I’d like to provide new definitions and word pairs for you today.
Zebra Vest – Something you should never wear.
Obsolete Library – A stack of Newsweek magazines.
Evasive Chair – A chair that has been pulled out from under you when you go to sit down.
Curved Pickle – A cucumber with erectile dysfunction.
Abortive Secretary – When an administrative assistant quits her job.
Rifle Toe – What one does to themselves to avoid the military draft.
Thoughtless Fact – Anything you hear on the ten o’clock news.
Flippant Reward – When someone offers a reward for a lost item, but then doesn’t give it to you. Bonus definition: When your paycheck is the victim of budget cuts.
Invincible Dust – When you dust off that damn end table, for the third time this week.
Perpetual Shade – A deep, dark, dreaded and dreary cave.
Jobless Yarn – A farmless sheep.
Naive Crowd – Any group of people gathered in a shopping mall.
Goodbye Ticket – A pink slip.
Pointless Texture – Freckles!
Calendar Representative – Any major holiday mascot.
Light Writer – Everyone who uses Twitter.
Old-fashioned Twig – A twig grown naturally, as opposed to one synthetically manufactured in China.
Competition Laugh – When two or more people try to be the last person laughing.
Fan Fact – Anything fans believe about celebrity gossip.
Frankly, there are only two people who can really declare when a honeymoon is over; the bride, and the mother-in-law.
This term relates to the end of the pleasant, enjoyable beginning of a marriage — when there’s lots of passionate sex — that gradually or abruptly ends when it’s time to get to the more serious roles of being betrothed. Like, raising the children you just made.
I think, there are other times the idiom could apply:
The honeymoon is over, when the cute puppy grows into a dumb, ugly mutt. Usually happens after a year or two, and coincides with puddles of slobber, combs filled with hair, and floors dotted with dander.
The honeymoon is over, when your boss’s attitude goes from charming and inviting, to distrust and distaste; naturally, this happens at the same time he signs your first paycheck.
The honeymoon is over, is what I would say if I had a job.
The honeymoon is over, when, while gardening in the backyard, you hit a pipe line that shoots black liquid into the air, bringing up hopes of striking it rich with oil, only to discover, as it lands on your new gardening overalls, you broke the septic.
The honeymoon is over, after your neighbors realize their three-way didn’t go as planned, when their dog vomited the crotchless panties on the bed, and the neighbors were arrested for animal abuse by bestiality.
The honeymoon is over, after you wake up and realize it was all just a nightmare, and that crazy bitch never blew you in the first place. Yet, you are missing your wallet, car keys, and the eight ounces of cocaine.
I’d like to introduce a new segment I call, Comment Corner. It seems to me, that any time I post a comment on a news website, it goes unheard, or voted down unfairly by some dumb motherfucker. Instead of losing my opinions that pop up at that point in time, I will publish them here for y’all to read. It will diagnose both my comments, and generalize the comments of the article’s readers.
First up, Lt. Tim McLaughlin’s decisions to withhold his American Flag from being used as propaganda celebrating the most senseless and expensive war in U.S. history.
I’m not one to falsely believe in symbols, especially when rich white men parade them around. I think this marine did the right thing, by exercising his well-earned privilege to stop the media’s decathlon on creating a spectacle of death and destruction. As much as I like big explosions, and finding interesting and amusing ways for the species to kill itself, I do hope there could be some sort of peace.
Of course, when you scroll down to the comments of these military-related articles, everyone shows off their support for the marines, while bashing the government. But really, who is to blame for the killing; the government that orders the soldiers to do the killing, or the men who pull the trigger? Now before you get your patriot arrows out, I want you to know, I support anyone who’s willing to risk their their lives for the sake of a few misguided, theology based opinions. Makes us feel important, and at times, stops a real criminal.
I’ve never read a romance novel in my life, but I do enjoy romantic comedies; but only if they’re more comedy than romance. Then again, sometimes, I think they’re the same thing. Anyway, here are some wonderful titles to titillate your imagination:
- The Big Richard
- Burning the Midnight Chlamydia
- In the Bossom of Syphilis
- An Out-of-this-World Guide to Picking up Chicks: You’re From Mars, and She Wants Your Penis
- Gonorrhea With the Wind
- Dances Under the Balls
- That Bitch What Stole My Hotel Key
- Part 2: That Bitch What Stole My Wallet
- Part 3: That Bitch What Stole My Gun
- Part 4: That Bitch What Stole My Car
And the final book:
- That Bitch What Died and Who’s Father Turned Me In
Wait, there are prequels!
- That Bastard Who Stole My Innocence
- That Bastard Who I Locked in The Community Bathroom at a Cheap Hotel
- That Bastard Who Couldn’t Fix His Car
- That Bastard Who Had No Money
- My Special Robot
- Burning with Denial
- Porch Party in the Boonies
- Falling Into My Mother-In-Law’s Trap
- Blue Balls of a Sunday Moon
- A Game of Pricks and Pole Dancing
- A Bride’s Guide to Cheating
- A Husband’s Guide to Ignoring a Cheating Wife
- A Wife’s Guide to Ignoring Decades of a Cheating Bastard
- Kiss of the Clap
These are just thoughts passing through my mind.
Turn, Turn, Turn: For many of us, winter is blooming into spring, or fall hardening into winter. Which season do you most look forward to?
Winter. The trees play dead; fish are trapped to die under the frozen tundra of a pond; and, ironically, in the season where nature kills herself, humans are happy. Maybe it has something to do with the convergence of their made-up holidays.
I like to think the holidays were deliberately planned together, to relieve people that winter reminds them that everything has died. Like to think, but then they go about and celebrate things such as births, and news, like a new year; the birth of a baby; and how nature has given to all and we should share alike.
I can’t find an index on this, but it seems to me, the cold air snaps people out of their foul moods. Then again, one only has to read Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, to prove me wrong, or right; it depends how far you’ve read: to the point of death appeared, or the point Scrooge changed his views forever.
While spring reminds people of nature’s birth, winter’s coming informs them that all that has grown that year, is sent off to die. Like war; maybe that’s the motivation in America; it reminds rich white men that everything innocent is sent off to die, while they lay cozy on their oversized recliners.
Winter presents a challenge for survival, and if you come out on top, you’ll be presented with the warming of spring. A warming filled with pollen, dander, and dirt, dictated by a stupid groundhog in a penguin suit.
Winter’s chilled frosty air, presents an opportunity to wear more clothes. During the summer and fall, there’s a production increase at Chinese sweat shops. And for the workers who kill over during their duty, it’s a reminder that winter strikes with death even when it’s not around.
Winter beats out summer in that, if it’s too cold, you can light a fire, or snuggle under a blanket with your sex provider. At summertime, you could skimp down to nothing, and still burn your ass off.
The transition is this: spring blossoms life; summer fries it with cancer from the blazing sun; fall eats away at the life, dropping it to the ground; and the winter snow buries it, putting the final nails in it’s coffin.
Winter. It’s cold, it’s dead, it’s quiet — unlike the noisy neighbors during their spring break parties — and it’s a reminder that people should be giving to one another all year long. Instead of waiting for the reminder that everything is dead, just like some people wait until a relative has died, before saying something nice about them.
Something that blocks me from getting my work moving, is my ability to get others interested in it on a level like, say, more popular comic and comedy websites. I think it has to do with my inability to be a good salesman.
I understand that, in order for someone to be interested in what you have to sell them, it should fulfill one of two things: something they’re interested in getting, or interested in preventing. The key here is “interested in.”
As a child, I was anything but interested in others. Not because I couldn’t get along with most kids (I couldn’t), at definitely not most adults; but because I wanted to get away from it all. This hiding has hurt my ability to be interested in others, among other things that contributed to that lack of interest.
It’s no surprise I feel some hate for the things my mother has done; her anxiety, stress, and how she handled it, was something I learned at an early age. And still haven’t been rid of. At times, even today, I found myself yelling at my own anger; yelling at my own situation; upset, throwing things. It hurts, and it tires me out.
This prevents me from taking the time to try to be interested in others; if I see my situation as difficult, unfair, and not deserving of the work I’ve done, it’s hard for me to want to be interested in helping others.
Yet, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for people. The problem, however, I was helping the few; the bosses at work, and coworkers, to a greater extent than those around me. I get upset at it, but inside, I know the reason there’s little interest in my fiction writing, is because there I show little interest in the work of the many.
When I work for someone, I do a lot of work for one person; drained at the end of the day, I don’t take the time to help those around me to the extent I would prefer. When I work alone, I am working for myself. And, I have tried to write books and program software for others to use, but alas, I can’t get any of them sold.
It’s been nearly a year since I quit my last job, and I haven’t had the momentum I hoped and worked for, to get my work going where I wanted it to. I continue to write, refine, and grow my work, but that becomes difficult, when there’s such a lack of interest.
It’s infuriating; to the point I’m yelling at nobody, kicking things in my room over, and talking to the dog in the backyard about how fucked up people are. If you saw me do this, you might think I have lost my mind. But I do it, simply, because the phrase I hear from most people is, “That’s just the way it is.”
But that’s not just the way it is. That’s just the way it is when I spend a lot of my energy and effort working for one person, and hardly for the people around me. It’s damaged me, badly, and I’m hurting for the simplest things now; money to buy food, pay for gas, and even my measly $45 cellphone bill.
I can stretch a dollar, but not my patience. I’m ticked off that others simply seem to be able to pick up out of nowhere and get things moving; but not me. I can’t sell anything; especially myself.
How do you explain quitting a job after five years, without notice? Without telling the truth, because that would be unprofessional; that would just toss out any chance of getting a job. Hiring managers are tired of giving sympathy to people; there are a lot of liars and exaggerators out there.
Some people just don’t understand, or know; and if they knew, or understood, they still don’t give a shit. Having someone literally — not figuratively, literally — sitting behind you for five years, is damaging to your emotional and psychological health. I have little desire to even work for one person anymore; I want to do a little work for a lot of people.
But I can’t have that. I can’t have that because I’ve dedicated so much time doing a lot of work for few people; those few people not giving a damn if I work for them or not. So unfair to myself, even more unfair to my friends and family.
I feel I’ve ruined my chance at finding work, anywhere. People are so damned concerned about a person’s willingness to stick around, like they want a lifetime dedication of absolute loyalty, to a wage where they can’t even afford a home.
My wages haven’t gone up since 2004; and I was still in college then. What a fucking joke; and here people that I was working directly next to — often doing their work — were making two-three times what I was earning.
It’s infuriating; watching others get what they want because they all support one another. I’ve tried that, but to what? Nothing. I have a damned good education, but a bad attitude to go with it. Nobody wants anyone with a bad attitude.
My writing gets very little attention; maybe because it’s rude; maybe because there’s anger in it; maybe because there’s nothing mushy gushy in it. Maybe because it’s not a butterfly filled field of posies and daises, waiting to be rolled around in.
But I can’t offer people happiness; that comes from within. All I can offer is my own view and opinion; and, since everyone has an opinion, few have the need for another; especially reluctant to pay for it.
I tried the fiction route, I tried the non-fiction route; I tried the self-help route; I tried the illustrated comic route; I tried all sorts of routes. But to no avail. Completely blinded and overshadows by the immense influx of people with more support, more money, and more friends than I.
I haven’t gained that magical quality other people seem to have, whatever it is, to procure a plethora of friends, that others seem to have. I don’t know what it is, but it seems others can just pick up a phone, and things can start getting done. I can’t even pick up a thought, express it, and sell it. That leaves me penniless; I have less than $1 cash on me, and less than $40 in the bank.
After working for sixteen years, studying and working full-time for nine of them, I have nothing to show for it. In the terms of material possessions, I don’t care; I’d rather have financial security. Those few I have worked for, my previous employers, are more financially secure, day in and day out, than I am; and without the support and attention they seem to get at the snap of a finger, I’ll never get there.
I could say I have hope, but I can’t. I don’t have hope for my own work anymore. Not my writing, not my illustrations that just get lost in cyberspace. I seriously think WordPress.com has a deliberate limitation placed upon it that prevents people from finding my work. Then again, I don’t think people are really looking for anything I’m writing about on the Internet.
At most, I’ve had 10 visitors in a single day; less than 120 in an entire month. Talking about something original, myself, or a new view; while others who get thousands upon thousands of daily visitors, talk about the same damned thing someone else did. It’s irritating.
I’ve bought into a lot of things in my life. At 11, I bought into the idea that if I started working early, things will be better than the butter and macaroni dinners as the only thing my mother could afford dinners. But that didn’t work; not for me.
At sixteen, I went back to work, at McDonald’s, and fucking hated it. Asshole boss, asshole assistant boss, and I hated working there; a six month stint on the fryer. At seventeen, I worked at an arcade, and enjoyed that; but working in a place like that won’t pay the bills.
At seventeen I bought into the idea that I had to get a good education, a valuable skill; what a load of shit that’s been. My education has served others well, and damaged me, by providing that irritating insight into the souls of others. I would spend the next four years working full time and going to college full time.
I earned my Bachelor’s at twenty-one, a young age for anyone graduating from college. But people don’t really give a shit about that; especially the owners of these businesses, who dropped out of high school or college; the arrogant fucks.
And I continued my education, once again, for someone else’s goddamned benefit. Five fucking years of nights wasted into studying and researching and practicing, just so these fucks could have a better run business. My sympathy told me to help them; my mind told me to get the education; my health told me to stop. I didn’t listen to the last, until I quit my job a year ago.
And since then, nothing is going right. I can’t sell a damned thing; not a single book; and I don’t have the tools to build websites for people. I don’t even have my own domain — which I had since I was fourteen years old. But, still, doesn’t fucking matter, because everyone else got what they wanted.
I feel burned, burned out, and used and abused. People say, “That’s the way it is.” But I don’t see everyone else that way. My negative outlook on everything overshadows that beautiful, sparkling life other people have; or maybe they’re just kidding themselves; maybe it’s their drinking habits.
I don’t know, but I still feel betrayed by all that fucking advice. That advice that was supposed to lead to a better life. Nobody — nobody — ever told me people were more concerned with someone being a fairy fruit fuck (no offense to the gays) at work, and being passive, ignorant, and playing stupid, were the order of the day. That people wanted absolute obedience and loyalty for life, in order to even serve them in any sense.
But people don’t demand that when you are your own boss. They work with you, on your level, and your attitude will be important, too. But fuck! It pisses me off; that I’ve done so much for so few, and so little for others. These few didn’t give a fuck about whether I worked for them or not. It didn’t matter; all the work I’ve put into their efforts, and they’re off living a better life because of it.
Why can’t I get a better life for all that work? I’ve never done drugs; I’ve never committed crime; I’ve never even harassed anyone! I’ve never dropped a cheap pick up line; I’ve never lied to get ahead; I’ve never cheated to get ahead; I’ve played by the goddamned fucking rules. And instead, the rules fucking played me. They ruined my ability to give a shit.
My desire to help any business died on April 18th, 2012, when I just walked out midday on my former employer. An employer who didn’t give a flying fuck about me; an employer who didn’t give a damn if I lived or died, because they got theirs. Spoken like a true corporate identity.
But individuals, my friends — not my family — are more than happy and grateful when I can help them with something. But the fucking hypocricsy is this: the entire last year, I’ve been available and willing to help my friends and family, but none of them have really asked anything of me!
They want me to go back to this miserable fucking state where I’m doing a lot of work making one person’s life better, but not my own. This is the way they’ve operated because they have a stronger support network than I do; they have the love; the money; the care; and those around them interested in their livelihood.
I’ve tried that; I have fucking tried that, to no avail. Nobody I know is interested, at all, in anything I am interested in; probably because I’m gradually losing interest in everything I’ve worked on. My writing, my comics, all of it; none of it going anywhere.
Even if I wrote a book with the absolute best diet, the absolute guaranteed way to make a million dollars in a day, a book with the absolute, undeniable perfect form of government; nobody would give a shit. Nobody would even know it’s there; because I can’t sell anything. All I can do is offer my opinion; all I can do is say what’s on my mind. All I can do is write it, yell it, with anger, with hatred, and with a deep passion for wanting to stop doing the same goddamned thing that leads to nowhere.
My mother starting working at the age of fourteen, and just barely, at the age of fifty-two, paid off her debts. Yet! She owns no land, no property of equitable value of any kind; society doesn’t give a shit about those who give and give and give. The rich fucks in this world I’ve worked for have done nothing but take and take and take, leaving crumbs for the rest of us.
It’s wrong, and I hate having to support it. And even then, I can’t fucking support it! I tried applying for a job at CVS and Rite-Aid, just a mile away from home, and nothing. Best Buy rejected my application to repair computers and car audio equipment. Can you believe this shit? The ad is posted every fucking week!
Clearly, people don’t want someone who is unemployed. They don’t know the whole fucking story. They don’t know what I started working at the age of eleven; they don’t give a shit.
So, I have an idea. I think, the next job I apply for, I am going to include a letter that describes this, in the most polite way I can, without sounding desperate. But, fuck, you know it won’t work; people won’t even look at it. Half the interviews I’ve had, nobody looks at the cover letter or resume. Doesn’t mean shit to them; I’m not a happy, giddy, child who will bow his head in absolute obedience.
So where does someone like me go? If I can’t work for one business, if I can’t work for a lot of other people — because my workable skill, computer repair is getting wiped out by tablets I can’t even open without destroying — where can I go? There’s nothing left; and anything else that’s there, is a goddamned fucking sinkhole that nobody gives a shit about.
Some people hate authors, because they’re looked upon as lazy, arrogant, and never contribute to society. Are these people fucking kidding me!? Without writing, civilization as we know it would have never existed in the first place. Neither would their precious fucking religion, politics, and prime time television.
There seems to be an immense lack of respect and interest for people who don’t make it in something that requires a lot of work, a lot of risk, and a high chance that it won’t get anywhere. Except! When they do make it, then they fucking love you, and want all your attention in the world. This, is why I feel most famous authors are recluse; why most celebrities hide themselves from the public. They were shit before they were famous, and nobody cared about them; but once they have money and fame, well, hey, then you’re the coolest guy around.
And that’s what pisses me off the most; everyone wants me to do what they want me to do, and never wants me to do what I want to do. I can’t get my writing to sell because nobody — none of my friends or family — have read anything I’ve written. My relatives can’t even take ten seconds to look at a fucking comic strip.
I’m behind on my rent; more than $700. Luckily, my roommate isn’t an asshole; but my mother will probably sooner find some shitty apartment for me, and pay more for that each month, than help me by paying my roommate.
Can you believe this: I’m the youngest of four children, and I’m the only one who has never gone to my mother for financial help, ever since I was 19. She would ask me, any time we spoke, if I needed any money for anything; and, I told her no. I was fine with money. Now, that I need help, it’s a fucking burden! It’s a goddamned problem to help me!
I’ve tried to sell my work — for free! And there was little interest in that. I guess it’s either really shitty — like, worse than Fifty Shades of Gray shitty — but I wouldn’t know for sure. People ignore work they don’t like; except me, where I work for the same employer for five years, wanting to get away from them each and every day.
I can handle a lot of work; it’s no burden on me to work for more than twenty-four hours straight. I’ve done it many times in the last few months, so time and dedication and effort is no skin off my back. What rips the flesh off my spine is that I have to go back to doing a lot of work, for one more person; thus throwing myself into the same fucking path that hasn’t worked for millions of other workers.
Misery loves company, I suppose; and that’s what people are fine with. I would tell people, “I’m doing fine.” or “I’m okay.” When, really, I just wanted to get the fuck away from all those shitty people. But that didn’t matter; I had to remain positive; had to keep an upbeat attitude about everything.
My good attitude and positive thinking is gone. It’s been flushed down the drain, because I’ve spent too much time listening to negative people, who think helping someone turns them into a fucking victim. I know it’s mean, I know it’s rude, and some ultra-conservatives out there will turn their attention away, but that person was my mother; my own family.
I want to get away from this stupid shit and live a happier life. But now, since I figured all this out, from my year away from work, I face another problem: finding work. Finding people that actually believe me, and that I can help. That’s probably out the window, too, along with any chance of people giving a shit.
I can’t tell them the truth; nobody wants to hear about anyone’s personal problems. They how the fuck do I explain why I quit my job!? Huh, you fucking assholes!? You arrogant, pretentious fucks who think you’re so goddamned mighty because you’re the one dangling the job over my head; fuck you.
This is how pissed I am at these lazy, degenerates. This generation built on the idea that everything has to be secured, safe, and protected; that everyone has to be perfect in every fucking way, or they’re worthless pieces of shit. As far as I’m concerned, nobody and nothing is perfect; because perfection is an opinion, and opinions are formed and change with experience.
But I’m stuck in this fucking problem; no sympathy, and ever-decreasing sympathy, probably because of my age, too. I don’t really know for sure; it seems there are a lot of lazy, apathetic people running these businesses. Fuck, I’m tired.
Okay, thanks for reading. Sorry if you’re pissed; then again, I don’t know if anyone will even read this, between the massive amount of emails and news feeds they’re probably sorting through.
Patience is a verb that is non-existent in American English. I can’t recall when such a virtue was practiced by the majority. Probably before I was born, it was tied up and tossed over a bridge by the computer.
I have this theory, why people have become more demanding of products, services, and employees, over the past twenty to thirty years. Most of the cause, I believe, comes from our ever-improving technological advances, and a sad dependency on the conveniences they provide.
A phone used to be a phone; you could call someone, even your neighbor across the street, and watch them stop their bondage session, and hang up. They would never know it was you. I miss that, don’t you? Prank calls. They’re fucking gone, because everyone wants surveillance everywhere.
I believe smartphones have transformed otherwise intelligent human beings, into fucking idiots. When you wanted to call someone, before the cellphone, you had to find the phone. Ever hear of a courtesy phone? They used to exist, until everyone owned one themselves, then they became an unnecessary expense. Now, the phone is there in your pocket; easy, portable, and with you more time throughout the day than your significant other.
People have fallen in love with their devices, and out of love with patience, and settling first for what they need, and gradually getting what they want. And each of these devices is on all day, every day, and easy to use, and easy to access. Thanks to the integration with the Internet, everyone with access to the plethora of meaningless information, believes thy have an IQ of 235.
News flash! Smartphones do not have a consciousness, and therefore cannot create their own solutions, or information. Other people write that stuff; Wikipedia did not just build itself. This disconnect between humans, divided by machines, has subconsciously built into the minds of unaware Americans, that everything should be easy to access, easy to use, and easy to work with.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise then, where the obsessive compulsive need for employees to be a good fit for the workplace community, comes from. Every hiring managers believes they’re the twenty-first century Sigmund Freud, and because of this, finding a place to work with people who aren’t the same, is close to impossible. A need for absolute harmony, where everyone thinks, walks, talks, and believes the same; a reflection of their demands on technology.
Everyone wants a smartphone that does everything a computer does, and then some. Email, video, voice — which used to be a phone call — and text messaging, all for the sake of convenience. So, if something isn’t convenient, they have the nerve to toss it out as completely useless.
Employers do the same; they’ll investigate an employee’s personality, because, frankly, once all workers have been replaced by computers, what’s left other than a person’s genetic code? Don’t be surprised if the corporate owners want to control that some day, too; we’re not too far off.
There’s a price for convenience. Usually, one finds value in the work required to acquire the things they need. Like, water; it didn’t always flow from the tap, but about thirty years after it did, people don’t care about it anymore. If you have any doubts, drive over to Southern California, and look at any of our wonderful, beautiful, shores of slightly transparent brown water.
Ever since the tool of choice to access information sat in a pocket next to their crotch, everyone thinks they have the right to demand constant access to the mindless drivel online. This translates into the workplace with increased demands on employees to constantly stay informed, update their skills and knowledge, so the boss doesn’t have to do it himself. You know, for convenience.
How can we reduce the ever-increasing demands by a society of people staring at screens. I certainly can’t stand here and just tell you what’s wrong, I have to provide a solution; part of that American tradition of having someone else solve your problems. That’s another thing technology does: solves problems — so they don’t have to do it themselves, and feel good about it. That further decreases the value of work.
Sometimes, I picture a massive E.M.P. exploding and destroying all electronic devices, along with the factories in China that create them. Maybe — just maybe — people will go for a walk, and clear their head of all that passive, diluted, narcissistic social-networking bullshit. That disease where people believe the only way to communicate a thought, is to tell every one of their friends at the same time; staying informed.
I’m bothered by the need to stay informed about other people’s stupid shit. I don’t care about your new pair of khakis; I don’t want to ride in your new boat — unless, if course, there are six or seven Swedish supermodels aboard. But I’ll stick with reality and inform you of my solution to this problem:
Stop using it. Plain and simple as that. Your life doesn’t really get any better with a smartphone. In fact, as your phone remembers things for you, your brain doesn’t get the exercise it needs to recall a simple thought. You know, so you can recall all the great moments you’ve had in life; fights at the family reunion; your mugshot on the ten-o’clock news; and that time you got caught sleeping with your boss’s daughter. You know, the blonde with the gimped leg, no hands, and thinks its the year 1927.
If you ever wondered why people are fucking dumb, there’s an answer for you. But, then you say, “Well, we need this technology, because that’s what everyone else has.” So says the fucking television you’re staring at, or the shitty marketing campaign that’s convinced you another device will bring you happiness. Let me ask you this, would you ever look to your mother and say, “Yeah! I’d jump off the fucking bridge! If everyone else is, clearly, they know what to do!”
The demands aren’t going away, as long as people keep getting what they want. Like a child who kicks and screams until he gets his toy back.
Just remember folks; the people of this country spend more time staring at screens than they do the moon and the stars. Makes you wonder why we haven’t colonized Mars yet. Maybe we should start by looking in the right direction.
So this daily prompt thing poked itself up this morning, and I figured I’d give it the old one-some number or another. Here it is:
“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a member of the opposite sex for a day? What do you think life would be like?”
I think Freud pointed out we all do this in some manner. Here is my take on if I had a vajayjay instead of a dingaling.
Bullshit disclaimer reminder: This is a sarcastic post, and I hope I don’t offend those wonderful women who follow my blog. :) It’s mostly about how typical men view women, and I don’t know how much truth there is to it. Enjoy!
First, when I stand up in the morning, I fall face forward onto the bookshelf. I’d imagine I’d have at least an average sized pair of tits to weigh me down. Which begs the question, how do women learn to walk with these jugs on their chest, and not throw out their back?
Maybe it grows on them through the puberty stages. Could be why women are forced to walk a certain way; keeping that back in an upright, curved position, so their boobs don’t lurch them forward into a hunchback their entire lives.
I manage to pick myself up and realize I have sandbags on my chest. I panic, and reach for my balls, which are gone! They’re fucking gone! I’ve been hacked off!
All I feel is an empty void; a hole where anything smaller than a finger can go in without my knowledge: dirt, bugs, dust, dander, pollen, drops of water, drops of blood, and dead skin flakes, none of which I’ll ever see.
That’s a big difference I’ve seen with genitalia: men have this miniscule hole that nothing gets in without force, and nothing comes out without too much drinkin’ or jerkin’ off.
Meanwhile, women have to protect this extra hole in their body from nearly everything; especially those guys staring at them without saying a word.
Okay, back to the day as a woman. I pull myself up and run to the mirror. I freak out and scream; my voice is different, and I may have woken the neighbors. Shit, now what do I do? They’re going to rush over here thinking someone’s being murdered.
Best not to open the door. I’ll just politely tell them “I’m fine, it was just a spider.” Make up some excuse they’ll believe, because clearly, according to the manly men out there, all women are afraid of spiders. I can imagine one reason why is that delightful area she has to protect.
Next, I rush back to my room and realize I have a huge gash on my forehead when I fell on the bookshelf. Then, using my worldly, manly knowledge of women, I frantically apply makeup. I’m new at this, so I think I will need: concealer, blush, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick, lip-gloss, a few cleansing pads, several mini brushes, an extra mirror for those different angles, and acne cream.
Now I understand why it’s more expensive to be a woman than it is a man. It’s not all about appearances; it’s about health, too. Speaking of which, why haven’t I had to walk into the bathroom and pee yet, like I do every morning. What’s wrong with my body!? Oh, nope, never mind, there goes something; no warning, just a little bit.
I rush to the potty and go, while getting the whole fucking toilet wet. Why didn’t someone explain to me it gets all over the place!? I can’t control this!
Quickly I unfurl the entire roll of toilet paper and begin to wipe down the mess, when I realize there’s a drop of blood on the toilet seat. Shit, it’s not coming off. Where’s the bleach, the ajax, any cleaning product! Crap, it’s on my thigh and the bathroom rug, too!
Then, I remember, I’m a woman; clearly, I should have no problem cleaning this, and should stop panicking. But I can’t run around the house with blood dripping down my thighs. I stuff some toilet paper down there and run to the kitchen sink, hoping it doesn’t fall out. I grab the ajax and bleach from under the sink, and rush back to clean the toilet, keeping my thighs close together as possible.
Then, my alarm goes off reminding me I need to go to work. But it’s louder than usual; I didn’t change the volume. I rush out and bump my knee as I turn the corner too sharply and fall over. I’ve done this plenty of times before, but holy shit it hurts more than it ever has! Why didn’t anyone explain this to me!?
I shut the alarm off and open my closet; it’s full of clothes a woman could wear, but wouldn’t fit well into. Men’s suits, all of them boring, crappy colors of gray, black, and blue.
Wait a tick, I can’t go to work! What would that perv boss say!? Whoa, did I just think that? Wow, that thought never occurred to me before. If I walk in there now, he’ll think I’m some woman trying to infiltrate his property and take all his money.
Fuck it, got to call in sick. But wait, I have a woman’s voice. He wouldn’t believe I was sick. I know, I could say I’m my mother; that will work. Wait, no, that’s unprofessional; got to keep up appearances. Furthermore, if my mother called in to work for me, something very terrible must have made me sick.
I need help! Somebody help me! I never learned all this! I don’t know what to do with this body, with these thoughts, with all this feeling. Maybe this is all a nightmare. Hold on, let me pinch myself.
Shit! That hurt more than normal! Why!? Oh, crap, I forgot. Women have thinner skin than men. Damn it! Bastard! Which reminds me, when did it get so cold in my bedroom? It’s 70 degrees in here! Whatever, fine, forget it. I will sit and watch movies all day, and all my problems will go away.
So, there I am, watching movies, when I suddenly realize I had yet to have breakfast. So, I cook breakfast, a big one, and sit down to eat it. I eat some of it, then some more… but I can’t finish it. Somehow I feel guilty; guilty that if I eat all of this food, I will get fat. My thighs will get big, my waist will widen, my feet will become plump, and these boobs on my chest will be overshadowed by the large bulbous figure that will surround it.
I throw the rest of the food away, and grab — a bottle of water. That works; that’s fine. That will keep me feeling full, for a little while. Maybe, maybe, for lunch, I can eat a salad, and save the rest for dinner. Oh, boy, how could I get along with that!? I’ll be starving all day. What the hell is going on!? I just want my dick back!
But it’s not coming back, not now. It’s only nine in the morning! What do I have to do all day, shit, I never make plans. What needs to be done; what needs to be done. I look around the house and the place is a fucking mess. Who put all these newspapers, magazines, and beer cans everywhere!? I don’t even drink! Or do I? Can I? Wait, wait, is it okay? I don’t know. Someone help!
Ugh. Wow, it’s amazing what women go through just for first few hours of the day. I can’t imagine all that throughout the entire day. I’m tired, exhausted, and ready to go to bed.
You may have heard about this teen wizkid who built a mobile app, called Summly, that cuts down news content, and was purchased by Yahoo! I think this child prodigy deserves points for crafting the clever name, that is, in fact, a dysfunctional adverb. Makes me feel warmly inside.
The attention span of the average adult today is shorter than his dick, and this genius comes along to chop it down even further, with the assumption that only the important facts need to be presented. I miss old-school journalistic AP style writing, where you take facts out of context, sprinkle distorted public opinion, and publish it with a catchy headline.
Summly, and all technology like it, creates a perfect formula for a confused, misguided, misinformed, shortsighted public, so, really, I don’t see it causing any more damage than has already been done.
The cornerstone of Summly is that it cuts out from articles what it deems as important. I wonder how one can arrive at this insightful conclusion at the enlightening age of seventeen. A kid, who thinks he knows what’s important to others, can’t even walk into a titty bar, and see what really matters.
In the cited article, Nick D’Aloisio, the app-boy wonder, was paraphrased as saying, the core of the application is a statistical analysis that guesses. I’d like to repeat that: an analysis that guesses. The whole thing is an oxymoron, and Marissa Mayer, the CEO of Yahoo, believes this is the kind of person they need to bring aboard to save the business that is behind on the technological advances of the new millennium.
As if things at Yahoo! weren’t bad enough, now we’re going to see this genius’s influence for years to come. I’m guessing three, and then Yahoo! will once again seek more angel investors, which is a strange coincidence, as Nick believes that’s what he may just do with the paycheck Yahoo! cut him for contributing to the twenty-first century psychological catastrophe waiting to happen; nobody with the ability to pay attention to anything.
I’m not one to delve too deep into mind control, but I know that, if people stop paying attention to details, and what interests them, by letting somebody else tell them what’s important, then things can go awry.