NorCal, the westernmost province of Redneckistan.

The short of it: went to a bar in my hometown with another hometown expat who lives in San Francisco. Came to the conclusion, in conjunction with evidence observed yesterday, that Northern California is at times just about as country as North Texas is. Thus, for the time being, I will be referring to the place in which I grew up as South Carolodi. Or maybe Lodisiana? I dunno. Pick your favorite. Slowdi is easier to say, but it doesn't convey the same sense of jerkoffs roaring past you in jacked-up F-250s. I mean seriously, it's the same NASCAR hats, same Calvin-pissing-on-whatever stickers, same same tacky goatees. If not for the weather and the scenery, I'd swear I never left cowtown.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.

The stirrup pants of the '00s

Dear women who insist on wearing gauchos,

In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.

You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.

I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.

Sincerely,

The Robo-Pirate

A message from TXDOT

My dad, a recovering technophobe who is finally joining the rest of us in the AGE OF COMPUTERS, sent me this forward today. It's a safety warning. Rather than forward it, I thought I'd post it here. That way, ONLY MY READERS WILL BE SAFE. I think that logic went into writing the Bible. But anyway, feel free to pass around a link to the Robo-Pirate or just tell your friends why you shouldn’t use cruise control on wet roads yourself. If they are skeptical, make sure to tell them you read it on the internet.

A 36 year old Kilgore, TX resident had an accident several weeks ago and totaled
her car. She was traveling between Gladewater and Kilgore. It was raining,
though not excessively, when her car suddenly began to hydro-plane and literally
flew through the air. She was not seriously injured but very stunned at the
sudden occurrence!

When she explained to the highway patrolman what had happened he told her something that every driver should know - NEVER DRIVE IN THE RAIN WITH YOUR CRUISE CONTROL ON.

She thought she was being cautious by setting the cruise control and maintaining a safe, consistent speed in the rain, but the highway patrolman told her that if the cruise control is on and your car begins to hydro-plane (what happens when your tires lose contact with the pavement), it will accelerate to a higher rate of speed and you will take off like an airplane. She told the patrolman that was exactly what had occurred.

The patrolman said this warning should be listed, on the driver's seat
sun-visor - NEVER USE THE CRUISE CONTROL WHEN THE PAVEMENT IS WET OR ICY.

A couple of comments:

1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.

Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*

--The Robo-Pirate

*Or is it?

Escape from Fort Worth. Except that I just went to work. Which is in Fort Worth. My old title was way better. Just read it, okay?

Prior to the panic I experienced upon discovering I am to be a Leader of Meetings (see below), I drove to work. Driving to work is worth mentioning because it always depresses me. I'm not going to kill myself or anything, but the time spent between my apartment and my job nearly always bums me out.

I live about eleven miles away from my office. There are basically three different routes which I may use, and they all take about twenty minutes. The one with the least congestion is the most out of the way. The one that is a little shorter is rife with cops, stoplights and the occassional horse trailer convoy. The most direct one has the thickest traffic and biggest stretches of construction. It is this combination that shrouds my day in gloomy frustration.

I'm sure that every moderately large city is plagued with bad traffic, but in Fort Worth, unfinished road maintenance is such a salient feature that it might as well be mentioned in the city's tourist literature. It's probably not as bad as I make it out to be, but it is for me because the areas which I normally frequent end up squeezing cars into one lane. As if this weren't annoying enough, these areas have the country's (allegedly) most poorly-timed stoplights at every block. As far as I'm concerned, Fort Worth traffic is an ordeal on par with flying standby at Christmas.

Today, however, was especially bad. I don't know if it was because I went to work earlier (what a nice reward for trying to get a head start, right?), but the lines of non-moving cars made me want to yank my eyelashes out. So I went a different way. In the process, I became the idiot that you yell at for pulling out at the wrong time and almost t-boning you. Know why? Because I pulled out at the wrong time and almost t-boned this guy in an Acura. As he will probably be telling it for the rest of the week, I was that "idiot in this shitty white-trash van" who continued into a four-way intersection that only had two stop signs. And of course, because I wore flip flops today, I got hung up on the gas pedal and nearly missed stopping in time. And then, when I slammed on the brakes, a hail of change spilled out of the overhead sun visor and onto my head. It's what I imagine hanging a leprechaun upside and shaking it would be like. Or, every day for Super Mario.

Between the excitement of my near miss and roadblocks the traffic and orange cones, I half-expected Lee Van Cleef waiting for me at the office. "We'd make a great team, Steve," he'd say.

I'd light a cigar, give him an icy stare and hiss,

"Call me Plissken."

--The Robo-Pirate

Racist frat guys are upset about being portrayed as racist frat guys.

I haven't seen Borat yet, but I know there is a scene in which he encounters some drunk frat guys in South Carolina who, over the course of a bunch of beers, say some really awful things bemoaning the absence of slavery and the apparent power surplus enjoyed by minorities. So in other words, they have made themselves look like bigoted retards in a nationally distributed film. Good work on that, duders.

Not surprisingly, the two guys filed an anonymous lawsuit against 20th Century Fox, alleging that they were basically tricked, and that they have suffered a bunch of the usual nebulous damages (emotional, physical, loss of income, humiliation) because of their appearance in the film.

I'm sorry (wait, no I'm not), but I really can't feel too badly for these two fucks. Too bad you guys were too stupid to keep your racist bullshit under wraps in the presence of a camera. And really? Loss of reputation? What reputation were two redneck frat guys from South Carolina cultivating before? Presumably, if their attorneys can prove that they were essentially tricked into signing waivers after getting hammered (I think there is a precedent set by some regretful Girls Gone Wild stars), they have a leg to stand on, but hopefully, it will not keep them getting their asses whipped by someone big, black and justifiably angry.

I'm just saying is all.

--The Robo-Pirate

Don't worry, K-Fed. There's always Wal-Mart.

Well, it took her long enough.

Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.

In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."

Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.

--The Robo-Pirate

p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.