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

A few hot summer days ago, I was sitting around in my ill-fitting tighty-whities, sipping warm flat soda with the AC turned off and watching The People’s Court (wait, is that still on?  Great, I just fucked up the continuity of my true story).

Whatever.  Tighty-whities, warm beverage on a hot day.  People’s Court.

Meggie, 1,000 months pregnant at this point, “gracefully” made her way into the living room in an obvious panic.

I couldn’t really understand what she was saying because I had the TV turned way up.  All I could hear was the judge’s gavel destroying the bench, as he shouted “order!” and “shut the *BLEEP* up!” at the greasy Mexican migrant worker and fat trailer trollette accusing said Mexican of owing her five bucks.  I scratched my sweaty, hair-matted belly and wondered if that Mexican dude had ever drilled his bleach-blond accuser.

“David!  Are you listening to me?” Meggie shrieked.

“Oh yeah, totally.”

“Well?”  She tapped her domestic foot.  I saw my yet-to-be-born baby shift, making her belly move, and I thought of Alien.

“……..”  I glanced at the TV and saw the Mexican dude making out with the whore plaintiff.  “Yeah, he totally test drove that,” I thought to myself.  And apparently out loud.

“Test drove what, David?….I don’t care.  You were supposed to be at work two hours ago!  Go put on some pants and go!”

I casually got up, shook the sweat off my torso like the furry love hound that I am and grabbed my pants off the floor.

Nobody was going to question my punctuality at work because I put on my special pants.  My magic pants.

My badass pants!

I put on my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans, motherfucker!

Nobody fucks with Daddy when he’s wearing his motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  And for the most part, all I wear are my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  Logic would therefore dictate that for the most part, nobody ever fucks with me.

These badass jeans are so magnificent and so tapered that I don’t even have to tight roll them.  All I have to do is roll them up, and it’s automatically a tightroll.  And they have my badass man smell all over them because I only wash them once a month or so.  That’s not sweat and parmesan you smell when I walk past you.  That’s power and triumph. 

And they are so acid-washed.  It looks like a bleach monster with severe allergies sneezed super hard all over them.

Because my badass motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans are the symbol of power, strength, masculinity and virility, they’re not sold at your average clothing retailer.  They have to be found. 

And I know where to find them: Goodwill. 

Goodwill is pretty much the only place I shop for clothes.  You know that sleeveless shirt with Garfield on it that I always wear?  The one where Garfield’s wearing oversized sunglasses and crossing his arms all cool-like?  Yeah, that one.  I got that at Goodwill.  Same with my giant high-tops and that weird clown painting.

Every few months, I go to Goodwill and drop a couple Washington’s on a new pair of motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.  I don’t even wait to go home and put them on.  I tell the retard behind the counter to turn his lumpy head around so I can slide into my new gear on the spot.

When I walk out, jeans clenching my ankles and snuggling my berries, I make sure to keep my wedding ring visible.  Because I know that the bitches can’t resist a man in acid-washed jeans.

So, if you’re in the market to boost your badassness, I recommend you consider getting motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.

And in case you are wondering, when I went to work, my red-with-envy boss told me, “Leave this fucking office right now and don’t come back until you are dressed like a professional and not a homeless junkie.”

When I came back in a few hours later was I wearing anything other than my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans?  Hell no!  A badass never compromises his style and convictions.

David C. Garcia, tapered, acid-washed jeans wearing motherfucker

Idiots and douchegoblins have spent countless hours contemplating answers to the age old question: What makes a man?

“A real man provides for his family.” - Sap

“A real man is in touch with his feelings.” - Wuss

“A real man fights for what he believes in.” - Dumbass

“A real man would be able to pleasure me.” - Meggie… Wait! What?!? Fuck!

Whatever.  You buttmonkeys go ahead and spend all the time you want thinking that gobbletygook and hullabaloo.  I’ll be sitting here watching Steven Seagal’s Out For Justice and listening to his acoustic masterpiece, Songs From the Crystal Cave–SIMULTANEOUSLY!

Because I know.  I know what makes a man:

An average-sized wiener and a couple of lopsided testes.  What’s up ladies?

Yeah, I’m rockin’ what it takes to be a man, but I’m also representing something else: A sleeveless shirt.  I’ve got the package to make me a hot-blooded hombre.  But when I need that extra edge, that little something to supercharge my masculinity, I slip into one of my many BADASS SLEEVELESS SHIRTS.

And as a full-fledged badass, I need that little something all the time.  You got it.  I wear sleeveless shirts constantly.  Everywhere I go.

When I came to work today, I was jamming to a cassette tape called 200 Animal Mating Sounds on my iWalkman.  I let the soothing sounds of track #127, “Musky Male Moose” motivate me. I was sporting my Tuesday Morning Sleeveless, a faded “Bad Boy” shirt I nicknamed “Lady Killer.”   I originally broke Lady Killer in at the gym while I “shredded my guns” with some intense curls.

My boss saw me, peeped my gear, sprouted a fat vein in his forehead and shouted, “Goddammit, Garcia!  Are you TRYING to piss me off, or are you just that stupid?”

This is the kind of challenge to my dominance and badassery I face every day, and as my homeboy Woody Harrelson said in the Oscar-deserving classic,  White Men Can’t Jump, this shit “ain’t no thang but a chicken wang.”  I promptly dropped into a horse-stance, cocking back one hand at the hip and confidently thrusting the second forward.  With the fury of a donkey-punched feminist, I roared something indiscernible and kung-fu sounding as my fist passionately raped the air.  I stared into The Boss’ eyes with determination.  And yes, my headphones were still on.  Track #129, “Rough Riding Rhino.”

“What does that even mean, Garcia? That stupid thing you just did, what does that mean?  Are you fucking retarded?  Get to your office!  I’m not paying you to pretend to be cool!”  The vein in The Boss’ forehead reached critical mass.  I wanted to poke it, but I was kind of stuck in my horse stance.

I wiggled my way out of my intimidating pose, gave The Boss a nonchalant “pfff” and strutted to my office, making sure my pecs did a dance as I walked by.

Had I arrived at work in a vagina button-up or a lame-ass polo with sleeves, things would have been a lot different.  I probably would have lost The Boss’ respect or even been asked to go work/assimilate with the rest of the staff.  That is most certainly not my style.  My sleeveless shirt is like a magnificent shield against all things stupid.

These pythons must be free.  My sensual shoulder flagellum, or what the haters call “nasty-ass arm hair” needs to breathe.  When I raise my hand to high-five another badass or swat at a mosquito trying to eat my pheromone-rich blood, I want the breeze to cool my Old Spice Original Scent-caked armpit that’s been fully exposed through the 26-inch anti-sleeve.

Sleeveless shirts, motherfucker.  Only to be worn by TRUE BADASSES.

- David C. Garcia, the man with no sleeves

I had a little scare today.  I was doing what I do best:

Surfing the Interwebz, pretending to do actual “work” at my “job” and getting my news from the Twitternet.  Suddenly, I got this tweet:

I was all like, “AWWWW HAIL NO!”

I guess my boss heard me.  He called my office and blabbered, “Blah, blah, blah, paying you to do a job, blah, blah, get to work, blah, blah.”

I politely replied, “Stop player-hatin’, G.  Ain’t you heard the news, homebread?  Swayze be kickin’ it with da Grim Reaper!  Ya hearrrrrd?”

“Jesus Christ, Garcia, shut the fuck up!  You’re on thin ice right now.  Get back to work!”

“Yeah, a’ight…dayuum.”

“And Garcia!”

“”Sup, naggle?”

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING BLACK, YOU SPIC PIECE OF SHIT!”

“A’ight. Word.  Damn, bitch.”

If I hadn’t been overcome with an unthinkable sadness, I would have busted a cap in that bitch’s ass fo’ sheezy. 

***

Was it true?  Was Patrick Swayze, or as I know him, The Swayze, dead?  He couldn’t be.  The Swayze has been with me through every important benchmark that has defined my badass life. 

When I was forced to break up greasy bar fights while simultaneously pissing off crime bosses, I turned to Road House for inspiration.  When I wanted to make out and sexy dance with the bitches in small towns, I looked to Dirty Dancing for guidance.  When I wanted to haunt horny widows, I studied Ghost.

I am a walking tribute to The Swayze.  I rock dance moves everywhere I go, my tight-tapered jeans not hindering my skills.  When women talk to me, I look into their eyes with unadulterated interest—interest that says, “You’re really important and people care what you think, beautiful.”  When dudes talk to me, I listen intently with just enough hardcore conviction to remind them that I could head-butt the shit out of them at any point.

The Swayze has made me the man I am today.  I’ve decided not to name my firstborn, Alexander David Garcia.  His name will be The Swayze Garcia.  I wish I could do more, The Swayze.

I finally got the good news though.  The Swayze is apparently okay.  That is awesome.  I love The Swayze because I love freedom, and I think the only reason God is trying to kill him with cancer is because Heaven is basically mediocre without that dude.

The Swayze: Original Badass

- David C. Garcia, Relieved Swayze Superfan

“I am so sick of listening to you feeble-minded women.  You don’t know anything, and your opinion is irrelevant.  Especially when it comes to neck beards.”

- David C. Garcia, Badass

*SLAP!*  “You’re such an ass, David!” 

- Meggie Garcia, Wife to a badass

It’s not like I’m being sexist when I say that.  In my entire life, I have only reminded women of their intellectual inferiority like nine or ten thousand times.  No biggie.  Get off my nuts, mamacitas.  You’re pretty much my equal.  I guess.

Seriously, though.  Women’s place is in the kitchen making me nachos and not standing in front of me screaming about how “disgusting” and “funky-smelling” my neck beard is and that I “promised to help around the house.”  Outta my way, lady.  This TV’s not going to watch itself. 

That funky smell, by the way, is the scent of badassery.

That’s right.  Neck beards are for badasses, and women will never understand this because in the history of the XX chromosome, there have only been a groping handful of women who truly exemplify what a badass is.  Starbuck from BSG is the only one who comes to mind. 

Whatever.  Stay focused, ladies, because I am about to drop thick furry science on you.

While little is known about where the badass (Badassimus face-smashicus) gets his power, there is much speculation that it comes from facial hair follicles.  Recent scientific research has revealed that when a badass’ face grows fur, the stimulation of the hair follicles produces “badassamine.”  Badassamine is the chemical that gives us badasses our potency, wit and irresistibility.

This is not to say that facial hair is a requisite for the production of badassamine.  Look at Steve Perry.  That passionate angel of a man has never grown a single whisker and still has the ability to get the ladies mad soggy by hitting that high triumphant note.

For some of us, though, facial hair is an excellent way to ensure that our “bods” (badass word) are packed with enough badassamine to get us through our laborious day of burrito-eating and listening to women talk about their feelings.  I can’t imagine going through the day sans the badassamine like that sniveling pussy Michael Phelps. 

So what do I do?  I grow facial hair.

But I also grow neck hair.

I grow a beard so that I have the badass charm and potency of Billy Mays.  But as my own personal insurance policy, I extend my beard to the far recesses of my lower neck and upper chest.

Listen, ladies.  I know you pretend to be grossed out by the neck beard.  I also know that in reality, you want to lick my furry neck scarf like a lollipop.  This one time, when my neck beard was in full effect, I grabbed Meggie and mega French kissed her.  She loved it so much she ran to the bathroom and vomited.  Yeah, it turned her on that much.

Would I have that raw animal magnetism without the neck beard?  Probably not.

This weekend, I shaved my neck beard.  It felt like I had been castrated.

Never again.

- David C. Garcia, Neck Beard Sporter

I was going to post a piece called “Things I Fucked When I Was a Kid” today. 

These past few days have been way too serious for me, though.  I’m not a big fan of serious.  So today, there is no serious writing.  I am going to cleanse the air with some good ol’ fashioned side-splitting, ass-coughing fart humor.

I recently created a new station on Pandora called “Edna’s Favorite Chair in the Nursing Home” so that I can listen to soul-soothing soft-rock jams from the 60s, 70s and 80s.  And I started thinking about the really nitty-gritty gross details of my favorite musicians of yore.

I sometimes play this game where I think, “What kind of face does this person make when he or she cums?”  “What size crap does this person drop and what does it smell like?”  Well, as I was listening to Jim Croce croon “Time in a Bottle” I wondered what his farts smell like:

They smell like unwashed gym socks packed with tainted meat and Mahatma Ghandi.  And they they lingered.  Jim Croce, when you weren’t being compacted in a fuselage, your farts probably cleared a room and kept it clear… Wait!  Did you tear ass on that plane and knock those pilots out, Jim Croce?

John Denver.  I mean, you would think John Denver didn’t fart.  You know, like women and Jesus.  He did, though.  He did.  When John Denver farted, his ass coughs smelled like baby angels.  Soaked in whiskey.

If The Bee Gees vocalization is an indication of how their farts smelled, then their farts smelled like vinegar.  Sharp and nauseating.

Neil Diamond farts all the time.  Why?  His farts are filled with pheromones and passion.  When he farts, women get wet.  When Neil Diamond needs a beej, all he has to do is walk up to a woman, kick up his knee and let one loose.

Michael McDonald’s farts smell boring and ordinary.  They are the kinds of farts that might get your parents’ attention but for the most part are just run-of-the-mill gross.

And finally, Steve Perry.  As you all know, I consider Steve Perry to be a badass’ badass.  Steve Perry is like the voice box of god on earth.  And his farts are pretty much the olfactory equivalent.  When Steve Perry farts, it smells like triumph.  It’s the smell that happens after wars are won.  When records are broken, there is the lingering stench of Steve Perry’s butt roar.

I would now like to open this up to all of you.  Have fun.  I’m going to go think of something serious/important to write.

- David C. Garcia, fart analyst

When you think of badasses, you think of dudes who mean business.  Badasses kick asses and take names all day long. It’s a 24/7 job, and when badasses stop doing their job, the terrorists win.  A lot.

There are only two dates in American History that badasses have stopped kicking asses and taking names:

November 28, 1997: The day Beavis and Butthead went off the air.

And

September 11, 2001: The day I almost beat Contra (NES) with one life but was interrupted when my mom called me to tell me something about New York.

On these two sad American dates, badasses were in union negotiations and failed to actually do their job.  And what happened?  America’s most beloved cartoon went off the air, and I died in Contra.  Coincidence?  Doubtful.  The terrorists made that shit happen.  Terrorists don’t hate freedom.  They hate badass things like Contra and Beavis and Butthead.

But I digress…

Badasses obviously have a passion for their calling, and that passion is fueled by pure, unadulterated inspiration.  That inspiration comes from one source:

Journey, motherfuckers!

That’s right.  Just like fat kids are motivated by Ding Dongs and just like Michael Jackson is motivated by fat kids’ ding dongs, badasses are motivated by the sweet arena-rocking sounds of Journey.  You would think badasses are driven by something way more hardcore like Judas Priest.  I mean, what is more hardcore and heterosexual than Judas Priest?

It’s true, Judas Priest may rock the balls right off your face.  However, screaming and wailing guitars does not always translate to passion, and that is what Journey has.  That is what Journey creates.

Journey invented passion and they spoke it to the world, like Jesus to his disciples, through their ass-kicking front man, Steve Perry–an Original Badass.

Journey is pretty much the only thing I listen to.  I have a 30G iPod, and it is filled with 30G of Journey.  When I first applied to be a badass, one of the hardest things was to throw out all my other music.  Well, in order to make a badass, you have to crack a few eggs (and skulls).  I complied, and I have never looked back.

When I lift weights in my sleeveless sweatshirt, I jam to Journey’s “Edge of The Blade.”  When I open-mouth French kiss my wife, I simultaneously hum “Don’t Stop Believin’.”  She loves it.

There are some progressive badasses who have included other Badass artists to their musical catalogue: Phil Collins, Toto, Mr. Mister.  These are all very talented, passionate and badass badasses.  However, I am a purist.

Journey, bitches.  That’s all I listen to.

- David C. Garcia, 
   Journey fan

Look down at your feet. 

If you are a dude, and you are wearing sandals, you are hopeless.  Pack up your shit, and move to UNBadassville.  It’s somewhere in the Midwest.  Use Google Maps, you sandal-wearing pussy.

Okay, are all the sandal-wearing nutsacks gone?  Sweet.

Now, if you are looking down at your feet and you are wearing high-tops, you are wearing BADASS SHOES.

And let me be perfectly clear.  I’m not talking about kind-of-high-tops (aka: half-ass-tops).  I am talking about the high-tops that come right up to your shins.

High-tops speak volumes about your badassery.  Badasses who wear high-tops know that at any point during the day, they may be ankle-deep in asses/ass-kicking.  Badasses know that they will need to throw down at any point during the day, whether it’s in a random cage match, a swap meet or a PTA conference.  When a badass swiftly enforces badass justice on some douchebag’s face/colon, how does he keep his ankles from getting covered in blood/feces/lameness?  I’ll tell you how.  HIGH-TOPS*.

High-tops are the only shoe this badass wears.  Walking the dog?  I’m picking up poop and properly disposing of it while wearing my high-tops.  Running a marathon? Rocking the high-tops as I cross the finish line.  Saving cancer-curing kittens from a burning house?  My high-tops give me the ankle support I need to leap that extra 10 feet, and the kittens can proudly hang from my super-thick high-tops shoelaces.

I have high-tops for every occasion.  I even have a pair of “dress high-tops” for when I wear a suit.

When I met my wife, Meggie, she was talking to some idiot who wears sandals.  We were at a bar.  I was smoking a cigarette, donning a sports coat and proudly sporting my high-tops.  As he was telling her something not badass, like “I really like Hoobastank” or “I’m really interested in saving the rain forest,” I stepped in.  Literally.  I actually stepped into his face with my high-tops and then drop-kicked him across the room and into a big pile of AIDS.  It ruled.  Meggie immediately begged me to marry her.  You think that was just me?  Well, it probably was.  But the high-tops helped a lot.

High-tops are for badasses.  Accept no substitutes.

* The high-tops that whiny crotch-face Kanye West wears don’t count.

I’ve been thinking a lot about badasses lately.  You know?  Because I am one.  What prompted my recent idea for a series was a recent Twitter back-and-forth between myself and some kid:

I’ll be starting a new series on this blog called “Badass Things.”

Stay tuned, badasses.

- David C. Garcia