trying to have the hammer throw or shot put or javelin or something like that. These little fuckers are already emotional enough. Hell, they’ll cry because they farted and more than 3 people hear it. You think I want these bi-polar bastards around anything sharp, heavy, or shaped like a ball? HELL NO! You know what the odds of dying are? About 3 to 1. Just imagine, one of these little turds get all ornery because someone takes their pudding pack. They pick up the nearest thing to them, which just happens to be an 8 foot javelin pole. Well, they decide it’s a good idea to go ram this thing up the guy that took said pudding pack’s asshole. Pretty soon, you’ve recreated St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. You’ve got fucking 8 lb. shot put balls being hurtled at your face at a whopping 7 mph. (still, this shit’s going to hurt, especially when Mikey “I pissed my pants” McFarland is tugging at your wrists and wanting you to give him a hug). Jimmy Cracks Corn is chasing anyone that’s got on red (because he doesn’t like red) with a bow and arrow trying to shoot them for wearing it (fucking archery tent). Pretty soon, it’s bedlam, and you’re right in the middle of it. It’s like the Holocaust, except it’s not the extermination of a race, it’s the extermination of inbreeders by other inbreeders.
Feel free to leave me any comments in the comments section. I really don’t give a damned if you like it or agree with it, or not. The religious right will tell me that I’m going to hell. Well, that’s ok I suppose. I’ve sort of accepted that, and I’m prepared. I bought my short-bus I’ll be driving. I stole a retard’s crash helmet to wear. And I bought a super soaker for my co-pilot to cool us down with. Fuck off…

Fat Bitches, Fruit Loops, and Parking Spaces...

I figured if I were to going to start blogging, why not get people pissed at me from the get go. Hell, what do I care, I don’t know you bastards reading this anyway (well, a few of you I do, but I’ve already told ya’ll to get the fuck over it or lick my balls, or something of that ilk.) Anyway, yeah, this is my first blog, and I will go ahead and come out and say this. You don’t like it, well, you sir (or ma’am, don’t want to offend the always hot internet “babes”) can kiss my fucking starfish. I’m controversial, I push your buttons, and I try to piss you off. You’ll thank me later in life when you’re sitting around wondering what made you have those strange, off kilter thoughts that sparked something in your brain and made you think for yourself. Just remember, when you’re a millionaire, I’ve already laid claim to 25% of your assets, like it or not, “I gotta get mines“, or some ghetto shit slang like that. That said, here’s my meaning less rant for today (or the next couple probably, cause I don’t get paid to do this shit. I do have a real job, so you‘ll get my random ass thoughts when I get a chance to record them.)
I was thinking about parking. No, not the kind where you pull over and your girlfriend, betty, whatever you choose for her to be called sucks face with you, and you force feed her your dick. Not that parking. The kind where you pull in, stop the vehicle, turn it off, and go into the place. Yeah, now that I’ve got you thinking about that blowjob from your high school sweet heart, MEL GIBSON’S HAIRY ASS! Moving on. I was thinking about parking, and had an epiphany, well, not really, that’s just a cool word. I was really thinking “What the Fuck”, well, that and about that blowjob. So I’m rolling through the lot, cruising for those 14 year olds with the mini skirts and Paris Hilton’s latest skank swag wrapped around their steroid-filled food eating ass, and it occurred to me that there’s parking for every fucking thing. Damned handicapped parking, expectant mother parking, 15 minute parking, employee of the month parking, VIP parking, cop parking, parking for this, that, and the other. Shit, I’ve never seen such hierarchy type shopping system as I have today (granted, I’m only 22, so that’s not that much time to worry about that shit). It’s getting out of hand.
I’ll break down a few of them, beginning with handicapped parking. Honestly, how many of the mother fuckers that park in these places do we really believe are handicapped? That have a natural inability to do something, that kind of handicap. No, not something stupid they did inducing a handicap, they are born with a disorder, or developed. I don’t mean Billy Joe Bob ‘round the corner falling in the fucking chicken house and breaking his fucking leg. And not Timmy Thomas yelling “Hey ya’ll, watch this shit!” Followed by trying to jump off the roof on the trampoline and consequently falling and receiving brain damage. And defiantly not Bertha Big Ass that peels her rump roast out of the car, waddles her rather unsightly ass into the store where upon plopping down in a fucking Rascall Scooter the store provided at their own expense. And not retarded people either. None of those fuckers need handicapped parking. The stupid son of a bitches deserve to park where I have to park, matter of fact, make them park across the street for being so goddamned retarded, that‘s not a handicap, that‘s bad parenting. (Now come the bible thumpers just because I said goddamned. Look mother fucker, I’ll dissect you in about two seconds. I studied the different religions for a while in the theologies classes I took. That’s for another blog, right now, parking is my bitch.) Next, the fat white women. (Disclaimer: No, I’m not racist, I’m white too, and 80% of the time, no matter where you go, there’s a fat ass white bitch peeling her roach box off her car seat) They aren’t handicapped either. They’re fat for a fucking reason. It’s not because they have an under-active metabolism, lymph nodes, what the fuck ever they tell you. Bitch, you’re addicted to food, plain and simple. If you wouldn’t eat so fucking much, you wouldn’t be a lard ass. Tubby bitches need to walk, don’t they know exercise helps prevent that? Doubt it, cause about 99% of the time their doctor gives them a handicapped permit so he doesn’t have to get them all undressed to examine them to only say “Yep, bitch, you’re a fat fuck. You should try walking, or jogging or something.” That and they don’t want to examine their cooter. Hell, they haven’t seen the son of a bitch in 10 years, you think they’ve been able to scrub it, or groom it? Fuck no, that fucker looks like they got buckwheat in a head lock, and smells like camel pussy to boot. Do you blame the doctor? Doubt it, maybe the fat asses have an out, sort of. Then there’s the retarded people. Sure, they’re handicapped, they are certified and everything. The government has the People with Disabilities Act and all that shit. But, them being like they are, do you honestly think they give a fuck where they park? Besides the fact they shouldn’t be driving anyway, all those bastards care about are getting up in the morning, eating their bowl of Fruit Loops (sue me, I named a brand) and watching cartoons. They could care less whether or not they park in the fucking door at the local Wal-Mart. That’s an excuse for the mother fucker driving their retarded ass around to park in the door. You lazy son of a bitch, you too can get a spoon and eat my shit. (Don’t get me started on retards, that’s an entire rant by itself. I’ll tell you my thoughts on the Special Olympics later.) Then there’s the wheel chair bound. Bitch, why you need close parking? YOU’RE ON FUCKING WHEELS!!! You should park the farthest away. Hell, park on a hill like a mile away, get a bicycle horn and give it hell. Why do you need to park up front, you’re going to be the last one to get tired. Yeah, handicapped parking? Fuck that!
Next is expectant mother’s parking. Ok, true, they’re carrying this water headed bastard around in their stomach. (I wasn’t a water head, I was just an ugly bastard. Hey, I can deal with it. And yes, bastard is appropriate, again, another story.) I can understand why you’d want to park up close. It’s probably hell carrying that thing around for 9 months. And I understand that you want to park up close. Here’s the thing though. Women are beautiful creatures. Why should they, in pain and all that shit, have to even go to the store, well, other than to get out of the house? The idiot that stuck his tally whacker (that’s a sweet word huh?) in her box should get her whatever she wants, whenever she wants. No questions asked. You’re the one that let your men crawl around in her, now you deal with it. And the baby daddies… (Nah, I’ll stick to topic.) Anyway, they shouldn’t have to do shit except eat bonbons, watch Oprah, and push when it’s time. Besides that, doesn’t the doctor tell you to walk a when your water is about to break or something? (The only thing I’ve ever birthed is a kidney stone, I can imagine the horror.) Yeah, pregnant woman parking is out too.
Then there’s VIP parking, Boss parking, employee of the month parking, all that shit. Mother fucker, I bust my hump for your ass all day long. You tell me what to do, and all that good shit. You don’t do shit ‘cept play golf, and fuck your secretary. (Ladies, they say they got a meeting, 99.5% of the time, those lazy, office job son of a bitches are fucking another woman. Confront his ass… moving on.) You don’t do anything to actually become tired. Fuck you, park at the end of the parking lot.
I said all of that to say this. There’s all of this bullshit reserved parking for all of this shit. There’s no “I worked my ass off slaving for the man all day long and I’m fucking tired” parking. There’s none of that shit for the working man. None of that shit to benefit me. I’m not retarded, lazy, or pregnant. And I’m not fucking around on my old lady while I’m supposed to be working. None of that shit benefits me. I’m just worried that one day there’ll be a parking space for everything, and I still won’t have anywhere to park. Well, unless they have a space labeled “Hey Asshole, you’re the one that pisses everyone off. You park here, at the brink of hell, you son of a bitch.” Yeah, I guess I’ll have a parking space after all…