Tactical Shopping

From the Bunny Droppings Files:

Holiday shopping is easier with a bazooka. Rather than wait in a super large line of traffic for a parking space to open up in Egypt, the simple solution is blow up the cars and make your own damn parking. Or you can always take the risk and park in the handicap space. However, that may involve getting in a fist fight with a handicap person. These reasons are why I propose to start a boot camp for holiday shopping.

In order to learn the survival skills necessary to navigate the Vietnam jungle, or more commonly known as the mall, people can take my six week course. Highly trained military experts will prepare the holiday shopper for hordes of angry customers, overworked clerks, and those creepy animatronic Santas that are replacing the Salvation Army bell ringers. The holiday shopper will learn basic skills to survive the shopping season such as hand to hand combat, sniper training, hostage negotiation skills, and espionage. The camp will have everything a person needs to have a successful holiday season.

New recruits will be left in the jungle without food or drink for five days, mainly to prepare them for the wait at the food court. After they learn to eat live snakes, bugs, and other decaying jungle matter, they will finally be prepared for the quality at the food court. Logically speaking, the mall food should be better in the holiday season, because the bourbon chicken hasn’t been sitting out for five days. However, in order to sustain the same quality during the holiday rush, malls acquire all their bourbon chicken from a factory that lets the food sit out for five days before shipping anything. Don’t ask where the hot dogs on sticks come from.

Special weapons training is provided for urban combat. Trainees will use flash bangs when trying to acquire the last Chicago Bears hat before the old lady whom will always get there first. The most powerful force on the planet is an old lady shopping, especially when there is a sale.

Back in my Walgreen days, I witnessed a cataclysmic clash when my manager got in a disagreement with an old lady over a thirty cent coupon. The lady threw her purse across the store, and stared down my manager like she was going to shank him. My manager in his infinite manager wisdom said, “Clean up at the front register.”

Hand to hand combat training, will be taught by Jackie Chan. With all the gift wrapping paper, animatronic Santas, and holiday decorations around, you never know when these items will be useful in fight. Should a holiday brawl occur, those giant candy canes in the “cry on Santa’s lap area” are really foam. Though the heart of comedy is to see an elf beating Santa with one. The canes are not really effective weapons, unless you are Jackie Chan. Everything is an effective weapon to Jackie Chan.

Here are some examples of what Jackie Chan will teach you:

1. That kid trying to get the last Stretch Armstrong is a really a easy target for a drop kick to the head.

2. Do all your own stunts and not like Steven Segal. He jumps off the last two steps on a flight of stairs as a stunt.

3. Owen Wilson makes a good sidekick.

4. Don’t laugh when you see me buying a Jane Austin movie or I’ll drop kick you to the face.

Finally, the last thing you’ll learn to become an effective holiday shopper is how to deal with those creepy animatronic Santas. It’s very simple. Don’t. Have you ever read Steven King’s Monkey Shines?

Stranger Than Action

My wife showed me a recent news article. I learned that the infamous weapons dealer Viktor Bout, aka the “Merchant of Death,” was caught and transported to New York. He apparently has been selling soviet weapons to various criminal and terrorist organizations. Who would have thought that action movies really do parallel real life!

Viktor Bout is a bad guy by pretty much any bad guy standards. He deals in weapons, has protection from high officials in foreign governments, and even a villianish mustache reserved for action movie bad guys or any American male in the seventies. Even his name is action movie nemesis, Viktor, with a k! He spells his name with a K because he is hardkore! You’ll find no wimpy c’s around him, just chicks, cash, and villainy, brought to you by the letter K.

The only way this story could get any better is if the arresting agent was an ex-special ops that was kicked out of the Navy Seals for too much killing. A bad guy as awesome as Viktor really needs an equally awesome action hero to bring an end to his evil reign. I think this is a job Bruce Giacock (he’s Austrian).

Bruce Giacock: I will end you.

Viktor Bout: Not before we fight to the death in an industrial complex.

BG: Only if my shirt is torn to show my raging muscles.

VB: I’m equally as ripped too!

BG: Ever notice how titanic muscle men are no longer popular like they were in the eighties?

VB: What ever happened to Conan, The Beastmaster, and the entire cast of Predator?

BG: I know! Adrian Brody is the star of the new movie, Predators!

VB: He doesn’t have raging muscles! How can he lay thunder down on fools?

BG: We should unionize!

VB: Yeah! Gigantic men wailing on each other should be in every action movie. Screw those thinnies like Christian Bale! We’ll call ourselves Muscles. Any potential member must have biceps the size of Oprah’s thighs.

BG: You’re right! I’m sorry I ever doubted you.

VB: It’s ok.

They hug… the music swells. Credits roll to Bruce, Viktor, Jessie Ventura, Arnold, and other “Muscles” in an actor’s strike.

Return of the Kitten

The cats are finally safely back in Maine. Only the expected amount of hi-jinks ensued. For those of you reading regularly about the saga of the kitties, you’ll know about the incredible amount of work and effort involved to prepare a kitty for flight whom thinks the cat carrier is a gas chamber. The anti-anxiety drugs and daily lock ups are all part of what should be the final “Return of the Kitten.”

The Journey:

Delta Airlines had other plans to further traumatize the kitty. As a member of the greater blogging community, I recognize using blogs to complain about companies by name is rather silly and immature. Delta Airlines sucks monkey ass. I am above such measures as petty name calling. Those stupid heads at Delta have the worst customer service of any airline. Any adult knows the correct way to solve a grievance is by writing a strongly worded letter to the company. I am so frustrated and annoyed that I’m going to vent about it on my blog, poo poo face tards.

In the letter, I can inform Delta Airlines about how their website clearly states a pet carry on bag is 17′ by 12′ by 12′. The jerks had the wrong size on their website. To make sure the transaction went smoothly, I asked the person at check-in if I had the right size of carry on. Really? How hard is it to know the dimensions of carry on! He assured me that even if the cat carrier is the wrong size, he could run up the Delta Airline pet bag to the gate. A $75 value!

In order to bring a pet through security, the traveler must quite literally take the cat out of the bag and walk through the metal detector. This act results in piss from a kitty on the traveler. Once I was about to board, the gate attendant told me I needed to go back downstairs and get the Delta approved pet bag. No, they can’t just send the bag up to the gate for me and now I must run through the airport with a cat… yep more piss.

I bought the bag and rushed through security again. There goes my backup clothes. Luckily enough, the plane hasn’t left and I board the plane, with a bag shifting and clawing like the Tasmanian Devil. The upside is the mew of the kitty is drown out by the plane. Though the kitty wouldn’t be as traumatized should Delta’s website and employees simply had the correct information… poopieheads.


The upside to being peed on several times by a cat is I got to see Maine, the home state of Steven King. I totally understand why Steven King has a theme of dilapidation in his novels. The state probably has the highest creepy place quotient in the country. In the town where I was staying, the “main street” had a church (old and creepy), a town hall (also old and creepy), and gas station/general store/restaurant combo (old and really creepy).

Aside from the hundred-year-old gas pump and the porch that should rightfully feature an Old Man saying, “You boys best stay out of those woods at night. Storm’s a brewing,” the gas station featured a prominent “Deer Kill Tally.” Intrigued by the display, I had to see the tally for myself. A local, dressed completely in hunter orange, said, “You don’t like Deer Kill Tally?”

To which I replied, “No, it’s just where I come from, we would have a Jack Rabbit Kill Tally.”

He must of figured I was alright after that because he proceeded to ask me about the game of New Mexico.  I seemed to have a decent conversation with the orange clad New Englander, which seemed out of place to me. In other points of my life, I’ve always received a sense of discomfort from small town America. The feeling is like life was perfect for the locals until the day I arrived.

Maine is different, even the gun toting, orange clad, thickest accent, “Ya ganna have lobsta at Baa Haaba? Ayuh!” type of people were really friendly. Despite the fact that most buildings in Maine looked like they were halfway houses for ancient evil, serial killers, and various undead, the people were very polite. I never really got the small town “we don’t trust outsiders here” feel in Maine. The people were great and the buildings, scary. Even the majestic colonial hotels by the beach seemed like the would eat the pleasant and trusting staff at any moment.

I was taken to see Steven King’s house (No, it’s not a castle on the hill, just a normal house on a normal block (kind of big, but not as big I thought it would be). Which is an interesting experience, for a writer to gawk at another writer’s house. I don’t imagine that people would drive by my house, but who knows? Maybe I’ll have some degree of success and receive my own stream of house lookers one day.

I drew the line at the photograph. Maybe if he was dead, sure I’d have a picture. Treat others like I would like to be treated. I have a tendency to look at people’s houses even if they aren’t famous. Buildings fascinate me. The thought of various people throwing peace signs on my sidewalk in their family album seems a bit discomforting. Luckily enough, Steven King’s house would probably eat the people before the gawkers became too much of a problem.