Ben Stein has a new movie out: Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed. The film is a documentary about how intelligent design is pushed out of classrooms by “a new anti-religious dogmatism” where “scientists and educators are not allowed to even think thoughts that involve an intelligent creator.” Reread that so you get the full effect. These are the producers of the film telling us, in their own words, that anti-religious dogma is controlling what educators are allowed to think. I thought Ben Stein was supposed to be intelligent... Kinda makes you long for the days of Ferris Bueller, doesn’t it?
The thing is, the film is not actually a documentary; it is merely creationist propaganda masquerading as debate. When you have proponents of evolution speaking as a montage of Nazi propaganda footage rolls in the background, something is amiss. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure if I played an address from the Pope over footage of Hitler, people would accuse me of being anti-Catholic... a little discretion, that’s all I ask.
The creationist propaganda has two key problems with evolution. First, they decry evolution as “just a theory.” Second, they argue that since evolution can’t prove where life originated, it should not be taught. While these complaints are patently absurd to begin with, I’m going to give them more attention than they deserve and respond to them, because dammit, this nonsense needs to stop.
First point: evolution is just a theory. True! Score one for the creationists! The problem with this claim is that we also base a whole lot of science class around some other theories; gravitational theory for example. Yes, gravity is a theory too. Or atomic theory. It’s just a theory, same as evolution. According to proponents of ID, we should stop teaching children about gravity, or that matter is made from atoms. The name of the game is consistency; you can’t have it both ways.
The key problem stems from a misunderstanding about the word theory. When proponents of ID hear the word theory, they assume the colloquial meaning, like when you go out drinking and come up with your theory of why women act the way they do. But a scientific theory is another matter entirely; a scientific theory is based around observations and data, which you use to formulate a hypothesis, which is then tested in controlled experiments until a theory can be written in a manner that is falsifiable (this simply means that someone can come along later and test your claims and disprove them; nothing is ever “proven” in science). The “theory” of intelligent design is based around the idea that there is a God, and this immediately makes it non-falsifiable, as it is impossible to test for the presence of the divine. Thus, it is not a scientific theory, and has no basis in a science class.
Point number two: evolution can not prove where life originated. True! They’re batting a thousand... but then again, evolution doesn’t claim to answer where life originated. You can’t argue that a theory is invalid because it doesn’t address something it never intended to. That’s like saying gravitational theory is nonsense because it doesn’t explain why water feels wet, or the theory of relativity is bunk because it doesn’t tell you why alcoholism runs in your family. Just because you think evolution should address the origins of life does not mean it will.
Evolution does not seek to answer the question “Where did life start?” It seeks to answer the question “Why is life so diverse?” We could have a world with only one species in it, and that lone species would be life. But there are millions and millions of species, of all shapes and sizes, in all environments around the planet. Evolution explains how that happened. And it does a pretty damn good job of it too; evolution is the most tested theory in the history of science. And, through all these tests, evolution has not been disproved in a single peer-reviewed study. Not a single one. That seems like a pretty solid foundation to work from to me.
So there’s absolutely no reason to teach intelligent design alongside evolution. Teach it in religion class with the other fairy tales. But secretly, I hope these ID proponents are right, at least in some way. I hope there is a God; a good, Christian God. I hope that these ID theorists all die (I’m not advocating violence here, but I’m not shedding a tear when these folks pass), and they ascend to Heaven. And they see St. Peter at the pearly gates, and walk up to him. And he greets them and welcomes them to Heaven. And then he says, “You’re the intelligent design guys, right? I have a letter here from God for you. Allow me to read it to you:
Dear sirs,
In the beginning, I created the Heavens and the Earth. And it was good, but a bit dull. So I added life. And yes, it was me, none of that “lightning hitting a mud puddle...” seriously, who would believe that nonsense? And I saw that life was good, but after a few hundred million years I got bored with the same 5 microbes swimming around doing nothing. So I came up with a plan; a wonderful genius idea, the likes of which the world had never seen.
What if I made it so that, every now and then, a mutation would occur in an organism? These mutations would be random; some might be horrible, and lead to the death of that individual. But occasionally a mutation might prove useful. This mutation may make the organism more likely to survive, more likely to reproduce, to pass the mutated genes down to the next generation. And these mutations, if they helped an organism survive and reproduce, could get passed on, and spread, and lead to new adaptations, to entirely new species. Life could evolve.
I put my plan into action and I watched life explode. New species were popping up right and left. Most were worthless. Some were grand. I watched the dinosaurs tear shit up for hundreds of millions of years. Then they died off, but some mutated and became birds. I watched the rise of the mammals. I watched the apes leave the trees, set off across the plains. I watched natural selection in action as it led to the evolution of larger brains. I watched these apes develop intellect, and I wept. Finally, a species that could understand the brilliance of my grand design! I decided to give them souls — yes, I did indeed do that — so they could join me in Heaven and I could converse with them about the glory of the world that I had created and let lie, the dynamic evolution of life itself that led to their very being.
And now you assholes are running around fucking my shit up! Evolution was the single greatest miracle I ever performed! And don’t give me that virgin birth shit; Jesus is Joseph’s son. Don’t get me wrong, he was a great man, and I love him, but you’re running around claiming I coveted some carpenter’s wife, well that’s just not true. And now you’re spreading this bullshit about how my greatest miracle is a lie! Fuck you, you arrogant asshole cocksucker pricks! You make it sound like I just snap my fingers, *poof*, there’s a camel... Life doesn’t work that way! You do your part to make millions of people believe in a fucking lie over the grandeur of what billions of years of glorious circumstance has led to, all according to a process of my design... Well, I guess you’ll have plenty of time to think things over while you’re burning in Hell for all eternity! Oh, that’s right! You ain’t getting into Heaven bitches! Maybe you can “intelligently design” a way in... but I fucking doubt it!
In closing, fuck you, yada yada yada,
God
Wouldn’t that be grand?
Speaking of grand, now that Grand Theft Auto IV is out, I’m never writing another word ever. This game is just tits! As of this moment, it is the number one best reviewed game of all time according to both GameRankings and MetaCritic. Fucking A.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Febreze
Febreze is a disturbing product. It’s a product that lets you hide the fact that you don’t clean. Room smells funky? Spray some Febreze in it. Jacket smoky from the bar? Spray some Febreze on it. Don’t feel like bathing this week? There’s a Febreze for that too! Febreze is your ticket to never having to clean again. It’s laziness in aerosol form. I’m pretty sure it was invented by a Frenchman.
Febreze comes in weird scents too. Linen, vanilla, flowers, those all make sense to me. Apple cinnamon is a little weird. I had that one for a while; every time I walked in my house, I had to have a bowl of Apple Jacks and a glass of cider. It was like living inside a giant cookie. I kept dreaming about Hansel and Gretel (witches are so tasty).
Now I have Rocky Springs & Cool. Yes, Rocky Springs and Cool. It’s a trademark Febreze scent that combines the lovely odor of a rocky spring (mud, bear shit, and I think I smell the faintest essence of rotting salmon carcass) with that lovely aroma of cool (a heavy dose of Fonzi, but there is definitely a distinct bouquet of Brad Pitt on the palette as it falls off). People come over to my house and take a whiff and say, “it smells like Brad Pitt and Arthur Fonzarelli fucking in a creek bed in here. That’s surprisingly pleasant.” Everyone enjoys it. Thanks Febreze!
Febreze comes in weird scents too. Linen, vanilla, flowers, those all make sense to me. Apple cinnamon is a little weird. I had that one for a while; every time I walked in my house, I had to have a bowl of Apple Jacks and a glass of cider. It was like living inside a giant cookie. I kept dreaming about Hansel and Gretel (witches are so tasty).
Now I have Rocky Springs & Cool. Yes, Rocky Springs and Cool. It’s a trademark Febreze scent that combines the lovely odor of a rocky spring (mud, bear shit, and I think I smell the faintest essence of rotting salmon carcass) with that lovely aroma of cool (a heavy dose of Fonzi, but there is definitely a distinct bouquet of Brad Pitt on the palette as it falls off). People come over to my house and take a whiff and say, “it smells like Brad Pitt and Arthur Fonzarelli fucking in a creek bed in here. That’s surprisingly pleasant.” Everyone enjoys it. Thanks Febreze!
Illegal Immigration
I strongly believe that we need to erect a wall along the border between the United States and Mexico. Most people don’t see me taking this side, but I am. I’m not trying to keep the Mexicans out; I love the Mexicans. They’re so festive. You bring some Mexicans into a neighborhood, pretty soon that area is colorful, it’s throwing the best block parties, it’s got hot Latin rhythms playing 24 hours a day... No, I want to keep Americans out of Mexico. Every year, thousands of white Americans travel south of the border so they can get cheap liquor, cheap drugs, cheap prostitutes and gonorrhea, and then they end up dying from some combination and it just makes Mexico look bad. We need to stop this ridiculous shit at once; white people have absolutely no idea how to control themselves in someone else’s backyard.
So we put a fence up at the border, but we dig tunnels on the Mexican side so they have access. But I think, just for a lark, we should make the tunnels go to a variety of different places. We wouldn’t label the tunnels, it would pretty much be a crapshoot which tunnel any particular Mexican wound up with. “Alright, San Jose! Mi familia is here!” “Awww, fucking Milwaukie? Pinche gringos...” This will help us spread out the Mexican influence over America. If people in the North are going to bitch about illegal immigration, let’s at least give them a reason.
I wouldn’t stop there though. I’d have the occasional tunnel lead up to Vancouver, BC or Saskatchewan or wherever. Canada does not have nearly enough Mexican influence. If they did, their Mexican food wouldn’t suck so much. This is a country that is convinced a taco has marinara sauce on it. Canadians were ecstatic when Taco Bell opened their first store in Toronto, because they finally had authentic Mexican cuisine.
I think the real reason white people get so bothered by illegal immigration is because they know what can happen. The last time a group of people immigrated to this continent and took up residency, they slaughtered everyone who lived here or forced them to live on the shitty land that nobody wanted. Immigrants clearly pose a legitimate threat! Yeah, it was our forefathers, so what? Do we want the Chicanos doing that to us? Fuck no cabrón! This is America dammit! We only stand for genocide when we’re doling it out! That’s our right as Americans. Fucking imbeciles...
So we put a fence up at the border, but we dig tunnels on the Mexican side so they have access. But I think, just for a lark, we should make the tunnels go to a variety of different places. We wouldn’t label the tunnels, it would pretty much be a crapshoot which tunnel any particular Mexican wound up with. “Alright, San Jose! Mi familia is here!” “Awww, fucking Milwaukie? Pinche gringos...” This will help us spread out the Mexican influence over America. If people in the North are going to bitch about illegal immigration, let’s at least give them a reason.
I wouldn’t stop there though. I’d have the occasional tunnel lead up to Vancouver, BC or Saskatchewan or wherever. Canada does not have nearly enough Mexican influence. If they did, their Mexican food wouldn’t suck so much. This is a country that is convinced a taco has marinara sauce on it. Canadians were ecstatic when Taco Bell opened their first store in Toronto, because they finally had authentic Mexican cuisine.
I think the real reason white people get so bothered by illegal immigration is because they know what can happen. The last time a group of people immigrated to this continent and took up residency, they slaughtered everyone who lived here or forced them to live on the shitty land that nobody wanted. Immigrants clearly pose a legitimate threat! Yeah, it was our forefathers, so what? Do we want the Chicanos doing that to us? Fuck no cabrón! This is America dammit! We only stand for genocide when we’re doling it out! That’s our right as Americans. Fucking imbeciles...
Friday, April 25, 2008
Ant Infestation
I had an ant infestation last summer. It got really bad. The ants were all over my counters, in my sink, I think a group of them even stole my stereo. I knew I had to do something, so I laid out those ant poison traps. The premise is the ants will go in, take the poison, and bring it back to the colony, at which point it will kill all the ants. This stuff does not work. It’s a flawed premise, because you are supposed to put it where the ants come in; in my case, it was at the refrigerator and the counter (I had been remarking how there wasn’t nearly enough poison in the food I ate). The problem is the ants already know where the food is. They never even go in these things; they know where they want to go, and it isn’t in this weird contraption that smells like death. So those things are bullshit.
I came up with my own method of dealing with an ant infestation. It’s very effective. Here’s how it works: You start by isolating a group of intruders. Take a few dozen toothpicks, break them in half, and glue the halves together to form a cross. Take most of the ants you have isolated, and, with the help of thumbtacks, stick them to the center of the crosses. Leave five or so ants free. Pour some kerosene on them. They will hightail it back to their anthill. Follow them (don’t forget to bring your ants on toothpicks). Prop up the toothpick ants around the outside of the anthill (use honey to help them stand vertically). Dump some kerosene in the anthill and light that fucker on fire. Ants will come pouring out of the anthill, catching fire as they escape. They will make it a couple inches and get stuck in the honey. The last thing they will see before they burn to death is the crucified bodies of their brothers all around them. If any ant manages to survive, they will know not to fuck with you.
I hope this helps you with your ant infestations. If it doesn’t, a prolonged siege may be in order; just take a page from Agamemnon (he was responsible for the siege of Troy; perhaps you could construct a tiny ant and fill it with explosives), or Janet Reno when dealing with the Branch Davidians (call the FBI, and when they prove useless, just burn the fucking thing down as referenced above).
Next week: how to rid your home of hornet infestation using common household items like jet packs and C4.
I came up with my own method of dealing with an ant infestation. It’s very effective. Here’s how it works: You start by isolating a group of intruders. Take a few dozen toothpicks, break them in half, and glue the halves together to form a cross. Take most of the ants you have isolated, and, with the help of thumbtacks, stick them to the center of the crosses. Leave five or so ants free. Pour some kerosene on them. They will hightail it back to their anthill. Follow them (don’t forget to bring your ants on toothpicks). Prop up the toothpick ants around the outside of the anthill (use honey to help them stand vertically). Dump some kerosene in the anthill and light that fucker on fire. Ants will come pouring out of the anthill, catching fire as they escape. They will make it a couple inches and get stuck in the honey. The last thing they will see before they burn to death is the crucified bodies of their brothers all around them. If any ant manages to survive, they will know not to fuck with you.
I hope this helps you with your ant infestations. If it doesn’t, a prolonged siege may be in order; just take a page from Agamemnon (he was responsible for the siege of Troy; perhaps you could construct a tiny ant and fill it with explosives), or Janet Reno when dealing with the Branch Davidians (call the FBI, and when they prove useless, just burn the fucking thing down as referenced above).
Next week: how to rid your home of hornet infestation using common household items like jet packs and C4.
Quickies: Monopoly
Monopoly is a great game for children. It teaches them that their friends and family only exist to fuck them out of their hard-earned money, so you better bankrupt them before they have a chance.
Speaking of chance, one of the Chance cards in Monopoly says “You have been elected Chairman of the Board. Pay everyone $50.” That implies some shady dealings, doesn’t it? Why would the Chairman of the board be paying out money? Those are bribes right there. But when you think about it, that card makes no sense. You don’t bribe someone after the fact. It should say “You are running for Chairman of the Board. Pay everyone $50.” They should have a follow-up card that says “You failed to be elected Chairman. Skip out on your next hotel bill. That’ll show the fuckers.”
Speaking of chance, one of the Chance cards in Monopoly says “You have been elected Chairman of the Board. Pay everyone $50.” That implies some shady dealings, doesn’t it? Why would the Chairman of the board be paying out money? Those are bribes right there. But when you think about it, that card makes no sense. You don’t bribe someone after the fact. It should say “You are running for Chairman of the Board. Pay everyone $50.” They should have a follow-up card that says “You failed to be elected Chairman. Skip out on your next hotel bill. That’ll show the fuckers.”
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Am I awake?
I hate it when I have a really vivid dream, where everything seems real, and I wake up in the middle, and have absolutely no idea if any of what I just dreamt actually happened. It’s a disturbing feeling; you have to get your wits together, survey your surroundings, figure out where exactly you are and try to remember what exactly you were thinking about. All that takes a couple minutes, and those minutes can be among the most confusing of your life.
This happened to me a few years back. I was having this really vivid dream that my dog had just died. I was devastated, cause I loved my dog. We ended up having to bury her in the backyard. It was at that point that I woke up to my dog licking my face. But I was still convinced that she was dead. I started freaking out, screaming, “Oh shit! Zombie dog! She’s trying to eat my brains!” and kicking furiously. As it turns out, dogs are not well built to survive a fall from a second story window.
But I try not to focus on the sad side of things; I stay positive. That was the night I realized I don’t have dreams; I have visions. I am clairvoyant. Now whenever I’m sleeping and I have a really vivid vision, I wake up and I know what to expect that day. Like if I have a premonition about being stabbed in the back by a leprechaun before he jumps back in his DeLorean with Doc and Marty and speeds off back to the future, I know to avoid little people that day. If I’m walking down the street that day, and I see a midget coming my way, I act nonchalant; I don’t want to give myself away. And then, just as he’s about to pass me, I kick him in the head and run off screaming, “You ain’t stabbing me Lucky! I’m on to you!”
Some skeptics claim I’m not clairvoyant, I’m just an asshole. But my response to that is simple; I’m still alive, aren’t I? I think I’ve proved my point.
This happened to me a few years back. I was having this really vivid dream that my dog had just died. I was devastated, cause I loved my dog. We ended up having to bury her in the backyard. It was at that point that I woke up to my dog licking my face. But I was still convinced that she was dead. I started freaking out, screaming, “Oh shit! Zombie dog! She’s trying to eat my brains!” and kicking furiously. As it turns out, dogs are not well built to survive a fall from a second story window.
But I try not to focus on the sad side of things; I stay positive. That was the night I realized I don’t have dreams; I have visions. I am clairvoyant. Now whenever I’m sleeping and I have a really vivid vision, I wake up and I know what to expect that day. Like if I have a premonition about being stabbed in the back by a leprechaun before he jumps back in his DeLorean with Doc and Marty and speeds off back to the future, I know to avoid little people that day. If I’m walking down the street that day, and I see a midget coming my way, I act nonchalant; I don’t want to give myself away. And then, just as he’s about to pass me, I kick him in the head and run off screaming, “You ain’t stabbing me Lucky! I’m on to you!”
Some skeptics claim I’m not clairvoyant, I’m just an asshole. But my response to that is simple; I’m still alive, aren’t I? I think I’ve proved my point.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Quickies: Posthumous Hilarity
Some people want their bodies left to science. Some want their bodies left to art. I want my body left to comedy. Prop my lifeless body up at someone's door, ring the bell, and go hide in the bushes. Set up a giant catapult near a church, and wait for a wedding; time the launch so that just as the minister asks if anyone objects, my corpse comes smashing through the window. Wait until rigor mortis sets in, then beat Dane Cook to death with me. And then shove his corpse up Carlos Mencia’s ass. That’s two birds right there.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Southwest Airlines
Southwest is the best airline in the world. It gives you all the experience of riding a city bus at 300 times the cost. You show up at your gate early, because they tell you to be early; it doesn’t matter that they won't be there anywhere near your scheduled departure time. Apparently one of their cost-cutting measures is getting rid of all the clocks in the cockpit.
So then they crowd you onto the plane, and you better hope you can push up to the front of that line, because seating is first come, first serve. It doesn't matter where you sit though, because you're going to be sitting with a class of people that used to be restricted to walking whenever they wanted to get somewhere until "cheap" airlines like Southwest came along. These are people whose last bath was their baptism. You're going to end up crushed between a man so fat, when he sits, he rips the fabric of space-time, and an elderly woman with a broken hearing aid who is going to shout at you about her cats for the next 12 hours.
And it will take 12 hours. It doesn't matter where you go on Southwest, every journey takes the longest possible amount of time. You're flying from Portland to Sacramento, they're going to route you through Reno, and Las Vegas, and Los Angeles, and Phoenix, and Albuquerque, then back up to Reno, then to Seattle, before they come back to Portland and tell you to get off. And you're so frazzled that you think, "What the hell, I must be here," and you get off, and when you realize your mistake and turn around to get back on the plane they close the door and take off without you. So you're running down the tarmac yelling at them, and you know they see you because you can see them laughing and pointing, and they slow down a little to give you a glimmer of hope... and then they speed up and they're gone. There's a special level of hell reserved for bus drivers and Southwest airline pilots.
And speaking of Southwest, a couple years ago they announced that they were going to start charging double fare for fat people because they take up more than one seat. Does that mean they'll offer reduced fares to little people if they're willing to stow themselves safely in the overhead compartment? Seems only fair...
So then they crowd you onto the plane, and you better hope you can push up to the front of that line, because seating is first come, first serve. It doesn't matter where you sit though, because you're going to be sitting with a class of people that used to be restricted to walking whenever they wanted to get somewhere until "cheap" airlines like Southwest came along. These are people whose last bath was their baptism. You're going to end up crushed between a man so fat, when he sits, he rips the fabric of space-time, and an elderly woman with a broken hearing aid who is going to shout at you about her cats for the next 12 hours.
And it will take 12 hours. It doesn't matter where you go on Southwest, every journey takes the longest possible amount of time. You're flying from Portland to Sacramento, they're going to route you through Reno, and Las Vegas, and Los Angeles, and Phoenix, and Albuquerque, then back up to Reno, then to Seattle, before they come back to Portland and tell you to get off. And you're so frazzled that you think, "What the hell, I must be here," and you get off, and when you realize your mistake and turn around to get back on the plane they close the door and take off without you. So you're running down the tarmac yelling at them, and you know they see you because you can see them laughing and pointing, and they slow down a little to give you a glimmer of hope... and then they speed up and they're gone. There's a special level of hell reserved for bus drivers and Southwest airline pilots.
And speaking of Southwest, a couple years ago they announced that they were going to start charging double fare for fat people because they take up more than one seat. Does that mean they'll offer reduced fares to little people if they're willing to stow themselves safely in the overhead compartment? Seems only fair...
Logo
For the two of you paying attention, the blog has a new logo. I designed that myself. Thank you, thank you. It only took an hour, three beers, and more Photoshop tutorials than I can count (it was one more than the number of beers). I'm happy with how it turned out, though I did use a copyrighted image. Of course I am speaking of the three shapes in the circle representing "atomic." I sincerely hope boron doesn't sue...
That said, the Playboy bunny is certainly copywrite, and if they send a cease and desist order, I will be happy to remove it. I don't figure it's doing any harm, since I'm not actually using it to sell anything. Hell, I'll do 'em a solid; go buy a subscription to Playboy. This magazine is awesome. Apparently they have articles in it which are really quite good, and it's got some great ads as well.
I don't honestly have a joke, I just figured I needed a place to announce the new logo. Hope you enjoy it.
That said, the Playboy bunny is certainly copywrite, and if they send a cease and desist order, I will be happy to remove it. I don't figure it's doing any harm, since I'm not actually using it to sell anything. Hell, I'll do 'em a solid; go buy a subscription to Playboy. This magazine is awesome. Apparently they have articles in it which are really quite good, and it's got some great ads as well.
I don't honestly have a joke, I just figured I needed a place to announce the new logo. Hope you enjoy it.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Dreams
There’s a reason you only dream when you’re asleep; dreams are fucking boring. Nobody wants to hear about your dreams. People always assume that their dreams are deeply meaningful, and that they contain some profound truth that the rest of the world needs to hear. But the thing is, when you tell us about your dreams, you sound like this:
“I was washing my car, and there was this leprechaun driving it, and then Doc yelled ‘We’ve got to get back to the future!’ So I roller skated over to the drive through window and the pharmacist told me I needed more iron, and he pulled out a broadsword, and then my unicorn ate it and said ‘Phlizbaggle tee jibbet’ and it made me sad even though I don’t speak unicorn cause I knew he was telling me my mom had died. Then I got in the roller coaster and David Hasselhoff was stroking my hair and telling me the moon would be back tomorrow, and I woke up crying.”
You’re a fucking idiot. Don’t speak to me any more. If some ultimate truth to the universe is revealed through that, I’ll risk missing out. Chances are, if you have dreams like that, I’m going to see you on the 6 o’clock news some night firing from a clock tower. I don’t need reporters at my house asking if I ever saw it coming. I’ll just tell them one of those crazy dreams and they’ll nod knowingly... and then I’ll get arrested because apparently I should have known this person was crazy.
In that vain, let me tell you about a dream I had. Yes, I know it makes me a hypocrite, but unlike you, my dreams are interesting. I dreamt that a fortune teller looked at my hand, told me I was about to die, then looked me dead in the eye and said “and the fortune is eerily accurate.” I woke up screaming. I’m sick of people in my dream predicting my death. That dream made my drive to work extra fun that morning. I ended up arriving two hours late. My boss wanted to know why I was so late, and I said “a fortune teller in my dream predicted my death so I didn’t get the car above 5 mph on my commute.” Don’t worry, I didn’t like that job anyway. I didn’t get fired for that, though; I got fired because I kept having wet daydreams. Apparently that’s distracting during meetings. Who knew?
“I was washing my car, and there was this leprechaun driving it, and then Doc yelled ‘We’ve got to get back to the future!’ So I roller skated over to the drive through window and the pharmacist told me I needed more iron, and he pulled out a broadsword, and then my unicorn ate it and said ‘Phlizbaggle tee jibbet’ and it made me sad even though I don’t speak unicorn cause I knew he was telling me my mom had died. Then I got in the roller coaster and David Hasselhoff was stroking my hair and telling me the moon would be back tomorrow, and I woke up crying.”
You’re a fucking idiot. Don’t speak to me any more. If some ultimate truth to the universe is revealed through that, I’ll risk missing out. Chances are, if you have dreams like that, I’m going to see you on the 6 o’clock news some night firing from a clock tower. I don’t need reporters at my house asking if I ever saw it coming. I’ll just tell them one of those crazy dreams and they’ll nod knowingly... and then I’ll get arrested because apparently I should have known this person was crazy.
In that vain, let me tell you about a dream I had. Yes, I know it makes me a hypocrite, but unlike you, my dreams are interesting. I dreamt that a fortune teller looked at my hand, told me I was about to die, then looked me dead in the eye and said “and the fortune is eerily accurate.” I woke up screaming. I’m sick of people in my dream predicting my death. That dream made my drive to work extra fun that morning. I ended up arriving two hours late. My boss wanted to know why I was so late, and I said “a fortune teller in my dream predicted my death so I didn’t get the car above 5 mph on my commute.” Don’t worry, I didn’t like that job anyway. I didn’t get fired for that, though; I got fired because I kept having wet daydreams. Apparently that’s distracting during meetings. Who knew?
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Vacation horror stories: Part 2
I used to love Spring Break. Spring Break was one of the four times a year I would see my family. We had Spring Break, Summer Break, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving and Christmas it was always too cold to do anything, so we just sat around and ate. But in the spring and summer, it was time for a trip.
We never did trips like other families. I remember my friends in school telling me about their family going to Europe or Asia or South America. My family wouldn’t do that. Our trips were always going to be based around how far we could drive. Spring Break is 9 days long; my family would pick a direction, drive for 4 days, then turn around and drive back. Planning basically consisted of “this year, I think we should go... south.” We’d bring along maps, sure, but they were never maps for the state we were in; we’d have maps of Nevada, Rhode Island, Brazil, colonial Africa circa 1910, the human genome... nothing that would help us navigate where we actually were. We’d try to make do with what we had, only driving at night so we could use our star chart to find our way, like some sort of land pirate in a minivan. Not that it mattered; we never had a destination beyond, “whatever we find along the way.”
One time we ended up at a park in Southern Oregon that promised a nature trail and caves. The “nature trail” portion of this park was about 300 yards of wood plank that had been carefully laid out by a violent wind storm. They took you on a lovely walk around a copse of Douglas Fir, Oregon’s state tree. Let me tell you, Douglas Fir is not Oregon’s state tree because it’s rare. Our neighbor had a Douglas Fir that stretched into our yard; these are not hard to come by. If there had been some redwoods or palm trees, I could see getting excited. But one of the most common trees in the state? Who cares?
This didn’t bother me of course. I was not stoked about hiking anyway. When you are a kid, your primary mode of transportation is walking. You may have a bike or skateboard or something, but for the most part, if you need to get somewhere, you’re hoofing it. This explains why hiking doesn’t appeal to children; it’s just doing what we normally do somewhere else. It’s like an adult deciding that for their vacation, they’re going to drive around in a new place for a few days, then drive home. I was not in this trip for the hiking; I was waiting to see the caves.
The “caves” at this particular park turned out to be a single 2 foot wide hole that someone had drilled into the side of a hill. The sides were lined with concrete. It was certainly an incredible imitation of how caves appear in the wild; I couldn’t believe it wasn’t natural. Against my better judgment, I let my uncle convince me that I should crawl into this “cave” to see where it went. I obliged, thinking, “Well, it’s either this or walking in a circle around some Doug Firs” (my mother was determined to get a real hike out of this park, so she had taken to doing laps around the trees). I figured the cave was a better bet; boy, was I about to be surprised.
I had to crawl on my belly to get into this cave. I got about 10 feet in and thought, “OK, I’ve seen it.” This wasn’t true, of course; in my haste, I had forgotten to bring any object capable of producing light. Kids are surprisingly stupid at times. I was an intelligent child, an exceptional student, in all the hardest classes at school, and in the gifted program offered by the state. Yet for some reason, I couldn’t figure out that even though it was light outside, the light would not necessarily permeate this subterranean tube. I was happy to just crawl in thinking, “I can see fine, I don’t need light! Why is it so dark in there anyway?”
So I’m 10 feet in and I’m bored with the tube and I want to come out. I try to turn around but I can’t. I try to back up, I just end up skinning my elbows on the concrete. Oh fuck. Apparently, this is a one-way tube, and I, against my better judgment and will, am going to find out where it leads. I’m crawling through, keenly aware that I am crawling through all sorts of cobwebs and bugs. I am afraid of insects at this point in my life, but my fear of spiders is legendary. If I see a spider in the bathroom, I won’t shit for a week. Now I’m crawling through a mess of spider webs in pitch black underground in a tube... This is not my idea of a great time. At this point, I’m wondering who came up with the idea for a “tube cave” as a place to bring your family. Was it someone escaping from prison through the sewers thinking, “Wow, the wife and kids would love this”?
So I’m sick of the tube and I want to get through it as quickly as possible. I am moving as fast as I can crawling on my belly. I’m hauling ass. My elbows are getting cut to shit, I don’t care. All of a sudden, *CRACK*, I run headfirst into a wall. Apparently, this isn’t just a straight tube, it’s got turns in it. I’m blind, my elbows are cut, and now I have a concussion, and I’m lost in an underground labyrinth designed by some sociopath with a giant drill and an unbridled hatred for small children. I carefully maneuver through this bend, only cutting 2 knuckles open, and continue on. I have a hand out in front to make sure I don’t smash into any more walls as I haul ass through this tube. So naturally, when I come to the next turn, I smash my hand into it.
But this is the good turn. This turn leads to daylight. I can see the end of the tunnel. I can also hear a ringing in my ears, which I take to be the voice of God, and I’m prepared to accept that I have died as long as it will get me out of this tube. I am racing forward at nearly two miles per hour, when a figure, a great behemoth of a man who could block out the sun, crouches down in front of the tube and begins to crawl in. I lose it. “Get the fuck out of the fucking tube you goddamn fuck!” The figure quickly diminishes and I make my way, sobbing, to the light at the end of the tunnel.
As I emerge from the tube, I am keenly aware of the sound of crying. But it’s not just my own. My 5 year old cousin is bawling her eyes out. Apparently she had been the giant man who had been crawling into the tube. She was screaming, “There’s a monster in there!” Now the whole family is looking at me; my mother’s eyes do little to hide that she is running through all the ways she could murder me and get away with it. I am crying, bleeding from several places on my body, a giant knot on my head, and I’m public enemy number one. Nothing to do now but go crazy.
“Fuck that fucking tube! Fuck the cave, fuck the tube, fuck the trail, fuck the trees, fuck the car, fuck this fucking trip, fuck Spring Break, I want to go fucking home, I’m fucking sick of this fucking shit! I am fucking bleeding, I cracked my fucking head, my fucking hand hurts, I am covered with fucking bugs, and I just fucking escaped from being buried the fuck alive! I fucking hate this place! Fuck this fucking fuck fuck shit fuck piss fuck FUCK!”
In the years since that trip, I don’t think I said “fuck” around my mother but 4 or 5 times. In that rant, I must have said it 50 times. We didn’t talk about it when the rest of the family came back to the car. We haven’t talked about it since. All I know is, the next time I’m asked if I want to go on vacation with the family, I’m slashing their tires and flying to Rio.
We never did trips like other families. I remember my friends in school telling me about their family going to Europe or Asia or South America. My family wouldn’t do that. Our trips were always going to be based around how far we could drive. Spring Break is 9 days long; my family would pick a direction, drive for 4 days, then turn around and drive back. Planning basically consisted of “this year, I think we should go... south.” We’d bring along maps, sure, but they were never maps for the state we were in; we’d have maps of Nevada, Rhode Island, Brazil, colonial Africa circa 1910, the human genome... nothing that would help us navigate where we actually were. We’d try to make do with what we had, only driving at night so we could use our star chart to find our way, like some sort of land pirate in a minivan. Not that it mattered; we never had a destination beyond, “whatever we find along the way.”
One time we ended up at a park in Southern Oregon that promised a nature trail and caves. The “nature trail” portion of this park was about 300 yards of wood plank that had been carefully laid out by a violent wind storm. They took you on a lovely walk around a copse of Douglas Fir, Oregon’s state tree. Let me tell you, Douglas Fir is not Oregon’s state tree because it’s rare. Our neighbor had a Douglas Fir that stretched into our yard; these are not hard to come by. If there had been some redwoods or palm trees, I could see getting excited. But one of the most common trees in the state? Who cares?
This didn’t bother me of course. I was not stoked about hiking anyway. When you are a kid, your primary mode of transportation is walking. You may have a bike or skateboard or something, but for the most part, if you need to get somewhere, you’re hoofing it. This explains why hiking doesn’t appeal to children; it’s just doing what we normally do somewhere else. It’s like an adult deciding that for their vacation, they’re going to drive around in a new place for a few days, then drive home. I was not in this trip for the hiking; I was waiting to see the caves.
The “caves” at this particular park turned out to be a single 2 foot wide hole that someone had drilled into the side of a hill. The sides were lined with concrete. It was certainly an incredible imitation of how caves appear in the wild; I couldn’t believe it wasn’t natural. Against my better judgment, I let my uncle convince me that I should crawl into this “cave” to see where it went. I obliged, thinking, “Well, it’s either this or walking in a circle around some Doug Firs” (my mother was determined to get a real hike out of this park, so she had taken to doing laps around the trees). I figured the cave was a better bet; boy, was I about to be surprised.
I had to crawl on my belly to get into this cave. I got about 10 feet in and thought, “OK, I’ve seen it.” This wasn’t true, of course; in my haste, I had forgotten to bring any object capable of producing light. Kids are surprisingly stupid at times. I was an intelligent child, an exceptional student, in all the hardest classes at school, and in the gifted program offered by the state. Yet for some reason, I couldn’t figure out that even though it was light outside, the light would not necessarily permeate this subterranean tube. I was happy to just crawl in thinking, “I can see fine, I don’t need light! Why is it so dark in there anyway?”
So I’m 10 feet in and I’m bored with the tube and I want to come out. I try to turn around but I can’t. I try to back up, I just end up skinning my elbows on the concrete. Oh fuck. Apparently, this is a one-way tube, and I, against my better judgment and will, am going to find out where it leads. I’m crawling through, keenly aware that I am crawling through all sorts of cobwebs and bugs. I am afraid of insects at this point in my life, but my fear of spiders is legendary. If I see a spider in the bathroom, I won’t shit for a week. Now I’m crawling through a mess of spider webs in pitch black underground in a tube... This is not my idea of a great time. At this point, I’m wondering who came up with the idea for a “tube cave” as a place to bring your family. Was it someone escaping from prison through the sewers thinking, “Wow, the wife and kids would love this”?
So I’m sick of the tube and I want to get through it as quickly as possible. I am moving as fast as I can crawling on my belly. I’m hauling ass. My elbows are getting cut to shit, I don’t care. All of a sudden, *CRACK*, I run headfirst into a wall. Apparently, this isn’t just a straight tube, it’s got turns in it. I’m blind, my elbows are cut, and now I have a concussion, and I’m lost in an underground labyrinth designed by some sociopath with a giant drill and an unbridled hatred for small children. I carefully maneuver through this bend, only cutting 2 knuckles open, and continue on. I have a hand out in front to make sure I don’t smash into any more walls as I haul ass through this tube. So naturally, when I come to the next turn, I smash my hand into it.
But this is the good turn. This turn leads to daylight. I can see the end of the tunnel. I can also hear a ringing in my ears, which I take to be the voice of God, and I’m prepared to accept that I have died as long as it will get me out of this tube. I am racing forward at nearly two miles per hour, when a figure, a great behemoth of a man who could block out the sun, crouches down in front of the tube and begins to crawl in. I lose it. “Get the fuck out of the fucking tube you goddamn fuck!” The figure quickly diminishes and I make my way, sobbing, to the light at the end of the tunnel.
As I emerge from the tube, I am keenly aware of the sound of crying. But it’s not just my own. My 5 year old cousin is bawling her eyes out. Apparently she had been the giant man who had been crawling into the tube. She was screaming, “There’s a monster in there!” Now the whole family is looking at me; my mother’s eyes do little to hide that she is running through all the ways she could murder me and get away with it. I am crying, bleeding from several places on my body, a giant knot on my head, and I’m public enemy number one. Nothing to do now but go crazy.
“Fuck that fucking tube! Fuck the cave, fuck the tube, fuck the trail, fuck the trees, fuck the car, fuck this fucking trip, fuck Spring Break, I want to go fucking home, I’m fucking sick of this fucking shit! I am fucking bleeding, I cracked my fucking head, my fucking hand hurts, I am covered with fucking bugs, and I just fucking escaped from being buried the fuck alive! I fucking hate this place! Fuck this fucking fuck fuck shit fuck piss fuck FUCK!”
In the years since that trip, I don’t think I said “fuck” around my mother but 4 or 5 times. In that rant, I must have said it 50 times. We didn’t talk about it when the rest of the family came back to the car. We haven’t talked about it since. All I know is, the next time I’m asked if I want to go on vacation with the family, I’m slashing their tires and flying to Rio.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The English Language
English is a wonderful language. People say it’s difficult to learn, but I don’t buy it. There are babies learning it every day. I spoke English as a toddler, and I was dumb enough to put my hand in a burning fireplace on more than one occasion. If someone who doesn’t realize that lighting yourself on fire isn’t the best idea is still capable of learning English, it must not be as hard as everyone makes it out to be. And fine, if it is hard to learn, that just means that the only people who speak it were motivated enough to learn it, and they’re the only people I would want to carry on a conversation with anyway.
The thing about English is that it’s a living language. People add new things to it all the time. Just last year, the Oxford English Dictionary added “irregardless” as a word. This was done to appease the millions of idiots who used “irregardless” when “regardless” already existed. Don’t be fooled; they mean the exact same thing, like “flammable” and “inflammable” or “color” and “go to hell, I’m not spelling it with a U.” But idiots didn’t realize “irregardless” was wrong, and rather than correct them, the Oxford English Dictionary bent over backwards to appease them (this is why I’m not spelling color with a “U” Britain).
But it shouldn’t just be left up to idiots to dictate our language. Shakespeare invented many words and phrases, and he was apparently a genius (he wasn’t great at hiding his sources, but in those days most people couldn’t read, so he was set). To that end, I’m developing my own words and phrases which I hope to add to our common lexicon. For example:
Narquat: A narquat is someone of below average intelligence whose stupidity is annoying, though not intentionally so.
“That asshole cut you off!”
“I don’t think he saw me... he’s just a narquat.”
Biepsilonian: A word that contains exactly two “E”s. For example, example. The primary use of this word is in correcting the spelling of someone who has misspelled a word with exactly two “E”s.
“Seperate the egg whites.”
“Actually, separate is biepsilonian; the center vowels are “A”s.” [Ed. Note that this also makes “separate” dialpharate and vox semivowelenscindoable, but you knew that.]
It’s all squirrels: This phrase means everything is going well. It typically is used in response to “How’s it going?”
“How’s it going (didn’t see that coming, did you)?”
“It’s all squirrels.”
“What?”
“I’ve got the day off work, it’s nice out, I can just hang out on the dock with my feet in the water drinking a beer. It’s all squirrels.”
“I’m not going to talk to you any more.”
The puppy of failure: This phrase has two distinct uses, though in both it is an analogy for a person’s behavior.
The primary method is as a negative analogy: “Boy, you sure took the baby seal of fashion and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of failure.” The recipient knows that you are using this to indicate they have dressed poorly.
The other use is an ironic compliment: “Boy, you sure have taken the baby seal of adversity and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of triumph.” This is the perfect thing to say to a gold medalist at the Special Olympics. The beauty of this usage is that it is complimentary, yet few people want to hear a compliment that involves beating a baby seal to death with a puppy.
In either case, it is an easy analogy to construct. Simply say “You have take the baby seal of _____ and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of _____.” It’s simple, and it fits any occasion:
“Happy Valentine’s Day honey. You have taken the baby seal that is my heart and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of love.”
That’s some romantic ass shit right there. Shakespeare has nothing on the ass that line will get you.
The thing about English is that it’s a living language. People add new things to it all the time. Just last year, the Oxford English Dictionary added “irregardless” as a word. This was done to appease the millions of idiots who used “irregardless” when “regardless” already existed. Don’t be fooled; they mean the exact same thing, like “flammable” and “inflammable” or “color” and “go to hell, I’m not spelling it with a U.” But idiots didn’t realize “irregardless” was wrong, and rather than correct them, the Oxford English Dictionary bent over backwards to appease them (this is why I’m not spelling color with a “U” Britain).
But it shouldn’t just be left up to idiots to dictate our language. Shakespeare invented many words and phrases, and he was apparently a genius (he wasn’t great at hiding his sources, but in those days most people couldn’t read, so he was set). To that end, I’m developing my own words and phrases which I hope to add to our common lexicon. For example:
Narquat: A narquat is someone of below average intelligence whose stupidity is annoying, though not intentionally so.
“That asshole cut you off!”
“I don’t think he saw me... he’s just a narquat.”
Biepsilonian: A word that contains exactly two “E”s. For example, example. The primary use of this word is in correcting the spelling of someone who has misspelled a word with exactly two “E”s.
“Seperate the egg whites.”
“Actually, separate is biepsilonian; the center vowels are “A”s.” [Ed. Note that this also makes “separate” dialpharate and vox semivowelenscindoable, but you knew that.]
It’s all squirrels: This phrase means everything is going well. It typically is used in response to “How’s it going?”
“How’s it going (didn’t see that coming, did you)?”
“It’s all squirrels.”
“What?”
“I’ve got the day off work, it’s nice out, I can just hang out on the dock with my feet in the water drinking a beer. It’s all squirrels.”
“I’m not going to talk to you any more.”
The puppy of failure: This phrase has two distinct uses, though in both it is an analogy for a person’s behavior.
The primary method is as a negative analogy: “Boy, you sure took the baby seal of fashion and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of failure.” The recipient knows that you are using this to indicate they have dressed poorly.
The other use is an ironic compliment: “Boy, you sure have taken the baby seal of adversity and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of triumph.” This is the perfect thing to say to a gold medalist at the Special Olympics. The beauty of this usage is that it is complimentary, yet few people want to hear a compliment that involves beating a baby seal to death with a puppy.
In either case, it is an easy analogy to construct. Simply say “You have take the baby seal of _____ and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of _____.” It’s simple, and it fits any occasion:
“Happy Valentine’s Day honey. You have taken the baby seal that is my heart and bludgeoned it to death with the puppy of love.”
That’s some romantic ass shit right there. Shakespeare has nothing on the ass that line will get you.
Superheroes
I don’t know about everyone else, but I don’t trust superheroes. If I had been kidnapped, and Superman broke through the wall, and he disarmed the kidnappers and beat them up, and he offered his hand to me and said “Come on, I’m here to rescue you,” I’d say, “No thanks, I’ll take my chances with these guys.” By this point, the bad guys are already disarmed and unconscious; what do I need Superman for? I don’t trust him. The man goes outside in a leotard with underwear over the top of it. If you are a grown man and you wear your underwear outside your pants, you are most likely clinically retarded. Why do you think all the superheroes wear those booties? It’s because they’re too stupid to tie a shoe. Maybe they’re all inbred, and they just happened to get super powers as a bonus prize, I don’t know. The point is, I don’t really feel safe flying with someone who can’t dress themselves at the helm. Just my luck Superman is carrying me, when he sees a bird, and reaches out to pet it, and drops my ass; “Ooooooh, birdie!,” and I fall to my death because I don’t fucking fly. Retarded ass superhero...
But I don’t want to be rescued by a superhero because I don’t trust ‘em. I imagine myself as a superhero, and I wouldn’t trust me. If I were a superhero, I’d try to do good. And I sense that would last for maybe a week. I know myself. If I had super powers, I would not put up with any of life's little annoyances again. You know damn well if you had super powers, you would never wait in line. It doesn’t matter what super power you have, you’d figure out how to use it to get to the front of the line. I’ll light that guy on fire, I’ll turn invisible and sneak in front, I’ll stretch my arms and legs around this guy and claim I was in front the whole time, I’ll clobber everyone in my damn way... yes, that is how the Fantastic Four go shopping, and it’s how I would too.
Or how about the DMV. What a hell hole that place is. If I had super powers, trips to the DMV would take 30 seconds, tops. If I could crush people to a quantum singularity with my mind, I’d enter that DMV and the only sound would be the rush of air coming in with me to fill the void left as 70 voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced (don’t blame me for using suddenly twice in that sentence, it’s George Lucas’ line; I figure as long as I’m writing about super heroes, let’s throw in some Star Wars). I’d walk up to the lone teller, who would promptly tell me to take a number, and then call out every single number before me twelve times to be absolutely sure that they weren’t going to blink back into existence at their turn. Apparently it’s impossible for even the mightiest superhero to have a quick experience at the DMV.
If I were a super hero, I wouldn’t work any more. It’d be hard to convince me that I should work for someone else when I had uncanny abilities that would make it easier for me to just rob a bank and live like a king. They always show super heroes working, and they’re always desperately poor people. Peter Parker, broke ass college kid. Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy... but he was born into it. How well do you think Wayne Enterprises is doing when their chief executive is dressing up as a bat every night and gallivanting around town in a rocket car? Super heroes really should be paid for their contribution to the city. If I was going to be cleaning up crime, I’d expect something in return. Like if I saved someone, and I was flying them home, I might casually turn the conversation towards compensation.
“So... how much money do you have?
“What?”
“How much money do you have?”
“I don’t know, like 20 bucks?”
”Not on you, stupid, in your bank.”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple thousand. Why?”
“Well, I did just save your life. How much is that worth to you?”
“I thought you did this out of the goodness of your heart.”
“Oh, no, totally... but you are getting really heavy, and I don’t know if I can hold you much longer. Maybe a thousand dollars could improve my stamina.”
How dare you expect to be rescued for free? Deep down, everyone is an asshole. A super hero is just an asshole who is stronger than you. That’s why if I ever meet a super hero, I’m stabbing them through the heart with a blade made of kryptonite. Pwned! And seeing as how I just hit the geek trifecta, I’ll take my leave.
But I don’t want to be rescued by a superhero because I don’t trust ‘em. I imagine myself as a superhero, and I wouldn’t trust me. If I were a superhero, I’d try to do good. And I sense that would last for maybe a week. I know myself. If I had super powers, I would not put up with any of life's little annoyances again. You know damn well if you had super powers, you would never wait in line. It doesn’t matter what super power you have, you’d figure out how to use it to get to the front of the line. I’ll light that guy on fire, I’ll turn invisible and sneak in front, I’ll stretch my arms and legs around this guy and claim I was in front the whole time, I’ll clobber everyone in my damn way... yes, that is how the Fantastic Four go shopping, and it’s how I would too.
Or how about the DMV. What a hell hole that place is. If I had super powers, trips to the DMV would take 30 seconds, tops. If I could crush people to a quantum singularity with my mind, I’d enter that DMV and the only sound would be the rush of air coming in with me to fill the void left as 70 voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced (don’t blame me for using suddenly twice in that sentence, it’s George Lucas’ line; I figure as long as I’m writing about super heroes, let’s throw in some Star Wars). I’d walk up to the lone teller, who would promptly tell me to take a number, and then call out every single number before me twelve times to be absolutely sure that they weren’t going to blink back into existence at their turn. Apparently it’s impossible for even the mightiest superhero to have a quick experience at the DMV.
If I were a super hero, I wouldn’t work any more. It’d be hard to convince me that I should work for someone else when I had uncanny abilities that would make it easier for me to just rob a bank and live like a king. They always show super heroes working, and they’re always desperately poor people. Peter Parker, broke ass college kid. Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy... but he was born into it. How well do you think Wayne Enterprises is doing when their chief executive is dressing up as a bat every night and gallivanting around town in a rocket car? Super heroes really should be paid for their contribution to the city. If I was going to be cleaning up crime, I’d expect something in return. Like if I saved someone, and I was flying them home, I might casually turn the conversation towards compensation.
“So... how much money do you have?
“What?”
“How much money do you have?”
“I don’t know, like 20 bucks?”
”Not on you, stupid, in your bank.”
“I don’t know, maybe a couple thousand. Why?”
“Well, I did just save your life. How much is that worth to you?”
“I thought you did this out of the goodness of your heart.”
“Oh, no, totally... but you are getting really heavy, and I don’t know if I can hold you much longer. Maybe a thousand dollars could improve my stamina.”
How dare you expect to be rescued for free? Deep down, everyone is an asshole. A super hero is just an asshole who is stronger than you. That’s why if I ever meet a super hero, I’m stabbing them through the heart with a blade made of kryptonite. Pwned! And seeing as how I just hit the geek trifecta, I’ll take my leave.
God damn rich bastards...
Yesterday, my work held their annual auction, which would be weird, except I work in a school, and it’s perfectly acceptable to hock cheesy wares and make people bid exorbitant sums of money if it’s in the guise of giving it to children. I got all dolled up in my suit and tie, which hasn’t been untied in 4 years, because I don’t actually know how to tie a tie (if it ever gets undone, I’ll have to throw it out), and went down to the Hilton to prepare for the festivities.
My initial job is greeter, and I end up stationed in the lobby to make sure people realize the auction is downstairs. If I had to offer only one piece of advice to you, it would not be this, but this is good advice anyway: never stand near an unmanned door in a nice hotel if you are wearing a suit. Every single person who entered had a question for me: “Can you tell me where the bathrooms are?” “Why doesn’t my keycard work?” “How is the food here?” “Do you offer valet service?” “There’s a dead hooker in my room and I have no idea how she got there,” etc. I had to keep telling people the concierge was right around the corner, and I actually had a woman say to me “Yes, but there’s a line over there.” Maybe that’s because he can help you? Right, fine ma’am, what was your question again? Oh, I recommend the crab etouffee, it’s quite succulent. You say the bathroom door is locked? Well just use the potted plant over there. That’s what I did. Fuck, I hate rich people...
And on top of that, I’m wearing a star necklace. This is not by choice. The theme of the auction was “Starry, Starry Night,” so it makes sense to give me a big gold necklace with stars on it. I looked like a bizarre hybrid of James Bond and Mr. T, with a splash of Elton John thrown in for flair. All the people that I was directing downstairs looked at me as though I were insane for wearing such gaudy jewelry. But they couldn’t come right out and say, “Jesus, what are you, queer?” So they’d just make some snide remark about, “Nice necklace,” and then snicker under their breath like they’d said the funniest thing ever. Or the six people who asked me if I had gotten the necklace at Mardi Gras. Or the twelve who asked if they could buy one downstairs. I told them, “No, but I’ll sell you this one,” and they’d laugh and walk off, and I just wanted to kick them down the escalator for getting my hopes up in the first place. But you know what? That star necklace got so much attention, I’m thinking of adding it to my permanent collection. It may end up in daily rotation, along with the flashing star pin they gave us, which was designed by the military to give enemy combatants epileptic seizures if they attempt to focus on you.
I don’t have an endpiece for this yet, but seeing as how I need to get drunk and do my taxes, and yes, in that order, it’ll have to wait.
My initial job is greeter, and I end up stationed in the lobby to make sure people realize the auction is downstairs. If I had to offer only one piece of advice to you, it would not be this, but this is good advice anyway: never stand near an unmanned door in a nice hotel if you are wearing a suit. Every single person who entered had a question for me: “Can you tell me where the bathrooms are?” “Why doesn’t my keycard work?” “How is the food here?” “Do you offer valet service?” “There’s a dead hooker in my room and I have no idea how she got there,” etc. I had to keep telling people the concierge was right around the corner, and I actually had a woman say to me “Yes, but there’s a line over there.” Maybe that’s because he can help you? Right, fine ma’am, what was your question again? Oh, I recommend the crab etouffee, it’s quite succulent. You say the bathroom door is locked? Well just use the potted plant over there. That’s what I did. Fuck, I hate rich people...
And on top of that, I’m wearing a star necklace. This is not by choice. The theme of the auction was “Starry, Starry Night,” so it makes sense to give me a big gold necklace with stars on it. I looked like a bizarre hybrid of James Bond and Mr. T, with a splash of Elton John thrown in for flair. All the people that I was directing downstairs looked at me as though I were insane for wearing such gaudy jewelry. But they couldn’t come right out and say, “Jesus, what are you, queer?” So they’d just make some snide remark about, “Nice necklace,” and then snicker under their breath like they’d said the funniest thing ever. Or the six people who asked me if I had gotten the necklace at Mardi Gras. Or the twelve who asked if they could buy one downstairs. I told them, “No, but I’ll sell you this one,” and they’d laugh and walk off, and I just wanted to kick them down the escalator for getting my hopes up in the first place. But you know what? That star necklace got so much attention, I’m thinking of adding it to my permanent collection. It may end up in daily rotation, along with the flashing star pin they gave us, which was designed by the military to give enemy combatants epileptic seizures if they attempt to focus on you.
I don’t have an endpiece for this yet, but seeing as how I need to get drunk and do my taxes, and yes, in that order, it’ll have to wait.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The sex-ception list
I believe that clear, honest communication is vital to maintaining healthy relationships. I think that open dialogue is critical to developing trust, which is required if you want the relationship to survive. To that end, the most important part of any romantic relationship is developing, at an early stage, your sex-ception list.
If you aren’t familiar with the sex-ception list, I’ll explain it. It is a list of 3 or 5 (or really any number you want, though 3,864 might not be practical) celebrities who, if you had the opportunity not only to meet them, but to have sex with them, you could, and your partner couldn’t get mad. It has to be celebrities though; the whole point of the list is that it’s a fantasy. You couldn’t say, “Well, I’ll put that cute girl who works at Blockbuster... my ex-girlfriend, cause she won’t stop booty calling me... and your sister, cause she keeps giving me bedroom eyes when I come over.” The point of the list is that you put celebrities because it’s incredibly unlikely that you will ever meet a celebrity who will want to sleep with you, so if you manage to, your partner should just treat it as a dream come true.
So I’m thinking about my sex-ception list, when I get to wondering, “How do celebrity couples come up with these lists?” All their friends are celebrities. They couldn’t just put on people they know, that defeats the purpose of the list. Can you imagine Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie coming up with their lists? “I’m putting Jennifer Aniston on mine.” “You can’t do that, she’s my ex!” It would never work. They couldn’t just use celebrities, they know everybody.
Maybe they use the super-celebrities. You know, world leaders and the like; people who are in a whole different layer of fame. But then every celebrity’s list would start looking pretty similar. They’d all be made up of the same handful of people at the upper echelon of world famousnessosity. Everyone’s lists would just be the Queen of England, the Pope, the Dalai Lama, Batman and Osama bin Laden.
And speaking of Osama bin Laden, our government has been after him for 16 years (in conjunction with bombings in 1992). For the last six and a half years, he has been public enemy number one. Our government has absolutely no idea where he is. Their tactics have failed. But I’ve come up with a surefire winner. If Angelina Jolie went on TV right now and announced to the world that Osama bin Laden was on her sex-ception list, he would surface in no time. The Department of Defense would get a call 10 seconds after that message aired saying he was ready to surrender as long as he got his Angelina prize. An eternity with 70 virgins is nothing compared to one night with that woman.
I don’t even think Angelina Jolie is that attractive. All my friends, my whole family, everyone is always telling me how she’s gorgeous, how she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. Quite frankly, I don’t see the appeal. I can think of hundreds of women I find more attractive. But if I discovered that Angelina Jolie had added me to her sex-ception list? I would run to her house naked from here. I don’t care if she’s over in Cambodia, or whatever mine-filled hellhole she was living in, I’d still run there naked from here. I wouldn’t even get wet. I’d be moving so fast, I’d just be skimming along the surface of the water like Jesus on speed. I’d be passing fishing boats full of confused fishermen: “Was that the second coming of Christ?” “No, he just found out Angelina Jolie would have sex with him.” “Oh... let us kill him out of spite.”
Hell, maybe that’s how celebrity couples come up with their sex-ception lists. They just pick normal people. It makes sense; celebrities and normal people don’t interact much. When was the last time you were at a party and the host was introducing people to you, “And this is Dave and Donna, and of course you know Alex, and Steve, and this is George Clooney, and over here is Daryl...” I can just imagine Brad and Angelina sitting at their breakfast table, poring over podunk newspapers from around the nation. Brad calmly flips a page in the Des Moines Register-Guard, points to a picture of a young woman, “I’ll take her. Don’t often find myself in Iowa, but the next time I’m there, I may just give Ruth Metcalf here a call.”
Every single woman (and one very confused little boy) named Ruth Metcalf in Iowa just stripped off her clothes and is en route to Brad Pitt’s house as you read this. I do my part to make your local news interesting.
If you aren’t familiar with the sex-ception list, I’ll explain it. It is a list of 3 or 5 (or really any number you want, though 3,864 might not be practical) celebrities who, if you had the opportunity not only to meet them, but to have sex with them, you could, and your partner couldn’t get mad. It has to be celebrities though; the whole point of the list is that it’s a fantasy. You couldn’t say, “Well, I’ll put that cute girl who works at Blockbuster... my ex-girlfriend, cause she won’t stop booty calling me... and your sister, cause she keeps giving me bedroom eyes when I come over.” The point of the list is that you put celebrities because it’s incredibly unlikely that you will ever meet a celebrity who will want to sleep with you, so if you manage to, your partner should just treat it as a dream come true.
So I’m thinking about my sex-ception list, when I get to wondering, “How do celebrity couples come up with these lists?” All their friends are celebrities. They couldn’t just put on people they know, that defeats the purpose of the list. Can you imagine Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie coming up with their lists? “I’m putting Jennifer Aniston on mine.” “You can’t do that, she’s my ex!” It would never work. They couldn’t just use celebrities, they know everybody.
Maybe they use the super-celebrities. You know, world leaders and the like; people who are in a whole different layer of fame. But then every celebrity’s list would start looking pretty similar. They’d all be made up of the same handful of people at the upper echelon of world famousnessosity. Everyone’s lists would just be the Queen of England, the Pope, the Dalai Lama, Batman and Osama bin Laden.
And speaking of Osama bin Laden, our government has been after him for 16 years (in conjunction with bombings in 1992). For the last six and a half years, he has been public enemy number one. Our government has absolutely no idea where he is. Their tactics have failed. But I’ve come up with a surefire winner. If Angelina Jolie went on TV right now and announced to the world that Osama bin Laden was on her sex-ception list, he would surface in no time. The Department of Defense would get a call 10 seconds after that message aired saying he was ready to surrender as long as he got his Angelina prize. An eternity with 70 virgins is nothing compared to one night with that woman.
I don’t even think Angelina Jolie is that attractive. All my friends, my whole family, everyone is always telling me how she’s gorgeous, how she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. Quite frankly, I don’t see the appeal. I can think of hundreds of women I find more attractive. But if I discovered that Angelina Jolie had added me to her sex-ception list? I would run to her house naked from here. I don’t care if she’s over in Cambodia, or whatever mine-filled hellhole she was living in, I’d still run there naked from here. I wouldn’t even get wet. I’d be moving so fast, I’d just be skimming along the surface of the water like Jesus on speed. I’d be passing fishing boats full of confused fishermen: “Was that the second coming of Christ?” “No, he just found out Angelina Jolie would have sex with him.” “Oh... let us kill him out of spite.”
Hell, maybe that’s how celebrity couples come up with their sex-ception lists. They just pick normal people. It makes sense; celebrities and normal people don’t interact much. When was the last time you were at a party and the host was introducing people to you, “And this is Dave and Donna, and of course you know Alex, and Steve, and this is George Clooney, and over here is Daryl...” I can just imagine Brad and Angelina sitting at their breakfast table, poring over podunk newspapers from around the nation. Brad calmly flips a page in the Des Moines Register-Guard, points to a picture of a young woman, “I’ll take her. Don’t often find myself in Iowa, but the next time I’m there, I may just give Ruth Metcalf here a call.”
Every single woman (and one very confused little boy) named Ruth Metcalf in Iowa just stripped off her clothes and is en route to Brad Pitt’s house as you read this. I do my part to make your local news interesting.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Catholic Weddings
This weekend I had the pleasure of attending my uncle’s wedding. His traditional, Catholic wedding. If anyone ever invites you to a traditional Catholic wedding, do yourself a favor and stab that person in both eyes with a knitting needle. If they still invite you to the wedding, at least you can be assured that their faith is real, as only a true Catholic would remain unwavering in their original conviction despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.
One thing I will say about the Catholics, they know how to have a rollicking good time. A wedding is a celebration of two people who are stupid enough to get the law involved in their love. In that vain, we were a bit celebratory in nature as we entered the church. It was the first time that all my aunts and uncles on that side of the family have been together in six years. There was hugging and talking, saying hello to people that we haven’t seen in a while; fairly expected family behavior at a wedding. The priest gets on the microphone and admonishes us: “Please keep the conversation quiet, as this area is reserved for quiet contemplation.” I just turned around and walked out. I grabbed a Communion wafer on my way out, as I figure, hey, it never hurts to have some Jesus with you, you know? Maybe I see someone suffering from hypoglycemia; I can shove the wafer in his mouth and yell, “The body of Christ compels you!” Jesus saves.
So after rinsing my face in the Holy Water, I went back into the church and took up my place in the pews. We stood as the wedding procession entered, and remained standing for approximately the next three days, as the wedding party walked down the aisle, lit the candles, walked around and was seated, the singer sung a song or six, some of which we were encouraged to sing along with (though apparently you need at least four years of musical training to figure out to read a damn hymnal: Are we here? No wait, he jumped over here. Did he just skip that line? No, it drops down… what the hell does Coda mean? Do I sing it? Damn, wasn’t supposed to, ok… Oh, everyone has stopped singing, I should probably stop too). When we finally were allowed to sit, I found myself longing for the days of standing, as church pews are the most singly uncomfortable piece of furniture one could reasonably be expected to sit on. They could light a bed of nails on fire and it would be more inviting.
I find it’s best to try and learn something new when exposed to a culture you are unfamiliar with (and I am not terribly acquainted with Catholic ritual). For example, I learned that it is unwise to let a priest, who is theoretically chaste, officiate a ceremony that is entirely based around love. His speech consisted primarily of stumbling around looking for words. I shit you not, an excerpt from his speech went as follows: “Marriage… well, marriage is… well, I guess you could say it was kind of a celebration… marriage is about love… it is a celebration of love and commitment… and it is this marriage, this celebration… also of devotion, but love… and…” Look, I know love may be a new concept to you, but try to prepare something beforehand Father! Just think of an altar boy and the words will come. As if that weren’t bad enough, he went on to read forwarded e-mail jokes, one of which was about divorce… a joke about divorce at a wedding! Awesome! And then he referred to the newlyweds as “Mark and Tom… wait, that’s not right.” Shit, I guess he was thinking of the altar boys! What a fucking travesty of justice that shit was…
I had the good fortune to be seated next to my mother. My mother really gets into church. She was singing along to all the songs. It didn’t matter if it was meant for the whole congregation or just the professional singer they hired; hell, she even sung along to an instrumental. But she didn’t bother singing words. We had the words right there in front of us in the hymnals, didn’t matter. She was just humming “la la dee doo dah,” off-key, often not even to the same tune as the music (I swear at one point she was doing Baby Elephant Walk). I couldn’t keep a straight face. My uncle is walking down the aisle with his new bride and I am laughing hysterically because my mother will not stop humming carnival tunes behind me. Awkward.
Speaking of Catholic drinking songs, one of the hymns we sang contained the lyric “Blessed are those that come in the name of the Lord.” I did not realize that was all it took to be blessed. The first thing I did when I got home was write JESUS on my trashcan in big, bold letters. Now I’m coming in the Lord’s name five or six times a day. I’m jerking for Jesus! I like to think of each one as a little blessing in the palm of my hand… Hey, I’m earning my ticket to Heaven. And on that note, I think I have some offerings to make. This one’s for you Lord!
One thing I will say about the Catholics, they know how to have a rollicking good time. A wedding is a celebration of two people who are stupid enough to get the law involved in their love. In that vain, we were a bit celebratory in nature as we entered the church. It was the first time that all my aunts and uncles on that side of the family have been together in six years. There was hugging and talking, saying hello to people that we haven’t seen in a while; fairly expected family behavior at a wedding. The priest gets on the microphone and admonishes us: “Please keep the conversation quiet, as this area is reserved for quiet contemplation.” I just turned around and walked out. I grabbed a Communion wafer on my way out, as I figure, hey, it never hurts to have some Jesus with you, you know? Maybe I see someone suffering from hypoglycemia; I can shove the wafer in his mouth and yell, “The body of Christ compels you!” Jesus saves.
So after rinsing my face in the Holy Water, I went back into the church and took up my place in the pews. We stood as the wedding procession entered, and remained standing for approximately the next three days, as the wedding party walked down the aisle, lit the candles, walked around and was seated, the singer sung a song or six, some of which we were encouraged to sing along with (though apparently you need at least four years of musical training to figure out to read a damn hymnal: Are we here? No wait, he jumped over here. Did he just skip that line? No, it drops down… what the hell does Coda mean? Do I sing it? Damn, wasn’t supposed to, ok… Oh, everyone has stopped singing, I should probably stop too). When we finally were allowed to sit, I found myself longing for the days of standing, as church pews are the most singly uncomfortable piece of furniture one could reasonably be expected to sit on. They could light a bed of nails on fire and it would be more inviting.
I find it’s best to try and learn something new when exposed to a culture you are unfamiliar with (and I am not terribly acquainted with Catholic ritual). For example, I learned that it is unwise to let a priest, who is theoretically chaste, officiate a ceremony that is entirely based around love. His speech consisted primarily of stumbling around looking for words. I shit you not, an excerpt from his speech went as follows: “Marriage… well, marriage is… well, I guess you could say it was kind of a celebration… marriage is about love… it is a celebration of love and commitment… and it is this marriage, this celebration… also of devotion, but love… and…” Look, I know love may be a new concept to you, but try to prepare something beforehand Father! Just think of an altar boy and the words will come. As if that weren’t bad enough, he went on to read forwarded e-mail jokes, one of which was about divorce… a joke about divorce at a wedding! Awesome! And then he referred to the newlyweds as “Mark and Tom… wait, that’s not right.” Shit, I guess he was thinking of the altar boys! What a fucking travesty of justice that shit was…
I had the good fortune to be seated next to my mother. My mother really gets into church. She was singing along to all the songs. It didn’t matter if it was meant for the whole congregation or just the professional singer they hired; hell, she even sung along to an instrumental. But she didn’t bother singing words. We had the words right there in front of us in the hymnals, didn’t matter. She was just humming “la la dee doo dah,” off-key, often not even to the same tune as the music (I swear at one point she was doing Baby Elephant Walk). I couldn’t keep a straight face. My uncle is walking down the aisle with his new bride and I am laughing hysterically because my mother will not stop humming carnival tunes behind me. Awkward.
Speaking of Catholic drinking songs, one of the hymns we sang contained the lyric “Blessed are those that come in the name of the Lord.” I did not realize that was all it took to be blessed. The first thing I did when I got home was write JESUS on my trashcan in big, bold letters. Now I’m coming in the Lord’s name five or six times a day. I’m jerking for Jesus! I like to think of each one as a little blessing in the palm of my hand… Hey, I’m earning my ticket to Heaven. And on that note, I think I have some offerings to make. This one’s for you Lord!
Friday, April 4, 2008
Circumcision
Would circumcision still exist if we didn’t do it to children? Say a law was passed that said no one could get circumcised under the age of 18, regardless of parental consent. Would anyone voluntarily have the procedure done as an adult? I imagine that there still would be a few; after all, some people get Prince Alberts (occasionally outside of infancy). But I would think that the vast majority of grown men wouldn’t voluntarily have part of their cock chopped off on purpose.
My friend actually told me last week that he wanted to get circumcised. I couldn’t believe it; I had to make sure he knew what that word meant. A grown man, actually admitting that he wants part of his penis lopped off… I can’t wrap my head around it. I said, “Make sure you ask the doctor if they’ll let you keep the foreskin.” It would make a nifty souvenir, you know? And hey, if you regret the decision later, you can always sew it back on.
I was reading an account of the surgery from someone who had it performed at 13, so he still remembered it (and far too vividly). You are awake for the whole thing. They give you local anesthetic by inserting a giant needle into the most sensitive part of your body, which is certainly something I’d be willing to pay good money for. You get to watch the whole thing (I recommend ordering the film too, so you can see it from different angles). Afterwards, they say you cannot “use your penis” for at least three weeks. I’m assuming urination is OK, but I wouldn’t risk it; just abstain from drinking more than 2 ounces of water a day and you should be fine. And, of course, be prepared for “the region” to hurt for, literally, months. Where do I sign up?
As I was reading this account, it occurred to me that telling a 13 year old not to get an erection for three weeks is like telling a heroin addict to “just chill out for a bit, cool?” It’s going to happen, planned or not, and there’s not really anything you can say to stop it (although telling a freshly circumcised 13 year old that if he gets an erection his penis will fall off sounds like several solid weeks of hilarity). But 13 year olds are inventive when it comes to masturbation. They’re like college students who can turn anything into a bong. If you told a 13 year old he couldn’t jack off without his foreskin, he’d probably just wrap some deli meat around his dick and go to town.
The thing that bugs me about circumcision is that it is widespread enough that we had to make the word “uncircumcised.” It’s the only word that we use to specifically describe someone who has not had a major surgery performed. You don’t see someone walking down the street with all four limbs and think, “He’s unamputated.” You’ve never been introduced to someone with, “This is John, he’s tonsilful.” “Yeah, my dad smokes a lot, but he’s still bilungular.” We don’t need “uncircumcised.” Let’s just be content to use “normal” when referencing those of us who haven’t had the pleasure of having our winky whacked, and “circumcised” to describe those unlucky bastards who have to live with a mangled member because their parents rushed into a decision half-cocked (you knew it was coming… and on that note, I’ll be going).
My friend actually told me last week that he wanted to get circumcised. I couldn’t believe it; I had to make sure he knew what that word meant. A grown man, actually admitting that he wants part of his penis lopped off… I can’t wrap my head around it. I said, “Make sure you ask the doctor if they’ll let you keep the foreskin.” It would make a nifty souvenir, you know? And hey, if you regret the decision later, you can always sew it back on.
I was reading an account of the surgery from someone who had it performed at 13, so he still remembered it (and far too vividly). You are awake for the whole thing. They give you local anesthetic by inserting a giant needle into the most sensitive part of your body, which is certainly something I’d be willing to pay good money for. You get to watch the whole thing (I recommend ordering the film too, so you can see it from different angles). Afterwards, they say you cannot “use your penis” for at least three weeks. I’m assuming urination is OK, but I wouldn’t risk it; just abstain from drinking more than 2 ounces of water a day and you should be fine. And, of course, be prepared for “the region” to hurt for, literally, months. Where do I sign up?
As I was reading this account, it occurred to me that telling a 13 year old not to get an erection for three weeks is like telling a heroin addict to “just chill out for a bit, cool?” It’s going to happen, planned or not, and there’s not really anything you can say to stop it (although telling a freshly circumcised 13 year old that if he gets an erection his penis will fall off sounds like several solid weeks of hilarity). But 13 year olds are inventive when it comes to masturbation. They’re like college students who can turn anything into a bong. If you told a 13 year old he couldn’t jack off without his foreskin, he’d probably just wrap some deli meat around his dick and go to town.
The thing that bugs me about circumcision is that it is widespread enough that we had to make the word “uncircumcised.” It’s the only word that we use to specifically describe someone who has not had a major surgery performed. You don’t see someone walking down the street with all four limbs and think, “He’s unamputated.” You’ve never been introduced to someone with, “This is John, he’s tonsilful.” “Yeah, my dad smokes a lot, but he’s still bilungular.” We don’t need “uncircumcised.” Let’s just be content to use “normal” when referencing those of us who haven’t had the pleasure of having our winky whacked, and “circumcised” to describe those unlucky bastards who have to live with a mangled member because their parents rushed into a decision half-cocked (you knew it was coming… and on that note, I’ll be going).
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Alzheimer's
I was watching TV the other day, and an ad came on for the Alzheimer’s Association, or some other such Alzheimer’s group. They were trying to raise awareness of Alzheimer’s disease, and they mentioned that they’d been at the forefront of every major discovery, but they were still working to find a cure. This all seemed well and good to me, but it got me thinking... Why? Why would you want to cure Alzheimer’s disease? I realize this is probably an unpopular position to take, but let me lay this out to you.
Alzheimer’s affects old people. I’m not saying old people deserve to die, but it’s not a disease that’s killing off the youth. At some point, everyone dies; better an octogenarian that’s led a full life than some child with bright eyes and dreams that have yet to be crushed. At least crush the child’s dreams before you kill it. But I have a harder time accepting Alzheimer’s as a horrible epidemic since it basically is only affecting people who are about to die anyway.
Even more importantly, Alzheimer’s patients seem like a relatively happy bunch. Nana is sitting in the old folk’s home, blissfully unaware of just how much her life sucks right now. Her children visit, they spend the entire time telling her about every horrible thing that’s happened in her life (“You’re in a home Nana,” “We had to sell that house Nana,” “John isn’t coming Nana, he’s been dead for 40 years,” etc.). It doesn’t matter, because Nana will forget all this 5 minutes down the road, and these idiotic family members will tell her again. Just lie to Nana and she’ll be happy! “John’s parking the car Nana, he’ll be here in a minute.” Nana will be happy, and she won’t remember in 5 minutes anyway, so no harm, no foul. Nana can sit around happily ignorant of all the horrible things that have happened in her life and die happily at a ripe old age.
So it seems that the people who really care about Alzheimer’s research aren’t necessarily people who are afraid they’ll get it; it’s people who are afraid their loved ones will get it, and they don’t want to be inconvenienced by a forgetful parent. This is just about the most selfish reason I can imagine for wanting to eradicate a disease. These people don’t give a shit about humanity, all they care about is wanting to avoid uncomfortable situations. Fuck them.
If I ever get Alzheimer’s, let me be. Stick me in the home if you must, and if you don’t feel like visiting me, don’t worry, I won’t know anyway. If you do feel like swinging by and watching me deteriorate, feel free to lie to me. Tell me that my mother is still alive, even though she’d be like 120 years old. Tell me that my wife, husband, life partner, whatever, is coming to visit, and s/he’s bringing Natalie Portman and a sea otter along. Who cares? I’ll be delightfully oblivious of every retarded thing I’ve ever done (like writing a diatribe about how Alzheimer’s isn’t that bad). I know everyone has some stories in their past they’d rather forget; if I never have to remember being bitchslapped in front of my girlfriend again, I’ll die happy. But that’s a story for another day. If I remember.
Now where’s John?
Alzheimer’s affects old people. I’m not saying old people deserve to die, but it’s not a disease that’s killing off the youth. At some point, everyone dies; better an octogenarian that’s led a full life than some child with bright eyes and dreams that have yet to be crushed. At least crush the child’s dreams before you kill it. But I have a harder time accepting Alzheimer’s as a horrible epidemic since it basically is only affecting people who are about to die anyway.
Even more importantly, Alzheimer’s patients seem like a relatively happy bunch. Nana is sitting in the old folk’s home, blissfully unaware of just how much her life sucks right now. Her children visit, they spend the entire time telling her about every horrible thing that’s happened in her life (“You’re in a home Nana,” “We had to sell that house Nana,” “John isn’t coming Nana, he’s been dead for 40 years,” etc.). It doesn’t matter, because Nana will forget all this 5 minutes down the road, and these idiotic family members will tell her again. Just lie to Nana and she’ll be happy! “John’s parking the car Nana, he’ll be here in a minute.” Nana will be happy, and she won’t remember in 5 minutes anyway, so no harm, no foul. Nana can sit around happily ignorant of all the horrible things that have happened in her life and die happily at a ripe old age.
So it seems that the people who really care about Alzheimer’s research aren’t necessarily people who are afraid they’ll get it; it’s people who are afraid their loved ones will get it, and they don’t want to be inconvenienced by a forgetful parent. This is just about the most selfish reason I can imagine for wanting to eradicate a disease. These people don’t give a shit about humanity, all they care about is wanting to avoid uncomfortable situations. Fuck them.
If I ever get Alzheimer’s, let me be. Stick me in the home if you must, and if you don’t feel like visiting me, don’t worry, I won’t know anyway. If you do feel like swinging by and watching me deteriorate, feel free to lie to me. Tell me that my mother is still alive, even though she’d be like 120 years old. Tell me that my wife, husband, life partner, whatever, is coming to visit, and s/he’s bringing Natalie Portman and a sea otter along. Who cares? I’ll be delightfully oblivious of every retarded thing I’ve ever done (like writing a diatribe about how Alzheimer’s isn’t that bad). I know everyone has some stories in their past they’d rather forget; if I never have to remember being bitchslapped in front of my girlfriend again, I’ll die happy. But that’s a story for another day. If I remember.
Now where’s John?
Bad neighbors
Sorry for the lack of updates; the weekend was hectic. I ended up hanging out with my cousin, who I haven't had a chance to hang out with in ages, and I remembered why I like her; she's crazy awesome. It's been a while since I found myself hanging out until 5 in the morning, so kudos there. But I get back to work, everyone is sick, again, and our office manager has bronchitis; stay home! I don't need to stave off more infections! So the past few days have been brutal, and consequently, I've been too tired to write anything. I'm trying to avoid letting that happen too often. Here's something I tossed off over the last 20 minutes; it needs polishing, but I think it's a good start.
I’m looking into moving into a new apartment. It’s a pain in the ass just to find a place to live, but if you’re not sure what city you’re going to be living in two months down the road, it pretty much becomes an exercise in futility. I’m looking at places in three different states right now, so anything I find almost feels like a pipe dream to begin with (ooooh, here’s a great deal on an apartment in Ventura!... Where the hell is that anyway?). But after my last couple experiences with apartments, I believe it should be a law that after you are accepted, you have the right to interview your neighbors before you sign the contract. Here’s why:
I was dating this woman and she accepted a job in Massachusetts. I figured, hey, awesome, I want to leave Portland anyway, I’ll join you. I go out, she has picked out a great apartment (shitty town, but that couldn’t be helped). This apartment was amazing; it was large, old building, hardwood floors, fireplace, and it was on the top floor of the building, so all the heat from the lower apartments drifted up and kept it at a balmy 80 degrees at all times. The place was amazing; nicest apartment I’ve ever lived in by far.
The one key problem with the apartment was our downstairs neighbor. Put simply, he was crazy. But really, that’s not fair to crazy people. He was completely batshit insane. This guy made Charles Manson look like Mr. Rogers. He was literally certifiably insane; we found out later that he had been in a home, but had been relocated to a residential apartment because there was no money to keep him in the nuthouse. This is American healthcare in action; sure, he may be a dangerous lunatic, but he can’t stay here! Stick him in an apartment, I’m sure he’ll be fine.
One thing I’ll say about this guy was he had exceptional hearing. He always heard us above him. Even when we weren’t home. And he’d always respond in the way you’d expect a rational human being to respond; he’d grab a broom and start pounding on his ceiling (our floor). He did this constantly. He would do this at four in the morning while we were sleeping, and hard enough to move our bed across the floor. He even did it when we weren’t home; I recall returning home from a grocery run to be greeted by the familiar banging as I walked up the steps. This guy went beyond good hearing; he was in the future!
So one night, while we are blissfully slumbering in a bed designed for a small child, we hear a knock on the door. Well, it’s really more of a pound. I figure, shit, Chuckles has finally come to kill us in our sleep; how polite of him to knock first. I throw on sweats and an undershirt and go to the door. It’s four in the morning, and I’ve just been woken up; my hair is disheveled, I’m basically incoherent, and I’m trying to prepare myself for the possibility that I am about to be attacked in my home. Imagine my surprise when I open the door and see two policemen.
“Sir, we got a complaint from your neighbor. He says you’ve ripped up the floorboards in your apartment and you are dumping feces on him.”
It takes me a moment to grasp this sentence. So I’m standing there, mouth agape, probably looking like just the type of person who would rip up the floorboards in his apartment so that he could fling shit on his neighbor. I have to respond at some point, but I can’t even manage to get my head around what they have said. So I ask for clarification, in the most articulate way I can at 4 am: “... Wait, what?”
“Your neighbor called us to complain that you have ripped up the floorboards in your closet, and are throwing human feces into his apartment.”
At this point, I’m incredulous. I’m an educated man, with a degree from a reasonably challenging four year college, a decent upstanding middle class citizen who has never been in trouble with the law. Ever. Yet here I am with two policemen completely convinced that I am ripping up my own floor to throw shit on my neighbor. Quite frankly, I was shocked that they would believe that story at all. But for some reason the burden of proof is on me to prove that the most ridiculous accusation I hope they ever heard is false... I’m not saying this is the single fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard or anything, but maybe Justice should remove her blindfold (and that lovely curtain Ashcroft decorated her with).
The inquisition continues: “May we come in and look around?”
So I go tell my girlfriend to throw some clothes on because the cops need to verify that we are, in fact, not insane. Her incredulity surpassed my own; “You’re kidding, right?” The cops look around, they see that they’ve been taken in by an incredibly elaborate hoax, and they start to get mad at me. Hey, at least if I’d actually been doing this, they’d have a reason to be out here, you know...
Actually, they were fairly amicable after that. We politely explained that our neighbor was crazy, and inquired about the legality of killing him out of sheer rage. Cops aren’t a big fan of this type of humor apparently, though I will say that Springfield has a very comfortable jail.
My point in all this is that bad neighbors can make paradise seem like hell. I think you should have an opportunity to know who you’ll be living by before you agree to it, you know? That just seems like the decent thing to do... which is why you’ll never see this in your lifetime.
I’m looking into moving into a new apartment. It’s a pain in the ass just to find a place to live, but if you’re not sure what city you’re going to be living in two months down the road, it pretty much becomes an exercise in futility. I’m looking at places in three different states right now, so anything I find almost feels like a pipe dream to begin with (ooooh, here’s a great deal on an apartment in Ventura!... Where the hell is that anyway?). But after my last couple experiences with apartments, I believe it should be a law that after you are accepted, you have the right to interview your neighbors before you sign the contract. Here’s why:
I was dating this woman and she accepted a job in Massachusetts. I figured, hey, awesome, I want to leave Portland anyway, I’ll join you. I go out, she has picked out a great apartment (shitty town, but that couldn’t be helped). This apartment was amazing; it was large, old building, hardwood floors, fireplace, and it was on the top floor of the building, so all the heat from the lower apartments drifted up and kept it at a balmy 80 degrees at all times. The place was amazing; nicest apartment I’ve ever lived in by far.
The one key problem with the apartment was our downstairs neighbor. Put simply, he was crazy. But really, that’s not fair to crazy people. He was completely batshit insane. This guy made Charles Manson look like Mr. Rogers. He was literally certifiably insane; we found out later that he had been in a home, but had been relocated to a residential apartment because there was no money to keep him in the nuthouse. This is American healthcare in action; sure, he may be a dangerous lunatic, but he can’t stay here! Stick him in an apartment, I’m sure he’ll be fine.
One thing I’ll say about this guy was he had exceptional hearing. He always heard us above him. Even when we weren’t home. And he’d always respond in the way you’d expect a rational human being to respond; he’d grab a broom and start pounding on his ceiling (our floor). He did this constantly. He would do this at four in the morning while we were sleeping, and hard enough to move our bed across the floor. He even did it when we weren’t home; I recall returning home from a grocery run to be greeted by the familiar banging as I walked up the steps. This guy went beyond good hearing; he was in the future!
So one night, while we are blissfully slumbering in a bed designed for a small child, we hear a knock on the door. Well, it’s really more of a pound. I figure, shit, Chuckles has finally come to kill us in our sleep; how polite of him to knock first. I throw on sweats and an undershirt and go to the door. It’s four in the morning, and I’ve just been woken up; my hair is disheveled, I’m basically incoherent, and I’m trying to prepare myself for the possibility that I am about to be attacked in my home. Imagine my surprise when I open the door and see two policemen.
“Sir, we got a complaint from your neighbor. He says you’ve ripped up the floorboards in your apartment and you are dumping feces on him.”
It takes me a moment to grasp this sentence. So I’m standing there, mouth agape, probably looking like just the type of person who would rip up the floorboards in his apartment so that he could fling shit on his neighbor. I have to respond at some point, but I can’t even manage to get my head around what they have said. So I ask for clarification, in the most articulate way I can at 4 am: “... Wait, what?”
“Your neighbor called us to complain that you have ripped up the floorboards in your closet, and are throwing human feces into his apartment.”
At this point, I’m incredulous. I’m an educated man, with a degree from a reasonably challenging four year college, a decent upstanding middle class citizen who has never been in trouble with the law. Ever. Yet here I am with two policemen completely convinced that I am ripping up my own floor to throw shit on my neighbor. Quite frankly, I was shocked that they would believe that story at all. But for some reason the burden of proof is on me to prove that the most ridiculous accusation I hope they ever heard is false... I’m not saying this is the single fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard or anything, but maybe Justice should remove her blindfold (and that lovely curtain Ashcroft decorated her with).
The inquisition continues: “May we come in and look around?”
So I go tell my girlfriend to throw some clothes on because the cops need to verify that we are, in fact, not insane. Her incredulity surpassed my own; “You’re kidding, right?” The cops look around, they see that they’ve been taken in by an incredibly elaborate hoax, and they start to get mad at me. Hey, at least if I’d actually been doing this, they’d have a reason to be out here, you know...
Actually, they were fairly amicable after that. We politely explained that our neighbor was crazy, and inquired about the legality of killing him out of sheer rage. Cops aren’t a big fan of this type of humor apparently, though I will say that Springfield has a very comfortable jail.
My point in all this is that bad neighbors can make paradise seem like hell. I think you should have an opportunity to know who you’ll be living by before you agree to it, you know? That just seems like the decent thing to do... which is why you’ll never see this in your lifetime.
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