I'm not kidding. I think it is a town ordinance. I'm so glad I'm in Trenton. No need to waste precious time looking for a pail; the streets are my pail. The whole city is my pail!
I love to throw crap everywhere! It's kind of a hobby. Yeah, it is one of my favorite past-times.
Whether I'm walkin', drivin', or just plain sittin', I can toss, throw, pitch, whip, and/or slam my consumer excrement anywhere I want! I love litterin', it makes me happy. The freedom makes me happy.
Sometimes I pull up in my car, and I open my door and I drop out my Mickey D's bag. I make sure to drive over it when I pull away. If I have empty bottles of Hennessey (and who am I kidding? I always have empty bottles of Hennessey!), I play street bowling with them. It can be a lot of fun. First, get your ride up to speed, and then try to drift -- that is, slide sideways while still moving forward -- and when you get close to the corner, slam that beotch down the open sewer grate like you are tossing a grenade into Saddam's coffin! The sound of the shattering glass is better than any opera! Try it! It will set you free!
Lots of time, littering is just a casual part of life. So there are a lot of gentle tosses from my moving car, mindless releases as I walk, and a drop and roll if I'm sitting. I don't like having garbage on me, or in my car. And I think that it gets absorbed into Trenton's soil because it's usually gone the next time I drive or walk by, so it has to be good for the earth. It kind of upsets me when my stuff is gone, but just when I'm about to scream a primal F at the world, some other dude will bust the street with his own gunk!
I don't like when people give me the hairy eyeball or say things, like "Hey Don't litter!" I don't say, "Don't Breathe." or "Back off, dick. " No, I just look at them, flash a V and toss some more crap out of my car. Hey, if you haven't got the balls to live free it's not my fault. Get your own hobby! I'm just doin' what comes naturally.
So let's keep up the good work my fellow/and Girla Trentonites, let us build our piles high and proud!
G Spot on the Downhigh!
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
If I Gotta Have a Snowman, He Can't Be White
I'm working on my car, and this forty-something white dude who looks like he was covered in wet dough and then sprayed with WD40 comes staggering down the street. Before I can even think, "When will this mongo come drool on me with some bullshit story trying to get some cash out of me?" this dusty mongo is already on me. He is right in my space. He looks at me, all wide-eyed, like Marlon Brando with a bug in his mouth, and blurts out, "Want some of this?!"
He unfolds his clenched fist, and there, in a messy ball of plastic baggy, is a bunch of oddly colored pills. "Want some of this? Only 20 bucks!"
"Do I want some of what?! Get your stinkin' face away from me, you friggin' stinky, sweaty mongo! I don't want your drugs. You are so stoned you likely mashed up some Flintstones chewables, soaked them in paint thinner and carried them in your ass crack for the whole day!"
Mr. Obviously-Not-From-This-Neighborhood (or Mr. Hey-Look-at-Me-From-a hundred-yards-and-see-that-I'm-stoned) looked at me like I was the one who stood out.
If I'm going to buy drugs, I ain't buyin' them from no stoned white dude. That's like buying a half-eaten sandwich from a fat man: there has to be something wrong with it.
Hey, when I want my drugs, if I want my drugs, I want some style, some pizazz. The guy selling them has be cool. He can't be stoned; in fact, he shouldn't even have the drugs on him. He should yell something at me while I'm driving through, and when I'm not looking; something discreet (as discreet as a yell can be), like "EEEER!" Then when I pull over to talk, he should send me down the street to his buddy, who is even cooler; he'll be a dude wearing a long tee, and a gold rope, properly dressed for the deal. Smart decisions, proper attire, and networking. That's what I appreciate in a business man.
If that white guy ever comes back to my neighborhood I'll have him arrested. If you are going to sell drugs, have some class: lift your head up, show me some respect. Trenton don't need no cracker spreadin' his crumbs on our beach!
Yours,
G Spot on the DownHigh!
He unfolds his clenched fist, and there, in a messy ball of plastic baggy, is a bunch of oddly colored pills. "Want some of this? Only 20 bucks!"
"Do I want some of what?! Get your stinkin' face away from me, you friggin' stinky, sweaty mongo! I don't want your drugs. You are so stoned you likely mashed up some Flintstones chewables, soaked them in paint thinner and carried them in your ass crack for the whole day!"
Mr. Obviously-Not-From-This-Neighborhood (or Mr. Hey-Look-at-Me-From-a hundred-yards-and-see-that-I'm-stoned) looked at me like I was the one who stood out.
If I'm going to buy drugs, I ain't buyin' them from no stoned white dude. That's like buying a half-eaten sandwich from a fat man: there has to be something wrong with it.
Hey, when I want my drugs, if I want my drugs, I want some style, some pizazz. The guy selling them has be cool. He can't be stoned; in fact, he shouldn't even have the drugs on him. He should yell something at me while I'm driving through, and when I'm not looking; something discreet (as discreet as a yell can be), like "EEEER!" Then when I pull over to talk, he should send me down the street to his buddy, who is even cooler; he'll be a dude wearing a long tee, and a gold rope, properly dressed for the deal. Smart decisions, proper attire, and networking. That's what I appreciate in a business man.
If that white guy ever comes back to my neighborhood I'll have him arrested. If you are going to sell drugs, have some class: lift your head up, show me some respect. Trenton don't need no cracker spreadin' his crumbs on our beach!
Yours,
G Spot on the DownHigh!
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
People Are Jealous of Trenton
I play hockey on Monday nights in Philly, with a group of guys from 20- to 70-years old. I'm always bragging to them about Trenton. There are things we have here that you can't get anywhere else.
I was not aware of one of them until the hockey guys started telling me about how hard it is to get landscapers to give them estimates and even harder to get someone decent to do the work.
I said, "What about the men on bikes?"
"Men on bikes?!?!" they exclaimed together.
"Yes," I said, "You know, the men on bikes." I thought they were playing with me, with their stares of disbelief, as I'm originally from Canada and not as well-versed in the ways of the American Suburban Jungle. They just stared at me, urging me to continue with their eyes. I said, "We don't have them in Canada. But in Trenton there are these guys that ride around on bikes, and tow lawnmowers, and keep chainsaws in the bike carriers and gas cans in their free hands."
They said they had never heard of such a luxury.
I said, "Where I live, there are armies of men on bikes ready to do anything at a moment's notice. Quite reasonable too." I now had their undivided attention.
Having the undivided attention of my hockey buddies does not happen very often. Actually, the last time it happened was my first year of playing with them. We were eating deer steaks and filets in the parking lot after the game, barbecued by Hunter Danny, or Serial Killer Danny as I affectionately call him. I would come home stinking of deer juice and my wife would ask me what I had eaten. "Well, some deer sausage, some deer steaks, deer jerky. Lots of deer." I could see this was unnerving to her, for a number of reasons, and not just because of the way I smelled upon my return home. She told me, "My dad hunts, and the deer you're eating is out of season." The next week I went back to play and talked to Serial Killer Danny as he barbecued. "So Danny, where do you get this delicious meat? Do you freeze it from hunting season?"
Danny looked down at me through his thick glasses, brushed his straw hair aside and said, "Glen, I live across from a UPS Depot, and the trucks hit a lot of deer, and if I can get to it while it's still warm, I butcher it."
I said, "So if it's still warm..."
He interrupted, "And if the eyes haven't glazed over." So I moved over to where the boys were chowing on some deer burgers, and told them that they were eating road kill. They all told me I was full of it. So I called Danny over. By the time Danny got to the part about the eyes glazing over, the boys were chewing much slower.
Alright, off topic. Sawry. I described to the guys how, in Trenton, we have these dudes that ride around on bikes, and they pull their lawnmowers behind them, while juggling a gas can in the free hand. And they charge like 10 bucks for a decent mow. When I told them about the guy who actually towed a wagon on a rope behind him with two lawnmowers mounted on top, like a bike Semi, the hockey boys were were drooling. Here they were begging to have their lawns mowed, and I was living in the Mecca of Lawnmower Men.
I told them that here in Trenton, not only can we get a quick landscaping estimate, but we can't keep these eager fellows away. In fact, one time I was working in the backyard with a few contractors on our garage, and this huge, muscle-bound, Mr. T-looking mofo walked right into the yard, and up to me and said, "I'm here to mow your lawn!" And when I kindly declined, he stepped closer and said, "I'm going to mow your lawn." I looked him over, and at 250 pounds of solid muscle, and wearing a shirt that had been borrowed from the Incredible Hulk in the middle of his transformation, I realized he was made to mow lawns, and who am I to stop a man fresh out of prison from doing what he likes? He mowed the lawn, a few rocks, some stumps and part of an old fence which we didn't really didn't need anyway, for all of twelve dollars.
My astute hockey buddies were impressed with this. They want me to organize a convoy of these Bike Riding Entrenpreneurs to come to their aid in Philly. But I don't think so: the Bike Men are Trenton's, and I'm not sharing!
Detroit is Motown, Trenton is MowTown and it's my town!
I was not aware of one of them until the hockey guys started telling me about how hard it is to get landscapers to give them estimates and even harder to get someone decent to do the work.
I said, "What about the men on bikes?"
"Men on bikes?!?!" they exclaimed together.
"Yes," I said, "You know, the men on bikes." I thought they were playing with me, with their stares of disbelief, as I'm originally from Canada and not as well-versed in the ways of the American Suburban Jungle. They just stared at me, urging me to continue with their eyes. I said, "We don't have them in Canada. But in Trenton there are these guys that ride around on bikes, and tow lawnmowers, and keep chainsaws in the bike carriers and gas cans in their free hands."
They said they had never heard of such a luxury.
I said, "Where I live, there are armies of men on bikes ready to do anything at a moment's notice. Quite reasonable too." I now had their undivided attention.
Having the undivided attention of my hockey buddies does not happen very often. Actually, the last time it happened was my first year of playing with them. We were eating deer steaks and filets in the parking lot after the game, barbecued by Hunter Danny, or Serial Killer Danny as I affectionately call him. I would come home stinking of deer juice and my wife would ask me what I had eaten. "Well, some deer sausage, some deer steaks, deer jerky. Lots of deer." I could see this was unnerving to her, for a number of reasons, and not just because of the way I smelled upon my return home. She told me, "My dad hunts, and the deer you're eating is out of season." The next week I went back to play and talked to Serial Killer Danny as he barbecued. "So Danny, where do you get this delicious meat? Do you freeze it from hunting season?"
Danny looked down at me through his thick glasses, brushed his straw hair aside and said, "Glen, I live across from a UPS Depot, and the trucks hit a lot of deer, and if I can get to it while it's still warm, I butcher it."
I said, "So if it's still warm..."
He interrupted, "And if the eyes haven't glazed over." So I moved over to where the boys were chowing on some deer burgers, and told them that they were eating road kill. They all told me I was full of it. So I called Danny over. By the time Danny got to the part about the eyes glazing over, the boys were chewing much slower.
Alright, off topic. Sawry. I described to the guys how, in Trenton, we have these dudes that ride around on bikes, and they pull their lawnmowers behind them, while juggling a gas can in the free hand. And they charge like 10 bucks for a decent mow. When I told them about the guy who actually towed a wagon on a rope behind him with two lawnmowers mounted on top, like a bike Semi, the hockey boys were were drooling. Here they were begging to have their lawns mowed, and I was living in the Mecca of Lawnmower Men.
I told them that here in Trenton, not only can we get a quick landscaping estimate, but we can't keep these eager fellows away. In fact, one time I was working in the backyard with a few contractors on our garage, and this huge, muscle-bound, Mr. T-looking mofo walked right into the yard, and up to me and said, "I'm here to mow your lawn!" And when I kindly declined, he stepped closer and said, "I'm going to mow your lawn." I looked him over, and at 250 pounds of solid muscle, and wearing a shirt that had been borrowed from the Incredible Hulk in the middle of his transformation, I realized he was made to mow lawns, and who am I to stop a man fresh out of prison from doing what he likes? He mowed the lawn, a few rocks, some stumps and part of an old fence which we didn't really didn't need anyway, for all of twelve dollars.
My astute hockey buddies were impressed with this. They want me to organize a convoy of these Bike Riding Entrenpreneurs to come to their aid in Philly. But I don't think so: the Bike Men are Trenton's, and I'm not sharing!
Detroit is Motown, Trenton is MowTown and it's my town!
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