The sun was setting in the metro on a cool late afternoon. The orange glow mixed with Atlanta’s pollution was casting a strange feeling over the neighborhood. I was out in the front yard attempting to kill my so-called lawn’s thriving weeds among the dry, browning grass. I admit it’s a useless exercise to make my suburban lot appear presentable. Since the drought has plagued our poor lawns, suburbia is not looking as nice as it used to.
Suddenly, a parade of vehicles streamed down my street out of the sunset. One by one, a line of SUVs, minivans, pickups and Hummers came roaring down the street-humped passageway. It seemed like it would never end as each suburban assault vehicle strained over the massive speed breakers. For me, it was fun to watch these morons who were speeding in the first place, slow down at the last second, only to realize that they’re fucking up their tires, brakes and hopefully their entire gas guzzlers as they eased over the hump. Ah, poetic justice, suburban-style.
I guessed correctly where these jack-offs were headed: Gus’ house. Yes, another Hickory Hills Republican Club meeting was about to begin at my neighbor Gus’ overpriced palace. Every time Gus conducts these meetings, squeaky-clean shit-bags from the area hop into their fuel-sucking autos so that they can eat his wife Allison’s artery-clogging beef-sausage-cheese casserole and engage in GOP talking points fed to them by right-wing radio and TV imbeciles including Sean Hannity who has never produced an original thought in his life.
When their conservative convoy came to a stop, 21st century Stepford Husbands and Wives jumped out of their overpriced grand, super-sized house on wheels and waddled into Gus’ spacious home replete with plenty of lighting courtesy of Georgia Power and high ceilings that are heated by Scana Energy. From the moment they slammed their doors in unison, the conservative butt-holes walked in perfect order to Gus and Allison’s tacky light brown front door. Gus loudly greeted them with a cigar hanging out of his mouth. From where I stood, the words were unintelligible, but the sounds were obnoxious as Gus roared at them with his thoughts as he held his lit stogie. The fat bleach blond biaches cackled as his Boxer dog barked endlessly.
“Top of the evening to you Bobby!” Gus yelled out to me.
“Have fun Gus!” I yelled back, as I squirted poison onto my front lawn.
Somehow I always thought there was hope for Gus. I never hated him. Certainly he’s irritating as hell, but I just think he was brainwashed with neo-con bullshit since the doctors in Eufaula, Alabama delivered him into the world 55 years ago.
There is one positive thing I can say about Gus: At least he believes the crap that he spews. I don’t think I could say that for his followers. They just seem like they’re the biggest phony assholes who will do anything to fit into his world. To them, Gus is a rock star. After all, he has a picture with Dan and Marilyn Quayle who both look like they want to rape him in the 20-year-old photo that graces his fireplace.
So, the dumb schmucks filed into his house doing and saying who knows what for three hours. After I put the lawn poison up and packed it in for the evening, it was pitch dark. The morons emerged from Gus’ house exchanging fake pleasantries and then heading off to their gas guzzlers. I know them all. I see them at the drug, convenience or grocery store. Some acknowledge me and others ignore me. I could care less who they are or what the fuck they think of me. The biaches are as fake as the color of their hair. The dick-wad husbands are dipshits who also think they know everything while they parade around in their overpriced golf shirts that their little honeys bought for them at Macy’s. On weekends, they walk around unshaven in ball caps and T-shirts and/or sweatshirts bearing the names of their favorite southern college football team while their wives fret over Hamburger Helper while their hubbies fall asleep in their leather recliners while the a sporting event is blaring on their big screen TVs. The kids are typical zombies who are off in their own rooms zoning out to their own TVs, iPods and/or computers.
When the convoy vacates the area, I see Larry the Liberal, the one neighbor who disagrees and stomachs Gus’ bullshit. Suddenly I realize that there is life beyond these goobers.