The Knockdown Game

When will the human race acknowledge that it’s exceeded capacity? You know something’s wrong when you bump into ugly shirt-stuffers every time you walk down the street. An overflowing populace isn’t humanity’s only problem, though it does seem to be the root of all other problems. One drawback is people’s efficiency. Why do they walk so fucking slowly? 

Have you ever sat on a bench and watched them dawdle? It’s like a sick joke nature played on the world for no purpose other than its own amusement. Any other creature who moves sluggishly in an exposed environment would be destroyed and eaten, as they should be. Meanwhile, people barely manage a lazy shuffle and, despite all logic, continue to live. Where are the man-eating tigers when you need them? 

Whenever I walk down the street my personal space is violated by waves useless parrot-catures. I can’t keep my nerves in line. My breath is running short. These people are consuming all the oxygen while exhaling dead air that smells like pickles and dog shit. My heart is thumping towards self-destruction. The left side of my body is going numb. They’re all closing in, imprisoning me in a sea of ugliness. Their faces smile, scowl and look indifferent all at the same time. The exterior of my brain rots away, leaving a dying core that claws at my skull and screams for escape. Claustrophobia is achieved. A panic attack is on its way. 

After wedging through the crowd and finding a pocket of uncontaminated air, I realize there is a better way. I can’t stop people from polluting the world with their obnoxious spawn. All people need is a possibility and they’ll jump to it. Peoples ability to queef out a slimy cunt-monkey is enough justification for them. Why bother questioning it? Overpopulation? Nobody cares about basic multiplication. “Just Do It” is the motto they live by. 

Nor can I get them to pick up the pace. No matter how many times you tell them to move it, they’ll simply give you a blank stare as they struggle to prevent drool from escaping their muzzles. There’s no point in speaking to them. The best reply you can hope for is a clump of half-words that recklessly form a meaning by coincidence. 

Like these thoughtless ham-spores, I’ve found a way to breeze through life without giving myself an aneurysm. Why let them bother me when I can knock them down? If you were taking a stroll down the block and a wall of trash stood in your way, what would you do? You’d knock it down and keep walking. This is exactly what we should do with people who stand in the way. If they’re inconsiderate enough to keep the cattle train from moving, they deserve to be knocked to the ground. 

Halfwits who don’t understand the purpose of a door are the worst example of walkway blockage. For their benefit, let me explain - a door is a passage between two locations. When one uses a door, they’re trying to get from one place to another. This complicated idea also applies to open entrances and exits without a barrier. Alas, there are an excess of people who think it’s acceptable to stand in the middle of a doorway and mindlessly chatter with their fellow idiots. Do not tolerate them. Kick them in the back and watch your problems collapse to the floor. Walk over them to demonstrate how a door is supposed to be used. Maybe they’ll learn something, though I wouldn’t count on it. 

I’ll often pass through a door and into a street where I’ll see far too many people for comfort. Have you ever tried walking around in public, only to be blocked by some hideous cow and her five children? I know I have. The mother barely moves at a snail’s pace while her dippy offspring buzz around her like bees circling a hive. Not only is your path blocked, but loud kids are also nipping away at your knees. 

What mockery of justice allows such a travesty to occur? Instead of delaying your day, kick the kids to the pavement and knock the irresponsible ovary monster into a nearby trashcan. At least then they would realize that other people exist. Blocking a sidewalk should be a crime punishable by sterilization. Why pass on your obnoxious habits to a new generation? I doubt these human roadblocks are real people. What kind of person obstructs a path designated for movement? 

Another hurdle in our walkway is irksome drunks, especially when they’re in groups. They’ve poured enough booze into their craws to convince themselves that they’re fun and interesting, but they could never drink enough to persuade me to like them. Not only are they loud and sloshy, but they stumble and vomit and piss in their pants, which would be fine if they weren’t blocking my way. The only redeeming quality booze bimbos possess is their inability to stay balanced. With hardly any force, you can ram one of them in the shoulder and watch the merriment of their tumble. Double points are to be had if they soil themselves after the fall.

Perhaps the most obvious form of sidewalk obstruction comes from old people. This is especially inexcusable. After all their life experience they should know better than to block progress, yet they always seem to be in the way. I don’t want to hear any nonsense about not being able to move fast - that’s why Segways were invented. To be fair, Social Security is a stroke or two away from being permanently hospitalized. Many old people can’t afford Segways. That’s all good and fine, except for the fact that roller skates exist and they’re relatively inexpensive. Imagine the gaiety of seeing rolling fogies pass you by on your way to the store. Plus, roller skates, unlike computers, have been around since the 1760s, so there’s no excuse for human artifacts not to know how they work. Old people without wheels are fair game.

With different types of assholes to knock down there are, inevitably, various ways of barreling into them. Here are a few of the most effective methods:

The Battering Ram - This is where you get good traction and run for a few steps before slamming your shoulder into their back. The best aspect of this move is that they never see it coming. Mixing that quality with the amount of force involved means that they will go down nine times out of ten. Do not use this move on someone bigger than yourself. All you’ll do is look silly and likely suffer a grievous beating. 

Buckling Down - This technique is a two-parter. First, you walk up behind someone and kick in the back of their legs, buckling their knees to the ground. From here you’re free to ram into them with either your knees, elbows or shoulders, depending on your height. The great thing about this maneuver is that unlike the battering ram, it works on people twice your size. The legs, especially around the knees, are a vulnerable area; feel free to exploit them. 

The Bugs Bunny - This is where you distract the person with either auditory or visual stimuli. For instance, you can throw fire crackers in front of them or hurl expired cottage cheese at the back of their head. Once they’re distracted, knock them down in a manner of your choosing. What makes this method unique is that it doesn’t just knock them to the ground, but also knocks them around on a mental level, leaving you feeling superior in both intellect and mobility. 

Obviously, an act as meaningful and joyous as knocking people down has endless possibilities. Inspiration can arise from any situation, so be aware of your surroundings and pursue all available options. Perhaps the person in front of you is approaching a crate which you can use to expedite their fall. Maybe they have one leg noticeably longer than the other. As with everything else in life, it’s imperative not to be stifled by established rules. Anything is possible. 

As with all things that are fun, there will be people who’ll argue against the knockdown game. They’ll say things like, “Der, what...um, like gives you the, er, right to, uh...to knock people down?” 

My right comes from my desire to live a life unbridled by other people’s sloth and stupidity. Is there any injustice greater than being held back by someone who shouldn’t be in front of you? Probably, but I only care about injustices that affect me personally. Everyone else is on their own. Think of all those precious minutes being wasted as lazy sex byproducts hinder your journey through life. Time is precious. You have places to be and other people shouldn’t be a factor. Don’t they know that the donut shop closes in twenty minutes? 

Besides, I wouldn’t be able to hear their protests; I’d be too busy walking on them. Their curses and pleas would fall on deaf ears as my mind dreams of open fields and unpopulated valleys. I can’t whistle, but I can hum songs of praise as I knock over charity collections blocking my entry to the grocery store. Empathy? Compassion, like the bodies on the sidewalk, just gets in the way of a good time. And why aren’t they scorned more often for stifling movement? What causes a person to be so complacent that they halt progress? Do they have a pre-disposition to live in stagnant waters all their life? It doesn’t matter. They’ll keep doing it. Thankfully, the only time they shine is when they’re stepping stones. 

A San Franshitscan Treat

Whenever I see pictures of refugees from war-torn countries, I wonder if those people realize how lucky they are to not know anyone from San Francisco. Last week I saw a heaping pile of seagull shit and thought, “Wow! That looks a lot like Frisco!” In retrospect, I realize it wasn’t a fair comparison. I have more respect for seagull shit than I do for San Francisco. Of course, not everything reminds me of San Francisco. A few days ago I saw some guy walking down the street, minding his own business. He managed to keep his stupid opinions to himself the entire time. I knew that he couldn’t be from San Francisco. He’s probably never been to San Francisco. Lucky bastard. 

If you’re a foreigner or just anyone fortunate enough to not know about San Francisco, permit me to fuck-up your sense of wellbeing. San Francisco is the bedazzled asshole of California. It’s a hilly rash of boil-riddled dirt. The fog is thick enough to obscure all exits, yet not so dense as to block the sight of pompous hipsters and homeless defecators. Every San Franciscunt I’ve ever met spends all their time talking about San Francisco, San Francisco and of course, San Francisco. They especially love talking about San Francisco. Go figure. Even when living in another city, they can’t help themselves. It seems as though they can’t discuss anything other than their nauseating fetish for the bay area and yet, they refuse to go back when you tell them to fuck off. 

I’m sure it’s no coincidence that over half of all the status-seeking human urinals I’ve ever met have moved to San Francisco at some point in their lives. I’ve visited San Francisco twice. The first time I was motivated by ignorance; the second trip was caused by self-destructive masochism. Never again.

Obviously, creating a laundry list of grievances without solutions would be almost as useless as San Francisco. It’s time to make a clean break from San Francisco and all the self-righteous hullabaloo that goes along with it. But how, one might ask, do we eradicate such a smug den of fawning elitists? Three simple words - Hot Dog Stand. I don’t mean a chain of hot dog stands or a hot dog capital. It would only take a single hot dog stand to transform San Francisco into a non-sickening pocket of geography. In order to save California’s northern shores, we must demolish San Francisco, pave over it and build a hot dog stand. 

But what of the San Franciscans? I’ll admit, I hadn’t considered that. Just thinking of San Fapciscan sycophants is enough to make life seem pointless. My first thought is to incinerate the entire population and fling their ashes into the Pacific Ocean, but that’s really not fair to the innocent sea creatures. I can only imagine the abhorrent mutations that would occur if marine life were to ingest the charred remains of diseased San Franciscan flesh. Those poor octopi! Also, their buried corpses would assuredly poison the soil and contaminate our crops. No, despite the jubilance we’d undoubtedly feel from their demise, we can’t simply kill them. 

Instead, we should load them into boxes and ship them to New York. New York would be the ideal transplant location for these “people.” Like San Francisco, it’s outrageously expensive and populated with obnoxious braggarts who view themselves and the ground they walk on as the focal point of the universe. Of course, San Franciscans would then breed with New Yorkers. A large, electric fence would have to be erected. We’d also need heavily armed guards to patrol the area constantly. San Franciscan/New Yorker hybrids? I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t want those types hanging around me. 

As I’ve stated above, San Francisco is packed with clucking orifices who speak of nothing but San Francisco. Consider this: a hot dog stand wouldn’t spend all its time talking about itself. No, a hot dog stand would just stand there, not saying anything. It wouldn’t preach at you or brag about shopping at Rainbow Grocery or look at you in disgust if you’re not embarrassed of being from what coastal urban elites refer to as a “flyover state.” The hot dog stand would simply exist without declaring its sense of superiority. I was once under the impression that something is always better than nothing, but when I consider the unabated, self-imposed accolades San Franciscans lob into the atmosphere and compare it to the relative silence of a hot dog stand, it’s evident that sometimes nothing is preferable to something. 

Indeed, the root of San Francisco’s problem is the superiority complex of its residents. Don’t take my word for it. Here’s a quote from a random San Franciscan I found online. It mirrors the type of self-congratulatory discharge all too common with the bay area’s golden flower children. From the second to last line under the first paragraph of the author’s ten reasons to love San Francisco:

“San Francisco transcends location or place to become a global ideal.”

I won’t even mention my raging hatred of shitty list articles. Let’s focus on the content itself. After reading the sentiment above, I felt an instant need to drink, smoke, snort and bash it out of my memory forever. How do you not feel like a sanctimonious autofellator when tossing out this type of quixotic fluff? Answer - you’re from San Francisco. Also, “location or place”? A place is a location and a location is a place. Interesting factoid - redundancy is San Francisco’s chief export. Finally, San Francisco is a global ideal? Au contraire. Believe it or not, there are many people around the globe who willingly choose not to live in San Francisco. Félicitations to those people. 

Clearly, San Francisco gives people a fullness of ego. A hot dog stand only gives people a fullness of stomach. Whether you need to orally imbibe one wiener or several, the only thing that will expand is your gut. Your head will remain as it was before - uncluttered by fanciful narratives of geographical supremacy. Unfortunately, the world wrinkles its nose at fat stomachs, despite giving a pass to fatheads. I’d want neither, but if I had to choose, I’d take a bloated paunch over a bloated ego. Rascals and Hoverounds have made walking obsolete, but mental wanderings still require the ability to think beyond self-satisfying romanticisms. If engineers ever created a brain chip that minimized or eradicated arrogance, I have no doubt it would short-circuit in the brain of a San Franciscan, frying the septic lump of progressive shit between their ears. 

There are probably people who would disagree, saying that hot dogs are just scrap meat wrapped in  rectums. I can’t argue this point, though I can minimize it with comparative analysis. San Franciscans, unlike hot dogs, are not wrapped in rectums. No, they’re scrap humans who are rectums. Some might be apprehensive of eating such a thing, but mull this over - hot dogs can be cooked and flavored in ways to distract all but the most discerning of palates from their humble origins. Of course, we wouldn’t actually eat San Franciscans. They’re so unsavory that Big Lurch wouldn’t eat them, even if he was high on PCP. The point is that San Franciscans are so disgusting they offend all of the senses, not just taste. It’s impossible to see or hear San Franciscans without feeling sickened by their sanctimonious mannerisms. No amount of ketchup can conceal the taste of that kind of asshole. Nothing in the mind other than intense denial could season San Franciscans into something even remotely tolerable. 

And yes, San Franciscanoids are unsavory. Ironically, for people so determined to appear grubbed out and unwashed, San Franciscans have a lot of money to spend. In fact, San Francisco is the second most expensive city in the US, falling shortly behind New York. In spite of their economic affluence, I keep hearing San Franciscans parrot the baseless assertion that most San Francisco residents are down to earth and struggling to get by. Right. I’m sure the Romans dismissed their posh lifestyles as normal. The only people in San Francisco who’re “down to earth” are the homeless and that’s just because they sleep on the earth. Why bankrupt yourself for a studio apartment when you can pass out behind the needle exchange?

Hot dogs, on the other hand, are dirt cheap. Poor people all over the country can afford hot dogs. You know that shithole neighborhood you nervously zip through on your way to work? Even the human roaches that infest those rotten structures can afford wieners. I have no doubt that a hot dog vendor would add a little markup, but the extra fee would, in all likelihood, be less than a dollar. What’s important is simplification. Forgetting the obnoxious social puke bucket that makes up San Francisco, the astronomical amount of money one would pay in rent, food, bills and gas (assuming they’re not a bike-peddling carbuncle) would be enough to ruin any financial future one could hope to have. A couple of hot dogs might equal a nickel bag of weed in terms of cost. The only difference is that people still sell hot dogs. 

Okay, so San Francisnobs are rich, condescending omnisexuals who can’t breathe without sermonizing. This has been established. But you know, they’re always bragging about how diverse and multicultural they are, as though putting up with other people is some kind of an accomplishment. And what’s so great about being multicultural? If you took every ingredient in your kitchen and mixed them in a big bowl, would tasting the gloopy concoction make you feel good? Maybe, if your kitchen is an evidence locker at a police station. For most people, I’m sure it would taste and feel like expired sloth placenta. 

But hey, it’s not about personal hangups, it’s about a bountiful experience of diversity and tolerance, right? That would be nice, except the majority of people in San Francisco are white and Asian. If you want to see someone darker than oatmeal in northern California you have to go to Oakland or Sacramento. And, to pound my previous point into the dust, you can’t just be any white or Asian humanoid, you have to be affluent enough to be considered wealthy anywhere else in the US. A cluster of ethnically and economically diverse people living in a single area? Sounds more like LA than SF.

Speaking of culture, the art a place or thing inspires can, in many cases, reflect directly on what motivated said art. San Francisco is packed with art fags, so it comes as no surprise that the most boring song I’ve ever heard was inspired by Frisco. Tony Bennett famously left his heart in San Francisco. Unfortunately, he didn’t leave his voice box. A slow, scant piano accompanies Bennett’s sluggish, flowery description of the city. Did I mention it’s boring? Yes, but let me emphasize - it’s so fucking boring! Listening to this song is like popping downers without the fun of being physically sedated. It’s not just Bennett’s mawkish narratives that induces a wave of yawns. His singing should be considered a crime against music. Seriously, how long do you need to stretch a syllable before you’re satisfied? What a terrible piece of stillborn noise! 

Sure, you may say, but what kind of song could be influenced by hot dogs? Must we even ask at this point? The Armor Hot Dog Song is one of the funnest, catchiest  tunes I’ve ever heard. In the original version, they pick it up on the old banjo, put on some mustard and away they go! In a 1960’s version, they actually use kazoos. What more could you ask for? Besides the obvious musical genius that went into crafting this transcendent piece of art, the song’s lyrics, unlike Tony Bennett’s, serve a purpose and that purpose is to answer a question. What kind of kids eat Armor hot dogs? Fat kids! Skinny kids! Kids who climb on rocks! Tough kids! Sissy kids! Even kids with chicken pox! I would listen to the Armor Hot Dog Song on repeat for a solid month before hearing a single note of I Left My Heart In San Francisco. 

Like San Francisco, this piece must come to an end. I could spend all day ranting about how much San Francisco sucks, but I don’t need to. A hot dog stand will always be greater than that shitty city by the bay. Hot dog stands are kitschy, fun and nostalgic. San Francisco just won’t die, no matter how much we want it to. This problem won’t go away on it’s own. We must demolish, destroy and setup a hot dog stand. The swarming masses of homeless, hippies and hipsters may not seem like a threat, but imagine one of them invading your space and demanding spare change or preaching about eating meat or talking about the movie Her as though it’s something more than a guy talking to his phone for ninety minutes. A hot dog stand doesn’t talk; people can learn so much from that. Even if you don’t like hot dogs, a wiener won’t lecture you on how ignorant you are for rejecting it. It’ll just sit there and wait for someone who wants to eat it. That’s pretty nice; nicer than San Francisco could ever hope to be.