I'm a creature of habit. I stop at the same convenience store everyday before work to grab a cup of coffee, maybe some smokes, whatever. As a result, I'm on a first name basis with most of the cashiers. This is always a double edged sword. On the plus side, I never have to go through the hassle of getting carded for cigarettes by some moron I'm probably old enough to have fathered. The down side is, of course, that this means I'm a regular customer and have lost the privilege of having them censor their conversations while I am at the counter fixing my coffee.
Today, as I was going through my routine, I was treated to a conversation that took place as one cashier screamed from the register to the other cashier that was in the office:
"Did you get it yet?"
"No." Very Long Pause. "Uh...I think I just super glued my fingers together."
"Oh my God! This one time, I super glued my hand to the floor and had to wait hours for someone to come home!"
First of all, any story that starts with "this one time" should be required by law to be followed with "at band camp". Because, your story, much like it's narrator, is a loser. Drain your spit valve and call it a day.
Secondly, what the fuck did you just say?
I spent the vast majority of my 8 hour shift pondering the physics behind gluing one's self to the floor. I have to be honest, I can't make it work.
Here is a bit of a personal aside about me; I hate to be sticky. Hate it with a phobia-like quality. When my children ask me to make pancakes, the only thought running through my head is that I will eventually have to touch the syrup bottle. You can have sex with whipped cream all you want...I'll pass. It sounds like something that requires a shower directly afterward, rather than laying in each others' arms.
So, I have to wonder, how do you cover your hand with the amount of super glue sufficient to glue yourself to the floor and not notice that your hand is covered in such a sticky substance? Even if you don't share my aversion to stickiness, how do you not realize you have a handful of glue?
Even better, how did you wind up with a handful of glue? This shit comes in the same tube as toothpaste. What the fuck does your bathroom look like after you brush your teeth? I mean...if you can't master the fine art of squeezing a tube and getting the fluid inside on the object you are aiming at...
Which brings us to: location, location, location. Why the floor? Who sits on the floor with a tube of super glue to repair an object? Don't you have a table and chair(s)? There wasn't a counter for you to stand at?
And, the mechanics involved in this operation... How did you leave your glue covered hand pressed against the floor long enough for super glue to set? I mean, that shit has a disclaimer on it to be used in a well ventilated area for a reason. Super glue will get you high, jackass.
And really, super glue comes in a tube about the size of your average asian guy's dick. What the fuck were you gluing that required the entire tube, most of which, obviously, landed on your hand? Because, it would take most of a tube to cover your hand sufficiently to allow you to glue yourself to the floor.
Now, don't get me wrong, I've done my share of stupid shit. Prior to shipping out for the Marine Corps, I got so drunk that I allowed a girl to hold her hand on my head as my friends (note that that is multiple) shaved around her appendage. The result was a haircut that would have made any mother scream. I still cringe when I recall the incident, and considering that I currently sport a mohawk, that's probably quite the statement.
Yet, I can't say that I've ever done anything as fucking retarded as gluing myself to the floor. In fact, if I had done anything that vapid, I doubt very much that I would publicize the information willingly. To be honest, such a story would likely require a massive amount of alchohol and some after-sex glow.
At any rate...you fuckers were lucky to get a blog tonight. I mean, we're losing an hours sleep tonight, for the sole purpose of boosting our failing economy and I have to work early.
I am about to tangent in epic proportions. EPIC.
I love social networking. My facebook page is the first and last thing I check online, everyday. I'm on and off of it all day, too. Yet, I'm always on the edge of just deleting my account and walking away from such a breeding ground of rampant stupidity, as well.
For example, a few of my 'friends' had this little number posted today: So the U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that you have the right under the First Amendment to protest military funerals... I invite you to stop and protest in my front yard and we can see if your first amendment is better than my Second Amendment...Repost if you feel the same. Now, in and of itself, while childish, this statement doesn't bother me much. I understand the sentiment behind it. However...
One of my friends felt the need to add this particular tag to their status: only our dumbass non-american president would do something like this to the men and women serving our country!
This folks, is just a statement made out of anger and ignorance.
First, let's get through the obvious. The President has absolutely no participation or sway over the rulings of the Supreme Court. If he did, he would be a dictator not a president. Our government is divided into separate entities that can not influence each other for a reason.
Also, taking shots at Obama's heritage is weak, and it's getting fucking old. You must be American by birth to hold the office of our leader. If the American populace were going to turn a blind-eye to this particular law, Arnie would be sitting in the Oval Office smoking a fat fucking cigar.
Okay...moving past the information that any random fifth grader could provide you...
The Supreme Court had no choice but to overturn the decision of Snyder v. Phelps. The First Amendment has no grey area. It is black and white. Either we have absolute freedom of speech, or we do not. We can not ever justify allowing our emotions to remove one of the basic principles of this country. If you want to live in such a police state, feel free to pack your shit and head on out. Personally, I like being able to say whatever free-formed thought is rolling about my head without living in fear of gestapo pulling me from my bed in the wee hours of the morning and disappearing me.
I doubt very much that the crotchety old fucks that sit behind the bench of our highest court of law enjoyed the responsibilty of permitting protests of military funerals. Unfortunately, they had no choice but to uphold the law. It's kind of their fucking job.
So here we are again. We have an American public that is so disenfranchised with a failing economy that they created through their own apathy, they are once again turning their government into a whipping boy for something that is religious in origin.
Yes, religious. Relax, I'm getting there. Try and follow the bouncing ball of etheral light, would ya?
The problem isn't that the government stood up for your right to freedom of speech. Which, is what happened, even if you're too pig-headed to acknowledge it. The right of every pornographer, journalist, artist, and every other citizen of this country was defended. You still have the right to wake up tomorrow and bitch about what a lousy job the President you probably couldn't be bothered to vote for is doing. Hoo-rah for democracy.
The problem is The Westboro Baptist Church and their insistance on abusing our right to freedom of speech in about the most heinous manner possible. Because, as Americans, the only right we hold more dear than our freedom of speech (and right to bear arms) is our right to worship whatever God we choose. As long as that God is Christian. And intolerant of all other gods. And white. Americans love a white Jesus.
Now, this group of redneck, bigoted fuckwads have the right to protest military funerals. The soldiers lying in the coffins died defending that right (in theory, anyway. Most of them actually died over the price of oil, but we'll defer and respect the integrity of their service to this country). What they haven't bothered to ask themselves is the age old question of; just because we can, does it mean we should?
No. I can fry bacon naked in the comfort of my home. I don't, because it's fucking stupid.
Personally, I hope the next batch of planes that terrorists drop on our heads lands on the their church. I'd love to see a group of veterans in ski-masks with tire irons show up to their next protest. And, I hope they don't spare the rod on the 12 year old kid holding the sign that says: AIDS KILLS FAGS DEAD. I'd kill for five minutes in a locked room with Fred Phelps, a blowtorch and some salt. No shit.
So...we have a group of religious zealots abusing the system to meet their own agenda, and who is at fault? The government. Um, okay. Makes perfect sense. To a mentally challenged functioning alchoholic, I guess.
In God We Trust.
Yet, no matter who you want to lay the blame on, the reality is that it's over. Protesting military funerals is legal. The End.
So, how do we deal with it? Learn tolerance for morbid fuckbags like the Westboro Baptards? Actually, no. We handle it the way we handle everything else. With complete apathy.
You want this shit to end? Solve it in the tradition of American problem solving. Ignore it. If we stopped paying attention to these morons, if we stopped feeding the fires that build their brimstone style posturing, if we stopped adding the spotlight to their media... They would just dry up and go away.
Organizations like the WBC come and go through the annals of American history. Eventually, their shock value winds up with all the value of the American dollar in Japan and they get replaced by some other group of vapid assholes.
But, it becomes our responsibility to just ignore them. Your facebook post may seem harmless, but it isn't. Every fire starts with a spark. As long as you are paying attention to them, as long as you are willing to place the blame on the wrong people, you are doing nothing more than empowering these home-grown terrorists.
We can agree. We can disagree. We can even agree to disagree. But, until we can just learn to turn a blind eye to blatant stupidity, we're doing nothing more than adding to the shallow end of the gene pool. Of course...if we keep adding to the shallow end of the gene pool, I guess we'll displace it enough to make it the deeper end, huh?
I don't smoke in the apartment. My girlfriend doesn't smoke, and while she doesn't say much about me smoking, I know that she can't really stand the smell. It doesn't bother me to smoke outside. Actually, it encourages me to smoke less, because the weather sucks, it's a pain in the ass to pause the movie and find my shoes, and, really, smoking indoors has become weird to me. I can't do it anywhere else I go, why should home be any different?
Yet, it never fails. Every single time I step out front on our street level porch to have a coffin nail, I'm assaulted by at least one worthless piece of shit.
"Can I bum a smoke?"
Know why they call it bumming? Because, thats what you are; a bum. Why don't you piss yourself a few times, give up any type of personal hygiene for a month or six, get yourself a coffee can and a cardboard sign explaining your personal plight and work a corner? Maybe you can scrape together enough change to buy your own cigarettes. Or, you could do what I do. I go to work. I earn a paycheck. I buy cigarettes when I want them.
"You got an extra square?"
Nope. Sorry sport, there were only 20 in this pack when I opened 'em. But, hey, give me your name and number, and the first pack I get with 21, I'll call you.
What the fuck is an 'extra' cigarette? Like I bought a pack and decided "Ehhh...I don't think I want that one way in the back..."
Did you mean; do I have a cigarette I am willing to give to you? If you live in my neighborhood, you're probably one of the hundred hoodrats that is so loud as you wander the streets, I frequently have to rewind the movie I'm watching because I couldn't hear what the hell just happened. Will I give you a cigarette? I wouldn't throw a bucket of piss on you if you were on fire.
For those of you thinking that I have no compassion, allow me to set the record straight: I don't. Not a single fucking drop.
First of all, smoking isn't a necessity. Yes, it certainly sucks to suffer the pangs of nicotine withdrawl. But, it isn't going to kill you. If you can't afford to buy your own cigarettes, tough fucking shit. Smoking is a luxury. This is why it gets whacked with the Sin Tax and why you can't buy cigarettes with your food stamps no matter how much you argue with the cashier or insist that the guy that is usually working always lets you do it, as I wait with growing impatience behind you to pay for my shit and go to work.
Secondly, one of the few things my exwife didn't get in the divorce was my pride. It would be a cold day in Hell before I asked a perfect stranger for anything. I have to work up my nerve to borrow twenty bucks off my live-in girlfriend when I've come up short before payday.
I don't understand the mindset that it is acceptable to approach a perfect stranger and ask them to part with anything they have purchased with their hard earned cash. Times is tough in the field for everybody, boss.
Asking someone for a cigarette is a social practice that should be confined to parties, rock concerts, and friends. Asking some to spot you a few bucks is a social practice that should be confined only to friends.
I had a coworker ask me to lend him three bucks until Friday today. Now, I'm normally not adverse to this. I've lent coworkers money before, but they were good friends that I trusted and was confident they would pay me back. But...we don't get paid for another week. How desperate are you that you need $3.00 from me today, and where are you going to get it by Friday to repay me? Is this going to be three bucks I never see again? I'm guessing. And, yeah, it's only $3.00... but that doesn't even cover a gallon of gas these days.
You want to borrow money from me? Let me give you my exwife's number. That bitch gets all my money.
We're supposed to feel sorry for the down trodden and the poor in this country. Why? Hey, don't get a job...get two. Damn right, you can't live off minimum wage. Minimum wage wasn't designed to be lived off of. It was integrated as a supplemental income and to protect minors entering the workforce. You can't live off what McDonalds pays. But, if you work at McDonlads during the day and Burger King at night, you can get by... Sure, it will cut into your crack smoking time, but hey, can't have your cake and eat it too.
Yes, I said it.
The reality that most Americans want to ignore is that the vast majority of the indigent population are either drug addicts or suffer a mental illness and refuse their medications. And, God forbid we force them to take their meds, that would be a violation of their rights. Nevermind your right to enter a business in a populated city without being assaulted by someone that smells like they shat their pants 12 times, pawing at you with their filthy hands and demanding your pocket change.
If you feel badly for the homeless in this country, I'd challenge you to run a restaurant in a downtown setting for about a week. If you don't change your tune quicker than they change their sob stories for each perspective cash cow, I'll nominate you for sainthood.
If you really want to help the homeless and the poor, quit giving them handouts. Let's reform welfare and only give it to people that are working and willing to take regular drug tests. Instead of giving your spare change to the guy on the corner, give him a copy of the Yellow Pages and highlight a few of the billion shelters and programs available, that your tax dollars are already paying for.
Do I have any spare change? I sure do, buddy. The government already takes it out of my paycheck for you. Go find it.
When people exclaim that things like Bum Fights are cruel, I have to chuckle. That shit isn't cruel. It's funny as hell. I want to see Hooker Fights next. I've seen cruel. Tossing a pair of hobos $20 and watching them beat the snot out of each other isn't it. Thats just fucking entertaining, and marketing genius.
And, I'll tell you, when my buddies and I used to get liquored up after high school and drive by hookers throwing pennies, I never saw one that looked like Julia Roberts. Most of them, contain your gasps, looked like addicts trying to score enough money for their next fix. We're supposed to delude ourselves into thinking that prostitution is an acceptable victimless crime because hookers can get free condoms from clinics that our tax dollars pay for to help prevent disease. Yeah, that would be great if they didn't take the cash they got from humping losers to buy smack they shoot up with dirty needles. Awesome.
It's a bit easier for me to stomach my taxes funding an unneeded war for oil for the last ten years because the liberals won't let us drill here and the right wingers won't admit that oil companies need extensive regulation than it is for me to part with my cash for programs designed to help people that don't want help.
Do I have any spare change? About two cents worth. And, if we don't know each other, and if you have the audacity to ask me for anything but the time, you're damn sure gonna get it.
I'm pretty sick of the whole Charlie Sheen debacle. I'm tired of hearing people talk about it, I'm tired of every radio morning show thinking I want an update every fucking fifteen minutes, I'm tired of it bombarding the internet and the news. And, it isn't just because I find the voyeuristic aspect of another human being's darkest hours to be a disgusting hobby. To be honest, I'm mostly just tired of people acting surprised. Really people?
If on any given day, I were to pick up a newspaper and read that Charlie Sheen had set an infant on fire and then dropkicked it into a pool of sharks, it really wouldn't shock me. Not even a tiny bit. And you people are running around with your mouths agape at the idea that the dude self-sabotaged his own career? Again?
If Charlie Sheen wanted to shock me, he'd probably have to give himself over to the church, invoke a vow of celibacy, and spend the remainder of his days devoted to spoon feeding quadrapalegic orphans in some third world country. And stick to it for longer than six months of good P.R.
We're talking about a guy that has held the title: Hollywood's Original Bad Boy for longer than most of the people reading this blog have been alive. Charlie Sheen has had to scrape himself out of the gutter more times than Michael J. Fox's bowling ball. This is a guy that got to go to bed every night with Denise Richards and managed to fuck it up. Denise Richards... her exercise show is probably the most masturbated-to non-pornographic program to ever grace a television set. I don't know what she can do for my buns and thighs, but I do know she made my forearms huge when I was a younger man.
In general, what I'm trying to convey is that; the media hoopla was just unwarranted. If anything, Charlie Sheen deserves an eyeroll and a smirk. "Oh Charlie, you did it again..."
Yet, to my uber amazement, people are genuinely upset. I blame the fact that Charlie made the move from films to television. In a time when even the most jaded television addict can admit that there just isn't shit worth watching, our boy managed to get one of the few remaining watchable sitcoms cancelled. It's a disruption to people that set their clocks by what is 'coming up next'.
Still, I was willing to forgive it all. Not waste my time thinking, talking or blogging about it. Chalk it up as just another media circus, in what must have been a slow celebrity month, that would pass the moment another of the elite crossed the barrier from icon to con, until someone said:
"I'll never watch anything with Charlie Sheen in it again. I'll be damned if he's getting any more of my money."
Oh. My. Jebus.
Maybe it's me. I'm a prodigal son of the 80's. I'm not giving up movies that have Charlie Sheen in them, I don't care if they tell me he dug up the corpse of Mother Theresa for perverse sexual pleasures and kept the body in the trunk of his car on ice, just in case he got randy on his way to his next score... Have you lost your fucking mind?
Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Platoon, Major League, The Chase, Men At Work, The Breakfast Club, Young Guns (Where everbody was Martin Sheen's illegitimate child and all had different last names. Awwwwkward), Cadence, Red Dawn... Just to fucking name a few of the movies I would watch repeatedly, despite the cast.
Listen, if O.J. Simpson can commit a brutal double homicide, publically humilate the most violent police in America, and single-handedly make a mockery of the American Justice System and football can remain the most watched sport in this country... I'm not willing to write off Charlie Sheen movies.
I'm not going to watch movies featuring Charlie Sheen because I have lost all respect for him. Well, strip me naked, paint me black and call me a jungle bug. You might not respect the world's best heart surgeon, but if you were getting your chest cracked, I bet that's the mother fucker you'd want looming over your anesthetized body. I don't particularly respect a great many of the people I work with on a daily basis. Not as people. But, some of them are good at their jobs, and I'd rather work with assholes that can than assholes that can't. Charlie Sheen can. The guy is a great actor. And, thats all I want from him.
But, again, maybe it's me. I'm not a star struck retard that feels the need to become embroiled in a celebrity's personal life. Prime example:
This weekend, the girlfriend and I went to the Flogging Molly concert. Prior to the show, we had dinner at a place that claimed it was a pub, but wasn't and then went next door for beers. The place was packed beyond belief and we wound up standing at a small counter, literally shoulder-to-shoulder with a member of Flogging Molly. I introduced myself, he shook my hand, we made a bit of small talk (yes, he opened with the weather. I forgive his transgression into this hated topic, however, as he was probably trying to gauge whether or not I was a psychopath) and had a few beers. When his dinner came, the girlfriend and I talked amongst ourselves and allowed the guy to enjoy his meal in peace. When he was done, there was a bit more conversation, then he shook our hands and thanked us for being fans. End of story.
At no point did I feel the need to press this man for an autograph or a picture. I respected his privacy while he ate. At no point did I use that incidental meeting to try and garner backstage privilges, or impose upon him. I was able to have a very personalized experience with a memeber of a band that I love, without coming off as a drooling idiot that wanted a picture for his facebook profile (in case any of my frineds are retarded enough to believe we hang together on a regular basis). And, that, to me, beats an autograph or picture any day of the week.
I'm just not a clebrity whore. I don't follow their personal lives. I don't give a shit what they do. The idea that someone walks around with more pocket change than I will make this year not thinking that they are above reproach or that they don't have to answer for their actions the same as the rest of the world, is more strange than the reality.
I'm a staunch evolutionist. And, among the sects of the Christian religion that really work my nerves, the Catholic Church has to be number one with a bullet. The fact that they imbue their followers with a need to feel guilt over their personal failings makes me want to pull out my fingernails with a pair of pliers. However, if I met the Pope, it's not like I'd teabag his ring. I'd kiss it, bow and shit... Because, the man deserves respect for his work. I don't give a fuck about his beliefs or politics. Nor do I care about the beliefs and politics of a movie star. Don't care. At all.
If Charlie Sheen believes it's okay to wake up every morning and self-destruct, thats his business. If he makes a shitty movie, then it's mine. Period.
Unfortunately, most of us seem to be so disheartened with our meager lives that we feel this need to live vicariously through the lives of celebrities. Hell, all week long I had to hear about the epic fail that was the Oscars. Um...and you're at home watching a bunch of elitist pricks give each other awards why? Is your life truly that empty? What kind of joy-gasm are you having when the actor/actress that you were rooting for won the award? And, do you realize that this is more retarded than the fact that you're watching the Super Bowl when your team didn't make it there?
I could easily blame the whole thing on the media. It is undeniable that they assault us with this garbage on a daily basis, forcing it down our throats the way a parent forces vegetables on a child. But, we, as a society, need to own up to our share too. If we weren't sitting around like a bunch of bored housewives with nothing better to do than hear the latest dish, maybe the media would get back to doing it's job and report some actual, unbiased fucking news.
If you guys want to knock Charlie Sheen for being a ticking timebomb of a human being that blows about every 5 years, go ahead. You're going to stop watching his movies? Awesome. You can mail me your DVDs, as I'm missing quite a few of the above mentioned films. For all the bashing I heard about Charlie this week, I never heard a single 'thank you' for the free entertainment. Because, that's what the guy gets paid to do. Entertain you. And, you've all had a free show for the last week or so.
Anyone that has drank tequila has a story just as, if not more, humiliating than anything Charlie Sheen is being crucified for at the moment.
This guy isn't Breaking News. He's Breaking Wind. He's just another fart disguising the shitstorm we're all refusing to look at. Wake up call, America. Charlie Sheen isn't your problem.
We've been embroiled in a war for 10 years that has absolutely no forseeable conclusion, we had birds dropping dead from the sky for a month, unexplained, and by summer, gas prices will hit $5 a gallon... and people are actively worried over the antics of a celebrity? Most of you need to get a grip on something besides your penis and demand more of your government than you do out of the guy that entertains you in 2 hour blocks. Right now. This second. Yesterday.
In a country where we find it inexcuable to watch a movie because the celebrity starring in it might get a few bucks in royalties, but the government can send any mother's son to an early grave in a war that lost our interest because it took too long...it's no wonder that a blog about stupidity is easy to write. Just a wonder that it's popular.
So, I'm in the produce section of the local Shop n' Save, trying to squeeze my way between the hefty stock girl, her overloaded cart and another customer. I just want a red onion. Just one. A small one even. Nothing is ever simple.
The other customer is finishing what has clearly been a one-sided conversation with the employee. She sees her out and goes for it. "Well, have a nice day, sir."
I'm mentally congratulating her, but it turns out, I'm wrong. She hasn't ended the conversation and successfully gotten back to stocking the produce. No, friends and neighbors. She has inadvertently opened Pandora's Box.
"Oh, I will! I always do! Happiness is a choice. And I choose to be happy all the time!"
The fuck did you just say, dude?
He's wearing a smile that would put the Chersire Cat to shame as he notices me and tries out a "Hi". I grab my onion, give him a quick nod and avoid eye contact at all costs. There is no way I'm getting my ear raped by Captain Happy for the next 10 minutes. Nuh-uh.
But, the Slop 'n Slave isn't a mega grocery store. I can't help but run into this jolly prick as I go about my business. Not even when I try going to the opposite end of the store and try and work my way backwards (you know how you do when there is some particularly annoying family or slow moving senior that always seem to be in your aisle?). This mother fucker went about trying to spread cheer and happiness through the store like Madonna goes about spreading the clap.
I don't care how perfect your life might be, or how much optimism you want to view the world through... When you're out in public, you need to take that shit down a notch. I didn't come here for a smile, I came to part with what little hard earned cash the government and my exwife deem fit to allow me to have and buy food. If I wanted a smile, I would have spent my afternoon off drinking beer and masturbating.
I can't stand aggressively happy people. To be honest, I always find myself wishing something tragic would occur in thier lives, just to wipe that idiotic smile off their faces for 5 fucking seconds.
Of course, it would only last 5 seconds before they whipped out one of the old standards: "Everything happens for a reason." "God has a plan." "Every cloud has a silver lining."
Not that I'm against a bit of optimism. Most days, my life is pretty comparable to a pile of dog shit. But, I always tell myself that it will eventually get better, simply because it can't get much worse. I try and remember that all the shit I'm going through is just a drop in the bucket of a bigger picture. Mostly, I convince myself of this and I manage to get through each day. That is a healthy level of optimism.
Jumping out of bed each morning and screeching "Carpe Diem, Bitches!", running out the door and assaulting perfect strangers with your smile and insistance that they should cheer up, is taking it too far.
Perky is a quality that should only exist in females between the ages of 16-28. The age range may go further provided their breasts are also still perky. Because, frankly, if you need a support bra to keep the girls from hanging to your knees, you have nothing to be cheerful about.
I don't want to come across as though I feel we should all shield our emotions when we are out in public, tromping around like a group of mindless clones. But, no one finds it socially acceptable to run up to a complete stranger and cry on their shoulder because their life sucks. Keep your baggage to yourself. Keep your fucking sunshine to yourself too.
I can't remember the last time I felt bad about myself and thought; "I know! I'll go out among the unwashed masses in the economically repressed area in which I live and interact with one of the denziens to cheer myself up!" The only thing that makes me feel better about being forced to interact with the general populace is knowing that, eventually, I'll be able to retreat to the Fortress of Solitude that is my apartment.
Happiness isn't a quality you can force on someone. Think of Happiness like breakfast. Breakfast is the most personal meal that people eat. You might go out for breakfast, and the food might be good, but it isn't as good as your mom used to make. The bacon wasn't crisp enough, your over meduim eggs were more like over medium well, the toast was only burnt on one side... Happiness is like that. It's personal. What makes you happy might make me fucking miserable and vice versa.
For instance, your smile would probably be wiped off your face if you stepped out of Shop 'n Save and the sun blinded you, causing you to step out into oncoming traffic and you were left crippled, lying on the pavement in pain as a stray dog wandered along and lifted it's leg on you... However, I would find this amusing to no end. I would smile over that old chestnut for the rest of my days, to be honest.
I'm looking forward to the Zombie Apocalypse. The fall of civilization is going to tickle me pink. Can't wait. I'm going be grinning 24/7. No lie. My brother and I have plans laid in place and life is going to be good in the secret tunnel.
If I woke up and discovered that sharks could fly and saw a random pedestrian get plucked from the sidewalk by a swooping great white, it would bring unbridled joy into the deepest recesses of my heart. I might even burst into an Irish Jig.
My point being, while my examples might seem ludicrous to most of you, they are completely true admissions. And, if I ran up to you in the grocery store and shared them with you, it probably wouldn't make you smile. In fact, I'd probably be leaving that particular shopping experience in either handcuffs or a straight jacket.
Really, the only place outside of cheer camp that aggressive happiness is acceptable is the bar. God bless a happy drunk. You know that mother fucker is only happy because he is so blitzed, he doesn't have to stare his meaningless and miserable existence in the face and pray for a quick death.
However you choose to view the glass, just please do it with a tempered realism. Exposing yourself to the rest of the world should involve a really long rain coat and a pair of calf high black socks, not a smile that swallows your face and leaves me wondering about your mental state, okay? Because, I have to tell you, I've worked in the mental health field, and people that smile for no reason aren't to be trusted. They're generally plotting your death or trying to decide which, of the many, bodily fluids they can fling at you. (In my tenure as a mental health worker, I'm pretty sure I was covered in more bodily fluids than your average asian porn star, I'm sad to confess)
My unsolicited advice to the world at large? Whatever makes you happy, keep it to yourself. Because the world is full of hateful assholes like me, just waiting to piss on your parade and call it rain. If making other people happy makes you happy, find a fucking career that suits that need. Because, trying to spread cheer and joy in the grocery store didn't make me happy, it pissed me off to no end, sport.
Considering this is a blog dedicated to examining the stupidest and/or most outlandish statement to violate my ears each day, I'm honestly surprised it took us this long to get where we're going tonight. And, maybe that fact is sadder from my end, as I'm the reporter and retorter of all the idiocy that surrounds me. Just maybe, I have been negligent in my responsibilities and ignored the tremendous amount of racially motivated things said towards me each day, dismissing them the way most white people do, rather than being as insulted as I should be.
Today's Utterance of Ignorance?
"Who the hell does he think he is talking to a white woman like that, anyway?"
Good Morning Racist America. 1952 called, they'd like their racial views back.
"I can not believe you just said that," I replied.
"Why? Get over it, honey. It's not like I'm racist or anything."
I love it when white people think they can say anything they want, so long as they follow it with that disclaimer. My second favorite is: "It's okay, I have a black friend."
Am I guilty? You bet. I once had a black coworker state that I was either the least racist or the most openly racist person he knew. He just couldn't decide. This was after he, myself and another black coworker made the mistake of going for a few beers after work. The bar we picked was wall-to-wall rednecks and as we entered, I knew it was going to be an issue at some point. Being me, I beat them all to the punch.
After I had thrown back a few, and I needed to make room for more, I stood in the middle of the bar and announced very loudly: "I need to use the pisser! Can someone watch my farm equipment for me?!"
It ended okay, although my friends were clearly uncomfortable in the bar for the majority of the night. My use of humor to point out the obvious made most of the white people in the room uncomfortable, and a few drinks were sent our way.
And, maybe thats why I usually don't blanche at racial humor. The vast majority of it is based off observations of the obvious and used to make a statement. The vast majority of racial humor isn't meant to be hurtful, rather to diffuse the obvious tension.
Are there racial jokes designed to humilate and hurt? Of course there are. Are they funny? Not usually.
I gave up feeling guilt at my racial views a long time ago. To be honest, I don't consider myself a racist because I hate more white people than any other race. Thats because I know more white people than people of any other persuasion. If I hate you, it has nothing to do with your skin color, you're probably just an asshole. Nothing personal.
Last night, I discussed my penchance for judging people based on their appearance. This does not extend to skin color. Bottomline: You're either cool, or you're sucking up oxygen that the rest of us could be putting to better use.
And, as a honky, I have to confess, I don't really think white people are the most racist people out there. Or maybe, it's that white people just don't go to such great lengths to hide it.
I've seen more black people walk into a white-majority situation, plaster on a fake smile and do the 'Driving Ms. Daisy' shuffle than I care to think about. Hey, if you want to demean yourself, feel free. When I walk into a situation where my mohawk isn't appreciated, you can bet I get aggresive about it. You have a problem with me? Fuck you. Now, do something about it.
I developed a scenario a few years back that I always toss out as food for thought when the subject of racism comes up. If a black man stands up in a crowded room and announces that he is proud to be black, people would view him as a potential leader, right? So, what would happen if a white man stood up in a crowded room and announced he was proud to be white? Uh-oh. That mother fucker is a racist, fo' sho'.
The following is true conversation that took place between myself and a coworker one night, not too long back:
Me: "They want their chicken blackened? I'll make that shit blacker than Jesus!" (insert sarcastic laughter)
Idiot: "Um...Jesus was white."
Me: "Yeah...no. Reread your bible and then check out some pictures of the people from the region that Jesus immigrated from on his way to being born in Bethlehem."
Idiot: "No! Jesus was white. Ain't you never seen his picture*?"
*this word was pronounced as pitcher. I shit you not, you can't make stuff like this up.
You want to solve racism in America? Someone call the Catholic Church and have that German fuck of a Pope look at a map. You don't travel up the Nile into the Holy Lands from Europe. Also, you may want to call Deathrow Records and let them know that the vast majority of their listening audience is white and that having black artists refer to each other in hate raps as niggers is like tossing gasoline on a fire.
Anyone that chuckled at, or pretended to be mortally offended by my use of the word nigger can stop reading right this second, go into their garage and start their car with the door closed. In 2011, that word has all the shock value of the word; asshole.
Who did he think he was talking to a white woman like that? I don't know, honestly. I talk to white women all the time. And, if they're bitches, thats how I talk to them. Maybe...just maybe...he thought you were a fucking bitch, sweetheart.
I think you're a bitch. And hell, I agree that the guy was out of line for speaking to you the way he did. But, it had nothing to do with race, until you made it that way.
As a nation, we're still not that far removed from the slavery mentality. Thats a fact, Jack. 'Nigger' is still the first word on the tips of our tongues when we encounter a black person that crosses us. We still consider black people as superior athletes due to proper breeding by slave owners. Denzel Washington is still the only decent black actor in Hollywood, and all the other African Americans still deny this and say they can't get parts due to their skin color... Sure Mario Van Peebles, we'd love to see Solo II. Not.
And since we've hit Hollywood... Dear Hollywood, I'd love to see a few Lee Harvey Oswalds climb into your famed sign and start taking out producers that think it is okay to substitute mexicans for any and all ethnic portrayals.
My favorite movie of all time is The 13th Warrior. Yet, everytime I watch it, I have to be honest, I'm disturbed by the fact that the leading role of an arab character was given to the most famous mexican actor in Hollywood.
Are we on to mexicans? We sure are.
I'd kill to be a mexican these days. George Lopez can suck my dick. I'm tired of hearing how bad mexicans have it due to racism. Really? Reeeeeeeeally? INS turns a blind eye to half the illegals in this country because states like California would crumble under the economic pressure of trying to pay legalized workers. The illegals get free health care and don't pay taxes. You could call me Pepe all damn day for that lifestyle, you prick.
And asian people? Well, learn to drive, then we'll talk.
Racism is always going to exist. That is a no brainer. We're sheeple and anything different scares the shit out of us. We backlash and move on. Such is life.
We try too hard to deny it. I love when people say: "I don't care if you're black, yellow, green or purple..." I do. I care. I want to see some purple titties. Damn right. Green cooter? Okay, not so much...
But, I digress. I have another six pack too close at hand and a mind that doesn't understand cencorship or sensitivity.
On the plus side, a waitress at work pulled me off to the side today to tell me that she finally read my blog and enjoyed it. This is one of the few coworkers I have whose opinion I value. It rather made my day. And, honestly, I was getting concerned. From the time I had posted my last drunken diatribe at 2:30 in the morning until I left for work at 10:30 the following morning, I had had 38 readers. No comments, just 38 people with nothing better to do during those hours than read my blog?
Some conversations are like train wrecks. You know it's impolite to stare, but you just can't help it. Your attention is drawn back to it, despite your knowledge that eventually, there will be blood on the sidewalk. I walked past such a conversation today.
I felt like a medic on the field of battle that is cut-down by friendly fire while trying to help a wounded soldier escape with his life. Of course, in this instance, the wounded soldier was my IQ, and we definitely weren't being assaulted by smart bombs.
"You know how they say that the shoemaker's kids have to go without shoes? Well, girlfriend, the hair dresser's daughter has to go without eyebrow waxings..."
Vapid. So, naturally, it hung around my frontal lobe all night like the fat guy at the party hangs around the food table. It wasn't always there...just more often than not.
My first reaction was to demean the girl for being cheap, shallow and narcissistic. Yet...
Among the multitude of sins I will be asked to answer for upon departing this world and entering the next (provided I get past explaining my whole evolutionary stance) will be prejudging people based upon their appearance. I'm guilty. And I don't know anyone that isn't, despite their vehement claims to the contrary.
Take The Yo!, for example. I can't look at one of these urban white kids dressed like Jay-Z and not write them off as a waste of time. These guys put together their outfits in the morning with the same care and attention that I would in getting dressed for Halloween. In my mind, anyone that is superficial enough to spend that much time in on their exterior (and isn't a woman), is probably lacking heavily on the interior. Usually somewhere close to the brains department. And by brains, I mean their dicks, because thats where these yahoos keep them. Of course, this may explain the baggy jeans.
Then there are the slobs. The guys that run around in T-shirts that came off their bedroom floor and got the smell test before being tossed on their unwashed bodies. Their teeth look like they're afraid to ask a toothbrush out for a first date, and their hair shares the same awkwardness at getting familiar with a brush. I can't even be diplomatic about it. If you have poor personal hygiene, or present yourself like you do, I wouldn't piss on you to put out the flames, let alone give you the time of day.
Hey, I'm a guy. I've laundered a shirt in the dryer. I've gotten off late and had to do a turn around shift and as a result taken a sink shower. My razor and I have an on-again-off-again relationship. But, I'm clean. I trim my nails weekly, I use soap and shampoo. I work in greasy environment and go to great lengths to keep my skin from looking like a case of road rash. Take. A. Fucking. Shower.
Maybe worse though, is the opposite end of that particular spectrum. Yes ladies, I'm talking about you.
High Maintenance Bitches. You know, the C's that try to pass themselves off as A's? The kind of girl who spends more time on her hair than the Amish take to raise a barn? The ones with that definitive line of make-up around their necks because they seem to be under the illusion that men are looking at their faces, rather than at the pair of breasts they've jammed into a push-up bra two sizes too small? The ones that feel the need to advertise that they're wearing thongs by leaving that 'Y' out of the tops of their hip hugger jeans?
I can't handle these whores. My idea of geography extends beyond which end of the mall Macy's is at. My idea of good literature doesn't include glossy pages that show the Dos and Don'ts of Fashion. The only thing we have in common is that we're both thinking about how good your ass looks in those jeans.
When I encounter a guy in a polo and khakis, I can't help but assume that the walking Ken doll in front of me probably has an elitist streak wider than than a redneck's dream home. (That was indeed a trailer joke, folks. I lived in one, I can make them) And, if said Ken doll has the collar popped on his polo... forget talking. I'm ready to start drinking and emptying my bladder on his Hush Puppies. The 80s are over, and that look sucked back then. The only guys that can pull off the popped collar look and make it work are young, gay black guys. Period.
And while all of this may seem cynical coming from a guy that sports a mohawk and wears superhero T-shirts, I defer to the old expression: You never get a second chance to make a first impression. I find that, I have surrounded myself by people that have succeeded in passing my Book-by-the-cover judgments. And that the inner circle of friends that I have, are among the greatest people I know.
One of my favorite people in the whole world is my brother's girlfriend. She's a cool black chick that can usually be found kicking it in a pair of jeans and a T. Yet, when she does her 9-5 Mondays through Fridays, she wears a business professional that still lets her personality show through. She manages to look every inch the office staple while exuding that clear identity that says: This is who I am. If you don't like me, you can go fuck yourself. If your penis is too tiny for you to fuck yourself, I will gladly don a 12 inch strap-on and rock your fucking world. But, in a nice way.
Maybe I've spent too long working with the public. Or maybe it was the mental health industry that made me so jaded. All I know is, I can look at someone new and know their life story without them having to tell me. They don't need to say anything stupid for me to judge them, the manner in which they present themselves usually does it for me.
I find the whole 'judging a book by it's cover' expression to be idiotic at any rate. If you turn over a book, the back part of the cover is dedicated to giving you a synopisis. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a synopsis is a brief blurb that tells you the basic facts of what is contained inside. It's sort of like a movie trailer, only in words. So, basically, half of the cover is put there by the author with the intention that you will make a judgment on whether or not you wish to further read the book, right? And, if the author's little blurb isn't meant for you to make a judgment upon, the barrage of quotes by literary critics certainly are.
And, in the case of people, you generally can judge a book by it's cover. Here's an example: A middle aged white guy wearing non-Levi jeans and a T-shirt with the local Professional Football Team logo.
Facts: You can turn on this guy's TV and hit 'previous channel' on his remote, and it is going to take you to one of the 5 million versions of ESPN. He has 5 pairs of shoes in his closet; everyday tennis shoes, work shoes, boots, dress shoes, and that one pair of kicks that his wife keeps insisting he get rid of, but he never will. His bathroom will have a copy of Sports Illustrated or Guns and Ammo (or both) within reach of the shitter. The last thing he read that wasn't the sports section was a ghost authored auto-biography of the latest retired professional athlete that he found to be inspirational, profound, and life altering. His beer of choice is either Budweiser or Coors Light. He attends church when it doesn't interfere with the game. He looks forward to Wing Night at the local bar.
I'm stereotyping, I heard someone say. Fair enough. But, the funny thing about stereotypes is that they're often true. They came about for a reason.
I'm a lower income white person. The stereotypes of that type of person? I drink heavily, I have a bad temper that often gets me into trouble, and I love mac 'n cheese. All true. I love mac 'n cheese.
The reality is; we all want people to judge us based off the superficial. If we didn't, we wouldn't have mirrors. We all put ourselves together each day hoping to impress the world based off our appearance.
And, now for a treat...
Here's a second short segment we'll call: Actions Speak Louder Than Words.
Forget the stupid shit you say. The stupid shit you do defines you.
If you are a man, and if you are in the passenger seat of the car, and if you are at a gas station, and if your girlfriend is pumping gas, I should be allowed to pull you out of the car, do society a favor and beat you to death with a tire iron.
I realize that I am the anomaly of my day and age. I worry that my girlfriend won't remember how to open a door if I'm not there to do it for her. I get up at 4:30 in the morning and shovel out her car, pack her lunch, make her breakfast and ensure that she gets off to work in one piece. I don't expect that every man has that type of dedication... but, seriously. Get your fucking ass out of the car and pump the gas.
I'm not even deriding you for being in the passenger seat. I hate to drive. I only drive when the roads are bad or my girlfriend doesn't want to. 9 times out of 10, she is the captain of our vessel. God bless her. But, I have never...fucking never, sat on my ass in the warmth of the car while she pumped gas. Even on the vague occasion that she has insisted on filling the tank, I have stood outside the car with her.
You sir, are a lazy piece of shit that should have been removed from your mother's womb with a coat hanger in an alley.
End of rant due to insufficient beer...
