Everyone loves a good end of the world scare, right? I’m not talking about pissant ideas like global warming or that horseshit 2012 theory. I’m talking about full on the-end-of-reality type of destruction. Anyone remember the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva that everyone made a big fuss over a while back? Some folks were soiling themselves over the possibility that the massive particle accelerator would inadvertently create a black hole and swallow the universe, effectively wiping us out in the blink of an eye.
As it turns out, nothing happened, and as per the usual minimal attention span of the hoi polloi, we went on with our lives as though no one had ever given a shit to begin with. Guess what? The CERN creation was back in the news for shorting out due to some bread crumbs that had been dropped into the machine (supposedly by a bird). This event prompted the serious discussion that perhaps the collider was being sabotaged…wait for it…from the future.
Although I’m sure that this argument was at least partly in jest by some of the smartest, and quirkiest, minds on the planet, it got me thinking: if you were going to go back in time, would you really pour the bottom of your toaster into one of the largest and most sophisticated machines ever constructed? Answer: hell yes I would! Not because I might be saving the world, but because it is just such a random dick move. I’m going to ask you a question that requires you to delve into the dark side of you soul for a moment. Don’t pretend to be all righteous and claim that you don’t have such feelings, because you do. Even Jesus wigged out and smacked a few bitches around, and he was Jesus.
If you could go back in time and commit one purely selfish and/or malicious act, what would you do? A few rules need to be established because otherwise all kinds of stupid possibilities might arise.
1. The act must be either for selfish, mildly evil, or otherwise dick-ish in nature. No fair going back in time to kill Hitler. Sure it might make the world a better place, but that’s not what this game is about. If anyone benefits other than you, it doesn’t count.
2. Although I said, “mildly evil,” in the previous rule, be reasonable. This means that you should not be responsible for any major catastrophe. In a nutshell, don’t be responsible for more than a few deaths (a few are ok; I’m not trying to be too bossy).
3. I don’t want to hear any chaos theory bullplop about messing with the past and causing unpredictable changes of a ludicrous scale. Save the Butterfly Effect for lame Ashton Kutcher movies. Similarly, I won’t hear any talk of paradoxes, counter-factual history and other such scenarios. I’m a historian; I get what you’re saying, now shut up. Assume for this assignment that your act will exist in a time vacuum of sorts that doesn’t create an unpredictable ripple effect. You will be able to go back to the present and see the direct results of your actions. If it’s good enough for The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, it’s good enough for me, dammit!
Now then, what would you do? Party it up with Caligula? Buy a bunch of IBM stock from the fifties? Cock block Thomas Edison on inventing the light bulb? Fuck Cleopatra? Wait for a pause during the Gettysburg Address and shout, “Freebird!”? Punch JFK in the wiener? The possibilities are endless. Which path will you take? You know you’d do it if no one was looking. Let me know, I won’t tell anyone.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Pooh For Brains
In honor of the new Winnie the Pooh book that is out this month, I would like to conduct my own moving tribute to one of our favorite childhood icons. Well…tribute may not be the best word; it’s more like a new interpretation that shatters any saccharine notions of nostalgia that may still be lingering in your skull jelly. I have a theory that the whole Winnie the Pooh thing is actually a study in psychology. Christopher Robin (CR) is the central figure of the whole affair, and I believe that each of the Hundred Acre Wood inhabitants is actually a metaphor for some part of Christopher’s damaged psyche. I present the evidence:
Winnie the Pooh - The biggest character and perhaps the most dominant of Robin’s neuroses. He is fat, lazy, stupid, and focused only obtaining honey. Pooh is the reptile brain, the most basic and instinctual part of our brain and is concerned only with instinctual drives and self-preservation. Pooh is the most benign personality and as a result is the go-to personality for the young boy whose fractured mind is a maelstrom of severe psychological maladies.
Tigger – Tigger is in part of an extension of the Pooh personality. Tigger is just as basic as Pooh, but where the bear is slow and passive, the bouncing tig[g]er is active and behaves in a manner that defies any sort of outside constraint. Today, he might be diagnosed as the personification of ADHD, but I choose to interpret Tigger as the child’s id; raw and impatient passion that does what he wants when he wants. He is also an extension of the child’s still forming libido. If CR were a few years older, Tigger would probably be bouncing around raping the shit out of anything that was slower than him.
Piglet – CR’s low self-worth is embodied by the diminutive, stuttering pig in a sweater. Piglet is unsure of himself and lives in his grandfather’s house, clearly an indication that CR feels pressure from his family who impose unrealistic standards on the child. The Piglet personality is unable to make any decisions and values himself too little to ever try and make something of himself, leading to a cyclical self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.
Eeyore – Just as Tigger is the mirror of Pooh, so too is Eeyore to Piglet. Whereas Piglet is in a constant state of anxiety over his inability, Eeyore instead has descended into a depression deep enough to reach the point of apathy. A diet of thistles and a tail that needs to be nailed back on indicates a tendency toward masochistic behavior, perhaps as a form of self-inflicted punishment as a result of poor self-esteem.
Kanga – This is the CR’s largely dormant anima, or female side. Here it is presented as a maternal figure as the mother is perhaps the only female influence in his life. The fact that she is a kangaroo is interesting in that her pouch allows for the juvenile Roo personality to retreat there whenever the harshness of life becomes too unbearable. This unhealthy attachment to his mother will either be outgrown once the child matures, or it will become a separate but dominant personality in the vein of Norman Bates.
Roo – Roo is perhaps the simplest of CR’s emotional avatars. He is largely the manifestation of CR’s immature personality and desires. His friendship with Tigger is tied to a child’s innate tendency toward chaos and lack of control, yet he is helpless without the Kanga figure. As CR matures, the Roo personality should gradually become less and less prominent, indicated by Roo’s second-string status among the characters in the story.
Rabbit – This character is a more mature expression of the neuroses expressed by the Piglet personality. Rabbit is an agitated perfectionist and is easily distraught by change or dominant personalities such as Tigger. The strong desire towards the status quo and disdain of extreme passion with overtones of OCD seems to show that CR is the victim of abuse, most likely by an alcoholic father.
Owl – The wisdom and malapropism of Owl are the representations of CR’s shaky intellectual abilities. Although much respected by the other personalities, this is only because of their own ignorance and failure to recognize that much of the information presented is false. This is CR’s main source of empowerment, but its overall lack of solid grounding will result in confidence without any skills to reinforce it. The colloquial term for this type of behavior is “douchebag.”
Heffalumps and Woozles – I group these two together because they are different expressions of the same psychological themes. Unseen and mostly regarded as dangerous beasts, these two abstract creatures are perhaps the most frightening aspect of CR’s personality. This is a warped perspective on the abuse hinted at by the Rabbit personality. The difference being that the horrors of the abuse itself have been almost completely suppressed in the mind’s effort at self-preservation. Importantly, the phallic nature of the Woozle in particular may hint at sexual abuse. If the Heffalumps and Woozles were to gain control, CR would undoubtedly descend into extreme psychosis and potentially dangerous behavior, both to the child and to others.
There is my case. Lock up that kid and give me my Nobel Prize please!
Personal Note: Yes, I'm posting once a month now. You don't like it, deal with it for now. I'm a busy man.
Winnie the Pooh - The biggest character and perhaps the most dominant of Robin’s neuroses. He is fat, lazy, stupid, and focused only obtaining honey. Pooh is the reptile brain, the most basic and instinctual part of our brain and is concerned only with instinctual drives and self-preservation. Pooh is the most benign personality and as a result is the go-to personality for the young boy whose fractured mind is a maelstrom of severe psychological maladies.
Tigger – Tigger is in part of an extension of the Pooh personality. Tigger is just as basic as Pooh, but where the bear is slow and passive, the bouncing tig[g]er is active and behaves in a manner that defies any sort of outside constraint. Today, he might be diagnosed as the personification of ADHD, but I choose to interpret Tigger as the child’s id; raw and impatient passion that does what he wants when he wants. He is also an extension of the child’s still forming libido. If CR were a few years older, Tigger would probably be bouncing around raping the shit out of anything that was slower than him.
Piglet – CR’s low self-worth is embodied by the diminutive, stuttering pig in a sweater. Piglet is unsure of himself and lives in his grandfather’s house, clearly an indication that CR feels pressure from his family who impose unrealistic standards on the child. The Piglet personality is unable to make any decisions and values himself too little to ever try and make something of himself, leading to a cyclical self-fulfilling prophecy of failure.
Eeyore – Just as Tigger is the mirror of Pooh, so too is Eeyore to Piglet. Whereas Piglet is in a constant state of anxiety over his inability, Eeyore instead has descended into a depression deep enough to reach the point of apathy. A diet of thistles and a tail that needs to be nailed back on indicates a tendency toward masochistic behavior, perhaps as a form of self-inflicted punishment as a result of poor self-esteem.
Kanga – This is the CR’s largely dormant anima, or female side. Here it is presented as a maternal figure as the mother is perhaps the only female influence in his life. The fact that she is a kangaroo is interesting in that her pouch allows for the juvenile Roo personality to retreat there whenever the harshness of life becomes too unbearable. This unhealthy attachment to his mother will either be outgrown once the child matures, or it will become a separate but dominant personality in the vein of Norman Bates.
Roo – Roo is perhaps the simplest of CR’s emotional avatars. He is largely the manifestation of CR’s immature personality and desires. His friendship with Tigger is tied to a child’s innate tendency toward chaos and lack of control, yet he is helpless without the Kanga figure. As CR matures, the Roo personality should gradually become less and less prominent, indicated by Roo’s second-string status among the characters in the story.
Rabbit – This character is a more mature expression of the neuroses expressed by the Piglet personality. Rabbit is an agitated perfectionist and is easily distraught by change or dominant personalities such as Tigger. The strong desire towards the status quo and disdain of extreme passion with overtones of OCD seems to show that CR is the victim of abuse, most likely by an alcoholic father.
Owl – The wisdom and malapropism of Owl are the representations of CR’s shaky intellectual abilities. Although much respected by the other personalities, this is only because of their own ignorance and failure to recognize that much of the information presented is false. This is CR’s main source of empowerment, but its overall lack of solid grounding will result in confidence without any skills to reinforce it. The colloquial term for this type of behavior is “douchebag.”
Heffalumps and Woozles – I group these two together because they are different expressions of the same psychological themes. Unseen and mostly regarded as dangerous beasts, these two abstract creatures are perhaps the most frightening aspect of CR’s personality. This is a warped perspective on the abuse hinted at by the Rabbit personality. The difference being that the horrors of the abuse itself have been almost completely suppressed in the mind’s effort at self-preservation. Importantly, the phallic nature of the Woozle in particular may hint at sexual abuse. If the Heffalumps and Woozles were to gain control, CR would undoubtedly descend into extreme psychosis and potentially dangerous behavior, both to the child and to others.
There is my case. Lock up that kid and give me my Nobel Prize please!
Personal Note: Yes, I'm posting once a month now. You don't like it, deal with it for now. I'm a busy man.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Bedtime Story
My eyes awakened to the dark shadows of my bedroom; it’s too early to get up for school. No, the alarm that woke me is of a more internal nature. My bladder was full and needed draining, and yet despite its urgency, I refrain from getting out of bed for one simple reason: there is a monster living under my bed. Laugh if you must, but I know with absolute certainty that he’s there. Have I seen him? Well…no. But I don’t have to see the wind to know when it is trying to wrestle my kite away from me. The same holds true of the monster. I can feel him under there, and there have been times when I’ll see a shadow move out of the corner of my eye that I know is him.
Even though he’ll try to get me if I get up, eventually my need to urinate proves to be too strong. I’d rather brave a kid-hungry monster than have to tell my mother that I wet the bed. I throw off the covers with a single sweep of my arm and hot the ground running. I’m in the bathroom as soon as my feet hit the cold wood floor; a journey of fifty feet is traveled in a literal blink of an eye. I should probably be studied by scientists in an effort to revolutionize the transport industry. I turn on the bathroom light (light after all is the one thing that monsters hate) and proceed to relieve myself. The wave of euphoria that floods over me banishes my anxiety, and for a few brief moments, my life is simple, happy, and free of monsters.
Alas, all things must come to an end, and once the toilet flushed, I was faced with the reality of my return trip to bed. I shut off the light and tiptoe back to my room, avoiding the creaky floor boards so that he can’t hear me coming. I stop just short of the doorframe to my room. This is it; the home stretch. It’s also the most dangerous part of the journey, because this is his domain. If he is going to get me, this is when he’ll do it. I hate this part. I’m not athletic. I’m just a fat kid with anxiety issues. God did not create me to co-habitat with bed monsters. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Monsters don’t feel love though. They live to lurk and to torture little kids like me. They want to get me. I don’t know what they’ll do after that, but I have zero interest in finding out. I won’t let him get that far.
The time is now or never. It’s either make it to bed and sleep until morning, or fail and suffer the slings and arrows of the demon beneath. It’s a scant eight feet to my bed, so I close my eyes, hold my breath, and take off running. One step, two steps, three steps, four…then with both legs, I leap for all I’m worth. The jump is the most important part. If your feet aren’t in the air for those last few feet, there is a 70% increase in the chances of the monster grabbing your ankles. I swing my arms to gain momentum, because falling short is not an option. My eyes are sealed shut because should I fail, I don’t want to see what will happen to me. They are jerked open however when my face smacks into the mattress with some force. Having outfoxed the beast yet again, I curl up under my covers and slowly drift off to sleep. I win this round, but the funny thing about urination is that I’ll have to go again sometime.
Even though he’ll try to get me if I get up, eventually my need to urinate proves to be too strong. I’d rather brave a kid-hungry monster than have to tell my mother that I wet the bed. I throw off the covers with a single sweep of my arm and hot the ground running. I’m in the bathroom as soon as my feet hit the cold wood floor; a journey of fifty feet is traveled in a literal blink of an eye. I should probably be studied by scientists in an effort to revolutionize the transport industry. I turn on the bathroom light (light after all is the one thing that monsters hate) and proceed to relieve myself. The wave of euphoria that floods over me banishes my anxiety, and for a few brief moments, my life is simple, happy, and free of monsters.
Alas, all things must come to an end, and once the toilet flushed, I was faced with the reality of my return trip to bed. I shut off the light and tiptoe back to my room, avoiding the creaky floor boards so that he can’t hear me coming. I stop just short of the doorframe to my room. This is it; the home stretch. It’s also the most dangerous part of the journey, because this is his domain. If he is going to get me, this is when he’ll do it. I hate this part. I’m not athletic. I’m just a fat kid with anxiety issues. God did not create me to co-habitat with bed monsters. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Monsters don’t feel love though. They live to lurk and to torture little kids like me. They want to get me. I don’t know what they’ll do after that, but I have zero interest in finding out. I won’t let him get that far.
The time is now or never. It’s either make it to bed and sleep until morning, or fail and suffer the slings and arrows of the demon beneath. It’s a scant eight feet to my bed, so I close my eyes, hold my breath, and take off running. One step, two steps, three steps, four…then with both legs, I leap for all I’m worth. The jump is the most important part. If your feet aren’t in the air for those last few feet, there is a 70% increase in the chances of the monster grabbing your ankles. I swing my arms to gain momentum, because falling short is not an option. My eyes are sealed shut because should I fail, I don’t want to see what will happen to me. They are jerked open however when my face smacks into the mattress with some force. Having outfoxed the beast yet again, I curl up under my covers and slowly drift off to sleep. I win this round, but the funny thing about urination is that I’ll have to go again sometime.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Fetch
Anyone who has ever owned a dog knows one thing about them: they love their stuff. There was one dog in my neighborhood named Byron. Byron was an English Bulldog; a lot of people don’t fancy the breed much, but I for one adore them. I especially adored Byron because I had known him from when I was in high school. I would always see him out for a walk by himself. His owners knew that he never got into trouble, so they just let him wander about as he pleased. The one way that everyone knew Byron was coming was the sound that he made. His favorite toy was a huge mahogany stick whose origins still elude me to this day. It was as long as he was, but that never stopped Byron from carrying it around with him, the one end dragging along behind that made a distinct scraping noise. It always made me laugh that I could hear Byron coming up the sidewalk before I ever saw him.
One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.
I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.
One afternoon, I was out washing my car when I hear the telltale drag of Byron and his stick. He saunters right up to me with that bulldog swagger and lets me pet him for a minute or two before continuing about his business. As I was somewhat bored with my chore, I decided to instead follow the dog (why I thought this was more entertaining than washing a car, I do not know). The subdivision I lived in was still under construction, and the newest addition was a small two day old pond that was so full of dirt and sediment that it was almost black. As it so happened, the pooch led me to the very bank of this nasty water feature. In the afternoon sun though, the pond shone like an obsidian mirror. I could see everything in its black surface. My thoughts were interrupted however by a sound I had never heard before: Byron was growling. In all the years I had known him, Byron had never made a peep except for his stick, but now he was staring straight into the pond and growling like he had just treed a raccoon. I crept up behind him in order to see what had the canine so agitated. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what it was: Byron was growling, stick still in mouth, at his own reflection. What was going through this pup’s head? Was he threatened by what he thought was another dog? Did he want the reflection’s stick because it looked as cool as his? Whatever the reason, what happened next almost broke my heart. Byron did the one thing he shouldn’t have done: he barked. The hickory stick fell from his mouth and splashed into the pond, disappearing into the murky water.
I didn’t see Byron as frequently after that day, and when I did, it was without that famous scraping sound. The dog walked slower and with less purpose, almost as though he was going through the motions, but had lost the passion for his patrol. After a while, he stopped coming by all together, and after I hadn’t seen him for a couple months, I was finally told that Byron was dead. From all accounts by his family, they just woke up one morning and found Byron in his doggy bed. He seemed to have gone peacefully, but I always wondered if he had been happy in those last weeks. Is it possible for a dog to die of a broken heart? I do know that I learned a lot from that mutt.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Which Fruit Got Adam and Eve Kicked Out?
There I stood, a man on a mission with a single objective, and it all rested in the hands of a twenty-something with a trendy shirt and a pair of headphones.
“Well, we can schedule you in for something later this afternoon if you’d like to wait around,” she advised in a tone that suggested she cared about my patronage about as much as she did her last bowel movement. As I was both desperate and bored, I caved and stood outside the establishment until I was ushered in fifteen minutes later.
At this point, you may be asking yourself where I am for this interesting anecdote. Fancy new nightclub? The hottest new restaurant in town? Premiere of this season’s biggest blockbuster? False, false and false. Correct answer: the mall; specifically…the Apple Store.
That’s right loyal readers; this entire hubbub was to simply get into a store at the mall. My iPod had the misfortune of breaking this summer, so I thought it would behoove me to take it to the local Apple establishment to see what a repair job would cost me. I was a fool; a poor, naïve fool. While no fan of the mall, there are certain accepted aspects of the concept. Chief among these is the cherished social practice of window shopping. It’s why stores like Sharper Image have any customer base at all. The premise is simple enough: your bored ass walks into a store to see what goods they deal. Although you have no intention of purchasing anything, you secretly (or maybe not so secretly) begin to take an inventory of the things that would like to purchase. Apparently, Apple did not get the memo when they set up shop in such a location. The iBouncers that were guarding the shop interior would only let in customers who, “were not going to browse and knew that they were going to make a purchase.” This merely a polite way of saying, “Buy something or get out!”
As I had a legitimate cause, I was eventually allowed entry. Once inside, I was treated to a veritable factory model of dealing with customers. The iDouche at the counter told me that the only thing they could do was trade in my iPod for another at a cost far higher than I was expecting. Is it that fucking hard to repair an LCD screen? All they’ll do is trade it in for an equal or better model. Does this make sense in any other industry? What would you do if your mechanic said, “Well, you’ve got yourself a flat tire there. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. You can trade your Honda Civic in for a brand new Lamborghini Gallardo for only $120,000.” The correct response is, “Eat shit and die of a slow, painful disease.”
I politely told the iPrick this, but not before glancing at the shelves of pretentious Apple goods in the store. That’s right, I went in, didn’t buy anything, and looked at the merchandise. That’s called browsing. Fuckers.
I’ve already had a problem with Steve Jobs’ little cottage industry. Apple is responsible for more assholes, douchebags, and false senses of superiority than any other good in the history of free enterprise. Not that everyone who uses an iPod or an iPhone is like this (except folks who use Apple computers. You are all pretentious assholes. Deal with that fact). Some merely use the trendiness as an attempt to validate themselves in an extended version of wanting to sit in the back of the bus with the cool kids.
If Apple is going to survive once the competition catches up with them in terms of technology, they better get their shit together. For starters, quit acting like your crap is the beat all and end all of gadgets. You’re cool because you did it first. The funny thing about first is that it tends to get forgotten once second and third come along. Second, treat your customers like goddamned human beings and not plug-in jacks for your over-hyped, over-priced shit. The people will catch on eventually and then you’ll have to invent the iJack that strokes your sense of self-worth for you since no one else will give a furry rat’s ass anymore.
Oh, and Steve Jobs, you are now right under Alex Trebek on my “Punch You In The Throat If I Ever Meet You” list. Watch your ass.
P.S. It’s good to be back. I know y’all missed me.
“Well, we can schedule you in for something later this afternoon if you’d like to wait around,” she advised in a tone that suggested she cared about my patronage about as much as she did her last bowel movement. As I was both desperate and bored, I caved and stood outside the establishment until I was ushered in fifteen minutes later.
At this point, you may be asking yourself where I am for this interesting anecdote. Fancy new nightclub? The hottest new restaurant in town? Premiere of this season’s biggest blockbuster? False, false and false. Correct answer: the mall; specifically…the Apple Store.
That’s right loyal readers; this entire hubbub was to simply get into a store at the mall. My iPod had the misfortune of breaking this summer, so I thought it would behoove me to take it to the local Apple establishment to see what a repair job would cost me. I was a fool; a poor, naïve fool. While no fan of the mall, there are certain accepted aspects of the concept. Chief among these is the cherished social practice of window shopping. It’s why stores like Sharper Image have any customer base at all. The premise is simple enough: your bored ass walks into a store to see what goods they deal. Although you have no intention of purchasing anything, you secretly (or maybe not so secretly) begin to take an inventory of the things that would like to purchase. Apparently, Apple did not get the memo when they set up shop in such a location. The iBouncers that were guarding the shop interior would only let in customers who, “were not going to browse and knew that they were going to make a purchase.” This merely a polite way of saying, “Buy something or get out!”
As I had a legitimate cause, I was eventually allowed entry. Once inside, I was treated to a veritable factory model of dealing with customers. The iDouche at the counter told me that the only thing they could do was trade in my iPod for another at a cost far higher than I was expecting. Is it that fucking hard to repair an LCD screen? All they’ll do is trade it in for an equal or better model. Does this make sense in any other industry? What would you do if your mechanic said, “Well, you’ve got yourself a flat tire there. I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. You can trade your Honda Civic in for a brand new Lamborghini Gallardo for only $120,000.” The correct response is, “Eat shit and die of a slow, painful disease.”
I politely told the iPrick this, but not before glancing at the shelves of pretentious Apple goods in the store. That’s right, I went in, didn’t buy anything, and looked at the merchandise. That’s called browsing. Fuckers.
I’ve already had a problem with Steve Jobs’ little cottage industry. Apple is responsible for more assholes, douchebags, and false senses of superiority than any other good in the history of free enterprise. Not that everyone who uses an iPod or an iPhone is like this (except folks who use Apple computers. You are all pretentious assholes. Deal with that fact). Some merely use the trendiness as an attempt to validate themselves in an extended version of wanting to sit in the back of the bus with the cool kids.
If Apple is going to survive once the competition catches up with them in terms of technology, they better get their shit together. For starters, quit acting like your crap is the beat all and end all of gadgets. You’re cool because you did it first. The funny thing about first is that it tends to get forgotten once second and third come along. Second, treat your customers like goddamned human beings and not plug-in jacks for your over-hyped, over-priced shit. The people will catch on eventually and then you’ll have to invent the iJack that strokes your sense of self-worth for you since no one else will give a furry rat’s ass anymore.
Oh, and Steve Jobs, you are now right under Alex Trebek on my “Punch You In The Throat If I Ever Meet You” list. Watch your ass.
P.S. It’s good to be back. I know y’all missed me.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Time To Sit This Round Out
I did it last year, and I'm going to do the sane thing again this time around. I'll be taking a brief hiatus for the summer, mostly because I'll be away from a computer for most of it. Go out and live your lives until I return sometime in August. You know what a life is, right? It's the moments that happen while you're waiting for stuff to occur. We'll talk about it later.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Khan You Be Serious?
As if enough of the internet space isn't going to be wasted by the new Star Trek film, I feel compelled to weigh in here as well. I was never much of a trekker myself; I experimented a little my first couple years of college by watching TNG reruns on Spike, but I never crossed over that final frontier. I personally have not yet seen the film, but I have heard from normal people that it wasn't bad. I suppose that's alright on the surface. I always hate it when I waste ten bucks on a crap movie (which is why I'm still debating whether or not I'll see Angels & Demons).
On a slightly deeper level though, I think that things are getting a little out of hand. I just saw a commercial that claimed, "It's this generation's Star Wars!" First off, I don't appreciate people throwing around the name of my beloved Star Wars. I'm not trying to start a flame war, but c'mon, they're not even in the same ballpark. Star Wars was created by a rogue filmmaker who wanted to make a tribute to the beloved radio serials from his youth. It has elements of Flash Gordan, sure, but also some Western and even a little Greek tragedy for zest. Star Trek however at its core is science-fiction and occasionally borrows from other genres for a gimmiky episode here and there. Not that the show is superficial; it touches on some very important fundamental themes about human nature, but still sci-fi.
Star Trek is the crystal meth of nerd-dom. It is used by people alone in a dark basement when no one is around; that is its proper place in the universe. What this film is doing is fucking with the natural order. There are two conceivable outcomes:
1. This flashy tent-pole movie takes Star Trek and waters it down in order to make it more palatable for the masses. If I sound all Fahrenheit 451 here, that's not the idea. I'm worried about the nerds. We are taking one of their societal doctrines away from them and giving it to everyone. It is a corruption of their very way of life. It's the same as everyone suddenly believeing in Jesus because they give him sunglasses and a talking dog sidekick named Zippy. We can't pull the nerds out into the sunlight; they're really pale and would probably all combust...then who will help you out the next time you can't send an email attachment?
2. The film is a smash success with both nerds and the hoi polloi alike. Everyone embraces the emerging Roddenberry Renaissance and Star Trek does become the next new thing. New fans, demanding to catch up on the trend, will endlessly peruse three decades worth of reruns and back-issues. They will then realize what they have been missing out on all this time. I will skip over the piddly maneuvering and skip straight to the end game...the revival of William Shatner's career. I had hoped that with the conclusion of Boston Legal, Shatner would relegate himself to doing crappy hotel-finding commercials until he finally faded away into obscurity. A revival in Star Trek would only have the opposite effect. Of the two evils I have presented, this is by far the more evil.
Only you can control which future will occur and which one we'll all have to visit when we accidentally enter a wormhole where one of the other ones happened and everyone has a goatee and acts like an asshole; although for me that probably means that I'll be clean shaven and volunteer at hospitals for a living.
On a slightly deeper level though, I think that things are getting a little out of hand. I just saw a commercial that claimed, "It's this generation's Star Wars!" First off, I don't appreciate people throwing around the name of my beloved Star Wars. I'm not trying to start a flame war, but c'mon, they're not even in the same ballpark. Star Wars was created by a rogue filmmaker who wanted to make a tribute to the beloved radio serials from his youth. It has elements of Flash Gordan, sure, but also some Western and even a little Greek tragedy for zest. Star Trek however at its core is science-fiction and occasionally borrows from other genres for a gimmiky episode here and there. Not that the show is superficial; it touches on some very important fundamental themes about human nature, but still sci-fi.
Star Trek is the crystal meth of nerd-dom. It is used by people alone in a dark basement when no one is around; that is its proper place in the universe. What this film is doing is fucking with the natural order. There are two conceivable outcomes:
1. This flashy tent-pole movie takes Star Trek and waters it down in order to make it more palatable for the masses. If I sound all Fahrenheit 451 here, that's not the idea. I'm worried about the nerds. We are taking one of their societal doctrines away from them and giving it to everyone. It is a corruption of their very way of life. It's the same as everyone suddenly believeing in Jesus because they give him sunglasses and a talking dog sidekick named Zippy. We can't pull the nerds out into the sunlight; they're really pale and would probably all combust...then who will help you out the next time you can't send an email attachment?
2. The film is a smash success with both nerds and the hoi polloi alike. Everyone embraces the emerging Roddenberry Renaissance and Star Trek does become the next new thing. New fans, demanding to catch up on the trend, will endlessly peruse three decades worth of reruns and back-issues. They will then realize what they have been missing out on all this time. I will skip over the piddly maneuvering and skip straight to the end game...the revival of William Shatner's career. I had hoped that with the conclusion of Boston Legal, Shatner would relegate himself to doing crappy hotel-finding commercials until he finally faded away into obscurity. A revival in Star Trek would only have the opposite effect. Of the two evils I have presented, this is by far the more evil.
Only you can control which future will occur and which one we'll all have to visit when we accidentally enter a wormhole where one of the other ones happened and everyone has a goatee and acts like an asshole; although for me that probably means that I'll be clean shaven and volunteer at hospitals for a living.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I'll Take "The Worst Thing in the World" for $500, Alex.
I know I joke around a lot about some pretty inane shit sometimes, but something has come to my attention that is too serious to take lightly in any way. I was listening to NPR today, and they had an interview with a fellow from IBM who was discussing a recent project the company has been developing: a robot engineered for the sole purpose of competing on Jeopardy!
Now I have no problems with robots that build cars, defuse bombs, play musical instruments, or dance like an eighty year-old in a pool of jello...hell, I'm that that turned off by the whole "rise of the machines" thing that the Terminator and Matrix flicks warn us about, but for the love of all that is holy...not Jeopardy!
This trivia-bot will be programmed with a cubic fuck-ton of information, and then given a search protocol that determines the best answer based on the context. For example, a category in which all answers begin with the letter "I" may not be obvious at first, after a couple of questions, it will figure out the trick and find the answer. In other words, this monstrosity of science will be like those asshole contestants who wait for the cheap answers to be snatched up and then run the rest of the category like a douchebag. Our only hope is that they don't give this thing a movable arm that it can use to write its response for Final Jeopardy.
Apparently Dick-3PO will be ready to square off against a human opponent in a year. Humanity has only one hope to take this metallic beast down. Sit back down, John Conner. Go back to not being relevant or cool anymore, Neo; neither of you punks have the trivia balls to take this thing on. Two words: Ken Jennings. 74 consecutive Jeopardy! victories; $3,022,700 in accumulated prize money. He is our Kasparov, and I'll be goddamned if he is going to let the Trivia-Tron 2000 cornhole him the same way Garry got it from Deep Blue. Besides, he's Mormon, so he's already half-robot to begin with.
The mechanical menace has to be stopped, both for my sake, and for humanity's...but mostly for mine. I'm not about to let some encyclopedic erector set rob me of my chance to make it onto that show. I have tried out three different times for Jeopardy!, and been shot down every time time by the cold bitchslap of chance. I will not not join the ever-growing line of auto-workers, novelty muscians, and bomb-defusing monkeys and sit by while robots take over my niche in society. More importantly, if I never get onto Jeopardy, I'll never get to play "Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots" with Trebek's throat.
Now I have no problems with robots that build cars, defuse bombs, play musical instruments, or dance like an eighty year-old in a pool of jello...hell, I'm that that turned off by the whole "rise of the machines" thing that the Terminator and Matrix flicks warn us about, but for the love of all that is holy...not Jeopardy!
This trivia-bot will be programmed with a cubic fuck-ton of information, and then given a search protocol that determines the best answer based on the context. For example, a category in which all answers begin with the letter "I" may not be obvious at first, after a couple of questions, it will figure out the trick and find the answer. In other words, this monstrosity of science will be like those asshole contestants who wait for the cheap answers to be snatched up and then run the rest of the category like a douchebag. Our only hope is that they don't give this thing a movable arm that it can use to write its response for Final Jeopardy.
Apparently Dick-3PO will be ready to square off against a human opponent in a year. Humanity has only one hope to take this metallic beast down. Sit back down, John Conner. Go back to not being relevant or cool anymore, Neo; neither of you punks have the trivia balls to take this thing on. Two words: Ken Jennings. 74 consecutive Jeopardy! victories; $3,022,700 in accumulated prize money. He is our Kasparov, and I'll be goddamned if he is going to let the Trivia-Tron 2000 cornhole him the same way Garry got it from Deep Blue. Besides, he's Mormon, so he's already half-robot to begin with.
The mechanical menace has to be stopped, both for my sake, and for humanity's...but mostly for mine. I'm not about to let some encyclopedic erector set rob me of my chance to make it onto that show. I have tried out three different times for Jeopardy!, and been shot down every time time by the cold bitchslap of chance. I will not not join the ever-growing line of auto-workers, novelty muscians, and bomb-defusing monkeys and sit by while robots take over my niche in society. More importantly, if I never get onto Jeopardy, I'll never get to play "Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots" with Trebek's throat.
Friday, April 24, 2009
They're So Cute When They're Little
As much as I love maxims, phrases, chestnuts, proverbs, and other random sound bites of wisdom, there is one that has been bothering me lately:
"Don't sweat the small stuff."
I'm cool not letting all of the little piddly crap in your life get you down; it's generally how I manage to stay sane. However, there is an unintended second meaning to this little goody. I'm sure whoever first uttered it was only coming from a kind and compassionate place, but sometimes bored overthinkers like me have to grab onto something, tear into it, and whip it around like a dog with a new squeaky toy. Again, this keeps me sane.
While it's all well and good to not sweat the small stuff, the side effect is that you give the small stuff hardly any attention at all. The big stuff is what counts; the cataclysms that create the most drastic and instant changes life, but that's not all there is. I think more people would benefit from taking time to celebrate and appreciate the little victories in life.
Case and point: today I helped a young lady work to conquer her crippling fear of heights. She was adamant about staying on the ground, but a little encouragement got her forty feet into the air and ended in her jumping off while being held by a group of her friends on a rope. It was a long and delicate process and my hand is still a little sore from her sqeezong it so tightly, but she made it past the tears and fear and did it. That is really friggin' cool and was big deal to her, and it made me feel good to help create that kind of accomplishment.
But you know what made me feel even better about myself? Two days ago I cleaned all the hair and soap scum and other nasty shit out of my shower drain so that it could drain effectively. I had let it get to the point where I would be showing in a few inches of water, and enough was enough. I ran the water and rooted around with a small handheld declogging apparatus. I was exhuming the occasional soapy clump of my man-pelt, but no improvement in drainage resulted from the exercise. Undeterred, I continued until finally I heard the hollow burp of the drain releasing its prey. The water exited as if I had blown a hole in the bottom of the tub with a shotgun. I felt like a god. I couldn't help but chastise the drain out loud for thinking that it could match wits with the like of me. Punk-ass drain!
Now some might argue that I am making mountains out of molehills, and I say, "sure, why not?" While it is certainly acceptable, nay, encouraged to savor the great sources of joy in our lives, it shouldn't be our sole focus. Why not take a measure of exhuberance in the mundane and the everyday. Enjoy the fact that you did the dishes today rather than letting them pile up and making a much bigger job. Call a person who you think you might take for granted and thank them for being a part of your life. The Grand Canyon was made by wind and water, not an earthquake.
"Don't sweat the small stuff."
I'm cool not letting all of the little piddly crap in your life get you down; it's generally how I manage to stay sane. However, there is an unintended second meaning to this little goody. I'm sure whoever first uttered it was only coming from a kind and compassionate place, but sometimes bored overthinkers like me have to grab onto something, tear into it, and whip it around like a dog with a new squeaky toy. Again, this keeps me sane.
While it's all well and good to not sweat the small stuff, the side effect is that you give the small stuff hardly any attention at all. The big stuff is what counts; the cataclysms that create the most drastic and instant changes life, but that's not all there is. I think more people would benefit from taking time to celebrate and appreciate the little victories in life.
Case and point: today I helped a young lady work to conquer her crippling fear of heights. She was adamant about staying on the ground, but a little encouragement got her forty feet into the air and ended in her jumping off while being held by a group of her friends on a rope. It was a long and delicate process and my hand is still a little sore from her sqeezong it so tightly, but she made it past the tears and fear and did it. That is really friggin' cool and was big deal to her, and it made me feel good to help create that kind of accomplishment.
But you know what made me feel even better about myself? Two days ago I cleaned all the hair and soap scum and other nasty shit out of my shower drain so that it could drain effectively. I had let it get to the point where I would be showing in a few inches of water, and enough was enough. I ran the water and rooted around with a small handheld declogging apparatus. I was exhuming the occasional soapy clump of my man-pelt, but no improvement in drainage resulted from the exercise. Undeterred, I continued until finally I heard the hollow burp of the drain releasing its prey. The water exited as if I had blown a hole in the bottom of the tub with a shotgun. I felt like a god. I couldn't help but chastise the drain out loud for thinking that it could match wits with the like of me. Punk-ass drain!
Now some might argue that I am making mountains out of molehills, and I say, "sure, why not?" While it is certainly acceptable, nay, encouraged to savor the great sources of joy in our lives, it shouldn't be our sole focus. Why not take a measure of exhuberance in the mundane and the everyday. Enjoy the fact that you did the dishes today rather than letting them pile up and making a much bigger job. Call a person who you think you might take for granted and thank them for being a part of your life. The Grand Canyon was made by wind and water, not an earthquake.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Most Unfunny Post Ever
There is a feeling deep within my heart that I have lived with for a long time. It used to be more of a secret, but it has become so strong that there has been the occasional slip to my family or even a friend or two. It is really hard for me to express this into words, especially since it could very well impact some of the most important relationships in my life. I cannot let that possibility deter me though; it is more healthy to just say everything and have it out in the open rather than keep it pent up inside. *sigh* Here it goes...
Charlie the Unicorn is one of the stupidest things I have ever seen in my life.
There, I said it and there's no taking it back. I mean, seriously...have you watched this crap? If not, save yourself the hassle and just live your life knowing that you don't have to endure it. Normally I am a fan of experienceing things for the sake of knowledge, but in this case I'm willing to make an exception. Recently I accidentally stumbled upon the third installment of this inane series. Of course, "Charlie" is one of those rediculous instances in which the thought sequence follows thusly: "Oh, enough people liked the first one, so I'll keep making more by using the exact same formula without any improvement." I call it the Superman Effect because this was the reasoning behind the "Superman" film series, and we all know how that turned out.
And now is the part where I get lambasted for attacking something simply because I don't think it's funny. I can only respond with the fact that it is funny. The thing is, when I watch Charlie the Unicorn, I want to laugh, but I cannot in good taste allow myself to do so. It is simply too stupid to justify its existence with laughter. It is the lowest common denominator of comedy; the Big Mac of humor. It's a cheap way to make someone chuckle. Shouldn't we be better than this? Am I saying don't laugh at it? No, no one can control what others find funny; it's part of the nature of humor. I do however request that nobody say that Charlie the Unicorn is, "the funniest thing ever," because it's not. It's like saying Burger King is the greatest food ever, and anyone who says that is in desperate need of some horizon expanding, but this should probably be done after Mommy gets you to use the grown-up potty successfully.
Charlie the Unicorn is one of the stupidest things I have ever seen in my life.
There, I said it and there's no taking it back. I mean, seriously...have you watched this crap? If not, save yourself the hassle and just live your life knowing that you don't have to endure it. Normally I am a fan of experienceing things for the sake of knowledge, but in this case I'm willing to make an exception. Recently I accidentally stumbled upon the third installment of this inane series. Of course, "Charlie" is one of those rediculous instances in which the thought sequence follows thusly: "Oh, enough people liked the first one, so I'll keep making more by using the exact same formula without any improvement." I call it the Superman Effect because this was the reasoning behind the "Superman" film series, and we all know how that turned out.
And now is the part where I get lambasted for attacking something simply because I don't think it's funny. I can only respond with the fact that it is funny. The thing is, when I watch Charlie the Unicorn, I want to laugh, but I cannot in good taste allow myself to do so. It is simply too stupid to justify its existence with laughter. It is the lowest common denominator of comedy; the Big Mac of humor. It's a cheap way to make someone chuckle. Shouldn't we be better than this? Am I saying don't laugh at it? No, no one can control what others find funny; it's part of the nature of humor. I do however request that nobody say that Charlie the Unicorn is, "the funniest thing ever," because it's not. It's like saying Burger King is the greatest food ever, and anyone who says that is in desperate need of some horizon expanding, but this should probably be done after Mommy gets you to use the grown-up potty successfully.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Cat's Out of the Vag
So I went on and on about the penis in my last post, and just when you thought you couldn't get any more uncomfortable, it's time to talk about the female equivalent. What started me thinking about vaginas (more than usual that is) was a news story I read about the state of New Jersey banning full brazilian waxes from all spas. For those of you who are not initiate on the ways of professional hair care, let me explain what a brazilian wax is. Think of every hair that exists between your beltline and your thigh; now imagine each one of those hairs being ripped out with wax by a tiny, but surprisingly strong Vietnamese woman. I know it sounds more like a P.O.W. flashback than a beauty procedure, but apparently many women undergo this procedure every time swimsuit season rolls around. I'm not here to debate the virtues of waxing. I personally do not care how much hair you ladies have on your cooter as long as you feel sexy. This is within reason of course; I need to be able to find my way around without needing a machete and Satipo to guide me.
You may have found the Raiders metaphor to be a tad exotic, but the truth is that for some reason, most guys regard the vagina as some mysterious location that is impossible to fully understand or experience. Some of this may spring from maternal issues. After all, this orifice was also the way by which we entered the world, but the female reproductive system isn't the same thing as Stargate SG-1. I refuse to believe that the twat is that mysterious. Make no mistake, male and female genitals aren't simply a case of inny versus outy; there are significant physiological differences between the two, like apples and oranges (or probably bananas and passion fruits).
This train of thought of course inevitabley leads to the golden idol at the center of the temple: the female orgasm. Some people sound like it's easier to dismantle an atomic warhead with your feet than to satify a woman. Seriously? A little logic and the ability to listen are really all it takes to figure it out. There are two major things to leep in mind, fellas.
1. I won't go far as to say that one thing will work on every chick, but here's a novel thought, why not try finding out what your lady likes? You're not psychic, and a healthy relationship is based on communication, both verbal and nonverbal (if you know what I mean). If you do something right, she'll let you know.
2. Foreplay. I'll leave it at that. If you don't know what it is, just go ahead and turn in your gun and badge now and save women the hassle of having to explain it.
My goal in these last two posts is to try and bring the two sexes together, or at least bring their genitals together...then apart...then back together...then apart...then back together...then...oh, god!...*snore*
You may have found the Raiders metaphor to be a tad exotic, but the truth is that for some reason, most guys regard the vagina as some mysterious location that is impossible to fully understand or experience. Some of this may spring from maternal issues. After all, this orifice was also the way by which we entered the world, but the female reproductive system isn't the same thing as Stargate SG-1. I refuse to believe that the twat is that mysterious. Make no mistake, male and female genitals aren't simply a case of inny versus outy; there are significant physiological differences between the two, like apples and oranges (or probably bananas and passion fruits).
This train of thought of course inevitabley leads to the golden idol at the center of the temple: the female orgasm. Some people sound like it's easier to dismantle an atomic warhead with your feet than to satify a woman. Seriously? A little logic and the ability to listen are really all it takes to figure it out. There are two major things to leep in mind, fellas.
1. I won't go far as to say that one thing will work on every chick, but here's a novel thought, why not try finding out what your lady likes? You're not psychic, and a healthy relationship is based on communication, both verbal and nonverbal (if you know what I mean). If you do something right, she'll let you know.
2. Foreplay. I'll leave it at that. If you don't know what it is, just go ahead and turn in your gun and badge now and save women the hassle of having to explain it.
My goal in these last two posts is to try and bring the two sexes together, or at least bring their genitals together...then apart...then back together...then apart...then back together...then...oh, god!...*snore*
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Keeping Up With the Johnsons
Genitals. Everyone has them...well...everyone who hasn't been the sad victim of some sort of industrial or farming accident has them. Use the clinical terms, your own cutesy lingo, or give it a proper name and identity, but there is a special bond that exists between a person and his or her happy parts. This week I'm feeling very equal-opportunistic, so both male and female fun-zones will be discussed in two seperate posts.
First, there has been something that has been bothering me as of late. A big, blue, glowing problem. Recently, I went to see Watchmen, the highly anticipated film adaptation of the graphic novel of the same name. I'm not here to critique the film in any way; there are plenty of other whiney fan-boys on the internet to do that. The only thing from the movie that I will speak about is Dr. Manhattan's portrayal. Not his acting though; his penis. In case you're not familiar with Watchmen, Doc Manhattan is a blue superhero with the ability to manipulate all matter and has grown increasingly distant from humanity. To this end, he spends most of the story as naked as the day he was born. After all, the man of the future doesn't need to wear clothes, so the reader/audience is in full view of his Übermensch dong on more than one occasion.
My issue is not with the showing of his radioactive package. If a character wants to flash a little wang-chung in a movie, I'm cool with it as long as it serves the film's overall purpose. I understand that the Doc is meant to be a superhero...but c'mon! I cannot in good taste post an image of the cerulean wonder, but I suggest you Google it and see for yourself so that I'm not discounted as some kind of raving idiot. I shudder to think if this is what women expect of my gender, or if this is the standard to which many young boys aspire. No wonder we men are so wrapped up in the never ending game of dick comparison. I'll admit to my own fits of wanker inferiority, but that swinging azure schlong made me realize that something needs to be done and clear the air of any misconceptions about the male member.
Ladies: don't expect a slithering trouser python when you meet a guy. Think about it, does the idea of a massive kielbasa pounding into your cervix sound like a good time? If it does, "a salud' to you, but for the rest of you reasonable women out there, be kind to your man's little friend. I know that there aren't as many size queens out there as we men fear, but we need to know that. Remember, it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. To prove my point, there are some sex toys that you could hide in an easter egg (a great idea for this Easter by the way). Also, not every weiner looks the same on his off time as he does when he's on the clock. In case you haven't heard of the case of showers vs. growers, take a minute to enlighten yourself.
Now, fellas: did seeing that movie make you uncomfortable? Did it make you feel like less of a man? Well knock it the hell off! This is probably exactly what most women feel every time a big ol' set of boobies goes bouncing across the silver screen, and there is way more T&A on celluloid than there is C&B (Cock & Balls). Stop worrying about the status of your petzl, because you know what? Every guy lies about his junk. Really. Don't let the well-endowed end of the bell curve dissuade you from digging who you are as a man. After all...all he wants for you is to be happy; the least you can do is be happy with him in return.
Next time...the vajay-jay gets stripped bare.
First, there has been something that has been bothering me as of late. A big, blue, glowing problem. Recently, I went to see Watchmen, the highly anticipated film adaptation of the graphic novel of the same name. I'm not here to critique the film in any way; there are plenty of other whiney fan-boys on the internet to do that. The only thing from the movie that I will speak about is Dr. Manhattan's portrayal. Not his acting though; his penis. In case you're not familiar with Watchmen, Doc Manhattan is a blue superhero with the ability to manipulate all matter and has grown increasingly distant from humanity. To this end, he spends most of the story as naked as the day he was born. After all, the man of the future doesn't need to wear clothes, so the reader/audience is in full view of his Übermensch dong on more than one occasion.
My issue is not with the showing of his radioactive package. If a character wants to flash a little wang-chung in a movie, I'm cool with it as long as it serves the film's overall purpose. I understand that the Doc is meant to be a superhero...but c'mon! I cannot in good taste post an image of the cerulean wonder, but I suggest you Google it and see for yourself so that I'm not discounted as some kind of raving idiot. I shudder to think if this is what women expect of my gender, or if this is the standard to which many young boys aspire. No wonder we men are so wrapped up in the never ending game of dick comparison. I'll admit to my own fits of wanker inferiority, but that swinging azure schlong made me realize that something needs to be done and clear the air of any misconceptions about the male member.
Ladies: don't expect a slithering trouser python when you meet a guy. Think about it, does the idea of a massive kielbasa pounding into your cervix sound like a good time? If it does, "a salud' to you, but for the rest of you reasonable women out there, be kind to your man's little friend. I know that there aren't as many size queens out there as we men fear, but we need to know that. Remember, it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean. To prove my point, there are some sex toys that you could hide in an easter egg (a great idea for this Easter by the way). Also, not every weiner looks the same on his off time as he does when he's on the clock. In case you haven't heard of the case of showers vs. growers, take a minute to enlighten yourself.
Now, fellas: did seeing that movie make you uncomfortable? Did it make you feel like less of a man? Well knock it the hell off! This is probably exactly what most women feel every time a big ol' set of boobies goes bouncing across the silver screen, and there is way more T&A on celluloid than there is C&B (Cock & Balls). Stop worrying about the status of your petzl, because you know what? Every guy lies about his junk. Really. Don't let the well-endowed end of the bell curve dissuade you from digging who you are as a man. After all...all he wants for you is to be happy; the least you can do is be happy with him in return.
Next time...the vajay-jay gets stripped bare.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hair to Stay
I know we all just recovered from celebrating the first birthday of my blog, but there is another birthday today that deserves recognition (I guess this time of year is my time for change and personal growth). This time, it is even more personal, because I am celebrating something that is literally a part of who I am. St. Patrick's Day also happens to be the birthday of my rockin' beard.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.
Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.
It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!
At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Why, is one missing?
I just took the greatest shower ever. Maybe to say "ever," is a bit hyperbolic, especially at my young age, but I would at the very least include it in the top five. The only other one that even comes close is when I was twelve and realized that I could masturbate in the shower as well as my bedroom. This time lacked as erotic a context, but that in no way made it any less memorable.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
I'm not a major hygiene fanatic. I still take a small bit of pride in the fact that the summer before ninth grade I went for ten days without so much as looking at a single cleaning product. This was a one time occurance though; I tend to settle near the "Musky" end of the Man Continuum, so regular showering is a bit of a necessity in order to avoid becoming a social pariah.
This shower was different though. It was the capstone of a ten-hour workday that consisted of reasonably strenuous work outdoors. The temperature danced around the freezing point all day and the sun strained to penetrate the cloud cover, often with success. This of course resulted in the bitter combination of a wind-chapped face with light sunburn. There was barely sufficient energy left in me to drag my exhausted carcass up to the bathroom, but am I glad that I did.
Initially, it was just a relief to peel away the four layers of clothing in which I had been toiling since seven A.M. The moment the warm water hit my shoulders, a wave of euphoria rippled through my entire essence. Everything else in the universe vanished in a flash. For many minutes, I merely stood there letting the warm cascade purge my body of the chill that had been my steadfast companion all day. I lowered my head and looked down at my hands. What had only a day earlier had been the soft hands of a brooding student with a creative streak were now the hardened hands of a man; the dull throb of new callouses and raw, nigh-bloody cuticles became a part of me as soap merged with the sweat of an honest day's work.
Although I could have dwelled in that paradise for weeks, logic told me that the hot water would soon be depleted, and rather than taint this experience with a reminder of the frigidity that had caused me to seek steamy sanctuary in the first place, I begrudgingly turned the tap until the rain of life ceased. I was cold, naked, and left with only the memory of that one incredible shower.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Still Waiting On That Champagne
Well, it's official: it was exactly one year ago today that I embarked on this blogging experiment. It's interesting to think that a whole year has gone by, so I thought I would take this time to reflect on where the river of time has carried me.
So why exactly did I begin in the first place? I was never out to change the world with my earth-shattering ideas. Hell, I didn't even care if anyone read the damn thing. I was a sad, miserable human being who didn't have much to live for. Maybe I did it as some kind of record that I even exist, or maybe it was meant to be a big, "Fuck you!" to the person who put me in that place, or perhaps somewhere in the middle. So I wrote for no apparent reason than to do it. It was the same kind of thing that prompted Forrest Gump to run across the nation however many times he did it in the movie.
Today, I'm still sad and miserable, but for different reasons. This isn't to say that I'm a boring or lame person, but why be happy and cheery all the time? This way, happiness has the same potency as the finest Turkish hashish. I've seen a lot, done a little bit as well, and am generally satisfied with the way those Fates are weaving my life together. Who says people can't change? So how special does it feel to get a brief insider view of the insane genius behind the "Mind Munch?" Pretty sweet and humbling I'll bet.
Now for some formal things. The next year is going to be a little different from the last one. For one thing, there won't be any more random posting whenever my fancy gets tickled (although I do love the way it feels). Consistency is important in a long term relationship, so rather than some weeks of no posts and some of three or four, everyone gets a single portion every week. When will it be? Could be Sunday, could be Friday, could be Tuesday, who knows. I sure as shit don't; gotta keep some of that flakiness to keep things interesting between us. So one post a week. Second, I still don't actually care if anyone follows me regularly, although apparently there are a few dedicated members out there. All of you who offer support and encouragement get a gold star. So if you consider yourself one such person, I want you to go ahead and post a comment. I don't care what you say, just make your presence known to the world. There's nothing to be ashamed of; I can guarentee you that at least one more person out there is nuttier than you.
So now my blog is a year old, and I'm going to be busy for the rest of the night taking pictures of it getting all messy eating its first birthday cake. They're so cute when they're young.
So why exactly did I begin in the first place? I was never out to change the world with my earth-shattering ideas. Hell, I didn't even care if anyone read the damn thing. I was a sad, miserable human being who didn't have much to live for. Maybe I did it as some kind of record that I even exist, or maybe it was meant to be a big, "Fuck you!" to the person who put me in that place, or perhaps somewhere in the middle. So I wrote for no apparent reason than to do it. It was the same kind of thing that prompted Forrest Gump to run across the nation however many times he did it in the movie.
Today, I'm still sad and miserable, but for different reasons. This isn't to say that I'm a boring or lame person, but why be happy and cheery all the time? This way, happiness has the same potency as the finest Turkish hashish. I've seen a lot, done a little bit as well, and am generally satisfied with the way those Fates are weaving my life together. Who says people can't change? So how special does it feel to get a brief insider view of the insane genius behind the "Mind Munch?" Pretty sweet and humbling I'll bet.
Now for some formal things. The next year is going to be a little different from the last one. For one thing, there won't be any more random posting whenever my fancy gets tickled (although I do love the way it feels). Consistency is important in a long term relationship, so rather than some weeks of no posts and some of three or four, everyone gets a single portion every week. When will it be? Could be Sunday, could be Friday, could be Tuesday, who knows. I sure as shit don't; gotta keep some of that flakiness to keep things interesting between us. So one post a week. Second, I still don't actually care if anyone follows me regularly, although apparently there are a few dedicated members out there. All of you who offer support and encouragement get a gold star. So if you consider yourself one such person, I want you to go ahead and post a comment. I don't care what you say, just make your presence known to the world. There's nothing to be ashamed of; I can guarentee you that at least one more person out there is nuttier than you.
So now my blog is a year old, and I'm going to be busy for the rest of the night taking pictures of it getting all messy eating its first birthday cake. They're so cute when they're young.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Make Like A Camel
In case you haven't noticed, things have been kinda quiet for the last couple of weeks. I'm taking some time off to do a little housecleaning and maybe a bit of R&R. If you're new, why not go back and read some earlier posts of mine to fulfill your needs, and if you're a long-time disciple, refresh yourself anyway. If you're good and pay attention, you'll know when I'll be back (hint: the answer lies somewhere in this very blog). If you figure it out, don't tell anyone, just revel in the fact that you're smarter than everyone else.
Friday, February 13, 2009
A Shot At Love From The Grassy Knoll
Cupid kind of gets a bum wrap when it comes to holiday mascots. When held up against behemoths like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, that chubby little bastard just doesn't hold a candle. Maybe it's because Cupid is the most academic one of the lot; his origins lie in ancient Greek myth after all. It is probably because he is a fat little baby that shoots people with arrows and makes them fall in love. Maybe I'm just weird, but this image is beyond rediculous. How are we supposed to take him seriously? Cupid is way past due for a face-lift in my opinion; something to make him more relevant to today's audience. I imagine a Navy SEAL whose sole purpose is to make people fall in and out of love; the illegitimate love-child of Solid Snake and Elizabeth Barrett-Browning.
Imagine this: it is a bright spring day in the city park. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and love is in the air. Actually, love is lying under a row of shrubbery where no one can see him. He works to control his breathing so that he doesn't rustle the leaves that cover his body to break up his form. His face is covered in green and brown face paint in order to match his leafy surroundings. His one indulgeance is a cigar smouldering in the corner of his mouth. In his arms is a modified 50-caliber Barret M82 sniper rifle. Rather than deliver a high power bullet capable of traveling nearly a mile and a half, the rifle has been altered to deliver a round that when it hits its target, it alters his or her physiology to inspire various emotional states. Some shots create a sense of extreme sexual arousal, some a deep passion that could be described as "love," and others that are even capable of creating hate and antimosity.
The hunter waits for an opportunity to strike. After many hours, he sees his window. A young man in his early twenties sits down on a bench. Minutes later, an attractive young woman walks by with her fluffy little dog. She pauses while her pooch pops a squat to fertilize the grass. The moment to act is now. *click* A round slides into the chamber of the rifle and cocks into place. With his finger over the hair-sensitive trigger, he steadies his breath and gazes through the thermal scope and finds his exact target. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulls the trigger. The built in silencing mechanism renders the bullet virtually silent as it exits the barrel and buries itself into the chest of the woman. She lurches back with a start. The man rises from his seat to see if she is OK. Their eyes meet, a conversation ensues, and the two end up walking away together. As the new couple disappears over a low hill in the distance, Cupid puffs his cigar, gives a satifed nod, and resumes his search for more victims.
Let's see Santa compete with that kind of bad-ass-motherfucker!
Imagine this: it is a bright spring day in the city park. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and love is in the air. Actually, love is lying under a row of shrubbery where no one can see him. He works to control his breathing so that he doesn't rustle the leaves that cover his body to break up his form. His face is covered in green and brown face paint in order to match his leafy surroundings. His one indulgeance is a cigar smouldering in the corner of his mouth. In his arms is a modified 50-caliber Barret M82 sniper rifle. Rather than deliver a high power bullet capable of traveling nearly a mile and a half, the rifle has been altered to deliver a round that when it hits its target, it alters his or her physiology to inspire various emotional states. Some shots create a sense of extreme sexual arousal, some a deep passion that could be described as "love," and others that are even capable of creating hate and antimosity.
The hunter waits for an opportunity to strike. After many hours, he sees his window. A young man in his early twenties sits down on a bench. Minutes later, an attractive young woman walks by with her fluffy little dog. She pauses while her pooch pops a squat to fertilize the grass. The moment to act is now. *click* A round slides into the chamber of the rifle and cocks into place. With his finger over the hair-sensitive trigger, he steadies his breath and gazes through the thermal scope and finds his exact target. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulls the trigger. The built in silencing mechanism renders the bullet virtually silent as it exits the barrel and buries itself into the chest of the woman. She lurches back with a start. The man rises from his seat to see if she is OK. Their eyes meet, a conversation ensues, and the two end up walking away together. As the new couple disappears over a low hill in the distance, Cupid puffs his cigar, gives a satifed nod, and resumes his search for more victims.
Let's see Santa compete with that kind of bad-ass-motherfucker!
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
It's A Sad Sad Sad Sad World
If any of you out there who follow my inane diatribes are gambling people, now is the time to call in your bets on whether or not I decide to shit all over Valentine's Day. I mean, I've already deleted any hope for online dating, and knocked over falling in love, so this would be the natural culmination, right?
Wrong! In a suprise move of metacognition, I am instead going to shit on the people who shit on Valentine's Day. Sure, all the pink hearts and kissy-face teddy bears drive me up a wall, but you know what? That saccharine tripe bugs the hell out of me every day! You know the people I'm talking about. Here's a quick checklist to see if you fit the profile.
Do you:
A: Feel a certain sense of hopelessness in the weeks preceding February 14th?
B: Refer to Valentine's Day as "Singles Awareness Day?" (Awwww...it spells "SAD"...how clever)
C: Thank God that you don't have a machete every time you see two people holding hands?
D: Feel sick to your stomach when you smell chocolate?
E: Think bears are something to be feared, not hugged?
If you answered "yes" to one or more of these, hang up that colostomy bag, 'cuz I'm about to rip you a new asshole.
I admit that misery loves company (hell, I do it all the time for shits and giggles), but letting one single day completely ruin your life? Some people even have the audacity to claim that Valentine's Day is the most depressing holiday of the year. Seriously? A couple months ago, Christmas was the most depressing holiday. Before that, it was probably your birthday. I think the problem here is commitment. I don't mean the inability to commit in a relationship which is probably why you've never had a real boy/girlfriend, or maybe it's your over-willingness to commit that scares away anyone who likes you because you start talking about kids on the third date. I refer to none of these things. You need to commit to your misery. If you're going to be sad, be sad all the time. Don't wait for a holiday to creep up on you to bum you out. At the very least, be depressed for all of winter like me. Consistency; that's the key.
Also, stop ragging on people that were actually lucky enough to find somebody to mate with them. I have no woman to call my own at this point, but I don't blame every other person for it. I don't blame myself either, actually. I prefer to think that I am merely unappreciated in my own time, and one day all those chicks who turned me down are gonna cry themselves to sleep every night for letting me go. I'm sure you probably think you'd be too cool to care if the situation was reversed, but you're not. Admit it, if you get this bent out of shape single, a significant other is a surefire recipe for certifiable insanity.
Advice? No, it's your shit, I can't tell you what to do. February 14th is a day on the calendar. It is no different from any other day. Folks bitch and moan about its significance because they want it to have meaning. If a person waits for one day out of the whole year to express love, then I say "fuck you" to that person. Or if you wait for one day to say "fuck you" to love, then I respond with "double fuck you!" Everybody wants love all the time...deal with it.
Sorry for all you folks out there who lost money. Even I bet the other way; I lost $100.
Wrong! In a suprise move of metacognition, I am instead going to shit on the people who shit on Valentine's Day. Sure, all the pink hearts and kissy-face teddy bears drive me up a wall, but you know what? That saccharine tripe bugs the hell out of me every day! You know the people I'm talking about. Here's a quick checklist to see if you fit the profile.
Do you:
A: Feel a certain sense of hopelessness in the weeks preceding February 14th?
B: Refer to Valentine's Day as "Singles Awareness Day?" (Awwww...it spells "SAD"...how clever)
C: Thank God that you don't have a machete every time you see two people holding hands?
D: Feel sick to your stomach when you smell chocolate?
E: Think bears are something to be feared, not hugged?
If you answered "yes" to one or more of these, hang up that colostomy bag, 'cuz I'm about to rip you a new asshole.
I admit that misery loves company (hell, I do it all the time for shits and giggles), but letting one single day completely ruin your life? Some people even have the audacity to claim that Valentine's Day is the most depressing holiday of the year. Seriously? A couple months ago, Christmas was the most depressing holiday. Before that, it was probably your birthday. I think the problem here is commitment. I don't mean the inability to commit in a relationship which is probably why you've never had a real boy/girlfriend, or maybe it's your over-willingness to commit that scares away anyone who likes you because you start talking about kids on the third date. I refer to none of these things. You need to commit to your misery. If you're going to be sad, be sad all the time. Don't wait for a holiday to creep up on you to bum you out. At the very least, be depressed for all of winter like me. Consistency; that's the key.
Also, stop ragging on people that were actually lucky enough to find somebody to mate with them. I have no woman to call my own at this point, but I don't blame every other person for it. I don't blame myself either, actually. I prefer to think that I am merely unappreciated in my own time, and one day all those chicks who turned me down are gonna cry themselves to sleep every night for letting me go. I'm sure you probably think you'd be too cool to care if the situation was reversed, but you're not. Admit it, if you get this bent out of shape single, a significant other is a surefire recipe for certifiable insanity.
Advice? No, it's your shit, I can't tell you what to do. February 14th is a day on the calendar. It is no different from any other day. Folks bitch and moan about its significance because they want it to have meaning. If a person waits for one day out of the whole year to express love, then I say "fuck you" to that person. Or if you wait for one day to say "fuck you" to love, then I respond with "double fuck you!" Everybody wants love all the time...deal with it.
Sorry for all you folks out there who lost money. Even I bet the other way; I lost $100.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Don't Fall For It
Today, I would like to talk to you about falling. Falling is a serious matter. I still remember when my 92 year-old grandfather fell last year and broke a hip. The subsequent surgery and recovery almost killed him from exhaustion. Falling is the second most common work-related injury, and almost 400,000 people die from falling related accidents every year, not including the people who do it as a form of suicide. When an angry populace cannot get their hands on enough rope or swords or fancy-ass guillotines, what do they do with their shitheel rulers? They defenstrate them; throw their asses out of windows. Y'see? Falling has gotten so complex that we have different words to describe certain types of it. And how many times have you been woken up from a peaceful night's rest with that stupid freefall sensation? To be sure, falling is a most unpleasent experience, so why should falling in love be any different?
Falling requires three key ingredients: I'll refer to them as the trip, the fall, and the landing. The trip is the moment that instigates falling. It can be deliberate, such as stepping off the edge of a building or sticking your leg out in front of someone, or accidental, like just not paying attention to where you're stepping. To place this into the context of love, the trip is basically the thing that causes you to notice someone, be it a glance, a conversation, a hug, or anything else that makes you say to yourself, "damn..."
Next there is the fall proper. Technically, it is the space between the trip and the landing, so it could be argued that the fall does not actually exist; similar to how cold is merely the absence of heat, or dark being the lack of light. Semantics aside, this is also where we are the most helpless. We become victims of gravity. You are going down and there is not a thing you can do to change that. The paradox is that this is where the mind does the most work. Although usually brief in a temporal sense, the action appears to slow down and a thousand thoughts rush past. Conversely, you may not even be aware of what is happening until you're already on the ground. In all likelihood, the first and most common feeling is shock and fear. Our reptile brains take over and our first priority becomes survival. There is seldom time do anything other than reach out an arm and hope for the best. The unbridled passion you feel for your paramour sweeps you along whether you like it or not. This is the same cerebral cocktail that is responsible for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You get that? Chemically, love is a mental disorder.
Finally, we land from the fall. The old maxim says that it's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing. That's true enough. Falling forever might mess with your inner ear a bit, but it probably wouldn't be too bad. There may be one way to fall, but there are a thousand ways to land. Of those, very few are pleasent. Unless you fall over something soft, you will be shocked, bumped, and quite possibly hurt. Do I have to keep drawing these love parallels, or can you figure out the landing part for yourselves?
I could tell you to just spare yourself and never fall in love, but I won't (I'm not that cynical). The truth is that no one is immune to falling. Everyone from babies to the elderly fall, although those two groups do seem to take up the lion's share of it; kind of a reversed bell curve if you think about it. It's part of the human condition. Does it suck? Most times, yes it does. In fact, most times, you'll probably get hurt, but rarely will it kill you. Just pick your ass up and watch your step to make sure that it doesn't happen again.
Falling requires three key ingredients: I'll refer to them as the trip, the fall, and the landing. The trip is the moment that instigates falling. It can be deliberate, such as stepping off the edge of a building or sticking your leg out in front of someone, or accidental, like just not paying attention to where you're stepping. To place this into the context of love, the trip is basically the thing that causes you to notice someone, be it a glance, a conversation, a hug, or anything else that makes you say to yourself, "damn..."
Next there is the fall proper. Technically, it is the space between the trip and the landing, so it could be argued that the fall does not actually exist; similar to how cold is merely the absence of heat, or dark being the lack of light. Semantics aside, this is also where we are the most helpless. We become victims of gravity. You are going down and there is not a thing you can do to change that. The paradox is that this is where the mind does the most work. Although usually brief in a temporal sense, the action appears to slow down and a thousand thoughts rush past. Conversely, you may not even be aware of what is happening until you're already on the ground. In all likelihood, the first and most common feeling is shock and fear. Our reptile brains take over and our first priority becomes survival. There is seldom time do anything other than reach out an arm and hope for the best. The unbridled passion you feel for your paramour sweeps you along whether you like it or not. This is the same cerebral cocktail that is responsible for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You get that? Chemically, love is a mental disorder.
Finally, we land from the fall. The old maxim says that it's not the fall that kills you, it's the landing. That's true enough. Falling forever might mess with your inner ear a bit, but it probably wouldn't be too bad. There may be one way to fall, but there are a thousand ways to land. Of those, very few are pleasent. Unless you fall over something soft, you will be shocked, bumped, and quite possibly hurt. Do I have to keep drawing these love parallels, or can you figure out the landing part for yourselves?
I could tell you to just spare yourself and never fall in love, but I won't (I'm not that cynical). The truth is that no one is immune to falling. Everyone from babies to the elderly fall, although those two groups do seem to take up the lion's share of it; kind of a reversed bell curve if you think about it. It's part of the human condition. Does it suck? Most times, yes it does. In fact, most times, you'll probably get hurt, but rarely will it kill you. Just pick your ass up and watch your step to make sure that it doesn't happen again.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
I Think I'll Stick to the Carbon Variety
I'm going to make an official ruling: dating is the most rediculous ritual in our culture. In honor of all the lovey-dovey vibes that permeate the air like a landfill in August this month, I am going to periodically take some time to ravage various aspects of dating, relationships, love, and any other similar concepts. That's right, I am going to systematically dismantle the entire foundation of Western Civilization. After all, they say that all of human progress was constructed in order to impress the opposite sex. So where to start in this one man crusade? As this is a pissant little online soapbox, why not start with my nearest neighbor: online dating. I hear stories all the time of people meeting online and finding happiness, but frankly, I don't buy it. For every story that ends with a happy ending, there have to be hundreds more that end with you tied to a bed after having been robbed, beaten, and minus one kidney. This is the internet after all; the child of nerds and pornography. A little bit of anonymity can go a long way. Take this sample profile, one that is like any other you'll find on a dating site:
"Hi! My name is Mike and I live in the bustling town of Kirkwood. I'm a guy with big dreams, but right now I'm just looking around to see what's out there. I'm a little over six feet tall, have brown hair, and a strong build. I'm finished with school and I've got my own job, my own car, and my own place. I absolutely love kids, so if you have any, it's not a deal breaker. Heck, bring them along, I'd like to meet them, lol! If you're still interested, shoot me an email and we'll see where it goes from there! :)"
Sounds like a real catch, right? Well before you start printing up wedding invitations, check out who you're actually going to go out with:
Uh-oh! It's Michael Devlin, the guy who kidnapped Shawn Hornbeck! Oh boy, I'll bet your face is red. Touche, internet, touche. So in all likelihood everyone on the internet is not a child molester, that would not be fair to the other specimens in the online dating menagerie. There are just as many weirdos on the ladies' side of things. Here are some of my favorites:
1. Young Single Mom-She's looking for a guy who can prove to her that not all men are dogs, so no booty calls! She's cute in her picture, and she says that she loves to go out when she gets a chance, can cook great, and is always willing to adjust to your needs...and oh yeah, she has a kid. Sometimes that little detail gets front and center attention, other times she coyly slips it in amidst all of the stuff that is so great about her, hoping that you'll just glance over it. After a date or two, you'll ask where the baby's daddy went; not out of concern, but because you want to go there too.
2. Lonely Fat Girl-She always had plenty of Care Bears and gay friends to keep her company, but now she needs something more. Her main selling point is her awesome personality, which makes up for any areas in which she might be lacking, which will most likely be evidenced by the noticable lack of any sort of photo. She may or may not be upfront about her weight, and may even try to hide it under the acronym "BBW," but don't fall for it. "A little extra meat on my bones," mostly likely means, "you'll have to come to my place because the forklift they use to lift me out of my bed is in the shop." And finally...
3. Crazy Sex Chick-She wants sex, and she wants it now! No strings, no romance, no bullshit, just crazy monkey fuckin' as soon as possible. Her hook is listing of all the dirty things she wants you to do to her. "First, I want you to go down on me like no other man can, then fuck me in my ass until I can't take it anymore, then I want you to tar and feather me, cover me in two-week old garbage from a Chinese restaurant, and set the bed on fire with me in it! If that doesn't get you off, then don't even bother responding ;)" That made you horny just to read it, didn't it? Often times, these women don't actually exist and are robots for porn sites. It's just as well, at least now I don't have to get out of my chair to have a good time.
So there you have it, the best the internet dating world has to offer. If this is what you're looking for, then happy hunting. If you are a normal and sane individual however, instead of wasting your internet time cruising for dotcom-tail, read my blog instead. At least you'll learn something.
"Hi! My name is Mike and I live in the bustling town of Kirkwood. I'm a guy with big dreams, but right now I'm just looking around to see what's out there. I'm a little over six feet tall, have brown hair, and a strong build. I'm finished with school and I've got my own job, my own car, and my own place. I absolutely love kids, so if you have any, it's not a deal breaker. Heck, bring them along, I'd like to meet them, lol! If you're still interested, shoot me an email and we'll see where it goes from there! :)"
Sounds like a real catch, right? Well before you start printing up wedding invitations, check out who you're actually going to go out with:
Uh-oh! It's Michael Devlin, the guy who kidnapped Shawn Hornbeck! Oh boy, I'll bet your face is red. Touche, internet, touche. So in all likelihood everyone on the internet is not a child molester, that would not be fair to the other specimens in the online dating menagerie. There are just as many weirdos on the ladies' side of things. Here are some of my favorites:
1. Young Single Mom-She's looking for a guy who can prove to her that not all men are dogs, so no booty calls! She's cute in her picture, and she says that she loves to go out when she gets a chance, can cook great, and is always willing to adjust to your needs...and oh yeah, she has a kid. Sometimes that little detail gets front and center attention, other times she coyly slips it in amidst all of the stuff that is so great about her, hoping that you'll just glance over it. After a date or two, you'll ask where the baby's daddy went; not out of concern, but because you want to go there too.
2. Lonely Fat Girl-She always had plenty of Care Bears and gay friends to keep her company, but now she needs something more. Her main selling point is her awesome personality, which makes up for any areas in which she might be lacking, which will most likely be evidenced by the noticable lack of any sort of photo. She may or may not be upfront about her weight, and may even try to hide it under the acronym "BBW," but don't fall for it. "A little extra meat on my bones," mostly likely means, "you'll have to come to my place because the forklift they use to lift me out of my bed is in the shop." And finally...
3. Crazy Sex Chick-She wants sex, and she wants it now! No strings, no romance, no bullshit, just crazy monkey fuckin' as soon as possible. Her hook is listing of all the dirty things she wants you to do to her. "First, I want you to go down on me like no other man can, then fuck me in my ass until I can't take it anymore, then I want you to tar and feather me, cover me in two-week old garbage from a Chinese restaurant, and set the bed on fire with me in it! If that doesn't get you off, then don't even bother responding ;)" That made you horny just to read it, didn't it? Often times, these women don't actually exist and are robots for porn sites. It's just as well, at least now I don't have to get out of my chair to have a good time.
So there you have it, the best the internet dating world has to offer. If this is what you're looking for, then happy hunting. If you are a normal and sane individual however, instead of wasting your internet time cruising for dotcom-tail, read my blog instead. At least you'll learn something.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Is it love?
So I just got into a new relationship, and I have to say that she is absolutely amazing! Her body is fantasic, she isn't too old for me, and she can go for hours without needing a break. I can't believe that this actually happened to me right now. You see, I just got out of a long term relationship, and it wasn't easy for me. I've been with her since I was sixteen; she taught me everything that I know now. Sure, there were times when my brother was actually with her more than me, but in my heart I knew that she was still mine. When he left for college, she was all mine again, and it was like high school all over again. I took her to school with me, we'd go for long late-night drives...it was magical. Not that she was compeltely perfect. She had a lot of issues before I met her; there were even times when she'd blow her top and I thought that I might lose her. All in all though, everything was pretty great between us. I never even thought about trading her in for anything.
Then things started to go downhill, as seems to be the nature of all relationships. At the beginning of this winter, I'd noticed that she didn't have the same warmth for me as she usually did. I mean, it always took her a while to get warmed up when I was ready to go, but lately she had been acting even colder than usual. Then one fateful day I decided to take her on a trip with me out of town for a weekend. I thought it would be nice to get away for a while and visit an old, dear friend. I should have known that things were wrong when she gave me the cold shoulder all the way down there, but I didn't care anymore. I resolved to check into it after getting back to town. What a fool I was. We were almost home when everything boiled over and she just exploded at me. I couldn't believe her! All the shit that I had put up with over the years, and she just let things break down right there along the highway! I said some unkind things and just left her there to let somebody else deal with her. I never saw her again. In retrospect, I regret that I never actually got to say goodbye, but these things happen for a reason, and we must remain strong and not linger on the errors of the past.
That was when I met...her. I found her online actually. I'd been trolling around to see what kind of action I could find, and amidst all the old beat up wrecks that you'd expect to find (I even saw one or two of them *shudder*)...there she was. I knew instantly that I had to see if she was too good to be true. It turns out she was better. She used to take care of an elderly gentleman, but he recently passed away and was looking for something new in her life. I didn't hesitate; I went to see her the first chance I could...and she was incredible.
It's been a few days now, and I'm feeling really good about where things are going. A friend asked me today if it was love, and I wasn't sure how to answer. I mean, I've only been out with her a few times, and I'm still figuring out all her little quirks; hell, I haven't even filled her tank yet. And yet...I feel good about this one. She doesn't have a lot of experience, but I could see her being around for a long time. It looks like things are going to work out.
Even still, I catch myself thinking about the one I lost. Sure she was a dusty old bitch, but she was my dusty old bitch, and I'll never forget all she did for me.
Yep, best damn car I ever owned.
Then things started to go downhill, as seems to be the nature of all relationships. At the beginning of this winter, I'd noticed that she didn't have the same warmth for me as she usually did. I mean, it always took her a while to get warmed up when I was ready to go, but lately she had been acting even colder than usual. Then one fateful day I decided to take her on a trip with me out of town for a weekend. I thought it would be nice to get away for a while and visit an old, dear friend. I should have known that things were wrong when she gave me the cold shoulder all the way down there, but I didn't care anymore. I resolved to check into it after getting back to town. What a fool I was. We were almost home when everything boiled over and she just exploded at me. I couldn't believe her! All the shit that I had put up with over the years, and she just let things break down right there along the highway! I said some unkind things and just left her there to let somebody else deal with her. I never saw her again. In retrospect, I regret that I never actually got to say goodbye, but these things happen for a reason, and we must remain strong and not linger on the errors of the past.
That was when I met...her. I found her online actually. I'd been trolling around to see what kind of action I could find, and amidst all the old beat up wrecks that you'd expect to find (I even saw one or two of them *shudder*)...there she was. I knew instantly that I had to see if she was too good to be true. It turns out she was better. She used to take care of an elderly gentleman, but he recently passed away and was looking for something new in her life. I didn't hesitate; I went to see her the first chance I could...and she was incredible.
It's been a few days now, and I'm feeling really good about where things are going. A friend asked me today if it was love, and I wasn't sure how to answer. I mean, I've only been out with her a few times, and I'm still figuring out all her little quirks; hell, I haven't even filled her tank yet. And yet...I feel good about this one. She doesn't have a lot of experience, but I could see her being around for a long time. It looks like things are going to work out.
Even still, I catch myself thinking about the one I lost. Sure she was a dusty old bitch, but she was my dusty old bitch, and I'll never forget all she did for me.
Yep, best damn car I ever owned.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
One Baby, Two Baby, Three Baby, Four...
Although I love and revere women for their role as the life givers of the human race, I in no way envy or desire that ability. Case and point: that new mother who has been all over the news for giving birth to octuplets; that's eight babies for those of you out there who can't remember your greek roots. Eight...to help put that in perspective, imagine one kid, then multiply it by eight. The best part was that they were only expecting seven kids. I guess that eighth one possesses some sort of heretofore unknown cloaking technology. That, or the fact that there was just a massive ball of babies rolling around in there. The mean weight for each infant was around three pounds, meaning that this chick walked around with 24 prenatal pounds. Try and eat 96 quater pounders some time and see if you can walk around. I'll bet you an all expense paid trip to Tasmania if you can do it.
One new mother, plus eight babies, minus one usable vagina equals one new happy family. That is one cooter that will never be the same again; like trying to take off a shirt by pulling it down over your shoulders...eight times. Watching those tykes shoot out of there is enough to bring back 'Nam flashbacks. Did the OBGYN have a catcher's mit? Some kind of big basket to catch them? A bullseye painted on the wall? If the nurse missed one, did she have to pay $3.00 for another eight chances? Fuck that.
Wait...on second thought, no. Don't fuck that. This story should be shared with every teenager who is on the cusp of discovering that if you rub a certain part of your body, it feels really good, and it's even better when someone you think is pretty does it for you. That's right: I'm talking about your feet. Teenage pregnancy would not even be an issue if kids were aware of this kind of stuff.
"Hi Suzy. So you like to have sex with your angry little boyfriend who wears black all the time, drinks coffee, and writes 'poetry'? It makes you feel good? Loved? Like you're a grown woman? Well just know that if you have sex, you could end up pregnant, and not just with one baby. Nope, not two...not three...keep going...not yet...you're not even close yet. The answer is eight. Do you want eight babies? You don't even have eight friends. And oh yeah: your vagina will turn into a giant deflated inner tube" Ok, that last bit may have been a bit harsh, but you gotta be with kids these days or they won't listen.
The heads of our industry need to invent some new form of contraception that ensures the accidental preganancy of only one baby is guarenteed. When you consider the possibility of eight, one seems like a favorable outcome; an acceptable margin of error. Before you get down to business for a bit of the ol' slap and tickle, make sure you put on your Gross Infant Limiter. That's gross, not net, because you never know the limits of your doctor's hand-eye coordination.
Eight babies! Any more than that and they'd be Mormons.
One new mother, plus eight babies, minus one usable vagina equals one new happy family. That is one cooter that will never be the same again; like trying to take off a shirt by pulling it down over your shoulders...eight times. Watching those tykes shoot out of there is enough to bring back 'Nam flashbacks. Did the OBGYN have a catcher's mit? Some kind of big basket to catch them? A bullseye painted on the wall? If the nurse missed one, did she have to pay $3.00 for another eight chances? Fuck that.
Wait...on second thought, no. Don't fuck that. This story should be shared with every teenager who is on the cusp of discovering that if you rub a certain part of your body, it feels really good, and it's even better when someone you think is pretty does it for you. That's right: I'm talking about your feet. Teenage pregnancy would not even be an issue if kids were aware of this kind of stuff.
"Hi Suzy. So you like to have sex with your angry little boyfriend who wears black all the time, drinks coffee, and writes 'poetry'? It makes you feel good? Loved? Like you're a grown woman? Well just know that if you have sex, you could end up pregnant, and not just with one baby. Nope, not two...not three...keep going...not yet...you're not even close yet. The answer is eight. Do you want eight babies? You don't even have eight friends. And oh yeah: your vagina will turn into a giant deflated inner tube" Ok, that last bit may have been a bit harsh, but you gotta be with kids these days or they won't listen.
The heads of our industry need to invent some new form of contraception that ensures the accidental preganancy of only one baby is guarenteed. When you consider the possibility of eight, one seems like a favorable outcome; an acceptable margin of error. Before you get down to business for a bit of the ol' slap and tickle, make sure you put on your Gross Infant Limiter. That's gross, not net, because you never know the limits of your doctor's hand-eye coordination.
Eight babies! Any more than that and they'd be Mormons.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Screw Butterflies
One thing. That's all it takes sometimes is one little thing, and suddenly everything is different. Deep, right? I'm not an expert on chaos theory, but I kind of like the idea that ultimately the world is unpredictable and you can never really know for certain what is going to happen next. Sure, in all likelihood, you'll wake up tomorrow and eat breakfast like you usually do, but you could also be kidnapped by a pterodactyl and taken back to its nest where you'll in turn be fed to all the cute, tiny baby pterodactyls who haven't had their breakfast yet. It could happen!
I'm not above admitting that this particular scenario has virtually no chance of happening, but not a zero chance of happening. Sure, you can give me paleological evidence that insists that pterodactyls died out millions of years ago, but what if there is one pterodactyl left and she has been hidden away, silently plotting the day when she'll scoop you up to feed to her offspring?
The other tenet that I like to ponder is my opening remark. This one has been on my mind a lot lately, and for very personal reasons. This time of year has a great deal of significance to me. I won't convolute things with the details...let's just say that one day a long time ago, my life changed forever, and it all began with a single comment to another person. You could say it was the pterodactyl that I wasn't expecting. It's because of this that I refuse to ever completely dismiss something as impossible; unrealistic and a waste of time, sure, but not impossible. Does that make me an idealist? Maybe, but I prefer to see myself as a dreamer; always wondering what might come true, no matter how outlandish. Am I motivated by hope? Maybe a little, but I would venture to say that it is more curiosity than hope. Hope asks the question, "Why not?" whereas curiosity says, "What if?"
Anyone who is governed chiefly by logic will of course read these words and probably scoff, maybe even vomit out of incredulity if I've done my job right. Yeah, stuff needs to make sense, but not all the time. What's wrong with waiting for that pterodactyl as long as I still do everything else right? Show me where it says in absolute terms that there are no more pterodactyls...I defy you to show me! Damn, haters, let a player play! Maybe if enough people get onboard with my thinking, there can be actual ptreodactyl watches. There could be parties, clubs, and other ways to bring people together. My purportedly ludicrous idea could actually unite mankind and give a person true happiness. True happiness, and you want to stand in the way of that? Who's dreaming now?
I've already dedicated one post to a clown, so this one goes out to the pterotacdyl. I know you're out there, and although I'm not waiting for you, it'd be nice to see you sometime.
I'm not above admitting that this particular scenario has virtually no chance of happening, but not a zero chance of happening. Sure, you can give me paleological evidence that insists that pterodactyls died out millions of years ago, but what if there is one pterodactyl left and she has been hidden away, silently plotting the day when she'll scoop you up to feed to her offspring?
The other tenet that I like to ponder is my opening remark. This one has been on my mind a lot lately, and for very personal reasons. This time of year has a great deal of significance to me. I won't convolute things with the details...let's just say that one day a long time ago, my life changed forever, and it all began with a single comment to another person. You could say it was the pterodactyl that I wasn't expecting. It's because of this that I refuse to ever completely dismiss something as impossible; unrealistic and a waste of time, sure, but not impossible. Does that make me an idealist? Maybe, but I prefer to see myself as a dreamer; always wondering what might come true, no matter how outlandish. Am I motivated by hope? Maybe a little, but I would venture to say that it is more curiosity than hope. Hope asks the question, "Why not?" whereas curiosity says, "What if?"
Anyone who is governed chiefly by logic will of course read these words and probably scoff, maybe even vomit out of incredulity if I've done my job right. Yeah, stuff needs to make sense, but not all the time. What's wrong with waiting for that pterodactyl as long as I still do everything else right? Show me where it says in absolute terms that there are no more pterodactyls...I defy you to show me! Damn, haters, let a player play! Maybe if enough people get onboard with my thinking, there can be actual ptreodactyl watches. There could be parties, clubs, and other ways to bring people together. My purportedly ludicrous idea could actually unite mankind and give a person true happiness. True happiness, and you want to stand in the way of that? Who's dreaming now?
I've already dedicated one post to a clown, so this one goes out to the pterotacdyl. I know you're out there, and although I'm not waiting for you, it'd be nice to see you sometime.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Stripped Down Truth
I have recently been made aware of a serious problem in our society, nay our entire species. When I was first told, I was disgusted beyond what I previously thought capable. Did you know that every single person on this planet is walking around completely naked under their clothing? Shocking I know, but it's true. Every single man, woman and child, beneath their layers of underwear and various other outer garments, is totally nude.
I for one am appalled by this revelation! Sure, you may be thinking that it's cool that everyone just struts around in the buff all day every day, you might even think it's a little sexy. Yeah, it may be ok to have the beautiful people of the world live an au naturale lifestlye, but I ask you this: what about the ugly people? I can think of a lot of people that should never be allowed to forego clothing. I know you can too. Think of your grandmother; your dear, sweet grandmother. Do you want hordes of people walking around and thinking of your granny in that way; the woman who took you to the park when you were little and bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world?
How could we as a society let this persist for this long? Even though I am usually the type to sit on the sidelines when it comes improving the world (I'm a thinker, not so much a doer), I cannot in good conscience stand idle. When our moral base is jeopardized this severely, the cost of inaction is simply too high. Luckily, the winds of change are blowing in our nation's capital, so now is the time to act. Although I have no personal connection to president Obama, I sincerely believe that he will support my lobbying efforts. If all goes according to plan, I might even get him to mention it in his inauguration speech on Tuesday, so be sure and watch it. And what is my agenda exactly? Simple: we need to form a government watchdog agency whose sole purpose is to combat the social epidemic of hidden nudity.
The Center for the Limitation of Offensive and Tastelessly Hidden Exposed Skin (C.L.O.T.H.E.S.) will be chaired by elected officials, that way they report directly to the American people rather than the Washington bureaucrats. Obviously, this is a long-term project. The first few years will be largely devoted to data collection and research into the problem. This will be done by a top tier brain trust to function as a think tank, or Tank Top if you will. Only once sufficient information has been obtained can we then devise a solution. In order for C.L.O.T.H.E.S. to function properly, every American must make a personal investment in its mission. We cannot break down along lines of personal politics here. C.L.O.T.H.E.S. must be worn by everyone in order ensure that no longer will we be forced to endure walking around completely naked under our clothing. Now is the time to act. Write your local congressman and let him know of the necessity of C.L.O.T.H.E.S. and its implication for the future of our nation. If any of you out there wish to join me in my cause, please voice your support in the comments section so that we can show those D.C bigwigs that we mean business! Thank you, and God Bless America.
I for one am appalled by this revelation! Sure, you may be thinking that it's cool that everyone just struts around in the buff all day every day, you might even think it's a little sexy. Yeah, it may be ok to have the beautiful people of the world live an au naturale lifestlye, but I ask you this: what about the ugly people? I can think of a lot of people that should never be allowed to forego clothing. I know you can too. Think of your grandmother; your dear, sweet grandmother. Do you want hordes of people walking around and thinking of your granny in that way; the woman who took you to the park when you were little and bakes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world?
How could we as a society let this persist for this long? Even though I am usually the type to sit on the sidelines when it comes improving the world (I'm a thinker, not so much a doer), I cannot in good conscience stand idle. When our moral base is jeopardized this severely, the cost of inaction is simply too high. Luckily, the winds of change are blowing in our nation's capital, so now is the time to act. Although I have no personal connection to president Obama, I sincerely believe that he will support my lobbying efforts. If all goes according to plan, I might even get him to mention it in his inauguration speech on Tuesday, so be sure and watch it. And what is my agenda exactly? Simple: we need to form a government watchdog agency whose sole purpose is to combat the social epidemic of hidden nudity.
The Center for the Limitation of Offensive and Tastelessly Hidden Exposed Skin (C.L.O.T.H.E.S.) will be chaired by elected officials, that way they report directly to the American people rather than the Washington bureaucrats. Obviously, this is a long-term project. The first few years will be largely devoted to data collection and research into the problem. This will be done by a top tier brain trust to function as a think tank, or Tank Top if you will. Only once sufficient information has been obtained can we then devise a solution. In order for C.L.O.T.H.E.S. to function properly, every American must make a personal investment in its mission. We cannot break down along lines of personal politics here. C.L.O.T.H.E.S. must be worn by everyone in order ensure that no longer will we be forced to endure walking around completely naked under our clothing. Now is the time to act. Write your local congressman and let him know of the necessity of C.L.O.T.H.E.S. and its implication for the future of our nation. If any of you out there wish to join me in my cause, please voice your support in the comments section so that we can show those D.C bigwigs that we mean business! Thank you, and God Bless America.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Heckling Prophets
In the entire body of human literature, there is one character (of sorts) that has consistently been present, as well as my personal favorite, regardless of the context. As far as I know, there is no exact blanket term for it, but it presents itself in one major form: the Chorus. The Chorus has its roots in the earliest days of Greek plays, and even garnered more praise and attention than the principal actors. Its role is to observe and react to the play's actions, as well as comment on said actions and the broader themes at work. I really like this concept. I have seen a few plays where a chorus is still utilized in its original form, and it is always fascinating to have a group that exists seperately from both the play proper and the audience to add a different, albeit deliberate, perspective.
Although the formal chorus is not as in vogue as it once was, it still exists in one form or another. It usually manifests in some sort of character that breaks the fourth wall. Other times, it is just characters whose sole purpose is to mock everything else that is going on. The penultimate form of this is Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show. The entire point of their existence is to sit up in that balcony and ridicule the shit out of every single thing that steps onto the stage. Why do they do it? The only apparent motivation is for pure shits and giggles. They have always been my favorite Muppet characters, because I respect that.
There is something about breaking the fourth wall that I love. To me, it serves as a reminder to not take what I'm watching too seriously. Don't get me wrong, I like to be totally immersed in a performance, but in life it's important to not get so caught up in the performance that you forget that in the end, you're still just acting. All the world's a stage after all, and just as with Kermit, Ms. Piggy, and Gonzo, we need people like Statler and Waldorf to remind us that you need to take a step back once and a while and take a look at the bigger picture.
The Chorus is the God in the machine, the evidence that there is something beyond the immediate here and now that requires our attention. We're all guilty of getting caught up in our own personal performance sometimes that we fail to see the whole thing in all of its tragic and comedic glory. Even though that balcony only seats two, there is room up there for everyone at some point. You shouldn't just stand there and take the shit with a smile like Fozzie Bear; get up there for yourself and take a look around. You'd be amazed at what you see. Part of me would love to be up there all the time, heckling the absurdity of the little dance that we do here on earth, but I'd be unsatisfied. Man was not meant to watch, he was meant to act. As I said before, all the world's a stage, so get off your ass and start acting, just don't forget to take a break and watch it too, because from what I hear, it's a pretty good show.
And now since you were all such good listeners, you get a little treat.
Although the formal chorus is not as in vogue as it once was, it still exists in one form or another. It usually manifests in some sort of character that breaks the fourth wall. Other times, it is just characters whose sole purpose is to mock everything else that is going on. The penultimate form of this is Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show. The entire point of their existence is to sit up in that balcony and ridicule the shit out of every single thing that steps onto the stage. Why do they do it? The only apparent motivation is for pure shits and giggles. They have always been my favorite Muppet characters, because I respect that.
There is something about breaking the fourth wall that I love. To me, it serves as a reminder to not take what I'm watching too seriously. Don't get me wrong, I like to be totally immersed in a performance, but in life it's important to not get so caught up in the performance that you forget that in the end, you're still just acting. All the world's a stage after all, and just as with Kermit, Ms. Piggy, and Gonzo, we need people like Statler and Waldorf to remind us that you need to take a step back once and a while and take a look at the bigger picture.
The Chorus is the God in the machine, the evidence that there is something beyond the immediate here and now that requires our attention. We're all guilty of getting caught up in our own personal performance sometimes that we fail to see the whole thing in all of its tragic and comedic glory. Even though that balcony only seats two, there is room up there for everyone at some point. You shouldn't just stand there and take the shit with a smile like Fozzie Bear; get up there for yourself and take a look around. You'd be amazed at what you see. Part of me would love to be up there all the time, heckling the absurdity of the little dance that we do here on earth, but I'd be unsatisfied. Man was not meant to watch, he was meant to act. As I said before, all the world's a stage, so get off your ass and start acting, just don't forget to take a break and watch it too, because from what I hear, it's a pretty good show.
And now since you were all such good listeners, you get a little treat.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
As Funny As A Gold Statue
So I was going to go into a whole thing about the absurdity of soulmates, but then I put on the Golden Globes and derailed my entire train of thought. Maybe I'll save that other one for another time, 'cuz it was gonna be good.
Instead, I'll address the issue of bias in the Performing Arts. I refer of course to the fact that comedy is consistently forced to take a back seat to the dramatic. How many comedies have won an Oscar for Best Picture? Zero. Goose egg. Not a one. The last few years, a few comedies have snuck in and been nominated, but they are usually tempered with lame dramatic schmaltz, like Juno. Comedy can't even get enough respect to get its own category, it has to share one with Musicals or Variety Shows. Imagine being roomates with a German drama major; that's proably what it feels like.
So why no love or critical acclaim for comedy? Why can't we just have straight comedy without the compulsive need to add a bunch of stupid dramatic filler? Every man, woman, and child finds something funny. Humor is universal, isn't it? It is, but it isn't.
I believe that comedy is much more complicated than drama. It's easy to make people cry: let the dog die or have the father finally express the love he feels for his son on his death bed. To make somebody laugh is damned hard; as any stand-up comedian. Although everyone finds something funny, there is a wide range of things that people find funny. Me? I can run the gammut of just about anything. Why just tonight, I was laughing my ass off at some cartoons from the New Yorker, and now I'm watching Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and busting a nut. Whether it's complex, satirical black comedy or dick jokes, I'll at least giggle. Diverse, ain't I?
So it's not that comedy is lower than drama, it's actually the opposite. It's too complicated and too much a part of us to accurately gauge in something as trivial as film awards. Laughter is not some juvenile response to a chimp in a leprechaun outfit *snicker*, it is a complicated response whose exact physiology and purpose are still largely a mystery to us. You know what I say? Fuck the Academy! Comedy doesn't need formal recognition, because I know what I think is funny and don't need anyone else to tell me otherwise. Comedy doesn't need to be broken down and dissected like that. Just let it be and enjoy it. Live and let laugh. I wanted to end on a joke, but I couldn't get one out before I finished. That's what she said!
Instead, I'll address the issue of bias in the Performing Arts. I refer of course to the fact that comedy is consistently forced to take a back seat to the dramatic. How many comedies have won an Oscar for Best Picture? Zero. Goose egg. Not a one. The last few years, a few comedies have snuck in and been nominated, but they are usually tempered with lame dramatic schmaltz, like Juno. Comedy can't even get enough respect to get its own category, it has to share one with Musicals or Variety Shows. Imagine being roomates with a German drama major; that's proably what it feels like.
So why no love or critical acclaim for comedy? Why can't we just have straight comedy without the compulsive need to add a bunch of stupid dramatic filler? Every man, woman, and child finds something funny. Humor is universal, isn't it? It is, but it isn't.
I believe that comedy is much more complicated than drama. It's easy to make people cry: let the dog die or have the father finally express the love he feels for his son on his death bed. To make somebody laugh is damned hard; as any stand-up comedian. Although everyone finds something funny, there is a wide range of things that people find funny. Me? I can run the gammut of just about anything. Why just tonight, I was laughing my ass off at some cartoons from the New Yorker, and now I'm watching Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back and busting a nut. Whether it's complex, satirical black comedy or dick jokes, I'll at least giggle. Diverse, ain't I?
So it's not that comedy is lower than drama, it's actually the opposite. It's too complicated and too much a part of us to accurately gauge in something as trivial as film awards. Laughter is not some juvenile response to a chimp in a leprechaun outfit *snicker*, it is a complicated response whose exact physiology and purpose are still largely a mystery to us. You know what I say? Fuck the Academy! Comedy doesn't need formal recognition, because I know what I think is funny and don't need anyone else to tell me otherwise. Comedy doesn't need to be broken down and dissected like that. Just let it be and enjoy it. Live and let laugh. I wanted to end on a joke, but I couldn't get one out before I finished. That's what she said!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Fallacy of One
Are you lonely? Is it because you're alone? No, it's not. Not to sound critical, but no one is lonely because he or she is alone.
How is this possible? Easy: you're never alone. In today's modern society, to be by yourself is rare, if not impossible. Go ahead, try it sometime. Try and make yourself completely alone; put yourself in a position where there is absolutely zero evidence of any other human beings. Your apartment isn't good enough. Surely you have neighbors, and even if you you have super thick concrete walls that could block out an orgy with howitzers (you gotta love that Luftwaffe foreplay), there is traffic outside, plus any ambient lighting that may leak in through the window.
"Ok then," you say to yourself, "I'll go somewhere that is completely untouched by human civilization." That's fine, but are you willing to purchase a plane ticket, fly to Canada, and hike all the way to the middle of the virgin Yukon tundra just to prove little ol' me wrong? If so, I applaud your conviction, but seriously, you may want to stop and reevaluate your life. My point here is that Man is a social creature, and we have done a pretty damn good job at making sure that we are never too far away from another human being.
So why even bother with getting lonely? Surely the only people who are truly worthy and able to be lonely are hermits who live in tiny shacks off in the untamed wilderness somewhere, but then again, they like the solitude. They don't need anybody, especially those pesky ATF agents who like to pay them visits. When we get lonely, we often make the mistake that there is no one around. As I just proved with my flawless logic, that is simply not the case. What is actually happening is that we instead are just not around the right people, or even just a single person. That feeling is then generalized into the assumption that humanity has abandoned us. I think that's pretty cool. That may sound cynical, but the fact that only one or two people can make you feel like a caribou farmer is pretty amazing.
So who is this amazing person who can so influence our perceived place in society? It could be anyone, really; a family member, a friend (miss you, toots), that new boy or girl who said that your eyes were beautiful, somebody who you've never even met, anyone in whom you make some kind of emotional investment. You can mix and match however you want, people are affected by one another in entirely unique ways. So what then is the solution to this malady of the spirit? I don't have an answer for you there. As much as I'd like to be a limitless font of wisdom and knowledge, I'm subject to the same mortal trappings as y'all. Actually, I've probably racked up enough frequent flyer miles on Lonely Airways to fly to the Crab Nebula and back. I know why though, and maybe the very act of recognizing it makes it easier to understand. Do I want to help others cope with it too? Not really, even if I am kinda doing it by accident. After all, misery loves company, so if everyone is miserable, then no one will be lonely. Now THAT'S cynical!
How is this possible? Easy: you're never alone. In today's modern society, to be by yourself is rare, if not impossible. Go ahead, try it sometime. Try and make yourself completely alone; put yourself in a position where there is absolutely zero evidence of any other human beings. Your apartment isn't good enough. Surely you have neighbors, and even if you you have super thick concrete walls that could block out an orgy with howitzers (you gotta love that Luftwaffe foreplay), there is traffic outside, plus any ambient lighting that may leak in through the window.
"Ok then," you say to yourself, "I'll go somewhere that is completely untouched by human civilization." That's fine, but are you willing to purchase a plane ticket, fly to Canada, and hike all the way to the middle of the virgin Yukon tundra just to prove little ol' me wrong? If so, I applaud your conviction, but seriously, you may want to stop and reevaluate your life. My point here is that Man is a social creature, and we have done a pretty damn good job at making sure that we are never too far away from another human being.
So why even bother with getting lonely? Surely the only people who are truly worthy and able to be lonely are hermits who live in tiny shacks off in the untamed wilderness somewhere, but then again, they like the solitude. They don't need anybody, especially those pesky ATF agents who like to pay them visits. When we get lonely, we often make the mistake that there is no one around. As I just proved with my flawless logic, that is simply not the case. What is actually happening is that we instead are just not around the right people, or even just a single person. That feeling is then generalized into the assumption that humanity has abandoned us. I think that's pretty cool. That may sound cynical, but the fact that only one or two people can make you feel like a caribou farmer is pretty amazing.
So who is this amazing person who can so influence our perceived place in society? It could be anyone, really; a family member, a friend (miss you, toots), that new boy or girl who said that your eyes were beautiful, somebody who you've never even met, anyone in whom you make some kind of emotional investment. You can mix and match however you want, people are affected by one another in entirely unique ways. So what then is the solution to this malady of the spirit? I don't have an answer for you there. As much as I'd like to be a limitless font of wisdom and knowledge, I'm subject to the same mortal trappings as y'all. Actually, I've probably racked up enough frequent flyer miles on Lonely Airways to fly to the Crab Nebula and back. I know why though, and maybe the very act of recognizing it makes it easier to understand. Do I want to help others cope with it too? Not really, even if I am kinda doing it by accident. After all, misery loves company, so if everyone is miserable, then no one will be lonely. Now THAT'S cynical!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)