Hypothetical question. If, upon the previously described Jewish girl's insistance that her daughter wasn't paying attention to what I had to say because she didn't know who I was, I bent down to the toddler and said "Hi there, precious. I'm the guy who made your mommy betray her entire race," does that make me an asshole?
...Oh, I'm sorry, I seem to have mixed up hypothetical with rhetorical. Silly me.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
Now Tom Cruise has TWO reasons to hate me.
There are a lot of things that can come to mind when one thinks about the various New Years Eves they've experienced, but sadly, most of them are so overdone that they inspire a nausea comparable to that of your garden variety hangover. Get drunk, take pictures, get laid, though not necessarily in that order. Allow me to establish myself, once again, as being the best there is at breaking routine.
My evening started at around 21:00, after having escaped from the indentured servitude that my employer calls an occupation. I picked up my copilot for the evening, a young man by the name of Cameron, and we started the evening with a pair of New Years mainstays and went along our merry way. We stopped at Jen's, and while the company was more than well enough, there was something missing from the evening. A particular type of music? A specific liquor? Dick Clark? No, my friends. None of the above. This particular New Years Eve, only one thing would sate our mutual inclination.
Chaos.
With that in mind, we immediately start toward Kentucky to meet my brother at his favorite bar. Getting there just in time to see the ball drop on television, we sat for a few moments until it appeared that this location had outlived it's usefulness to us. The people were friendly, docile. Hardly adequate victims. The next bar, however, proved to be a much, much different environment entirely. First of all, a good portion of Matt and I's family happened to be there already, including our brother, their father, our mother, cousins, aunts, ad infinitum. I was beginning to wonder if this were New Years Eve or a family reunion. Matt did little to aid my confusion, as within the first half hour we were already being pushed out the door by a crowd who wanted nothing more than to push us into traffic; his father had decided to court disaster by running his gums, and Matt had reacted the same way he always reacts. Specifically, by attempting to turn Donald the Shit Talker into Donald the Jello-esque Stain On The The Barroom Floor. Long story short, we were swiftly ejected from the premises, but not before your pal Rem got in one last wise-ass remark: "New show every night at 8:00, we're here all week, be sure to tip your waitress!" At that, I bowed, turned to the not unjustifiably hateful ex-girlfriend who was tending bar, winked at her, and was swept away by the half-riot we ourselves had instigated.
Goooooood times.
After dropping those in attendance off who were either A) too drunk, B) too annoying or C) both to continue on, we made our way back to Walton where our...erm, acquaintance, Kaitlyn, starts harping on Matt about how she wants a tattoo. She doesn't know what, but she wants ink, and she wants it tonight. Let me precipice the rest of this story by explaining that, while dumber than a box of cat shit, she is completely, stone cold sober. Knowing that she's Jewish, I, of course, decide to make a mockery of the suffering of God's chosen people and suggest she get twin lightning bolts done on her forearm. Now, before you go nuts imagining the various ways that she could and should have ripped me a new asshole, let me remind you that Kaitlyn is, as previously stated, as dumb as dumb can be without needing a helmet to take a piss.
Exhibit A) She's fat.
Exhibit B) She's hanging out with my brother and I.
Exhibit C) She has absolutely no fucking idea what twin lightning bolts mean.
So, after another ten minutes of deliberation, she decided on getting the tat between her shoulder blades. Just in case you haven't been paying attention, let me summarize the above. Me. And my brother. Convinced a Jewish girl. To get the SS bolts done on her back.
To say the least, even I was a little hesitant to let this happen. I mean, fun's fun and all, but this? This was appalling. This was atrocious. Hell, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the world this was fucking criminal exploitation of an idiot. Unfortunately, I was too busy exchanging knowing glances with the other three people in the room, Kaitlyn excluded, of course, and trying like hell to stifle the maniacal fit of laughter threatening to deafen everyone within earshot. Hard by itself, nigh impossible when the poor girl winced and, I'm not making this shit up, said "This hurts different from all my other tattoos...it just feels wrong." I'm amazed my tongue didn't start bleeding, or falling off, for that matter.
The trip home, begun almost immediately after the tattoo's completion, was a waking coma by comparison. Some garbage food from Waffle House and the equivalent of a metric fuck ton of laughter made it a tolerable wind down from the night's adventures. I dropped Cameron off, got home, recounted the evening's festivities to my roommate Logan. Logan, for all his worldliness, for all his experiences, for all his knowledge of the workings of the human brain, sat with his jaw hanging two inches from the floor. When I finally finished, he ended the conversation with one question:
"Dude, how do you manage to get an entire race to hate you in less than two minutes?"
Talent, my friend.
Happy New Year!
My evening started at around 21:00, after having escaped from the indentured servitude that my employer calls an occupation. I picked up my copilot for the evening, a young man by the name of Cameron, and we started the evening with a pair of New Years mainstays and went along our merry way. We stopped at Jen's, and while the company was more than well enough, there was something missing from the evening. A particular type of music? A specific liquor? Dick Clark? No, my friends. None of the above. This particular New Years Eve, only one thing would sate our mutual inclination.
Chaos.
With that in mind, we immediately start toward Kentucky to meet my brother at his favorite bar. Getting there just in time to see the ball drop on television, we sat for a few moments until it appeared that this location had outlived it's usefulness to us. The people were friendly, docile. Hardly adequate victims. The next bar, however, proved to be a much, much different environment entirely. First of all, a good portion of Matt and I's family happened to be there already, including our brother, their father, our mother, cousins, aunts, ad infinitum. I was beginning to wonder if this were New Years Eve or a family reunion. Matt did little to aid my confusion, as within the first half hour we were already being pushed out the door by a crowd who wanted nothing more than to push us into traffic; his father had decided to court disaster by running his gums, and Matt had reacted the same way he always reacts. Specifically, by attempting to turn Donald the Shit Talker into Donald the Jello-esque Stain On The The Barroom Floor. Long story short, we were swiftly ejected from the premises, but not before your pal Rem got in one last wise-ass remark: "New show every night at 8:00, we're here all week, be sure to tip your waitress!" At that, I bowed, turned to the not unjustifiably hateful ex-girlfriend who was tending bar, winked at her, and was swept away by the half-riot we ourselves had instigated.
Goooooood times.
After dropping those in attendance off who were either A) too drunk, B) too annoying or C) both to continue on, we made our way back to Walton where our...erm, acquaintance, Kaitlyn, starts harping on Matt about how she wants a tattoo. She doesn't know what, but she wants ink, and she wants it tonight. Let me precipice the rest of this story by explaining that, while dumber than a box of cat shit, she is completely, stone cold sober. Knowing that she's Jewish, I, of course, decide to make a mockery of the suffering of God's chosen people and suggest she get twin lightning bolts done on her forearm. Now, before you go nuts imagining the various ways that she could and should have ripped me a new asshole, let me remind you that Kaitlyn is, as previously stated, as dumb as dumb can be without needing a helmet to take a piss.
Exhibit A) She's fat.
Exhibit B) She's hanging out with my brother and I.
Exhibit C) She has absolutely no fucking idea what twin lightning bolts mean.
So, after another ten minutes of deliberation, she decided on getting the tat between her shoulder blades. Just in case you haven't been paying attention, let me summarize the above. Me. And my brother. Convinced a Jewish girl. To get the SS bolts done on her back.
To say the least, even I was a little hesitant to let this happen. I mean, fun's fun and all, but this? This was appalling. This was atrocious. Hell, I'm pretty sure that somewhere in the world this was fucking criminal exploitation of an idiot. Unfortunately, I was too busy exchanging knowing glances with the other three people in the room, Kaitlyn excluded, of course, and trying like hell to stifle the maniacal fit of laughter threatening to deafen everyone within earshot. Hard by itself, nigh impossible when the poor girl winced and, I'm not making this shit up, said "This hurts different from all my other tattoos...it just feels wrong." I'm amazed my tongue didn't start bleeding, or falling off, for that matter.
The trip home, begun almost immediately after the tattoo's completion, was a waking coma by comparison. Some garbage food from Waffle House and the equivalent of a metric fuck ton of laughter made it a tolerable wind down from the night's adventures. I dropped Cameron off, got home, recounted the evening's festivities to my roommate Logan. Logan, for all his worldliness, for all his experiences, for all his knowledge of the workings of the human brain, sat with his jaw hanging two inches from the floor. When I finally finished, he ended the conversation with one question:
"Dude, how do you manage to get an entire race to hate you in less than two minutes?"
Talent, my friend.
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Everything I Need To Know, I Learned At Steak 'N' Shake
-When the urge to eat nutritionally questionable food hits, go with it. Hilarity could very well ensue.
-When someone you once had sex with and later exposed as a borderline psychotic stalker is making your food, expect problems.
-When you can feel your stomach cringe at the smell of aforementioned food, eating it is ill-advised.
-When you can see your stomach cringe in the above situation, go talk to the other woman in the restaurant that you've slept with.
-Protip: Make sure you remember the second girl's name. Failure to do so can lead to...well, nevermind. The look on her face when I asked "Have we met?" is something I'll cherish until either death or Alzheimer's, whichever comes first.
-Turning around quickly, then back toward her, then back again to the mutual friend who walked in with her once the realization of who she is sets in? Counterproductive.
-Agreeing with her claim that she could be a famous pornography "actress", then elaborating by citing the down syndromtacular faces she makes as her future claim to fame? Also counterproductive.
-When your friend randomly decides to snort SNS Peppersauce, for the love of God, make sure your camera phone fucking works.
-Leave before the dumb bastards sober up.
-When someone you once had sex with and later exposed as a borderline psychotic stalker is making your food, expect problems.
-When you can feel your stomach cringe at the smell of aforementioned food, eating it is ill-advised.
-When you can see your stomach cringe in the above situation, go talk to the other woman in the restaurant that you've slept with.
-Protip: Make sure you remember the second girl's name. Failure to do so can lead to...well, nevermind. The look on her face when I asked "Have we met?" is something I'll cherish until either death or Alzheimer's, whichever comes first.
-Turning around quickly, then back toward her, then back again to the mutual friend who walked in with her once the realization of who she is sets in? Counterproductive.
-Agreeing with her claim that she could be a famous pornography "actress", then elaborating by citing the down syndromtacular faces she makes as her future claim to fame? Also counterproductive.
-When your friend randomly decides to snort SNS Peppersauce, for the love of God, make sure your camera phone fucking works.
-Leave before the dumb bastards sober up.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Only Reason I Need To Keep Facebook
SocialInterview.com asked [Kasey Ann Vlahos] "What would Rem Phoenix scream on a scary rollercoaster?"
[Kasey Ann Vlahos] answered 'I fucked your wife!'
SocialInterview.com asked [Britt Winchester] "If Rem Phoenix was really rich, would you ask him/her for stuff?"
[Britt Winchester] answered 'Yes, I would demand we go watch ladies take their clothes off for money.'
So much for being a misunderstood anti-hero. Fuckers have me down to a science.
[Kasey Ann Vlahos] answered 'I fucked your wife!'
SocialInterview.com asked [Britt Winchester] "If Rem Phoenix was really rich, would you ask him/her for stuff?"
[Britt Winchester] answered 'Yes, I would demand we go watch ladies take their clothes off for money.'
So much for being a misunderstood anti-hero. Fuckers have me down to a science.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A tweak here, a turn there...
So most of you have a greater or lesser idea of why November sucks for me. Those that do, this one's just for you. Those who don't, go back to YP and check back in a few days, because I'm skipping over the elaboration stage of this blog and getting right to the point.
It's never fun to realize that the people you've cared about, and for the most part still do, aren't going to be around forever. So, before any of you work that last step, here's me telling you that even if I do suck at keeping in touch, you all still rock in your own ways and if I haven't forgotten about you after all the fucked up shit I've done to myself over the years, I'm never going to. Love at ya'.
...And no, I'm not dying. Stop looking at me like that.
It's never fun to realize that the people you've cared about, and for the most part still do, aren't going to be around forever. So, before any of you work that last step, here's me telling you that even if I do suck at keeping in touch, you all still rock in your own ways and if I haven't forgotten about you after all the fucked up shit I've done to myself over the years, I'm never going to. Love at ya'.
...And no, I'm not dying. Stop looking at me like that.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Semantics, really.
This may surprise some of you, but I don't hate police officers. Okay, I don't hate all police officers. I acknowledge that many, many humans who carry guns and wear shiny badges let the power go to their heads, but that doesn't make me hate law enforcement organizations as a whole. To assume that every last one of them is a flaming jackass would be prejudice which, oddly enough, is actually the main topic of this post.
See, the word prejudice and it's more popular counterpart, racism, are probably the most misunderstood words in the English language. You can thank America's spotty history of slavery, exploitation and discrimination for that. For those of you who didn't spend half of your lives studying the written word, let me explain both of them to you. Racism is the belief that one's race is superior to all other races. Not necessarily that all other races are bad, just that they're inferior. Prejudice is believing that a particular group all shares a similar characteristic. Now that we've cleared that up, let me tell you a little story of just how grossly out of touch with Webster the media, the government and our general population all are.
Once upon a time, college Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. went on vacation. Upon his return home a neighbor who we'll call Nosey McShitstarter (which has nothing to do with the fact that this story takes place in Boston, you presumptuous jack off) placed a call to the police that two men were spotted trying to force open the door of Gates, Jr's home. It later turned out that the door to Gates, Jr.'s home was jammed, but that's beside the point. As per both procedure and common sense, an officer was dispatched to investigate. When said officer arrived on the scene and knocked on the home's front door, he was met with something that not even the world's most avid sadist would call a friendly greeting. The professor, now let me repeat that, the fucking college professor threw an absolute shit fit, citing the investigation as being due to the fact that he was black. Among Gates Jr.'s comments were "This is what happens to black men in America" and, when asked by the officer if he could speak to Gates, Jr. outside, "I'll speak with your mama outside." I'm not making this shit up!
Now, where I come from, if you start screaming in a police officer's face, you're not going to be sleeping in your own bed. Hell, in Cincinnati you're lucky if you even remember the circumstances of your surrender to unconsciousness upon waking. Instead, you say hello to your new best friend, Mr. Concussion, and avert your eyes as you realize that you're sleeping next to wear your other new friend (see also: cell mate) is pissing.
Gates, Jr. was arrested on disorderly conduct charges, which were dropped. Not only is he now seeking recompense from the city of Boston, but the officers who made the arrest are facing disciplinary action.
Now, think back on what I first covered, the definitions of racism and prejudice. Now think on the incident I outlined afterward. Put your thinking caps on, put two and two together, and tell me who's guilty of what in this scenario. Let me give you a hint. If you decided that the aforementioned officers were guilty of racism, you obviously missed the unspoken part of my instructions, namely removing your head from your ass. This guy doesn't deserve a settlement, he deserves a lobotomy. This is exactly the kind of reverse racism that's making it impossible for a sense of unity and true equality to ever take hold and stick in this country. The members of so-called "oppressed minorities" who blame every inconvenience on the color of their skin are perpetuating the vicious cycle, and those who lend credence to their protests are guilty of throwing gas on the metaphorical fire. To Henry Louis Gates, Jr., you're making a very, very uncomfortable bed, and we're the ones who have to sleep in it. Way to suck. To the media who covered this story and decided to up their ratings at the expense of honesty, integrity and justice, you are the worst kind of opportunistic vultures existent in journalism today. To the officers who answered the call that night, keep your heads held high. Some of us have enough capacity for rational thought to learn the facts before passing judgment.
Oh, and props for not giving anyone a concussion.
See, the word prejudice and it's more popular counterpart, racism, are probably the most misunderstood words in the English language. You can thank America's spotty history of slavery, exploitation and discrimination for that. For those of you who didn't spend half of your lives studying the written word, let me explain both of them to you. Racism is the belief that one's race is superior to all other races. Not necessarily that all other races are bad, just that they're inferior. Prejudice is believing that a particular group all shares a similar characteristic. Now that we've cleared that up, let me tell you a little story of just how grossly out of touch with Webster the media, the government and our general population all are.
Once upon a time, college Professor Henry Louis Gates, Jr. went on vacation. Upon his return home a neighbor who we'll call Nosey McShitstarter (which has nothing to do with the fact that this story takes place in Boston, you presumptuous jack off) placed a call to the police that two men were spotted trying to force open the door of Gates, Jr's home. It later turned out that the door to Gates, Jr.'s home was jammed, but that's beside the point. As per both procedure and common sense, an officer was dispatched to investigate. When said officer arrived on the scene and knocked on the home's front door, he was met with something that not even the world's most avid sadist would call a friendly greeting. The professor, now let me repeat that, the fucking college professor threw an absolute shit fit, citing the investigation as being due to the fact that he was black. Among Gates Jr.'s comments were "This is what happens to black men in America" and, when asked by the officer if he could speak to Gates, Jr. outside, "I'll speak with your mama outside." I'm not making this shit up!
Now, where I come from, if you start screaming in a police officer's face, you're not going to be sleeping in your own bed. Hell, in Cincinnati you're lucky if you even remember the circumstances of your surrender to unconsciousness upon waking. Instead, you say hello to your new best friend, Mr. Concussion, and avert your eyes as you realize that you're sleeping next to wear your other new friend (see also: cell mate) is pissing.
Gates, Jr. was arrested on disorderly conduct charges, which were dropped. Not only is he now seeking recompense from the city of Boston, but the officers who made the arrest are facing disciplinary action.
Now, think back on what I first covered, the definitions of racism and prejudice. Now think on the incident I outlined afterward. Put your thinking caps on, put two and two together, and tell me who's guilty of what in this scenario. Let me give you a hint. If you decided that the aforementioned officers were guilty of racism, you obviously missed the unspoken part of my instructions, namely removing your head from your ass. This guy doesn't deserve a settlement, he deserves a lobotomy. This is exactly the kind of reverse racism that's making it impossible for a sense of unity and true equality to ever take hold and stick in this country. The members of so-called "oppressed minorities" who blame every inconvenience on the color of their skin are perpetuating the vicious cycle, and those who lend credence to their protests are guilty of throwing gas on the metaphorical fire. To Henry Louis Gates, Jr., you're making a very, very uncomfortable bed, and we're the ones who have to sleep in it. Way to suck. To the media who covered this story and decided to up their ratings at the expense of honesty, integrity and justice, you are the worst kind of opportunistic vultures existent in journalism today. To the officers who answered the call that night, keep your heads held high. Some of us have enough capacity for rational thought to learn the facts before passing judgment.
Oh, and props for not giving anyone a concussion.
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