I am obsessed with CNN.com. I love it and am compelled by a force greater than myself to monitor it constantly. I have wasted months of my existence combing through breaking news stories and superfluous articles. What is truly saddening, though, is my particular brand of media fetish. Relevant, important news such as presidential elections or devastating natural disasters, blah! That rubbish is for people with too much time on their hands. Articles about “Toilet Paper Wedding Gowns Honored” or “8 Limbed ‘Goddess’ Baby Becomes Normal Girl”, shit, I stop teaching and pull out the worksheets when news like that breaks. It’s despicable, but my life revolves around meaningless crap.
I like to believe these exotic tidbits give me a certain edge at parties, or when I was still single, in helping to meet prospective sex partners. While other losers break the ice with anecdotes about the weather or the horrors of the genocide in Rwanda, bitches are literally throwing themselves at me to learn more about “Busy Moms: How do they Stay Afloat?” or how “Hats and Heels Reign Supreme on Ladies Day.”
Alright, so if I was not engaged I would probably never have sex again, but I know there have to be people out there who share my proclivity for useless, mundane news.
Right?
Apparently, this population is larger than I thought. Surfing through the latest updates, I recently noticed a new icon positioned next to CNN’s “Top Stories” that resembles a t – shit. Clicking on it, I learned that if one was so inclined, a person can now order a t –shirt with their favorite CNN.com headline printed on it. Yes, now you too can have a plain white t-shirt with “Autistic Man Found after Week in the Woods” or my personal favorite, “Condo Pool Nudity Rankles Residents” pasted across it. First of all, what in the hell does “rankles” mean, and secondly, who is buying this shit? Is there no God? I acknowledge that I am a sick freak, but I am not about to print it on a t-shirt for the entire world to see. If you wear one of these shirt s in public you might as well be saying, “Hey, be sure not to park next to my van in the mall parking lot because otherwise I’ll cut you up and eat your toes.”
Why do people have to be so damn odd?
I do not know about you, but I feel like the warped and socially incompetent of the world all flock to me. It is as if I send out some kind of signal that attracts their adult braces or oversized hearing aids. What makes it worse is once they have established contact, I am unable to push them away. I smile and nod and act as if I am fascinated by their grandmother’s discolored mole, and no, I did not know it was a bad sign if it started to itch.
My tolerance has nothing to do with kindness either. Fuck, I hate these people. It is my own sick self-conscious need to have everyone like me. No, not just like, I need them to revel in my presence. I need anyone near me to think “Wow, what a fun, down to earth guy. Clearly he is content.”
Meanwhile I am feeding my emaciated ego with their every smile and chuckle. Pathetic I know, but I must concede that weird people are the best. Finding most others intolerant of their lazy eye or lisp, my forged interest makes me a God to them. Finally, someone sitting at the cool lunch table cares. (Not that I actually sit at the cool lunch table, but when spend your life eating with the cafeteria staff and special ed. students, it does not take much.)
The problem of course is when these people continue to swarm around me well after my self-image has been fulfilled. Can’t they see I am done pretending to care? The worst is when a onetime conversation is misinterpreted as a friendship, and they follow me everywhere I go. For instance, there was a girl I attended graduate school with whose presence was about as pleasurable as an infected ingrown toenail, but who somehow adopted me as her new BFF. Though seemingly normal in appearances, after thirty seconds of conversation, I began wondering if she was raised in one of those polygamist cults that did not allow TV or peanut butter. Or maybe she was just retarded. Fuck, I don’t know. I just know she was weird and somehow thought I cared.
I recall one night sitting on the front porch of our dormitory with a friend and his wife, and while the rest of our group had gone to bed, Little Miss Weird – Ass Sunshine remained. While talking about teaching and retelling humorous little anecdotes about students and parents, girl wonder abruptly interrupts with, “Do y’all eat chalk?”
Do ya’ll eat chalk…?
What in the hell is a person suppose to say to that? And of course, as I am the one responsible for her presence, the obligation to respond falls upon me. Not knowing what to say or where she is going with this inquiry, I try the stoner approach and say, “Yeah, um, I hear that shit will fuck you up.” What? Fuck you up? I know, I know, but what other options did I have.
“I use to eat chalk”, she explains, and then suddenly gets up, gathers her things, and goes to bed. No explanation to her question. No justification for why one might eat chalk. At least she was gone, however. A few days later I was rushing to catch the elevator, and after throwing myself between the closing doors, I found it was just her, me, and 5 floors of forced conversation. Looking at her face it was obvious she had been crying, and needing to be needed, I asked what was wrong. Apparently her grandfather had just passed away unexpectedly, and she was making arrangements to leave for the funeral. While that was sad or whatever, what was really shocking was the lucidity this travesty had granted her. No awkward questions or uncomfortable non – sequiturs. It seems the shock of her grandfather’s death had somehow sent her into normal discourse. Well, thank God that woman died when she did. Otherwise, can you imagine how unpleasant that elevator ride might have been?
Just the other day I had another run in with the socially useless. While using the computer at the library, a man walked in and sat across from me. Though he seemed fairly normal at first, something about him caught my eye and compelled me to take a closer look. The man’s trimmed gray hair and clean shaven – chin were complimented by the orange foundation and deep crimson rouge caked to his face. This lovely aesthetic gesture was accented by the ruby stud costume earrings resting daintily under his forest of ear hair. Lovely. Now, I am no expert in this field, but I feel like if I were going to dress like a woman, I would at least want to look pretty.
Regardless, as I moved in for a closer look, we made eye contact, and then I knew I was screwed. I smiled and returned to my Facebook profile, but for the next thirty minutes, I found myself constantly peering across the table and smiling. I felt I had to make grand gestures of civility to this science experiment gone wrong so he would know I did not think him to be a freak of fucking nature that probably grew up masturbating with his mother’s panties over his head. No, I celebrated his diversity.
Not being able to leave till he did, lest he think I was afraid of him, I found myself back on CNN.com. Maybe more people should buy these t-shirts. That way, I could see “Kids Fed ‘Silly Pills’, made to do Sex Shows” from afar and just stay away.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Poop
Can you poop in public?
I can’t.
There is something about the whole process that just doesn’t seem very communal to me. The sounds, the concentration, the occasional grunt. It is simply something I don’t care to share with other people, let alone in the close proximity of complete strangers. Washing their hands while out to dinner celebrating great accomplishments, reuniting with old friends, or even beginning a new relationship, I feel like if I were to let it all go, I would literally be shittting on their experience, and who wants that?
I applaud those of you who can pull it off, though. Pants down, legs spread out as if reclining on a porcelain Lazy-Z-Boy, you exude a self-confidence I wish I could posses. I must admit, though, I am always shocked to learn of women who can poop in public. I know it’s horribly sexist and only confirms my status as a chauvinistic ass, but I feel like woman should never poop, let alone at Applebee’s Neighborhood Bar & Grill.
In our society, we are insistent on separating people into dichotomies: white or black, male or female, straight or gay, beer or wine. Not only are these labels inappropriate for our P.C. society, but they are also rather pointless. Just the other day I met a mixed race bisexual who although biologically male identifies as female and who suffers from such severe alcoholism – wonder where that need comes from– that she’ll drink anything. So you see, our ways of understanding and defining each other are quite antiquated.
Now before you pour yourself another big helping of granola and raise the freak flag, understand that I am not implying we should not label one another. How else could I understand my inherent superiority to others? No, we must brand each other with arbitrary markers, but I am merely suggesting we create new, more judicious ones.
I think the obvious place to start here is with pooping. When you consider it, where a person defecates says a lot about them. The municipal pooper knows no boundaries, lacks a certain refinement, either literally thinking their shit doesn’t stink or just simply not caring. Regardless, they display a sense of abandonment that might seem appealing on some hedonistic level, but cannot be tolerated in a civilized world.
By contrast, the private pooper is civic minded, recognizing that inconveniences must be embraced for the good of the community at large. Yes, we all do poop, but you don’t see me shaving my pubic hairs or fondling myself in public restrooms now do you?
The trivial divisions of a new millennium don’t stop here: those who find Sarah Jessica Parker attractive versus those who don’t; beauty icon or horse face? Your answer to that question reveals a lot.
One split that has been on my mind a lot recently is that of those who like talking on the phone versus those who don’t. The simple-minded and bigoted might think this is an obvious question of gender, but they lack true understanding of the 21st century mind frame. Representatives of women and men alike enjoy conversing on the phone. (Granted, these same men also enjoy pedicures and having things up their butt, but I celebrate that.)
I for one hate the phone. I despise it in fact. It is not that I do not love my friends and family; it’s just that I really don’t care. Understand, I am not an asshole. If you die or win a Nobel Peace Prize, please, by all means call and tell me. But when you phone to see “what’s up”, the answer is simple: nothing “is up” because I am on the fucking phone wasting time talking with you. I do not mean to sound heartless, but unless something monumental happened in your life, what’s the point of “catching up?”
“Yeah, nothing new here. Cancer has not spread past my lymph nodes, and they have still have not had to put me on a feeding tube..”
Yeah, super for you, but couldn’t all of that been said in a text message or holiday card? I mean, really.
Again, I am not trying to be callous, but if I have to go all day without shitting, the last thing I want to do when I come home is delay the process even more by discussing how grandma is still alive.
Just something to think about…..
I can’t.
There is something about the whole process that just doesn’t seem very communal to me. The sounds, the concentration, the occasional grunt. It is simply something I don’t care to share with other people, let alone in the close proximity of complete strangers. Washing their hands while out to dinner celebrating great accomplishments, reuniting with old friends, or even beginning a new relationship, I feel like if I were to let it all go, I would literally be shittting on their experience, and who wants that?
I applaud those of you who can pull it off, though. Pants down, legs spread out as if reclining on a porcelain Lazy-Z-Boy, you exude a self-confidence I wish I could posses. I must admit, though, I am always shocked to learn of women who can poop in public. I know it’s horribly sexist and only confirms my status as a chauvinistic ass, but I feel like woman should never poop, let alone at Applebee’s Neighborhood Bar & Grill.
In our society, we are insistent on separating people into dichotomies: white or black, male or female, straight or gay, beer or wine. Not only are these labels inappropriate for our P.C. society, but they are also rather pointless. Just the other day I met a mixed race bisexual who although biologically male identifies as female and who suffers from such severe alcoholism – wonder where that need comes from– that she’ll drink anything. So you see, our ways of understanding and defining each other are quite antiquated.
Now before you pour yourself another big helping of granola and raise the freak flag, understand that I am not implying we should not label one another. How else could I understand my inherent superiority to others? No, we must brand each other with arbitrary markers, but I am merely suggesting we create new, more judicious ones.
I think the obvious place to start here is with pooping. When you consider it, where a person defecates says a lot about them. The municipal pooper knows no boundaries, lacks a certain refinement, either literally thinking their shit doesn’t stink or just simply not caring. Regardless, they display a sense of abandonment that might seem appealing on some hedonistic level, but cannot be tolerated in a civilized world.
By contrast, the private pooper is civic minded, recognizing that inconveniences must be embraced for the good of the community at large. Yes, we all do poop, but you don’t see me shaving my pubic hairs or fondling myself in public restrooms now do you?
The trivial divisions of a new millennium don’t stop here: those who find Sarah Jessica Parker attractive versus those who don’t; beauty icon or horse face? Your answer to that question reveals a lot.
One split that has been on my mind a lot recently is that of those who like talking on the phone versus those who don’t. The simple-minded and bigoted might think this is an obvious question of gender, but they lack true understanding of the 21st century mind frame. Representatives of women and men alike enjoy conversing on the phone. (Granted, these same men also enjoy pedicures and having things up their butt, but I celebrate that.)
I for one hate the phone. I despise it in fact. It is not that I do not love my friends and family; it’s just that I really don’t care. Understand, I am not an asshole. If you die or win a Nobel Peace Prize, please, by all means call and tell me. But when you phone to see “what’s up”, the answer is simple: nothing “is up” because I am on the fucking phone wasting time talking with you. I do not mean to sound heartless, but unless something monumental happened in your life, what’s the point of “catching up?”
“Yeah, nothing new here. Cancer has not spread past my lymph nodes, and they have still have not had to put me on a feeding tube..”
Yeah, super for you, but couldn’t all of that been said in a text message or holiday card? I mean, really.
Again, I am not trying to be callous, but if I have to go all day without shitting, the last thing I want to do when I come home is delay the process even more by discussing how grandma is still alive.
Just something to think about…..
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Everybody must get Stoned...
Teaching middle school, I find that in order to stay relevant in the minds of my students, I must stay afloat with the latest trends and popularities. Because my own self – worth is dependent upon the approval of people who have yet to discover deodorant and admire individuals who can drink the most spoonfuls of hot sauce, I have to work hard. Hannah Montana, The Jonas Brothers, Coldplay, some asshole named Soulja Boy, I have to endure some pretty horrible shit to stay “cool”. Sadly, thirty years from now when my students reflect on their experiences in my classroom, what they once saw as my “quirky personality” will take on a new label, “substance abuse.”
For now, though, in an attempt to remain hip to the hop, I created a Facebook account. If you are unfamiliar, Facebook is an online social networking system where young people post information and pictures that will prevent them from ever securing gainful employment and secure early on their role as a dirty, dirty whore.
Perusing my students’ pages, I was shocked by what I found. Thirteen year olds bragging about sexual escapades, fifteen year olds soliciting drugs, and every male college student in America shirtless and evoking the “We’re Number 1” sign. What exactly they are number 1 at I am not sure, but from the comments written on their profile, I assume it is somehow related to “doing all the bitches.”
What is happening to our society?
I couldn’t get laid until I was in college, and even then it was only because she was drunk! And when it comes to drugs, these kids are making deals online, while at 26, I have to wait for my finance to fall asleep, so I can sneak into the basement and smoke out of a Diet Coke can. There is something horribly wrong here!
As I thought more about this injustice, though, I realized something important. They might be living the life now, but it will all come back to haunt them. While using technology to solicit sex and illegal drugs at an alarmingly young age has its blessings, can you imagine if the exploits and decisions from your adolescence were posted for all the world to see? Imagine the CBS National News leading its broadcast with, “In Tennessee today, young John Smith wore white sox with his flip – flops and then masturbated thirteen times. More from our local correspondent on the scene.”
How embarrassing. …
At twelve years old I remembering riding my bike over to my best friend Nick's house for a afternoon of innocent fun. Declaring his vast array of movies and video games unsatisfying, we found ourselves in the default status of all adolescents, “bored.”
“I have an idea”, Nick said to me. “We should get high.”
Now, at this point in our rebellion against our white suburban privilege and parents’ unconditional love, we had only committed minor transgressions. Sharing a cigarette in the woods, taking a sip of our dads' beers when their backs were turned, nothing we really knew to be illegal or wrong. So while I was hesitant at first, Nick finally convinced me to go along when he promised that afterwards we could watch the jumbled images coming through the blocked cable pornography channel, or scrambled titty vision as we liked to call it.
As Nick and I were both retarded and had no clue as to what it meant to get high, we went looking through his kitchen to find something that resembled the drugs we had seen on TV. We consequently learned that cocaine’s street cred as “nose candy” has nothing to do with snorting sugar.
Ready to give up, Nick had a breakthrough: we should smoke something! That’s what homeless people do! Searching through his mother’s spice rack and finding nothing that sounded particularly illicit, we came upon some Lipton tea bags. Suddenly, in the majesty and pure beauty that is the adolescent mind, we had an epiphany.
The next thing I knew, Nick and I were hidden in a shaded corner of his backyard, using paper from my math notebook to wrap –up the contents of half a tea bag. (We decided not to use the whole bag, as we did not want to get too “messed up.”) Moments later we were passing back and forth the world’s longest joint as my notes on long division delved into flames. Besides the massive blaze pouring from the end of the paper, making it impossible to hold it anywhere near our faces, and our inability to actually inhale, Nick and I were fucked – up.
Neither of us were sure how to act in such a situation, so Nick began ranting about seeing a giant purple dinosaur to which I replied with the nodding of my head and repeating “yeah man, yeah man.” Hearing the slamming of the backdoor and his mother’s call for dinner, we were suddenly scared back into sobriety.
The school year ended only a few weeks later, and I went away to my Dad's house in Indiana for the summer. When I returned, there was never again any mention of our little psychedelic tea party and to this day I think both of us would like to forget it ever happened.
But can you imagine if Facebook had been at our disposal? Within minutes we would have changed our usernames to “Cheech and Chong” and transformed into the Timothy Leary of herbal teas. Green is a nice mellow high, but beware the “pure leaf” bags. You might never come back from that…
Oh, technology is grand, but I for one am glad to have grown armpit hair before discovering it.
For now, though, in an attempt to remain hip to the hop, I created a Facebook account. If you are unfamiliar, Facebook is an online social networking system where young people post information and pictures that will prevent them from ever securing gainful employment and secure early on their role as a dirty, dirty whore.
Perusing my students’ pages, I was shocked by what I found. Thirteen year olds bragging about sexual escapades, fifteen year olds soliciting drugs, and every male college student in America shirtless and evoking the “We’re Number 1” sign. What exactly they are number 1 at I am not sure, but from the comments written on their profile, I assume it is somehow related to “doing all the bitches.”
What is happening to our society?
I couldn’t get laid until I was in college, and even then it was only because she was drunk! And when it comes to drugs, these kids are making deals online, while at 26, I have to wait for my finance to fall asleep, so I can sneak into the basement and smoke out of a Diet Coke can. There is something horribly wrong here!
As I thought more about this injustice, though, I realized something important. They might be living the life now, but it will all come back to haunt them. While using technology to solicit sex and illegal drugs at an alarmingly young age has its blessings, can you imagine if the exploits and decisions from your adolescence were posted for all the world to see? Imagine the CBS National News leading its broadcast with, “In Tennessee today, young John Smith wore white sox with his flip – flops and then masturbated thirteen times. More from our local correspondent on the scene.”
How embarrassing. …
At twelve years old I remembering riding my bike over to my best friend Nick's house for a afternoon of innocent fun. Declaring his vast array of movies and video games unsatisfying, we found ourselves in the default status of all adolescents, “bored.”
“I have an idea”, Nick said to me. “We should get high.”
Now, at this point in our rebellion against our white suburban privilege and parents’ unconditional love, we had only committed minor transgressions. Sharing a cigarette in the woods, taking a sip of our dads' beers when their backs were turned, nothing we really knew to be illegal or wrong. So while I was hesitant at first, Nick finally convinced me to go along when he promised that afterwards we could watch the jumbled images coming through the blocked cable pornography channel, or scrambled titty vision as we liked to call it.
As Nick and I were both retarded and had no clue as to what it meant to get high, we went looking through his kitchen to find something that resembled the drugs we had seen on TV. We consequently learned that cocaine’s street cred as “nose candy” has nothing to do with snorting sugar.
Ready to give up, Nick had a breakthrough: we should smoke something! That’s what homeless people do! Searching through his mother’s spice rack and finding nothing that sounded particularly illicit, we came upon some Lipton tea bags. Suddenly, in the majesty and pure beauty that is the adolescent mind, we had an epiphany.
The next thing I knew, Nick and I were hidden in a shaded corner of his backyard, using paper from my math notebook to wrap –up the contents of half a tea bag. (We decided not to use the whole bag, as we did not want to get too “messed up.”) Moments later we were passing back and forth the world’s longest joint as my notes on long division delved into flames. Besides the massive blaze pouring from the end of the paper, making it impossible to hold it anywhere near our faces, and our inability to actually inhale, Nick and I were fucked – up.
Neither of us were sure how to act in such a situation, so Nick began ranting about seeing a giant purple dinosaur to which I replied with the nodding of my head and repeating “yeah man, yeah man.” Hearing the slamming of the backdoor and his mother’s call for dinner, we were suddenly scared back into sobriety.
The school year ended only a few weeks later, and I went away to my Dad's house in Indiana for the summer. When I returned, there was never again any mention of our little psychedelic tea party and to this day I think both of us would like to forget it ever happened.
But can you imagine if Facebook had been at our disposal? Within minutes we would have changed our usernames to “Cheech and Chong” and transformed into the Timothy Leary of herbal teas. Green is a nice mellow high, but beware the “pure leaf” bags. You might never come back from that…
Oh, technology is grand, but I for one am glad to have grown armpit hair before discovering it.
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