Godammit...Again

I'm fucking sick again, mucous filling the space between my ears usually reserved for the plotting of new forms of self-aggrandizement, and like my health, it seems that the whole world has gone to shit...
Kurt Vonnegut is dead, and though not a literal tragedy in terms of age (he was 84), it is a literary tragedy; anytime a powerfully-rebellious, original mind is snuffed out, the world becomes just a little less tolerable...
New tidal-waves of racial-ignorance are washing up on the shores of popular-media, with Don Imus getting shit-canned for calling a university women's basketball-team "nappy headed hos", Tony Blair saying, unnecessarily, that recent violence in Britain wouldn't cease "by pretending it is not young black kids doing it", and the revelation that a leather-couch ordered in Brampton will come in a shade of "nigger-brown"...
To top it all off, kind of weakly considering the above bullshit, last night's Peeping Tom show was disappointing...they were under an immense amount of pressure, admittedly, after having opened for Gnarls Barkley during one of the best shows I've ever seen; still, the entertainment value was high, despite the up-and-down sound-quality, and, to be honest, I'd probably pay for a ticket to watch Mike Patton feed animals at the zoo, so I shouldn't complain...
No, I should complain; bitching & moaning has been CLINICALLY-PROVEN to help the healing process....it's a SCIENTIFIC FACT.
Also proven, though more spuriously, is that CAPITAL-LETTERS greatly aid in the GETTING OVER of ONE'S SELF.

The Legend Grows

Which of these choices, do you figure, would be most likely for inclusion among the "Blog of the Day" elite:
a) some dude writing about the war
b) some gal writing about her kids
c) some gal writing about her kids...and what they do in their gosh-darn mini-van!
d) Egomania & Dipshittery
You're goddamned right if you chose "d" - Blog of the Motherfucking Day.
For reciprocal karmic-value alone, here is a little about said Awards:
Blog of the Day Awards offers the best selection of weblogs and famous blogs on a variety of topics. Selection of Best Blogs of the Day is usually done a few days ahead of time based on nominations up to that point. Criteria include content, quality, creativity, and the personal opinion of the judges. Judges grant up to four awards each day in recognition of outstanding nominees who are recommended by visitors to the site and by a panel of judges who bestow the honor of a Daily Blog Award upon the recipients.
Now, this is key:
Being named a Blog of the Day Awards Winner can be the crowning achievement of a lifetime of work or it can be the beginning of a new chapter in the life of a blogger. Presentation of these awards can bring acclaim and notoriety beyond their wildest imaginings. The accolades and praise heaped upon winners of these prestigious awards can be best described as fabulous and the stuff of legends.
That is EXTREMELY true - like the heaviest hammer in the universe hitting the nail so squarely on the head that it splits said nail in two, creating nail-slivers of such immense-yet-symmetrical power that the only shame that exists is in the fact that the nail-shrapnel was no longer one absolute being.
Indelibly true.
Anybody who feels the need to drool over the prize, along with the everlasting-yet-fleeting love of what appears to be a "blogging community" of some sort, in the form of a graphic that anyone can snag with the freely-offered "winner"-codes they are displaying on the front page, well, snap a quick glance to your right and you'll see what being excessively well-deserving gets you.
I can't wait to quit my actual job-type-job to...what do you MEAN there's no cash prize?
Son of a bitch.

The Legend Gets a Love Bite

The Legend

I would like to take a moment to congratulate myself on the unfettered heroism that exists on this Blog of Valiance; it's, I'm sure, quite easy to read the preceding entries and assume that I spend my days solving crimes & rescuing babies from burning buildings, returning home to drink coffee, smoke, and glorify my exploits in cyberspace...
Karmic acknowledgement notwithstanding, I, alas, tend to bring these situations on myself...but so what? Kudos to Corn Flakes, I'll take a compliment as far as it will go, benign though the accomplishments might be:
Me:
"Racism is stupid."
Audience of, maybe, four:
"Right on!"
If that makes me a hero, which it does, then so be it.
This approach, however, has been critiqued, the writing considered "aloof" by one such reviewer, which, to my mind, is less unflattering then an affirmation that things are, indeed, what they seem...like stating that sharks swim, or that monkeys are filthy.
Egomania & Dipshittery - never let it be said that the writing doesn't live up to the promise of the title.
Oh, there'll be more "critiques"; I'm signed up for a bunch, eagerly awaiting one in particular from these cats...kindred souls or worthy targets for a scathing back-and-forth, InterWeb style?
[rubbing hands together in anticipation]
Solipsism is the new Bashful.

The Legend Grows

Dipshit Dad Down the Hall: Another Conversation

[While waiting for the elevator, Dipshit Dad opens his door while still talking to someone inside his apartment]
Dipshit Dad:
Yeah; no frickin' shit!
[Dipshit Dad turns and sees me; he freezes, then turns and locks his door, settling in beside me to wait for the elevator; what follows would normally be referred to as a "painful silence"]
Me:
Did I hear you call one of your kids a "fucking animal" earlier?
Dipshit Dad:[exasperated]
I was talking to my wife!
Me:
[pause]
Ah.
[more hilarious silence; then, said silence is abruptly drowned out by the theme-music to "COPS" - I'm not kidding]
Me:
[broad smile]
Are your kids in there watching "COPS"?
Dipshit Dad:
[REALLY sarcastically]
Oh, is that a crime?
Me:
It should be.
[glare from Dipshit Dad - he's staring hard at the elevator-button, hoping that the light will go off, signifying that the elevator has arrived - there is palpable tension, with a glorious soundtrack of "bad boys, bad boys, whatchu gonna DOOO"]
Me:
You ever thought about watching your mouth around your kids?
[Dipshit Dad ignores me, cutting a laser-beam hole into the elevator-button with his eyes]
Me:Seriously.
[pause]
'Cause you sound like a fucking maniac in there.
[Dipshit Dad looks at me as though he's going to punch me; he doesn't]
Me:
[being an absolute shit]
Never crossed your mind?
[the elevator still hasn't come at this point; Dipshit Dad just stands there, sinking under the weight of his own rage]
Me:
Did you just say "frickin"?
[as soon as I opened my mouth, Dipshit Dad turned and walked towards the stairs]
Me:
[as the door to the stairs opens, I thrust my hands up into the air]
Victory!

A Surrender in Three Parts

Being Excellent: Fourth in a Series

Remember, I'm here to help.
I, for a good while now, have tried to exorcize qualifiers from my didactic writing, but it turns out that I’m just too compassionate; it’s a constant burden, I’ll admit. Sometimes, however, "telling it like it is" has to be replaced by "telling it in the best way possible so as not to have to deal with the stream of self-indulgent moaning or watery, close-to-tears eyes of the told". And though this may sound like, to the outside observer, the flakiness of a self-propelled Soapbox-Sermonizer, it is, in actual fact, another example of sheer, breathtaking Excellence.
You see, Being Excellent in and of itself casts an unyielding, monolithic shadow over the unExcellent forevermore...like the ebbing feeling of being "ten-feet-tall" while looking up at a skyscraper that blocks one’s view of the sky.
So, like a man too-tall for doorways, I find myself literally and metaphorically "ducking" so that others can, sometimes, see that sky; some might call that an Excellence so inborn, so overwhelming, as to send the whole concept of Excellence into an entirely different vista...a sunny field of Absolute Excellence in which the unExcellent run about like five-year-olds chasing the butterfly of Capability while rolling in the dewy-grasses of Aptitude.
I am the balm for all your unExcellent heat-bumps, the soothing, calming centre of Excellence that could be the Trampoline of Self-Esteem for your leap of faith.
Excellence could be just a "boing" away.

Fifth in a Series

Dipshit Dad Down the Hall: A Conversation

[Knock knock; Dipshit Dad opens door]
Dipshit Dad:Yes?
Me:What's going on?
Dipshit Dad:
What do you mean?
Me:Every time I walk past your door, I hear either you and your wife-whatever screaming at each other, or some kids howling uncontrollably.
Dipshit Dad:Oh...Joshua accidentally elbowed Alex...
Me:
Is that why I heard you yelling, "you fucking asshole"?
[Dipshit Dad closes door behind him to chat with me in the hall]
Dipshit Dad:
What is your problem?
Me:I don't particularly enjoy listening to children shrieking and crying while you yell "fucking bitch" at your wife-whatever every time I go to get my laundry.
[pause]
It doesn't create a pleasant atmosphere.
Dipshit Dad:Are you telling me how to raise my kids?
Me:
I wasn't, but you obviously don't know what you're fucking doing.
Dipshit Dad:
Fuck you.
Me:
Dude, you wear a button-up shirt tucked into fucking jogging pants when you walk him to school; do you evenknow what that must do to your kid's self-esteem?
Dipshit Dad:
Fuck off.
[slams door]
Me:Nice talking with you.

Another Conversation

The Word "Glagh", Idealism, and the Epicurean Nature of My Dogs

As full of bacterial-mouth-spray as it is harsh-pragmatism, "Glagh" (sometimes pronounced in the prolonged, dramatic form "Glaaaaaaaagh!") is a throat-rending exclamation of all worldly frustration, a tongue-shaking vociferation of all cosmic calamity; when uttered in the quiet computer-room of my swank apartment, well, it drives my dogs nuts.

(Did you ever hear about the pirate with the steering-wheel sticking out from the crotch of his pants? When asked about it, the buccaneer expressed surprise and stated, in a raspy swashbuckler‘s voice, "I don’t know, but it drives me nuts".)

(You’re welcome.)

"Glagh" could very well turn out to be the greatest word creation since "antidisestablishmentarianism", but you wouldn’t know it by the baleful looks I receive from my cute, little puppies as I spew the word into their furry bellies; you would think that I was torturing them with heated-up chimney-pokers, but, of course, you’d be wrong.

For all of their obvious good traits, one of the faults my dogs share is an adverse reaction to progress, to the New; if they had their druthers, they would just sit back, eat, and get fat off the backs of others, swelling up on all the food earned from back-breaking labour and sacrifice.

I’m trying to change the world, one word at a time, and all they care about is if I’m going to share my pizza with them.

Bastards.

Glagh!