Have you ever come across somebody who is just so completely jacked up that you can only hope they have a good personality? Like someone who has literally NOTHING going for them in any capacity that someone could possibly have something going for them?
We’ve all seen the people who are almost completely jacked up but have at least something positive going for them:
“Well, she’s a total bitch and she doesn’t just have cankles she has thighkles (that’s pronounced “thigh-culls” for those who don’t know how to pronounce shit I just made up), but at least she has a pretty face and can juggle chainsaws, so she’s not all bad.”
“That guy is a douchebag, he sucks at sports, he smells like the inside of a skunk’s pee hole and he has herpes on his lips, but that F’er makes a good apple turnover. To die for. Just don’t sit next to him while you’re eating it because you really might die.”
“That son of a bitch has a real bitch for a mother. That’s why I call him that. But at least he can do 26 pushups and does walk-a-thons for charity.”
The reason I ask is because I just ran across a lady at the gym a couple of days ago and she was so completely jacked up I was literally at a loss for words inside my own mind. That’s really saying something, because my mind is where I store ALL the words I know, so when I can’t even find one to describe her I know something is major wrong with the universe.
Let me paint a little picture with the words I have at my disposal now, two days after the incident. She was close to 6’ 4” tall. Probably in the neighborhood of 350 lbs. She had a military style buzz cut with a dye job that actually was wasted money because she was balding in several patches around her head, quite possibly because of the shitty dye job. Her makeup could probably be described as being caked on, but I would actually go one step further and say she ladled her makeup onto her face then stuck her face into her microwave and spent 12 seconds on the “soften” setting. It was bad. Probably the worst I’ve ever seen, which is saying something because I’ve worked around some ghetto-ass hoochie-mamas in my time in the mall in Mesa. You know what I’m talking about.
She was wearing a lime green v-neck shirt with a not-matching purple set of cotton athletic shorts. Her shoes and socks were both white, so I guess she had that going for her. I won’t get into the cottage cheese around her ENTIRE legs because that borders on being downright mean and I don’t want to go there. Plus I like cottage cheese in small doses. When I buy it at the grocery store. Not when it’s dripping out of someone’s shorts.
Anyway, for all intents and purposes this lady was COMPLETELY jacked up in every facet of her looks. She literally had nothing going for her in that department. My first instinct was to be kind of sad for her. I know it isn’t possible for everyone to be beautiful, because then how would we tell each other apart and then we’d have to have a subset of ugly beautiful people and the whole universe would probably collapse upon itself in one giant Tommy Hilfiger ad. Oh the horror.
So I’m busy being sad for this woman, because everyone should feel beautiful at least once in their life and, for really reals, the only way this woman could ever look beautiful would be if everyone on earth closed their eyes at the same time and imagined her as a completely different person. I find myself hoping against hope she has a good personality. Like a REALLY good personality. Like maybe the best personality on earth. The kind of personality that makes nuns and Peace Corps volunteers punch themselves in their own necks when they stand and reflect on how bad their personality is in relation to hers. The kind of personality that makes people give her awards and keys to the city and stuff like that.
Then I hear her talk. And she’s a bitch. She’s Shrek without the heart of gold. She’s Shrek if Benito Mussolini did the voice in the animated feature instead of Mike Myers. She’s rude and stupid. She insults a worker for doing her job. She barrels an old woman out of her way as she walks through the foyer of the gym.
She kicks a puppy, burns a bible and eats a small child on her way out of the gym. In the parking lot she farts on a Smart Car and it bursts into flames. She does a Hulk Smash on a Toyota Prius parked next to her, reducing it to dust. Then she gets into a huge, lifted truck with a sticker of Calvin peeing on a picture of sugar and spice and everything nice. Then she puts it in 4 wheel drive low and backs over a group of people on their way to donate blood before peeling out and wasting gas while throwing litter out of her driver’s side window.
All of which just goes to prove that, thanks to that lifted truck, on top of everything else, she has a small penis too.
So she goes from being devastatingly ugly to being devastatingly ugly with a shitty personality and a small penis. “Maybe she’s really smart,” I think to myself. Then I remember that she owns a lifted truck in metropolitan Phoenix. Strike three.
I hope she has a sister who’s even worse. Then maybe she’ll have something going for her.
B!
P.S.—parts of this blog were made up. It is up to you to decide. Good luck and Godspeed to you.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Global Warming: Women's Fault?
I work with 95% women. This should go over well.
I very recently put myself in charge of a fact-finding team designed to provide the government with all the answers it could possibly need for reducing our carbon footprint and eliminating global warming. The team consisted of me, Wikipedia, and a half a bottle of Ten High Whiskey. Unfortunately for everyone involved I had no Coke to mix the Ten High with and there was a Ghost Adventures marathon on the Travel Channel and I just got the NFL RedZone channel so I found myself with MUCH more important things to do than find out a bunch of stupid facts. These developments pretty much put an end to any fact-finding missions and should serve as a lesson to myself to avoid putting me in charge of anything during football season.
I did manage to put some deep thought in during halftime of the Sunday night game this past weekend while I was sitting on the throne having a constitutional the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since my days of drinking Michelob Dark straight from the keg. The moment of epiphany happened when I tried to return to the game and I realized that there was no toilet paper handy and I was, for all intents and purposes, stranded on the toilet.
The epiphany was this: somehow this is probably a woman’s fault. And if a woman could perpetrate this evil on my world, what are they doing to the rest of the world? It’s gotta be big.
Before anyone gets mad at me, you need to look at the one fact I did look up: women can’t even blow their nose without using half a roll of toilet paper. Have you ever seen a woman sit there and roll off a bunch of TP around their hand when they have a runny nose? I’m always like, “What are you doing, building yourself some mittens? Are you going out to the Arctic Circle to get in a boxing match with a walrus?” and the girl ALWAYS says, “No, I’m blowing my nose, smart ass.” (Interesting side note, my ass is not smart at all, though it does have a level of intelligence that should make a lot of people jealous, especially people who pronounce the word “nuclear” as nuke-u-lar and who say things like “supposubly” and “ath-a-lete”)
After whipping off half a roll of TP the girl will give a little half-hearted blow that sounds like something an asthmatic might come up with after running a mile through a forest fire at 10,000 feet and then throw the wad of paper into the toilet and clog it. She will flush the toilet at least 5 times before coming to the conclusion she is going to need the plunger. Then she will say something like, “Ugh, I have to blow my nose again,” and use the rest of your Ultra Charmin Megapak so you have to make another trip to Costco just so you can enjoy your morning constitutional the next day.
Toilet paper, made in a factory, global warming. Using 5 gallons of water to flush her booger mittens down the commode . . . just plain wasteful and probably linked to global warming somehow.
If men have a runny nose they will use two sheets of toilet paper and then blow so hard they not only blow a hole through the toilet paper but sometimes they lose a finger. No worries, right guys? Modern science can re-attach a finger and have you back playing “Chopsticks” on the piano in a long weekend nowadays. Hell, guys know that snot washes off on a good, old-fashioned shirt sleeve. There’s no need for a 4-inch buffer zone made up of toilet paper between your fingers and your snot. Women treat snot like it’s something that requires a Hazmat team and a neighborhood quarantine. I came home from work the other day and I thought the government had discovered E.T. in my neighborhood. It turns out the lady next door just had a slightly runny nose.
Which brings us to another reason women are destroying the earth. Men will use a bar of Lava soap and a four-second burst of water to clean up. Not familiar with Lava soap? It’s basically like washing your hands with a volcanic rock, which makes it DOUBLY awesome because volcanoes probably killed all the dinosaurs and now they are a party to getting all the nose goo off your hands and cleaning out that wound where your finger used to be. Volcanoes are also good for making sure no one goes to Iceland, which is also good for the environment because we save on jet fuel and then Bjork doesn’t kill any more fake geese to make dresses out of if no one is there to watch her. Seriously, if you ignore her she will just go away. So will Iceland. I’m trying to get that on a ballot somewhere just as soon as I can talk Rosie O’Donnell into going over there first.
Women, on the other hand, need to immediately run to the bathroom and squirt about 18 pumps of anti-bacterial soap from a plastic bottle into their hands before washing them under the running tap water for 6 minutes and then deciding they need to take a shower anyway. Anti-bacterial soap, made in a factory, global warming. Plastic bottle, made in a factory, global warming.
So this now brings us to the shower routines of the sexes. A man could clean his whole body with one Q-tip and a piece of tree bark if he needed to. Women can’t even clean their ears without using a minimum of 17 Q-tips, 4 rolls of toilet paper and a Shop-Vac.
If we get into the electricity usage for hair care, we REALLY step into a world of women destroying the earth. My own personal hair care routine calls for exactly 5 minutes of electricity usage every month while I shave my head (if you don’t count the electricity used to power the lightbulbs in my bathroom, which I don’t because I don’t think bathroom lights use any electricity, they work on magic). I like it close and tight and I eventually might invest in some head blades so I reduce my electricity use to zero. The only POSSIBLE way a man would use electricity would be if he blow dries his hair, but if your man blow dries his hair you’ve got more things to worry about than how he is destroying the earth through global warming. You might also want to know what kind of panties he wears when you’re not home and where he keeps his copies of Teen Bop where the pages of Justin Bieber’s photo layouts are stuck together.
Ewww. Gross. Exactly. Just like men blow-drying their hair. Sort it out fellas. That ended in the 1970’s when the Hardy Boys got canceled.
I can also tell you an indirect way women destroy the earth. Date night. If we get rid of date nights we can get rid of 437 million billion cubic metric tons of ozone depleting, um, stuff. How?
What happens is a dude asks a girl out and they decide on a time. “What time?” she asks. “I’ll pick you up at 8,” is his reply.
So, 8 o’clock rolls around and the guy, being the type of person who doesn’t hate the environment, shows up at about 7:58 PM. He knocks on the door, she answers the door wearing three towels. One on her head, one covering her body and one wrapped around her shoulders for NO REASON. “I’ll just be a second,” she says, “Just watch some TV and I’ll be right out.” Three towels to wash later. Global warming.
Boom, the TV goes on. Electricity usage. Global warming. In the bathroom the sounds of getting ready waft into the TV room. Blow dryer. Curling iron. Blowing the nose. Plunging the toilet. Global warming x 4. She tries on 6 outfits. Doesn’t like any of them, but throws them all in the hamper to be washed because for some reason if a piece of fabric touches the female skin it accrues an otherworldly filth and must be disinfected in the washing machine using all-temperature Tide detergent in hot water before it can even be looked at again.
Finally, at 8:37 she emerges, ready to go. But there’s a kink in the plans because now the guy is 37 minutes into “The First 48” and there’s NO WAY he’s leaving until he finds out if Pookie and BoBo really shot that dude and which one of them is going to cry first in the interrogation room. More electricity usage. This time used by the man, but can be directly attributed to the woman not being ready on time so we get to blame that on her, too. Also, it’s quite possible that the TV show “The First 48” also works on magic, just like the lights in the bathroom. It is a scientific fact, however, that the show “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” does not work on magic and it actually takes twice as much electricity to run because listening to rich people argue about whether or not they are going to get Lasik surgery causes the television to suffer convulsions and creates a power drain at the electric company. At least that's what I thought I read on the website.
Then, at 8:58, when Pookie finally breaks down and blames it all on BoBo, they leave. The girl complains that she is hungry and they need to get to the restaurant faster, so the man punches the gas and speeds to the restaurant. Wasting of a finite resource + CO2 emissions, global warming. I won’t even get into the differences in what the people order and how that affects the environment. Mostly because I don’t feel like it, but partly because I think I have probably pissed enough people off and caused enough problems for myself for one night and it’s almost time for Ghost Hunters.
See ya.
B!
I very recently put myself in charge of a fact-finding team designed to provide the government with all the answers it could possibly need for reducing our carbon footprint and eliminating global warming. The team consisted of me, Wikipedia, and a half a bottle of Ten High Whiskey. Unfortunately for everyone involved I had no Coke to mix the Ten High with and there was a Ghost Adventures marathon on the Travel Channel and I just got the NFL RedZone channel so I found myself with MUCH more important things to do than find out a bunch of stupid facts. These developments pretty much put an end to any fact-finding missions and should serve as a lesson to myself to avoid putting me in charge of anything during football season.
I did manage to put some deep thought in during halftime of the Sunday night game this past weekend while I was sitting on the throne having a constitutional the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since my days of drinking Michelob Dark straight from the keg. The moment of epiphany happened when I tried to return to the game and I realized that there was no toilet paper handy and I was, for all intents and purposes, stranded on the toilet.
The epiphany was this: somehow this is probably a woman’s fault. And if a woman could perpetrate this evil on my world, what are they doing to the rest of the world? It’s gotta be big.
Before anyone gets mad at me, you need to look at the one fact I did look up: women can’t even blow their nose without using half a roll of toilet paper. Have you ever seen a woman sit there and roll off a bunch of TP around their hand when they have a runny nose? I’m always like, “What are you doing, building yourself some mittens? Are you going out to the Arctic Circle to get in a boxing match with a walrus?” and the girl ALWAYS says, “No, I’m blowing my nose, smart ass.” (Interesting side note, my ass is not smart at all, though it does have a level of intelligence that should make a lot of people jealous, especially people who pronounce the word “nuclear” as nuke-u-lar and who say things like “supposubly” and “ath-a-lete”)
After whipping off half a roll of TP the girl will give a little half-hearted blow that sounds like something an asthmatic might come up with after running a mile through a forest fire at 10,000 feet and then throw the wad of paper into the toilet and clog it. She will flush the toilet at least 5 times before coming to the conclusion she is going to need the plunger. Then she will say something like, “Ugh, I have to blow my nose again,” and use the rest of your Ultra Charmin Megapak so you have to make another trip to Costco just so you can enjoy your morning constitutional the next day.
Toilet paper, made in a factory, global warming. Using 5 gallons of water to flush her booger mittens down the commode . . . just plain wasteful and probably linked to global warming somehow.
If men have a runny nose they will use two sheets of toilet paper and then blow so hard they not only blow a hole through the toilet paper but sometimes they lose a finger. No worries, right guys? Modern science can re-attach a finger and have you back playing “Chopsticks” on the piano in a long weekend nowadays. Hell, guys know that snot washes off on a good, old-fashioned shirt sleeve. There’s no need for a 4-inch buffer zone made up of toilet paper between your fingers and your snot. Women treat snot like it’s something that requires a Hazmat team and a neighborhood quarantine. I came home from work the other day and I thought the government had discovered E.T. in my neighborhood. It turns out the lady next door just had a slightly runny nose.
Which brings us to another reason women are destroying the earth. Men will use a bar of Lava soap and a four-second burst of water to clean up. Not familiar with Lava soap? It’s basically like washing your hands with a volcanic rock, which makes it DOUBLY awesome because volcanoes probably killed all the dinosaurs and now they are a party to getting all the nose goo off your hands and cleaning out that wound where your finger used to be. Volcanoes are also good for making sure no one goes to Iceland, which is also good for the environment because we save on jet fuel and then Bjork doesn’t kill any more fake geese to make dresses out of if no one is there to watch her. Seriously, if you ignore her she will just go away. So will Iceland. I’m trying to get that on a ballot somewhere just as soon as I can talk Rosie O’Donnell into going over there first.
Women, on the other hand, need to immediately run to the bathroom and squirt about 18 pumps of anti-bacterial soap from a plastic bottle into their hands before washing them under the running tap water for 6 minutes and then deciding they need to take a shower anyway. Anti-bacterial soap, made in a factory, global warming. Plastic bottle, made in a factory, global warming.
So this now brings us to the shower routines of the sexes. A man could clean his whole body with one Q-tip and a piece of tree bark if he needed to. Women can’t even clean their ears without using a minimum of 17 Q-tips, 4 rolls of toilet paper and a Shop-Vac.
If we get into the electricity usage for hair care, we REALLY step into a world of women destroying the earth. My own personal hair care routine calls for exactly 5 minutes of electricity usage every month while I shave my head (if you don’t count the electricity used to power the lightbulbs in my bathroom, which I don’t because I don’t think bathroom lights use any electricity, they work on magic). I like it close and tight and I eventually might invest in some head blades so I reduce my electricity use to zero. The only POSSIBLE way a man would use electricity would be if he blow dries his hair, but if your man blow dries his hair you’ve got more things to worry about than how he is destroying the earth through global warming. You might also want to know what kind of panties he wears when you’re not home and where he keeps his copies of Teen Bop where the pages of Justin Bieber’s photo layouts are stuck together.
Ewww. Gross. Exactly. Just like men blow-drying their hair. Sort it out fellas. That ended in the 1970’s when the Hardy Boys got canceled.
I can also tell you an indirect way women destroy the earth. Date night. If we get rid of date nights we can get rid of 437 million billion cubic metric tons of ozone depleting, um, stuff. How?
What happens is a dude asks a girl out and they decide on a time. “What time?” she asks. “I’ll pick you up at 8,” is his reply.
So, 8 o’clock rolls around and the guy, being the type of person who doesn’t hate the environment, shows up at about 7:58 PM. He knocks on the door, she answers the door wearing three towels. One on her head, one covering her body and one wrapped around her shoulders for NO REASON. “I’ll just be a second,” she says, “Just watch some TV and I’ll be right out.” Three towels to wash later. Global warming.
Boom, the TV goes on. Electricity usage. Global warming. In the bathroom the sounds of getting ready waft into the TV room. Blow dryer. Curling iron. Blowing the nose. Plunging the toilet. Global warming x 4. She tries on 6 outfits. Doesn’t like any of them, but throws them all in the hamper to be washed because for some reason if a piece of fabric touches the female skin it accrues an otherworldly filth and must be disinfected in the washing machine using all-temperature Tide detergent in hot water before it can even be looked at again.
Finally, at 8:37 she emerges, ready to go. But there’s a kink in the plans because now the guy is 37 minutes into “The First 48” and there’s NO WAY he’s leaving until he finds out if Pookie and BoBo really shot that dude and which one of them is going to cry first in the interrogation room. More electricity usage. This time used by the man, but can be directly attributed to the woman not being ready on time so we get to blame that on her, too. Also, it’s quite possible that the TV show “The First 48” also works on magic, just like the lights in the bathroom. It is a scientific fact, however, that the show “Keeping Up With The Kardashians” does not work on magic and it actually takes twice as much electricity to run because listening to rich people argue about whether or not they are going to get Lasik surgery causes the television to suffer convulsions and creates a power drain at the electric company. At least that's what I thought I read on the website.
Then, at 8:58, when Pookie finally breaks down and blames it all on BoBo, they leave. The girl complains that she is hungry and they need to get to the restaurant faster, so the man punches the gas and speeds to the restaurant. Wasting of a finite resource + CO2 emissions, global warming. I won’t even get into the differences in what the people order and how that affects the environment. Mostly because I don’t feel like it, but partly because I think I have probably pissed enough people off and caused enough problems for myself for one night and it’s almost time for Ghost Hunters.
See ya.
B!
Friday, September 3, 2010
500 Words A Day--Day 12
I was going to disclose the full episode I experienced a couple of days ago with Foster Charmington throwing up on my foot, but I think I will save that one for another day when I can’t think of anything to write. What’s on my mind right now is STILL those pictures of the girl I had the major crush on back in high school.
I know, I know, let it go. I can’t. It’s not something in my genetic makeup. I can not really let it bother me, but I do have to think about it because that’s just the way I process things. I don’t think I really analyze things too much, but I do think about them until I run them into the ground and, hopefully, bury them. It may not be the best way to do things, but it definitely gets the job done.
I’m going to be in trouble if a flash flood ever comes and washes away all the dirt and grime in my mind that covers all of the stuff I have run into the ground.
So . . . the pictures. I don’t even want to say this girl’s name because that seems to give her some power over me that I haven’t had to deal with in close to 20 years. Let’s just call her Lady X. Lady X had a picture of her and her family sitting around the dinner table on Christmas or Thanksgiving or one of those other holidays where everyone sits around the dinner table and wears sweater vests and eats with like 6 different forks.
Everyone at the table is smiling with their veneered teeth and their fancy clothes and their tucked in shirts and, you guessed it, bright red matching sweater vests because red is the color of the holiday season. It’s all just so Norman Rockwell I want to check to make sure everyone isn’t a robot and this isn’t some kind of Stepford Wives type deal. Even the little kids were wearing sweater vests. It would have been disgusting if Lady X wasn’t still so smoking hot.
I’ve been having the most trouble with that one thing, so I’m going to tackle the sweater vests, because the only other thing I feel like taking on is the fact that Lady X’s kitchen looks like something you would find in a magazine or in some show on HGTV where the designer walks in and says, “You don’t need to change a thing in here, let’s go fix your neighbor’s house so your property value can rise even higher.”
Back to sweater vests, because seriously WTF? Those things might be the worst things ever to come out of men’s fashion since V-necks were invented.
As a sidebar here, if you wear a V-neck anything you are either a douchebag or gay. There is NO other explanation. And there is NOTHING wrong with being gay. Douchebag is a choice. Think about that the next time you are planning on donning one of those and hitting the clubs. It’s a perfectly okay wardrobe choice if you plan on taking one up the old highway later on that night, but if that’s not on your agenda you might want to re-think your choice. I’m only trying to help.
Dammit, I keep getting sidetracked by all of this other stuff. Suffice it to say that you will catch me in a V-neck before you ever catch me in a sweater vest. My torso NEVER gets colder than my arms. What a worthless piece of equipment. I understand the sleeveless T-shirt for those hot days when you really just want to make sure everyone can see your armpits, but why layer a long sleeve shirt with a sweater that only covers the part of you that doesn’t really get as cold as the rest of you? That’s fucking stupid.
You know when you’ll catch me wearing a sweater vest? In a time and place called Never. Even if I was sponsored by Polo and they wanted me to represent their sweater vest collection for the year I would only agree to do it if they made some alterations to the sweater vest, like adding sleeves and changing the material from sweater material to some kind of fabric like UnderArmor or Nike Sport Tech gear so I could go play sports in it.
Somebody go work that out for me. Fucking sweater vests . . .
B!
I know, I know, let it go. I can’t. It’s not something in my genetic makeup. I can not really let it bother me, but I do have to think about it because that’s just the way I process things. I don’t think I really analyze things too much, but I do think about them until I run them into the ground and, hopefully, bury them. It may not be the best way to do things, but it definitely gets the job done.
I’m going to be in trouble if a flash flood ever comes and washes away all the dirt and grime in my mind that covers all of the stuff I have run into the ground.
So . . . the pictures. I don’t even want to say this girl’s name because that seems to give her some power over me that I haven’t had to deal with in close to 20 years. Let’s just call her Lady X. Lady X had a picture of her and her family sitting around the dinner table on Christmas or Thanksgiving or one of those other holidays where everyone sits around the dinner table and wears sweater vests and eats with like 6 different forks.
Everyone at the table is smiling with their veneered teeth and their fancy clothes and their tucked in shirts and, you guessed it, bright red matching sweater vests because red is the color of the holiday season. It’s all just so Norman Rockwell I want to check to make sure everyone isn’t a robot and this isn’t some kind of Stepford Wives type deal. Even the little kids were wearing sweater vests. It would have been disgusting if Lady X wasn’t still so smoking hot.
I’ve been having the most trouble with that one thing, so I’m going to tackle the sweater vests, because the only other thing I feel like taking on is the fact that Lady X’s kitchen looks like something you would find in a magazine or in some show on HGTV where the designer walks in and says, “You don’t need to change a thing in here, let’s go fix your neighbor’s house so your property value can rise even higher.”
Back to sweater vests, because seriously WTF? Those things might be the worst things ever to come out of men’s fashion since V-necks were invented.
As a sidebar here, if you wear a V-neck anything you are either a douchebag or gay. There is NO other explanation. And there is NOTHING wrong with being gay. Douchebag is a choice. Think about that the next time you are planning on donning one of those and hitting the clubs. It’s a perfectly okay wardrobe choice if you plan on taking one up the old highway later on that night, but if that’s not on your agenda you might want to re-think your choice. I’m only trying to help.
Dammit, I keep getting sidetracked by all of this other stuff. Suffice it to say that you will catch me in a V-neck before you ever catch me in a sweater vest. My torso NEVER gets colder than my arms. What a worthless piece of equipment. I understand the sleeveless T-shirt for those hot days when you really just want to make sure everyone can see your armpits, but why layer a long sleeve shirt with a sweater that only covers the part of you that doesn’t really get as cold as the rest of you? That’s fucking stupid.
You know when you’ll catch me wearing a sweater vest? In a time and place called Never. Even if I was sponsored by Polo and they wanted me to represent their sweater vest collection for the year I would only agree to do it if they made some alterations to the sweater vest, like adding sleeves and changing the material from sweater material to some kind of fabric like UnderArmor or Nike Sport Tech gear so I could go play sports in it.
Somebody go work that out for me. Fucking sweater vests . . .
B!
Thursday, September 2, 2010
500 Words A Day-Day 11
Yesteryear Revisited
Today I came home from work and put on my “Go To” music selection: Counting Crows album “August And Everything After.” This album was the soundtrack to the year I came alive and finally figured out what it meant to be alive. 1994.
I like to tell people that I learned more about myself during my first semester at U of A as a freshman than I did in the entire 18 years prior to that. That’s the truth. But I learned more about EVERYTHING ELSE in 1994. To this day it is the year I would most like to live over.
In 1994 I moved out of the dorms and got my first apartment (with roommates, of course). I bought my first car and got to live under the pressure of having a car payment and insurance premiums to pay. I got my first credit card. I got my first utility bill in my name and my name in the phone book for the first time. I always think of the movie “The Jerk” when I think about that.
1994 was the year I got my first glimpse of what having a job meant. Prior to that it was just something I did to keep some change in my pockets, but when I got that car and the car payment and the rent to pay I realized that working was something I needed to do to keep myself afloat and out of my parent’s house (which, for whatever reason, is ALL I ever wanted to do when I was growing up). I started my “career” with KB Toys in 1994. I also got my first serious girlfriend that I actually liked that year. I found out the importance of finding your alcohol on sale that year, too. At that point one of the most important things I ever found out in my life, to be honest. Even more important than having the girlfriend I liked, unfortunately.
I also found heartbreak that year. I found what it was like to be truly alone in the world. I found out what it is like to REALLY want to be a part of a group and not be able to be a part of it. I found a well of creativity that year that didn’t exist before that. I wrote, and wrote and wrote that year. Good things, bad things. Heartache. Loneliness. Everything had a way of making it onto paper. So many pages of writings in my backlog come from that year.
And this CD playing right now (well, not actually a CD, it’s on my iTunes) embodies nearly everything that was important to me that year. As soon as I put it in I am right back to where I was the first time I heard it. I’m sitting in my room on a mattress on the floor on the second story of University West Apartments in Flagstaff, looking out the window on a June afternoon, soaking it all in.
“And every time she sneezes I believe it’s love and oh Lord I’m not ready for this sort of thing. She’s talking in her sleep, it’s keeping me awake and Anna begins to toss and turn. And every word is nonsense but I understand and oh Lord I’m not ready for this sort of thing.”—Anna Begins
Turns out I really wasn’t ready for any of that sort of thing. But damn if it wasn’t a good time. I’d go back in a second. In a SECOND!
I really wish I could feel like that about my life now.
B!
Today I came home from work and put on my “Go To” music selection: Counting Crows album “August And Everything After.” This album was the soundtrack to the year I came alive and finally figured out what it meant to be alive. 1994.
I like to tell people that I learned more about myself during my first semester at U of A as a freshman than I did in the entire 18 years prior to that. That’s the truth. But I learned more about EVERYTHING ELSE in 1994. To this day it is the year I would most like to live over.
In 1994 I moved out of the dorms and got my first apartment (with roommates, of course). I bought my first car and got to live under the pressure of having a car payment and insurance premiums to pay. I got my first credit card. I got my first utility bill in my name and my name in the phone book for the first time. I always think of the movie “The Jerk” when I think about that.
1994 was the year I got my first glimpse of what having a job meant. Prior to that it was just something I did to keep some change in my pockets, but when I got that car and the car payment and the rent to pay I realized that working was something I needed to do to keep myself afloat and out of my parent’s house (which, for whatever reason, is ALL I ever wanted to do when I was growing up). I started my “career” with KB Toys in 1994. I also got my first serious girlfriend that I actually liked that year. I found out the importance of finding your alcohol on sale that year, too. At that point one of the most important things I ever found out in my life, to be honest. Even more important than having the girlfriend I liked, unfortunately.
I also found heartbreak that year. I found what it was like to be truly alone in the world. I found out what it is like to REALLY want to be a part of a group and not be able to be a part of it. I found a well of creativity that year that didn’t exist before that. I wrote, and wrote and wrote that year. Good things, bad things. Heartache. Loneliness. Everything had a way of making it onto paper. So many pages of writings in my backlog come from that year.
And this CD playing right now (well, not actually a CD, it’s on my iTunes) embodies nearly everything that was important to me that year. As soon as I put it in I am right back to where I was the first time I heard it. I’m sitting in my room on a mattress on the floor on the second story of University West Apartments in Flagstaff, looking out the window on a June afternoon, soaking it all in.
“And every time she sneezes I believe it’s love and oh Lord I’m not ready for this sort of thing. She’s talking in her sleep, it’s keeping me awake and Anna begins to toss and turn. And every word is nonsense but I understand and oh Lord I’m not ready for this sort of thing.”—Anna Begins
Turns out I really wasn’t ready for any of that sort of thing. But damn if it wasn’t a good time. I’d go back in a second. In a SECOND!
I really wish I could feel like that about my life now.
B!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
500 Words A Day--Day 10
How Facebook F’d Me Up
Yesterday I ended up having a bit of a walk down memory lane that got into my head so much I spent most of my day today just thinking about it. And I have Facebook to blame for it.
It started out innocently enough: one of my “friends” had some pictures posted from one of his vacations with him and his fraternity brothers. I have the word friends in quotes because this is a guy I went to high school with who I literally haven’t talked to since probably 1995. He was dating one of my girlfriend’s sorority sisters back then so we kind of went in the same circles but we always seemed to be at different events and whatnot. He was always super cool to me in high school (he definitely ran with the more popular crowd) so I never thought twice about adding him as a friend when he requested it.
So when I saw he had pictures of his trip up, I went ahead and checked them out. Kind of a way to peek into someone else’s life for a second or two. As I was checking his photos out, a picture popped up from the profile of the girl I had a major crush on in high school. Not just a major crush, but a MAJOR CRUSH. Like I wrote songs for and about this girl, I wrote poetry about her, I even wrote a movie loosely based on my experiences with (or, more accurately, without) her, etc. This was the girl that defined what my high school experience was.
So I see these pictures of her and her family (she is married with four kids now) and it is a full-blown mind fuck for me. I can’t even convey exactly how important this girl was in my development as a human person type being, and this is literally a girl I NEVER talked to in four years of school. Actually I take that back, I never talked to her in more than five years of school. She was literally the first girl I ever saw in Flagstaff as she was there at Flagstaff Junior High the day I signed up for school in 8th grade.
She was a cheerleader, a track star, the school photographer, daughter of a famous surgeon, in AP everything, etc. She had the best set of legs I have EVER seen on a woman, hands down. And she never said a fucking word to me in school and I never said a word to her. Yet somehow I have found a way to base my entire high school experience on the fact that just seeing her in the halls would absolutely make my day in a way that I don’t think I have ever experienced since then even with girls I have been in actual love with.
It’s borderline pathetic, to be honest. It may be across the border, actually.
Anyway, as I’m looking through the pictures of this woman’s life I slowly come to the realization that I have NOTHING that would even come close to satisfying her on any level except a physical one. As much “pain” as I was in with the unrequited love in high school it took this long to dawn on me that I had absolutely nothing of interest to her. That probably explains why we never said a word to each other. Girls don’t want poets, they want guys who can provide for them, ESPECIALLY girls who have doctors for fathers (I learned this one the hard way by dating a girl with a dentist for a father for close to three years—once again, when it came down to it, I had NOTHING to give her but myself and that wasn’t enough. I did, however, write some of my best stuff ever after we broke up, so I guess I can thank her for that).
What she did for me was define which girls I would find attractive for the rest of my life, though. I know part of this is just a manifestation of an Oedipus complex, but I know that the women who I have been REALLY attracted to have all been smart, driven, athletic, successful and they all have a really good set of wheels connecting their hips to their shoes.
I remember the first time my mom saw her. We were at a video store (remember those?) and my crush walked in. I just about lost my mind. I pointed her out to my mom and she just said, “That’s the girl you like? She doesn’t look very special to me.” Of course my response was, “Mom, you don’t UNDERSTAND!”
Truth is, though, she was right. That girl is just like every other girl who doesn’t talk to me now . . . only she still has a killer set of wheels. I wish her the best from afar, which is exactly how I wished her anything when we were in high school together. And both of our worlds will keep spinning just fine, just like they always have.
B!
Yesterday I ended up having a bit of a walk down memory lane that got into my head so much I spent most of my day today just thinking about it. And I have Facebook to blame for it.
It started out innocently enough: one of my “friends” had some pictures posted from one of his vacations with him and his fraternity brothers. I have the word friends in quotes because this is a guy I went to high school with who I literally haven’t talked to since probably 1995. He was dating one of my girlfriend’s sorority sisters back then so we kind of went in the same circles but we always seemed to be at different events and whatnot. He was always super cool to me in high school (he definitely ran with the more popular crowd) so I never thought twice about adding him as a friend when he requested it.
So when I saw he had pictures of his trip up, I went ahead and checked them out. Kind of a way to peek into someone else’s life for a second or two. As I was checking his photos out, a picture popped up from the profile of the girl I had a major crush on in high school. Not just a major crush, but a MAJOR CRUSH. Like I wrote songs for and about this girl, I wrote poetry about her, I even wrote a movie loosely based on my experiences with (or, more accurately, without) her, etc. This was the girl that defined what my high school experience was.
So I see these pictures of her and her family (she is married with four kids now) and it is a full-blown mind fuck for me. I can’t even convey exactly how important this girl was in my development as a human person type being, and this is literally a girl I NEVER talked to in four years of school. Actually I take that back, I never talked to her in more than five years of school. She was literally the first girl I ever saw in Flagstaff as she was there at Flagstaff Junior High the day I signed up for school in 8th grade.
She was a cheerleader, a track star, the school photographer, daughter of a famous surgeon, in AP everything, etc. She had the best set of legs I have EVER seen on a woman, hands down. And she never said a fucking word to me in school and I never said a word to her. Yet somehow I have found a way to base my entire high school experience on the fact that just seeing her in the halls would absolutely make my day in a way that I don’t think I have ever experienced since then even with girls I have been in actual love with.
It’s borderline pathetic, to be honest. It may be across the border, actually.
Anyway, as I’m looking through the pictures of this woman’s life I slowly come to the realization that I have NOTHING that would even come close to satisfying her on any level except a physical one. As much “pain” as I was in with the unrequited love in high school it took this long to dawn on me that I had absolutely nothing of interest to her. That probably explains why we never said a word to each other. Girls don’t want poets, they want guys who can provide for them, ESPECIALLY girls who have doctors for fathers (I learned this one the hard way by dating a girl with a dentist for a father for close to three years—once again, when it came down to it, I had NOTHING to give her but myself and that wasn’t enough. I did, however, write some of my best stuff ever after we broke up, so I guess I can thank her for that).
What she did for me was define which girls I would find attractive for the rest of my life, though. I know part of this is just a manifestation of an Oedipus complex, but I know that the women who I have been REALLY attracted to have all been smart, driven, athletic, successful and they all have a really good set of wheels connecting their hips to their shoes.
I remember the first time my mom saw her. We were at a video store (remember those?) and my crush walked in. I just about lost my mind. I pointed her out to my mom and she just said, “That’s the girl you like? She doesn’t look very special to me.” Of course my response was, “Mom, you don’t UNDERSTAND!”
Truth is, though, she was right. That girl is just like every other girl who doesn’t talk to me now . . . only she still has a killer set of wheels. I wish her the best from afar, which is exactly how I wished her anything when we were in high school together. And both of our worlds will keep spinning just fine, just like they always have.
B!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
500 Words A Day--Day 9
Looking At The Front Door
A long time ago there was a song by a group called Main Source called “Looking At The Front Door.” It’s a rap song about a guy who keeps fighting with his girlfriend and he keeps looking out the front door and wondering if he had the guts “to evacuate” would things be any better for him.
That song came out probably when I was a senior in high school, so around 1991. I always thought it was a pretty decent song, nothing great, just a good beat and whatever it was that got me amped on hip-hop at that time. Now it means something completely different to me. I like how that happens. How a song that I literally haven’t thought of in AT LEAST 8 years suddenly pops into my head and has an immediate meaning to me in my life even though it never meant anything to me back when it was released.
I love music for just that reason.
I just looked up the lyrics and they are not really that brilliant and really they don’t have that much to do with my current situation. They are passable, but nothing earth shattering except for the imagery of the guy looking at the front door and figuratively wondering what is on the other side of it. I do that all the time. I have said many times before that my absolute FAVORITE thing in the world to do is leave. I love leaving. I usually don’t even care where I’m going as long as I get to leave.
Walking out the front door is the beginning of something. Anything. But it is the beginning. Every time you open the front door you have January 1st and the opportunity to start over. You never know what is on the other side of that door. Usually it is work and normal, everyday bullshit and stuff that you can’t really change, but some days you actually get something new and unusual and something worth the effort of turning that door handle.
I often wonder what it would be like to have every day be something different and new. Maybe that would take away the allure of getting to leave only on special occasions. But that mixture of excitement and the unknown really has an effect on me right down to my soul. I sometimes think I should have become a truck driver so I could constantly be leaving somewhere, but I haven’t come into contact with too many truck drivers that I would want to hang out with so that always kept me from pursuing that line of work. But if I could find a job where all I got to do was walk out the front door I would be the happiest little camper in the world.
Anybody ever heard of a job like that? Because it seems as though all I do anymore is look at the front door and wonder what kind of things I could accomplish on the other side instead of actually walking out that front door and doing something with myself. Maybe those guys will come up with a sequel that tells what they found on the other side of that door so I can put my mind at ease.
Or maybe I can just walk out that front door and find out for myself.
B!
A long time ago there was a song by a group called Main Source called “Looking At The Front Door.” It’s a rap song about a guy who keeps fighting with his girlfriend and he keeps looking out the front door and wondering if he had the guts “to evacuate” would things be any better for him.
That song came out probably when I was a senior in high school, so around 1991. I always thought it was a pretty decent song, nothing great, just a good beat and whatever it was that got me amped on hip-hop at that time. Now it means something completely different to me. I like how that happens. How a song that I literally haven’t thought of in AT LEAST 8 years suddenly pops into my head and has an immediate meaning to me in my life even though it never meant anything to me back when it was released.
I love music for just that reason.
I just looked up the lyrics and they are not really that brilliant and really they don’t have that much to do with my current situation. They are passable, but nothing earth shattering except for the imagery of the guy looking at the front door and figuratively wondering what is on the other side of it. I do that all the time. I have said many times before that my absolute FAVORITE thing in the world to do is leave. I love leaving. I usually don’t even care where I’m going as long as I get to leave.
Walking out the front door is the beginning of something. Anything. But it is the beginning. Every time you open the front door you have January 1st and the opportunity to start over. You never know what is on the other side of that door. Usually it is work and normal, everyday bullshit and stuff that you can’t really change, but some days you actually get something new and unusual and something worth the effort of turning that door handle.
I often wonder what it would be like to have every day be something different and new. Maybe that would take away the allure of getting to leave only on special occasions. But that mixture of excitement and the unknown really has an effect on me right down to my soul. I sometimes think I should have become a truck driver so I could constantly be leaving somewhere, but I haven’t come into contact with too many truck drivers that I would want to hang out with so that always kept me from pursuing that line of work. But if I could find a job where all I got to do was walk out the front door I would be the happiest little camper in the world.
Anybody ever heard of a job like that? Because it seems as though all I do anymore is look at the front door and wonder what kind of things I could accomplish on the other side instead of actually walking out that front door and doing something with myself. Maybe those guys will come up with a sequel that tells what they found on the other side of that door so I can put my mind at ease.
Or maybe I can just walk out that front door and find out for myself.
B!
Monday, August 30, 2010
500 Words A Day-Day 8 "The Me-First Generation"
It’s funny how stuff works out. I wonder sometimes if everything we do is some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy or if fate just happens to jump up right at the exact moment we were wondering if there was such a thing.
Today I was contemplating what my topic was going to be for this essay since it seems that all I do is complain about how I am not where I want to be in pretty much any facet of my life. Then on my drive home I came across so many assholes on the road that I started to think about how it seems like everyone has a “me first” mentality these days. I know that I shouldn’t base my assumptions on the entire human race on the people I come across on my daily commute, but those are the people I have to deal with the most so I feel like they constitute EVERYONE even though, deep down, I know they don’t.
What I consistently notice is that the drivers in this area don’t give a shit about anyone else they come into contact with. All they do is try to get to their destination as fast as possible even if it means breaking laws and breaking common rules of decency. I will admit that I try to be as low-key as possible behind the wheel. If you haven’t acted like a dick I will let you into my lane as long as you signal. I will wave you through if we are waiting somewhere and you need to get in, etc.
But then I come across these fucking douchebags who change lanes in school zones, speed through the school zones, pass buses, change lanes without signaling, don’t come to complete stops at lights or stop signs, etc. Fuck them. They are EVERYWHERE and I’m tired of it. The lights are on a timer people. If you do the correct speed they will always be green for you and you won’t have to slam on the gas to get up to 60 MPH in a 45 zone and then slam on your brakes because the light changed color. Guess what dickhead, I was doing 42 the whole time and if it wasn’t for you and your lane changing, brake slamming assface I wouldn’t have to touch my brakes at all during my 12 mile commute. But I always end up hitting my brakes because these people have to cut me off to get one car length ahead of me.
I have grown to accept that I will face this EVERY time I leave my house, but today on my way home from the gym I came across a guy who very nearly made me lose my laid back façade and go fucking APE SHIT on him. I pulled up to the gate in my complex (I live in a gated community right smack dab in the shittiest part of Mesa) and entered my code. A guy pulled in behind me and as I was entering my code he pulled up next to me so when the gate opened he got in the gate first, causing me to hit my brakes to let him in.
Seriously?! Now, my first instinct was to ram his car. I came about a foot from doing that. Remember, I am on my way home from the gym so I am already a little jacked up on testosterone so I am closer than I normally would be to losing it already. Normally I turn left when I go into the complex but this fucker turned right so I followed him. He knew I was following him so he sped up and flew around the corner. I came around the corner too and he parked, jumped out of his car and started running into his house. I slammed my car into park in the middle of the road and jumped out, screaming, “What the fuck is your problem dude?!” He just kept running to his house. I screamed, “I fucking DARE you to try that shit again with me man! I will FUCK YOU UP!”
It literally took EVERY bit of self control I had not go chase him down to his house and leave him lying in a pool of his own blood and piss. Man, I’m too old for shit like that to have that much of an impact on me. If I was a “me first” kind of person he would be severely injured and I would probably be in jail right now.
I guess it’s a good thing I still have some self-control. But if that fucker ever does that again . . .
B!
Today I was contemplating what my topic was going to be for this essay since it seems that all I do is complain about how I am not where I want to be in pretty much any facet of my life. Then on my drive home I came across so many assholes on the road that I started to think about how it seems like everyone has a “me first” mentality these days. I know that I shouldn’t base my assumptions on the entire human race on the people I come across on my daily commute, but those are the people I have to deal with the most so I feel like they constitute EVERYONE even though, deep down, I know they don’t.
What I consistently notice is that the drivers in this area don’t give a shit about anyone else they come into contact with. All they do is try to get to their destination as fast as possible even if it means breaking laws and breaking common rules of decency. I will admit that I try to be as low-key as possible behind the wheel. If you haven’t acted like a dick I will let you into my lane as long as you signal. I will wave you through if we are waiting somewhere and you need to get in, etc.
But then I come across these fucking douchebags who change lanes in school zones, speed through the school zones, pass buses, change lanes without signaling, don’t come to complete stops at lights or stop signs, etc. Fuck them. They are EVERYWHERE and I’m tired of it. The lights are on a timer people. If you do the correct speed they will always be green for you and you won’t have to slam on the gas to get up to 60 MPH in a 45 zone and then slam on your brakes because the light changed color. Guess what dickhead, I was doing 42 the whole time and if it wasn’t for you and your lane changing, brake slamming assface I wouldn’t have to touch my brakes at all during my 12 mile commute. But I always end up hitting my brakes because these people have to cut me off to get one car length ahead of me.
I have grown to accept that I will face this EVERY time I leave my house, but today on my way home from the gym I came across a guy who very nearly made me lose my laid back façade and go fucking APE SHIT on him. I pulled up to the gate in my complex (I live in a gated community right smack dab in the shittiest part of Mesa) and entered my code. A guy pulled in behind me and as I was entering my code he pulled up next to me so when the gate opened he got in the gate first, causing me to hit my brakes to let him in.
Seriously?! Now, my first instinct was to ram his car. I came about a foot from doing that. Remember, I am on my way home from the gym so I am already a little jacked up on testosterone so I am closer than I normally would be to losing it already. Normally I turn left when I go into the complex but this fucker turned right so I followed him. He knew I was following him so he sped up and flew around the corner. I came around the corner too and he parked, jumped out of his car and started running into his house. I slammed my car into park in the middle of the road and jumped out, screaming, “What the fuck is your problem dude?!” He just kept running to his house. I screamed, “I fucking DARE you to try that shit again with me man! I will FUCK YOU UP!”
It literally took EVERY bit of self control I had not go chase him down to his house and leave him lying in a pool of his own blood and piss. Man, I’m too old for shit like that to have that much of an impact on me. If I was a “me first” kind of person he would be severely injured and I would probably be in jail right now.
I guess it’s a good thing I still have some self-control. But if that fucker ever does that again . . .
B!
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