This might make me a sensitive, yet lazy putz.

I’m not saying that I don’t like a good razzing from workmates. I’m not saying I have any issues with getting booed while public speaking. I don’t even REALLY care about the fact that a chimpanzee may be running my country whilst donning a man-mask: taking my tax dollars for the new crusade and better banana technology. I really don't have THAT many hot-buttons.

I might not be as sensitive as some portray me as being.

But I do hate the fucking meandering, ever-changing, varicose-looking crack-set that is spreading itself into my field of vision by way of dendritic expansion across my goddamn windshield. Now I have to Benzwenger because it is really starting to cramp my style.

Having been raised in Houston, there is much importance placed upon the automobile. Not just the value of the thing, but the care that has been put into the outward appearance of your bucket. You can own an ’86 Ford Tempo that has not seen new oil in 8,000 miles that will be more than acceptable if you wash it daily, keep the crazy-ass Japanese air freshener swapped out, Armor All EVERYTHING (including windshield wiper blades), and buff that waxed finish until you can see the future in the reflection.

So that’s where I am coming from, and I while I have not done my part to retain the “ghetto fabulousness” of my ride by practically living at the carwash, I do take issue with a white-trash banner-of-a-crack crisscrossing its way across my front glass. Back in the day (as it still is on an ’86 Ford Tempo), before the glory of nose-crushing airbags, these cracks were caused by the booze-inspired connection between the interior glass and the foreheads of those in the front seat. Simple logic flow: Sixteen Mandarin & Tonics  swerve in auto  meet a freeway pylon  forehead meets windshield  your trashy ass doesn’t mind dealing with the splintered front-view so the crack becomes part of the “rustic ambiance” that pervades that piece of shit you drive to the feed lot.

But my crack has more humble beginnings. I was driving down Congress Ave on a Sunday afternoon. The sidewalks were sardine-canned with pointless wanderers and droves of kidlets menacing the downtown wildlife (pigeons, squirrels, bums). Apparently there is an abundance of lazy-ass rocks, just laying about on the sidewalks, begging to be moved across the avenue. And a couple of monkey-children, with the help of their dumbass apathetic parents, were doing everything in their power to help the dreams of those stones come true.

So there they were: a couple of eight-year olds slinging rocks across the street, over the waiting-for-the-next-green-light traffic that I was sitting in. Then the inevitable happened. One sad little stone’s dream of migrating to the southbound side of Congress was ruined, as was the pristine glasswork of my windshield, by the ill-aimed pitch of one young hoodlum. It started out as a little star-chip, but eventually bled out a crack when the weather dipped the temp down last winter. It gave my glass a real unappealing cut that moved across the passenger side. Having other priorities, I let it slide, intending to get it fixed whenever my budget gave me the green light to do so.

But then, that sinister ass-crack got restless and branched off, heading to the driver’s side, and now it is threatening my view. At night, when drivers are heading toward me, the refracted headlights within the crack beam out in laser-like bolts, like I’m driving into a goddamn disco ball.

And the worst part is that with each irritating inch that I see the crack expanding, I feel deeper and deeper hatred for that little boy and his shitty throwing arm. Little fucker.

I re-read this post. And I realize that I’m just crying like a refugee because I was too lazy to get the chip repaired, and now I’m too lazy to get the window replaced. That’s what this really boils down to. Craig is being a lazy turd, and he wants to lay the blame for that on some typical 8 year-old who did nothing beyond the standard activity of unattended 8-year-olds: break Craig’s shit. I can’t blame them.

Besides, that’s just my kickass Karma [deep, deep deficit] coming back to haunt me. I mean, shit, at least they weren’t shooting at me. I would hate to get capped by an third grader on a random Sunday. You know, with it being the “Lord ’s Day” and all. Just seems goddamn wrong to me.

Damn you lazy rocks!