Today I am driven like the snow to tell you about a growing problem in the Greater Baltimore Area and maybe elsewhere in the land of the free or supposedly free persons with constitutional rights denied for reasons related to what I am about to tell you about. Rightfully will you be horrified by this report but I assure you it is not doctored with details not present in the report as it happened to me yesterday a little before the time of day in which I write the report as you will read.
I met with my financial advisor, who took me out to a steak place with a full liquor license for lunch. Since I was on a break from my dual employment with the Greater Baltimore School System, between teaching a class in remedial science, which I am completely unqualified to teach, and my substitute gym teacher work, which I am less unqualified for but still unqualified generally for, I decided to follow Joe the financial advisor's lead and order an beverage from the bar. I chose a fine cognac suggested by the very attractive waitress along with a tall boy Miller Lite beer draught. We had steaks with sides of beans and/or peas along with baked potato and a cobbler dessert. We discussed my financial situation at length, made great headway and then walked out to the parking lot together.
It is important to note at this point that I have not had a car since an incident a couple years ago when my LeBaron, a Chrysler product, was taken for a joyride by two unkempt youths working valet parking for an upscale movie theatre where I was watching misleading communist fare. While I did not press charges, instead attempting to settle out of court (but then unable to find the youths in order to hammer out a bargain), I also did not realize that much damage had been done to my Chrysler product to an extent that Lee Iaccoca would have been rightly steamed. It has been in the shop for some time and frequently I have been given lame excuses by the mechanic and his henchmen about the status of my LeBaron, which I was unable to ascertain was actually still in the shop. I have two lesbian friends, who are both lesbians who work together in the offices of the company from which I draw my primary salary renumeration, Civil War Action Figures, Ltd., but they are not dating, never have dated and have not even done any fooling around other than playful bare boobie grabbing while we were all out on the town together. One of these uninvolved with each other lesbian friends of mine told me the place where my car is serviced is a chop shop and that my LeBaron is unlikely to still be there, despite claims to the opposite by questionable mechanic and henchmen associates.
Joe the financial advisor was driving me back to my employment with the Greater Baltimore School System and I was following him out the front door of the restaurant when a scowling lady coming through the door continued to scowl at Joe after he held the door for her and politely said unto her, "Enjoy your lunch." The scowling at Joe continued, despite his politeness in communication and door holding and I mentioned to him, "She could of at least said a thank you," as I found her behavior a befuddlement to societal actions generally accepted in such settings. She then turned around, walked back towards us and said, "I don't ever thank drunks, especially drunks who are about to get in a car and drive over innocent children who haven't had a goddamned chance to make anything of their lives yet before you rip those lives out from under them, asshole."
I was taken aback, as was Joe, who went on to tell her that he had only had a Scotch and water along with a large steak centralized lunch to balance the equation. He was cut off in his explanation and she did not respond in any way, as at that point a group of leather-clad vigilantes emerged from the parking area with wooden clubs and tennis rackets and closed around us in a threatening manner.
"Come with us, drunks, and get your comeuppance," the leader of this gang told us and then led us into the back of a broken-down pickup truck better served for bringing migrant illegal immigrant workers who deserve their own blood to be shed in honor of The Constitution to fields for manual labor. We were then driven out to a dirt parking lot way, way on the outskirts of what is the civilized metropolis of Baltimore.
We were taken out of the back of the truck and blows were delivered with wooden clubs and tennis rackets until I heard Joe the financial advisor's kneecap pop loose and rattle two to three inches down along the line of his shin bone where it remains to this day despite four operations performed by relatively competent doctors.
Yours truly, Berhardt Goats, was then pushed to the ground so the vigilantes could continue their vicious attack on Joe the financial advisor, who they at this point ascertained was the driver after pulling our keys out of our dress slacks and seeing mine contained only house keys, locker room keys and keys to the foreign body laboratory of the Greater Baltimore School System where various things I need for teaching remedial science are kept, including molecules and atoms.
And then they said unto me, "You aren't gonna give us any trouble, are you baldy?" And then went on to ask if I was a person of African American descent, using a term I cannot use here since it has been inadvisable to put this term in print due to other vigilante gangs of folks who have been active since two years after Ulysses S. Grant left office and had a song written about him by a band called Cream, which involved communist sympathizer Eric Clapton.
Once I explained I was not and that I was a middle aged man of Middle Eastern descent raised in postwar Germany, I was hit in the back of the head with a crowbar or similar such metallic device that makes a distinct ringing sound when it comes into contact with skull of human. Later that night Joe the financial advisor and yours truly, Berhardt Goats, woke up in very bad physical shape, tied to jersey barriers on I-95 outside of old Baltimore with barbed wire and crudely drawn signs fashioned of posterboard with words written on them with less than magical markers reading, "We drive around drunk all the time killing children."
This is the state of the nation.