That boom boom boom shit

On the 4th of July, I coffeed and internetted at a mostly deserted coffee shop, but there was one brief flurry of customers — eight uniformed police officers came in together. They were very polite, very chatty with the few other customers, and they were there, all eight of them, for two hours and 45 minutes at least, until I left.

Seems like an easy gig. Cops have no place else to be, no-one checking on them, they're assumed to be heroes whenever anyone gets shot and killed, and they get holiday pay for all-day coffee breaks. Wouldn't surprise me if the Police Department bought their donuts.

My cat Izzy is a rescue cat, tortured by her previous owners, and she's very skittish — afraid of everything. When my flatmates talk in the kitchen, she hears them and hides. If I yawn too loudly or groan while masturbating, she'll hide. The house has rats, and when the cat sees one, she'll hide.

And yet she was completely unconcerned about the fireworks blowing up all night and day, right outside the window, on the 2nd, 3rd, and especially the 4th of July. I was pissed off about all the noise and wanted to punch someone in the balls. Still do. I hate backyard fireworks, and hate people who love that boom boom boom shit.

But Izzy didn't even look around to follow the sound, she just curled up and slept. I'm guessing she thought it was 'fake sound' like she hears whenever I'm watching a movie.

I'm in favor of euthanasia, which is merely a fancy word for suicide. When life isn't worth the bother or the pain, of course you have the right to end it. It's your life, not a life sentence.

I propose orgasm-euthanasia. This would be a professional service, with employees paid a living wage with good benefits, for providing going-away blowjobs, handjobs, or the full monte, while at the same time a fatal dose of something painless and euphoric is administered. Gotta be better than hospice care, don't you agree?

When my time is nigh, I'd sign up. 

My car had been unwilling to start, so I called AAA to have them bring and install a new battery. The installation is free; the battery was gonna be a couple of hundred bucks. The problem wasn't the battery, though. Turns out my car has a built-in booby trap.

The service guy asked me what dashboard lights stayed on when I turned the key to 'accessories' (ACC). The 'check engine' light has been on for the last 100,000 miles, and I thought maybe that was the expensive answer. Other trouble lights come on now and then too, stay lit for a week, and then turn themselves off, so I ignore the dashboard lights.

'Theft protection' was lit, and I remembered that it had been on for a week before the car died.

The service guy shook his head knowingly, and said 'theft protection' was the problem. When that light is on, he explained, it means the car has mistakenly decided I'm grand theft auto in progress, so it cuts off the ignition to thwart the crime. That's why the engine wouldn't start. He's seen it a lot, he said, with Chevrolets from the late 1990s and early 2000s, but he knew how to get past it:

① Turn the key to ACC.
② Open the driver's door.
③ Wait ten minutes, key at ACC and door open, but doing nothing else to the car.

The service guy was a non-stop talker like my flatmate Dean, so for ten minutes he told me about celebrities he's towed. Then he said, "Try starting the car," and it started on the first try.

"What do I owe you?" I asked, and he said no charge, then heroically drove off into the sunrise. AAA's member service is great. Chevrolet's 'theft protection', not so much. The guy said it'll probably happen again, so I've posted the solution for next time, and shared it in case you own or want to steal a Chevy from the late '90s or early '00s.

"These jeans are visibly distressed." That's the line that woke me at 4:30 in the morning yesterday. Dean was talking to himself in the kitchen. He then talked to himself for about fifteen minutes while his coffee brewed, talked about fireworks and leather shoes, distressed jeans, and cooking at the hotel. 

Today he goes back to work, and I'm sure hoping things get quieter around here.

(I've said some of this before, but I'm going to say it again. This probably won't be the last time I say it, either.)

Everyone in the world driving a car doesn't make sense. It isn't sustainable, kills the planet, and kills people in constant crashes.

Public transit makes sense. As a matter of public policy, we want to get people out of their stupid cars, riding subways and commuter rail, streetcars, buses, and trams.

Toward that goal, gas and oil ought to be taxed more and more, speeding and parking tickets ought to cost more, and all the revenue raised should go toward making public transit easier, more accessible, and absolutely fucking free for all passengers.

And now, the news you need, whether you know it or not…  

July 5, 2022

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What's more American than living in an abandoned missile silo? 

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Hate the neighborhood, love the rent. 

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Car 54, Where Are You was William Faulkner's favorite TV show

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The world's oldest pharmacy 

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One-word newscast, because it's the same news every time...

The End
Betty Rowland
Arnold Skolnick
Philip Sutton


Cranky Old Fart is annoyed and complains and very occasionally offers a kindness, along with anything off the internet that's made me smile or snarl. All opinions fresh from my ass. Top illustration by Jeff Meyer. Click any image to enlarge. Comments & conversations invited.
Tip 'o the hat to Linden Arden, ye olde AVA, BoingBoing, Breakfast at Ralf's, Captain Hampockets, CaptCreate's Log, John the Basket, LiarTownUSA, Meme City, National Zero, Ran Prieur, Voenix Rising, and anyone else whose work I've stolen without saying thanks.
Extra special thanks to Becky Jo, Name Withheld, Dave S, Wynn Bruce, and always Stephanie...


  1. >The installation is free; the battery was gonna be a couple of hundred bucks

    HOLY SHITFUCK! That's more than double the battery I had to buy when mine died when I was staying with you. Probably triple. 2000 Toyota Echo.

    1. The price quoted was $189. Guess that's expensive? Doesn't seem like a lot if I can count on the car starting, but I dunno nothing about cars.

      I don't even remember your battery dying while you were here. Why didn't I give you a jump?

    2. Probably at work. It slowly, over like a week, got harder to start. Crapped out around the corner, on Johnson. Called AAA for a jump and limped into Auto Zone or Kragen or whatever. Was fine, and couldn't have been more than 100 for the battery, probably closer to 85.

    3. And you didn't even mention it. Cripes, I thought *I* was stoic...

    4. My brother, there's no fucking way I didn't mention it. Your Swiss-cheese brain has forgotten.

    5. That you're a sexy, sexy hunk of man.

  2. Also, this is the first thing I thought of when I saw the title:


    1. On my watchlist for a month now, and I'll probably see it again within the next few days. Spoiler: I like The Blues Brothers.


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