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People will argue, ‘Singing has more to do with expressing emotion than it does with expressing thought.” Well, fine. But from my point of view, when it comes to expressing emotion, singing is not nearly as effective a tool as screaming. Let’s face it, if you want to express emotion, screaming is where it’s at.

And to be fair, the more I think about it, the more I realize that singing itself is nothing more than a modified form of screaming. It’s actually just carefully organized, socially acceptable screaming. And, folks, I think we have enough screaming in the world as it is.

Now, dancing, on the other hand, I can understand. Dancing is a highly developed form of jumping around, and there’s certainly nothing wrong with jumping around. Jumping around is fine in my book. In fact, I feel it’s essential. So, please, feel free to jump around all you want. But if you fall and break a leg, don’t come screaming to me. Write a song.

CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?

Have you noticed that whenever someone at a large gathering tries to get the attention of the crowd on a public address system, they always yell into the mi-

crophone? ‘ATTENTION!! ATTENTION PLEASE!! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE!!” Don’t these people understand that the whole purpose of a voice-amplifying system is to amplify the voice? I think the idea is that when you speak into it, it makes your voice sound louder. Maybe I’m way off on this, but it seems to me that if there is a device that makes your voice sound louder, there’s probably no reason to yell into it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just wrong on this. I’m willing to listen. But hold it down, will ya?

CARS AS PERSONAL BILLBOARDS NEVER MIND THE BIOGRAPHY

I’m tired of people using their cars as biographical information centers, informing the world of their sad-sack lives and boring interests. Keep that shit to yourself. I don’t want to know what college you went to, who you intend to vote for or what your plan is for world peace. I don’t care if you visited the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore or the birthplace of Wink Martindale. And I’m not interested in what radio station you listen to or what bands you like. In fact, I’m not interested in you in any way, except to see you in my rearview mirror.

Furthermore, I can do without your profession of faith in God, Allah, Jehova, Yahweh, Peter Cottontail or whoever the fuck it is you’ve turned your life over to; please keep your superstitions private. I can’t tell you how happy it would make me to someday drive up to a flaming auto wreck and see smoke curling up around one of those little fish symbols with Jesus written inside it.

And as far as I’m concerned, you can include the Darwin/fish-with-feet evolution symbol too. Far too cute for my taste.

So keep the personal and autobiographical messages to yourself. Here’s an idea: Maybe you could paste them up inside your car, where you can see them and I can’t.

PROUD PARENTS OF ANOTHER DRONE

Here’s another segment of the bumper-sticker population that ought to be locked into portable toilets and set on fire. The ones who want us to know how well their kids are doing in school. Doing well, that is, according to today’s lowered standards:

”We are the proud parents of an honors student at the Franklin School.’ Or the Midvale Academy. Or whatever other i

What kind of empty people need to validate themselves through the achievements of a child? How would you like to live with a couple of these blockheads? “Say, Justin. How’s that science project coming along?” “Fuck you, Dad, you simpleminded prick! Mind your own business and pass the Froot Loops. Fucking cunt dork.”

Here are a few parental bumper stickers I’d like to see: