Merry Christmas to me!

Ever since I was a young boy, I've played the silver ball...
Similarities between me and The Who pretty much end there (although Pete Townshend could have been looking at any of my high school report cards when he coined the phrase "teenage wasteland" for "Baba O'Reilly") but I have always loved, and still do, the game of pinball. My dad got me started, no doubt as a way of passing on his beloved juvenile delinquent tendencies from the '50s. I'm of the first generation of kids to grow up with video games, and those are lots of fun too, but while I like video games, I've always loved pinball.

FUN FACT: The night I was stood up for my senior prom, I spent much of the evening in a diner somewhere along 196 near Saugatuck, Michigan, playing pinball while wearing a tux.

One reason I prefer pinball to video games is that there are no patterns that can be followed for success in pinball. You can have a strategy in going after targets and bonuses, but success or failure is going to be determined by impossible-to-predict bumps and bounces. No two games will ever be exactly the same. I also love the bells and flashing lights. Pinball machines always remind me of miniature amusement parks. And as someone who grew up loving comic books, the artwork appeals to me.

FUN FACT: Most summer nights between high school graduation and when I left for basic training in August were spent with my friend Mark and his girlfriend Pat playing the Xenon machine at the Benton Harbor Holiday Inn.

I've always wanted a pinball machine of my very own. A real one, not a toy; not some pinball game, with Snoopy or The Six Million Dollar Man on it. I'm talking about a big, heavy piece of machinery with lights and bells and buzzers that you put quarters in. And now, finally, I own one. Specifically, this one:

For those keeping score at home, it's Pinball Machines: 1, Furniture People Can Sit On: 0.

It's a "Big Brave", manufactured in 1974 by D. Gottlieb & Company, bka Gottlieb (who knew there is such a thing as an Internet Pinball Database?) and I can still hardly believe it's in my house!! Manufactured at the very dawn of people worrying about political correctness, it was originally called "Big Injun". The theme and graphics aren't that offensive but they're not something anybody would dare put out today. If I had the time and resources ($$$) to really shop, I probably would have preferred something with a sports theme and/or depictions of voluptuous cartoon babes.

Like this!

But I didn't have those options. I wanted an older machine because while the modern ones can do some pretty incredible things with lights, sound and gameplay, I wanted something more "classic". I like the simple bells and flashing lights and I really like the spinning numbered wheels that go "ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk" as they rack up scores. The backglass of a classic pinball machine reminds me of Bill Veeck's exploding scoreboard at Comiskey Park, which brings things full-circle, since a pinball machine was the inspiration for that scoreboard.

The problem is, finding old pinball machines isn't easy. There simply aren't as many around as there used to be. It takes patience and luck to find one that is in pretty good shape (playable) and not crazy expensive. I've been looking for years and finally got lucky.
So this is my Christmas present to myself this year. If anybody is wondering what they can get me, quarters would be nice.

Come back tomorrow

No new material today, but come back tomorrow when I reveal my 2013 Christmas present to myself!

Hint: Part of it is kind of this shape.

See you tomorrow. I can't wait!

Flaw-some and shame-azing!

I, like most people, overuse certain words. It's a natural habit. You find certain words with which you are comfortable expressing yourself so you turn to them again and again. There's nothing wrong with that. But it's something I wish I did less, especially with certain words. For one thing, it hints at a limited vocabulary and for a writer, that isn't good. For another, overuse diminishes and dilutes the meaning of a word. "Dude" is one of the words I overuse. I use it all the time to refer to people, often regardless of gender. Also, the words "awesome" and "amazing". I'm not alone with those. You probably hear several people use these words more than once a day, yet few things described as "awesome" or "amazing" actually inspire awe or amazement. Most of the time, when somebody says something is "amazing" or "awesome", what they mean is it's pretty good. I don't believe I've ever really had an awesome or amazing meal, yet I constantly find myself using those term in conversations with virtually anyone I encounter.

SERVER: How is everything?
ME: Awesome!

FRIEND: Hey, how is the food at that place? I've never been there?
ME: You should go. It's amazing!

OTHER FRIEND: What do you recommend?
ME: Get a cheeseburger. They're awesome! And a side of onion rings. Amazing!

That's like four biblical miracles worth of awesome amazingness, all for a burger-and-beer joint in Ybor City called The Green Iguana. There's nothing wrong with The Green Iguana. It's a fine place. I like to go there and I do enjoy their cheeseburgers, but there's not one single thing about it that causes me great surprise or astonishment and inspires an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder that is inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime. I'll go so far as to say it's really good, but from now on, it's not awesome or amazing, at least as far as I'm concerned. This is a decision I made last Tuesday.

You might think that my effort to improve my vocabulary while simultaneously not contributing to excessive hyperbole would at least be met with support if not enthusiasm. But no. Instead, this happened when I ran into a friend I hadn't seen in some time (not one of those referred to above).

ME: Hi, good to see you! How's it going?
FRIEND: Oh hey, Clark! Did you hear the news? You won't believe this; my sister beat cancer!
ME: What??
FRIEND: Yeah, she just got her most recent tests and it's in complete remission! We're so excited!
ME: Hey! That is... well, that's just... great.
FRIEND: "Great"?
ME: It is. It really, really is. Congratulations! I know your mom must be thrilled!
FRIEND: Wow. Try not to get so worked up about it. Geez.
ME: No, no, I really am happy. It's great news.
FRIEND: Most people who hear about itl think it's awesome news. Like the most awesome thing they've heard in weeks, months. Maybe all year.
ME: Yeah. Hmm. I can see where people would say that.
FRIEND: Not you though. Things must be pretty damn exciting in your life for you to ho-hum someone beating cancer.
ME: It's not that. I think it's fantastic. It's wonderful. Incredible. It's really really... great!
FRIEND: You said that already. Wow. Great!
ME: But I'm doing this thing, where I'm weaning myself off the word 'awesome', You know, because it's overused.
FRIEND: Overused?
ME: Yeah, like people will say a restaurant or the cheeseburgers they serve are awesome. Ha ha. Stuff like that.
FRIEND: This isn't like that.
ME: Right, I know.
FRIEND: This is somebody beating cancer. Cancer. A disease that destroys people. Like, the most devastating thing in the whole world. And she not only lived through it, she defeated it. You can't compare that to cheeseburgers.
ME: That's sorta my point...
FRIEND: You're amazing, you know that?
ME: That's funny because that's actually another word I'm not...
FRIEND: ...
ME: It was awesome seeing you today.

Heaven help me, I think I'm mellowing

Something is wrong with me. Wrong, in that I'm changing and as everyone knows, change is bad. What's happening is I'm finding I get emotional over things I never even cared about before. Now instead of watching and laughing at hour after hour of "fail" videos (the skateboard always just keeps going!) on YouTube, now I watch heartwarming sports videos, babies being adorable, animals being even more adorable and nice people doing nice things for each other (examples of each below). All of them wreck me.
It's not just these shamelessly manipulative videos. I get gooey over certain performances of certain music. Songs by obviously skilled performers who infuse their work with joy make me smile like a big, dumb doofus. That's when I don't catch myself starting to sob like an infant with a glandular condition.
Worse, I fear that I'm losing my natural-born-but-finely-honed ability to hate stuff. Things still annoy me and get on my nerves, but it's fewer things, things that are actually important and I'm finding it much easier to let things go. I'm not sure I could hold a grudge right now if I wanted to. My God, listen to me! Why wouldn't I ever want to hold a grudge?!? I always loved holding grudges and I was soooo good at it. Oh ho ho, you people don't even know! Well, some of you might... and you'd be surprised to learn that you're totally off the hook. I get over things now. Easily!
I have a Christmas tree and a wreath on my door.
A couple of weeks ago, I picked up a check for a table of soldiers at Pop n Sons (I left before they knew).
Yesterday, I listened to Christmas music. Mariah Carey. On purpose!
I'm turning into a big, damp blubbery sponge of feelings and emotions.
Ew.
I'm seriously afraid to check and see if I have a vagina. Not that there's anything inherently wrong with a person having one, particularly if they're women or men who want one, but if I have one, I'm pretty sure I'll go right out and get pregnant. That's because I'm emotional and I have no self-control. That's a bad combination. I'm a human bomb, waiting to explode and lay waste to everything in my path in the form of hugs and affection.
Gyah!
One of the things that makes me emotional is something at work called the Community Heroes Program. Our organization gives away a grant of $50,000 at every Tampa Bay Lightning home game to someone who is out in our community, doing good work on behalf of other people. They make a big presentation and every single time, the stories hit me right in the gut. In my unique position of being able to work for the team by day and cover them as a member of the media by night, I had the opportunity to write about the program recently. Here's a link to that story on Raw Charge.com.
I don't think I want to mellow. I was really looking forward to being a bitter old man who might drop his trousers with no warning and heckle Little Leaguers. Now I don't think that's going to happen...and I'm okay with it.
My God, if my dad was here right now, he'd smack me right in the face.

People: The worst

People ruin everything.
Doubt the validity of that broad swipe at humanity? Think of one thing that used to be better than it is now whose decline can't be directly traced back to human beings screwing it up.
Can't do it, can you? no. And do you know why? Because people ruin everything.
Amusement park rides? Pro sports? Movies? The Grand Canyon? All destroyed. I'll give you a more recent, relevant and important example: my dinner last Friday.
I got off from work a little earlier than I thought I would and decided to treat myself to dinner at Jimbo's, my favorite local BBQ joint. Early for me, but a little later than the standard Friday dinner rush, so the place was basically empty, with only one table occupied when I got there. Here's a not-to-scale drawing of the dining room layout...

Okay, so there's one table occupied when I arrive. Those people are sitting here...

So I decide to sit here...

See how we have our own little territories? Not all up in each others business, enjoying the peace and privacy. Nice! Except guess where this jamoke who shows up after I've ordered my food decides to sit? Right HERE...

That's right, there are 20 empty tables and he picks THAT ONE. Not only THAT table, but THAT seat, facing me. Not only is he staring at me as I'm trying to eat, I have no choice but to look at him while I'm eating, unless I want to look weird and awkward by obviously making an effort to look elsewhere and not look at him. Then things get worse when a couple on a date shows up and sits here...

Aw, come on! Four tables of customers and three of them all smooshed up into one corner of the whole restaurant. And the couple is one of those that sits on the same side because they love each other or whatever and either don't know or don't care how much the rest of us hate it when they do that shit. For my part, I become incredibly self-conscious. How could I not? These people have arranged their seating like I'm there to perform for their dining pleasure. Any hope I had of barbecue sauce running down my arm and making loud slurping noises as I drank the last of my sweet tea with an entire rib, bone and all, stuck between my teeth, were gone. In fact, every time they picked up their phones (because I can see their every move) I worried that I was doing something YouTube-worthy. Instead, I found myself cutting the meat off my ribs with a knife and a fork like I'm a member of British Parliament, leaving behind perfectly good meat that I could have easily just sucked right off the bone, all the while dabbing at the corners of my mouth with a napkin.
In other words, my dinner was ruined. Why? Because of people. They're just the worst.

How boxing was invented

A jousting tournament field somewhere in England on March 24, 1624...

LEOFRICK, VALET TO SIR CEDRIC OF CRANAPPLE: Sir Cedric! I have just learned your next opponent is to be none other than Lord Destro of Shambles-On-Pie!
SIR CEDRIC OF CRANAPPLE: Lord Destro! He's very good, isn't he?
LEOFRICK: He's never known defeat! No one has so much as scored a single point against him!!
SIR CEDRIC: Then this is the greatest challenge I have ever faced. We must come up with a strategy that he has never seen before. One he can't anticipate and for which he will have no defense. He will be on horseback and approaching me at great speed armed with a lance, correct?
LEOFRICK: Aye, sire. Such are the standard rules of jousting...
SIR CEDRIC: Ah ha! Then I shall present myself without a horse nor a lance, standing relatively still in one spot. He would never expect me to employ such a tactic!
LEOFRICK: That's probably true...
SIR CEDRIC: Then when he gets very close, I shall pepper him with blows from my fists. Delivering damage to the body and head, inflicting punishment to the degree that he becomes disoriented and incapacitated and eventually falls to the ground unconscious. The judges, seeing him prostate at my feet for a count of, oh, say, 10 or so, will declare him unfit to continue and I will be declared champion!
LEOFRICK: I... guess that's not theoretically impossible... but he will undoubtedly still be wearing his armor, my liege.
SIR CEDRIC: Ah yes, good point! For the sake of consistency, I shall wear none. I shall fight him naked. Thank you.
LEOFRICK: That isn't why I...
SIR CEDRICK: No, you're right. I should maintain a level of modesty and decorum for the sake of the non-combatants in attendance as spectators. Instead, I shall wear the briefs you so thoughtfully got me as a Boxing Day gift.
LEOFRICK: Umm...
SIR CEDRICK: It is decided. Prepare my Boxer Briefs for battle.

Sir Cedric lost his match that day, suffering a head wound the size of a jousting lance which caused all of the blood inside of his body to end up on the ground outside of  his body. Those in attendance who had placed wagers on the match were outraged and bedlam ensued. Most of the wagers were resolved via fisticuffs which probably turned into boxing at some point, I guess.

Dummies are getting dumber



"Derp?"

There really can't be any more doubt that we are getting dumber as a society and as a species, can there? I mean, we're aggressively pursuing stupidity now. Forget that we haven't invented anything really significant (produced variations, yes; invented, no) in at least 50 years. We used to cure diseases; now we give out ribbons to kids who finish in sixth place. The kid that gets a ribbon for being a Good Participant may have the self-esteem of a champion but is not going to grow up to cure AIDS. And I'm not just beating up on America and our shortcomings. The whole world is getting dumber. For years, we've worried about how the Japanese are so much more technologically advanced than we are. A valid concern, except the Japanese have used that edge to design vending machines that dispense fresh lettuce. This is a global "We" that has hit bottom and decided to respond to that by coming up with more efficient ways to keep digging. In the 1870s, we invented the telephone. Today, we have beer cans that tell us whether the beer inside is cold or not. Also, yesterday a guy used a telephone to ask me if he should bring a 3 1/2 month old baby to a hockey game, after his doctor said it would be a bad idea.
Yep. Smart enough to seek the informed opinion of a licensed physician; not smart enough to follow his advice without getting MY opinion on the matter.
"Well, how old have you seen babies at a game?"
"Sir, I see people bring babies to hockey games all the time. But just because I've never seen one obliterated by an errant slap shot doesn't mean it couldn't happen. I've also seen people with infants at baseball games sit right behind the dugout where junior could be rendered a pulpy mass by a screaming foul ball. But just because I've seen people do that, doesn't make it a good idea. I don't know, you said you talked to a doctor. Exactly what did the person with the actual degree in medicine say?"
"He wasn't worried about the baby getting hurt. He said it would be too loud, bad for his ears."
"Okay then. There you go."
"I don't know. I really want to bring him."
"You don't think it might be a good idea to follow the doctor's advice and maybe wait a couple of years?"
"Yeah, I don't really feel like doing that."
"You know what, don't do that then. Go ahead and bring him. Bring him on a motorcycle with no helmet. Stop off for a father-and-infant-son steak dinner on the way. Not because any of those are good, smart ideas. No, do that because with you as his father, he's pretty much doomed anyway and you might well cram in some good times together before you get him killed. It's not like he would have grown up to cure AIDS or anything."

Vengeance, hot or cold, is delicious!

Have you ever gotten real, true revenge for a situation in which you felt like you were wronged? I don't mean an act of retaliation, which is meant to get even but in reality, usually only escalates the hostility until somebody gets either hurt or bored and calls things off. Sure, that's fun, but it doesn't rate on the satisfaction scale the way that honest-to-goodness vengeance does.

Regular readers might probably recall how I spent the better part of August and September depressed and anxious over my living situation. In particular, how I spent the 27 days between September 3rd and September 30th living in a hotel, seperated from most of my worldly possessions, my two pet cats as well as any semblance of order and stability, and how that was because the whole process seemed to get hung up on one small detail and how I could never get any good, consistent communication from the bank that was issuing the loan. It was gut-wrenching, first-person proof that small details that impact the lives of individual customers are not what the big financial institutions that govern our lives consider worthy of their attention, an ordeal I never want to repeat and wouldn't wish on anyone. Remember all that? I sure do.
Imagine my sheer terror when I received a phone call from the lender's home office in Minnesota on Friday, November 8th:

"Hi Mr. Brooks, this is Michael with Wells-Fargo. I helped close your home loan. How are you today?"
"Um... fine?"
"That's great. Listen, we were reviewing your paperwork and found a form that wasn't completed."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, it's literally one small check box. I can fax or email it to you, you just put a check mark in that one box, initial and send it back to me and we'll be all set."
"Oh. That sounds simple."
"Yes. Unfortunately, I need to have that or I can't file your paperwork as completed."
"Is this something you need right away or...?"
"Well, the sooner the better. The company doesn't like it when we have files sitting in 'pending' status, especially when it's something easy like this."
"Am I in danger of losing my house over this?"
"Oh no, not at all. This is strictly a clerical matter."
"So we have this one minor detail that needs to be cleared up and until it is, you can't go forward. I'm the only one who can do that and the sooner I take care of it, the less stressful it will be for you. Do I have all of that correct?"
"Yes, Mr. Brooks. Exactly."
"Oh, you have no idea how much I understand your situation, Michael. And I'm thrilled to be in this position of being able to help you. Thrilled!"
"Oh. Um, okay. Well, that's good. I will send the document over via email right away then."
"Yes, yes, please! The sooner the better!"

The phone call was followed that afternoon by an email, which was followed by another on November 14th, November 18th, November 19th, November 27th. That day, another phone call...

"Hey Mr. Brooks, it's Michael with Wells Fargo."
"Oh hey Michael, how's it going?"
"Fine, fine, but I haven't received that document yet. Any reason I can't have that by the 30th?"
"Not a good one, no."
"Okay. Because it would be really great if I could get this cleared up by end-of-month."
"You got it."
"Thanks."

I hung up and immediately did absolutely nothing. There have been a number of phone calls kind of like that. Sometimes I answer them, sometimes I don't. Early on, I claimed to have not received the document. I've also said I received it but accidentally deleted it. I've said I forgot but would do it before the end of the day. Twice, I've sent it back just like I'd received it, with no changes whatsoever. Michael got fed up with me after about ten of these exchanges and handed me off to somebody named Brett who passed me off to someone named Angela after only four. Of course, I apologize every time. I am doing it on purpose, after all. Why wouldn't I take responsibility for it since it's totally my fault? But I'm having the time of my life. To wield this kind of control via something minor over people who made my life miserable over something minor is just so poetic and beautiful that it feels like a gift bestowed upon me from a divine power. It's like having someone beating your ass with a belt stop, hand it to you and say, "Could you hold this for a second while I bend over and tie my shoe please?". They call or email every day now and I'd be lying if I said I don't get sexually aroused when my phone rings with a call from the 612 area code. If this were to go on much longer, I just know I'd eventually pick up the phone laughing. That's okay though. Today is the day I will send them the properly filled-out form, completing the minor-but-necessary steps they need to put this matter to rest exactly 27 days after they asked for it, which is exactly how many days I sat twisting and turning in a cramped hotel room, waiting for them to complete the minor-but-necessary tasks that would allow me to get on with my life or at least a straight answer as to why that wasn't happening.

Just the tip, please

There's a twist in the latest case of someone using a server's gratuity as a platform to make some sort of social statement, in that it may not have even happened.
The short story, if you don't feel like clicking the link for whatever reason, is that somebody stiffed a presumably gay server and then wrote "I'm sorry but I cannot tip because I do not agree with your lifestyle" on the receipt. Except the party in question has come forth with their copy of the receipt, as well as a credit card statement, that shows they actually didn't write any notes and in fact did leave a tip of $18 (just under 20%). So someone is lying, either to hide from their own previously-stated distasteful opinion or to unfairly cast someone in the role of bigot in order to draw attention to a cause. Both are shitty things to do and somebody in this case (probably the server, it looks like) is an asshole.
Whichever way this shakes out, let's hope it puts an end to the restaurant receipt as yet another way to get something off our chests. This has actually become something of a trend lately:

• Somebody insulted a gay waiter at a Carrabba's in Kansas City.
• A pastor in St. Louis stiffed an Applebee's server as a means of justifying the shitty tips they give to God
• Racial slurs in lieu of currency at Red Lobster 
• Dietary advice for another Applebee's server 
• Then there's this USC fan, who is a notable exception to the nastiness.

Nasty or not, how about everybody just knock it off? Because here's what most of us want from the diner/server dynamic:

• Order food. 
• Receive food as ordered. 
• Eat food. 
• Pay for food. 
• Show some appreciation for the effort of the server in the form of a tip. 
• Get out.

That's all there is to it. That's all any of us need. It's very simple and it's worked for centuries. Yet once again, you attention-starved grandstanders feel some kind of pathological need to get in the way and ruin a perfectly good thing for no good reason. As long as the eggs and bacon get to the table on time and on target, whether the person who brings them to you is male, female, gay, straight, old, young, black, white, fat, skinny, all or none of the above doesn't matter. It just doesn't! This is a person who exists in your life for a very short time to perform a small set of very specific tasks. If they accomplish those tasks in a satisfactory manner, they deserve to be recognized for it. If not, a complaint to the establishment's management might be in order. Regardless, this is the extent of your relationship with one another. Nothing else needs to brought into the equation. If you feel the need to express yourself, then paint or sculpt or start a blog or get a Twitter account or use all of those things to ask your mommy and daddy why they didn't love you.

Hint: You didn't deserve it.
Also, this is a picture of you as an adult.

If you can't follow those simple steps, stay out of our restaurants (diners and servers) and leave us the hell alone.

Purple Friday

In case you haven't noticed, there's a real backlash out there against "Black Friday" and "Screw it, we're just going to open up on Thursday". Not enough where you'd notice it by looking at the cars in the store parking lots, but still. There's going to be a lot of trampling going on, a lot of not buying stuff from local, independent merchants. That kind of thing makes you feel bad.
Here's a remedy:
Me. Specifically, my book. Buying my book as a gift is the opposite of all the things that make "Black Friday" so distasteful. Here's proof:

• NO TRAMPLING - Sales all take place right here on the internet. You don't have to step on anybody's head and nobody will step on yours. Unless you want them to. I'm here to sell books, not judge.
• I'M LOCAL - I live right here, in a neighborhood. Not in New York or Hollywood.  Not in a network of international warehouses. Not in "The Cloud". I shop at grocery stores and eat at nearby restaurants. I have neighbors. I root for the home teams in sports. I'm totally a local guy.
• I'M INDEPENDENT - I do all this myself. Well, I had an editor for the book. And an illustrator. And a photographer. And a cover model. And a big company actually produced the books. But otherwise, me, all me.

Why buy a book?

• Books are where movies come from!
• Smart people read books.
• Nothing fits on a bookshelf like books.

Why buy this book?

• It's purple.
• It's non-denominational. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Witches. They'll all be similarly appreciative to receive this as a gift.
• It's flammable. Good if you're stuck in the woods trying to survive or if you're a fascist.

So there you go! All that's left is for you to buy the book! Here's how you can do that:

• The store at ClarkBrooks.com 
• Maybe you like big companies? If so, they don't get much bigger than Amazon.
• Maybe you like slightly small independently owned bookstores where you can go actually go inside and shop, maybe have a glass of wine. Sure, who doesn't? In that case, visit Tampa's Inkwood Books. 
• How about a personal touch? That's cool. If that's what you're looking for, hit me up and I'll get you one or a dozen. 

Remember, not one of these idiots is buying my book...

Don't be like these idiots.

Happy Holidays... Go!!

Today (Wednesday) seems like a Friday. Tomorrow will feel like a Sunday. A couple of weeks ago, time changed from "normal" to "feeling like bed time at 6pm". No wonder we all lose our minds so easily starting Friday; the government has manipulated our basic sense of time and space! We're disoriented and as a result, much more vulnerable to hoovering up all the food and kitchen appliances and food and booze and games and food and video games and booze and food and food. We live that way for just over a month until the end of the year, when we have one final blow-out binge before snapping out of it in time to pay coherent attention to college football and the Super Bowl.
In the mean time, don't schedule any meetings, don't expect to finish any major projects. In fact, don't expect to make any real progress on anything important at all. It's Crazy Time and everyone is too busy hating their families, hating shopping, being sick of holiday traditions while trying to spend as much times as possible with their families, buying all the shit and wearing ugly sweaters and singing Christmas songs to get actual stuff done. Accept it, surrender to it and let it wash over you. Shhh. Don't fight it and it will all be over soon.
And while you're waiting, contemplate this:

"Welcome to Dierberg's. First day on the job, huh? Yeah, we hire a lot of people around this time of year. It's because we seem to have a lot of turnover in this department around the holidays for some reason. Seems we no sooner hire someone than they're shooting themselves in the face or jumping off a bridge in front of a train. Weird. Anyway, you'll be starting out like everybody else does; preparing these 'holiday meals for one'. I don't know why we put that special designation on the sticker. Probably so that couples and families know not to pick them up. We're saying, 'Hey, put that down. That's for single people, spending the holidays alone, not for you!'. That's my guess.
What you do is stand here and fill these plates with a single portion of turkey, sole scoop of dressing, lone helping of sweet potatoes, an individual container of cranberry sauce and a solitary scoop of mashed potatoes with one pat of butter on top. Take special care to make sure the individual foods stay within their seperate areas on the plate. Don't let them touch or have any contact with one another whatsoever. Put the lid on, sealing everything off from the outside, and slap the 'holiday meal for one' sticker on there. Then put it in the cold, dark, lonely cooler, all by themselves. Go ahead and get started on that; I just had this overwhelming urge to stick my head in an oven, so I won't be back. Good luck!"

Big Game Hunter

My cousin MB posted this picture on Facebook of this enormous deer and the guy who shot it. I have to admit, this is one big-ass deer and in spite of the fact that I'm not a hunting guy, I was impressed.
My idea of hunting is that every hunter should be given one state-issued knife, stripped naked and taken out into the woods in a helicopter on Friday afternoon. Whatever the hunter comes out of the woods with on Sunday, including anything he might kill plus whatever limbs, organs and blood that were his to begin with, he gets to keep. Now that's a sport. Of course, that isn't how it is. Hunters can use high-powered weapons and navigation tools while animals get to be whatever animal they are. Doesn't seem like much of a challenge and I just don't see the fun in that.
Still, that's a big-ass deer. But upon further investigation, MB found out that "he shot this at high fenced hunting where the deer bred and fed". Which, by the sound of it to me, is a petting zoo. He didn't even go out and sleep in the woods. He drove to a place, paid a dude some money, shot the deer and posed for this picture with that stupid grin on his face. "Look at me! I'm the shit!" He probably did it between lunch and dinner. How the hell is that hunting and why the hell does he look so pleased with himself? Was it on a rope, tied to a fence? Did it have its head in a bucket, munching away on food provided by the staff who run the place, treating the "game" like pets? Well sure, but it could have moved one way or another, if it had any reason whatsoever to think somebody might open fire while it was lined up for one of its' three squares a day, which, come to think of it, no wonder it's so big. None of that matters to Ralph here, though, He paid to shoot a deer and goddamnit, he shot a big-ass one.
Way to go, Ralph.
You know I'd like to do? I'd like to "hunt" Ralph. Lock him in an Olive Garden for a couple of weeks and keep the pasta and breadsticks comin'. Then one day, I show up with a shotgun. Ralph looks up with a chunk of chicken parm hanging out of his mouth and he knows something's up. But, HA HA, too late! My first shot hits him in the left thigh, just below his ass. Shit. I biffed that one. He falls down and crawls pathetically across the floor, terrified out of his mind, hoping to find cover behind the salad bar. But guess what? It's Olive Garden; there's no salad bar, bitch! They bring you all-you-can eat salad and breadsticks, feeding you as one might a pet. I catch up to him cowering under a table and... is he still chewing that piece of chicken, like this is just a temporary interruption of his dinner? Aw, now that's adorable, I think as, BLAM!, I finish him off.
I take it back. That would be fun!

The ongoing search for humor in socially awkward situations

When you're invited to an event where you're going to be uncomfortable because the people who are hosting the event really don't like you (I mean, they used to, kind of, but then there was a thing and then some other stuff, none of which was that big a deal, but in terms of the whole situation, now you kind of have to question if they ever liked you at all, something you're inclined to do anyway, and the signs all point to "probably not" and so now it's weird and whatever and your presence will probably make them just as uncomfortable, in which case, why did they invite you?), but you still feel obligated to at least make an appearance, one way you can try to deal with it is by taking a fake date with you. A fake date gives you a variety of built-in excuses to duck out early.

"Sorry we can't stay but Brianna has to catch a flight back to Europe in the morning."

They don't know for sure that you're lying because they don't know your fake date and/or how serious your relationship is. Where does one find such a suitable fake date? I don't really know but I tried placing this ad on Craigslist:

Seeking short-term companion - m4w - 49 (Tampa)
So there's this art thing in Ybor City tomorrow (Thursday) night that I have to attend because people I know will be there. However, I really don't want to go because people I know will be there. I think I can get away with popping in for just a few minutes and then popping right back out, but that would be a lot easier if I have a date with me. I asked the girl that I liked and she said no, a decision I respect as I understand and accept that I'm making kind of a dick move here. I mean, I think I'm a pretty good person but this is admittedly not my finest hour. As a result, I'm turning to alternative resources (Craigslist) and I'm looking for a nice lady who is:
* Classy (It's not a formal dressy event at all but it's possible to be classy and casual, in spite of what you might see on a trip to WalMart.)
* Age appropriate (I'm 49. Let's say you're between 38 and 55. That sounds good, right? I'm sure there are some lovely, classy 24-year-olds out there but this isn't that kind of event. Look for my ad next time my high school reunion rolls around.)
* A good actress (You may have to hold my hand, laugh at something clever I say and generally pretend like you enjoy being in my company. How are your improv skills?)
Plus, it wouldn't hurt if you're a knockout. I mean, this isn't about showing off but while we're at it...
WHAT'S IN IT FOR YOU? Look, we'll be there for 20 minutes to a half hour tops. Afterward, if you like, we can get something to eat in Ybor, my treat. In other words, this is your chance to live out every girl's fantasy (since "Pretty Woman" came out) of being a fancy prostitute without all the (money) nasty, degrading (money) and/or illegal (money) stuff (and money). If you're interested in this kind of temporary, harmless deceit for fun and not profit (it's pretty important that you understand that I won't be paying you any money), please email me and we'll take it from there. Cool?

It didn't work (I got zero replies) but that doesn't mean it wasn't a good idea.

We are bitches

We are bitches. All of us. Every last damn one of us. Just a big, dumb, batch of bitches. Bitches by the billions.

"What kind of bitches, Clark? 'Bitch' has recently become one of those overused words with a wide variety of definitions and... "

Little, spoiled, whiny, snivelling, entitled, complaining-about-every-tiny-thing-that-doesn't-go-our-way bitches.

"Oh yes. That kind. Okay. Please continue."

No forum provides greater proof of our collective bitch-ness like the 'comments' section of any web site, particularly restaurant reviews. Specifically THIS restaurant review, posted by somebody (not me) earlier this summer on Google:

Let me start off by saying that LongHorn Steakhouse (Tampa, FL) has an incredible host staff and a spotless bathroom. Unfortunately, my experience with the food and the rest of the staff was below average.

I ordered a 7oz filet with a side of vegetables and a house salad with honey mustard dressing. Now, who cares about the salad, I was there for the steak, which wasn't bad for a steak cooked medium. The problem was I ordered my steak cooked between rare and medium rare. I told Glenn, the bartender that I would prefer another steak, this time cooked rare. He took the overcooked steak back to the kitchen and had them cook me another. About 10 minutes later (red flag) Glenn brought me out another steak, this one more overcooked than the last.

I took a couple bites then held myself back from throwing a temper-tantrum. Really, there was a beautiful girl sitting next to me at the bar that I was trying to impress. I knew that I could've either complained and gotten another chance at a steak and not the girl or I could've eaten the overcooked steak and gotten a chance at the girl. But not both. I chose my chance at the girl. Bad choice.

As I fidgeted the steak, Glenn asked me how it was. I said, "it's ok but it's still not rare" as I frowned and pointed to brownish grey meat. Glenn called over Robert Arnot, the manager, who asked me what the problem was, as if I had started a fight. I told him that I would eat the steak, even if it's not what I ordered. I wanted to impress the girl with my laid-back approach to conflict. Now, had Glenn and Robert cared about my experience that night they would've grabbed the steak from me and made the kitchen cook it correctly.

But they didn't do that. They let me eat an over-cooked steak that I didn't order. Either they didn't care about my experience that night or they were poorly trained in non-verbal communication and customer service. Or, I like to think, they were just having an off night.

I paid my bill, tipped 17% and got up to leave. Glenn walked over to me and patted me on the back. I wanted to kick him in the shin but I just smiled, walked out, drove home, jumped on my computer and wrote this review.

My recommendation is that if you decide to eat at Longhorn Steakhouse at 2055 N Dale Mabry Hwy in Tampa, FL 33607, you order your steak black & blue if you want it cooked rare, order it rare if you want it cooked med-rare, order it med-rare if you want it cooked med, and order it med if you want it cooked well-done. Or you could just go to a different steakhouse.

p.s. The girl rejected me anyway

For a steak you should go to some other place. The food was overcooked and only one side with my steak, while other places let you choose two. The staff was nice but not really excited, maybe because it was earlier during the day. Overall it's not bad but given choice I'll go to some other chain steakhouse

Today's lesson: The next time you employ the tactic of not acting like a bitch in order to impress somebody and it fails to get you laid, why don't you just go ahead and act like a bitch about it.

Freak me out

I used to work at the Florida State Fair selling beer. More often than not, I spent at least as much money as I made out on the midway. That was how another beer seller, Rod Zeratsky, and I found ourselves behind the freak show tent late one Saturday night, watching a guy do horrible things to himself with metal skewers. We had been in the regular freak show, which is mostly a rip-off. Somebody billed as half human/half spider will put their head through a hole in a wall that has a big, fake spider body on it and everybody chuckles like, "Okay, you got me". But there are still some legitimate freaks out there who do freaky tings. Such was the case with the emcee of the show who sidled up to us on the way out and half-whispered, "If you guys want to see some real shit, meet me in back of the tent in five minutes." We could only think of about a dozen things that could possibly go wrong with a proposition like that so of course we went back there. There were five or six other people to whom he'd made the same offer. He came out from the back of the tent, we all ponied up an extra $10 each and he started torturing himself with metal spikes. At one point I said, "that's real blood!" and he said, "no kidding, I'm pushing real metal spikes into my real skin". It was disgusting, awful (and a little bit sad, as I got the impression that the family friendly, midway version of the freak show probably didn't pay that well) and we were glad we did it. Because who doesn't like to freak themselves out every once in a while? There's an odd sort of comfort that comes from knowing that people exist who do things that you, or anybody you know, would never do.
When I was little, it was easy to be freaked out. Things like women with tattoos, men with earrings, anybody with green or blue or purple hair and interracial couples. All those things existed but were unusual enough to draw attention. They didn't scare me, but they fascinated me. They were so different from what I was used to. Now all those things are commonplace and mainstream to the point of being boring. Some of what was once considered freaky is just people doing their thing. Sadly, a lot more of it is people affecting freakish traits in order to look like they're doing their own thing. That's downright tragic and really boring. The harder people try to stand out from the crowd, the more they're look like everybody else. There's a basic non-conformist uniform these people wear. Tattoos, piercings, a stupid hat of some kind and at least one earnest attempt at casual irony. True freaks are few and far between.


"I'm unique, just like everybody else."


The other day, somebody said they saw a bearded lady. Not a woman with some hair on her face, like she missed some whilst plucking, this (apparently) was a woman with a full-on, lumberjack-style, normally-seen-on-a-man beard. "I thought about coming to get you so you could see." Of course you should have come and got me! That's interesting! I need to see that. And apparently she agrees or else she'd shave. I'd be doing her a disservice not to come look at her. I don't need to point or laugh or even stare, but I need to know that she, and people like her still exist.

Back to the barber shop

I've written about my barber shop before. It's located at Fiesta Plaza in West Tampa, I've been going there for almost 30 years and I am frequently the only fluent English-speaking person in there. I speak no Spanish, yet the inherent language barrier has never prohibitted me from getting a haircut. They know what I want and I know what they expect to be paid to do it. It's a system that works flawlessly.
It's about 10 minutes from my house and about the same distance from my old place. Yet, for whatever reason excuse, I will sometimes get lazy about getting regular haircuts. Such was the case when I showed up at the barber shop a shaggy mess last Saturday. Suddenly, my barber speaks enough English to tell jokes at my expense.

"So, the kidnappers, they feed you but they no cut you hair? Ha ha ha ha!"

Okay. Ha ha. I haven't been here in a while, my hair is messed up and I'm still fat. Good one.
Then he tells it again in Spanish so everyone else can get a good laugh, which they do. One of the customers says something, in Spanish of course, and everybody laughs again. My barber, not wanting me to miss out on my own multi-cultural humiliation, translates for my benefit.

"He say, what was Bin Laden really like? Ha ha ha ha!"

"All right", I respond. "I thought this was a barber shop, not a comedy club. I came in for a haircut, not to be on Sábados Gigantes." Pause for translation followed by laughs. "Shouldn't at least one of you be wearing a sexy nurse costume?" Another pause, more laughs.
Yep. Always a good time at the ol' barber shop.

Words still fail us

It amazes me that after all these centuries of verbal communication, upon figuring out how to grunt air through our food holes to make words, and the billions of words that have been grunted to name and express literally everything that exists anywhere, that it's still such a struggle to put the perfect combination together in any circumstance whatsoever. I recently saw a commercial for some prescription drug that's supposed to help people who are trying to quit smoking (side effects include making your arms fall off at the elbow and death, of course, but that's another blog post). The non celebrity spokeseperson in a professionally-produced, nationally-broadcast television commercial for a medicine that has allegedly changed her life for the better offered this as a testimonial:

"If I could describe my life as a non-smoker, I'd say 'awesome'."

Wow. If only she could find some way to express her happiness verbally. If she possessed that ability, she would then reach for the most overused, unimaginative and now virtually meaningless adjective in the entire universe. That would be just awesome.
I shouldn't come down too hard on her, though. The point of today's column is that finding the rights words to express ourselves is often difficult. That's especially true when expressing sympathy. Everything seems either trite or superficial or selfish or just plain stupid. Not to the person who hears them. No doubt they're appreciative for what's behind the words but for the person saying them, it's frustrating. A friend suffered a death in the family recently. And, as always, I had no idea what to say.
"I'm sorry" - "Of course I'm sorry. I shouldn't even have to say that, but of course I'm going to say it because I am although it doesn't begin to cover the breadth of feeling here."
"I'm so sorry" - Well, thanks for clearing that up, Robert Frost.
"Hang in there" - Ugh. Seriously? "Hey, keep doing whatever it is you're already doing to cope with this because I don't have a better idea and it seems like that's working for you so, yeah, keeping doing that some more. You're welcome. I'll just be over here being an idiot, which is my way of hanging in there." Ugh.
"You have my deepest condolences/sympathy" - I heard somebody say that. There's a lot of implied gravitas. But it doesn't sound like something anybody would ever say without hearing or seing it somewhere else first.
"If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to just call me." - "In case I've ever given you the impression that it would be a pain in the ass if you called me, an assumption that is entirely correct, by the way, so kudos to you for figuring that out, I'm temporarily waiving that in light of this current situation."
"He/she is in a better place." - "Let me take this opportunity to make a declarative statement on spirituality without taking your feelings into account first."
"I know exactly what you're going through" - "Let's take me into consideration here."
Like I said, those words are going to be received graciously but that's how I feel saying them. Why hasn't someone come up with a phrase that says "I'm so sorry. You have my deepest condolences. I know exactly what you're going through. At least he/she is in a better place. Hang in there but if you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to just call me."? I don't know about you, but something like "Uhhh...", spoken with a lump in the throat and with watery eyes would suit me ideally.

Bringing you up to date on The Walking Dead

Walkers

"The Walking Dead" is a very popular show on AMC that nobody seems to like very much. Honestly, for all the scads of viewers the show gets, there are an equal number of complaints about it on the internet.

"It moves too slow"
"The characters aren't likeable"
"The dialogue is poorly written and heavy-handed"

WA WA WA Whatever. I'm not here to challenge anybody's opinion but if you don't like the show then don't watch it by the millions.

Personally, I love it and I tune in every week. It's not Shakespeare or even "Breaking Bad". It's a show about a small band of survivors dealing with the end of civilization via zombie apocalypse (on the show they're referred to as "walkers", not zombies). Pretty simple premise but I think it's lots of fun. The walkers are horrifying and disgusting and you never know who's going to get killed or how. If you've never seen the show but have considered checking it out, here's a very brief quick reference guide to catch you up.

Here are the rules of The Walking Dead universe

1. Walkers want to eat humans
2. Walkers can only be killed by significant head trauma (shooting, bashing, arrowing, etc.)
3. If you die, you become a walker, unless a friend does you the ultimate preemptive solid by destroying your head first
4. Almost everybody is dead and walkers are all over the damn place
5. Other surviving humans are even more of a threat than the walkers (supplies and safe places to hide are scarce)

Your key survivors are as follows:

• Rick, formerly a sheriff's deputy in fictional King County, Georgia. He is a widower with a tween son, Carl and a baby daughter, Judith.
• Herschel, a former veterinarian and former two-legged person, father of Maggie and Beth, owner of a wooden leg after getting bit by a walker.
• Daryl, a loner, former meth head and lowlife thug, now a crossbow-toting sex symbol... although still pretty much a loner. The end of the world is the best thing that ever happened to him.
• Glenn, formerly a pizza delivery guy, now hooking up with Maggie. The end of the world is the best thing that ever happened to him.
• Maggie, Herschel's daughter, Beth's sister and Glenn's squeeze.
• Beth, Herschel's daughter, Maggie's sister and Judith's babysitter.
• Carl, Rick's son
• Michonne, mysterious sword-wielding badass.
• Carol, formerly an abused housewife, the end of the world is the best thing that ever happened to her... although she was banished from the group by Rick recently, so maybe not.
• Tyreese, big, grumpy black dude. 

(Note: all or none of these characters may be dead by the time you watch the show. That's not my fault.)

The group is currently holed up in an old prison because, you know, walls and bars and barbed wire fences and watch towers and all the security that comes with that stuff (yeah, right).

"Could be worse, son. At least you don't have to play Little League."

 Here is a sample scene that never actually occurred, although versions of it occur every third episode or so. After this, you're pretty much up-to-date in a big-picture sense:

RICK: "We can't stay here."
TYREESE: "We've got no place to go!"
RICK: "It isn't safe."
HERSCHEL: "Are you referring to the incident earlier where one of us was almost killed?"
GLEN: "Or the one where one of us was killed?"
MAGGIE: "Or the one where a whole bunch of us were killed?"
RICK: "..."
DARYL: "Don't look at me, man. I'm a loner."

That kind of sums things up, regardless of what other plot points are currently in flux.

"No, you may not pet my squirrel."

POLL: What do you think should happen next?

1. Rick should just leave
2. Daryl should just leave
3. Rick and Daryl should just leave together
4. Hey, where are you guys going?
5. Uh, nowhere, Carl. Just stay here and look after your sister. *
6. Hey, it's me, Michonne! Don't forget me. 
7. This is bullshit. Fine. Go. I'm a bigger badass than all of you anyway.

* Oh yeah, Carl's mom was pregnant by either Rick or Shane (who Rick killed long ago, followed by Carl killing walker Shane immediately afterward) but she (his mom, not his sister) had a difficult childbirth and Carl had to kill her to prevent her from turning, an incident that haunted Rick (not Carl) and made him (Rick, not Carl) lose his mind for a good chunk of season three.

"Hi. I'm Michonne. I don't play."

There. You are now up to date.

It doesn't always get better

Okay, for better or worse, I'm chiming in on the hot-button topic of the day/week/month: bullying.
This is a subject that has gotten a lot of attention recently, even before things really bubbled over with the situation involving Miami Dolphins teammates Jonathan Martin and Richie Incognito. I've had my personal opinion about the matter for some time but it's this incident that makes me feel obligated to say something about it.
Because a lot of people see this as a personal conflict between two grown (and very large) men, it's not bullying to them. Jonathan Martin, the protagonist ("victim") in this scenario, is 24 years old, 6'5" tall and weighs 304 pounds. The antagonist ("bully") is Richie Incognito who is 30, 6'3", 319. There are people who believe that a 6'5 guy who weighs over 300 pounds simply can't be a victim of bullying. Especially if he's a football player. Players in the NFL (who are increasingly showing up in off-the-field headlines as the victims of suicide) are supposed to be as rough and tough as soldiers. Martin got fed up with taunts that included racial slurs and threats against his family members and left the team. People say this makes him a coward. He should have "manned up", "done something about it" and "handled it". First off, I think leaving is doing something about it. Because he's big and a football player, he doesn't have the option that most of us have which is to simply remove ourselves when we don't like what's going on around us for whatever reason? No, that's not handling things, they'll say. No, he should have stood up "like a man" and fought it out with Incognito. Those people believe that Incognito would have stopped misbehaving and probably even developed a deep and newfound respect for Martin. I would imagine that in those people's minds, Martin and Incognito would go on to become lifelong friends and go on to lead the Dolphins to victory in eight or nine Super Bowls. Those people live in a fantasy world. I believe the problem is deeper than that, at least out here in the world that I live in.

It doesn't always get better.

Justifying what's going with the Miami Dolphins as something less than bullying is a hair's width from the mindset that women who wear certain clothing are asking to be raped. It's what makes people snicker when they hear of incidents where a man is the victim of spousal abuse. Come on, folks. Yet, instead of putting some thought into these things, I see and hear people trying to boil things down to the simplest terms possible by saying things like (and these are actual quotes):

• "...the "wussification" of our great nation"
• "Man, all I know is if someone said those things to me, I'd tell him 'here's where you can meet me, let's handle this like men.'"
• "It's ridiculous and we wonder why some kids these days are growing up to be wimps and cry babies" 
• "Our children are being taught by and guided by liberal pussies. This is a result." 
• "I hate how kids now are being raised to be "victims" in everything. Take responsibility and accept the punishment." 

We should be a little more enlightened than that by now, shouldn't we?  It's bigger...and more important... than political affiliation and jingoism, isn't it? I would think so. We should have at least started turning that corner when we started making buildings accessible for people with disabilities without thinking of them as less than human beings. Ultimately, we're talking about what kind of human beings we want our children to become and what society should look like in the future, right? Probably, but we can't get there as long as people think there are simple answers to complex problems. Hey, for what it's worth, I agree that we are all a little too soft these days. If we had to deal with what the pioneers did just 150 years ago, I'm not sure we'd make it. Forget the physical toughness; with our "what's in it for me?" sense of entitlement, there's no way we'd have ever been able to establish the basic infrastructure that allowed this country to become what it did.


"...but I'm not going to California. Why should my taxes pay for some stupid railroad? Or any roads at all, for that matter?"

But I digress. You aren't liable to find a bigger advocate for taking personal responsibility than me and I believe we could all benefit from developing thicker skin. Life is hard whether you ever encounter bullies or not and ultimately, you have to be personally accountable and take some initiative when you try to handle your problems one way or another. I also think it would be great if every time somebody hassled you, you could just belt them in the mouth and they would settle the hell down and leave you alone. But those conditions are not part of the reality in which any of us exist. For starters, bullies rarely let you just haul off and smack them in the mouth. That actually runs counter to their preferences. What if you're not a lineman in the NFL? What if you're small, weak or unskilled in fighting and you don't have the luxury of a Mr. Miyagi or Obi Wan Kenobi to help you learn combat techniques? Or what if you're none of these things? WHat if you are the biggest, baddest, mannest man, with tattoos and everything and the other guys is just that much bigger, stronger and better at fighting than you are? One day, you reach your breaking point, "man up" and challenge whoever it is that's making your life miserable... and not only do you not win the fight, you don't land a single blow and in fact, you get your ass decisively beat. What do you think is more likely: 

• that your nemesis, impressed by your spunk and backbone, gives you respect by cutting you a wide path and leaving you alone?
• that your nemesis, now with the verified knowledge that he can beat your ass in a fight, decides to dial up the assholery and make things even worse for you?

Look, I believe that part of growing up is testing boundaries and a lot of that comes in the form of teasing and responding to getting teased. That doesn't always necessarily translate to "bullying", in my opinion.  I'm not saying that every kid who gets teased or picked on is a "victim". Nor am I saying that every kid who picks on other kids fits into this category, but many bullies are true sociopaths who actually want to destroy people on every level. There's evidence that Incognito was bullied as a kid, was taught to "man up" and now as a full-grown adult, has a track record of bullying behavior that goes back over ten years if not longer.  Are we to believe that not once during that time span did someone "man up" against Incognito, thereby teaching him a lesson and ending his bad behavior? Meanwhile, what about those who simply can't fight their way out of these situations? What do we say to them? 

"Well, too bad. You didn't sufficiently "man up" enough and now you deserve to be treated terribly for the rest of your life. Sorry. You are less than a man and therefor, you have allowed this to happen to you. Should have been born bigger, stronger and with an inclination and ability to solve your problems physically, LIKE A MAN. Of course, we still expect you to be a healthy, stable and productive member of society who treats others well, pitches in when we need help and raises good kids of your own, so good luck with that, you little bitch."

Not to mention those who simply choose to leave instead of fight or take it, and as a result, face being labeled as "cowards" which is at least as bad if not worse.

Yeah, I'll agree that all sounds really simple but it sure doesn't seem like a solution to me.