Hey, signature police…suck my John Han-cock.

sig·na·ture / ˈsignəchər; -ˌchoŏr/

• n. 1. a person’s name written in a distinctive way as a form of identification in authorizing a check or document or concluding a letter.

Sorry for downplaying your intelligence up there, but I just got into an argument with a store clerk over my signature. Tell me how this bitch goes all day seeing illegible scribbles, careless dashes, lazy wiggle lines that (perhaps, symbolically) match the final moments of life on hospital heart monitor…and when something with a little pizazz comes by, she’s gotta flip shit over it?

Two decades ago, when I first started signing my name in an unconventional manner, it was merely a young boy’s protest against ol’ wacky-loops cursive. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the art of calligraphy…it’s his mentally challenged little brother, cursive, that I don’t care for. More often than not, cursive is written in haste, the results are ugly and it’s difficult to read. I like my eyes to glide smoothly over a sentence—opposed to straining them and wrestling the paper into different viewing angles while trying to locate my decoder ring. All these years later and I still get motion sickness trying to follow those obnoxious squiggles around. Man…fuck you, cursive.

By the time I graduated high school, my parents noticed my signature remained relatively consistent with it’s humble beginnings in Mrs. Karabaich’s fifth grade classroom. They warned me of the trouble I was setting myself up for, particularly, signing legal documents as an adult. Perhaps that’s all I needed to hear, because I appreciate easily avoidable confrontation.

So, I can admit that much. I’m well aware of it being an issue for some people. The question is…how is it an issue? The very definition of the word “signature” negates the entire argument.

I’ve got it partially figured out…and for the confusing remainder, I’ve come up with a possible workaround. The incident with this specific clerk caught me off guard because she was young. See, I’ve run into trouble with my signature four times prior to this, all with bitter old women. Now that is to be expected. There’s no sense trying to hide your misery when your tits haven’t been presentable in decades and your vagina is crustier than a sourdough roll in a hobo’s armpit. Of course you’re going to get mad at me for “doodling” on my credit slip when your vaginal lips are ashy and you haven’t felt an erection since menopause. However, if your private area is still adorned with a big, wet, pink bull’s-eye, don’t let something as trite as uncommon looking pen marks rile you into an ol’ beaten-hag frenzy.

Angry young women of America, hear me and hear me well. Your pussy will be a dilapidated mess soon enough…stressing out over a signature sure as hell isn’t slowing the process any. Do yourself a favor and enjoy life until the semen’s tapped and those labias are chapped.

Sincerely,


    see also:

    The Proposition

    Let it Leak
    Booyah, white boys!

One thought on “Hey, signature police…suck my John Han-cock.

  1. I really don’t see what is so sexist about that at all.

    Maybe a little offensive, but I take that with a grain of salt. Yes, women have vaginas… we all love em for that. Do they get crusty, I don’t want to find out. Have I ever smelled one that smelled like a homeless mans armpit… sure, but I ran away and never looked back (at that particular set of labia.)

    I remember when you first had trouble with your signature at the DMV, and for your picture as well. Do you still have the ID? That was a great picture.

    I wish I still had mine, I had the biggest grin on it ever. Damn, those were fun times.

    Great post Eric.

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