Monday, June 15, 2009

Put That Freaking Shirt Back On!

And while you're at it, step away from the wife beater t-shirt, too. Holy Crap but I hate summer! The bugs, the heat, the humidity and the shirtless men. White chests, black chests, brown chests, it don't matter. COVER THAT SHIT UP!!! I mean really, summer around here turns the whole world into one big chest fest and I'm here to say IT NEEDS TO STOP! NOW! Why just this afternoon I was driving through Catonsville and lo and behold I pass a group of local teens and one of the guys is shirtless. I have to ask: why, man, why? That look works on NOBODY, but besides that: NOBODY NEEDS TO SEE YOUR ICKY BARE CHEST! And I'm not saying that just some body types need to forget the word "shirtless" ALL MALES...OF ANY AGE! Whether you're fat or thin, muscular or scrawny; the shirtless look SUCKS!

First of all it just plain looks low class. I don't care if you have a PhD in Astrophysics, if you're sportin' the "bare chest in public look" you might as well just go ahead and get yourself a doublewide. Everyone thinks you're living in one, anyway. In West Virginia. Second of all, it can't be comfortable. The sun beating on your repulsive, fish-white skin, your five chest hairs on vulgar display or worse: your copious back hair on what should be illegal display. Just what is the draw of the shirtless look in public? If you're not getting ready to jump into the ocean or a swimming pool within the next eight seconds: KEEP YOUR SHIRT ON, MOTHERFUCKER!

You don't look sexay, (which I'm sure in your addled imagination you do) you just look stupid. And ignorant. Well, both. Now I'm not saying that the male world has to look like a J Crew catalogue, hell I don't care if you're wearing a white undershirt, just so long as it has some sleeves on it and a nice round neckhole. No v-necks; they're just tacky. Plus they make you look like your grandpa.

So to close: summer is bad enough what with the weather, the insects and the never-ending bad television. Please, in the name of all that is holy, don't make us look at your bare chest. EVER.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Fighting for The Lord

Hey ya'll, it's PAULA DEEN!! Not really, it's just the ABIB but Paula Deen's as crazy as a bedbug and I find her "southern belle on crack" routine pretty amusing.'s post returns us to one of the ABIB's most favoritest topics, namely her next door neighbors, The Jesus Syndicate or, for this post: the JS. I have written about the JS in the past and they are one of the most venom-inspiring of the ABIB's fonts of angry inspiration. They of the "She's A Child Not a Choice" fucking bumper stickers in crass juxtaposition to their endless screamfests at their endless brood of homunculi masquerading as children. The JS piously attend church every single Sunday; I know this because the noise level through the wall reaches a crescendo at around 8:30 or so every Sunday morning. What with the screaming facistic commands its pretty hard to mistake:

"Ray Ray" is four.



It goes on and on until they all pile into the gigantic Jesus Van and finally fucking leave. One guesses that they go to church to pray and find some kind of spiritual meaning and...and...Christ I can't go any further. The JS haul their hideous asses to church so that they can piously meet up with other like-minded abortion clinic bombers-in-waiting to pray for the souls of the rest of us headed-directly-to-hell-heathens and to eat crappy homemade cookies and deviled eggs (how ironic, but you know they ARE a church picnic staple). So today being Sunday they were blessedly out until early afternoon and the quiet was delicious.

I vaguely heard them stampeding back into their house at around 1:00 PM but what caught my ear began occurring about 30 minutes after they had returned home. I kept hearing things like:



Followed by the grunting sounds of human exertion accompanied by slapping noises. I couldn't help myself and assumed the position at my window of the "weird old lady spying on the neighborhood" that in actuality I am. What I saw surprised even jaded me and that's saying something.

The JS parents also known as White Whale and Brunhilda and lately known collectively as "The Fat Fucks", had tricked their kids out in BOXING GLOVES and were presiding over BOXING BOUTS on their FRONT LAWN! There were other relatives there as well, up to and including GRANDPARENTS! Well you can imagine the ABIB's reaction to this; I became convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that I had finally somehow migrated into The Twilight Zone. Even for the JS this was fucking beyond the pale!

I watched, mesmerized, as, one by one the children were told to challenge each other to fight. They laced themselves into the gloves and then sister on sister, sister on brother, kindergartner on RAY RAY they proceeded to beat the fucking crap out of each other! It was breathtaking. And all the while the adults, like the Jerry Springer audience that they so clearly are, are screaming instructions and cheering as one after another their kids were transformed into their parents' own personal Sunday Afternoon at the Fights. Who knows? Maybe only the winners got to eat dinner.

Now I am aware of the bizarro-world disconnect between people who are self-described "Christians" and also self-described avid hunters and card-carrying members of the National Rifle Association. Which always begs the question: do any of them actually READ Jesus' guidance? Assuming they CAN read which I admit is a stretch. Wasn't he kind of an advocate of peace, mofos? Turn the other cheek and all that? I mean, give me a break, I'm a fucking JEW and even I know that!

Once one of them had been beaten to the ground and pinned there for a several second count the round was deemed won. The oldest, the one we call "Peppermint Patty", clearly now, without a doubt, destined for greatness on either the roller derby circuit or a woman's football team, if fucking not the straight-up NFL, was generally the winner. Her butch ass clobbered her brother, her twenty-something uncle (and I don't think he was handicapping himself, he looked all in) and anyone else who dared to enter the "ring" with her bullneck self. It was positively horrifying and it went on for at least an hour. At one point White Whale himself laced into the gloves for a bout with his brother-in-law. Watching that fat fuck dance around the lawn taking swings and dodging fists, was actually one of the most grotesque things I have ever witnessed. But you know I kept watching; freak shows are hard to ignore.

Finally after about an hour it ended and I left my post at the window, amazed that I had resisted the almost unbearable urge to dial 911. I mean, isn't shit like this even a little bit illegal? Holy crap, if it isn't it should be. Anyway, I had to post this one just to give you all a glimpse into a typical Sunday afternoon in my neck of the woods, where a simple afternoon with the family somehow takes a wrong turn toward a darker, more frightening place where everything you've ever learned is wrong and the damned write the rules: Look! On the signpost up ahead: The Twilight Zone!