You are a fucking fool, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.
I don't think that I will never be able to get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I vomit at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut that would be received by a person peeling the label off of a used needle dispenser. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell strange?
You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are a fucking degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel utterly debased just for knowing that you even exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away because you are nothing more then swine. You are a goddamn vulgar little maggot who is so stupid that I'll bet my life and my soul, that you couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel.
You are a grimy, squalid, nasty and profane individual that even a fucking monkey would find both foul and disgusting. You're an ignoramus. Sexual Predators even look down on you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot. You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite.
You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of sand paper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go so much, that not only are you are a waste of flesh, but you are also one of the most ridiculous and obnoxious one-handed, slack-jawed, drooling, meatslappers to have ever accidentally been produced in the history of mankind. I would say that you are about the moral equivalent of a leech, but at least a leech can help produce something other then the living emptiness that your whole meaningless void of what you call a diseased life that you have taken totally for granted.
I cannot believe how incredibly fucking stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Hydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid, so stupid it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. So stupid in fact, That I'm almost positive that as a child, you spoke with the rest of your family through sign language because your ability to speak like a proper human being, was so fucked up even at the age of 16 which was only 6 months after you learned how to walk without stepping on your rat tail.
I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.
I'm sorry. I can't go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don't have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel.
The following is a list of the contents recently found in my junk drawer.
· One (1) roll of 'best buy' clear plastic wrap, sans box. Without the saw toothed metal strip, it is near impossible to cut in any useful way, but that's alright because I can't find the leading edge in any case. If I do manage to rip some off without stretching it so badly it becomes useless, it will only cling to itself anyway.
· One (1) 'card' of thumbtacks, white. Less than half are left. The provenance of this item is unknown. Surely you never in your life bought this 'card' of thumbtacks, and yet here it is. It seems, somehow, antique, perhaps a living fossil, migrant from some long dead other person's junk drawer. I attempted to remove a tack, the rim slid painfully under my fingernail.
· One (1) wire coat hanger, unwound. This universal tool promises infinite possibilities; unclogging drains, unlocking cars, flogging recalcitrant children and pets… but in fact it only has one purpose, to fall into such a position that that one end jams into the floor of the drawer above it so that opening the drawer more than a fifth of an inch becomes impossible. There is only one tool that will allow me to reach through that tiny crack and move the obstructing wire. A wire coat hanger, unwound.
· One (1) Partially used book of 'series E' stamps, meant to be used until the new stamps came out when the price went up an undetermined number of price changes ago. Think briefly of the postage they might have paid for, the letters that they have said things to change people now forever beyond your reach, Not to Mention the Airplane is upside down...
· One (1) Nutmeg Grater. I have never ground fresh nutmeg in my life and I never will. I have no idea what unground nutmegs even look like. Perhaps one day a tiny person will come to me, needing to grate a tiny piece of cheese, but that's unlikely. Where did this thing come from?
· One (1) package of baking chocolate, unmarked, partially unwrapped, nibbled at edges. Who will it betray next? Me? Again?
· Thirty-Eight (38) tarnished pennies. Some rainy day I might sort them by date. Maybe there will be a few so old they have pictures of wheat on the back. Won't it be fun to see?
· One (1) Baby Food Jar, label removed, containing three (3) screws of varying lengths, One (1) bent nail, One (1) picture hanger and a small snippet of wire, partially clad in blue insulation. frayed at the end. What has become of the baby? Where is it now? Almost certainly it had some connection to me, I didn't pick the jar out of the trash. Lost, lost, all lost to time.
· One (1) Heavy-duty hammer, paint spattered rubber grip. Like the unwound wire coat hanger, the heavy-duty hammer does an excellent job of keeping the drawer from opening any more than a quarter of an inch, but it is more useful as an object of pondering. Can one can kill oneself with a self-administered blow to the head from a heavy-duty hammer? How hard would I have to swing to get the job done in a single blow? Could a second blow even be accomplished? Might the pain of the first blow make it impossible? Might one be too impaired to deliver the second, fatal blow? What if a third blow was required? How much nerve would that take?
· One (1) Tap Hammer. A 'Tap Hammer' or 'Lady's Hammer' is a petite version of the Heavy Duty Hammer and is perfect for hammering tacks, brads and very small nails used in decoration and upholstery. It is very, very hard to kill yourself with a Tap Hammer, as it requires hundreds of blows and a great deal of determination. But sometimes it's exactly what you deserve.
· Three (3) Holograms of three pronged adapters. The very item I need, right where I thought it would be, now at last the fan can turn, the bread dough can be mixed, My guest may dry their hair in the guest bathroom, and there they are, right where I thought they'd be, but my fingers pass through them like a dream I am already forgetting.
· Three (3) Flashlights of varying sizes, all of which are dead.
· Three (3) D cell Batteries, Seven (7) C cell batteries, Six (6) AA cell batteries and 9 (Nine) AAA batteries, all dead.
· One (1) Mummified moth, dead.
· A bunch (132) Of Q-tip swabs held together by an old rubber band. For Crafts!
· One (1) Photograph of Me, In happier times, slowly changing color unseen in a drawer as the years go by.
· An assortment (assortment) of old dreams, all unrealized, one shattered.
· Two (2) Petrified sticks of paper thin dusty pink bubble gum, the kind that used to come in baseball cards back when the world was slightly hand tinted and far more worth living in.
· One (1) pair (pear?) Needle nose pliers, rusting.
· Three (3) two pronged plastic things to stick in outlets not in use, as a means of baby proofing. Is this implied baby the same baby whose empty jar now holds bits of hardware that are useful but will never be used?
· One (17) odd possibly mechanical doodad that will be briefly puzzle over during my estate sale, pinched between the calloused thumb and forefinger beneath the incurious, boiled egg eyes of an antiques dealer before being dropped and eventually thrown away.
· One Hundred Twenty-Four (124) Small, shiny, dark brown dots that if seen under a microscope might reveal themselves as some sort of insect.
· A bunch (36) of Popsicle sticks, bound together by an old rubber band. For crafts!
· A (1) 'Tot's' mini stapler that never ever worked even once.
· Two (2) Opposing parentheses for placing numbers or demoralizing clauses in.
· One (1) Elusive feeling I haven't had in a very long time (because it isn't in me, it's here, in this drawer) that there was some unknown thing, answer, person, I could eventually get my hands on that might fill the bleak gaping hole I've come to understand isn't so much in you per se, it is me.
· One (1) rotten Peanut so that someday I will have found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut last night.
· One (1) Ring of keys to things that won't get unlocked again because I don't know what these keys or for or who's they are or where they came from.
· One (1) manky old tube of lubricant, partially rolled at the end, leaking in places, almost certainly for mechanical use but only there so that nosy guests can convince themselves you have some sort of horrid sexual difficulty.
· Several (23) old books of matches from various disappointing places I've been that could be used to burn it all down, down, to coals, to glowing embers, so that it would all be gone, purified, if not for the fact they are too soggy and old to ignite let alone burn.
· One (1) False back that when removed opens upon and endless, empty, sucking void, vast enough to hold every pointless piece of crap I have ever clung to for bad reasons and all the pedestrian memories and emotions associated with them.
· One (1) Bright yellow, circular happy face sticker
That is All...
When you're a kid, you've got all the freedom that adults wish they had, and none of the responsibilities. The catch, however, is that you've got to obey whatever rules your envious parents decide to lay out for you. Make my bed? Clean up after myself? And what's this about raking leaves? They need to remain on the ground so they can compost properly. Wouldn't it be easier to just move to some place where the trees don't shed their leaves every fall? Oh, it never ends. And so, you dream of how you're going to get a place of your own someday.
Fast forward a decade or two (or let's be honest, three) and you're finally in that place of your own. It's great, isn't it? You get to stay up as late as you want, go out for as long as you want, eat whatever food you want, and all you had to do was get a job and start shelling out your hard-earned cash to cover rent, utilities, food, gas, etc. You've been away from your family for quite a while, if you're lucky, and you're actually starting to miss them. As luck would have it, you've been working at your crappy job long enough to obtain a few vacation days, so you get the bright idea to use them to go visit your family for the holidays. Maybe a few years from now, you'll have saved up enough money to go somewhere nice, but for now, you'll have to settle for sleeping on the couch at your parents' place in the boonies. Sounds like fun, eh? Well here's what you can expect during your trip, Mr. Optimism:
At the Airport:
9/11 changed everything, people. Pre-9/11, you could actually follow a loved one onto the plane, wish them luck, and then take home an emergency slide as a souvenir. Nowadays, just to get on a plane, you need two forms of ID, plastic shoes, and a skin tone no darker than Bungalow Beige. Because of these new security procedures, you'll want to get to the airport nice and early. Consider camping out in front of the airport as though your trip were scheduled to begin on Black Friday. And by the way, make sure to check your boarding pass before you get to a security checkpoint. All it takes is a boarding pass with your name misspelled by one letter (i.e., Mr. John Smeth) and you can expect to be on the receiving end of a "random" inspection courtesy of the shaved gorillas of the TSA.
Ah, to be home again. The sights, the sounds, the familiarity, the closeness. Everything is just the way you remember it. Except it's not. In your mind's eye, you remember your hometown as being a place where everyone got along, where everyone pitched in for the common good, and where each neighborhood was really a tightly-knit community of folks sharing baked goods and recipe tips with one another. In reality, though, your parents were only friends with a handful of people, and most of the friends you made in town were just kids that you hung out with while your parents were out having real fun. And remember that old crank that lived down the street? The guy who never talked to anybody else and only set foot outside of his house to get the paper/mail/groceries/more cats? Well it turns out that he was a real trendsetter. Now, none of the neighbors talk to one another. Why? Simmering resentment over noisy kids, or a lawn that desperately needs mowing, perhaps. And they don't see you coming to see them, so why should they come to see you (and who goes to talk to complete strangers, anyway? What a bunch of weirdoes)? Oh, and your favorite places to eat all closed down. Welcome home.
Like your hometown, you remember, your mom would make a hearty meal that everyone could enjoy. That's what we call "nostalgia". It's a fancy way of saying "forgetfulness". You fondly remember playing catch with your dad, but you glossed over the fact that your games were always cut short when he would have you give him a ride to his favorite bar for a "cigarette break". And your mom was a great cook, but whereas traditional cooks use raw ingredients and a range, your mom managed to do all that using only a minivan and the drive-thru at McDonald's. Mmm, them's good eats, and you can look forward to more of the same for the big holiday feast.
And then before you know it, your vacation is over. Your family gives you a ride to the airport, and you try not to bolt through airport security just to get away from those same people you were looking forward to seeing just a few days earlier. You realize just a little too late that a little bit of those people goes a long way, and now you remember why you moved away in the first place. You can't wait to get back to your dingy apartment back in the city. But alas, the cycle has already begun anew. You're reflecting on the good times you had with your family (seeing them again, exchanging stories, etc) and you've already started to forget about the bad times you had with them (the arguments, explaining how the VCR works to your mother, etc). You're probably already thinking about when you're going to come back for a visit. You're a sucker, you know that? Because Hunter S Thompson had the Right idea, and Wherever I wind up going, There had better be football....
If you're like me, and whether you want to admit it or not... you are, you enjoy a refreshing gulp of icy cold water on just about any given day. But long gone are the days when we would dash toward the water fountain after yet another gym class which confirmed that we had little to no hand-eye coordination whatsoever. Nowadays, those of us looking to halt our hankerings for H2O not only avoid tap water sources, we usually pay good money to drink it straight from the bottle. And don't try to pretend you're above the whole bottled water thing, telling me you've never had it before, because you have had it and you know it. Whether it's been on a lunch break, at a movie theater, or at one of those lengthy outdoor concert events where you paid 7 bux for a bottle of the stuff so you wouldn't die of dehydration, you've had it before and you'll have it again. And why not? If there's one thing mankind needs to do it's stuff our landfills with as much plastic as possible at an accelerated pace.
Of course, there's no real guarantee that your healthy bottled water came from a natural hidden spring that has never come into contact with badger urine. For all you know, that $3.00 bottle of water you're chugging down is nothing more than the backwash of a cancerous leprotic named Bucky. But who cares? If the phthalates leaking from that plastic water bottle are good enough for my internal organs, than they're good enough for everybody, right? Wrong.
Apparently, some people aren't satisfied with their generic Brand-X bottle of water. No, no, no. Much like connoisseurs of fine wine, there are people with a palette for only the most exquisite waters that this world has to offer. They demand MORE out of their water. They're not satisfied with water that came from a remote spring, that's simply not difficult enough. It has to be for more outrageous than that, like, oh I don't know... say a company that specializes in bottling the tears of baby koalas as they watch their parents get brutalized with a meat hammer. Truly a water made only for the discriminating members of high society.
There's a word for people who will only drink waters of this nature: douchebags. Today, I would like to share with you a sampling of some of the waters that these douchebags enjoy on a regular basis:
Aveta: Celtic Goddess Of Healing Water
I don't know how they did it, but the Irish have captured the Gallo-Roman deity, Aveta and forced her to purify their water for profit. Only problem is, she's been around for hundreds of years and isn't quite the "goddess" that she once was. In all honesty, Judy Tenuta is far more of a goddess than Aveta is these days, but that doesn't mean I'd want to drink her water either.
"Say kids! Who wants some artesian water from Norway? I DO! I DO! I DO!" I'm pretty sure the creators of Voss were inspired by the plutonium containers that Doc Brown used to power his time machine with in Back To The Future. Sadly, you can't have a time machine that will take you back to a period when you didn't waste your money on such frivolous bullshit. Voss water is "taken from a virgin aquifer shielded for centuries under ice and rock in the untouched wilderness of central Norway". Don't worry, once Norway's own black metal band Gorgoroth catches word about it, that aquifer won't be a virgin for much longer.
Awwww, don't you just wanna give it a big hug? It's such a cute little bottle of water. OGO comes from The Netherlands and is said to have a higher oxygen concentration than normal water. You've heard of an "oxygen high" right? Well here it is in a convenient bottle for you. Unfortunately, there is one side-effect to drinking OGO. People who ingest OGO too quickly, get an oxygen high that often makes them stick a wick into the empty bottle during their trancelike state of mind. They then take this bottle to a nearby bank and raise it above their heads shouting, "I've got a bomb! Give me all your money or I'm gonna blow this fucking place to pieces!" Naturally, bank security recognizes this as an empty water bottle and not a bomb, and they quickly pummel the would-be thieves.
Wait a minute, that can't be water. It must be vodka. Sorry... my mistake.
It's not the most expensive water out there, but I'm pretty sure people only buy this stuff because of how colorful the bottle design is. Nobody cares that this water is purified by the volcanic sulfur tiki gods, all they care about is that it comes in a bottle with imagery of pretty flowers and a waterfall. When lugging that 50-gallon designer aquarium around town proves to be too cumbersome, you can count on Fiji as an excellent substitute. Toss a betta fish in there for some added colorful delights... just don't forget to remove it before you let your thirst get the better of you on a hot summer day. Interestingly enough, for a bottle that shows off the beauty of nature, Fiji is well known for running an operation that is more taxing on the environment than many other water companies. "The production plant runs on diesel fuel, 24 hours a day. The high-grade plastic used to make the bottles is transported from China to Fiji, and then (full of water) to the United States. A 1-liter bottle of FIJI Water contaminates 6.74 liters of water to stretch-blow mold the plastic, burns fossil fuel to transport plastics from China and full bottles to the U.S., and produces 0.25 kg of greenhouse emissions." Be sure to keep that in mind the next time you take a sip of Fiji water as it sweeps your mind away to a dreamlike waterfall.
Le Bleu Water
If you're gonna call your water something like "Le Bleu" as opposed to "Blue", perhaps it would be best to have the water originate in France instead of in North Carolina. The owner's last name, Smith, is hardly French either. I call Le Bullshit.
Ice Rocks Spring Water Ice Cubes
Ok, I realize that these aren't technically bottled, but it still comes in a "ready to freeze" liquid format, and I find it to be just as equally pointless as those upper echelon bottled waters. Each precious cube is hermetically sealed in an individual disposable container. A while back I sent them a pitch for a brilliant new ad campaign in which I would pop up on the TV screen, pop a cube into my mouth and proclaim, "THESE AIN'T YO MOMMA'S ICE CUBES!" Sadly, I've yet to hear back from the company.
It may not look fancy, but the Penta water company claims that their water contains water clusters of fewer molecules than normal water. Look, if I'm paying a lot of money for water, I don't want less molecules, I want more. That's just so typical isn't it? Companies trying to give consumers less product while simultaneously charging more for it. The fact is, you'd have to be running short of a few molecules in your noggin if you buy into this stuff. Just check out a few of the companies claims:
- Penta is easier to drink than normal water.
- Penta aids in weight loss.
- Penta has helped clear up skin problems.
- Penta helps houseplants grow.
- Penta enhances absorption of moisturizer cream onto skin.
Did I mention that Penta cures cancer and solves world hunger? Penta water is no longer sold in the UK because most claims about the benefits of drinking their water have been proven to be misleading. In response to Guardian UK journalist Ben Goldmember, a critic of their product, one Penta employee sent him the following message: "Goldmember I do hope you are a better physician than you are a journalist when we publish you will of course be informed out of the decency/courtesy you didn't show to us! Sleep well tonight and think about how and why you tried to fuck us over and practice keeping one eye open." Now that's the kind of professional company I want to buy my drinking water from!
Lonely? In need of a friend? Well perhaps this water is up your alley. "Fred" is probably the first brand of water to be given a persona. Their slogan says it all: "Fred. He's water." Fred even has his own Myspace page, and I guarantee, he can't wait to read all your comments like, "OMG Fred! YoU LoOk SoooOooo HAWT! See U at tHe Club ToNitE! xoxo <3 Jade". But man, I hope Fred doesn't get into another scuffle with the security guards at the club like last time. He was such a goddamn embarrassment at the Viper Room the other week, I don't know if I'll ever be able to show my face there again. Only reason we even got out alive is because Fred's friend, Joey (a really nice seltzer from Indiana), broke up the fight and then paid off the security team. I tell ya, Fred has a real problem and I think we should maybe, you know, try to hold an intervention for him or something. Wait, we're still talking about bottled water here... aren't we?
TÅ· Nant Water
Now here's a brand of water that sounds like it's a villain straight out of Batman comic book lore like Sin Tzu or Ra's Al Ghul. But how can you think a bottled water to be so villainous when its own container appears to be flowing freely? Ok, actually it looks more like it was just melted, and you know what melts things? Heat rays. And you know who owns heat rays? Villains.
Bling H2O Water
Bottled water and fashion. Clearly, you can't separate one from the other, right? Well one company had the foresight to corner the market for celebrities who not only want to be seen wearing the latest fashions, but also want to be seen holding ultra-pretentious water bottles. I wish I was making this up, but Bling H2O is the most expensive water on the planet, running a whopping $40 for a 750ml bottle. For $40 you should be able to fill an olympic swimming pool. And the water doesn't appear to be anything super special, it's from a Tennessee spring and goes through a purification process just like every other water out there. What separates this stuff from the rest of the pack is that the bottles are actually decorated with Swarovski crystals. It's times like this when one must really question whether or not certain humans should be allowed to live. Yes indeed, if you want to proclaim "Fuck poor people!" with every sip of water you drink, then this is definitely the product for you!
If you happen to be one of the douchebags who drinks any of these waters, don't fret. I'm sure when these bottled water companies make koalas go extinct, they'll turn on humans like me who aren't part of the elite upper class for bottled tears to serve you. Granted, this won't change the fact that you're a pompous douchebag, but hey... at least you'll be a pompous douchebag with a bottle of tears from the common man.
A wise man once said:
"The only appropriate response to an outrageous situation is outrage."
That wise man was my Dad. I’m pretty sure he was quoting somebody, and while I know there’s a virtual equivalent of "Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations" on the web somewhere and I think I even bookmarked it once, using it right now seems like more trouble than it’s worth.
Actually, outrage itself is getting pretty hard for me to muster up these days, because frankly, I’m exhausted just trying to prioritize everything intolerable I experience in five minutes. I mean, on the one hand there’s Ethnic cleansing, but on the other I just stubbed my toe, really hard, and that makes twice today. Do you know what I’m saying?
I mean, yes, sure, fine, all my clothes are made in third world sweatshops by malnourished preteens and if I don’t wear this crap I have to go naked because my dead end job just barely covers the bloated, grotesque debt that I'm in.
This morning, some stupid fucking dumb asswipe fucksmear bastard piece of shit, cut me off on the highway and he totally knew what he was doing, wanna know how I'm so certain? The dickhead was staring at me the whole entire time he was doing it and threw his arms up in the air in a totally spoiled rotten act of frustration like I shouldn't have had the audacity of being anywhere near his car and that seeing as how he paid for his car, he must also own the whole goddamn highway and everyone should automatically yield to him out of respect for his being. Meanwhile, I am not in any way legally allowed to kill him. Does that seem fair? I had to be content with pushing my head as far forward as it would go on my neck, my eyes bulging out like I had the worst thyroid problem on the planet, opening my mouth wide enough to swallow a five pound brisket and wittily quipping "I hope your parents fucking die!"
While yes, I can pray to the God of My Choice to make Mr. S.U.V. die painfully in a great twisted mass of metal and flames, but here’s the thing. If God answered my prayers, in all likelihood that S.U.V. would come crashing through the front window of Payless Shoe Source at the very same moment I was ponying up my hard earned dough for a pair of ‘Rugged Outback’ sneakers that some God forsaken, Fau Lun Gong, Chinese Prisoner of Conscience Bastard sewed in Reeducation camp.
My mortal remains would be so badly mixed with a wide variety of poorly crafted Pumps you’d need dental records to even guess who I once was. And you know what? Those dental records are woefully out of date because while the dental plan may cover fillings and the occasional cleaning, it only pays half for the serious Hillbilly/English Aristocrat type dental problems a guy of my advancing years suffers from, and the other half of that bill is what economists like to call ‘way more than you’ve got’. And you know what else? Now I have a headache, thanks to you.
This is why I settled for throwing my full can of Pepsi at him and drove behind him Honking "Ride of the Valkyries"
And that’s my point, see? You know the phrase ‘Pick your battles’? Well, I can’t be bothered anymore with it. I just can’t choose anymore. I mean maybe I’m oversensitive, but to me, life is like an incredibly long salad bar with no sneezegaurd where each item is more unspeakably foul than the last, and I’m in line behind dozens of morbidly obese, mouth breathing, hirsute, hump-monkeys with drippy colds shouting ‘We’re number ONE!’ as they sway forward, loading clumps of pickled atrocity onto their already full plates while hacking up viscous bits of lung all over everything.
I’d like to focus on one salad bar item at a time, but how is that even possible? I mean sure, right in front of me is the Sally Jesse Raphael episode ‘We Send Terror Teens to Boot Camp’, but how can I justify putting that on my plate when right next to it is a fresh vat of Tax cuts for any Multi National that can make crude oil from the heads of Harp seals and Sea Otters while merging with a Global Communications franchise actively engaged in research on the commercial potential of Snuff sitcoms?
On which choice do I focus my rage? And if I do, How much emotion will be left to spare on the fact that at this time of year, my feet always get uncomfortably clammy?
There was a time when teachers frequently referred to my ‘potential’. (Granted, this was usually preceded by the phrase ‘not living up to his...’, but that’s hardly the point). A habitual raising of the hackles has spent the energy that might otherwise have been spent on acts of genius and one has to wonder, was this a fair trade off?
My days as an ‘angry young man’ are past, as are my chances of being a ‘young gun’, ‘young and restless’, a ‘young whipper snapper’ and any other moniker dependent on the use of the word ‘young’. I’m way past the off ramp for ‘enfant terrible’. If I’m very lucky I might make ‘Late Bloomer’ but I’d settle for ‘Slow Learner’.
Being pissed off has eaten the better part of my life. I have one last chance to realize my life goal. The way I figure it, I’ve got about five good years before I have to start telling everyone I set eyes on, That at one point, a fucking Snickers used to cost a God Damn Dime.
In this next half decade I really need to calm down, rest up, or I’ll loose any chance at all of seeing my most cherished dream come true. Without a breather I’ll never be a spectacular bastard in middle age, the springboard to becoming that hateful old guy in the Nursing home who shouts one hundred percent of the time he’s awake, and not the good kind of shouting either. You know the one I mean. The one who won’t die no matter how furiously the exploited, illegal alien attendants refuse to turn him.
If I maintain my current fevered pitch of perpetual rage I’ll certainly blow out my cortex long before I reach the ill tempered, senile crankiness I’ve prepared for my whole life. So if you came here looking for one of those trendy, hackneyed, internet 'rants' so popular now that every sack of crap who can afford the payments on an iMac grinds out just as if they didn’t flunk freshman comp four our of five times, well, you and the horse you road in on, chum.
Me? I’m gonna gather my rosebuds while I may. If you want me, I’ll be lying on the sofa in my underwear eating Yodels and watching The Goonies.
I'm fucking stressed out... can ya tell?
Anger is everywhere these days. Who hasn't been the object of or even experienced road rage? Is there a co-worker everyone tip-toes around at your office? Might you be that person?
Here's a joke that's making the rounds: "I went to a fight, and a Hockey game broke out!" It's hilarious, because it's so true, or it would be if Hockey weren't only marginally more popular than curling. Besides, if you're anything like me, you certainly don't need a sporting event as an excuse for brawling. You can get a good punch up going at church if you know what you're doing!
But what if your anger isn't there when you need it? What will you do when your Boss blames you for his own lack of preparation at the 10:15 meeting when you totally blew your entire rage wad at your kid when she refused to leave for school on time because her socks 'felt funny'? How are you going to respond to the wife's needless provocation regarding your failure to pick up sour cream on the way home having barked yourself hoarse at commuters you don't even know who can't hear what you're saying anyway?
Properly managed, anger is the ultimate clean burning, renewable fuel. The following AMFAQ, or Anger Management Frequently Asked Questions, should keep you from the face blistering you'll get by asking me just about anything directly. See? I'm managing my anger right now by not wasting it on the likes of you. Read on and pretty soon you'll be able to coast through your day on a fine cussion of near constant rage.
WHAT IS ANGER?
FUCK YOU, YOU USELESS BAG OF CRAP! I'm kidding of course. I'm hardly angry at all right now, just sort of the idling level of general irritation I use to keep myself from passing out. Simply put, anger is response to stimulai. You wake to the alarm going off, get angry. A coworker says 'good morning', get angry. See a pretty sunset, get angry. While it's true there are many, many other reactions to stimulai a human being can experience, they are all a complete waste of time. Time you could be spending angry.
This cute puppy probably doesn't make you mad. You need to work on that.
YEAH, BUT SERIOUSLY, WHAT IS ANGER?
You're starting to piss me off. If that makes you mad, great, we're getting somewhere.
Anger has three components.
Psychological. This is the emotional component of anger, and it's a really good emotion with a nice meaty taste. It's not a wussy emotion like fear or happiness and research shows it is far less gay than love.
Physiological. This is how your body responds to anger. Muscle tension, an increase in heart rate and blood pressure as your body releases adrenaline. Mmmmmm-Doggy! FEEL that! It's like a WOOD STOVE on a WINTER DAY!
Cognitive. This is what you think about as you experience anger. Your extra chromosone boss, your deeply unappreciative family, Dave in the cube next to yours who everybody knows would best serve humanity as a systems analyst sized heap of ground meat, the great big shaft that God thinks it's funny to give you every damn time you look for an even break, whatever! It's all BUTANE, baby! And this weenie roast is WAY behind schedule!
OKAY, YOU'RE STARTING TO SCARE ME NOW.
Well, there's good news and bad news. The good news is, that's just where I want you, and anger management did it for me. The bad news is, people who are scared of me are less likely to have the sack to do something that might piss me off, which means the fire of my rage is banking. But wait! MORE good news! Telling me I'm scaring you IS NOT A DAMN QUESTION, IS IT?! DID THEY TEACH YOU WHAT A FAQ WAS IN MORON SCHOOL?!NEWSFLASH! THE 'Q' STANDS FOR 'QUESTIONS'!!
Mama! THAT's some good anger!
SO, IT'S NOT 'BAD' TO FEEL ANGRY?
No, being angry isn't a bad or negative thing. Being angry can motivate people to listen to your concerns. It can prevent others from walking all over you. And it can motivate people to change larger societal issues. It's anger management that can be a problem. Because should you ever run out of anger, even for an instant, you will never again get a single thing you want. Plus, people will probably use the moment of your weakness to kill you on account of what a dick you've been.
WHAT ARE COMMON METHODS OF HANDLING ANGER, AND WHICH ARE HEALTHIEST?
While there are many ways to deal with anger, they all fall under two major categories, Expression and repression. Both are perfectly healthy in some circumstances and unhealthy if they involve a swiftly moving blunt instrument.
I like to think of this as the pay as you go method. Stimulai in, anger out, like the proverbial 'shit' through a 'goose'. Another metaphor I like is based on a toy from my childhood, the Hotwheels Supercharger. It was a little housing that fit on the track. Inside were two battery powered spinning wheels, and when a car went into the housing, the wheels would grab it and shoot it out, giving it a giant boost in speed. Or, if you like, you can use the gravitational slingshot analogy, wherein the stimulai is like a space probe using the gravitational field of a planet to accelerate and become anger moving at thousands of miles per second! Combine the Hotwheels or gravitational slingshot metaphors with the goose metaphor, and I think you'll see how it's possible that if you hand me a cold cup of coffee, I'm able to yell at you so loudly your whole face peels off.
Are you familiar with the Mentos/Diet coke experiment? Imagine for a moment that instead of allowing the coke foam to come jetting out the top of the bottle in a giant arc, you quickly screwed the cap on. The pressure would build up, and build up and build up until eventually the bottle exploded!
If you find your rage isn't impressive enough when you express it, repress it for a while. The longer you hold on to it, the bigger the fireworks!
In third grade, a school mate who's name I can no longer remember opined that the Beatles was superior to the Rolling Stones. I very reasonably leaped across the lunchroom table, and tore a sizeable tuft of hair from the offending head. But suppose I'd simply said "That's one opinion" and repressed my rage? I could have revisited the memory regularly, stoked the flames of my indignation and in middle age gone completely Tunguska on an unsuspecting and utterly innocent food service employee.
Most likely caused by the air burst of a large meteoroid or comet fragment,
The Tunguska event was a massive explosion that occurred near the Tunguska River
in what is now Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia, at 7:40 AM on June 30, 1908. Suck on that.
THAT is the beauty of perfectly managed repressed anger! Think of your brain as a vast storage tank for seething grievances, grudges and slights, held under great pressure for years until the rude coal of simple incident becomes the diamond of FURY! And you can give a diamond to anyone!
HOW DO I KNOW IF I NEED TO WORK ON MY ANGER MANAGEMENT?
How bad do you want it? If you're okay with the occasional snippy retort, then no, you don't. Anybody can do that, and most of them are sissy-ass gaylords.
But do you mind that when you think you've absolutely blown up, your spouse describes you to her friends as being 'pissy'? Ask yourself this: How angry do I want to get, how often, over what? Myself, I'd like to be able to burn with the white hit fury of a super nova on demand because my sock snagged on a toe callous. And THAT, my friend, takes a whole lot of anger management.
IS ANGER BAD FOR MY HEALTH?
Yes. So is red meat, television, liquor and sex. Don't do any of those things. But when in the instant before you die you're hit with the realization that your life never amounted to shit, don't come crying to me.
I have a little nugget of information to share with you today, a little something you can keep in mind the next time you go into the store. You know the clerk who’s always smiling at you when you walk in and is ever so helpful with all your shopping needs? Well, I’ve got news for you. They hate your guts.
Think about it: before you got there they were probably just chatting it up with their coworkers, talking about movies or music that they like, or telling funny stories to pass the time. Generally having about as good a time as you can have at work. And then YOU came along and interrupted everything. You rude and inconsiderate bastard. Now they have to be attentive to your silly needs, if they don’t want a complaint reaching its way to their manager anyway. So they put on the fake smile and pretend they’re happy to help. It doesn’t matter if you’re hostile or not. They view you as THE ENEMY.
It’s just like Kevin Smith’s film "Clerks" says: "This job would be great if it wasn’t for the fucking customers". This is absolutely true. I used to be a clerk myself, or I at least manned a register in any event back in high school. I ran a register at the wonderful workplaces of McDonald’s and the local mall Movie Theater. It was pure hell. You really DO get to hate the customers after a while.
Initially you typically only hate the asshole customers, or the whiny customers. The people who just go out of their way to be as annoying as possible. But soon you’ll come to hate them ALL. Trust me, it doesn’t matter how good your attitude is going in, or how much you love people. Sooner or later you’ll come to view them all as mere obstacles littering your path to FREEDOM.
As a former clerk myself, I’ve come to sympathize with those who are currently in that position, and I can identify a great deal with how they feel. So I do what I can to help them. And I suggest you do too.
I’ve become what I like to consider a "clerk avenger". Basically, this means that when I’m waiting in line and there’s another customer up in the front giving the clerk shit, I start giving that CUSTOMER a bunch of shit. It’s loads of fun, because you get to take out all your build up aggression and anger from when you were a clerk and throw it in some asshole’s face. And they can do NOTHING about it. They can bitch and whine and call management. They might get you tossed out of the store, but not likely (and if they do, who the hell cares?). They’re usually too flustered to bother, they’ll just get their shit done as quickly as possible and leave. And then the clerk thinks of you as a hero. You might even find some of your stuff "discounted" if you know what I mean...
Seriously though, give it a try sometime. It’s great! Next time you have some asshole redneck giving the clerk shit because "he’s gay", or you have some snobby woman insulting the intelligence of someone who clearly has got their shit together, just GO OFF on them. Start a scene. You’ll really embarrass the fuck out of them and every clerk in that store will think you are the SHIT.
Oh, and next time you see somebody in line who’s talking on a cell phone just cut right in front of them without even looking back. They’ll get pissed off and start yelling at you and you can just say "Oh sorry, you obviously weren’t ready. I didn’t want you to have to interrupt your conversation, that would have been rude." Fucking yuppie bastards deserve to be messed with anyway.
Anyway, the bottom line here is that these clerks receive a LOT of shit from a lot of people. They generally get shat upon by the vast majority of people that approach the counter throughout the day. So it feels good every once in a while to help them give some shit BACK to the customers. So get into those stores and start pissing off the customers!
I've been working on computers in one way or another for many years now, and the one thing that has never changed no matter how advanced they get is: THEY STILL LOCK UP. Now I try TO be a responsible guy when I'm working on my computer. I try to save my work on a regular basis "just in case" something goes wrong.
But every now and then I forget, and that is the time that my computer ALWAYS decides to lock up on me. It's like they put monitoring systems inside a computer that track when the last time you saved your work was... and if you haven't saved your work in an hour it plays a joke on you by locking up on you or crashing.
(computer thinking to itself) "Hmm, he's been working on that song for 2 hours straight and he's so involved with it that he's forgotten to save it! Well, it's time to ruin this asshole's day! Muahahahahahahahahah!"
So what do you do when this happens? Well, if you're like me, the first thing you do is blurt out a huge array of obscenities and hope nobody within a 3 mile vacinity of where you live heard you. But what comes next is the most pathetic thing in the world, and any of you who work on computers on a regular basis know EXACTLY what I'm talking about.
The person who just had their computer send them a virtual cyberific "fuck you" will stop their yelling and just sit there. They'll sit there for a few minutes staring at the screen, sometimes hitting a few keys here 'n there, trying ANYTHING they can to avoid having to shut down their system and reboot. The last thing this person wants to do is lose all of their work, but it's futile. His or her friends/family/loved ones look onward trying to give this poor soul some support, but inside they know this person is screwed. Eventually you see this poor bastard let out a big sigh as they hit the off switch. Then they'll get up and walk away for a little bit, they look like they're leaving a funeral. Later on, after punching some inanimate object in another room to let out some of their frustration, they'll come back to their computer that has been restarted and begin the process all over again. It's really a sad thing to witness.
One of my personal favorite computer screw-ups is when all of a sudden a program just exits itself instantly. No warning, no "system error" or "the program is not responding", it just disappears. Where the hell did it go!? Do these programs go on some kind of a coffee break or something? Do computers have holidays that I don't know of? It doesn't make sense at all, and for the kind of money these things cost, this shouldn't even be an issue.
So I have to assume that computers do have a consciousness and, although they can make a lot of things in life easier, they have a sadistic side. They love torturing the hell out of us stupid humans.
If you think about it, the only way to deal with computers screwing up like this is if you treat them as if they were real people. That's right, and eye for an eye! If your computer tries to screw you, well then you screw it right back, ten fold! Here's some ideas:
Should a program crash on you, rename the program file to something really insulting. For example, if Internet Explorer crashed on you, go into the directory where the executable file is and rename it from its current name "IEXPLORE.EXE" to "PATHETIC-LITTLE-WHORE.EXE". This will make the program feel bad, as if it's a completely worthless failure. And all of the other programs will point and laugh at it. This also will get the word out to the other programs that if they mess up, this is their fate as well.
If your computer locks up on you on a regular basis, buy a new computer and put it right next to it. Then only use that new computer, but leave the old one turned on at all times. That way it can see that you've moved on in your life and are getting along just fine without it. This will really hurt the feelings of your old computer and make it feel like you "traded it in for a newer model".
If your computer has video problems, such as a flickering monitor, bad contrast, or whatever; you can get even right away. Go into your color settings for the computer and give it the most atrocious color combinations you can come up with. I mean HORRIBLE color combinations like light pink, neon green, and purple. It will soon develop a huge inferiority complex because when compared to all the other computers, this one will look like quite the "sissy computer". In fact, if there are other computers near it, when you leave the area, chances are they'll beat up this "sissy computer".
Hang-up a poster of a really old piece of shit computer next to your current computer. If you want, you could even hang up a picture of the original computer: The Abacus! Then whenever your computer messes up, turn and look to that poster and say out loud "Man, I remember when they made quality computers like that... the good old days". You really can't give a computer a worse insult than saying an abacus performs better! If a computer could cry, this would make it do so.
Ah yes, when computers were dependable.
Well, you get the general idea. I'm sure you can come up with all sorts of other creative ways to torture your computer. It's all about mind games... psychological warfare baby! Are you going to let your computer get the best of you? I didn't think so! So the next time your computer decides to play a little joke on you and make you lose all your work, you be sure to do something evil right back at it. Maybe then it'll show a little respect for you and start working the way it's supposed to.
If not, just buy a ton of cheap computers from a flea market and set them on fire and video tape it. It will hardly cost you anything, but you can play this footage back for your cheap-assed computer to see. Then simply tell it "KEEP IT UP AND THIS WILL BE YOU."
I guarantee your computer will work perfectly from that point on.
PREGNANCY: A PREQUEL TO DISASTER
There's a certain pride in knowing your seed is strong, always assuming it is your seed, but trust me, after that first three minutes spent planting, the farm goes straight to hell. Think of your wife getting larger and larger as a metaphorical preview of the way your wants, needs and drives will shrink to total insignificance the instant your first child is born. You'll still feel like you're a whole person worthy of recognition, but that's pretty much phantom limb pain.
TAKE NO GUFF
Back in your Dad's day it was a lot easier to take no guff, especially after he went out for cigarettes right before your eighth birthday party and never returned. Today's society demands a lot more of Fathers, so it's best to make it known your 'bullshit meter' is always 'on' right away. I recommend sternly advising your newborn to 'button that lip!' the instant their head breeches the birth canal. Anyone who hears you over your wife's self indulgent screaming will assume you're just excited. Remember, when you boarded the S.S. Fatherhood, a tidal wave of guff a minimum of eighteen years tall started rolling straight for you! If you expect to survive as a distinct entity it's never too early to say no to guff.
PUT YOUR FOOT DOWN
Similar to 'taking no guff' but proactive instead of reactive, whatever the hell that means. It's best to start right away. It will never mean a damn thing to your kids, but before they start talking, it at least creates the illusion you're in charge of something. It doesn't matter at all what you put your foot down about. No pacifiers, no thumb sucking, toilet training at five months, whatever, you're going to fail anyway. The bluster and bravado of shouting "This is where I draw the line!" and "When I say _________ I mean it!" isn't about obedience. It lets the family know you're still alive and discourages them from sitting in your favorite chair when you're in it.
DIVISION OF LABOR
Think back. What did your Dad give you? Not hot meals and the roof over your head, these days you have to do that just to stay out of jail. I mean the kind of lasting stuff that wouldn't have even blipped on your radar if you hadn't had hot meals and a roof over your head. Did he play catch with you once or twice? Teach you to ride a bike? Whup you for sassing? Well you're going to be expected to do a whole hell of a lot more. Wake up, this is the Two Thousands! The only thing you're getting out of is breast feeding, and don't think woman scientists aren't working on that one behind our backs right now! You've been born into a time when if you miss a school pageant, express an insufficient amount of sympathy when their gerbil dies or leave the baby on the roof of the car even once, it's called 'neglect'. The best time to make iron clad agreements about what jobs you'll handle and what jobs are the wife's province is right after the delivery. Sure it's cruel, but it's best to bargain from a position of strength. If you're not stronger than a drugged up woman in severe pain who just pushed a squirming package the size and temperament of a Woodchuck out her lower body, you have no business having kids in the first place.
THE FIRST THREE YEARS
Pop Quiz! What's more important to your status as a father?
A.) Changing a lot of diapers.
B.) Playing with your child
C.) Telling people you change a lot of diapers.
If you answered 'A', you might as well chop your Johnson off and hand it over right now. The only time any kid recalls who diapered them, it's all mixed up with a recovered memory and it can land you in jail. So if it doesn't matter to the kid, who the hell are you doing it for, your wife? What are you, a pussy? The answer is C. Tell anyone who'll listen you changed your kid every chance you got and that it strengthened the bond between you in ways you never imagined. When your wife contradicts you she's bound to be pretty shrill. Wink over her shoulder and mouth the words 'post partum depression'. People will think you're super-dad! Oh, and if you answered C chances are you never met a baby. Play with them? Hell, they don't even opened their eyes for the first six months, it's not like they even know you're there!
Kids get sick all the time, and if you don't keep your distance, you will too. Here's a quick primer.
Perpetual. If your child stops secreting thick, gluey substances from every opening on its face for more than two days, then you can worry.
Want to see the laws of physics defied? I read somewhere a child weighing eighteen pounds can projectile vomit with enough force to tear a mans arm clean off.
Sad but true, and pretty much puts to rest the whole argument over 'intelligent design'.
Modern vaccination programs have taken this irritating disease we all experienced off the map of early childhood. Which means those inflamed red spots all over your kid are something much, much scarier.
It's still not known exactly what causes Colic, but most pediatricians agree if your baby is diagnosed with it, you should put a gun to your own head and blow your brain out right away. I shit you not.
There's nothing more important in your child's life than school. Without it, they'd be home all the time, or worse yet follow you to work and find out just how low you sit on the company totem pole. This being the case, a good father encourages a love of learning. If your child says they don't like school, gently remind them that when you were a kid you walked seven miles uphill to get there and on arrival were beaten soundly by Nuns with five o'clock shadow. Get involved with the PTO! As the only guy there, your 'Dad Stock' will be grossly overrated, and besides, it's a swell place to meet disgruntled, lonely Mothers! If the kid asks you to come to Career Day, try to see it as an opportunity. Young children don't know the difference between truth and horse crap. Tell them you're a lion tamer.
YOUR CHILD'S FRIENDS
If your child is a girl, it's best to make sure all her friends think you're great. Inside each one of them rests the potential to become that awesome balance of low self-esteem and hotness portrayed in "American Beauty" and both versions of "Lolita". Even the fat one with the overbite.
If your child is a boy, don't bother even learning his friend's names. They might grow up to think you're the coolest dad in the neighborhood, but it won't make them any less likely to siphon the gas out of your tank or beat you unconscious for drug money.
If your child is a girl, this has nothing to do with you. Let her Mom figure it out. The less you know the better. Besides, anything you told her could be wrong. If you knew as little about your car as you do about women's bodies, you'd never open the hood for fear of destroying it. If your child is a boy, relax. You used to be one. Remember how easy it was filching porno mags from Dad's stash? Well, they invented the Internet. Your son doesn't need even the passive connection you got stealing stroke books off your old man. Plus, he can pick whatever kink he likes from a wide selection. Don't you wish you'd had that chance? Maybe you'd be into something less demeaning.
If there's one thing I can teach you, it's this. Any time you spend with your kids is quality time. So when they start whining about how you never read to them, remind them there are kids in India who's Dads are Indians, and tell them to stop trying to make you divorce their Mom. Then turn the sound up and make them get you something you're perfectly capable of getting yourself. Remember, if you love something, set it free. Over and over, as often as possible. Otherwise it will wind up thirty, marginally employed and living in your basement.
REALLY LISTENING TO YOUR CHILD
I'm just kidding.
Who's to blame for your fear of commitment, your lack of ambition, your inability to perform even two of the Twelve Steps and your miserable, lackluster, infrequent performance in bed? Your parents, that's who. If you're a decent person, you'll do your damndest to make sure you do a better job of parenting than your folks did, and it won't make the least little bit of difference. Your children will blame you for every disappointment and every horrible thing they do because as a parent that's the most solid service you provide them. You know what this means to you? Carte Blanche, baby! Look, they're going to see a therapist sooner or later. It's up to you to make it worth every penny their insurance company covers. Why should they have to make shit up when they could be talking about all the crazy ass stuff you could be getting up to RIGHT NOW! It's true that the days of you being the star of your own movie ended the moment your kids took their first breath, but that doesn't mean the picture is over! You're the character actor now! The whacky neighbor, the unrepentant, alcoholic best friend, the innocent retarded guy who delivers the unexpected pearl of wisdom! From wearing suit socks and sandals at the beach to showing their prom date the Mexican Tattoo that can't be seen in it's entirety without exposing a few pubes and an unexplained scar, the world is your oyster, Dad!