As is our custom, we have found ways to convolute, pollute and dilute the significance of important events. Thus, Easter is now about hidden eggs and Thanksgiving is about football and having to buy looser pants. Do we even remember the original meaning of these days? Sure! Maybe. Well, no. Eggs and turkeys, to paraphrase Morpheus, is just the world that has been pulled over our eyes to blind us to the truth.

And so it is with July 4th, our nation’s birthday. It wasn’t always about eating contests.

There was a time when we were under tyrannical rule, and the people had had enough. Thomas Jefferson crafted the Declaration of Independence, a powerful document full of the things that make America what it is: resolve, defiance, racism.

In the Declaration, Jefferson cited myriad reasons why the old system blew royal chunks and laid out our case for independence. Among the many complaints about the King were that:

• He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance…
• He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
• He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
• He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
• He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
• For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent
• He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

Yes, TJ called the Native Americans “merciless Indian Savages.” You don’t always see this part quoted anymore. Look, it’s a great country, but let’s not sweep our penchant for racism under the rug. Let’s try to learn from that. Those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. Sergeant Riggs, I’m talking to you!

And speaking of ignoring history, do any of the other points he brings up sound familiar to you?

Right now, the Federal Government is filing a lawsuit against a state for a law the state passed. Right now, Congress holds closed door sessions and leaves us in the dark. Right now, the government is considering throwing out the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners. Right now, the government has become bloated with a multitude of New Offices. Right now, new taxes are heaped upon us without our consent.

There was a time when we were under tyrannical rule, and the people had had enough. Think about that today. Think about what made this country great, and the people that made it possible. Think about the brave people who are thousands of miles away from home today trying to make this country and the world a better place. Then think about what you might do to help.

Or you can take the blue pill. You wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe, hunting for eggs and getting fatter from turkey dinners.

I understand. My last name is Japanese. It’s not Smith or Jones. So I’ll give you a pass if you pronounce it incorrectly. Within limitations. If you throw out a Ow-gay-tah or even an Aug-uttuh, at least you are using the correct letters in the proper sequence.

But from time to time, I’ll get people who decide to add letters of their own. I’ve heard Orgata, Ortega and even Ottawa. Seriously? WTF? Ottawa? How do you survive day-to-day being this illiterate? Just the other day, I got “Goat-atta”. Come on, that sounds like something they serve at the Afghanistan Taco Bell. As in, “Try the new crunchy, cheesy, Goatatta!”

People, stop being lazy assholes.

Is it me? Can’t be. Idiots even get my first name wrong. It’s in the Bible, and one of the easy ones too… not Hezekiah. I think I project and enunciate well enough. But the problem happens everytime I’m at a restaurant or someplace where the “hostess” asks for my name. As TV Guide would say, “assholery ensues.”

Me: I need a table for two.

Ho: Okay, for how many?

Me: … [breaks fourth wall and stares at camera]

Me: Two.

Ho: Can I get a name?

Me: Paul.

Ho: Did you say “Ball”?

Yeah. Fricking ball. Seriously, how many people in this underachieving whore’s life has she run into named Ball? It continues…

Me: No, Paul.

Ho: Can you spell that?

Me: Peeee… Ayyyy… Youuuu… Elll….

Ho: Oh, Paul. It’s going to be a 20 minute wait.

Use your common sense. Even if someone told me their name and it sounded like “Bitchard”, I would ask, “Did you say Richard?” And guess what? Roughly 97 times out of 100 they will say, “Yes, Richard.” (The other 3 out of 100 times, the person has crazy douchebags for parents.)

So the next time I’m confronted with one of these non-listening turds, here’s the plan:

Me: I need a table for two.

Ho: Can I get a name?

Me: Brrrtpulupulu-g-g-g-ng (insert click noise).

Ho: Burple… chuggalugga… You know what? Let me see if I can get you table right now.

Problem solved.

I was on the receiving end of some of the strangest racism ever.

The other day I walked into an ice cream shop. (Because I love ice cream. And because they hate it when you tunnel up into their shop.) For the sake of protecting the identity of the store, let’s just call it “Cold’s Tonec Reamery”. After all, it wasn’t the company I had a run-in with, but the girl behind the counter.

Ice cream is my weakness. I’ll give you an example: let’s say for some reason I ate an entire horse, and was full to the point where my burps smelled like saddle. I’d be like, “uuuuuuuuurp!” And you would say, “Ew what the crap is that rancid smell?” And I’d be all, “My friend Flicka.” Then a hoof would fall out of my mouth. And my stomach was so stretched out that you could hear the skin going, “kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk.” I would still eat a bowl of ice cream if it was near. Then I’d explode. That’s how much I love ice cream.

So I get to the “Reamery” and attempted to order some vanilla ice cream. Here’s my exchange with the tweaker meth-head girl behind the counter.

TMHG: Yes?

Me: Yeah, I need a small vanilla ice cream please.

TMHG: No.

Me: What?

TMHG: No.

Me: Yes.

TMHG: No. I’m not serving you ice cream.

Me: Okay…? What, are you out of vanilla?

TMHG: Asians are lactose intolerant.

Me: Not me.

TMHG: No, all Asians are.

Me: What?! Bitch, just give me a small cup of vanilla ice cream.

TMHG: I’m not going to be responsible for that.

What I said next should not be repeated in a public forum like this, because kids read this shit, and fuck that, you know?

Anyway, to make a long story longer, I told her I hoped her pierced eyelid, which was infected, got worse and it made her vagina fall off. Then I vowed to turn her in to the Cold’s Tonec Reamery management. So if the President of the Reamery is reading, she’s the tweaker meth-head girl with the infected pierced eyelid. And I should have taken her picture to send to management because, as you know, all Asians have camera equipment on them.

Every day, I come across far many more things that piss me off than those that bring joy into my inner being. They say you have to stop and smell the roses? No. I say you have to stop and document the turd piles. That way others can benefit from your map of life’s little land mines, and the world is a better place than it would have been if people weren’t so self-centered and blocking sidewalks all the time with their goddamn rose smelling.

Hence, the PO Box. In this box I will place all the things that piss me off. Man, I hope this box is big.

To kick it off, I’ll share with you an experience I had tonight at the Wendy’s drive-thru. I was craving a milkshake. A real milkshake made with real ice cream. None of this “ice-milk” malarkey. Seriously, if you are serving this blatantly phony version of milkshakes, don’t even call them “shakes.” Instead, call them “lies that you can’t suck easily through a straw.” Wendy decided to call her brand of bullcrap a “Frosty Shake”. I should have just gone to a nearby Jack In The Box instead of pulling the lazy move of trying the closest fast food joint. Here’s the convo at the drive-thru speaker:

Wendy: Hello. Welcome to Wendy’s. Order when you’re ready.

Me: Are your shakes made from real ice cream?

Wendy: (in a slightly upset tone) They’re Frostys.

Me: Yeah… that sounds like not real ice cream. What is that?

Wendy: …

Me: Is that soft serve?

Wendy: …

Me: …

Wendy: …

Me: Okay. Thanks then.

Then I sped off around the corner, where I had to wait in back of the poor car who was stuck at the window, another victim, no doubt, to this incredibly helpful food industry professional. And by then, I couldn’t even back up, because another person had pulled up to the “Attempt To Order Here” sign behind me. Thus, I found myself stuck in a temporal rift, much like James Kirk in Star Trek Generations, still active and alive but surrounded by an empty vacuum of time-stopping incompetence.

I suppose it’s too much to ask people to tell you the truth about their lies. Wendy, if you’re going to sell fake milkshakes, tell me right up front that they are milkfakes. Don’t hide behind your made-up milkfake pseudonym and get indignant when I ask what the hell it is. And BTW, thanks for trademarking Frosty™. You’ve just made the name of a beloved Christmas snowman synonymous with shit. While you’re at it you should trademark the diarrhea people get from your food and call it “Poodolph the Brown Eyed Paindeer™®©.”