I'm developing a new theory, guys. bear with me. It's a division of the theory of evolution. I'm considering a new name for where our species is headed. Homo Animus. W're now more than ever beings of thought rather than body. We don't have to develop according to biology, but are the only creature able to mechanically alter our evolution due to the way we think. ergo, we're beings of thought, or anima.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
BioPhilosophy
The following is a repost of my Facebook feed, just to collect all of this info in a single post. I may expand upon this in the future. It was also on Twitter.
Friday, February 24, 2012
You're all losers.
You all suck. Every last one of you is a complete and utter disappointment, a failure. A waste of life and tissue. You aren't the best at everything. Shit, most of you aren't the best at ANYTHING.
And that's ok.
No, seriously. It's perfectly fine. We weren't designed to be perfect. There are one or two "greats" out there and the rest of us are mediocre trash.
So why is it that we teach our kids that we're all winners?
When you have, for example, a Little League game, and Little Timmy whiffs on the damn swing, we as a society have gotten into the habit of saying, "It's OK, run the bases, good job, try harder next time."
You know what? that's a really fucking terrible message. Because someday Little Timmy is going to grow up into Timmy the Fuckwad and crash his forklift at his minimum-wage no-college-degree-required dead-end factory job and be so surprised when his boss comes out of the upstairs office and instead of greeting him with a bouquet of flowers and an, "Oh, well. I'm sure you tried your best. It's inconsequential that you cost the company our weeks earnings. What matters is you TRIED. Lets go shit sunshine and rainbows together while i fellate your ego.", he instead gets greeted with, "YOU INCOMPETENT ASS, YOU COST ME THE WEEKS EARNINGS. NOW YOU AND TWO OF YOUR BUDDIES ARE FIRED BECAUSE I HAVE TO MAKE UP THE DIFFERENCE!" So little Timmy goes home and hangs himself from his fucking ceiling fan because he's realized that -SUDDEN SHOCK!!!!!!- he's terrible at driving forklifts and would have been a better mechanic, but it's too late, he's 38, and there's really no going back now and he's only got his mom because no girl would ever date a man-child such as him.
What we should be doing is telling little Timmy that his batting ability sucks big black prisoner dick, and perhaps his moderately average talents had best be applied elsewhere. So instead of holding on to a worthless dream of becoming something he's not and ending up with the state police and the county coroner cutting him off of his ceiling-mounted cooling apparatus while blood pools in his limp legs, perhaps he can find something that he's passably decent at and go on to excel at it and live a miserable, mildly alcoholic semi-stable married life with 3 lecherous kids like all of the rest of us.
You won't be perfect. But you should at least enjoy what you do, rather than pine for a useless dream that will get you no place. Not everyone is a star. We're all failures. That's fine. But you deserve to be a happy failure.
Moral: Be honest with your kids.
And that's ok.
No, seriously. It's perfectly fine. We weren't designed to be perfect. There are one or two "greats" out there and the rest of us are mediocre trash.
So why is it that we teach our kids that we're all winners?
When you have, for example, a Little League game, and Little Timmy whiffs on the damn swing, we as a society have gotten into the habit of saying, "It's OK, run the bases, good job, try harder next time."
You know what? that's a really fucking terrible message. Because someday Little Timmy is going to grow up into Timmy the Fuckwad and crash his forklift at his minimum-wage no-college-degree-required dead-end factory job and be so surprised when his boss comes out of the upstairs office and instead of greeting him with a bouquet of flowers and an, "Oh, well. I'm sure you tried your best. It's inconsequential that you cost the company our weeks earnings. What matters is you TRIED. Lets go shit sunshine and rainbows together while i fellate your ego.", he instead gets greeted with, "YOU INCOMPETENT ASS, YOU COST ME THE WEEKS EARNINGS. NOW YOU AND TWO OF YOUR BUDDIES ARE FIRED BECAUSE I HAVE TO MAKE UP THE DIFFERENCE!" So little Timmy goes home and hangs himself from his fucking ceiling fan because he's realized that -SUDDEN SHOCK!!!!!!- he's terrible at driving forklifts and would have been a better mechanic, but it's too late, he's 38, and there's really no going back now and he's only got his mom because no girl would ever date a man-child such as him.
What we should be doing is telling little Timmy that his batting ability sucks big black prisoner dick, and perhaps his moderately average talents had best be applied elsewhere. So instead of holding on to a worthless dream of becoming something he's not and ending up with the state police and the county coroner cutting him off of his ceiling-mounted cooling apparatus while blood pools in his limp legs, perhaps he can find something that he's passably decent at and go on to excel at it and live a miserable, mildly alcoholic semi-stable married life with 3 lecherous kids like all of the rest of us.
You won't be perfect. But you should at least enjoy what you do, rather than pine for a useless dream that will get you no place. Not everyone is a star. We're all failures. That's fine. But you deserve to be a happy failure.
Moral: Be honest with your kids.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
And now for how I really feel...
IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED DON'T READ BELOW THIS LINE.
Shit, don't even read my blog..........
Ok, I warned you, so here we go.
Honestly there are a few serious calamities I can think of without Whitney Houston being around.
First and foremost is the fact that her fucking coke dealer won't have her around for the sales. Nigga be needin' him some dough, man. Without her supporting his ass, he's gonna be another fucking leech on the system, using my tax dollars to live. Let's face it, filling the gap left by the powder-nosed mulatto is going to be hard. I doubt he can do it.
Secondly, her hot tits won't be bouncing across the screen in any more music videos.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9rCobRl-ng&ob=av2e
^clicky ^
That right there is a bit of a tragedy for men the world over.
Third, its a vacancy that her manager and agent will have to fill. It sucks to lose a source of income. Using people for a living should be profitable, but when the bitch dies, it kinda cramps your style.
Fourth and final, it's one less person I have to rip on. Let's face it, without idiots for me to abuse the shit out of, it's not like I could do this. And it's not like I give a shit about her feelings. She's a pop star.
And by give I mean gave. She doesn't have feelings any more. She's dead.
Looks like I need to turn my attention to Justin Bieber. Although I try not to pick on little girls.... Oh, well. First time for everything.
Shit, don't even read my blog..........
Ok, I warned you, so here we go.
Honestly there are a few serious calamities I can think of without Whitney Houston being around.
First and foremost is the fact that her fucking coke dealer won't have her around for the sales. Nigga be needin' him some dough, man. Without her supporting his ass, he's gonna be another fucking leech on the system, using my tax dollars to live. Let's face it, filling the gap left by the powder-nosed mulatto is going to be hard. I doubt he can do it.
Secondly, her hot tits won't be bouncing across the screen in any more music videos.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9rCobRl-ng&ob=av2e
^clicky ^
That right there is a bit of a tragedy for men the world over.
Third, its a vacancy that her manager and agent will have to fill. It sucks to lose a source of income. Using people for a living should be profitable, but when the bitch dies, it kinda cramps your style.
Fourth and final, it's one less person I have to rip on. Let's face it, without idiots for me to abuse the shit out of, it's not like I could do this. And it's not like I give a shit about her feelings. She's a pop star.
And by give I mean gave. She doesn't have feelings any more. She's dead.
Looks like I need to turn my attention to Justin Bieber. Although I try not to pick on little girls.... Oh, well. First time for everything.
So she died...
So Whitney Huston died.
Whoopty.........
.................
.............
..........
.....
...
.
Wait for it....
...
......
.........
............
...............Doo?
Listen, I understand death is hard for the surviving family. And I get that she contributed a lot to the musical world. I also understand that it's difficult to lose anyone, no matter what the circumstance.
But who gives a flying fuck?
Seriously, this is not as big an issue as people seem to think it is. Let me give you an example.
Michael Jackson.
He was possibly the single biggest contributor to the world of pop music. He was an excellent artist, but made some questionable choices in his personal life. Whether or not they were ever proven, or even TRUE, matter very little. The fact is the bad press stuck. And despite that, people STILL held a 48 hour vigil for him, and his death was publicized for almost a month until the press decided to blather about something else.
I'd be willing to wager that most people would be willing to say that Whitney, although a big contributor to music, was not as influential as M.J. In addition to that, she had a HUGE documented cocaine addiction.
To that end I say, sucks, huh?
Look, everybody in this day and age knows the dangers of drugs, even those as common as caffeine and nicotine. She chose this path and continued it.
An even bigger issue is this. Look how many people have died. in the history of the world. How many of us even remember more than 20 off the top of our heads? Even in your own family. I'd be willing to wager that most people without significant research could even name their great-great grandparents. And that's only 4 generations back, or roughly 120 years ago (if each generation reproduces every 30 years. Which is generous.) Fact is, even your own ancestors who's DNA you carry in your veins matter so little in the grand scheme of things that you don't remember them even 100 years later. Bet you cant name more than 4 Pharaohs of Egypt without a textbook. And they helped shape civilization.
So Whitney Huston, (along with all of these football stars and baseball players and actors etc.), who did jack squat as far as the history of the world is concerned, is nothing, and no more worthy of our tears that the guy that lives 3 towns over who just died. Mourn your family, and your close friends.
Pop stars have their own families to mourn them. And if you care that much about someone you've never even met, then you need to do some serious soul-searching.
Whoopty.........
.................
.............
..........
.....
...
.
Wait for it....
...
......
.........
............
...............Doo?
Listen, I understand death is hard for the surviving family. And I get that she contributed a lot to the musical world. I also understand that it's difficult to lose anyone, no matter what the circumstance.
But who gives a flying fuck?
Seriously, this is not as big an issue as people seem to think it is. Let me give you an example.
Michael Jackson.
He was possibly the single biggest contributor to the world of pop music. He was an excellent artist, but made some questionable choices in his personal life. Whether or not they were ever proven, or even TRUE, matter very little. The fact is the bad press stuck. And despite that, people STILL held a 48 hour vigil for him, and his death was publicized for almost a month until the press decided to blather about something else.
I'd be willing to wager that most people would be willing to say that Whitney, although a big contributor to music, was not as influential as M.J. In addition to that, she had a HUGE documented cocaine addiction.
To that end I say, sucks, huh?
Look, everybody in this day and age knows the dangers of drugs, even those as common as caffeine and nicotine. She chose this path and continued it.
An even bigger issue is this. Look how many people have died. in the history of the world. How many of us even remember more than 20 off the top of our heads? Even in your own family. I'd be willing to wager that most people without significant research could even name their great-great grandparents. And that's only 4 generations back, or roughly 120 years ago (if each generation reproduces every 30 years. Which is generous.) Fact is, even your own ancestors who's DNA you carry in your veins matter so little in the grand scheme of things that you don't remember them even 100 years later. Bet you cant name more than 4 Pharaohs of Egypt without a textbook. And they helped shape civilization.
So Whitney Huston, (along with all of these football stars and baseball players and actors etc.), who did jack squat as far as the history of the world is concerned, is nothing, and no more worthy of our tears that the guy that lives 3 towns over who just died. Mourn your family, and your close friends.
Pop stars have their own families to mourn them. And if you care that much about someone you've never even met, then you need to do some serious soul-searching.
Friday, February 10, 2012
...pissed me OFF...
Let me explain something to you guys. There is a ton, I mean an absolute FUCKLOAD of shit that pisses me off. Everything from the retardedly inane, like people that decide the "Starbucks formula" works, all the way down to the dirt bags that have decided that it's completely cool to use food stamps as they browse the web in the checkout line on the new iPhone.
Don't get me wrong, I generally attempt to be a positive person. I really, REALLY do. But when I see the abrupt downward spiral of our society, it's... aggravating.
"Mommy, I wanna get the movie." "No, sweetie, we can't do that today." "But I WANT it..." Please, Timmy, we can't-" "I WANT IT NOW!!!" "ok..."
How may of you have heard this? YOU DON'T GIVE IN TO THE FUCKING KID YOU IGNORANT BITCH, HE'S A CHILD.
It is your job to be a parent, and that means educating your child on what it means to need to work for something. Just caving in to this little shit teaches them nothing.
Furthermore, on a slightly different note, I also hate when people have double-standards. Like when one person is expected to
You know what? Fuck this. I'd rather be distracted. Typing on a schedule also pisses me off. Screw you guys, I'mma go watch Ruby Gloom.
To be continued when there are fewer distractions. I hope.
Don't get me wrong, I generally attempt to be a positive person. I really, REALLY do. But when I see the abrupt downward spiral of our society, it's... aggravating.
"Mommy, I wanna get the movie." "No, sweetie, we can't do that today." "But I WANT it..." Please, Timmy, we can't-" "I WANT IT NOW!!!" "ok..."
How may of you have heard this? YOU DON'T GIVE IN TO THE FUCKING KID YOU IGNORANT BITCH, HE'S A CHILD.
It is your job to be a parent, and that means educating your child on what it means to need to work for something. Just caving in to this little shit teaches them nothing.
Furthermore, on a slightly different note, I also hate when people have double-standards. Like when one person is expected to
You know what? Fuck this. I'd rather be distracted. Typing on a schedule also pisses me off. Screw you guys, I'mma go watch Ruby Gloom.
To be continued when there are fewer distractions. I hope.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Good Girls and Bad Girls
It's Sunday. Go away.
...
What, you're still here? And you expect a story.
Fine.
uh. ok, here you go.
Once upon a time there was an old woman riding a train with her two grandchildren. They were misbehaving terribly, and no matter what she tried, whether it be stories or games or threatening their lives, they wouldn't sit still. Suddenly they came to a stop upon their journey and a man boarded the train and sat in their compartment. The man was doing his best to ignore them, but noticed the difficulty that the grandmother was having. Finally he asked if he could tell the children a story. The grandmother readily agreed, and thus the man began:
"Once upon a time in a small village there lived a little girl. This little girl was very well behaved. In fact, she was so well behaved that she had been awarded several medals. She had a medal for honesty, and one for loyalty, and one for kindness, and one for helpfulness... She had so many medals that they clanked and gleamed as she walked down the street. She spent a lot of time polishing her beautiful golden medals, as she was awfully proud of them.
One day this good little girl was packing up a basket full of good things to eat, along with a few gifts for her sickly old grandmother who lived in the woods. The girl always tried to visit her grandmother every week and make sure she was doing well.
After she had the basket packed, she put on her red cloak and set off into the woods, following a very well-tread path.
Little did she know that a very hungry wolf had noticed that she followed the same path every week (good girls are so predictable), and this wolf was rather hungry. And wouldn't you know it, The little girls medals were clanking and making it extremely easy for the wolf to follow.
The little girl was skipping along the path, bright golden medals glimmering and clanking cheerfully in the sunshine, one for Generosity, and one for loyalty, and one for Honesty... They all gleamed and chattered. Suddenly the wolf attacked! The girl shrieked and ran, dropping her basket full of her grandmother's food, hoping that the wolf would be distracted, but wolves generally don't care for Veal Marsala or Chicken Cordon Bleu.
The little girl took shelter in a clump of bushes and tried to breath as quietly as possibly. Sadly she was shaking out of fright and her medals clattered and the wolf found her and ate her.
The End."
The grandmother glared at the storyteller and frowned as she said, "My, that was an awful story. Does it even have a moral?"
The Man replied, "Of course it does. If she had been a little less good, maybe she'd be alive today. Nobody likes a Goody-Two-Shoes"
The grandmother looked very cross as he stood up to exit at his stop. "Well that's just terrible, encouraging children to misbehave..."
As the story teller slid past her he smiled at the children, turned back to the old woman, and replied, "Well, at the very least I was able to keep them quiet for 10 minutes, which is more than you can say you did."
The End. Now kindly shove off, Imma go watch the Super Bowl. Go Patriots!!
...
What, you're still here? And you expect a story.
Fine.
uh. ok, here you go.
Once upon a time there was an old woman riding a train with her two grandchildren. They were misbehaving terribly, and no matter what she tried, whether it be stories or games or threatening their lives, they wouldn't sit still. Suddenly they came to a stop upon their journey and a man boarded the train and sat in their compartment. The man was doing his best to ignore them, but noticed the difficulty that the grandmother was having. Finally he asked if he could tell the children a story. The grandmother readily agreed, and thus the man began:
"Once upon a time in a small village there lived a little girl. This little girl was very well behaved. In fact, she was so well behaved that she had been awarded several medals. She had a medal for honesty, and one for loyalty, and one for kindness, and one for helpfulness... She had so many medals that they clanked and gleamed as she walked down the street. She spent a lot of time polishing her beautiful golden medals, as she was awfully proud of them.
One day this good little girl was packing up a basket full of good things to eat, along with a few gifts for her sickly old grandmother who lived in the woods. The girl always tried to visit her grandmother every week and make sure she was doing well.
After she had the basket packed, she put on her red cloak and set off into the woods, following a very well-tread path.
Little did she know that a very hungry wolf had noticed that she followed the same path every week (good girls are so predictable), and this wolf was rather hungry. And wouldn't you know it, The little girls medals were clanking and making it extremely easy for the wolf to follow.
The little girl was skipping along the path, bright golden medals glimmering and clanking cheerfully in the sunshine, one for Generosity, and one for loyalty, and one for Honesty... They all gleamed and chattered. Suddenly the wolf attacked! The girl shrieked and ran, dropping her basket full of her grandmother's food, hoping that the wolf would be distracted, but wolves generally don't care for Veal Marsala or Chicken Cordon Bleu.
The little girl took shelter in a clump of bushes and tried to breath as quietly as possibly. Sadly she was shaking out of fright and her medals clattered and the wolf found her and ate her.
The End."
The grandmother glared at the storyteller and frowned as she said, "My, that was an awful story. Does it even have a moral?"
The Man replied, "Of course it does. If she had been a little less good, maybe she'd be alive today. Nobody likes a Goody-Two-Shoes"
The grandmother looked very cross as he stood up to exit at his stop. "Well that's just terrible, encouraging children to misbehave..."
As the story teller slid past her he smiled at the children, turned back to the old woman, and replied, "Well, at the very least I was able to keep them quiet for 10 minutes, which is more than you can say you did."
The End. Now kindly shove off, Imma go watch the Super Bowl. Go Patriots!!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Drama at a Funeral
The other day I was at a funeral home for a service, and this young girl, maybe about 14 or so, was standing at the door, staring in the glass of the door pathetically, apparently not wanting to come in. After several minutes of watching her wistfully gaze in through the frosted surface that is the window I decided to assist this unfortunate young lady. Perhaps she was so overcome with emotional distress that she wasn't able to enter the building...
So now it's the day of the service, and things aren't going quite right, it's all drama, etc.
Well, let me back up a bit before I continue, so that I may more appropriately lay the groundwork for the rest of this story...
Attend ye Gods, and despair...
Attend ye Gods, and despair...
So the family was a Brooklynese Italian family. (Maybe they staged this so that some of Psycho-Ex's friends could come and scope out the locale...) And of course the deceased family member had moved up to New England where we currently are years ago, so all of these citiots (a portmanteau of City and idiot) had invaded my beautiful, sleepy, north-eastern town. The local florist was losing his mind. There had literally been three different daughters in his shop asking that he ABSOLUTELY MADE CERTAIN that their arrangement was bigger than their sister's. I wish I was joking.
(Because, you see, it isn't about the deceased at all, it's about being the BEST DAUGHTER FUCK YOU SIS I WIN)
(Because, you see, it isn't about the deceased at all, it's about being the BEST DAUGHTER FUCK YOU SIS I WIN)
Anyhow, the florist had decided that he might need to rent an 18-wheeler to deliver the massive arrangements, one of which required two men to lift. I swear I'm not shitting you.
So all of these people had established themselves as needing everything to be a massive production, and about them, rather than their dad. We have a well documented case of a city mentality happening here, and as such we can assume that, being from the city they have grown up in relative privilege and luxury, with taxis, automatic doors (this becomes important in a bit), and gigantic floral arrangements.
So all of these people had established themselves as needing everything to be a massive production, and about them, rather than their dad. We have a well documented case of a city mentality happening here, and as such we can assume that, being from the city they have grown up in relative privilege and luxury, with taxis, automatic doors (this becomes important in a bit), and gigantic floral arrangements.
So now it's the day of the service, and things aren't going quite right, it's all drama, etc.
Finally there is a minor meltdown just for show, where-in the eldest daughter was panicked because her younger sister was 5 WHOLE MINUTES LATE YOU GUYS.
5
FUCKING
MINUTES
LATE
In case you weren't aware of the gravity of the situation, the oldest sister was weeping over her dead father's casket in full view of all about how her sister was never late (because driving on uncertain roads in New England while you've grown up in the city NEVER makes anyone late EVER. Especially in the winter, right? RIGHT?)
And Big Sister couldn't reach Little Sis on the phone, because in the north east cell towers are few and far between, unlike Brooklyn, whereupon they are mounted to each and every building. Yet in Old Bag's mind, this very clearly meant that her iddle-widdle sister was bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, and we'd have to buy another casket and perform a double service, and the funeral director, the FUCKING FUNERAL DIRECTOR, should go look for her in God-Knows-Where. Suddenly sister walks through the door and Older Bitch is clutching her, CLUTCHING I say, and weeping, and lamenting, and telling her how the sooner they get out of this Twilight Zone of the United States and back into glorious Civilization, the better; she was convinced that she had lost her, etc.
Anyhow, now that the gang's all here, we can go back to the beginning of this story. The young lady that was peering through the door turns out to be younger sister's daughter. I opened the door for the poor young thing and I asked her what was wrong. She told me she was fine and went inside. I shrugged and went back to what I was doing.
A few minutes later she brushed past me in typical city attitude, and exited the building as another gentleman entered. After about five minutes, I happened to look outside, and noticed her once again looking into the building forlornly. I decided to ignore her, until she came in herself. I'm not a door-man. She didn't come in, and she didn't vanish. I sighed and opened the door for her again. (turns out I AM a door-man in my off-time. Who knew?)
I politely informed her that if she wanted to come in all she had to do was open the door, and was rewarded for what I thought was an incredibly helpful and sensible piece of information with a blank stare and the words, "your door is broken." I went to look at the door, and it was fine. I told her as much, and she says to me, (brace yourselves, it's pretty mind-blowing) "I stood in front of it for, like, a while, you know, but the sensor must be dead or something and it didn't open." I told her it didn't have a sensor, it wasn't an automatic door, to which she developed a perfect (O.O) face and replied with shock, "I didn't know they made non-automatic doors! That thing must be REALLY old!!!!"
I politely informed her that if she wanted to come in all she had to do was open the door, and was rewarded for what I thought was an incredibly helpful and sensible piece of information with a blank stare and the words, "your door is broken." I went to look at the door, and it was fine. I told her as much, and she says to me, (brace yourselves, it's pretty mind-blowing) "I stood in front of it for, like, a while, you know, but the sensor must be dead or something and it didn't open." I told her it didn't have a sensor, it wasn't an automatic door, to which she developed a perfect (O.O) face and replied with shock, "I didn't know they made non-automatic doors! That thing must be REALLY old!!!!"
My forehead still hurts from the facepalm, and I'm not sure I'll ever recover that lost bit of faith in the upcoming generation that represents what humanity is about to become...
And I STILL hate Citiots.
And I STILL hate Citiots.
How This Blog Got it's Name
So, The title in full of this particular post is "How this Blog got its Name, or: My Incredibly Fucked Up Dreams." What am I talking about? Allow me to illuminate...
There was a day in the not too distant past where I was sitting around in my house thinking about a name for this blog. I couldn't come up with one, so I finished my Heineken and went to sleep. Well, i have recently departed from a bad relationship in which my psychotic ex and her family were your stereotypical Brooklynese Italians, and I am traumatized because I think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, this family with their mob connections and their tommy guns and their fedoras and their posh 1930's suits will drive to my house, dress me in a new wardrobe of cement, and introduce me to their piscene friends.
ANYWAY...
So I fall asleep and proceed to have the following dream:
*ringing phone*
mmmm...Hello?
Psycho-ex's dad: I'm glad you and my daughter broke up.
Me: Uh, ok?
Him: You would have been a terrible son-in-law.
Me (surprised at this bold statement, because I think I'd make a perfectly reasonable son-in-law; I mean Jesus, it isn't like I'm Jeffrey Dahmer or Charles Manson...): Why, Good Sir, Whatsoever have I done?
-innocent stare that he can clearly see through the phone-
Him (with anger): YOU ALWAYS WEAR YOUR PAJAMAS TO WORK!
-No, NO, I SWEAR I'VE NEVER WORN MY PAJAMAS TO WORK!!!! I PROMISE!!!
-LIES, YOU WEAR THEM TO WORK EVERY DAY!!!
-BULLSHIT!!
Me, very desperately: look, I can call my boss, He'll tell you I've never worn my pajamas to work...
So with him on the other line I frantically begin dialing my boss.
The bastard won't pick up.
Meanwhile Psycho-Ex Father-In-Law is laughing at me, "See, he won't pick up because he knows you wear them EVERY DAY."
So now I'm getting pissed at my boss, ready to give this guy a good reaming because he's on call, and he's supposed to be at work, and I'm about ready to murder my ex's dad when the phone starts playing music.
Well, the music is my alarm going off, so I rise and shine, and half-way through my morning shower it hits me:
I have REALLY fucked up dreams.
There was a day in the not too distant past where I was sitting around in my house thinking about a name for this blog. I couldn't come up with one, so I finished my Heineken and went to sleep. Well, i have recently departed from a bad relationship in which my psychotic ex and her family were your stereotypical Brooklynese Italians, and I am traumatized because I think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, this family with their mob connections and their tommy guns and their fedoras and their posh 1930's suits will drive to my house, dress me in a new wardrobe of cement, and introduce me to their piscene friends.
ANYWAY...
So I fall asleep and proceed to have the following dream:
*ringing phone*
mmmm...Hello?
Psycho-ex's dad: I'm glad you and my daughter broke up.
Me: Uh, ok?
Him: You would have been a terrible son-in-law.
Me (surprised at this bold statement, because I think I'd make a perfectly reasonable son-in-law; I mean Jesus, it isn't like I'm Jeffrey Dahmer or Charles Manson...): Why, Good Sir, Whatsoever have I done?
-innocent stare that he can clearly see through the phone-
Him (with anger): YOU ALWAYS WEAR YOUR PAJAMAS TO WORK!
-No, NO, I SWEAR I'VE NEVER WORN MY PAJAMAS TO WORK!!!! I PROMISE!!!
-LIES, YOU WEAR THEM TO WORK EVERY DAY!!!
-BULLSHIT!!
Me, very desperately: look, I can call my boss, He'll tell you I've never worn my pajamas to work...
So with him on the other line I frantically begin dialing my boss.
The bastard won't pick up.
Meanwhile Psycho-Ex Father-In-Law is laughing at me, "See, he won't pick up because he knows you wear them EVERY DAY."
So now I'm getting pissed at my boss, ready to give this guy a good reaming because he's on call, and he's supposed to be at work, and I'm about ready to murder my ex's dad when the phone starts playing music.
Well, the music is my alarm going off, so I rise and shine, and half-way through my morning shower it hits me:
I have REALLY fucked up dreams.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Ponies, Purple, and Me
So basically the deal is this. I fucking love the color purple.
Like, I know it's the "gay" color. Tinkie-Winkie or however you spell his name was the gay Teletubby, right? Big purple one with the triangle thingy on his head? I remember in high school, everyone called him gay. Whatever. The point is Purple is a pretty boss color.
Unfortunately, I also have the added affliction of being a Brony.
I'm a brony, and I am proud.
Yes. I am a 24 year old male who watches My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, every Saturday on the Hub. Well, specifically on youtube because I'm lame and don't get the Hub, but I wasn't going to bitch about free cable.
The show is pretty well written, and Lauren Faust has this miracle tendency to take theses concepts most writers would push for kids and make them so freakin' boss that a massive variety of audiences watch them. (see: Powerpuff Girls and Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends for reference)
Basically the point is this: Because I am a huge proponent of this amazing show, and my favorite color is purple, I have this amazing tendency to "ping on the ol' gaydar" as my friend Bill once put it. People are convinced that my girlfriend is a fantastic cover-up for my secret gay life.
All of this tends to be exacerbated by the fact that, thanks to some quirk of genetics and the environmental stimuli I was bombarded with throughout my formative years, I have a tendency to be a bit flamboyant and or dramatic. Perhaps a little feminine. So By these powers combined I wind up getting confused for a homosexual. And believe me, I am not upset with the gay community. In fact, I pity them because, really, anyone that gets lumped in a category with me deserves the universal pity of all.
I mean really. Have you even read this post? I like ponies and purple. What kind of heterosexual male DOES that?
~I also feel obligated to add that these were just my first 2 posts, and I fully intend to make them longer in the end. Think, like... uh.... Ally Brosh, with hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com. (pretty epic read, I'd check it out if I was you.)
Like, I know it's the "gay" color. Tinkie-Winkie or however you spell his name was the gay Teletubby, right? Big purple one with the triangle thingy on his head? I remember in high school, everyone called him gay. Whatever. The point is Purple is a pretty boss color.
Unfortunately, I also have the added affliction of being a Brony.
I'm a brony, and I am proud.
Yes. I am a 24 year old male who watches My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, every Saturday on the Hub. Well, specifically on youtube because I'm lame and don't get the Hub, but I wasn't going to bitch about free cable.
The show is pretty well written, and Lauren Faust has this miracle tendency to take theses concepts most writers would push for kids and make them so freakin' boss that a massive variety of audiences watch them. (see: Powerpuff Girls and Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends for reference)
Basically the point is this: Because I am a huge proponent of this amazing show, and my favorite color is purple, I have this amazing tendency to "ping on the ol' gaydar" as my friend Bill once put it. People are convinced that my girlfriend is a fantastic cover-up for my secret gay life.
All of this tends to be exacerbated by the fact that, thanks to some quirk of genetics and the environmental stimuli I was bombarded with throughout my formative years, I have a tendency to be a bit flamboyant and or dramatic. Perhaps a little feminine. So By these powers combined I wind up getting confused for a homosexual. And believe me, I am not upset with the gay community. In fact, I pity them because, really, anyone that gets lumped in a category with me deserves the universal pity of all.
I mean really. Have you even read this post? I like ponies and purple. What kind of heterosexual male DOES that?
~I also feel obligated to add that these were just my first 2 posts, and I fully intend to make them longer in the end. Think, like... uh.... Ally Brosh, with hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com. (pretty epic read, I'd check it out if I was you.)
Holidays and Colombus
Upon review of my life I am coming to the realization that I hate holidays. I'd like to issue an official apology to the roses are red poem. The poem, although nonsensical and poorly written, did not deserve the bashing I gave it earlier. The blame truly rests on the holiday itself. Valentine's day, which every year i dread, seems to me to be a waste of a day. Unlike many of my friends, I do not mind doting on the ones i love, nor do I object to a day dedicated to caring for your loved one. but that's just the issue. Why should we single out a special day to do these things, when in reality, if you care about someone, you should do this all year long? It's like Christmas. I understand that it's a religion-based holiday, and I'm not opposed to celebrating the birth of the Christ-Child. But for everyone that quips that the day is set aside to bask in the glory of giving or whatever... Isn't that a practice that should be present in our daily lives?
In fact, i'd like to take this one step further while I'm up on my soap-box. The only holidays I feel like we have ANY business celebrating are Halloween, New Year's, The fourth, and Armistice Day. (AKA Veteran's Day. But my reasoning for returning to Armistice day is that, once again, veterans should be glorified every day, not just one day. The armistice day celebrates the end of the first world war on 11/11. you know. a one time thing. But I digress)
Furthermore, All of these holidays like Colombus day need to freakin' go. Christopher Colombus was an asshole. Ge was an Italian that wasn't wanted in Italy, so he was exiled to Spain, where he then was treated like a bad penny. They sent him away, he kept coming back. So the Queen funded a voyage to get rid of him and make money. It wasn't to prove the world was round. In fact, contrary to your primary school education, the popular belief by everybody but the Catholic church was that the world was round. It was to get rid of Ol' Chris and hopefully earn a little money.
ACTUALLY, the "New World" was set foot on originally prior to 1000 AD by the Vikings, specifically Leif Ericson, son of Eric the Red, who was exiled to Greenland for his war crimes, and perhaps had done some extra Journeying. This all happened about 500 years before Columbus. Then the Celtic peoples followed and had DOCUMENTED MAPS of much of upper New England prior to Colombus' excursion.
So screw Colombus. and Screw his holiday. AND screw most holidays, because we as intelligent thinking logical beings shouldn't have to have a special day to just "be nice." and if you do, you're probably an asshole. ♥
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