If God Meant Us To Fly, Then... Uh...

I've always loved the concept of regulars. You know, the guy you always see at a restaurant or something, or the guy who does all his shopping at one gas station. I got to meet many regulars working at a gas station; it was interesting to talk with people who I didn't know at all as though we were friends, despite the fact that we would never see each other outside of the context of the store. I was once considered a regular at the Perkins back home. I actually got asked if I wanted the usual. Oh, what a glorious day that was. Sigh. Shoot me now, grave-man, for I can die having accomplished my one single goal on this Earth and the next.

You always need a signal that you are a regular in order to be one. You can't simply declare yourself one, your will must be proven. The classic line "He's in here all the time" is good proof. Today I officially became a regular at this joint known as Brankos, a delicious little family owned and operated sandwich place off Fullerton. I went in, not realizing I had not enough money (the ever present "I totally thought that was a five, dawg, aw shit so many conflicting feelings" running through my head), and stumbled with words briefly. The kind woman at the counter said to give her what I had and I could pay the rest later. "I know you," she stated with a kind heart and gentle smile. "I can't let you go hungry." Awwwwwwwwwwwwww. How damned sweet is that? Very Ma and Pa restaurant-esque. People before pennies. The kind of place that ever-so-briefly restores my faith in humanity.

And DAMN!!! was that a good hot dog! I hadn't had a Chicago hot dog for 3 months, and didn't get around to getting one yet on account of my favorite local dog joint closed over the summer. I was very sad, but this experience was henceforth brightened by the delightful and delicious circumstances revolving the hot dog I ate tonight. Man, that was a good hot dog. I love Chicago hot dogs. Worth moving down here simply for that.

Hey, one last thought: If you've ever spoken with me, you've probably heard this one, but don't stop me, cuz I love telling it and you are out of line trying to get me to not say something anyway, you horrible jackass of a person: In the Ford Truck song, you know "I'm a Ford Truck man" and all that bullshit, the asshole no-talent sheep-fucker sings that Ford trucks are "all [he] drives", yet immedietly afterwards states that he "ain't got no [sic] boundaries" and that, in addition, he "don't compromise". If you ain't got no boundaries, douche, how come all you'll ever drive is a Ford? That sounds like a fucking boundary to me. You are bound to Ford, my friend. Bound! Repent thyself!

On top of that, in the "extended mix" of the diddy, thankfully reserved solely for the radio commercials, our hero continues by singing he'd "rather walk 10 miles in the snow [than] drive any other pick-up truck". Are you serious, sir? I don't believe you. No way in hell would you, if presented with either having to walk ten miles in the snow, thus scuffing up your Gucci cowboy boots and potentially scratching your Ford-emblazened acoustic guitar, or getting to ride in the competitors automobile (horror of horrors!!!), choose the former. Let's see video proof of this, lest I be disinclined to believe your faulty story.

Oh, and George Bush doesn't care about black people, in case you hadn't heard.