People say to me, “You don’t seem cranky. In fact, you seem quite a mellow chap.”  Well, that’s because, here at Open Salon, I’m surrounded by such wonderful folks who are intelligent, funny, thoughtful – have I buttered you up enough yet? – supportive and good-looking.  OK, I’m guessing on that last part.  Oh, and nobody here ever raises their voice. That’s a nice feature.

Outside the serenity of the blogosphere, however, my life feels like a continual loop of the scene from Midnight Cowboy when Ratso Rizzo (Dustin Hoffman) almost gets sideswiped by a taxi, bangs on its hood and yells, “I’m walkin’ heah!”  A normal day is one dispiriting confrontation with rude, selfish people after another, to the point that I assume that Miss Manners is currently standing on the edge of a bridge with a boulder tied around her ankle.

That’s why I wish I owned a taser.  If I carried one, I’d turn into a high-tech version of Charles Bronson, my vengeance leaving mounds of flesh momentarily incapacitated on the streets. 

After eight years of driving my daughters to high school, I know that there are plenty of, to paraphrase Elaine Benes, taser-worthy subjects there, making it an excellent place to start.  Yeah, there’s the kids who seem intent on disproving evolution by being unable to pull their pants up to their waists, but that’s not whom I’m after.  I’m bugged by the Dean’s List rejects walking to school on a chilly morning dressed in shorts and T-shirt.  I would grab him by his elastic waistband, drag him home, ring the doorbell and then give the parents 50,000 volts of childrearing advice.

My young targets are not just at the school. I went into my local Dunkin’ Donuts the other morning, trying to grab a quick cup of joe for the road, when I found myself in line behind these future wards of the state who instead of, you know, looking at the menu, were all, “Oh man, she’s like totally hot” and, like, “Dude, that video was so dope.”  When they get to the counter, while I’m anxiously checking my watch, these junior d-bags are going, “Um, lemme see, um, I’ll have, um, do you know what you want, Spencer?”  Here, boys, let me place a little electronic order for you, my treat.

Unfortunately, I had to go to the supermarket the other day, where they should post a sign, “No Feeding the Animals.”  I walked in the entrance and immediately got rammed by a cart pushed out the wrong door by a cell-phone yakking moron.  I wasn’t merely annoyed because he was scrunching his left shoulder to keep the phone to his ear – I swear the next generation is going to have an epidemic of pinched nerves in their necks, the same way my baby-boomer contemporaries all have tinnitus.  No, what caused the accident was that he was looking toward his cell phone while speaking instead of looking forward.  Hey, pal, when a good song comes on your car radio, do you take your eyes off the road?  No?  Then check out this cool app I’ve got on my taser.

That reminds me.  I despise these yuppie scum with the Bluetooth devices on their ears, walking around like their time is more valuable than the President’s.  These idiots look like the gray wolves tagged on National Geographic specials so their migration habits can be tracked.  I think we should offer a big reward to the first guy to invent an app that changes another’s person cellular device into a temporary taser so they zap themselves.  Really, I’d nominate the guy for one of those MacArthur Fellowships.

As I tried to turn up the beverage aisle, a woman was standing there with her cart, blocking my entrance.  She wasn’t on the phone or chasing a rambunctious child.  No, this waste of good oxygen was examining each piece of merchandise like a CSI checking for blood drops, and she took up so much room that the Queen of Anorexia couldn’t get by.

“Excuse me,” I said.  No reaction.

“Excuse me,” I said, a little louder.  Still no reaction.

“Ahem, excuse me,” I said loudly.  She turned around.  Now at this point, I assume that even Adolf Hitler would have said, “Oh, excuse me,” but not this dingbat.  She glared at me as if I was something the dog had left on the lawn and she’d forgotten to bring a Pooper Scooper.  She slowly moved out of the way with great disgust, and I wish I could have said, “I thank you, and my 50,000 volt friend thanks you.”

I came to the register, only to find there were no bags.  The cashier found some paper bags with handles, and filled one with my orange juice, milk and half-and-half.  To her credit, the bag lasted ten steps before it ripped and the contents crashed to the floor. In my fantasy, this is how the conversation would have gone:

Cashier: “Will this be a charge?”

Me, pulling out my taser: “You betcha!”

All right, I can’t list all the people I’d like to zap, because this post would have to go on for another 5,000 words.  Just let me say that I’d like to replace my doorbell with a taser to discourage the Jehovah’s Witnesses, subscription-selling college kids and borderline criminal local politicians who seem to have disrupting my weekend bliss as their goal in life.  I’d like to find the guy who developed these phone menu systems, especially the clown who thought the sound of keyboard tapping after “please wait while we access your account” was somehow a clever idea, and greet him with, “Say hello to my little 50,000 volt friend!”  I’d like to get hold of the OS spammers like LingLing or whatever the name is, the OS dweeb that added this “Like” button, and the OS editor who got rid of the 4-hour feed and – wait, did I just kill my chance at an EP?  Damn, now I have to tase myself, bro.

There is a problem with carrying a taser, though, just like any other weapon, because I spend most of my time with my family and, well, they often give me an itchy trigger finger.  Like the other night, when my daughter Michelle, whose husband was out for the evening, asked, “What are you guys doing for dinner?”  I replied, “We’re thinking of going to the diner.  I can pick you up on the way if you like.”

I ordered my $9 panini, Denise ordered her $8 burger and Nicole ordered her $7 omelet.  Then Michelle, who (lest you forget) invited herself to dinner, placed her order as my jaw dropped:

“I’ll have the ribeye steak, medium rare, with the mashed potatoes and vegetables, and I’ll have the salad with ranch dressing.”  Menu price for her order: $19.95.

“Are you paying for your meal?” I asked as the waitress scurried away.

“Oh, you’re so funny, Daddy,” she replied.   

Now obviously I can’t zap my own daughter and have her forehead plop into the mashed potatoes, though it would make a cool video on YouTube.  Instead, Michelle, consider this public dissing to be your virtual tasing.

I assume law enforcement might not look too kindly on my vigilante act, and sooner or later, one of my town’s finest would introduce me to Mr. Miranda: “You have the right to remain silent,” he’d explain. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”

“A lawyer!” I’d yell.  “Why didn’t I think of that?  Yes, I want a lawyer to be provided for me.  And when he arrives, can you do me a favor and give me back my taser for a minute?”