Out of the Picture

It's the usual cliche: somebody does something irritating, and you stand there at a loss for words. You search your brain for the right response, but it doesn't show up until they're gone. Fully formed in the back of your head.

Here are the words that showed up in mine, in that placid little garden in Kyoto.

I wholeheartedly apologize, Mr. Shit for Brains, for intruding on your Precious Snapshot. Call me irresponsible for coming to one of the most gorgeous spots in all of Japan and actually pausing for a minute to enjoy it. Pardon me for wallowing in the idyllic scenery -- the stunning thousand-year-old temple, the gnarled old cypress trees, the verdant moss in eighty shades of green that don't exist anywhere else on earth -- and not just racing up, snapping a quick picture, and then racing out, like all you brain-dead tourists do.

No, I'm totally thoughtless. I didn't stop to think that a moron with a camera and a tight schedule would appear, and would need everything with a brain to clear out before he could capture this beauty on film. But see, maybe this is news, but when you bought that camera -- if in fact that is a camera, and not the tiny metal box your minuscule dick came in -- you didn't buy yourself special rights. You didn't suddenly become Master Of The Universe because you had thirty bucks to blow at the Bakersfield Best Buy. If you took that thing to the Super Bowl, you wouldn't suddenly become coach of one of the teams. If you took it to the Vatican, you wouldn't suddenly gain control of the Catholic Church. And here at this peaceful little garden, you didn't win the right to direct traffic. You just stayed an idiot with a cheap camera, an ugly haircut, and a monstrously big fuckin' mouth.

So, buddy, even though I don't have an all-powerful camera, I've got a suggestion for you. Why don't you shut your freakin' mouth and wait until I'm gone to take your precious little snapshot? Because God knows it's important: I mean, otherwise how would you prove to your little idiot friends that you actually went somewhere, and didn't just stay home and jerk off like they all thought you would?

Because, Mr. Buttmunch, NOBODY orders me around. NOBODY tells me to shove over ten feet to the left because I'm ruining their shot. In fact, why don't you give me the camera and I'll take the picture, since you're obviously incapable of moving to another spot? Meanwhile, Mr. Instamatic Nazi, you can build a wall between the irritating sides of your ass, you wienerschnitzel-eating, Lowenbrau-swilling douchebag, and then Chicken Dance your way back to HELL.

But no. Instead I just said, "Of course, sweetheart," and I let Raoul take this shot: