Ladies and gentlemen, I have a Facebook profile. I know that Facebook as a whole is generally frequented by self-absorbed, narcissistic assholes, but it's really the only way I can keep in touch with people. Mostly because I'm a lazy fuck and I hate e-mail. For the most part, Facebook is little more than a gigantic pain in the ass, but every now and then the opportunity for fun (see also: verbal assraping of ignorant shitheads) presents itself. For instance, my friend Aerine joined a group supporting same sex marriage. One of her friends, in much the same capacity as nearly every hate monger on the planet, jumped right on the chance to spread her message of intolerance by stating that homosexuality is a sin. Yes, I'm aware that by punishing her for indiscriminately labeling someone as inferior that I'm breaking irony, but I felt the need to share my reply.
Aerine, sorry if I'm starting a war on your page, but your friend needs to do a bit more research instead of jumping on Jerry Falwell's bandwagon and riding it all the way to wacko house. Lora, like so many things, you have to take the scripture in context. Plucking a few sentences out of the Bible and using them to justify an agenda isn't just fundamentally stupid, it's using God's word as a tool (which, by the way, I'm pretty sure the Big Guy probably takes exception to).
Also, the passages that are being debated (that's right, debated; few people who've studied the earliest available versions of the Good Book agree on their interpretation. Languages that are thousands of years old are funny like that) are from the Old Testament. Y'know, the part of the Bible that says you're in the express lane to Hell if you've ever eaten at Wendy's on a Friday? If memory serves, there was a Guy who regularly went bar hopping and spent a lot of time hanging out with prostitutes who kind of made the Old Testament a moot point. Damn, what was His name again...had that one really shitty day, did this really bad-ass party trick involving water and wine...
Oh, that's right! Jesus! Anyway, He came down and basically made it so that someone could shave their beard, have a few brews, maybe think with the wrong had and sleep with someone that they weren't already married to and NOT spend eternity wishing for a decent SPF, so long as they had Him in their hearts. Think what you want - and I'm sure you will, the Third Reich of sexual orientation always does - but do it twice before you post your uninformed rhetoric where someone with a decent education and more than two functioning brain cells can read it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to being one of the few straight people on the planet who doesn't hate on others because of who they decide to fuck.
Rem - 1
Mindless Bigotry - 0
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Best. Drive. Ever.
So I got off work tonight fairly early by Pizza Hut standards - roughly 11:15PM - and was looking forward to a nice quiet night with one of Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth novels. Let me illustrate to you just how accurately the word mercurial describes me and my life.
12:12 AM - Realized that I was showered, dressed and ready to go do something stupid before 1 AM, much earlier than usual. Note that the potential for disaster is much greater the earlier in the evening one finds one's self in.
12:45 AM - Convinced that it's my civic duty as a member of the Inebriated Americans minority, I leave my comfortable little attic in order to procure party favors of questionable moral nature.
1:05 AM - Mission accomplished.
1:15 AM - Arrive at ATM, wondering just what manner of masochistic insanity I was born to.
1:25 AM - Mission very accomplished. With hitherto unrevealed optional objectives completed with military precision and efficiency. And swallowed.
1:45 AM - Primary objective (see also: substances) consumed in the loosest possible definition of the word. My lungs hurt, and I am happy.
2:15 AM - Secondary objective beginning to make driving somewhat problematic. Reflectors are becoming flashers. I begin to question whether or not driving down a quasi-major state road is wise. Ignoring all common sense, I opt for an alternate route.
2:25 AM - Fuck arriving anywhere, I begin to question whether or not I'm existing on the same plane of reality as everyone else.
2:35 AM - Arrive at Will's. Theory of alternate planar occupation confirmed. I stare at the ceiling fan for an indeterminate amount of time.
2:40 AM (or thereabouts) - On the way through Emily's pitch black hallway to smoke a cigarette, I realize that I can still see the fucking lightbulb.
2:45 AM - Nicotine, in conjunction with whatever cocktail I have flowing through my system and making me feel like one of them thar gall dern hippies, is the greatest of man's injustices visited upon himself. I sing Great Big Sea's version of The End Of The World. Will is several levels of unimpressed, yet at the same time maintaining an obvious, almost clinical interest in my current state of mind. I close my eyes and smile like an idiot.
3:00 AM - I venture outside for another cigarette. Life is still better than it has been in months. Will continues staring.
3:15 AM - A brief period of lucidity wherein, as of the time of this writing, I vaguely recall having an intelligent, coherent conversation, the topic of which escapes me. In all likelihood, this is due to a horrible misrepresentation of the facts on the part of my memory. I do, however, still maintain that man should have been invented with a gland for this shit.
3:30 AM - During the writing of this entry and after reading through the preceding portion of the time table, it occurs to me that man was invented with a gland for this shit, albeit in significantly lower doses. Further inspection of the facts causes leads me to the conclusion that man got gypped. I continue clenching my jaw and smiling like an idiot.
3:35 AM - Struggling to think of a way to somehow anticipate events so as to commit them to this entry prior to actually experiencing them, thus leaving me with more time to do so, I acknowledge that certain hormones are racing through me at such a rate as to imply that my internal sound barrier should be breaking. Curiously, I also realize that for the first time since I was roughly eleven years old, I seem to have a sort of psychological detachment to the fact that my body desperately wants to spend time with something blond, skinny and orally fixated.
3:42 AM - Screw it. I'll just have Will tell me about all the mindnumbingly stupid shit that I do and say tomorrow morning/afternoon. More to come.
12:12 AM - Realized that I was showered, dressed and ready to go do something stupid before 1 AM, much earlier than usual. Note that the potential for disaster is much greater the earlier in the evening one finds one's self in.
12:45 AM - Convinced that it's my civic duty as a member of the Inebriated Americans minority, I leave my comfortable little attic in order to procure party favors of questionable moral nature.
1:05 AM - Mission accomplished.
1:15 AM - Arrive at ATM, wondering just what manner of masochistic insanity I was born to.
1:25 AM - Mission very accomplished. With hitherto unrevealed optional objectives completed with military precision and efficiency. And swallowed.
1:45 AM - Primary objective (see also: substances) consumed in the loosest possible definition of the word. My lungs hurt, and I am happy.
2:15 AM - Secondary objective beginning to make driving somewhat problematic. Reflectors are becoming flashers. I begin to question whether or not driving down a quasi-major state road is wise. Ignoring all common sense, I opt for an alternate route.
2:25 AM - Fuck arriving anywhere, I begin to question whether or not I'm existing on the same plane of reality as everyone else.
2:35 AM - Arrive at Will's. Theory of alternate planar occupation confirmed. I stare at the ceiling fan for an indeterminate amount of time.
2:40 AM (or thereabouts) - On the way through Emily's pitch black hallway to smoke a cigarette, I realize that I can still see the fucking lightbulb.
2:45 AM - Nicotine, in conjunction with whatever cocktail I have flowing through my system and making me feel like one of them thar gall dern hippies, is the greatest of man's injustices visited upon himself. I sing Great Big Sea's version of The End Of The World. Will is several levels of unimpressed, yet at the same time maintaining an obvious, almost clinical interest in my current state of mind. I close my eyes and smile like an idiot.
3:00 AM - I venture outside for another cigarette. Life is still better than it has been in months. Will continues staring.
3:15 AM - A brief period of lucidity wherein, as of the time of this writing, I vaguely recall having an intelligent, coherent conversation, the topic of which escapes me. In all likelihood, this is due to a horrible misrepresentation of the facts on the part of my memory. I do, however, still maintain that man should have been invented with a gland for this shit.
3:30 AM - During the writing of this entry and after reading through the preceding portion of the time table, it occurs to me that man was invented with a gland for this shit, albeit in significantly lower doses. Further inspection of the facts causes leads me to the conclusion that man got gypped. I continue clenching my jaw and smiling like an idiot.
3:35 AM - Struggling to think of a way to somehow anticipate events so as to commit them to this entry prior to actually experiencing them, thus leaving me with more time to do so, I acknowledge that certain hormones are racing through me at such a rate as to imply that my internal sound barrier should be breaking. Curiously, I also realize that for the first time since I was roughly eleven years old, I seem to have a sort of psychological detachment to the fact that my body desperately wants to spend time with something blond, skinny and orally fixated.
3:42 AM - Screw it. I'll just have Will tell me about all the mindnumbingly stupid shit that I do and say tomorrow morning/afternoon. More to come.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
An honest mistake (waiting to happen).
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.
...Oh, I'm sorry, I seem to have mixed up hypothetical with rhetorical. Silly me.
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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
You're just mad because I said it first.
Hey, has everyone heard about the new Michael Cera movie (you guessed it, this is a trick question). You haven't? Well, I can't believe you hav--OF COURSE YOU HAVEN'T HEARD OF THE NEW MICHAEL CERA MOVIE! Wanna' take a stab at how I knew you hadn't? It's simple, because there hasn't been a new Michael Cera movie since the first time we saw his first monotone, pathetic, cliche teen angst ridden character! For something to be new, it has to be unprecedented. It can't have been done before. Watching some beanpole with all the originality of a bucket of dirty mop water do the same shit in the same contrived nonsense isn't cinema, it's formula.
Fucking sheep.
Fucking sheep.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Would you like fri--er, breadsticks with that?
Yeah. I was that desperate for a job. Despite the horrific/awesome outcome of the my last sojourn into the pizza industry, when I was offered a position (see also: when I berated the unfortunate manager of the local Pizza Hut until his ears were bleeding) as a server/delivery driver/designated bitch, I begrudgingly accepted (see also: I'm surprised I didn't piss myself with joy). So, in less than an hour, I'll don the red and black that oh, so many college drop outs and recovering criminals have donned before me.
...Wasn't I supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer or some shit?
...Wasn't I supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer or some shit?
Monday, July 20, 2009
A Dying Breed
People used to know how this shit was done.
That's the thought that popped into my head when I stumbled across an old friend's page. Yeah, I know, surfing MySpace pages at 4AM doesn't sound like a very rock 'n' roll thing to do, but there's only so much guitar you can play after breaking your hand on the back of someone's head. More on that never. Back on point, I used to stomp around Cape Coral with this guy until the wee hours of the morning as a matter of fucking principle. We got busted for PI when I was sixteen, pissed off everyone in a five mile radius by blaring Anti-Flag and old school Offspring, drank the bar so dry at every party we went to that the fucking floors dry rotted and regularly took part in "Midnight Donuts", which consisted of walking around our neighborhood Wal-Mart eating as many donuts as we could before they kicked us out.
Good, Wholesome, All-American fun.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I come across the guy on MySpace and find out that at some point he turned white as bird shit. Dude used to have a 'hawk so tall he couldn't sit up straight in a car without fucking it up and now he looks like something out of Revenge Of The Nerds. That vest some of you have probably seen me wear? That was his once upon a time. Guy swelled up so wide that I doubt the damn thing would fit around his fucking wrist now. He used to jam out to Crass. I don't know what the hell he had on his profile, but I'm willing to bet that whatever it was could put Alanis Morrisette to sleep. Oh, and he's a vegan. A fucking vegan! This guy never went anywhere without his leather jacket, and now he's spooging himself over animal rights?
What the fuck, man? Look, I understand that people get older, priorities shift, you've gotta' sacrifice a few of your causes to keep food in your stomach. You buzz your 'hawk off, you don't try to look like the guy from Oxford who's every sexual experience is plastered on his computer screen. You put on a button down shirt for an interview and roll up your sleeves when it's over so you can show off your ink, you don't pay thousands of dollars to get it burned off. You find a way to incorporate who you were into who you are, you don't wash out the fucking dye and pretend it never happened. Fuck's sake, rock 'n' roll used to mean something. It was a mindset, a lifestyle, standing up and saying "Fuck you, I'll live my own life", defining your own paradigm instead of adopting the one society's tried to force down your throat since you were old enough to piss straight. Now? Now it's a fucking sticker on the back of your Volvo that you take off when you finally kiss enough brown eye to land yourself that promotion and don't want people to see it when you park in your VIP spot at the office.
I said this a few months back, but let me reiterate. Independent thought is what gives rise to advances in civilization. When we all accept the norm as ideal, we stagnate, we lose our sense of purpose toward the end of social evolution. The greatest minds in history were ridiculed, ostracised and sometimes executed for their radical theories. Stop being the one behind the firing squad with a bucket of popcorn and a hard-on, start taking a chance and fly your own fucking flag again!
That's the thought that popped into my head when I stumbled across an old friend's page. Yeah, I know, surfing MySpace pages at 4AM doesn't sound like a very rock 'n' roll thing to do, but there's only so much guitar you can play after breaking your hand on the back of someone's head. More on that never. Back on point, I used to stomp around Cape Coral with this guy until the wee hours of the morning as a matter of fucking principle. We got busted for PI when I was sixteen, pissed off everyone in a five mile radius by blaring Anti-Flag and old school Offspring, drank the bar so dry at every party we went to that the fucking floors dry rotted and regularly took part in "Midnight Donuts", which consisted of walking around our neighborhood Wal-Mart eating as many donuts as we could before they kicked us out.
Good, Wholesome, All-American fun.
So you can imagine my disappointment when I come across the guy on MySpace and find out that at some point he turned white as bird shit. Dude used to have a 'hawk so tall he couldn't sit up straight in a car without fucking it up and now he looks like something out of Revenge Of The Nerds. That vest some of you have probably seen me wear? That was his once upon a time. Guy swelled up so wide that I doubt the damn thing would fit around his fucking wrist now. He used to jam out to Crass. I don't know what the hell he had on his profile, but I'm willing to bet that whatever it was could put Alanis Morrisette to sleep. Oh, and he's a vegan. A fucking vegan! This guy never went anywhere without his leather jacket, and now he's spooging himself over animal rights?
What the fuck, man? Look, I understand that people get older, priorities shift, you've gotta' sacrifice a few of your causes to keep food in your stomach. You buzz your 'hawk off, you don't try to look like the guy from Oxford who's every sexual experience is plastered on his computer screen. You put on a button down shirt for an interview and roll up your sleeves when it's over so you can show off your ink, you don't pay thousands of dollars to get it burned off. You find a way to incorporate who you were into who you are, you don't wash out the fucking dye and pretend it never happened. Fuck's sake, rock 'n' roll used to mean something. It was a mindset, a lifestyle, standing up and saying "Fuck you, I'll live my own life", defining your own paradigm instead of adopting the one society's tried to force down your throat since you were old enough to piss straight. Now? Now it's a fucking sticker on the back of your Volvo that you take off when you finally kiss enough brown eye to land yourself that promotion and don't want people to see it when you park in your VIP spot at the office.
I said this a few months back, but let me reiterate. Independent thought is what gives rise to advances in civilization. When we all accept the norm as ideal, we stagnate, we lose our sense of purpose toward the end of social evolution. The greatest minds in history were ridiculed, ostracised and sometimes executed for their radical theories. Stop being the one behind the firing squad with a bucket of popcorn and a hard-on, start taking a chance and fly your own fucking flag again!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Anybody know the plural form of hiatus?
I feel the title of this post is necessary due to how many times I've gone days, weeks, even months between posts. This thing used to be like a religion to me. Go out into the world, piss someone off and/or get pissed off, come home, write about it, drink, pass out. It was cozy. It was familiar.
But alas, those days are gone, at least temporarily. See, instead of being an unemployed slacker mooching off of my old man, for whatever that was worth, I'm now an unemployed slacker mooching off of my friends. Friends who, unfortunately, don't have internet access, and apparently live around a bunch of fucking yuppies who are so inconsiderate that they encrypt their wireless signals so that fine, upstanding young people like myself can't e-five finger their bandwidth. Some people just have no sense of decency. So, here I sit in a public library, mourning the loss of immediate access to pornography and wondering how many times I can type the word fuck before the elderly meatsack sitting next to me looks over and has an anuerysm.
Aside from my somewhat involuntary relocation, I have to admit the last couple of weeks haven't been completely suck factor. I mean, there's the cool not sleeping in my car and eating scraps from various fast food restaurant garbage cans, which is definately nice. Coming in a very close second, however, was when I was visited by a very good friend that, by sheer force of will, has managed to put up with me for almost thirteen years running. She didn't even get mad when I stumbled over to my neighbor's house and tried to pull him out into the street so I could paint the sidewalk with his teeth. I mean, c'mon, nothing says friendship like someone laughing their cute little ass off while you chalk up a Class C to your already impressive legal record. Bonus props for not crying like a little bitch, Rach. You're all kinds of rock 'n' roll.
Since I'm sure you're wondering, I'll go ahead and explain the misdemeanor. Apparently, at some point in time, someone decided it should be against the law to man up and try to take care of business yourself. See, the man living across the street from us is a douchebag. Not just any douchebag, though; this is a special variety of douchebag. We're talking Level 80 Elite-level douchebag (and if you know why that statement is worth major geek points, shut the fuck up; you're obviously just as bad). Anyway, after weeks of walking around with a pistol strapped to his hip, a-merrily strolling about his yard screaming obscenities at the preacher who lives next door and his wife, calling out a man three doors down who walks around with a urinary catheter hanging off of his junk and hitting the panic button on his oversized truck when girls who weigh about ninety pounds soaking wet get within fifty feet of his yard, I'd had enough (I think the twelve-pack I'd pounded earlier that night probably helped, too). Nothing came it, really; I knocked on his door, told him to come down into the street and try mouthing off to someone who both could and would do something about it, he pussed out, and that was pretty much the end of it.
Until the cops came.
Yes. He called the cops. Which wouldn't have amounted to much, if he hadn't apparently had a tape recorder directly next to his door running smooth as silk, creating a perfect duplication of every threat, rant and physically impossible description of what he should do to himself. Who does that? Tell me, please, someone just tell me what kind of a waste of carbon walks around with a .44 holstered at his side, but still has audio surveillance on the off chance that someone comes over to call him out? I honestly thought I was in trouble until half the damn neighborhood came over and told the cop what kind of a piece of shit his caller was. As of today, I still haven't heard anything from the city, county or state. Yay for neighborhood comraderie.
Aside from those two incidents, the last week or so has been pretty quiet. I'm still living off of your tax money (and your ad clicks, hint hint fucking hint), but working to change that. I'm still living off of someone else's kindness, though they don't seem to mind and, in fact, seem to think I'm carrying my own weight fairly well.
And I still say the word cunt at high volume at various intervals.
Business as usual. Phoenix out.
But alas, those days are gone, at least temporarily. See, instead of being an unemployed slacker mooching off of my old man, for whatever that was worth, I'm now an unemployed slacker mooching off of my friends. Friends who, unfortunately, don't have internet access, and apparently live around a bunch of fucking yuppies who are so inconsiderate that they encrypt their wireless signals so that fine, upstanding young people like myself can't e-five finger their bandwidth. Some people just have no sense of decency. So, here I sit in a public library, mourning the loss of immediate access to pornography and wondering how many times I can type the word fuck before the elderly meatsack sitting next to me looks over and has an anuerysm.
Aside from my somewhat involuntary relocation, I have to admit the last couple of weeks haven't been completely suck factor. I mean, there's the cool not sleeping in my car and eating scraps from various fast food restaurant garbage cans, which is definately nice. Coming in a very close second, however, was when I was visited by a very good friend that, by sheer force of will, has managed to put up with me for almost thirteen years running. She didn't even get mad when I stumbled over to my neighbor's house and tried to pull him out into the street so I could paint the sidewalk with his teeth. I mean, c'mon, nothing says friendship like someone laughing their cute little ass off while you chalk up a Class C to your already impressive legal record. Bonus props for not crying like a little bitch, Rach. You're all kinds of rock 'n' roll.
Since I'm sure you're wondering, I'll go ahead and explain the misdemeanor. Apparently, at some point in time, someone decided it should be against the law to man up and try to take care of business yourself. See, the man living across the street from us is a douchebag. Not just any douchebag, though; this is a special variety of douchebag. We're talking Level 80 Elite-level douchebag (and if you know why that statement is worth major geek points, shut the fuck up; you're obviously just as bad). Anyway, after weeks of walking around with a pistol strapped to his hip, a-merrily strolling about his yard screaming obscenities at the preacher who lives next door and his wife, calling out a man three doors down who walks around with a urinary catheter hanging off of his junk and hitting the panic button on his oversized truck when girls who weigh about ninety pounds soaking wet get within fifty feet of his yard, I'd had enough (I think the twelve-pack I'd pounded earlier that night probably helped, too). Nothing came it, really; I knocked on his door, told him to come down into the street and try mouthing off to someone who both could and would do something about it, he pussed out, and that was pretty much the end of it.
Until the cops came.
Yes. He called the cops. Which wouldn't have amounted to much, if he hadn't apparently had a tape recorder directly next to his door running smooth as silk, creating a perfect duplication of every threat, rant and physically impossible description of what he should do to himself. Who does that? Tell me, please, someone just tell me what kind of a waste of carbon walks around with a .44 holstered at his side, but still has audio surveillance on the off chance that someone comes over to call him out? I honestly thought I was in trouble until half the damn neighborhood came over and told the cop what kind of a piece of shit his caller was. As of today, I still haven't heard anything from the city, county or state. Yay for neighborhood comraderie.
Aside from those two incidents, the last week or so has been pretty quiet. I'm still living off of your tax money (and your ad clicks, hint hint fucking hint), but working to change that. I'm still living off of someone else's kindness, though they don't seem to mind and, in fact, seem to think I'm carrying my own weight fairly well.
And I still say the word cunt at high volume at various intervals.
Business as usual. Phoenix out.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
"If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear." -George Orwell
The following is a post by Marie Christiansen, a student of Criminal Justice Professor Tamra White at Kaplan College. I make no claim whatsoever to the following, and furthermore, will introduce a steel toed boot to the colon of anyone who implies that I could ever be stupid enough to come up with something like this myself.
"Julie I like your posting and it really got me going....Laws are set to govern. I do not believe that the drinking age should change. I agree too many people do not honor that law. I was one of them. I was out drinking before I was of age. I had no consequences for that action. My parents were alcoholic and I was able to not get caught. I paid the price in a long run If people understood alcoholism and addiction they would see more reason in the law. I have been sober for 30 years. I fault many things for our younger people drinking at such a young age...it looks fun...and it was until I saw what it cost me. Our son Nick came at the end of the line of six children...we learned so much from our mistakes. Last summer when Nick thought he knew more than anybody else and wanted to live on the street and do drugs and drink we had a hotline to the police. I called in every time he was seen smoking, drinking, and when he was gone more that 24 hours. It took all summer but by August Nick was in so much trouble with the law that he ended up in court and on probation. I was thrilled that he had finally hit the wall. Today he has been clean for 9 months. I wish I had the answer but I do believe that enforcing the laws with him and backing the police was the right choice for us. Did you know that in Wisconsin it is against the law to have sex before you are 18 and you can call the police...I did. His girlfriend's parents were very upset but I was not...they were 15 and I was not allowing them to have sex in my house. Did they continue to have sex...yes but not in my house. I stood firm on things that I knew were law. I called them in every time I saw them walking down the street smoking...pretty soon those kids you do not want hanging around aren't around. I also turned in the young man who tattooed my son, the gas station that sold cigarettes, and the man who was buying them alcohol. It was the summer from hell but I have my son back today. Thank God. It is not popular to take a strong stand. I even took a stand with my church where I had gone for 25 years. I knew we would not get our son back unless he learned to respect and honor us and the law. I have had to do this with our oldest son too. The law is for our protection. Most kids do move out at 18. Some are moving on to greater things for themselves and others are just running wild....I wish I had the perfect answer but I don't. I just know it is my job to do my best to teach them the law and to teach them to honor and respect the law and authority. Thanks, Marie"
Yes, I know. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Let me make it all better by showing you my reply which, unfortunately, I couldn't post on their own forum due to not being a student.
Wow. Just...wow. You have no idea just how much I'd love to reply with "Way to suck" and leave well enough alone but, sadly, I find that the older I get, the more I need to go into detail as to why something that someone did was a mistake instead of simply waiting for them to show up on the Darwin Awards.
Let's start out with the most disturbing aspect of all this, just to get it out of the way so I can stop being angry at a society that equates parenting with acknowledging a problem and finding someone else to solve said problem. I can grant you the benefit of the doubt to the extent that you're Catholic instead of one of the many perpetually spread-eagled welfare mothers who have a house full of children because every nine months they find a new boyfriend who just can't stand the thought of wearing a condom so that there will be room on the planet for everyone else, but that's about all the slack I'm willing to cut you. That said, are you fucking kidding me? It's a uterus, not an assembly line! While a level of intelligence, or lack thereof, that can't comprehend the basics of birth control would explain why you're letting local law enforcement rear your offspring, it doesn't change the fact that you're obviously biting off more than you can chew and need to look into sterilizing yourself, if for no other reason than anyone who can justify the things that you've done in the name of teaching your children right from wrong just doesn't need to procreate.
Second, I feel it's necessary to address your level of complacency. People like you are exactly the kind of people who've made it so easy for our government to slowly rob Americans of rights that are ours from birth, not because we deserve them, but because thousands of every day citizens took up arms against concepts and ideals they believed to be corrupt. I'm willing to bet you have no idea what I'm talking about, so allow me to elaborate a bit. The Revolutionary War was fought and won by Americans who believed that by virtue of living, a man should be free to seek contentment in whatever way he saw fit, so long as sad contentment did not come at the cost of someone else's well-being. At no point do I remember either my high school or college history instructors saying anything close to "Life, liberty, and the persuit of puritanical fanatic approved happiness, derived with no less than seventy-five percent of your clothing on and with a completely sober mind." Maybe I was asleep that day. What I do recall is being taught that this country was founded on liberty, on the concept that every human being was born with the right and the duty to make his or her own decisions. You are aiding in the desecration of the memories of those brave men and women, and at the risk of sounding trite, that makes you suck out loud.
Now for the fun part, explaining just how badly you've hurt your child. I'm not sure if you've ever stopped to think about the way that the legal system works these days, but it's got the same inner circles and gossiping coworkers as any other office-based occupation. For the sake of not letting my opinion of you slip any lower than it already has, I'll assume the child in question wasn't of age when you ran to the police flailing your arms around like an idiot screaming "Please do something, my teenager is rebellious in much the same capacity as every other teenager in the history of humanity, and I just can't bring myself to put my foot down and do something about it myself!" Did you ever stop to think about the ramifications of trying to get John Law to play babysitter? About how those charges are going to follow him around for the rest of his life? About how potential employers rarely look into the specific circumstances of a charge before dismissing the applicant without a second thought? Before you make the argument that charges brought against children are sealed the moment that child turns eighteen, don't bother. I've seen with my own eyes just how effective that is in protecting citizens from their own capricious youth. Let me put this simply: if someone is brought up on charges as an adult, a district attorney can get his or her hands on any piece of information they damn well please. What do you suppose happens when the D.A. in question runs into aforementioned adult's judge? "Oh, I'm sorry your Honor, but I'm not at liberty to discuss this young man's past. We're still playing eighteen holes this weekend, right?" Are you honestly that naive? Your laziness has made your child's life all the more difficult in a time when over half of America is subsisting below the poverty line. I reiterate, way to suck.
Finally, I'd like to take a moment to explain why law enforcement organizations exist in the first place. Have you ever seen what a severely beaten housewife looks like? Have you ever witnessed the psychological trauma of a rape victim? Have you ever watched a team of surgeons try to extract bullet fragments from the torso of a seven year old who was caught in the crossfire of an inner city firefight? Have you ever taken one step outside of your happy little psuedo-Christian suburban bubble and seen what happens when real criminals are allowed to run free a-merrily throwing bricks through store windows and ventilating innocent bystanders because their local police force, whose officers were spread far too thin to begin with due to budget cuts, had to answer a noise complaint because Susie Homemaker's neighbors were having band practice while she was trying to watch American fucking Idol? Police officers are meant to serve and protect. The next time your son breaks wind too loudly or, God forbid, makes out with his girlfriend, look on the side of the attending officer's car after you distract him from doing his real job because you're too busy organizing a bake sale, it's written there as plain as day. You're taking them from where they're needed most because you don't have the stones to be a real parent.
I'd like to hope that you actually took the time to read through the bulk of this and consult the dictionary of your choice when you came across the multitude of words I'm certain you had no idea how to define, but honestly, I can't quite make myself care. It's not because I condone your actions in any possible sense of the word. It isn't because I think you should keep on ruining your childrens lives and making everyone else miserable with your self-righteous, holier than thou, "I am totally gay for the law!" rhetoric. It isn't even because I think the carbon that went into the formation of your pitiful little mind wouldn't have been better utilized as fertilizer. It's simply because I'm all too familiar with your type. When you speed, you justify it by saying you're in a hurry. When you jaywalk, you justify it by mentally pointing out the lack of crosswalks. Finally, when you're too lazy to take an active role in your child's life by doing whatever's necessary to teach him or her right from wrong instead of relying on the education system, the judicial system or Congress to do it for you, you justify it by blaming society. To you, I'm likely to be filed away as just another part of the problem. Thankfully, I acknowledge that I could be something much, much more terrible.
I could be like you.
"Julie I like your posting and it really got me going....Laws are set to govern. I do not believe that the drinking age should change. I agree too many people do not honor that law. I was one of them. I was out drinking before I was of age. I had no consequences for that action. My parents were alcoholic and I was able to not get caught. I paid the price in a long run If people understood alcoholism and addiction they would see more reason in the law. I have been sober for 30 years. I fault many things for our younger people drinking at such a young age...it looks fun...and it was until I saw what it cost me. Our son Nick came at the end of the line of six children...we learned so much from our mistakes. Last summer when Nick thought he knew more than anybody else and wanted to live on the street and do drugs and drink we had a hotline to the police. I called in every time he was seen smoking, drinking, and when he was gone more that 24 hours. It took all summer but by August Nick was in so much trouble with the law that he ended up in court and on probation. I was thrilled that he had finally hit the wall. Today he has been clean for 9 months. I wish I had the answer but I do believe that enforcing the laws with him and backing the police was the right choice for us. Did you know that in Wisconsin it is against the law to have sex before you are 18 and you can call the police...I did. His girlfriend's parents were very upset but I was not...they were 15 and I was not allowing them to have sex in my house. Did they continue to have sex...yes but not in my house. I stood firm on things that I knew were law. I called them in every time I saw them walking down the street smoking...pretty soon those kids you do not want hanging around aren't around. I also turned in the young man who tattooed my son, the gas station that sold cigarettes, and the man who was buying them alcohol. It was the summer from hell but I have my son back today. Thank God. It is not popular to take a strong stand. I even took a stand with my church where I had gone for 25 years. I knew we would not get our son back unless he learned to respect and honor us and the law. I have had to do this with our oldest son too. The law is for our protection. Most kids do move out at 18. Some are moving on to greater things for themselves and others are just running wild....I wish I had the perfect answer but I don't. I just know it is my job to do my best to teach them the law and to teach them to honor and respect the law and authority. Thanks, Marie"
Yes, I know. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Let me make it all better by showing you my reply which, unfortunately, I couldn't post on their own forum due to not being a student.
Wow. Just...wow. You have no idea just how much I'd love to reply with "Way to suck" and leave well enough alone but, sadly, I find that the older I get, the more I need to go into detail as to why something that someone did was a mistake instead of simply waiting for them to show up on the Darwin Awards.
Let's start out with the most disturbing aspect of all this, just to get it out of the way so I can stop being angry at a society that equates parenting with acknowledging a problem and finding someone else to solve said problem. I can grant you the benefit of the doubt to the extent that you're Catholic instead of one of the many perpetually spread-eagled welfare mothers who have a house full of children because every nine months they find a new boyfriend who just can't stand the thought of wearing a condom so that there will be room on the planet for everyone else, but that's about all the slack I'm willing to cut you. That said, are you fucking kidding me? It's a uterus, not an assembly line! While a level of intelligence, or lack thereof, that can't comprehend the basics of birth control would explain why you're letting local law enforcement rear your offspring, it doesn't change the fact that you're obviously biting off more than you can chew and need to look into sterilizing yourself, if for no other reason than anyone who can justify the things that you've done in the name of teaching your children right from wrong just doesn't need to procreate.
Second, I feel it's necessary to address your level of complacency. People like you are exactly the kind of people who've made it so easy for our government to slowly rob Americans of rights that are ours from birth, not because we deserve them, but because thousands of every day citizens took up arms against concepts and ideals they believed to be corrupt. I'm willing to bet you have no idea what I'm talking about, so allow me to elaborate a bit. The Revolutionary War was fought and won by Americans who believed that by virtue of living, a man should be free to seek contentment in whatever way he saw fit, so long as sad contentment did not come at the cost of someone else's well-being. At no point do I remember either my high school or college history instructors saying anything close to "Life, liberty, and the persuit of puritanical fanatic approved happiness, derived with no less than seventy-five percent of your clothing on and with a completely sober mind." Maybe I was asleep that day. What I do recall is being taught that this country was founded on liberty, on the concept that every human being was born with the right and the duty to make his or her own decisions. You are aiding in the desecration of the memories of those brave men and women, and at the risk of sounding trite, that makes you suck out loud.
Now for the fun part, explaining just how badly you've hurt your child. I'm not sure if you've ever stopped to think about the way that the legal system works these days, but it's got the same inner circles and gossiping coworkers as any other office-based occupation. For the sake of not letting my opinion of you slip any lower than it already has, I'll assume the child in question wasn't of age when you ran to the police flailing your arms around like an idiot screaming "Please do something, my teenager is rebellious in much the same capacity as every other teenager in the history of humanity, and I just can't bring myself to put my foot down and do something about it myself!" Did you ever stop to think about the ramifications of trying to get John Law to play babysitter? About how those charges are going to follow him around for the rest of his life? About how potential employers rarely look into the specific circumstances of a charge before dismissing the applicant without a second thought? Before you make the argument that charges brought against children are sealed the moment that child turns eighteen, don't bother. I've seen with my own eyes just how effective that is in protecting citizens from their own capricious youth. Let me put this simply: if someone is brought up on charges as an adult, a district attorney can get his or her hands on any piece of information they damn well please. What do you suppose happens when the D.A. in question runs into aforementioned adult's judge? "Oh, I'm sorry your Honor, but I'm not at liberty to discuss this young man's past. We're still playing eighteen holes this weekend, right?" Are you honestly that naive? Your laziness has made your child's life all the more difficult in a time when over half of America is subsisting below the poverty line. I reiterate, way to suck.
Finally, I'd like to take a moment to explain why law enforcement organizations exist in the first place. Have you ever seen what a severely beaten housewife looks like? Have you ever witnessed the psychological trauma of a rape victim? Have you ever watched a team of surgeons try to extract bullet fragments from the torso of a seven year old who was caught in the crossfire of an inner city firefight? Have you ever taken one step outside of your happy little psuedo-Christian suburban bubble and seen what happens when real criminals are allowed to run free a-merrily throwing bricks through store windows and ventilating innocent bystanders because their local police force, whose officers were spread far too thin to begin with due to budget cuts, had to answer a noise complaint because Susie Homemaker's neighbors were having band practice while she was trying to watch American fucking Idol? Police officers are meant to serve and protect. The next time your son breaks wind too loudly or, God forbid, makes out with his girlfriend, look on the side of the attending officer's car after you distract him from doing his real job because you're too busy organizing a bake sale, it's written there as plain as day. You're taking them from where they're needed most because you don't have the stones to be a real parent.
I'd like to hope that you actually took the time to read through the bulk of this and consult the dictionary of your choice when you came across the multitude of words I'm certain you had no idea how to define, but honestly, I can't quite make myself care. It's not because I condone your actions in any possible sense of the word. It isn't because I think you should keep on ruining your childrens lives and making everyone else miserable with your self-righteous, holier than thou, "I am totally gay for the law!" rhetoric. It isn't even because I think the carbon that went into the formation of your pitiful little mind wouldn't have been better utilized as fertilizer. It's simply because I'm all too familiar with your type. When you speed, you justify it by saying you're in a hurry. When you jaywalk, you justify it by mentally pointing out the lack of crosswalks. Finally, when you're too lazy to take an active role in your child's life by doing whatever's necessary to teach him or her right from wrong instead of relying on the education system, the judicial system or Congress to do it for you, you justify it by blaming society. To you, I'm likely to be filed away as just another part of the problem. Thankfully, I acknowledge that I could be something much, much more terrible.
I could be like you.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Blood is thicker than water, but not bullshit.
Y'know what's fun? A family reunion where seventy-five percent of the people in attendance are over the age of seventy, the few people under thirty are either doctors, lawyers or in high-priced colleges, and you're the only one with tattoos and/or piercings and/or a drug addiction that everyone knows about. Also, you're adopted.
It was the best two hour kick to the balls ever.
It was the best two hour kick to the balls ever.
Friday, February 13, 2009
In light of recent events, I've come to a few realizations that I'm going to forc--uhm, share with the rest of you.
-Delivering pizzas only leads to spontaneous sex and/or orgies in the movies. Damn it.
-Winter weather, and it's negative effects on one's ability to walk down a flight of stairs without falling, doesn't hold a candle to the destructive power of a dog's chew toy.
-Regardless of how nice the cute, pink haired chick at your favorite gas station seems, don't ask for her number. Nothing good will come of it, I promise.
-I'm pretty sure there was a time in life when I didn't prefer being asleep to being awake, but I just can't seem to remember it. Maybe it was a dream.
-Some of my friends got really, really attractive overnight, and as a result, I've decided to be a lot more careful about who I share my stories of rampant sexual misadventures with. Y'know, because it sucks when you realize that you've cockblocked yourself.
-And most of all...
-...Wait for it...
-I FUCKING HATE VALENTINE'S DAY!
Thank you, and if I see you kissing someone on the street, rest assured that you deserve the subsequent shoe print that I've left in your face when you wake up. Honest.
-Delivering pizzas only leads to spontaneous sex and/or orgies in the movies. Damn it.
-Winter weather, and it's negative effects on one's ability to walk down a flight of stairs without falling, doesn't hold a candle to the destructive power of a dog's chew toy.
-Regardless of how nice the cute, pink haired chick at your favorite gas station seems, don't ask for her number. Nothing good will come of it, I promise.
-I'm pretty sure there was a time in life when I didn't prefer being asleep to being awake, but I just can't seem to remember it. Maybe it was a dream.
-Some of my friends got really, really attractive overnight, and as a result, I've decided to be a lot more careful about who I share my stories of rampant sexual misadventures with. Y'know, because it sucks when you realize that you've cockblocked yourself.
-And most of all...
-...Wait for it...
-I FUCKING HATE VALENTINE'S DAY!
Thank you, and if I see you kissing someone on the street, rest assured that you deserve the subsequent shoe print that I've left in your face when you wake up. Honest.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Adage Defiance
They say you can't go home again. Well, apparently they're no better at telling you what you can't do than they are at telling you what you should. Despite the fact that SEI has been hit with bitter cold so hellacious that it actually froze the locks inside my car doors, despite the fact that I haven't found a job yet (more than likely due to the obnoxiously full trash can in Tim, Ash, John and Adam's kitchen nearly overflowing with the results of my renewed enthusiasm for frequent bouts of drinking than the poor job market), despite the fact that my ass still hasn't recovered from sitting in a car for three days, I can say something that I don't remember being able to say more than a few random times in California.
I'm happy.
Sure, I'm worried about finding a job, but I'm slowly getting back into the mindset that wherever I end up working isn't going to redefine me as a person. Yeah, my car's a little worse for wear for having traveled across the country for the second time in under a year, but the fact that it looks more beat up isn't sending me into ridiculous bouts of self-loathing due to being perceived as aesthetically inferior based solely on my primary method of transportation. No, it isn't sunny every day, but with the people I came back to and the new ones I've met since coming home, it sure as fuck feels like it sometimes. My brother Matt's been keeping himself in decent order in terms of staying out of trouble, despite the ridiculous level of fun we've been having. Will's still the same fun, obnoxiously understanding know-it-all he was when I left, and thank God for that because if his sojourn to Iowa had changed him I was going to have to nuke the whole state. Susie's still the pain in the ass in that way that makes you wonder if you should backhand her or laugh.
Even better, Shots at 4AM. I know, I already mentioned drinking, I'm not talking about my alcohol abuse this time. Susie introduced me to a crew that I could almost swear was the result of God trying to balance out the frustrating dipshits out in Cali that I had to deal with. Tim, Ash, John and Adam have all done more than their part to reassure me that coming home was a damn good idea, and considering how much of their beer I've guzzled in the last couple of weeks, proven that saints really do exist. During one particularly insane evening, with Will in attendance as well, while downing the first vodka shot I've put down in years, I decided that our inebriated revelry deserved a name that would confuse people as much as our own respective rebellions infuriate those around us. Long story short, Shots at 4AM consists of some of the best people ever looked down on by the world. If for no other reason than they helped me expose yet another age-old line for the bullshit that it is.
The only thing that's really made me miss California is the one person who actually made the experience survivable. Kasey was a damn oasis in that hellish desert, and if there's anyone I dread falling out of touch with, it's her. While I've got a crew here that's making life rock harder than I ever thought it could, it doesn't make the crazy heathen rock any less. If you're reading this, don't you ever fucking change, and I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you. Obviously, I've been a teensy bit fucked up, and you're never up late enough to drunk dial.
History's full of advice and guidelines. Some of it's sound, but mostly, it's outdated and, all too often, worth about as much as the shit the progenitors of said advice probably slept in.
Consider the piece fronting this entry proven as the latter.
I'm home.
I'm happy.
Sure, I'm worried about finding a job, but I'm slowly getting back into the mindset that wherever I end up working isn't going to redefine me as a person. Yeah, my car's a little worse for wear for having traveled across the country for the second time in under a year, but the fact that it looks more beat up isn't sending me into ridiculous bouts of self-loathing due to being perceived as aesthetically inferior based solely on my primary method of transportation. No, it isn't sunny every day, but with the people I came back to and the new ones I've met since coming home, it sure as fuck feels like it sometimes. My brother Matt's been keeping himself in decent order in terms of staying out of trouble, despite the ridiculous level of fun we've been having. Will's still the same fun, obnoxiously understanding know-it-all he was when I left, and thank God for that because if his sojourn to Iowa had changed him I was going to have to nuke the whole state. Susie's still the pain in the ass in that way that makes you wonder if you should backhand her or laugh.
Even better, Shots at 4AM. I know, I already mentioned drinking, I'm not talking about my alcohol abuse this time. Susie introduced me to a crew that I could almost swear was the result of God trying to balance out the frustrating dipshits out in Cali that I had to deal with. Tim, Ash, John and Adam have all done more than their part to reassure me that coming home was a damn good idea, and considering how much of their beer I've guzzled in the last couple of weeks, proven that saints really do exist. During one particularly insane evening, with Will in attendance as well, while downing the first vodka shot I've put down in years, I decided that our inebriated revelry deserved a name that would confuse people as much as our own respective rebellions infuriate those around us. Long story short, Shots at 4AM consists of some of the best people ever looked down on by the world. If for no other reason than they helped me expose yet another age-old line for the bullshit that it is.
The only thing that's really made me miss California is the one person who actually made the experience survivable. Kasey was a damn oasis in that hellish desert, and if there's anyone I dread falling out of touch with, it's her. While I've got a crew here that's making life rock harder than I ever thought it could, it doesn't make the crazy heathen rock any less. If you're reading this, don't you ever fucking change, and I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you. Obviously, I've been a teensy bit fucked up, and you're never up late enough to drunk dial.
History's full of advice and guidelines. Some of it's sound, but mostly, it's outdated and, all too often, worth about as much as the shit the progenitors of said advice probably slept in.
Consider the piece fronting this entry proven as the latter.
I'm home.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Early lies. You'd call them resolutions.
Since everyone else is already starting their stupid, self-deceiving bullshit already, I figured I'd go ahead and get mine out of the way. Y'know, a little initiative. Take the bull by the horns.
...Also, I have nothing else to write about.
Rem's List Of Things That Should, But Probably Won't, Get Done In 2009
-Stop getting romantically and/or sexually involved with self-absorbed, polygamy-obsessed, psychotic bitches (let's face it, this has the potential to be the biggest lie of the whole list).
-Find a different way to pay the bills.
-Slap someone in the face at current job should I be accepted to a new one.
-Stop being a chump and finish my stupid novel.
-Berate various publishers with obscene phone calls until said novel is published, thereby ending my dependence on slave wa--uhm, traditional employment.
-Start getting romantically and/or sexually involved with responsible, upstanding, morally rich womehahahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!
-Get a blow job on my birthday. Yeah, what, I said it.
-Step outside domicile for purposes other than work, procuring foodstuffs or smoking a cigarette.
-Don't get federal drug charges brought up against me.
-Don't violate probation from last set of federal drug charges.
-Stop poking fun at instances and decisions that have/will have serious negative effects on my life.
-Kick myself in the junk should I actually accomplish the previous resolution.
-Take yoga classes to prepare for previous two resolutions.
-Start talking to my friends so that they hear more about my life from me than they do from my blog.
-Stop being a jackass and getting to bed on time.
-Get a better profile picture.
-Break my dependency on technology.
-Buy a gun.
Well, on that delightful and not at all disconcerting note, I'm going to bed. Sleep tight!
...Also, I have nothing else to write about.
Rem's List Of Things That Should, But Probably Won't, Get Done In 2009
-Stop getting romantically and/or sexually involved with self-absorbed, polygamy-obsessed, psychotic bitches (let's face it, this has the potential to be the biggest lie of the whole list).
-Find a different way to pay the bills.
-Slap someone in the face at current job should I be accepted to a new one.
-Stop being a chump and finish my stupid novel.
-Berate various publishers with obscene phone calls until said novel is published, thereby ending my dependence on slave wa--uhm, traditional employment.
-Start getting romantically and/or sexually involved with responsible, upstanding, morally rich womehahahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!
-Get a blow job on my birthday. Yeah, what, I said it.
-Step outside domicile for purposes other than work, procuring foodstuffs or smoking a cigarette.
-Don't get federal drug charges brought up against me.
-Don't violate probation from last set of federal drug charges.
-Stop poking fun at instances and decisions that have/will have serious negative effects on my life.
-Kick myself in the junk should I actually accomplish the previous resolution.
-Take yoga classes to prepare for previous two resolutions.
-Start talking to my friends so that they hear more about my life from me than they do from my blog.
-Stop being a jackass and getting to bed on time.
-Get a better profile picture.
-Break my dependency on technology.
-Buy a gun.
Well, on that delightful and not at all disconcerting note, I'm going to bed. Sleep tight!
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I have no delusions about my station in life. While I might be a wise-crackin', beer-guzzlin', skirt-chasin' rock 'n' roll anti-hero while I'm out in the world, as soon as I punch my time card, I'm essentially nothing more than a geek. Worse still, an underpaid geek. No danger, no sexual mysteriousness, just a brain who's one pocket protector away from inspiring the next Revenge Of The Nerds movie.
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Alright, I'm gonna' tell you a story. A man's family is murdered in a park. The man is an ex-cop/soldier/FBI Agent/everything shy of a ninja, so he decides he's going to kill everybody with a mob-affiliated accent. He loads up on ammo and opens up with the mayhem.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)