Thumbtacks are a governmental conspiracy aimed at proving the theory of evolution once and for all;
There is a tribe of stuttering, narcoleptic peacocks that roam the vast deserts of Fotswalla-Walla, distinctive because of their neon, argyle-patterned plumage and bruised cheeks...and though by nature they are not particularly vampiric, they steadfastly continue their hunt for blood;
Plants are more than capable of flying, but an essential element of chlorophyll is lethargy;
"Bobbing Man-Lump (In Neck)" will wholly replace the term "Adam’s Apple" by 2025;
Sunsets only look lovely and red because the intense, incendiary rays of the sun push both blood towards the front of your eyes and endorphins to your genitalia;
In opposite-world, birds drive cars and rhinoceroses have really bad teeth;
The colloquial term "honey", as in, "honey, could you take down the garbage before I retch from the horrendous smell in the kitchen" is based on an old pagan ritual, wherein the sugar is distilled from a vat of pure honey and poured, boiling, over the clasped-hands of a newly married couple, attaching them at the palms for the better part of the following week; if it’s a full moon when their disfigured hands finally detach, then luck be with them...also the origin of "honeymoon";
The firing-off of synapses is vastly overrated.
[Woman @ Work has buttonholed me in regards to "Sheila"]
Did you know that Sheila doesn’t like you?
OH MY GOD!
W@W:[smiling in that way that gossipy-shits like to smile]
You don’t care?
[staring at her through my eyebrows]
Me:God for-fucking-bid Sheila doesn’t like me.
Well, she did...up until you did that "C-word" routine.
That was pretty great.
[pause; remembering the good times]
Pretty super great.
W@W:She doesn’t like that word.
Which is, of course, why I did it.
[with a sparkle in my eye]
Were they not legitimate questions?
She is a "cunt-try" girl.
How else would I have found that out?
[reliving the magic]
What about when I interrupted her, only to tell her to "cunt-tinue"?
She was complaining to anyone who would listen about your use of language in the office.
What a cunt.
[pacing & smoking on a residential side-street, Mr. Neighbourhood Watch comes out of his yard to chat]
Mr. Neighbourhood Watch:
What are you doing?
[looking at my cigarette]
What’re YOU doing?
Mr. Neighbourhood Watch:
I live here.
Mr. Nieghbourhood Watch:So, again, what are you doing?
[wallowing in the glow of his agitation]
You mean, what am I doing on this public road that you don’t own, smoking my cigarette on this road that isn’t your house or your property, where I can stand if I so desire because it’s a public road that you don’t own because it’s a public road that isn’t your house?
Mr. Nieghbourhood Watch:[pause]
Mr. Neighbourhood Watch:
There’s been a rash of burglaries around here, lately.
[look at his house]
Have you been burgled?
Mr. Neighbourhood Watch:[eyes narrow]
[nodding, smiling; looooooong pause]
You live right there?
[He just stares at me, leaving my question rudely unanswered and watching me finish my smoke]
Well, it’s been a pleasure.
Mr. Neighbourhood Watch:[no response, save for the veins in his neck bulging with rage]
Me:[as I’m getting into my car, I point at his house]
[He looks at his house; by the time he looks back I’m down the road – I’m still waiting to see if there'll be a composite-sketch of myself on the news under the headline, "East-Hammertown Bandit"]
[Random conversation about bowling, of all things, with a Teenaged Girl in the elevator]
I hate powling.
Me:[wondering if I heard her correctly]
And I really hate mini-butt.
[with strong pronunciation]
I have trouble with p’s and b’s.
Teenaged Girl:Not just saying them, but writing them, too.
in the morning dew
betwixt the blades of grass
o’er yonder lawnmower
a digit severed, lays
peering e’er so mournfully
a wrinkl’d knuckle
like ceramic tile, cracked
a sorrowful cuticle
like a unibrow, intact
but not so the attachment
nor the dreams
of manicures gone
of illustrations undrawn
of sweet morning dew on the lawn
e’er with the full hand
empty-handed though it’s not full handed nevermore
putta guy in the hospital
and put some stank on it
kickiz knee out
bendis fingers back
and put some stank on it
rippiz ear off
make sureez looking
and put some stank on it
clawiz eyes out
with a potato-peeler
make sureez listening
with no ears
with crooked fingers
with ruptured knees
with a head tilted at forty-five degrees
do me a favour?
have yourself a great day and put some stank on it
Coffee-Houses are the Opium-Dens of today, the only difference being that, back in the day, patrons of those caverns of iniquity fantasized in their heads instead of on stage in front of an apathetic audience...
My (under-researched) understanding of caffeine’s effect on ADD-addled adolescents was sufficient to make a direct comparison to a manic-depressive in an Opium-Den: if you’re already producing the good stuff yourself, why fuck around with a middleman?
And, out of that, voila! A big, steaming bowl of analogous magic for you to spoon-up at your leisure!
Personally, I’m less attention-deficient than I am an unevenly-weighted "peak-and-valley" kind of cat – my valleys come once every couple of years and last for an hour; my peaks make spastic, over-dosing crystal-meth-addicts look like 98-year-old museum curators, and they last until the insomnia kicks in, wherein I promptly transform into a pale-skinned, gaunt-eyed drawing from Tim Burton’s sketchbook, with all the humour & charisma one would expect from a 2-D doodle that hasn’t slept or eaten anything in three days.
There was a theory put forth that I’m addicted to my own hormones; that, conversely to depressed folks, my body produces more than my natural share of "peptides"...I’ve looked it up on Wikipedia, and they lost me at "molecules formed from the linking, in a defined order, of various amino acids".
The substance of the theory, though, is too good to ignore: I’m addicted to myself.
Of course, I’m surprised by this "revelation" the same way I was "shocked" when that guy gave me the finger after he cut me off this morning...but it’s nice to have even a flawed chemical explanation of my blind, unending self-appreciation.
I have, many times, proclaimed that I am the walking, bragging advertisement against cocaine – and though I’ve snorted that fancy-shmancy salt & vinegar popcorn-topping through a rolled-up twenty-dollar-bill (don’t ask), and accidentally inhaled two nostrils worth of cayenne-pepper, I never once hopped on the cocaine-train.
I know; I’m proud of myself for never hitting my girlfriend either, if you’re curious.
(In the movie Dead Man, Billy Bob Thornton has, like, 4 lines, and I use 2 of them frequently:
"Burns like hellfire."
"I just can’t drink like I used to could."
These are ALWAYS funny, but much more so if you’ve got Billy Bob’s jangled hillbilly voice ricocheting around in your head; I used the former rapidly after snorting the popcorn-topping, the latter, paraphrased, every weekend since 2004.)
I guess the moral to this post, because morals are SO IMPORTANT when one is writing batches upon batches of Dipshittery, is that you should come hang around with me when you’re having one of those non-sunny-side-up days; you’ll even me out with your massive despondency, and you’ll have more fun than is legal in six different countries.
The twenty-year-old I was talking to saw more of himself in me than he even realized when I described the "old" me; he agreed with words and head-nods, but I could see that he knew exactly what I was going on & on about in a way that mere words wouldn’t have done justice.
The "old" me was in full-effect, detailing my job at a comic-book store 18-years prior, watching 30-year-old former comic-nerds circling the store in a state of age-resultant anxiety, looking for handy compilations of the books they enjoyed as a youth...which was entirely what I had just finished doing while waiting for my mechanic to install a new battery in my car. As I was leaving the comic-book store, this young clerk offered these foreboding words through a smirking, malice-less mouth:
"You’ll be back."
Strange circumstance handed me over to some former-acquaintances later on in the week, the fallout being a return-visit to the bar I had worked at and left for dead; the name had changed, as had most of the staff, but the odd, ominous, cold-sweat of impending-doom remained as though I had been there in the preceding two years, or had just finished up another soul-crushing night of enabling alcoholics...
I haven’t talked to my former compadre/boss since I "retired" those many moons ago, but while sitting on the slightly-different-but-almost-exactly-the-same patio, drinking my jack-and-coke-but-with-a-fucking-LIME? I remembered the words he left me with through a shaking, disbelieving head the first time I tried to quit:
"You’ll be back."
I’d always held some small, tiny, itsy-bitsy, microscopic tinge of guilt for not being more concerned with keeping up friendships, with "staying in touch"; I’d always brace myself for the worst when I saw myself on a collision-course with a girlfriend-of-a-buddy in a supermarket, or hear a distinctly-familiar voice from the waitress in a restaurant I’d never before eaten at, because looking back, by and large, makes me queasy. There are many good times to reminisce about, many already-deranged stories that have been hilariously/hideously embellished over time, but the nostalgia only ever lasts as long as it takes me to consume a bottle of wine. Then, once the fits of laughter and sputtering giggles have subsided, it’s over.
The future is sitting there, staring me dead in the face, and, at this point, I haven’t even a shred of guilt left; I’m pretty sure a steady diet of drinking on Saturdays in the name of "catching up" would enhance my life in the same way that lopping-off my leg at the knee would improve my equilibrium.
That’s the dream, anyway. I mean, you’ve got your "signature" dish that hasn’t crapped out on you the six times you’ve tried making it; you’ve got the various bartending contrivances that you bought in anticipation of all those glamourous parties you were going to throw, the steady absence of which having left your shakers & shot-glasses moribund with dust; you’ve got buddies who want to hang out and watch The Game at a place they can call their own, and you’ll be pulling in so much cash that you’ll FOR SURE cover them when they stop paying their tab because they know the owner...
That sucks, doesn’t it? Your friends not giving as much of a shit as you thought they would about you owning your own crappy restaurant?
Instead, impress your friends again by becoming an online "writer"!
All you have to do is set up your own free blog, cover it with ads, and take advantage of "pay-per-post", the newest, most exciting, insidiously corrupting fad now sweeping the Interweb!
Now, rather than incessantly harping about your visions of that sports-bar that you will never get off the ground, you can tell all your co-workers that you’re an "author" with your very own "column"! Best of all, you’ll brag, YOU’RE GETTING PAID TO DO IT!
Imagine it: coming home after a "hard" day at the office, ignoring your shallow wife and under-attended children, popping onto the Internet, where they’re just handing out free money, and write about the new Tom Clancy novel, leaving us in suspense with your soon-to-be-famous tagline, "But That’s Me...Why Don’t You Go Pick Up a Copy and See For Yourself"...then sit back and count up your winnings that should be nowhere-near enough to offset your losses at online Texas Hold ‘Em.
You’re a "professional" blogger who hides your advertising "artfully" in your page design, and you have a legion of accidental "fans" disgusted by your small-time money-grubbing and outright transparency!
Way to go!
It’s a win-win!
[A Cherubic Old Britisher spies a comely Young Lass and makes his play]
Might I interest you in a randy roll in the hay...if I were to hand you one million pounds?
Young Lass:One million pounds? Well...
[looks him over]
...that really is a lot of money.
[pause; much deliberation]
COB:I’ve changed my mind, unfortunately. I’d like to rescind my offer...
[roots around in his pockets]
...and instead suggest the same hay-roll, but for this ten-pound note?
[waves money in air]
Young Lass:Ten pounds? That’s insulting! What manner of girl do you think I am?
COB:Well, my dear, we already know what you are...now we’re just negotiating price. Paraphrased quote from parts unknown.
My patience is so overpowering that I’ve won a staring-contest with a statue.
Well, that’s not one hundred percent true...
For me, patience is a learned attribute, and I work a job that places a premium on patience.
Here’s a mathematical equation that I just came up with, and I’m totally the first person ever to do so:
The first thing to come of working too much is fatigue; the first thing to go once you’re fatigued is patience.
I’ve been working too much; fortunately for me, cracking up from too-heavy a workload manifests itself in giggle-fits.
Y’know those half-hour, monumental laughing-spasms that leave you prostrate and vibrating on the ground, pounding your fist into the floor in a vain attempt to expel your overabundance of tittering energy?
Those almost-embarrassing meltdowns that prod those around you into laughing as well because laughter is contagious, and you’re a complete toolbox who can’t control yourself?
That’s all well & good, but the somewhat-unfortunate next step, reaching into extreme-fatigue territory, is an unflinching, unapologetic honesty...the kind of shoot-off-mouth-first, think second approach that forces you to tell someone, after you’ve already spent ten minutes waiting behind them in a coffee-house line only to wait ANOTHER three minutes for them to decide on a singular black coffee once they’ve reached what should have been the pinnacle of their wait, that they should be castrated and never allowed to procreate lest they release more dough-headed, simple-minded Satan-spawn into this already overcrowded universe...
Where you would ALMOST regret what you said but for the fact that, upon second look, they deserved every word of your spite...
That’s where I’m at, and now I’m out of fucking coffee.
This is flattering; I can, and do, look pretty harsh much of the time, and I’ve had many a person cross the street rather than pass me on the sidewalk.
I have adapted to the general response I get, especially from people with children, by becoming a polite, over-courteous fucking sweetheart at coffee-shops and other varied public places...because, basically, I’ve developed a complex.
However, this morning my car battery died, leaving me to pace all-around the huge mall parking-lot that I had planted it in, waiting for CAA to come and help. In the hour and a half I waited in the sweating sun, literally FOURTEEN people dropped by to see if I needed a boost.
(It turns out that I did, in fact, need a boost, but I had gotten some bad advice from a taxi-driver who thought it was my starter; said cabbie was parked across the lot when CAA started my car up, and he took off as soon as it came to life.)
The folks that stopped to help were all women between the ages of 30 and 50...and though I wondered if a woman’s maternal nature superceded their possible discomfort as to my appearance, the point here is that they stopped.
Feeling all warm and fuzzy, I shook the CAA guy’s hand and pulled out into the parking-lot traffic, mentally retiring my "everyone thinks I’m creepy-looking" persona...until a sporty, SUV-type vehicle in front of me, bereft of signals or brake-lights, abruptly swung left, then manically shot into a spot on the right, forcing me to lock-up my brakes. Actually, for the sake of fairness, she less "shot into" the spot than she began to turn in, but seeing me, stopped...DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME.
She parked, glaring into me from her side-view mirror, and I stopped behind her; our windows rolled down simultaneously:
Me:[flicking my turn-signal on and off]
See how well this works?
MAYBE IF YOU WEREN’T TRYING TO GET PAST ME...
Me:Why are you yelling? I’m right here.
I HAVE A NEWBORN IN THE CAR!!!
Me:Then why are you pulling into a parking-spot at 40 kilometres an hour?
Y...YOU’RE...WRONG! JUST GO!
...I’m calling the cops.
[I park my car in a spot three down from her; she frantically dials her cell-phone, glancing at me as I get out of my car]
Hello, police? There’s a man here who won’t leave me alone...
[she looks at me, and I smile, waving at her; she turns away from me and the rest of her call is inaudible; she hangs up and looks back at me]
Why won’t you leave me alone?
Me:First off, YOU made the mistake; then, to compound matters, YOU screamed at me about it; then, topping off this wonderful experience, YOU called the cops.
If I leave NOW, I’ll be driving around wondering if the police are going to pull me over for stalking or some other nonsense. If I STAY, I’ve got this guy here...
[I point to a Gentleman who was walking along a nearby sidewalk as I slammed on my brakes; he is also hanging around]
...to corroborate my story as to what actually happened.
Woman:[terrified, out of control screaming]
I don’t think you understand: I can’t leave now; I am NOT getting pulled over by the cops because you can’t drive.
So, I’ll wait over here, by my car, smoking a cigarette until the fuzz arrives.
Do you mind hanging around for a couple of minutes?
Not at all.
Me:Dude, you’re awesome.
Witness-Gentleman:[smiles; looks at Woman as though he’s about to explain something to her; Woman breaks out in tears; Gentleman thinks better of it and, shrugging, walks towards me]
You’re right not to leave; I heard her telling the cops that you were threatening her.
[rolls his eyes]
Two cruisers showed up ten minutes later; one police officer talked to the Woman and the Witness-Gentleman, the other to me, standing between me and the other two while asking what the score was...though not in those words. I explained the scenario to him, and after conferring with his colleague, he went to talk to the Woman, who immediately threw an epic tantrum, getting out of her car, stomping her feet, pointing at me and calling me a "psycho", which was hilarious even to the other officer who came over to me smiling while this Woman wailed.
It’s a good thing you and that guy hung around...she had your license plate written down.
[the cop looks over his shoulder; the Woman and the Witness-Gentleman are screaming at other]
Me:So, uh, can I jet?
Cop:[absent-mindedly, while watching his partner put the Woman back in her car]
I looked at the Witness-Gentleman, who was yelling, "no, I don’t know him" at the Woman, who, apparently, thought we were somehow in cahoots; he threw me a respectful nod (down, not up), and I went on my way, contemplating what it is about my face, exactly, that elicits this kind of reaction...sure, it’s not usually this ridiculous, but this also wasn’t the worst it’s ever been.
Yeah, I know: poor me...but, seriously, what the fuck?
I am crippled in response to this review. I was expecting a shitstorm of cyber-abuse, but was surprised by a beguiling minx who scathed me with love, spanking me with the velvety-tongue of the smitten...
"Smitten" is the past-tense of "smiting", isn’t it?
Regardless, check this quote out (though, admittedly, a distant second to being labeled under "boiz [she’d] like to fuck"):
"Reading too much of his blog makes me feel like I’ve been smoking crack"
If you, somehow, DON’T want that written about your shit, you should maybe pack it in and go back to sending letters in longhand to your friends...you can tell them that your baby’s fine, you got that promotion, and that I’m heading southward to have all the fun that you won’t be having.