3-day

Let me start this rant by giving my disclaimer.  I am a huge advocate for paying it forward.  I believe that to see the good in this world, you must contribute to the good in this world.  When I say "contribute to the good", I don't just mean monetarily.  The best gifts in life are not material possessions.  Take a few hours out of your "busy" schedule to make a difference.  If you haven't tried it, you should start, asshole.  What the hell is wrong with you?  That being said....I'd now like to address the bone of contention I'm sure I'm about to cause. 

This weekend was our local Susan G. Komen For the Cure breast cancer three day.  If you're not familiar with this (what, are you under a God damned rock?), allow me to explain.  The breast cancer 3-day is an event in which each individual must flush a minimum of $2300.00 down the toilet to participate.  Once participants sign the contract agreeing to do so, they spend the next 9 months bragging and boring everyone around them about how they're making a difference.  About a month before the 3-day, and for the entire month of October, the Susan G. Komen For the Cure Fund shoves pink ribbons down two-thirds of Americans throats.  They do this by advertising on television, billboards, radio, newspapers, breaking into your house while you're asleep, and through hypnosis.  Other means are being researched (with all that "donation" money).  Never once in these ads do they educate the population on what this money actually goes to.  All the ads do say is, "make a difference.  Donate today".  The 3-day hoopla starts 3 months ahead, with a bunch of old, fat ladies wearing pink, getting together and walking in herds down the busiest streets in the city.  This always occurs during rush hour.  These are the ladies who are still a touch too young to join the red hat society, so they must don everything pink and parade their fat asses around letting everyone know how wonderful they are for wasting, er, spending their money on something everyone knows about.  Finally, the 3-day event arrives.  This "empowering" event is celebrated by all the village idiots.  Assholes put pink bras all over their cars, paint stupid ass sayings, such as "knead your knockers", or "Save the Tata's", on their windows, honk, block traffic, blast god-awful monster love ballads, and go, "WOOOO!"  This continues for three days, blocking all the major travel routes, causing multiple serious  (some fatal)accidents, and leaving one hell of a mess in it's wake.  When all is said and done, these fucking idiots wind up with blisters the size of  Mount Rushmore on their hammer toes.  That's all they have to show for walking (give or take) 60 miles.  Oh, and they're at least $2300 poorer. 

Seriously?  Breast cancer?  Yeah, I get it.  It sucks.  You know what else sucks?  When a six year old is dying of Leukemia.  When a soldier is injured, fighting for your freedom to blow your fucking money on a hokey "charity".  You're not out there raising awareness for them, now, are you?  No, instead, you hop on the bandwagon of "For the Cure" bullshit.  Here's some information for you, since Susan G. Komen is all about education....This organization is a joke.  The overhead cost is outrageous, and, according to Guidestar.org, Susan G Komen For the Cure took in $135 million last year.  Of that, used $74 million for "research", and only $10,000 for grants to those affected by breast cancer.  The rest of that cash was used to pay employees (most in the six figure range) and contractors. 

What makes breast cancer so much more important than Leukemia, or diabetes, or typhoid fever for that matter?  Not a fucking thing.  They are all potentially deadly. 

So to you, you fat, ugly, old bitches, I say this: You should be ashamed of yourselves.  It's embarrassing to think that nobody does their research before trying to "make a difference".  Come on, isn't it a dead giveaway that Susan G Komen won't even let you participate unless you raise at least $2300.00?  Also, you just wasted three beautiful days.  You could have spent those three days volunteering at your local library, or visiting the elderly at a nursing home.  You could have taken that $2300 and donated it anonymously to a college fund for an underprivileged child, or washed dogs at the SPCA.  I could go on, but I'm too pissed that so many people jump on the bandwagon of something so ridiculous. 

I'm tired.  In closing, I say, "Fuck you, Susan G. Komen, whoever the fuck you were.  You have ruined the color pink for me.  I am aware now.  Aware that your organization is a joke."  The three day walkers should be aware, too.  Aware that all that pink makes them look like fucking flamingos with thyroid problems.  I recommend they change their color to neon yellow.  Not only because many of the participants are the size of a school bus, but because it's only a matter of time before one or twenty of them get pegged on Gulf Blvd. 

Advice from your Neighborhood Health Inspector

I decided after almost seven years of working in the wonderful public sector, it was time to provide you with some insight into what to do when a health inspector comes into your facility.  Actually, these are things you should NEVER do in the presence of a health inspector. I only mention these items because these are all things I've encountered:

• It is not okay to keep a fish tank in your kitchen on a shelf with your bread.  Please do not tell me it was a gift from a patron.  I don't care if the pope bought you a jew fish, it does not belong in a kitchen. 
• When I enter your facility and ask for access to the kitchen, don't reply, "well, it's just a kitchen."  I know.  That's why I want to see it.  Stalling me while speaking loudly enough to notify your kitchen staff to put on hair nets, sweep the rats under the fridge, and  remove the fecal matter from the light switch is not going to make your inspection go any easier. 
• When you know your kitchen is infested with German roaches, don't flip on the kitchen lights upon my arrival and act appalled and disgusted by the greasy little fuckers scurrying across your stove, counter, and room temperature chicken salad. 
• I have no problem with you following me and asking questions.  It is my job to educate you on the importance of washing your hands after you poop.  However, please give me enough personal space to not feel and smell your hot garbage breath in my left ear.
• Also, if you're following me around, and actually involved in what I'm explaining or looking at, fine.  If you're following me around, making excuses for everything I look at (even when I don't find a violation), you're instantaneously guilty in my eyes.  I will nit pick you to death. 
• Do not tell me "Oh, well, I'm healthy" or start coughing, or tell me about all the rats and roaches you're hiding.  I've been an inspector for almost seven years.  I have heard those lines at least 5,731 times.  You're not funny.  Know what's funny?  Nothing you'd be familiar with, you humorless ass clown.  How about being original.
• NEVER, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, argue with me about whether a cockroach is dead or alive.  If you really want to fail your inspection, pick up the "dead" cockroach with your bare hands and try to bring it over to show me.  See what happens.  I promise you're leaving with one less testicle.  The last client who did this did not pass inspection.  Nor does he need that vasectomy.  Just sayin'. 
• Do not wait until after I enter an assisted living facility resident's room to tell me that she gets angry and throws shit.  No, literally, she shits herself and throws it. This may be humorous to you....Eh, actually, it's pretty fuckin' funny to me, too.  Especially since she had bad aim. 
• Do not wear your rubber gloves while picking your nose over the lasagna you're preparing. 
• While talking about rubber gloves, let's get something straight.  Don't complain to me about a kitchen employee not wearing gloves.  Gloves are fucking disgusting.  They give you a false sense of having clean hands.  You don't (see above bullet).  There is no substitute for washing your hands frequently.  If you don't feel like your hands are dirty, you're less likely to wash them.  Watch someone wearing gloves next time you're out to eat.  I promise you, they're touching their faces, texting, counting money, or grabbing their package.  All without changing their gloves.  
• It is never okay to serve chili in a bar not licensed to serve food.  Period.  Especially not chili with live maggots crawling through it.  Oh, also, when confronted about said chili, it is not okay to call me a little bitch.  Rice does not move, and nobody puts rice in chili, you stupid fuck. 
• It is never okay to remove your only sink-in the entire facility-while you're serving food.  Also, don't lie and say your staff is going to the neighboring building to wash their hands.   
• Do not mistake your health inspector for your 10:00AM interview.  Especially not when I show up with a badge and clipboard.  And you are interviewing for a stripper position.  I know you probably have candidates show up in costume, but this isn't mine.  I have a job to do, and today, that job just happens to be inspecting your fine tittie bar.  Besides, when I interview for that position, I like to wear my rubber cat woman suit. 
• Don't hide 25 pounds of raw, room temperature pork in the oven when you hear I'm in the building.  I'm an inspector.  They pay me the big bucks to look in every nook and cranny.  I'm going to find the 8 pigs you slaughtered. 
• While we're on the subject of pigs....When you have an unlicensed pig roast at your bar, be sure you immediately destroy the evidence.  I still have nightmares about that pig head inside the beer cooler, at eye level, staring back at me.  Sorry your bar is out of business now. 
• Don't offer to pierce your inspector's tongue for free.  You own a body piercing/tanning salon in one room.  And, you're a sex predator.  Good luck with that, douchebag.
• When a sewage line underneath your assisted living facility breaks, and that break is right under your kitchen, it is not alright if you continue to work around the two inches of turds sloshing around on the kitchen floor.  It's time to order Hungry Howie's. 
• It is not okay for you to leave the aforementioned kitchen floor in that condition for an extended period of time.  It is never going to be cool with your health inspector for you to just hang out, making fruit salad and what not. 
• Don't hug your health inspector.  It's really kind of gross, and extremely uncomfortable.  I'm obviously a germiphobe, and, well, you smell like dirty feet and unwashed hair. 
• Don't ask me out on a date.  The answer is no.  The answer will still be no at your next inspection. 
• Don't ask me to get you a beer.  I'm not the new bartender.  It's 9:00AM.  Why are you here and not working, anyways?
• Don't ask me if you can swim in a pool after I put up a large metal sign that says, "Pool Closed".  Sure.  Have at it.  Just try to swim around the turds floating in the deep end.  I like swimming in a giant toilet, too!
• Don't call in a complaint about pool water giving you a rash, have me investigate, and while I'm investigating, you're swimming in the implicated pool.  You're right.  My time isn't very valuable.  Keep swimming.  Enjoy your rash.
• Don't schedule me to come inspect your foster home two weeks in advance if you're not planning on cleaning. 
• Don't ask me to come inspect your foster home after 5:00PM, because that's when you get off work.  Guess what, those pukey little kids you're going to be caring for are not going to wait until 5:00PM to shit their pants at school.  You'd better learn a little flexibility, bitch. 

Children of Street Rodders

This rant isn’t going to make sense to many people, but to those of you who understand, I think you’ll get a kick out of this.  I am the member of an elite group.  We are known as the second-generation motor-heads, or rodders.  We were born, raised, and some of us conceived, in the back of a street rod.  We spent our childhood summers traveling in a convoy of pre-1949 built from scratch, jimmy rigged jalopies.  Okay, they weren’t jalopies by any means.  These cars were beautiful.  Every last shred of chrome, steel, and, in the case of my dad’s upholstery, crushed velour, was built by hand from scratch.  We spent our weekends in the summer touring the eastern US, hauling campers in tow, to different shows known to us as Rod Runs.  If one of the hot rods in the convoy broke down, the entire convoy would pull off and fix it.  We didn’t need AAA.  We were AAA.  We all had CB’s, and each street rodder had a CB handle.  Our campers were towed by our street rods.  We didn’t believe in towing a classic car.  What fun is it if you can’t drive something you put so much pride and effort into building?  We had no respect for someone who did haul their street rod.  If a street rod was on a flat bed, that bitch had better have been totaled out in a drag race.  Otherwise, you weren’t a member of our club.  We would set up our campers, weekend after weekend, build camp fires, have sock-hops, play games, raffle items off, host Chinese auctions, bring in 250 dozen ears of corn, and show our cars.  The second generation rodders would run off and play together, while our parents would get sloppy drunk, and in some instances, pass out underneath their motorhomes.  This was the norm for us.  We were the Street Rods of Northwest PA.  I didn’t know that other kids didn’t know what a street rod was.  I thought every kid’s dad had perpetually dirty hands and fingernails.  I didn’t know that other kid’s parents didn’t get together in convoys and camp every weekend, even if it was in a corn field during a tornado.  I thought that every kid’s dad could talk about cars endlessly.  I realize now that we were just the lucky chosen ones.  The second generation motor-heads are all adults now.  Although the Street Rods of Northwest PA has since disbanded, the bond of the members and their children is as strong as ever. 

On a recent visit home, I was reunited with many of the second generation rodders.  It is as though we never missed a beat.  We got together, and now, instead of just our fathers discussing carburetors, we all discussed them.  We have all done well for ourselves, and I would like to attribute it to the fact that we were brought up around such camaraderie.  We were taught that all hard work also needs to be enjoyed and appreciated.  Many of us have built street rods of our own.  I still have the dream of building one soon…I just need garage space.  Our dad’s garages are still bigger than any living space.  There are still at least two hot rods in the garage, and more street rodder magazines in our house than anyone could ever imagine.  Everytime I hear the deep rumble of a souped-up engine and smell exhaust, I smile.  I’m reminded of a wonderful childhood.