Survival of the Fittest…

It was truly a surreal sight.

During my morning run today, I noticed a rollerblader out of the corner of my left eye, on a direct path to collide with me. Silently panicking and not wanting to lose my rhythm, I swerved as he casually glided by and into the street.

I watched as he floated between the two lanes of traffic, drifting on his imaginary skating rink. It was like he was the evil villain Brad Wesley from Road House, coasting where the wind took him as cars were within feet of a head-on collision. He coolly avoided bodily harm, only to put himself in harm’s way once more, almost as if repelled by the bike lanes and sidewalks aimed at providing a safe pathway for pedestrians and everyone else not in a 1.5-ton automobile.

While not a new thought in my head, seeing this man take to the roadways like a stoner ice skater, within an arm’s reach of being a road pancake several times over, made me realize that we have repressed the one thing pertinent to human existence.

Survival of the fittest needs to make a fucking comeback.

Mistakes like these could be easily avoided.

Awhile back, I made an argument that there should be licenses to breed — and avoid these human blights from being pulled from mothers’ wombs into the world — but that was a bit extreme. After all, that would be inviting more government interference into things that shouldn’t be meddled with; besides, I hear that ‘dem baseball players are on the juice!

Instead, I have a method of identifying and eliminating the problems at the source. Stay with me on this:

A covert group of vigilantes (names and identifying marks to be determined) divide and comb through the millions of YouTube videos and comments. Whenever someone posts a video of themselves or of someone committing an act deemed asinine by YouTube commenters — particularly those with words like “dumb, “ghey” and other racial and sexual slurs — group A (Alpha Team) researches the whereabouts of said people, finds them and automatically sterilizes them.

I am in your internets, calling you a “dumb homo.”

While this is going on, a second team (Bravo) further scours the YouTube comments, traces the computers the person posted from, finds the owner/last user and kicks them repeatedly in the crotch while yelling their comment(s) at them until their genitals are rendered unusable.

Too radical? Perhaps. I’m also toying with other ways:

The vigilantes, in conjunction with Wile E. Coyote and the ACME catalog, can drop anvils on anyone proclaiming Nickelback or reggae pop-rock as the “best thing ever.”

Oh, Wile E.: ever trying his darnedest.

– Wife beaters, child abusers and the woefully ignorant will be helicoptered into a boiling volcano. (It’s for the greater good, people.)

– Midfields at NASCAR race tracks will house a giant shark tank with ravenous sharks underneath, with the trap door giving way halfway through the race.

– Anyone with an ironic t-shirt (example: “Made in America” or “God Don’t Make Trash”) that is a sad reminder of their existence — and doesn’t understand irony — will be relocated to a desolate island.

– Those with the lifelong ambition to be a reality show contestant will be locked in a steel cage with Gary Busey in a battle of life or death.

“There can be only one…”

The aim, as with thousands of years of human evolution, is to breed a strong and cunning human being — something that cannot exist as long as we have “COFFEE IS HOT!” warning labels on coffee cups. Humans got this far without too much interference, so why protect ourselves now? Now, more than ever, we need to weed out ourselves from ourselves, especially when lackadaisical rollerbladers are on the loose.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s