Jewel

Ok, a quick one. I saw this today on The Superficial:

"'The most autobiographical album she's made since PIECES OF YOU'

GOODBYE ALICE IN WONDERLAND

The stunning new album featuring Again and Again & Good Day"

It's a "review" of the new Jewel album. Autobiographical huh? Who the fuck wanted to know anything about Jewel in the first place. Now she's telling us more? This is just what I wanted, some stupid Canadian bitch who hasn't mattered since 1999, singing about her pathetic life. Awesome. I think I'll go throw myself off a bridge now. At least she could have written ludacris songs about something meaningful, like beer or braces. I remember when she got hit in the head by a frisbee at hfstival in DC and walked off stage. Now that was entertainment.

Who wants to race?

Wrote this tuesday but didn't get around to the proofread till today. I think it's still relevant though, possibly even timeless:

I wasn’t feeling very inspired today. Nothing catching my fancy if you will. Thought about maybe doing something for work to further my career or at least make life easier later. Couldn’t think of anything. Bust. So here I am. Thinking back over the weekend, I found one principle or should I say frustration to expound on.

Here’s the situation. A good buddy from college, lived with him my senior year, drove down the 95 corridor to see myself and others but mostly to woo his long distance girlfriend, who had flown in to town. Side note: writing at work sucks. I’m constantly getting interrupted. Can’t they see I’m doing something important here? Back to the post. He’s from Delaware, she lives in Arizona, they meet in Baltimore. I can’t explain. Some pre-gaming, no games just drink and talk but I think it still counts. Not to mention, the gaming in “pre-gaming” refers to game you throw at the bar, therefore my titlation of the activity is valid. What? There’s no way that’s correct? Oh, you don’t think titlation is a word? Agree to disagree? Ok.. Finish the beers, pack into two cars like clowns and we’re off. In an effort to keep this brief and get to my point, suffice it to say that we made a tour of the federal hill bar area. Good times.

Now for the crux of the discussion. And let me get this out of the way first. I don’t mind being designated driver. Would I prefer to get stupid off my ass drunk and do any number of a million retardedly idiotic things? Of course, I’m young, it’s what I do. But really, I don’t mind driving if I know at the outset those are the conditions I’m working under. I can pace, still drink some and have fun. It works. Also, I realize that some of the posts I’ve made come off a bit bitchy. It’s not my intent to make this a blog a bitchfest written by Bitchtofsky Mcbitch, but bitching is easy writing and like I said, I wasn’t feeling inspired. Cop out? Yeah, so what? If you wanted to read something witty, insightful, stirring or even intriguing you wouldn’t be here. Now sit down and pay attention. Digressing again, back to the crux. Crux, crux, crux. That should get me back on track. Sobering up, while at the bar, is a big irritation. It can happen for a number of reasons. You know, your buddy was supposed to drive everyone home but he’s passed out on the bar being poked by a midget on roller-blades or the girlfriend taps you on the shoulder and say’s sweetly either she’s tired or not feeling well. Either way she wants to go and you know, taxi, train or bus, you’re going to end up driving sooner or later. So, you stop drinking cold turkey, and there in lies the problem. No drinks at the bar is nearly unbearable. The whole atmosphere is screaming at you to get sloshed. You try to distract yourself with a round of golden tee, or a foosball match, but the entire time all you think about is how much fun these activities are whilst gripping a cold and frothy mug or your favorite happy juice.

I feel like a douche-bag standing in a bar without a drink. It harkens questions like, “What the fuck am I doing here?” I just want to leave the bar and go home. Fuck, at home I never have to worry about driving, walking is more of a concern there, but even that’s minimal at most. That’s it, I’m never leaving the house again. Problem is you can’t jump into the car yet because you’re still too inebriated to drive. You were pounding hardcore thinking that you could late-night it at a friends with a glass of aqua or find a place to curl up and sleep it off, waiting for the hangover dominated morning to come. Neither of these is now an option and you just got the short end of the shit stick. The dream has shattered into a thousand fuzzy little piece. Make a plan and stick with it people. The driving situation should be a carefully coordinated thing. Don’t put your man on the field and then change the rules on him at the half. You’re better than that.

The Wonder Drug

Ah, water. We’ve been friends for years now but I don’t think I have ever told you how much you mean to me. I’ve attributed so many life-saving properties to you that I feel it is time to acknowledge them in a public forum. The following is a list of reasons why I believe that water, or H₂O as the scientific types like to say, is the greatest drug ever invented by God:

Protection from the Bad Food Bug

I’m under the infallible belief that drink water after eating anything bad for you will inevitably counteract the damaging physical effects the food would have had. For example, if, by chance, I happen to eat at chipotle for lunch, which happens every week so it’s less of chance and more of a certainty. As long as I drink a couple bottles of water when I get back to work, I won’t absorb the 1200 calories or 70 grams of fat I just ate. I know what you’re thinking, “you’re retarded”, but think about it. If you wash that food down with a horde of water, maybe the food will get pushed though by the bum rush (pun intended). In turn, the good old stomach and intestines wouldn’t have the time needed to do their God give job. Thereby, I don’t get fat, or at least not as fat. Sure you’re going to piss out your ass later, but that would have happened anyway. What do you expect; you just ate a burrito the size of your head. There’s no way that thing was going to come out right. And yeah, yeah, my little theory probably doesn’t jive with the biological and physiologic evidence, but don’t burst my bubble man. I need this.

Ultimate Hangover Cure

This one is based somewhat in reality. Out of the hundreds of billions of hangover cures that mankind has invented, I think that the simplest is best. Water, lots and lots of water. I know thus far I’ve been talking strictly about aspects of consuming water but let me expound the discussion in order to show a glimpse of the full power of water. Where is the one place you can go, provided you can stand, where everyone knows your name? No,wait, wrong deal. Where you always find relief from the pounding headache and churning stomach of a truly heinous hangover? That’s right friends, the shower. It’s not some miracle cure but at least it provides some respite from the beast, even if the moment is fleeting. You know what I’m talking about. Steam rising all around you, willing you nostrils and lung to open and fill with the saturated air, water running from you head, neck and back all the way to your feet, gently caressing you ever inch of the way. You know, I can see it in your eyes. Back to the drinking. This theory, nay law, is backed by science because someone very scientific once told me that a person gets hung-over because of dehydration. I don’t remember who that someone was, but the point is that someone said it, so it must be true. And it’s not just true, it’s logical. Everyone knows the only way fix something that is wrong is to do the opposite of the word that describes it. Dehydration => rehydration, i.e. water, fat => running, stupid => cheat sheet. See, it’s just that simple. Give old water a try next time you wake from a night of drunk sex and blackouts. I guarantee it’ll get you going in 24 hours or I’ll give you a complete refund of the purchased price. Patent pending. Patent pending. Patent pending.

Kills all the Critters

That’s right folks, step right up. It’s not just for hangovers anymore. The new and improved water now acts like a disinfectant cure-all to take care of all your ailments. Heart-attacks, here’s a bottle of water. Cancer, you just need more water in diet. Raging case of chlamydia with the hive on the side, no problem ladies and gents, just add water. But seriously, I do believe water can cure any disease known to man. Got a cut, pour some water on it, your good to go. Feeling sick with the flu, drink your water and you’ll pull through. But wait, I’m short changing water. After all, it’s not just the curative powers but the preventative as well. As long as I’m drinking a shit load of water a day, I’ll never get sick, never get hurt, and really never even have a bad day. Did you know water strengthens bones, builds muscle and ultimately makes you a totally sweet and more attractive person? (I didn’t know that until I wrote it right there, oh my god!) Not to mention the inevitable kidney cleaning I’m doing on a constant basis. I piss like 20 times a day. Just as a river erodes the rocks it flows over, so shall my stream erode the tiny pebbles never meant to see the light of day. Pops had one when I was in high school, not a pretty night. I’ve seen what those little fuckers can do and I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to keep from finding out what it’s personally like.

Plain and simple, water makes you super human. The ability to destroy hangovers, to kill microscopic organisms, to cheat death, and to eat whatever, wherever you want. These are super powers people. Hell, with all the added shit “they” (the man) puts in our water today, we’re already half mutated. All you have to do is drink more water to finish the job. You do want to be a superhero, don’t you?

The Leaning Tree

There is an old tree, gray and cracked, on the steep embankment of a road long abandon and forgotten. The roots still hold fast to what little earth they can, borrowing into the black soil that once spawned life. Gripping, reaching, clawing to find a cleft, a rock, another’s root to hold on to. Something, anything to keep you upright. A final stand in a futile battle in a war long lost. Alone and dying, you sit, waiting for the end of a life that must seem by far too short. You were neither the tallest tree in the forest nor the strongest, but you were happy. The sun shone and you had purpose. A part of something, though you could not fully comprehend what.

Now, a shadow of your former self, I feel compelled to hold you up. Restore you to a former glory I never had the privilege to see. If I had the strength, the will, the fortitude to bare such a burden. Yet I cannot. For side by side we stand, tangent to the earth. Parallel, reaching to the sky. When a strong wind rages, you will fall and I will follow. I will take this final journey with you, my brother, my twin. We shall be as we were in the beginning. As we were for all our lives. Identical in our birth and life and so to in our death.

Poo to You

After reading a few blogs concerning the subject and having a lifetime of experience myself, I’ve come to one indomitable conclusion: shit is funny. I see the glimmer of thought in your eyes as the realization of the power of this statement dawns on you. And yes, friends, what I tell you is truth. There is no other subject, save few, that is quite as unequivocally funny. Think about it. Countless movies have used fecal formulations to extract laugher from their audience. Which scene in Dumb and Dumber (one of the greatest comedies of our time) ruffled your feather the most? Out of a countless number of memorable scene, the one that always got me rolling was when Harry consumed the laxative and inevitably is forced into an ill-timed and embarrassing gastric, among other more solid things, release at the home of the lady he is trying to woo.

Example number two, a classic example, is monkeys throwing fecies. An occurrence I myself have never had the pleasure of witnessing first hand. Would it be as funny if they were throwing their bananas, or a stick, or even a rock? (I have seen that video of the monkey drinking its own piss, and that shit is funny. However, I do believe it falls into a closely related category and, due to its relative infrequency, I believe we can ignore it for the sake of this argument.)

Finally, a recent example from my own life comes from just last week. Last Wednesday, My twin, E, Westminster, and I were sitting around after a night of cards/drinking and the topic of conversation turned to strategies when wiping. The general conclusion of which was that myself and E stand and my twin and Westminster sit after the kids are swimming and the clean-up crew has been called onto the field. The one shining insight I gleaned from the discussion was that I may be a girl since E was the only other infantry man. I’ll need to do further research to confirm the previous statement (Pole time! All I need is a male female and sit or stand) but I digress. Either way, everyone at the table was laughing uncontrollably about 5 seconds into the conversation, making it difficult to complete the conversation or express a single thought. We cowboyed-up (gayest slogan ever, red sox suck) and muscled through. Ultimately, I just wanted to publicly thank poo for being hilarious. Next St. Patty’s day, I’ll raise a glass in toast to you and drink copious amounts of green beer in an attempt to turn you green (that one’s for VT). Until then, I’ll continue to eat carrots to turn you orange and Chipotle to make you big and strong. Because brown can get boring and God loves all the colors of the rainbow. It’s a fecal world and I’m just living in it.

Brick could have done a better job

This isn't going to be anything new or some great revelation. But seriously, what the fuck is wrong with weather men? They honestly have to have the most useless job on the planet simply because they can't do their job correctly. Ok, a little background before the rant. We've been trying to go camping for the past two weeks and each time the following scene transpires:

M: "Looks like they’re calling for scattered thunderstorms tonight and then 60% chance of rain showers on Saturday. You feel like chancing it?"
Me: "Yeah, I saw that too. I would but those thunderstorms don't look to fun."
M: "I guess we should put this thing off till next week."
Me: "Might as well, hopefully it'll be better weather."

Sorry for my paraphrase of 6 conversations, occurring over the course of 2 weeks. Probably doesn't work, but you get the point. Anyway, problem is, last weekend was the nicest fucking weekend of the year. No rain. No thunder. No lightning. Hell, barely even a cloud till Sunday. So I say, what the fuck weather man? Where were you on that one? You fucking cock gobbling assholes! (It’s surprising to me how well those last two insults work together, I’m making a note). Disclaimer: Do I expect them to be perfect in their given occupation? No. I fuck up all the time at work. I try to do my best but sometimes things just get f-ed and that's just what happens. I'm willing to cut them some slack. I'm sure reading and interpreting between a thousand different computer generated models on a daily basis can be difficult and stressful and tedious. I'll give you a free pass on the occasional screw-up. The problem arises when you, asshat, decide to turn the occasional screw-up into the everyday fuck-up and it fucks up my life. Honestly, how many picnics have you ruined; day trips to six flags have you cancelled; commutes have you turned to gridlock? How many children have you made cry at you idiotic hand? If we are doing anything outside, we’re at your mercy. It’s like giving a kid with downs syndrome an atomic bomb to play with. Misappropriation of power. You should quit your job and become the cock jockey that you always were.

Don't think that you dot coms are getting away without a comment! You are the worst of all. Now get back here and let me kick you in the motherboard. I know there is a man hiding somewhere behind that binary façade. A man who is either too stupid or too ugly to be put on TV. And probably both. Really, the only thing I can purport to be first hand fact about the man in the computer is this: he is an asshole.

One final thought. Marty, shut the fuck up and just give us an inaccurate weather report. You're a weather man, not an anchor man! No one wants to here you're moronic banter or watch you surf the internet like a douche-bag on live TV. Next time you do the polar bear plunge, maybe you just keep your head under the water and never come back up.

Shananagans

Ok, so I told myself that I wasn't going to write on here after drinking to avoid embarrassing myself, but the beers at lunch don't count, right? This is too funny to wait on anyway, and considering the beer, I probably wouldn't remember to write about it later. So here it is. Really, now that I think about it I should have titled this entry "shocker" ‘cause its got a little more edge but I didn't want to give anything away. Oops, just did. Oh well.

Allow me set the scene. Midday, in the office and our female, 55 year old marketing person is going cube to cube handing out a memo. Maybe I'll write more about her later so you'll have a better understanding of multitude of experiences that pre-date this one that make this particular event so hilarious. But back to the story. On her journey, she makes it to the cubical of a one Tricky, who in his infinite wisdom and unfathomable maturity has hung a drawing of a hand giving the shocker, with the caption, "It's Shocking" written above it. The artistry of drawing, produced by our offices very own da Vinci, J, is nothing short of exceptional. If I only had such skills. Noticing the picture, she turns to J and Tricky, who at the time were conferring about something other than work, and poses the following question, "What does that mean?" , pointing to J's drawing. J and Tricky turn slowly from there conversation, looks of shock and distress on their faces, as they realize the origin of the aforementioned question. Being the cunning linguist that J is, he composes himself and calmly explains that he saw someone do it on TV and thought it was cool so he decided to draw it and give it to Tricky. Now, it's at this exact time that I receive the follow instant message, "(deleted to protect the identity of those involved) IS ASKING WHAT SHOCKER MEANS" from my twin, whose cube is diagonal to mine and directly across from the scene of the crime. And of course, like a good little whack-a-mole I pop my head up to see what’s going on. By the time I get my head up marketing has already left the scene and is continuing on her rounds. Once done playing US postal service she scurries back upstairs and about 12 of us bust out laughing. There's just something about explaining the delicate sexual nature of symbol to a middle-aged weirdo that's right up my comedic alley.

Update: While writing this post, J decided it was only right to give marketing a proper explanation of the hand signal so he instant messages this link to her: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shocker_%28hand_gesture%29. I highly suggest that you check it out. You may learn something and most importantly it makes my story funnier.

The Golden Ring

Ok, I'm going to get a little serious on you now. No, really, I am. I swear. I felt a feeling yesterday that I haven't felt since probably my freshmen year of college. The best way to describe it in one word. Fear.

It was 7:45 am when I woke to the sound of my alarm going off. The only bad thing about that was that the alarm had been going off for 45 minutes and my Intro to Engineering 1 final started at the exact same time. Needless to say, I was going to be late. The predicament here was, if you're late, you can't take the exam and by not taking the exam I would undoubtedly fail the class. On the double, I threw some clothes on and sprinted down the stairs of my dorm, out the front door and across campus hoping to be able to talk the professor into letting me take the test anyway or at least make it up. To make a long story short, I convinced my professor to let me take the exam later. Sometimes I'm a lucky little fucker. I'll always remember the feeling I had that morning when, looking at the alarm clock, I came to grips with the ramifications of what had just transpired. Your stomach drops, there's a tightness that develops in your chest, like someone has wrapped your lungs in cellophane wrap or put your torso in a vice, making it hard to breathe. Independent of the temperature of the room, you begin to sweat. I'll call these "the cold sweats". There are several other less intellectual situations that can cause them but let’s not get into that now.

I had that same gut-wrenching feeling while at work, sitting at my computer, yesterday and the cause of the feeling was something that I never expected. I was thinking about this blog. I know, pretty stupid, but sometimes you can't help how you feel. However illogical, confusing, and irrational the feelings are. The fear I felt the morning of the exam was one of failure. However, after having a day to reflect. The fear I have of blogging is two-fold. It stems from and includes failure but it’s more than that. It’s a fear of acceptance.

Fuck. Trust me; I know I'm not the best writer in the world, on blogger, hell – probably even in my office, by a long shot. If you want to see what good writing looks like go to devil's advocate (www.devad.blogspot.com). That dude knows how to write. Actually, don’t go there or else my stuff will look like shit. Not being best or even good at something is where the fear of failure comes in. For me to do something, so public, that I don't think I'm really good at is difficult. But I needed a way to express myself, to put something out there. Even if I’m exposing myself to the elements. Even if no one ever sees it. At least it’s there. I tell myself all the time that I'm going to go home from work and write songs and play guitar but I never get around to the song writing part. If I had written a song, what good would it do anyway because it would sit at my desk, in the office at home, and would never see the light of day. Creating something; art, music, writing, baking a cake, whatever, if fulfilling in a sense. But the test of a person’s worth is sharing that creation, which has meaning to you, with someone else. I needed something creative that was subject to others opinions, i.e. blog. Which leads me the second aspect of my fear. Acceptance. I'm a self-confident, somewhat conceded (purely hearsay and conjecture) person who, in any normal situation wouldn't bat an eye at expressing my opinion, or trying something new. This is just so out of my element. I feel like I'm exploring a jungle without a map and no knowledge of the native people, survival skills or animal life; leaving me vulnerable to any number of cruel figurative deaths. Despite the fact that internet is an impersonal forum, this experience seems somehow more personal, susceptible, in a way I can’t fully explain. Anyone else feel this way when they started?

With all that said, I know I need to do this for the very reason that I'm afraid. Because it’s out of my comfort zone. If can't muster the courage to do this, to challenge myself, and trust me I don't think this is some huge thing I'm doing here, its not like I'm going Alaskan crab fishing (Deadliest Catch is the shit) or climbing a mountain here or anything, what good am I? Josh Billings said, “Contentment is a kind of moral laziness; if there weren’t anything but contentment in his world, man wouldn't be any more of a success than an angleworm is” (I think this quote is correct, it looked like thinkexist.com butchered it but I’m sure some can tell me if I’m right or wrong). I need to leave the known and take a step towards the bottomless abyss.

Sometime the thing that keeps us from reaching for the golden ring isn't the voices of the people around us, but the little voice inside of us. And sometimes that little voice is right, but sometimes you have to tell that little voice to shut the fuck up, 'cause your doing this thing. Its like in the movie High Fidelity, John Cusack's character, during a monologue, says, "I've come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains". I'm going to take the step and reach for the golden ring because I believe that it's important.

A Most Grave and Troublesome Problem

Thank God I finally got this thing up and running. Thought it would be a breeze and then the fucking website decides to roll over and die on me, while I'm half way through the damn setup process. Not that I had to start over or anything, but its just annoying. Anyway, for my first blog I thought that it would be appropriate to set a suitable tone for this thing. And that tone is dead, no fun, head in a hole, locked up and never coming out fucking serious. I plan to tackle the big hard-hitting issues that everyone is talking about and sound off on them in a calculated and egotistical manner. Not just because I’m better than you, but because I can. It’s my God given right, nay my duty, as an America to run my mouth, so haha. Without further ado and with great trepidation (< -- contradictory to the attitude of my previous statements but it’s a sweet word and the juxtaposition in tone conjures thoughts of the duality of man and shit. Please disregard this sentence. I get a kick out of being retard and no one gets my jokes but me. You’ll see all of that soon enough), may I present my very serious topic:

Putting the Toilet Paper on the Dispenser the Wrong way.

I’m sure you all, and by you all I mean the no one who will read this blog. Sidenote: I got into this blogging thing way late. Seems kinda like yesterday’s news to me but what the hell, I never was a hipster and I’m not really “with it” and I just learned about these things called computers last week, so I figured I might as well give them a shot. Back to the matter at hand, you all know what I’m talking about. When someone refills the toilet paper holder and puts the roll so the end that you pull from is facing in, towards the wall, forcing you to reach below the roll to get that first piece and then every subsequent piece thereafter. Not to mention you always have to pull in a downward direction, which doesn’t jive with the common “stand up wipie” fighting style. In all honest, this issue really is one of my biggest pet peeves and I ran into it at the office today. So I’m settling in for a nice afternoon shit. I’ve got magazine at the ready. I’ve wiped the seat down, to give myself the delusion that it’s clean and that I won’t contract some kind of vile ass disease that turns me into a giant lump of crap. Trust me, that disease is out there. Just no one is talking about it cause big brother doesn’t want anyone to know. And if you do talk about it, they come to your house and take you to a giant toilet somewhere outside of area 52 and then flush you and you’re never heard from again. Hold on, there’s someone at the door. God that was a stupid joke, I’m stupid but I love it. Back to the story. I haven’t shit in about 36 hours, so I’m really looking forward to this one. I know you might think its weird but I’m rarely an every day kind of guy. Shut up! You go 5 times a day and I think that’s weird, asshat. Needless to say, this one is going to be a good one. Sidenote: It wasn’t all I was hoping it’d be. Time passes and the log has been laid and I’m reaching for the paper to clean the old bum when I realize that the TP, as we’ll call it from now on for writing purposes, is not on the side of the roll that I can see, but on the other side where I can see nothing and have to reach and fumble for the fucker. If not for the fact that I would have been really uncomfortable (and probably offended my fellow co-workers, which, although funny, could be socially crippling) for the rest of the day, I would have pulled up my pants and walked right out of the bathroom. It’s one of those times that you wish it was a ghost poo. You know, ghost poo. When one shits and flushes and gets up and wipes ones arse but there’s nothing. You know you in your heart and in your ass that you just took a shit but there’s no evidence of the crime. Speaking of crimes. My list of crimes goes something like this from worst god-awful thing you could ever do on this earth down: 1) murder, 2) rape, 3) putting the TP in the wrong way, and so on and so forth. Actually, 2 and 3 may be tied because the third is a form of rape. When you do it, you’re raping a fellow man or woman of their dignity. But enough about the problem, in an effort to better the world here’s a step by step, Chuck Norris tested and approved, infallible guide to replacing the TP:

Step 1: Grip the TP in your left hand (if left handed you may reverse the direction to accommodate your crippling and demoralizing deformity).

Step 2: Find the beginning of the roll of TP with your free hand. If you’re blind, like some of my friends, you can run the roll under your fingertips like you’re reading brail until you feel a tab or bump. You may want to unroll the TP to make sure that you are setup with the proper “pull towards the body” flow. Beware: if you pull too far the TP will unravel leaving it inoperable. From here you’ll need another roll and you have a mess to clean up later.

Step 3: Grab, with your free hand, the rod or shaft and insert it though the hole in the middle of the TP; get your mind out of the gutter, ingrate.

Step 4: Apply pressure to both ends of the rod shorten it and mounted it in the brackets that are hopefully pre-existing in your humble abode or office. If there are no mounting brackets, you’re fucked and I don’t know what you should do. A suggestion, if maybe you have a little left over, is to upper deck the toilet out of spite. Save this one for office use only kids.

Step 5: Enjoy!

Well there you have it. Feel free to comment if you have any questions. The cell phone is out of commission right now, but 911 is always there if you find yourself in a bind. Lets make this world a better place for everyone, one bathroom at a time.

But seriously, please comment if you read this. Just so I have hope that someone is out there is listening to my idiotic banter. I know I didn’t give you too much to work with here but you’re smart, you’ll come up with something.