IN McDONALDS, July 4, 2014.
The totally awesome Declamatation of the, like, what, Fifty-ish United States of America, if you count Alaska and Hawaii, even though, you know, like, nobody really does:
When in the course of, like, stuff happening, one dude has to say “Whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s totally uncool, you pushy ass-hat” to another dude, well, you know, then the first dude has to man-up with big, clanking dude-stones to claim the proudfulness and awesomousity that both intelligent designers and even those, like, way-too-serious atheistic science dorks say a righteous dude deserves.
But then, the rules of being cool say that the pissed-off dude ought to lay his beefs out on the table before he takes his football and blows this taco stand, so, like, here’s the deal . . .
Dudes totally know that, like, all brahs are brahs, and that the Big Man Upstairs and the Earth Goddess and whoever else a dude digs totally want dudes to be able to do cool stuff, like bang cyber-chicks in Second Life, or crush the double black diamonds at Ski Liberty, or play Trivial Pursuit, happily.
And to make sure that brahs aren’t hassled, unless they’re being D-bags and deserve it, then there’s The Man, and The Man has to be able to do his thing, too, and the dudes and brahs and chicks have to be, like, okay, cool with The Man being The Man. Right on, The Man! Rock out! Whooo!
But then when The Man starts to hassle the dudes when they, like, totally don’t deserve to have their mellows harshed, then the dudes can say “Whoa, whoa, hey, The Man, back off and STFU,” and then they can blow town to find a cool new place where The Man is not such a D-bag, so that the dudes and the brahs and the chicks can totally hang and smoke and watch TV shows that make them awesomely happy, in the comfy of their own cribs.
There’s this chick we know named Prudence (she was on “Survivor,” Season Six, for, like, three weeks, remember?) who always says, like “Whoa! Don’t rock the boat, dudes!” But that’s mainly because she, like, used to be a crack-ho, yo, so she totally knows what it’s like when The Man puts you in The Can and pokes you with the mop handle and whatnot, and we totally get the fact that Prudence is awesome for having put up with that kind of B.S. without fighting back or anything, since, like, what the hell else was she supposed to do, right, yo?
But, you know, at some point, even Prudence would have to say “Hey, The Man! Back the hell outta my face, quick-like, or I’ma smack you upside the head with this here Prison Bed Post!” Because, you know, when The Man is just, totally, being too much of a D-bag, then, well, it’s cool to throw a kidney punch or a knee to the groin to show The Man that Prudence or whoever else is mad as hell, and she’s not gonna take it any more! Hells no! Back off, yo!
So, you know, that’s like, totally, what we dudes and brahs are dealing with right now, namsain? And enough is enough, yo, so we’re here to tell The Man that we’re done with him hassling us, and poking us with the mop handle, and that we want a new freakin’ deal where our, like, freedoms and liberties aren’t always being, you know, besmirched and stuff, because that is totally not cool!
And we totally, totally have an awesome complaint list for you peoples, so that you’ll all be, like, “Whoh! Brahs! How did you put up with that for so long, yo? You dudes are totally kick-ass for being so patient in the face of such utter B.S. hassling from The Man.”
A’ight, so, here’s the list of complaints, yo:
The Man totally breaks his own rules, even when they’re cool rules, like the one about letting the people with no legs or whatever have the good parking spots, except that they can’t, because The Man’s Land Rover is parked there while he’s getting a latte and a scone at Starbucks, and jacking their wifi all afternoon.
The Man is a total micromanaging tool, so that the dudes and brahs and chicks always have to check with him before we can do anything, except every time we go to his office, he’s, like, totally out to lunch until 3:00 PM, which everyone knows is totally way past the time when the taco stands at the beach close for siesta.
The Man totally ignores lots of the dudes and chicks, unless they want to play his game, but since his game is, like, something stupid like Bridge, then, you know, the dudes and chicks have to be, like, “Whoa, we don’t get all that trump stuff, so, you know, just count us out, a’ight?”
The Man has meetings when he says we can come in to see him and talk about, like, stuff, but, dudes, he totally always schedules them when “Dancing With the Stars” is on, so who can miss that, unless they’re a rich D-bag with one of those digital recorder things?
The Man also totally cancelled “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” from the Cable Box, so how are we supposed to get our daily doses of big-bootied Armenian chicks now, right? It’s not like we live in the United States of Armenia, right?
And, then, after he cancelled “Keeping Up With the Kardashians,” The Man, like, totally allowed the Cable Box to be invaded by lame shows like, you know, “The 7000 Club” or whatever it’s called, which are all about religion and stuff, sneaky like, so it’s like getting up too early when we were kids and having to watch “Davey and Goliath” until the real cartoons come on, namsain? That, like, blows!
And then, since he cancelled “Keeping Up With The Kardashians,” we like, totally, went online to Google ourselves some new big-bootied Armenian chicks, except that, like, whoa, The Man said “No way! Those big-bootied Armenian chicks will totally take away jobs from the big-bootied chicks who live here already! Nuh-uh to that, yo!”
Oh man, this totally made all of the dudes want to head down to the County Court House to give that hot Chinese clerk who works there (she totally looks like Lucy Liu, for real!) a piece of our minds (among other things, namsain?), except that when we got there, we totally found out that The Man was, like, “Sorry, brahs, I don’t feel like paying the hot Lucy Liu clerk this month, so, instead, here is the clerk who looks like Roseanne Barr, with a thicker mustache . . . talk to the lip, har har har!”
And even when we tried to talk to the clerk who looks like Roseanne, with a thicker mustache, she was not interested in our dude-like charms and wiles, because she was, like, totally in the pocket of The Man, and she wasn’t about to let anybody else butter her toast, namsain?
And did we mention that there’s not just one Roseanne, with a thicker mustache, but, like a whole George Lucas, Revenge of the Clones, Army of them, yo?
Including the two dozen of them who have been hanging out in our living room for the past month, eating our Tostitos and telling us to turn down the stereo, even when we were, like, totally rocking out to the Grateful Dead live at the Carousel Ballroom, February 14, 1968, right in the middle of “Dark Star > China Cat Sunflower > The Eleven > Turn On Your Lovelight”?
Like, whoa! That’s the best Dead show, ever!!! WTF, Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches?!?! You don’t have the right to tell us to turn that one down, yo, unless you can offer us a better alternative, and don’t even try to tell us that it’s November 17, 1973 at Pauley Pavilion, since that was a Keith and Donna show, not a freakin’ Pigpen show, yo! Damn!
Of course, we can totally understand how the Rosannes With Thicker Mustaches might get confused about that, since The Man has let a bunch of totally lame tapers and traders from, like, Japan in to sell their bootlegs online, even though they don’t understand Jerry’s Genius or Drums and Space or The Bobby Problem at all, yo.
And this is going on even when The Man is busy busting our asses for downloading The Fillmore West Dead show from March 28, 1969 from that web host in Lithuanistan, or Crovenia, or whatever little ex-Russian country that was that had all of those pirate servers.
We got called to go to trial, all of the jury people are, like, totally into, like, Beyonce and Kid Rock and freakin’ Hootie and the Blowfish. Why’d you make us take the train down to the City for that, The Man, when you totally knew the outcome in advance? You suck!
And then when it was done, we got the bill, and we were, like, wait, what?!? Now The Man wants us to pay sales tax on top of our fines for illegal downloads?!? Lame! Dog lame! Double dog lame!
Oh, and also, The Man, like totally oversteps his bounds, and not only is he breaking all his own rules like a D-bag in the real world, he’s, like, totally ruining things in the Cyberverse too, doing things like suspending our MySpace accounts, even though we didn’t put the pr0n up there, someone else did. Seriously!
He also loads up Facebook with lame-ass apps, so like, every time we log on, we’re, like, “Whoa, enough with the FarmWorld, a’ight? Damn!”
Then, on the flip side, he also is always sending us spam, with, like, the creepy stuff in it that could get us fired if we click on it at work, right?
And then he shut down the beach, closed the hot dog stand, told us we can’t jet ski in the irrigation canal and, like, totally, wrecked our summer, just because he could! Oh, yeah, that’s in the real world again, not the World Wide Webtubes. Sorry, brahs. It’s hard to keep track.
And every time we turn around, there’s like more of the Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches Clone Army turning up to hassle us, ‘cause The Man is just getting too fat and lazy from all the scones and lattes to do it himself anymore.
And when the Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches are hassling us for no reason, he just looks the other way and pretends he can’t see it, and we see him typing on his laptop and we just know that he’s telling all of the Big-Bootied Armenian chicks that we suck, even though, you know, we don’t!
Okay, so that’s a lot of B.S., right? And every time we say, like, “Yo, enough, The Man,” he just flips us the bird and kicks over our garden gnomes, even though our garden gnomes totally never did anything to him.
You know what this makes The Man? This makes The Man a Total Dick, and it means, like, he doesn’t get to be the boss of we any more. We’re mad as hell! We’re not going to take it anymore!
And if you take The Man’s side, even though he is being a Total Dick, then, well, sorry brahs and chicks, then that makes you Total Dicks, too, and we have to give you the big double-barrel middle-finger salute, too. Blam! Blam! That’s for you, yo! Because a friend of our frenemy is, uh . . . well, you know, you’re not on our side.
Okay, so here we are, hangin’ at the McDonalds, because The Man and The Roseannes With Thicker Mustaches are always at the Starbucks, and we’ve decided that, like, enough is enough, and it’s time that we get to be our own bosses of we, so we say “You’re not the boss of we, The Man! We are going to have our own credit card, and our own crib, and our own Tostitos, and our own cable service, and our own Xbox (2, though, since the 3 is lame), and our own riding lawn mower, and our own kiddie pool that we can sit in when it gets hot, and our own couch on the porch, and our own freedoms and liberties without all of your besmirchment and hasslefulness and heavy-handery!”
Right on, yo! Damn!
Oh, hey, can we borrow your pen there for a second? Ours ran out . . .