You're Entitled

To back your cars around the building at the drive through, then complain that it takes too long to get your food, and the food is wrong. You try keeping up with 200 cars and their food. Just get your fat ass out of your car and go inside where there’s no line.

To complain about the government, but you don’t vote.

To say that the USA is the best country in the world, but you’ve never been anywhere else. Canada doesn’t count.

To think that it’s cool to sag, but you’re too ignorant to know that the custom came from prisons, where belts are not allowed, and that it is used as a sign that a man is available to other men. You ain’t that damn sexy, and no one wants to see your shorts.

To support equal rights, so open your own doors and buy your own damn dinner. And while you’re at it, lift your own damn heavy objects and kill your own damn bugs. Fix all of your own broken shit. Then die in some stupid war, or get a job working 60 hours a week and die from a heart attack and the stress of being ultimately responsible for everyone, all the time.

To say that you’re straight but you have Cher/Madonna/Bette Midler CD’s. Or both ears pierced. Or you shave anywhere other than your face. (No, not there. That’s just weird.)

To say that you’re straight but you press your jeans. No wait, you’re probably just a redneck.

To say that you don’t have anything against gays, as long as they keep to themselves. Just for your peace of mind, at the next Gay Congress, I’ll make sure that we take "Corrupting Straight People’s Children" off the Agenda.

To sit the fuck down and shut the hell up.

All You Want

I'd like to watch you sleep at night, to hear you breathe by my side
And although sleep leaves me behind, there's nowhere I'd rather be
And now our bed is oh so cold, my hands feel empty, no-one to hold
I can sleep what side I want, it's not the same with you gone
Oh if you'd come home, I'll let you know that
All you want is right here in this room, all you want
And all you need, is sitting here with you, all you want
It's been three years, one night apart, but in that night you tore my heart
If only you had slept alone, if those seeds had not been sown
Oh you could come home and you would know that
All you want, is right here in this room, all you want
All you need is sitting here with you, all you want
I hear your key turning in the door, I won't be hearing that sound anymore
And you and your sin can leave the way you just came in, send my regards to him
I hope you've found that all you want, is right there in that room, all you want
All you need is sitting there with you, all you want
I'd like to watch you sleep at night, to hear you breathe by my side.

Batman Redux

I’m done with the grocery store. I’m dragging a little, and while I generally avoid it because I don’t like chi-chi, Starbuck’s is the only place in town to get a decent latté. I had quite enough fucking chi-chi living in Chapel Hill for five years, thank you. In Memphis, we called Starbuck’s the Evil Empire. They say that there is a church on every corner, and Starbuck’s is running a close fucking second.

Sometimes the clerks at Starbuck’s seem too perfect. I wonder if they aren’t Stepford Clerks or something. I just can’t beat the hunky twink behind the counter with Bat, he’s so tyro. And it might get blood in my latté; or if he’s an android, there could be an electrical fire. There’s nothing much of note in Starbuck’s except the chi-chi displays, which I hate, so I linger at the counter to admire Twink a minute. Finally I sit directly across from the yuppie guy in the corner, who is yapping on his cell phone, making sure that the rest of us can hear. Damn, it’s hard to enjoy my latté and raspberry scone with that jackass on his phone. I stare him down until he’s ready to leave. I sense his disdain for me, his superiority. (I am empathic, you know.) He gets up to leave and swaggers toward the door.

Bat, at a precise angle. Yuppie trips over Bat with an "Oh fuck!" Instinctively, he releases his hold on Phone when he makes a futile grasp at the display next to him. Phone in midair; Bat, in a swing that would make my father proud. The arc of Phone is as beautiful as the sound it makes against the far wall. I get a refill while Yuppie pulls himself together, then head for the door. Bat, slung over my shoulder as I bounce out the door.

Next up, mail. I’m avoiding the post office because they always, always piss me off, and there’s nothing in there for Bat anyway, but some drab walls and a couple of cash registers. I could go on tangent here and say that by now it could have crossed your mind that I have some unresolved hostility issues. Well, I don’t think that’s the case. Sometimes, things just break. Like windows, head lamps, kneecaps, small electronics and shit. Shit just breaks sometimes. They don’t make ’em like they used to.

Mmmkay, mail. I need to send some movies back to Netflix. They have been pissing me the hell off. Maybe you caught that little article in the local rag a few weeks ago about how they slow your service when you have more than nine rentals in a month. They do. I told a friend about it months ago when my shit started slowing down in the mail. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. Look at the shit I rent. It ain’t like the whole damn country is renting those gay ass indie films, and when I say gay, I mean gay, and not in a figurative way. You’d think they would just send me my stuff. And then when they arrive, they won’t play. Bat, many times in quick succession, on the movies. I’ll have to go online and mark them as "damaged."

To be continued...

Batman

I’d like to carry my Baseball Bat with me all weekend, everywhere I go.

I’ll need some gas for my little trip into the city, and I stop first at the pumps. I’m not in a particular hurry, but I lean in to tell you that you are taking too long to chat with the cashier and you’re holding up the fucking line. You say something unfriendly to me - Bat, on your headlights. Of course you run over to scream and curse at me. Bat, on your windshield. You threaten to call the cops. Bat, on your cell phone. You try to touch me. Bat, on your kneecaps. I get my gas and the receipt won’t print. The little machine says "see attendant for receipt." This really isn’t convenient for me, as the reason I’m at the pump with my card is so that I don’t have to deal with any cashiers. Bat, on the little machine. I really hate those sliding metal boxes, you know the kind they have when the place is more of a roadside stand than a store, soooo - Bat, on the window. I reach through, careful not to cut myself, and get my receipt. "Thanks," I say. "Have a nice day." Bat, several times, on the little metal sliding box.

I often go to Wallgreen’s - or is it Wallgreen?- I don’t think even they know. I pick up a few trinkets and stuff. At the counter, there’s this guy who always looks at me weird. I think he’s gay. I don’t mind the gay part, but fuck, he’s just so weird. It creeps me out. You should have seen his face and the way he touched the items the day I went there with my boyfriend for, among other things, condoms and lube. Anyhoo, I try not to notice, but today I can’t help it. Wallgreen(’s) has taken to hawking candy at the till. I place my junk on the counter and he says, "Would you like to try -" as the sound of the Bat on the little candy display drowns out his pitch. "I’ll take that as a no," he says. "Enter your PIN number, please."

Next stop, the grocery store. It’s busy. There are always cars, usually nice ones, parked in the fire lane all across the front of the store. Not the ghetto one, either. The nice one near my flat. Who the fuck are these people that they don’t have to park in a space like the rest of us? Do I really have to say it? Yep. Bat, on them all. God, I love the sound of wood on glass!

Since I hate going to the grocery store to begin with, I purposefully avoid the manned check out lanes and go for the automatic ones. Even I wouldn’t beat down an old biddy arguing with the clerk over a damn nickel, though she probably deserves it. But just can’t take the risk, so automatic it is. Instead, I watch with some restraint the idiot in front of me who can’t figure out how to use the automatic check out. Each time the machine tells him something, he says, "What?" or "I just did that!" The whinny sound and accompanying body jerk that he makes is finally enough. I explain that the machine can’t hear him, it’s just a recording, as I bounce the Bat on the opposite palm. Again, he says something unfriendly. Bat, on his food not already in the sack. I point to the door with Bat, my head tilted in the gesture copied from a friend- the one she makes when she wants her kids to know that they should leave or bad things will happen. I brighten at Idiot’s departure and with Bat, rake off the smashed food onto the floor and resume my journey.

To Be Continued...