I don’t watch much TV, and I’ve never watched Survivor, so I don’t give two shits about all of that.
My first thoughts were, “Dude looks like a bug-eyed, speed-freak refugee from a Grateful Dead road tour. This cannot be serious.”
Then, my disgruntled revolutionary self takes over and I think, “Hell…why not? He would be better than the douche-bag lawyer types from either party who don’t give a damn about anything except re-election and act like the Constitution and the Bill of Rights are items in their personal hygiene DOP kit.”
Besides all that, the weasel dick twerp we have in the Indiana governor's mansion now looks like a poseur ass on a Harley-Davidson.
I am all in.
Rupert Boneham, Libertarian candidate for Indiana governor!
Please get a haircut and a shave, however. Don’t cut all of it off. Just trim it back some. You look like a lunatic!
I ain't no racin' expert, and this is the only place I can say this without being crucified...
I watched it unfold live on television.
Only a handful of laps into the race, and there had already been a tire rubbing incident.
I thought, "Oh fuck. This is really outta hand."
Then they switched to Wheldon's in-car camera.
You can see a puff of smoke off in the distance, and I was thinking at that moment, "Back out of that shit now!"
Wheldon backed out of it a moment or two later, but it wasn't enough.
From the aerial shots, it looks like he damn near went balls to the wall into that mess.
You suppose he thought he could worm his way through that shit?
Was his reaction time too slow?
Am I an asshole?
Who knows?
Either way...it sucks.
Even though I have spent alarming and ridiculous amounts of time at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway over the years, I never had an up-close and personal interaction with Dan Wheldon at Indy during the month of May.
I tend to observe and take mental notes and pictures, and I don't act like an asshole and pester drivers for autographs and other bothersome favors.
Except for this one time a few years ago...
I had consumed inordinate amounts of beer that day, and I was strolling through the garage area with a couple of my racin' buddies.
This was immediately after Wheldon had his new teeth installed. His chompers were so new and gleamy white that their reflection would blind ground squirrels on a sunny day.
Soon...here comes Wheldon cruising through the garage area on a golf cart.
In a moment of somewhat youthful drunken exuberance I shouted out, "TOOOFUSSES!"
My buddies were guffawing themselves senseless.
Dan had a huge, shit-eating grin on his face as he drove by, and just shook his head in delighted feigned disgust.
First of all…I remember what it was like being a raging hormonal teenaged boy/ young man. Deep down we are/were a bunch of no-good rotten sons-a-bitches…
With that in mind, let us commence with the interrogation.
Why do you want to date my daughter?
What is it that attracts you to her?
If you are a smart lad you will not answer, “…her smokin’ body.”
You will answer something about her intellect, her sense of humor, her musical and athletic ability, her leadership skills, or her strong-willed and independent personality.
Those would all be excellent answers.
How do you think she got to be the person you so admire?
I’ll tell you how. It’s because her mother and I raised her that way.
That said…you had better show respect to her mother and I for how we raised our daughter, and you had better respect our daughter and treat her with the respect SHE deserves.
If you do not, you will not be seeing my daughter socially, and you and I will have a big problem.
You may be asking yourself, “Mr. Zoomie…exactly how should I show that respect?”
Be a man and a gentleman at all times.
You should be old enough to know what that means, especially if you were raised by a proper father. However…these days, I cannot assume this is the case…so I’ll try to help you.
You will speak to my daughter as you would your own mother. (I’ll assume you show your own mother respect and courtesy.)
Ghetto parlance, trash talk, insults, and put-downs are not acceptable.
Pretend I am standing within earshot when you speak to my daughter, and you should be good to go.
You and I both know there are a lot of punks, assholes, and predators out there. I’ll assume (for now) that you are not one of them, as otherwise my daughter wouldn’t have chosen you to date.
Do you know how to fight? Have you ever been punched in the face? Are you at least WILLING to fight?
You had better be willing to fight if you are going to go out in public with my daughter. It will be your job to protect her and defend her honor when I cannot.
A dramatic representation of what I'm talking about
If you must defend my daughter, I expect you to fight like a lion. I don’t expect you to be Bruce Lee, but I expect you to put in one hell of an effort. If you don’t believe you are willing and able to do this, then I can’t help you, and you can’t date my daughter.
I am willing to take a bullet for my daughter.
Are you?
You cannot possibly know what it is like to be a father, but I’ll ask you this.
Do you have a sister who you love? Would you want a young man like you going out with her? How would you want a young man to treat your sister?
A father feels the same way about his daughter, only a thousand times more.
There will be no drugs, booze, or weed while you date my daughter. I know what all three look like, taste like, and smell like. Back in my rowdy younger days, and unlike President Clinton, I inhaled.
These days, from what I am led to believe, much of your generation considers oral sex akin to a good night kiss…no big deal and commonly expected.
Guess again.
Oral sex IS sex, despite what President Clinton says, and there will be none of it either.
My daughter is precious to me. She is no one’s plaything or sex toy. If she is abused, I will return the abuse ten-fold to the abuser.
That is a promise, not a threat.
I am very sneaky, and although I am old, I know my way around computers and the Internet. If you ask any of my children, they will tell you that I have discovered many things they really didn’t want me to know about.
Because I am old, I am wise.
Because I am old, I also know many treacherous dirty tricks.
You should remember three things about me:
-I am fiercely protective of my family.
-I have a good-sized firearms collection.
-I practice.
I hope you and my daughter have an enjoyable date.
I expect her return no later than 11pm.
Rules For Dating This Marine’s Daughter (revised)
-original author unknown
Rule One:
If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.
Rule Two:
You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.
Rule Three:
I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.
Rule Four:
I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.
Rule Five:
It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."
Rule Six:
I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.
Rule Seven:
As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?
Rule Eight:
The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight. Places where there is darkness. Places where there are dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka - zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.
Rule Nine:
Do not lie to me. On issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.
Rule Ten:
Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a SCUD missile coming in over a sand dune near Kuwait. When my Post Traumatic Stress starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.
Because I am a realist and I don't like to waste valuable time learning shit that is pointless, (and I freely pass on my life philosophies to my offspring), I recommended to all of my children that they take Spanish language courses in high school.
A couple of summers ago, I accompanied my kids on a tour of their high school as they were going to be new incoming freshmen.
In their Spanish language classroom, I noticed a 8X10 painting of Che Guevara.
My kids had no idea who Che was, so I edumacated them a little on the subject.
Then, I emailed the instructor and asked her what the idea was behind displaying the painting of Che in an American classroom, and whether she was aware of the atrocities Che committed.
She replied that the painting was done by a student, that she was aware of the truth about Che, and that she uses the painting as a tool to teach her students the entire truth about him.
Somewhat satisfied with her answer, and pleased with myself for being an uppity parent, I dropped the matter and went on about my business.
Later on during that school year, I asked my children if the teacher ever waxed poetically or romantically about Che, (or ever mentioned their uppity dad), and my kids said she has never mentioned the commie bastard (or me).
Since that time, I've been monitoring the subjects of the written reports the Spanish teacher assigns my kids during the school year.
My findings include:
Hugo Chavez.
Fidel Castro.
What. The. Fuck?
Apparently, there are no other non-communist Spanish-speaking heroes about whom this teacher's students can write papers.
Interestingly, my own quick online search revealed dozens of names of Hispanic Americans who were awarded the Medal Of Honor.
I suppose these heroic Americans don't rate a report these days in American public schools.
Perhaps a face-to-face conference with this teacher is in order, but, at this time, I am not certain I would be able to conduct myself like a gentleman should.
I am not convinced this teacher is not a commie-loving hippie.
