On occasion, visits to grocery stores must be made. The lady and I most often buy our canned and boxed processed “food” goods at a joint called Ralph’s. (Though I pronounce it “Rafes” like that pretentious actor fella, Ralph Fiennes, because to “ralph” can also mean “to vomit,” and I don’t want to think of that whilst buying food, which is fuel for vomiting. Maybe that’s why Ralph Fiennes doesn’t want it to be his name, too, so he pretends it’s pronounced differently than it really is… but why do we all go along with it?) After blowing tons of hard earned cash on stuff other than comics or movies (an act I usually frown upon), we were nearly accosted by a concerned citizen stalking the exit.

Said bleeding heart hippie-type was collecting signatures for some petition to get better healthcare for the kiddies. Many people pass stuff like this up, and that’s usually one of my first reactions (alternating with methods like “duck” or “find a human shield for the bullets” and “eat the burrito”), but, upon hearing that it was about helping the children, I mean, crap -- me and the lady couldn’t not take a few moments to sign our names to some list presented to us by a person we’d never seen before and never bothered to check for credentials. Who could? How can anyone say “no” to helping the kids get better healthcare? Do you HATE kids? Want them to be all sick 'n stuff? Bastards! Other requests are easily ignored (“Feed the birds, toppins a bag” or “Can you get this bat out of my hair?”), but kiddie healthcare? Nope. Had to do it. Had to.

After signing to help the little ones, the concerned hippie got a little greedy, asking us to also sign for an array of other causes like alternative energy (well, oil is too expensive and shitty for the environment), better schools (education can be pretty bleak -- look no further than me for living proof of that), more frequent new episodes of Lost with fewer commercial breaks (finally, someone’s doing SOMETHING about this epidemic), an anti-pirate discrimination bill (I usually side with the ninja, but I suppose pirates have a rough time of it in today’s society), and some other shit I can’t remember. It started getting absurd after the perfectly sensible pirate thing, but the dirty hippie was really pushy, and we were dazed by her many and varying strong beliefs.

Finally, just as we were about to escape to get our cheese food products home to the cupboards and skim cow juice in the fridge, the hippie citizen asked us if we’d moved in the last year. We had, so she presented us with the opportunity to register to vote, which was good, as I often forget stuff like that. It’s why I blame myself in part for Dubya winning his second term (as well as global warming, the sitcom Two and a Half Men, and reduced-sugar cereals, but that could be chalked up to my obsessive guilt and insanity). My ladylove filled hers out quickly, pen gliding over the page, expertly forming words, but my five-year-old chicken scratch caused by natural slowness and frequent hand cramps (that I really need to ask my doctor about, as well as that odd bit of nipple lactation I’ve been experiencing recently, come to think of it) resulted in my much slower pace. Hippie and girlfriend alike began getting impatient with me, my clipboard being snatched from my hands to be filled out by my woman. I let it slide, as I too often grow impatient with myself.

She got the basic info entered quickly on her own (name, addy, shoe size, favorite Beatle, blood type, common stool color and texture), but when it came to “political party affiliation,” she decided to let me have a say. Now, I honestly don’t see myself ever voting Republican (as I have a soul), but you never know what the future may hold. I mean, really, Democrats are evil, too, just less evil in my humble and barely informed opinion. So, like my mother before me, I usually just say I’m Independent (which some equate to “indecisive,” and, yeah, if that was an option, I’d probably choose it). Not seeing it on the list that included not only the big two but also the Green Party, Pirate, Sassy, Pepsi, and Wooden, I came across “American Independent” party. Figured they must’ve just added the “American” for some increased patriotism, so I was all, “Yup, mark that one, woman.”

After the fateful check mark was made, the increasingly impatient but still well-meaning hippie warned, “You don’t want to mark that one.” Before I could say, “You don’t even KNOW me, bitch! Who are you to have the audacity to presume blah, blah, blah,” she continued with, “That’s the name the Ku Klux Klan uses to trick people to get their party numbers up.”

Tricky, hooded, hate spreading bastards. We scribbled that out, and I said “Fuck it, put it in a bucket. I’m a Democrat now, I guess…” But I couldn’t help but wonder if the scribbling out my accidental hate group-joining checkmark was enough. The hippie assured me it was and just requested I initial next to said marking out to show that I’m really not a racist hillbilly retard piece of shit. (One cannot be too harsh on the KKK, can one? Nah, fuck them haters…) Still, I worried. The hippie was done with us, though, and my female companion merely shrugged my worrying off to my insanity and suggested I take my “medicine” (beer) when we got home.

As is often the case, I decided to worry on the inside and act like all was cool on the soft, fleshy, pale outside. After a couple weeks, I figured I was in the clear. Not being a racist idiot, I really, REALLY didn’t want to accidentally join the freaking Klan’s bunk political party. But all was normal, so I decided to worry about my usual things (mostly having to do with my lack of financial and creative success as well as my weight)… of course, once I was comfortable, that’s when the hate package arrived in the mail and the fan was hit with some poop.

Normally I’m excited to get mail, but when I opened the package containing a KKK Cross Burning Starter Kit* (*cross not included), a pamphlet entitled “So You’ve Decided to be a Hatemonger,” and a silly white robe with matching hood, I realized that scribbling out that check mark hadn’t been enough. Not knowing what to do, I took the box of baddies outside, snagging some gasoline and matches on the way out the door.

The only way to erase any record of this, I decided, was to burn the shit. Just burn it to ashes and dust. I doused the whole package in gasoline, and lit a match. “Fuck the KKK,” I mumbled as I dropped the flaming wooden stick on the soaked hate mail… Unfortunately, I’d set all of this in the dry, grassy yard, and fire tends to spread quickly under such conditions. It went left, to our neighbors’ yard. Deeply religious, they hadn’t yet taken down their enormous homemade Easter diorama (which kind of creeped me out sometimes, but I guess they’re well-meaning). The paper-mache Jesus burned quickly, but that wooden cross took to the fire really well. Just kept aflame, as everyone in the apartment complex came out to see what all the ruckus was. I ducked behind where a bush used to be, but it was now just an ashy pile. Soon the fire department came, and I claimed to have no knowledge of the fire, box of matches in my pocket, can of gasoline on my front porch.

I’m never helping the children get better healthcare again.