I had a delightful conversation with my wife the other day in which she suggested, no, insisted, that I was an elitist, a cynic and a pessimist.

I gave Meggie a “sincere” thumbs-up to let her know “she was right.”  Then I asked her to go make me a sandwich because “these pants aren’t tightening themselves.”

Her rolling eyes told me she was about to be super-obedient, so I was way shocked when she got up and left to mess around on the computer my study, a place where there most certainly ISN’T delicious sandwich meat and tasty fixings.

I briefly entertained the notion that my lovely wife was looking up amazing sandwich recipes or that maybe there was a hoagie shop in my study.  Then I realized that despite my best efforts, I’m pretty much the world’s worst domineering husband.

“Okay, I’ll get my own sandwich, babe!  I love you!”

That’s how I roll, bitches.  Domesticated like a motherfucker.

Still, as I made my mega-meaty sandwich and cursed Jesus for making me forget to buy Miracle Whip, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she (Meggie, not Jesus) said.  Sure, I’m an elitist and sure, I am a cynic.  But pessimist?  I don’t want to be a  Núñez Negativo (that’s Spanish for Negative Núñez, putos).  Then it came to me.

I need a fucking Predator Drone!

Holy shit, if I had a drone, I could stop being a pessimist because I could obliterate everything that makes me furious.  And dear God, there are so many things that fuel my rage:

First thing I would take out would be The Hills.  That show is so insipid, and whenever Meggie watches it, a piece of me dies.  Hopefully, all The Girls Next Door would be around and taken out as collateral damage when my drone’s “missile of justice and awesomeness” hit.  Especially Kendra.  That retard makes me want to punch really helpless things really hard.

Oh, and also Chris Crocker.  Is he still relevant?  Was he ever?  I don’t know, but his whining still haunts me.  Go get Chris Crocker, Predator Drone!  Get him with your STFU gun so I never have to see this again!

After all The Hills are destroyed, and all The Girls Next Door are incinerated, and Chris Crocker is liquefied, my drone would self-pilot over to Twitter and drop a massive payload on every green-tinted avatar showing support for the Iranian election trending topic.  My drone, fully self aware and capable of rational thought, would know that most people green-blasting their avatars don’t even know where Iran is or what the fundamental structure of their government is (hint: it’s not really secular).  Following the elimination of green from the color spectrum, my drone would nuke the bejesus out of any tweeter who habitually uses “marketing” and “SEO” or who thought it would be cool to send me a #spymaster request.

After purging Twitter of things that bother me, my Predator Drone would stop off at Fuddruckers to get me an ostrich burger and then take off on its next mission: Find and destroy Shia Labeouf.  Here’s the thing, I really don’t have the same problem all of you have with Shia.  I just don’t want him to be in Transformers 2.  We already had enough “story” in the first film.  Now, all I want is two hours of robots beating the shit out of each other.  Shia will just take away from that, and as such, he must go.  I’d like to imagine that as I took my final dramatic bite of my delicious ostrich burger, I’d hear a high-pitched squeal in the distance as Shia gets drOWNED by a Predator laser beam (Drones have lasers, right?  No?  Whatever.  Mine will.).

Ostrich burgers always make me sleepy, so I’d take a nap, and when I woke up, the following would also be super extinct, courtesy of my Predator Drone:

bills
work
uneventful poops
homemade commercials
dance shows
Lady Gaga (I don’t even know anything about her.  I just hate her name.  BOOM!)
wait staff who talk to me like a pal
shaving
Auto Tune
possums
Patrick Swayze’s cancer
Scott Stapp
Nickelback
the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs (asshole)

My Predator Drone would kick so much ass and make me so much happier.  When Meggie explained that I was an elitist and a cynic, I’d agree.  When she added, “And you are so happy.”  I’d turn to my Predator Drone, give an approving wink.  Then I’d let off a triumphant, 80s-era cartoon end-of-episode laugh as it jokingly flew off into the sunset.

Someone get me a Predator Drone!

- David C. Garcia, aspiring optimist