I’ve posited previously that my life would be vastly more enjoyable if I had the power to make people’s hearts explode with crazy mind powers. To that I would like to add that it would be pretty sweet if I could make people catch on fire with thought. And while I’m at it, I’d give myself the power to give people cancer shaped like ninja stars. Why the fuck not? Presumably, if I possessed one supernatural power, many others would also be possible. At any rate, I wish I had those powers. It’d be like “Damn. The liquor store is full of illegal aliens cashing their checks; it’ll take, like, twenty minutes to buy my whiskey. I don’t want to wait that long to get drunk. Oh, wait a minute, I can move to the front of line because everyone else in the store is on fire.” Or when I’m renting a movie and some peon is blocking the fucking aisle—yammering into her cell phone and staring into space like a wild turkey drowning in the rain—I wouldn’t have to punch her. Instead, I would tap her on the shoulder and say, “Ma’am, you need to get yourself to a hospital because you now have brain cancer shaped like a ninja star. So, please, get the fuck out of my way.” Every day would be like Christmas morning.
I can think of at least eighty-three times I would have used those badass powers today. While waiting in line to buy alcohol, this smelly old lady was in line behind me. Well, not so much behind me as practically on me. She was so close behind me I felt like I was visiting Barney Frank’s house. As you might imagine, I was displeased. So, politely, I said, “Shit, lady, do you really think you’re going to get to the register any faster with your finger up my ass?” She didn’t say anything or back up at all. She just kept scowling at me and breathing old lady pill breath on me. I thought that perhaps she didn’t hear me, but I know the lady at the register did, because after I said it she made a face like she threw up a little or something. There I stood, getting breathed on by the Grim Reaper’s 5:30 appointment, imagining how sweet it would be if I could make her heart explode like an overstuffed haggis in the microwave.
At that point, I began to wonder why it was taking so goddamned long to get to the register. It turns out the old lady in front of me was fucking around, holding up the line. I don’t know exactly what she was doing, but there were two employees ringing her up. I guess she was using coupons from the store’s newspaper inserts—she had a pile of them and was tearing out one coupon from each. Being the asshole that I am, I have to assume she was using the same cat food coupon from each insert because she’s poor and has to eat discount Frisky Feast (it’s a well-known fact that 93% of old people are forced to eat cat food because they blew all of their money on telemarketing scams). One, I don’t care; two, she’s still holding up the line with this bullshit and writing a check for seven dollars and thirty-two cents. You can bet I was wishing for some old lady flambé.
Just so you don’t think all of my anger is directed at old ladies, there was this little kid I saw that deserved some cancer. This little shit was one of about twelve of Pedro and Maria’s brood of illegal refugee children, probably all of them from some South American country I’ve never heard of, ruled by a small-prick dictator who has people shot for catching malaria. This future criminal, certainly no older than three, purposely knocked over a big display in the video rental store. While the one employee present at the time cleaned up the mess, that little shit stole a bunch of candy and walked out of the store. (I wonder if he’s related to those fuckers who keep stealing my trashcans.) His mother caught him a few minutes later and tried to make him apologize, but he didn’t. Maybe he hadn’t learned to talk yet or, more likely, he didn’t speak any English. At first, I was thinking immolation or cancer, but then I decided drop-kicking the kid into traffic would be more hilarious.
With my amazing powers, I would also dispatch Britney Spears. I may never have met her, but I’m sick of hearing about her worn-out twazzer. Honestly, if I gave two shits about Britney’s pooter, I’d pay K-Fed the two dollars he charges to smell his fingers. I’m serious—he’s standing on the median at a busy intersection near my house; he has a cardboard sign and everything. “Smell my Brit-Rich Fingers. Two Bucks.” He may not be a good rapper, but he’s a great entrepreneur. Anyway, Spears, Hilton, Lohan, Federline: flaming, ninja star-shaped cancer for all of them. The same goes for Madonna. I’ll take care of Gwyneth Paltrow while I’m at it. We’ll call it a twofer.
And this is just the tip of the asshole iceberg. I’d get rid of so many people, commies like Lenin and Stalin would look like failures. At least I’d have a good reason for killing everyone: they pissed me off. If I ever do develop these powers, I’m sure you’ll see it on the news … unless, of course, you pissed me off.