UPDATED. Life is good. Really. Great country, all in all. Great people, mostly. Great places, open spaces. America The Beautiful; seriously. (I just got back from Glacier National Park, you'll have to excuse me). But in order to preserve what we've got, it's necessary to identify with alacrity those things which rend the social fabric and violate common standards of decency. As you know by now (see here, here, here, and here), I am not one to shirk that duty.

So, let us unabashedly pile heaps of opprobrium upon some - just some, mind you - of those who deserve it. Such as......

Washington State Corrections Department officials and the judge who engineered the early release from prison of chronic hoodlum Mary Jane Rivas. A Seattle cop is dead as a result of officaldom's undue lenience, and Rivas' subsequent drugged driving.

The federal tax code, cheating corporate lobbyist-lawyers, and the Capitol Hill Republicans and Democrats who enable them.

Meth moms. You see these uber-skanky, emaciated to the bone, hollow-eyed, peroxided train wrecks in public places, with kids in tow. Like the old drugstore in the very nice town of Wallace, Idaho last weekened, during the Huckleberry Festival with no huckleberry vendors. You know what's going on. So does anyone who knows anything. It's damned scary.

Guys on hiking trails, drenched in cologne. I'm actually a small governnment type. but I wonder: ought there to be a law?

Foreshortened handshakes, no palm allowed. Message: I really do think you have cooties.

That unbenighted soul I espied yesterday using the Sprague Lake Rest Stop, past Spokane on Westbound I-90. He was wearing Everlast shorts, knee-high white athletic socks, and.....sandals.

His "life partner" - I'd guess that was probably the preferred term. She was wearing a bright tie-dyed T-shirt, tucked into shorts that had a resplendent.........elastic waist band. Doubtless their kids - yes there were kids attached to these sartorial felons - go to an iffy public school in Seattle, for the sake of "diversity." Some lame-brained Seattle progressives are especially easy to identify. The ones with money and good taste are a bit harder to detect. Until they open their mouths. Anyway, at least along with their hurtful vestments, these two have each other. See you at Folklife, guys.

1960s- and 1970s-vintage Volkswagen microbus vans, struggling weakly up a slight incline on the highway at about 40 mph less than all the other vehicles. No War For Oil, sure, bro. But remember the upside of American Cultural Imperialism: horsepower.

Those smarmy ads on the radio where after the great offer is hyped, the announcer reads all the weasel-word fine print in a breathtaking 10-second rush at the end which makes you immediately want to wrap his entire head tightly in gauze and then coat it with tar. Or something. The hyperfast shtick is typically along the following lines: "Offer good only on alternate Tuesdays and Thursdays in Illinois, Wyoming, Rhode Island, New Mexico and secondary markets where no less than 72 percent of households practice recycling and attend a Latter Day Saints church; users must sign disclaimer acknowledging substantial risk of blindness, impotence, Malignant Compassion Disorder, rabies or death; special federal mitigation-fund tax of 136 percent charged on all transactions; qualifying participants must comply with escrow fund stipulations and credit equirements, both to be determined at a later date; offer does not apply to Chicago Cubs fans, people who go bowling or are known to watch 'The Apprentice.'"

Lumbering, mammoth Recreational Vehicles, a.k.a. RVs. A pox on humanity and our nation's scenic byways. If I see many more, I am going to join the Green Party.

Front-seat passengers in moving vehicles with their feet jauntily sticking out the lowered window. Never has looking carefree required such contortion. Besides which, it's just plain vulgar, as any Muslim can attest. For all so inclined, may Allah grant a speedy amputation by a passing truck. Your dawgs want to breathe? Go to the beach.

Gals walking around in shorts with the word "juicy" in large print, right on the buttocks. Ladies - if that is the word: a nice bottom truly speaks for itself. Don't be cheap.

Speaking of which. Parents know there is only so much they can do once their kids get older. Here is one way to know you have not entirely failed. Your daughter does NOT, ever, in her entire life, get one of those distressingly prevalent tattoos on the back of her waistline, a.k.a. the "Tramp Stamp."

The entire self-help industry. How can it be self-help if someone has to tell you what to do?

TECHNORATI TAGS: MARY JANE RIVAS, FEDERAL TAX CODE, METH MOMS, BAD HANDSHAKES, RADIO ADS, VOLSWAGEN MICROBUS, TRAMP STAMP, SELF-HELP

Posted by Matt Rosenberg at August 28, 2006 09:31 AM