A lot of people don’t realize this, but Hank Schrader — the gruff but lovable DEA agent on Breaking Bad — actually has a blog. It’s true. He started the blog last year while he was laid up with his rock collection. It’s over on the AMC website. I don’t know who actually writes the blog — an AMC intern, a Breaking Bad staffer, or Dean Norris himself — but whoever it is, they’ve perfectly captured the voice of Hank. He doesn’t offer any foreshadowing clues or any great previews into the future of the show, but he’s got some pretty great insights into life, the evils of money, and why having a pain in the ass for a wife is not such a bad thing.
I read all of Hank’s blog entries so far, and compiled these insights, witticisms, and nuggets of wisdom:
Hank doesn’t care for reality television:
Things have kinda, well, blown up around here. Yeah, and I may actually mean that literally (the real literally, not that bullsh*t “literally” so favored by the elite brain trust known as “reality TV stars”).
Now we’ve got this one hard case, real dead-eyed gargoyle-looking villain. And I don’t use that lightly, but this withered sack of excrement used to be a cop. He knew better, once upon a time, and he chose to go bad. And why? Money. Pay’s way better on the wrong side of the law. And all of us who spend our lives cleaning up the scum of the earth…well, that makes us glorified janitors, right? And janitors do not get paid the big bucks.
I’m sure that’s what this guy was thinking, way back. He’d make some cash doing what he does for the guys on the other side. But that’s what makes a day like today so satisfying. Free-lapdance-from-a-stripper-with-real-knockers-who-gives-you-her-number-after-and-answers-when-you-call satisfying. Once in a lifetime, y’know? Because, my friends, today we–the good guys!–got to take all those ill-gotten gains back. RICO ain’t just some Puerto Rican nickname. It’s the way to really make the bad guys hurt. Even a hard guy like the one I was talking about, you take his money away and that’s when you get to see what he looked like when he was a little kid with a skinned knee, fixing to cry. Because without the money, all the blood he’s spilled…what was it for? Nothing. And if it’s all for nothing, then suddenly he knows he’s nothing, too. Just another psycho murderer thug. And maybe he should’ve stayed a damn janitor after all; we may get down into the muck, but at least at the end we come out clean.
On last season’s meeting with Tio Salamanca:
Of course, this bitter old douche cannon ran me on a wild goose chase. I hope that when I’m old, I’m that bitter. I mean, if you can’t just screw with people willy-nilly at that age, what was it all for? I’m very much looking forward to sitting on the porch with the shotgun — “get off my lawn, you damn kids!” They truly are the golden years.
Ding, dong, the wicked witch is definitely dead. If you watch the news, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, go Google “nursing home” and “blows the hell up” and you’ll see what I mean. And who has two thumbs and was the only one without his head up his ass about a certain criminal/fast-food magnate? THIS guy. I know; I’m gloating and it’s bad form. I don’t even care. If you’re the guy who everyone thinks is crying wolf, it feels damn good when a big hairy wolf shows up and bites everyone right in the face. Damn good.
Come on God, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel at this point. Where’s the challenge, big guy? You can’t tell me there isn’t some tremendous douche biscuit out there just cruising for a bruising at the hands of ol’ fickle fate. I mean, kicking the crippled guy while he’s down? That’s just lazy … I’m on the job. I refuse to let insignificant shit like gunshot wounds, paralysis, or car wrecks bring me down. Child’s play.
On the benefits of having a pain in the ass for a wife:
The point here is: sometimes, occasionally — and I’m talking about once in a blue moon — my wife is a pain in my ass. I mean, like a bear trap to the rear end. Sorry, honey, if you’re reading this, but I know you could say a helluva lot worse about me. And there are a lot of things that can change in a marriage. Sometimes, they’re really not meant to be. People don’t want the same things. People change. And sometimes there’s just a breath that comes along and blows it all apart. I saw that happen tonight to my sister- and brother-in-law. Saw what happens when the house of cards comes down. And it makes me think, maybe I’m okay with a bear trap on my ass. Maybe, that’s not so bad after all.
On Hank’s new boss, before Hank realized he would be named the new boss:
But here’s another thing when your boss goes bye-bye. It’s not really good news for you. It’s not like your boss’s bosses are gonna look down from on high and say: “hey, let’s forget the paperwork. Let everyone run themselves for awhile.” Hell no: you, my friend, are gonna get a new boss. Bureaucracy abhors a vacuum. It’ll create a boss out of thin air, if it has to, because no one, but no one, can go bossless.
And all bets are off on New Boss. Could be worse — some jagoff who thinks he knows your job and your cases better than you do. Sticks his nose so far into your business he can smell the shit you’re thinking. Could be better — some political hire that doesn’t know his ass from his elbow and just stays the hell away from you. But wherever they start, they end up the same. They end up like my boss (former boss, I mean): middle-of-the-road, not really making a difference one way or the other. That’s convergence.
On the evils of money, and what it drives people to do:
It’s a good lesson for being in law enforcement. If you’re ever trying to figure out why something horrible happened–some nightmare thing that makes you think God’s got the same sense of humor as Hitler–nine times out of ten the answer’s money. Some chick pimping her ten-year-old daughter for meth. Some teenage gangbanger cuts the fingers off a kid trying to take his corner. Money: it’s always money, somehow or another. I mean, I’m not a commie–I work too damned hard for every thing I got–but you gotta believe rich people don’t do that stuff. They have their own insane gerbil-rectum interactions with the wrong side of weird, sure. But they don’t go out and do the sickest sh*t, because they don’t need the money. That’s the truth.
On having to give “Flynn” car-themed presents for his birthday:
The poor bastard… he kept that smile up through the whole thing. Even when he opened up the little car-sized trash can. For chrissakes — that’s what plastic take out bags are for! We’ve already solved this problem, people. That was nothing compared to Marie’s gift though — a car vac. What sixteen-year-old boy would ever, in his life, suddenly think — man, I gotta vacuum this mofo right now! There’s too much lint on the passenger seat! Yeah… eff that noise. Even more ridiculous? The kid’s folks own a car wash. There’s no way that kid is ever lifting a finger to vacuum the upholstery himself.
Ever. Should of just lit that handful of cash on fire, Marie.
A Brilliant Metaphor using Cookie Jars that Berate You
Say you’ve got a secret life — something you don’t want anyone knowing about. Maybe you’re cheating on your wife, cheating on your taxes, cheating on your diet — whatever. What do you do everyday? It’s not like you’re living your secret life out in the open. You’re not some simpleton cramming Twinkies down your piehole in full view of the public. No… you’re hiding. You’re sneaking them out of a shoe box buried in your closet.
But then one day, your wife finds the shoebox, and there’s hell to pay. Suddenly you’re being shamed like some pre-schooler who peed himself on the first day. Goodbye, manhood! It’s all broccoli and tofu from here out. Your wife buys one of those cookie jars that berates you when you open it. (Because that’s what the world needs — nagging outsourced to your home furnishings. Here’s a tip: don’t buy the cookies. Problem solved! You’re welcome, America.)
