You know what gets on my nerves--besides, of course, everyone and everything?  People read my columns, invariably want the unequalled thrill of meeting me, and, when my attempts to avoid them fail, the devotees expect me to be nice!  

Nice?  How friggin' dense does a person have to be not to comprehend that a columnist who claims he prefers the term "useless beings" over "human beings"--or at least that's how it was supposed to read--just might be a tad sociopathic?  In 17 years as a professional writer, I've never ONCE expressed anything but contempt for the general pubic; yet, apparently, in some instances, not a single syllable has sunk in.  Not one!

Let me ask the guilty parties:  Are you under the impression this is all some sort of elaborate facade?  "Oh, he's involved in pro wrestling.  Those guys are always putting on an act."

Is that so?  Did it ever cross your mind that the King Of Columnists got into the King Of Sports because (a) I thoroughly enjoy watching people get pummeled, (b) I wanted to learn more ways to injure others, and (c) it's the only business in the galaxy where they would actually pay me to convey my views on the inferiority of the populace?  Does that sound like the mindset of someone who is "putting on an act"?

You know what I felt on September 11th?  Nothing.  Not numbness due to the shock of the events, but genuine nothing.  I did eventually get a kick out of coming up with a joke about the in-flight movie on Air Afghanistan being The Towering Inferno, but that's about it.  Now, if I wasn't moved by the drama of that day, does it make any sense that I would be excited about meeting a total stranger who thinks we should be pals just because he reads my columns...and, to top it off, clearly doesn't "get it"?!?

If you too fail to get it, here are some further hints regarding the sort of "nice guy" I am.

I enjoy:  standing behind a pinochle player who's about to throw a card onto the table; making a disapproving grunt; taking another card from his hand and tossing it instead; then, after the move backfires, informing the chump I don't know how to play the game.

I am saddened when a school bus has a fatal crash--and I learn there were empty seats.

I dig veal, primarily because it's the closest one can (legally) come to eating babies.

As Powerslam readers know, when George Harrison croaked, I made up a T-shirt with a picture of The Beatles on it, and added lettering stating "Two down, two to go."  It went very well with my mock tabloid front page featuring a picture of Diana's car crash and the fake headline "Princess Die."

When I walk into a room where a crowd is intently watching a suspenseful movie, I like to pretend I've already seen the flick; go, "Whoa, this is a great movie...,"; then point to a randomly selected onscreen character and continue, "...and I was really surprised he dies at the end."

I am all for restoring the military draft and a subsequent bloody war whereby as many Gen-Xers as possible get wiped out.  Can't wait to see a bunch of brats who spend hours daily gloating over how many they've killed in a Playstation game squawk about being "conscientious objectors."  Plus, the less of them, the more of their ex-girlfriends for me.  (Also can't wait to hear the gals who are so adamant about equality of the sexes rationalize how it shouldn't apply when it comes to being forced into the Army and given the opportunity to step on a land mine in some foreign cesspool.)

Besides, a generation whose primary preoccupation is self-pity should embrace a draft.  Think of all the new reasons you'll have to whine!  "Deeyood, this drill instructor wouldn't even let us wear nipple rings on the obstacle course.  It is like so not fair."

Oh, I beg your forgiveness, kids.  I forgot you are the first ones brought into a crappy world.  Bad day, eh?  What's the matter, mommy inform you, from here on out, you're going to have to pay half your cell phone bill?

Hey, Cryin' Brian, snap out of it.  Those of us in the Blank Generation spent our wonder years watching casualties of war and riots on TV every single night, and sweating the distinct possibility that, when we turned 18, the government would ship us off to Vietnam then return to bag what was left of our bodies.  The hippie-dippy era of peace, love and cheap highs was over before our time, we didn't even get any free sex out of it, and we were pissed and paranoid.  Just what do you think inspired the punk movement, anyway, too much bliss and goodwill?

Granted, Nam fell before most of us got out of school (though we still faced a military draft lottery.)  But that doesn't change the fact it sure appeared there was a very REAL monster in our immediate future, not just gloomy scenarios dreamt up by weepy shoe gazers.  Bloodied by the cops on a street corner or by Commies in a swamp--that rosy prospect for tomorrow is what inspired nail-biting back then.  Today, youre bummed out because, what, Burt Cocaine isn't here to guide you anymore?

Hey, now there's a real role model.  "Boohoohoo, I've got platinum albums, worldwide fame, more income than a diamond mine, a sexbomb old lady, throngs hailing me as a genius and respect within my profession.  Okay, I signed with Geffen Records instead of getting a regular job, but (sniff sniff) I never wanted to be a rock star, y'know.  I better do this buckshot bong."  Yeah, Kurt, it must've really sucked having EVERY SINGLE THING IN THE WORLD I WANTED when I was your age and had a gig climbing down manholes to place blocks of rat poison for the local municipality...jackass.                         

Now, where was I?  Oh, yeah...If one's "research" consisted of more than watching sitcoms, you'd know the Seventies were no more about the "light-hearted wackiness" portrayed on That 70s Show than the Fifties were about leisurely hanging out at Arnold's with Richie Cunningham.  And just so you know this isn't just another "Nobody had it tougher than us, walking through six miles of snow to get to school" screed, let me emphatically elucidate that the Blank Generation had it absolutely dreamy compared to those poor souls brought up in the Fifties/Eisenhower Era.

What the real-life Fonzies went through was a living nightmare, the closest thing to a fascist state in American history, so heavily was conformity mandated.  A full-fledged witch-hunt was on, and anyone even suspected of being a little different was likely to wind up in a prison, hospital or both.  Communists were lurking around every corner, you see, ready to enslave the entire nation...that is, whatever was left, being they were bound to drop an A-bomb on Main Street ANY SECOND NOW.

Casual acceptance of rampant inequality, a "police action" in Korea, blacklistings, citizens facing Senate hearings, fallout shelters...yeah, these were certainly "happy days" for America's youth.

Uh-oh, do I smell the scent of freshly stepped-upon toes?  Are you upset over my lack of reverence for the "Elvis Of His Time"--read:  idolized drug-addled stiff--Cobain or the earlier reference to his gibberish-spouting counterpart, John "Bang Bang, Shoot Shoot" Lennon?  Was it pout-inducing of Mr. Manor to bring up that reality about generational history instead of allowing the woe-is-we martyr fantasies to pass without comment?  Or maybe you thought that line about veal was in bad taste?  Relax.  After all, I might just be "putting on an act."  Oh, and by all means, keep believing I'm nice.  Your support and opinions mean so much to me......suckerrrrrrrr!