HAT-endum: An explana-HAT
Dear Readers,

My last blog has become what can only be described as a sensation on the "Internets," receiving literally 17 hits. My audience is world wide. If we pretend that we can convert that amount as we convert the American Dollar to the British Pound, it has also been viewed by 9.23411 subjects of the British Empire. This is an interesting, if completely untrue, fact.

You have spoken, with your hits and your endless hypothetical page reloads from across the Atlantic. Thank you. Some have been supportive ("I hate large sun hats. That guy was an idiot, even though he may have actually HAD the right of way," writes "S" from Manhattan) but many have accused me of being some sort of vagina-cum-albino paper tiger bully. To those who are against me, let me break it down and all around:

Picture a hat you own, one you need to battle the accursed sun despite its horrifying appearance. You know this hat is not of your personal style, in fact, you've ALWAYS known. It makes you feel weird. If you are a man it makes you feel like a woman. If you are a woman it makes you feel like a woman who looks like a man. But your concerned and loving S.O. insists you wear it to the park. "Don't get sun face cancer," your uneducated partner pleads. "I will always love you. Until you get sun face cancer."

And so you wear the hat.

Time passes. Maybe you don't even actively think about it. Maybe your insecurities have danced to the back of your brain. You are happy. You are walking through your life the only way you know how, by compromising for the sake of the commitment, by wearing the hat and having your lover at your side.

I AM RELATING YOU, YES YOU, TO THE BALD MAN ON THE STREET!

That's where I entered the scene, a pudgy man lacking pigment and chatting on his cell phone (I was calling my mom HATERS) while driving a silver SUV. I saw the man walking. SURE, MAYBE he had the right of way. OK, he did for sure. But he also had that hat. And that beard. And he was staring me down.

He rushed to the street. This was his battle.

WWJD?

I don't know, but I know WSWD.

I took him out. My barb was harder to dodge than the five Dimebag took in the back of the head. I devastated my opponent. He was left with nothing but a shriveled member and a brutal reminder of his high school experience. In addition, from my rear view mirror I detected that his woman wanted to mount my pale temple of dough flesh.

Flawless fucking victory. It felt good, as natural as Brit-pop in a Wes Anderson movie.

Dear Readers, I am not a pussy because I swiftly drove away and not over his beard. I got in his head. I live there now. I just bought condos and I'm gonna rent them out to his nightmares. I will always be the one who reminded him, in front of his female companion, that he rules nothing. As long as Avis rents SUV's to me for $15 a day it is possible that I will be just around the corner, driving in circles, waiting to strike.

Dress sharp, bald man. And leave your woman at home. I got my own, I don't need that hen pecking at my door.