You can say this is about Sarah Palin and you wouldn't be wrong, but you wouldn't be entirely right, either.
A man waiting at a bus stop with his 10-year old son saw a reasonably well-dressed woman sitting on an open trash can (the kind with a small hole in the middle of a flat 8-inch rim that is covered in splatterings from whenever someone missed the center). He suggested that she might want to move, since there is plenty of space on the benches and that rubbish bin is filthy. She replied indignantly, "Well I for one don't consider myself too full of pride to touch the refuse of society." Even though he didn't want to take the bait, he couldn't help but defend himself in front of his son. "I don't consider myself too proud for that, I just-" "Then prove it!" she interrupted. An obese, grotesque individual had been waiting to deposit the remnants of their breakfast into the can. The man could have pointed out that her symbolic gesture of humility is ironically impeding this person, but he knew such a thing would be lost on her. Instead he took the bag from the person and ate all the contents, some of which were half-chewed or touching heavily saturated crumbled napkins. She shakes her head as she slides off the waste receptacle, depriving none of her surface area the privilege of wiping the filthy lid. She said, "You must not care much for our nation." Then she directs her attention to the man's son. "You want to see what it means to love America?" She reached into the bin and searched for the most questionable and moist morsel and pulled it out. The man said, "You really shouldn't eat that, you don't know when they last emptied that bin and you don't know what that it is." She crammed it into her mouth and took her time chewing it. "It doesn't matter, because it was made in the USA." She encouraged everybody to show their patriotism. There was plenty of garbage in the can, and they found a dumpster filled to the brim in the nearby parking lot. The man gave up discouraging everybody and just waited patiently for the bus and told his son that what they were doing was dirty and uncalled for. Once the bus arrived, everybody piled in. Before long, people started throwing up, the volume of which was in direct proportion to their patriotism. Eventually everybody was too busy vomiting to do anything else, and breathing room was becoming scarce. The man had fallen asleep, leaving the son to act on his own. Without a word the child began eating all the vomit.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Keeping The Past
Larry Chelgerson is a stealth pariah, a mascot for what disillusioned young people can't stand about whatever they see him involved in, though usually they still can't find the words to explain why. Right now he is in line to place a take-away order at one of those urban European-style cafes that are staffed by cute pasty college girls who seem to be given specific instructions to:
1) visit the gym once or twice per week so as to appear active, but not intimidating
2) avoid sunlight
3) think sad or stressful thoughts every now and then so your face's natural resting position is intriguing to those who spend their time in pursuit of the obscure rather than the sincere.
At least one of the servers will have an endearing speech impediment that will attract regulars; regulars being just another word for stalkers who tip. The place is probably owned by three brothers from Bangladesh with mustaches and uneven laughs. The layout is what Bengali business men would imagine Americans think chic cafes in charming European cities look like. Between all the glass, sterility, smooth surfaces, and technology in use, it looks like an Apple store featuring some textured mixed-media art the local community college couldn't find a use for. Larry was peering out towards his car to see if his wife was growing impatient, at which point he saw familiar faces pass through the vestibule. They were too far away, so he looked down at his shoes for 7 seconds and then pretended that he was just noticing them at the moment they walked by and said, "Vern and Tabitha?! No way!" Vern appeared to shift his attention to Larry without moving his head or altering the gestures that were already underway as he was walking. This is a rehearsed move, for in his mind, it was as if he hit an electrified tripwire. "Larry, what's up? I didn't know you knew about this place!" Only older people can allow such condescending sentences like that to pass unnoticed. Vern is a semi-retired real estate agent who has developed the social version of the ESP skip protection that portable CD players had when they weren't obsolete. He has pushed out so many inaccurate self-expressions in his lifetime that there is not one whose meaning can be discerned with any degree of certainty. Whatever expression he tries to make, you naturally meet him halfway and pull out a meaning of your own choice, based entirely on what your feelings about him are. Larry vaguely admires Vern's lifestyle without a sense of envy, so he doesn't catch Vern's reluctance to invite him and his wife to join them for breakfast, accepting the offer without once wondering if he is intruding. As Larry struts out to retrieve his wife, Tabitha gives Vern a look. She can't read Vern's face and tone any better than the rest of the world, but she knows what he is thinking because they tend to have the same thoughts in these situations. That is what happens when you spend enough time appeasing, placating, and enabling the good and bad habits of someone you care about. Sometimes, when Vern isn't sure what to think, he takes his cues from Tabitha's facial broadcast. She doesn't like Larry or any of the other mediocre people who abuse her husband's tendency to regale himself and give advice, not to mention remind himself of how practical it is that he spends all of his time studying real estate. Real estate is the king of all generalized small talk, and unless you are in the business or in the market for a new home, any conversation about it might as well take place under a heat lamp next to a pile of dog waste.
Larry and his wife are two similarly numb people who stumble with great intention through life with a white knuckle grip on a list of what they want to experience and how they want it to feel. To participate in any activity with them feels like being at a school dance when people engage in forced unnecessary conversation just to avoid being seen standing by themselves. Here's one fact that nobody else knows about Larry and his wife, a habit that irritates their offspring: On a pleasant morning, they will wake up extra early to go for a walk, regardless of whether they are actually in the mood to do so. They do it just because the morning is pleasant and they don't want to miss out on it, as though it were a sale at Marshalls. They are basically retired, but they run a small local printing business that just recently got a website where you can pay for your orders online. This is practical not because they are massively successful and need help filling all their orders, but because the same few customers order the same stuff so often that automating the process was a very simple process.
While everybody else has either gotten over ringtones altogether or maybe they have a familiar sound bite from a TV show or movie, Larry has downloaded the same tone for the past three phones. Every time somebody calls him, the dramatic climax of "Nessun Dorma" from the opera Turandot is played on an impossibly tinny midi orchestra. Anyone who has lunch with him on a business day will never again feel that rush of emotion often summoned by that aria. If someone has never heard it, he can sense this fact and will proceed to explain the significance of that scene, thus ruining opera in general for them.
Larry and his wife are basically interviewing Vern while Tabitha criticizes the menu layout in her head. She catches herself wanting to ask Larry and his wife what they would change if they printed out the menus, just to see how they like it. She watches the conversation take familiar turns towards soliciting Vern for recommendations:
-First, some general questions that allow Vern to ramble not necessarily about work -Then Larry mentions the small printing jobs he did for Vern way back in the day, and how great a deal he gave him, just to remind Vern that he's hooked him up before.
-This paves the way for him to ask Vern about retirement properties.
"So Vern, you and Tabitha seem to disappear during the summer and winter months. My wife and I, we've been looking into a vacation home for the unpleasant times of the year now that the kids are, well, safe to say, out of the nest." Vern treats these conversations like sex or a really good time-sensitive dessert such as ice cream on a hot piece of pie, carefully regulating the indulgence for maximum enjoyment. If there is anything Vern likes to do after talking about himself, it is to find ways for other people to be like him and explain those ways in detail. He replies, "Well, where have you looked?" At this point Larry and his wife took turns responding seamlessly: "Well we used to think all we wanted was pleasant weather, nice restaurants, scenery, and to be safe... but as we explored and read and did our research, it seems all the best spots are picked over, expensive, and/or over-developed. Besides, even if a new place is discovered, it isn't long before everyone is all over it, building ugly high-rises and raising the taxes." Vern has been nodding throughout, and continues as he says, "You aren't the only ones with these concerns, and it has lead to a real paradigm shift. Wouldn't it be nice if we could live in the dignity to which we are entitled? Somewhere we have control over the market and the quality of the people? And I don't mean one of those tacky gated communities, either." Larry sighed, "Yeah... but you have to be practical, right?" Vern was waiting for this part. "Well actually, there is a new market that I think you're going to like." Larry played along jadedly, "Where? New Zealand? Hawaii? Costa Rica?" Vern cuts him off, "No chief, all those places are already ruined. I've discovered the only place left for us: the past!" Vern continues, "Whenever life becomes unpleasant, we move into our new vacation home in the past. We already know how everything turns out, so there is no concern about flooding the market or ending up living in a bad neighborhood. We get to visit the lifestyle that the rotten subsequent generations have destroyed whenever we want!"
Larry massaged his left temple as he said, "So let me get this straight: while the lazy, self-centered, unmotivated young generation with no actual sense of collective identity continue to piss away the wonderful world that you and I and our parents spent a lifetime working to preserve, we can live in the past and enjoy happier days of clean decent entertainment, clearly defined gender roles, reasonable social norms regarding race and religion, a more structured courtship process with far less shame and promiscuity, and of course health coverage and a viable retirement?" Vern nodded, "Exactly. Where do you think health insurance and social security came from, anyway? Do you think it is a coincidence that our current system only benefits people our age and older? Psh! As though people had the kind of foresight back then to set things up to punish the disgraceful, mercilessly unsentimental and shallow generations born after 1965." Larry stood up, "So basically, we get to give ourselves a fulfilling life with wholesome Christmas specials and bragging rights about inventing everything that my rude, uneducated, soulless kids take for granted?" Vern replied affirmatively and added, "Of course you can come back and visit your families whenever you want, as we're doing right now. Also, since you really can't talk about the future with anybody in the past, we find it therapeutic to come visit the present day and get all the complaining out of our systems about how terrible everything is and how all these kids fucked it up." Presenting a document, Vern says, "All you have to do is pass this credit check and sign here." Larry said, "Credit check!? I INVENTED credit checks!" All four of them laughed and totally stiffed the waitress as they departed, with Larry's "Nessun Dorma" ringer going off.
1) visit the gym once or twice per week so as to appear active, but not intimidating
2) avoid sunlight
3) think sad or stressful thoughts every now and then so your face's natural resting position is intriguing to those who spend their time in pursuit of the obscure rather than the sincere.
At least one of the servers will have an endearing speech impediment that will attract regulars; regulars being just another word for stalkers who tip. The place is probably owned by three brothers from Bangladesh with mustaches and uneven laughs. The layout is what Bengali business men would imagine Americans think chic cafes in charming European cities look like. Between all the glass, sterility, smooth surfaces, and technology in use, it looks like an Apple store featuring some textured mixed-media art the local community college couldn't find a use for. Larry was peering out towards his car to see if his wife was growing impatient, at which point he saw familiar faces pass through the vestibule. They were too far away, so he looked down at his shoes for 7 seconds and then pretended that he was just noticing them at the moment they walked by and said, "Vern and Tabitha?! No way!" Vern appeared to shift his attention to Larry without moving his head or altering the gestures that were already underway as he was walking. This is a rehearsed move, for in his mind, it was as if he hit an electrified tripwire. "Larry, what's up? I didn't know you knew about this place!" Only older people can allow such condescending sentences like that to pass unnoticed. Vern is a semi-retired real estate agent who has developed the social version of the ESP skip protection that portable CD players had when they weren't obsolete. He has pushed out so many inaccurate self-expressions in his lifetime that there is not one whose meaning can be discerned with any degree of certainty. Whatever expression he tries to make, you naturally meet him halfway and pull out a meaning of your own choice, based entirely on what your feelings about him are. Larry vaguely admires Vern's lifestyle without a sense of envy, so he doesn't catch Vern's reluctance to invite him and his wife to join them for breakfast, accepting the offer without once wondering if he is intruding. As Larry struts out to retrieve his wife, Tabitha gives Vern a look. She can't read Vern's face and tone any better than the rest of the world, but she knows what he is thinking because they tend to have the same thoughts in these situations. That is what happens when you spend enough time appeasing, placating, and enabling the good and bad habits of someone you care about. Sometimes, when Vern isn't sure what to think, he takes his cues from Tabitha's facial broadcast. She doesn't like Larry or any of the other mediocre people who abuse her husband's tendency to regale himself and give advice, not to mention remind himself of how practical it is that he spends all of his time studying real estate. Real estate is the king of all generalized small talk, and unless you are in the business or in the market for a new home, any conversation about it might as well take place under a heat lamp next to a pile of dog waste.
Larry and his wife are two similarly numb people who stumble with great intention through life with a white knuckle grip on a list of what they want to experience and how they want it to feel. To participate in any activity with them feels like being at a school dance when people engage in forced unnecessary conversation just to avoid being seen standing by themselves. Here's one fact that nobody else knows about Larry and his wife, a habit that irritates their offspring: On a pleasant morning, they will wake up extra early to go for a walk, regardless of whether they are actually in the mood to do so. They do it just because the morning is pleasant and they don't want to miss out on it, as though it were a sale at Marshalls. They are basically retired, but they run a small local printing business that just recently got a website where you can pay for your orders online. This is practical not because they are massively successful and need help filling all their orders, but because the same few customers order the same stuff so often that automating the process was a very simple process.
While everybody else has either gotten over ringtones altogether or maybe they have a familiar sound bite from a TV show or movie, Larry has downloaded the same tone for the past three phones. Every time somebody calls him, the dramatic climax of "Nessun Dorma" from the opera Turandot is played on an impossibly tinny midi orchestra. Anyone who has lunch with him on a business day will never again feel that rush of emotion often summoned by that aria. If someone has never heard it, he can sense this fact and will proceed to explain the significance of that scene, thus ruining opera in general for them.
Larry and his wife are basically interviewing Vern while Tabitha criticizes the menu layout in her head. She catches herself wanting to ask Larry and his wife what they would change if they printed out the menus, just to see how they like it. She watches the conversation take familiar turns towards soliciting Vern for recommendations:
-First, some general questions that allow Vern to ramble not necessarily about work -Then Larry mentions the small printing jobs he did for Vern way back in the day, and how great a deal he gave him, just to remind Vern that he's hooked him up before.
-This paves the way for him to ask Vern about retirement properties.
"So Vern, you and Tabitha seem to disappear during the summer and winter months. My wife and I, we've been looking into a vacation home for the unpleasant times of the year now that the kids are, well, safe to say, out of the nest." Vern treats these conversations like sex or a really good time-sensitive dessert such as ice cream on a hot piece of pie, carefully regulating the indulgence for maximum enjoyment. If there is anything Vern likes to do after talking about himself, it is to find ways for other people to be like him and explain those ways in detail. He replies, "Well, where have you looked?" At this point Larry and his wife took turns responding seamlessly: "Well we used to think all we wanted was pleasant weather, nice restaurants, scenery, and to be safe... but as we explored and read and did our research, it seems all the best spots are picked over, expensive, and/or over-developed. Besides, even if a new place is discovered, it isn't long before everyone is all over it, building ugly high-rises and raising the taxes." Vern has been nodding throughout, and continues as he says, "You aren't the only ones with these concerns, and it has lead to a real paradigm shift. Wouldn't it be nice if we could live in the dignity to which we are entitled? Somewhere we have control over the market and the quality of the people? And I don't mean one of those tacky gated communities, either." Larry sighed, "Yeah... but you have to be practical, right?" Vern was waiting for this part. "Well actually, there is a new market that I think you're going to like." Larry played along jadedly, "Where? New Zealand? Hawaii? Costa Rica?" Vern cuts him off, "No chief, all those places are already ruined. I've discovered the only place left for us: the past!" Vern continues, "Whenever life becomes unpleasant, we move into our new vacation home in the past. We already know how everything turns out, so there is no concern about flooding the market or ending up living in a bad neighborhood. We get to visit the lifestyle that the rotten subsequent generations have destroyed whenever we want!"
Larry massaged his left temple as he said, "So let me get this straight: while the lazy, self-centered, unmotivated young generation with no actual sense of collective identity continue to piss away the wonderful world that you and I and our parents spent a lifetime working to preserve, we can live in the past and enjoy happier days of clean decent entertainment, clearly defined gender roles, reasonable social norms regarding race and religion, a more structured courtship process with far less shame and promiscuity, and of course health coverage and a viable retirement?" Vern nodded, "Exactly. Where do you think health insurance and social security came from, anyway? Do you think it is a coincidence that our current system only benefits people our age and older? Psh! As though people had the kind of foresight back then to set things up to punish the disgraceful, mercilessly unsentimental and shallow generations born after 1965." Larry stood up, "So basically, we get to give ourselves a fulfilling life with wholesome Christmas specials and bragging rights about inventing everything that my rude, uneducated, soulless kids take for granted?" Vern replied affirmatively and added, "Of course you can come back and visit your families whenever you want, as we're doing right now. Also, since you really can't talk about the future with anybody in the past, we find it therapeutic to come visit the present day and get all the complaining out of our systems about how terrible everything is and how all these kids fucked it up." Presenting a document, Vern says, "All you have to do is pass this credit check and sign here." Larry said, "Credit check!? I INVENTED credit checks!" All four of them laughed and totally stiffed the waitress as they departed, with Larry's "Nessun Dorma" ringer going off.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Good Night Wife
Good night boner
Good night wife
Good night pillow between me and my wife
Good night ceiling
Good night breasts
Good night notion of a good night's rest
Good night lips
Good night hips
Good night hands, clenching the sheet till it rips
Good night clock
Good night door
Good night laptop placed on the bathroom floor
Good night facebook
Good night old photos
Good night ex, who may have been crazy and irresponsible but god damn, at least she put out on weeknights, I mean I'm at a completely different part of my life than I was back then and I am overall much happier now, but still shit this really sucks.
Good night rationalizations
Good night door lock
Good night tissues since I don't have a sock
Good night paranoia
Good night squeaky toilet seat
Good night distractions as I focus on my meat
Good night guilt
Good night deflation
Good night to an uncomfortable situation
Good night "Clear Recent History"
Good night walk of shame
Good night nobody but myself to blame
Good night clock
Good night bed
Good night back of my wife's head
Good night wife
Good night boner
Good night wife
Good night pillow between me and my wife
Good night ceiling
Good night breasts
Good night notion of a good night's rest
Good night lips
Good night hips
Good night hands, clenching the sheet till it rips
Good night clock
Good night door
Good night laptop placed on the bathroom floor
Good night facebook
Good night old photos
Good night ex, who may have been crazy and irresponsible but god damn, at least she put out on weeknights, I mean I'm at a completely different part of my life than I was back then and I am overall much happier now, but still shit this really sucks.
Good night rationalizations
Good night door lock
Good night tissues since I don't have a sock
Good night paranoia
Good night squeaky toilet seat
Good night distractions as I focus on my meat
Good night guilt
Good night deflation
Good night to an uncomfortable situation
Good night "Clear Recent History"
Good night walk of shame
Good night nobody but myself to blame
Good night clock
Good night bed
Good night back of my wife's head
Good night wife
Good night boner
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Miami-Globe
So I drove to Miami, AZ this past weekend. It was one of those trips where my expectations were a little higher than the should be and I didn't prepare as much as I should have. I rolled into town late in the morning and tried to find that "happening" road with all the shops and restaurants and the visitor's center that hands out the kitchy maps that outline the routes to all the best destinations (marked by smiling cacti and sombreros). The first attraction I noticed was all the easy spots to parallel park in. The dilapidated buildings at the tops of the surrounding hills loomed over me as I locked my car, removed my iPod and head unit, threw bags over valuables, and all that other paranoid white people superstitious nonsense, and walked toward the first cafe I could find. Before I could enter, a face that had great potential to be broad and welcoming came at me like a snow plow. "You look like you don't have a direction." I admitted that he was correct. "Are you interested in the antique shops?" I nodded. "How about the cliff dwellings up rt. 88?" I nodded faster, trying to stimulate a more comfortable upbeat tone. "How about something to eat?" As I unloaded a twangy request for restaurant recommendations, he cut me off. "Didn't you visit our chamber of commerce website? It's really... informative." I lied and said I was just passing through and was on my way to Globe, the next town over. He stopped looking at me and said, "We share their website. www.globemiamichamberofcommerce.com. We put a lot of time and effort into keeping that website up to date." I told him that I hadn't had the time to research it, and asked for suggestions for some Mexican food. He gestured towards my messenger bag, "Go to our website on your iPhone. You'll find my reviews of local dining options contained in the message board designated for 'Restaurants', which is divided by genre of cuisine. Just follow the Dining & Nightlife link, you'll know when you get there." I was a little freaked out, so I stuttered something of an explanation of why I may have appreciated whatever it was he told me as I walked into an antique shop with my hand in my bag. After a few antique shops and some old framed newspapers I learned a little about the history of the area. I went online as I was walking down the street and a windswept expression of involuntary surprise anchored by a neck that would take a marble 5 minutes to roll down approaches me, "What do you think you're doin'?" As I started to reply, he said, "You're not about to post to Facebook about how ironic it is that we used to be a mining town and now our main industry is antiques, are ye?" How did he know that? "That's what everyone does when they go through her. You'd know that if you looked in the blog section of our chamber of commerce website." Just then, the first old man and a few indistinct friends approached and he said, "You haven't eaten yet, have you? Have you even looked at our website yet?" I started backing up and said I had to go, somehow unable to jettison my own cumbersome politeness. "Sorry, can't let you do that." Everyone stood silent as a young ranger with a flat shovel forehead which obscured everything else about him informed me, "This area is quarantined, which these kind folks were trying to help you learn. Maybe it's time you look at our website." Quarantined? What have I gotten myself into? They helped me navigate through their website, and it was very well laid out. As far as the "quarantine" situation, it was complicated. They unearthed a unique mineral that attracted a certain species of bacteria and caused it to mutate; anybody who spend more than two hours in the town would have to be tested. The ranger said, "I'm afraid that before you leave you'll have to be screened for Laffybatts." "Laffybatts?!" I asked. "Yes, Laffybatts. It is a potentially fatal condition." As I stifled a giggle, one of the townsfolk said, "Hold that laugh, buckaroo, my 3 year old daughter died from a case of them laffybatts, and so did..." He trailed off, looking towards the ranger. He said, "That's... not important now. The important thing is to get you tested.
The doctor's office was empty, and I wondered if he had much to do other than test people for Laffybatts. He took me to the only cleanroom with wood paneling I've ever seen and drew a little blood. I asked if it was curable and nobody answered. The doctor returned with the same blank expression he had when he plunged the needle into my arm. "It's Laffybatts, and I'm afraid it's... terminal." I started grabbing for things before I knew what I could be grabbing for and yelling at people before I could breathe... then I just slouched down into a chair. The ranger said, "Well, there is one known cure." After an expectant moment of silence, he continued. "We would have to... light you on fire and throw you into the tar pits." The doctor burst into agreement, "Yes, the tar pits are full of laffybatts, and if you present live laffybatts with a complete surface area of burnt laffybatts, it could work! I've been doing tests on lighting infected javelina on fire and had some success!" As I protested their logic they showed me the documentation on the chamber of commerce website, which was formatted very professionally. As they doused me in kerosene, the ranger said, "Are you sure this is a good idea?" He was looking at me, and I rehashed what they told me, referring to the data on their website. The ranger continued in the same tone, "Why do you believe the website?" I responded, "Well, why else would it be there?" Then the first old man I spoke to said, "Maybe to teach people a lesson about believing their instincts and experience instead of whatever they read on the internet. Maybe then you would have learned to appreciate our fine town." I protested, "But that doesn't make any sense! You told me repeatedly to look at the website before I even stepped foot into... which I didn't do, I walked around and learned about the town myself! I trusted my instincts many times before even looking at your website!" The ranger said, "Alright fine, we just like dousing people in kerosene for kicks. Plus it's a favor for old man Pitters. He owns the tar pits and nobody ever comes by to visit them. But please feel free to post on our message board about what you say to your friends and coworkers to explain why you smell like petroleum."
The doctor's office was empty, and I wondered if he had much to do other than test people for Laffybatts. He took me to the only cleanroom with wood paneling I've ever seen and drew a little blood. I asked if it was curable and nobody answered. The doctor returned with the same blank expression he had when he plunged the needle into my arm. "It's Laffybatts, and I'm afraid it's... terminal." I started grabbing for things before I knew what I could be grabbing for and yelling at people before I could breathe... then I just slouched down into a chair. The ranger said, "Well, there is one known cure." After an expectant moment of silence, he continued. "We would have to... light you on fire and throw you into the tar pits." The doctor burst into agreement, "Yes, the tar pits are full of laffybatts, and if you present live laffybatts with a complete surface area of burnt laffybatts, it could work! I've been doing tests on lighting infected javelina on fire and had some success!" As I protested their logic they showed me the documentation on the chamber of commerce website, which was formatted very professionally. As they doused me in kerosene, the ranger said, "Are you sure this is a good idea?" He was looking at me, and I rehashed what they told me, referring to the data on their website. The ranger continued in the same tone, "Why do you believe the website?" I responded, "Well, why else would it be there?" Then the first old man I spoke to said, "Maybe to teach people a lesson about believing their instincts and experience instead of whatever they read on the internet. Maybe then you would have learned to appreciate our fine town." I protested, "But that doesn't make any sense! You told me repeatedly to look at the website before I even stepped foot into... which I didn't do, I walked around and learned about the town myself! I trusted my instincts many times before even looking at your website!" The ranger said, "Alright fine, we just like dousing people in kerosene for kicks. Plus it's a favor for old man Pitters. He owns the tar pits and nobody ever comes by to visit them. But please feel free to post on our message board about what you say to your friends and coworkers to explain why you smell like petroleum."
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
UFO
The deepest fears of many rural Americans were confirmed this morning, as photographs of a UFO hovering around an airport in China were featured in the news. The fear is not that aliens exist, but that yet another entity has abandoned the American working class in favor of China. A deeper betrayal, however, has yet to sink in. Until now, it was easy for people to live in the shelters of delusions that we are God's master plan. Now that idea can no longer be rationalized as we are clearly not God's main squeeze, but rather the unstable whore God uses for target practice. Judging by the sleek spacecraft God has graced his "other" planet with, whom we shall call Sheila, it seems we are just an easy lay. Throw ol' Earth a few canyons and some grandiose music and we'll spend centuries bragging about it to our friends.
The relationship between God and Sheila, however, is very intriguing. They have been in courtship for many years, long before Earth came along. God is very broadminded, and once things started to grow stale with Sheila, God started to fool around. Well one such conquest, Earth, turned out to be quite a handful. Since God was never around Sheila became suspicious and built a space craft. You know what they say about an idle mind... and it looks like at long last Sheila has found God's mistress. It makes sense that God chose to show China instead of America, since the large population of Chinese Buddhists would reflect more favorably on the situation than America, with its current obsession with infidelity in the ruling class. God showed Sheila with the Great Wall, museums full of pottery, and a field of power generating wind turbines... all of this served to distract from Tibet, labor laws, and other depraved practices that highlight the naughty, experimental side God wants to hide. God knows Sheila is bored and would love to be full of torture, corruption, pollution, and hypocrisy, but the last thing God needs is another needy unstable planet calling all the time. God intended to conclude the tour in the Arctic Circle to show off some majestic glaciers. Just as Sheila was about to leave, they were paid a visit Sarah Palin, who had overheard them from Alaska because she had her window open. "Well gosh darnit, I had to see it with my own eyes. God! I would like to think that all the conversations you had with me and former president George W. Bush would have meant something. What would Jesus think if he saw this? You know... your son? Your only son, begotten by Mary?" Sheila gasped, "You have a son?!!? After all these years of making excuses... I was starting to wonder if you were impotent. And who is this Mary? She sounds like a real slut. I bet she had big tits, too... is that why you gave me two moons? I think I'm going to be sick." Sheila tried to keep composure, but the tears started flowing, and all God could say was, "Sheila! You're melting my glaciers!" This set Sheila off: "You know what? Fine, go ahead and have other planets, I don't care. I'll go be like those Hindu people you showed me, they seem to have fun. From now on I'm polytheistic. I'll go God-hopping whenever I feel like it!" Sheila left and God was speechless. Sarah Palin said, "Good riddance. Look at it this way: at least you'll always have us!" With no hesitation, God was off to follow Sheila and beg forgiveness, never to be found on Earth again.
The relationship between God and Sheila, however, is very intriguing. They have been in courtship for many years, long before Earth came along. God is very broadminded, and once things started to grow stale with Sheila, God started to fool around. Well one such conquest, Earth, turned out to be quite a handful. Since God was never around Sheila became suspicious and built a space craft. You know what they say about an idle mind... and it looks like at long last Sheila has found God's mistress. It makes sense that God chose to show China instead of America, since the large population of Chinese Buddhists would reflect more favorably on the situation than America, with its current obsession with infidelity in the ruling class. God showed Sheila with the Great Wall, museums full of pottery, and a field of power generating wind turbines... all of this served to distract from Tibet, labor laws, and other depraved practices that highlight the naughty, experimental side God wants to hide. God knows Sheila is bored and would love to be full of torture, corruption, pollution, and hypocrisy, but the last thing God needs is another needy unstable planet calling all the time. God intended to conclude the tour in the Arctic Circle to show off some majestic glaciers. Just as Sheila was about to leave, they were paid a visit Sarah Palin, who had overheard them from Alaska because she had her window open. "Well gosh darnit, I had to see it with my own eyes. God! I would like to think that all the conversations you had with me and former president George W. Bush would have meant something. What would Jesus think if he saw this? You know... your son? Your only son, begotten by Mary?" Sheila gasped, "You have a son?!!? After all these years of making excuses... I was starting to wonder if you were impotent. And who is this Mary? She sounds like a real slut. I bet she had big tits, too... is that why you gave me two moons? I think I'm going to be sick." Sheila tried to keep composure, but the tears started flowing, and all God could say was, "Sheila! You're melting my glaciers!" This set Sheila off: "You know what? Fine, go ahead and have other planets, I don't care. I'll go be like those Hindu people you showed me, they seem to have fun. From now on I'm polytheistic. I'll go God-hopping whenever I feel like it!" Sheila left and God was speechless. Sarah Palin said, "Good riddance. Look at it this way: at least you'll always have us!" With no hesitation, God was off to follow Sheila and beg forgiveness, never to be found on Earth again.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Degradation
I treat women the way I treat boners: always excited to show them off at the Old Country Buffet whenever I have one.
I pick my women the way I pick my scabs: the younger they are, the more they bleed.
I choose my women like I choose my cell phone: smaller than they were three years ago and permanently set to silent.
I take my prostitutes like I take my salsa: chunky with free refills.
I use women they way I use my subway pass: 2 or 3 rides and then donate them to a needy homeless person.
I enjoy my women the way I used to enjoy free trials of Cinemax & HBO: all the orgasms I can handle for a few weeks until they ask for money, then I spend the rest of the year jerking off while thinking about it.
I take a girl the way I take a suicide pill: once.
I eat pussy like I eat fast food: convince myself that it is ok to eat the cheese, and wipe off all the sperm from those other guys.
I use women the way I use the toilet: one massive disgusting poorly managed load stops her flow, then I panic and leave it for the next guy.
I treat women the way people treat their pets: pretend they have a personality so they feel better about it when they have sex with them.
I treat women the way Snapple treats the general public: distract them with interesting facts that can't be verified at the moment so they'll drink the nasty juice.
I take my women the way I take Splenda: I see them at Denny's at 2AM and for some reason I take them home with me, but the following morning they are nowhere near my coffee.
I fuck women the way I brush my teeth: It's just what I tell people I'm doing while I'm really just sitting on the toilet thinking about life.
I handle my women the way I handle dreams: when they are around I can't seem to fully appreciate or understand them, and when I wake up and they're gone I often spend many potentially productive hours trying to recapture them. In the rare instance that I do, they aren't quite the same as they were for reasons I can't explain.
I treat women the way I treat pumpkins: I used degrade them and use them for sex, but I have since found that I enjoy them more when I give them a smile and let them stick around.
I feel in an airport men's room how women must feel at bars: surrounded by disoriented awkward men trying to act smooth when they really just can't wait to take out their dicks; and then they try to maintain dignity as they discreetly fart. Yet still even after this they want to be taken seriously.
I take men the way I take Prince: I don't really care what your name is, and I don't care if my friends discover that I find you attractive.
I do men like I do boxing: land one cheap shot then claim my wrist hurts too much to finish the match and then I go bragging about it to my friends about it.
I fuck men the way I play darts: I swear that I'm aiming for the Bull's Eye, but somehow I always end up hitting someone in the face.
Men are like bugs: they often come in my mouth when I'm sleeping.
I treat men the way I make paper airplanes: I fold them in a series of improbable angles for my amusement with no direction in mind, then I toss them and start a new sheet before they even hit the ground.
I do men like I pluck nose hairs: if it takes more than one pull I lose interest.
I take my men the way I take my coffee: full of my sperm.
I pick my women the way I pick my scabs: the younger they are, the more they bleed.
I choose my women like I choose my cell phone: smaller than they were three years ago and permanently set to silent.
I take my prostitutes like I take my salsa: chunky with free refills.
I use women they way I use my subway pass: 2 or 3 rides and then donate them to a needy homeless person.
I enjoy my women the way I used to enjoy free trials of Cinemax & HBO: all the orgasms I can handle for a few weeks until they ask for money, then I spend the rest of the year jerking off while thinking about it.
I take a girl the way I take a suicide pill: once.
I eat pussy like I eat fast food: convince myself that it is ok to eat the cheese, and wipe off all the sperm from those other guys.
I use women the way I use the toilet: one massive disgusting poorly managed load stops her flow, then I panic and leave it for the next guy.
I treat women the way people treat their pets: pretend they have a personality so they feel better about it when they have sex with them.
I treat women the way Snapple treats the general public: distract them with interesting facts that can't be verified at the moment so they'll drink the nasty juice.
I take my women the way I take Splenda: I see them at Denny's at 2AM and for some reason I take them home with me, but the following morning they are nowhere near my coffee.
I fuck women the way I brush my teeth: It's just what I tell people I'm doing while I'm really just sitting on the toilet thinking about life.
I handle my women the way I handle dreams: when they are around I can't seem to fully appreciate or understand them, and when I wake up and they're gone I often spend many potentially productive hours trying to recapture them. In the rare instance that I do, they aren't quite the same as they were for reasons I can't explain.
I treat women the way I treat pumpkins: I used degrade them and use them for sex, but I have since found that I enjoy them more when I give them a smile and let them stick around.
I feel in an airport men's room how women must feel at bars: surrounded by disoriented awkward men trying to act smooth when they really just can't wait to take out their dicks; and then they try to maintain dignity as they discreetly fart. Yet still even after this they want to be taken seriously.
I take men the way I take Prince: I don't really care what your name is, and I don't care if my friends discover that I find you attractive.
I do men like I do boxing: land one cheap shot then claim my wrist hurts too much to finish the match and then I go bragging about it to my friends about it.
I fuck men the way I play darts: I swear that I'm aiming for the Bull's Eye, but somehow I always end up hitting someone in the face.
Men are like bugs: they often come in my mouth when I'm sleeping.
I treat men the way I make paper airplanes: I fold them in a series of improbable angles for my amusement with no direction in mind, then I toss them and start a new sheet before they even hit the ground.
I do men like I pluck nose hairs: if it takes more than one pull I lose interest.
I take my men the way I take my coffee: full of my sperm.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Vacation Remnants
Ellis and Phyllis Mifflecreet were packing, preparing to conclude their daring vacation at a remote resort in northeastern Argentina in the province of Misiones. They were doing right now what they've been doing most of the journey: rationalizing the trip to one another, mostly with words paraphrased from the Wikipedia, Frommers, and Nat'l Geographic articles which they had independently studied before planning the itinerary. Having absorbed far too much of one another over the years, they resembled two overfilled balloons, too full to be tied so they just keep taking in more of each others hot air, often trembling in anticipation of whatever great pop which will send at least one of them spiraling across the room.
One only acquires a name like "Ellis" through legitimate and organized means. There are now lawmakers in his lineage, but his family always seem to benefit from the world as it is currently set up. He is heir to no permanent income; but rather more of a straight line of effort, as though someone wrote a simple letter on a pile of carbon paper. Each generation is assigned a sheet by which to express themselves. He noticed some of the words were blurry, but he still wanted what he was entitled to, so in order to maintain moral equilibrium he lives his life by a strict code of conduct that allows regimented indulgence paired with states of frantic penance; all of which he imposes upon everyone else as much as upon himself. A blend of Christianity and his own personal philosophies gleaned from old movies and classic American authors.
They were carefully folding their pleated slacks, thinking about which ones they would assign priority to in the instance of a hangar shortage. Then a stowaway crawled out of an open bag. It ran under the bed, then crawled up the lowest point of the bed skirt onto the surface, which it blended with pretty convincingly. The tastefully subdued linens which the Mifflecreets keep in their home would scarcely resemble the markings of a venomous spider from South America with a 5 inch leg span, but they didn't choose their vacation spot by bedroom linens. Nor did they plan an encounter with the Phoneutria nigriventer, commonly known as the Brazilian Wandering Spider or the Banana Spider (as it often stows away in crates of bananas). Their bag did not contain bananas, but gifts for friends and future conversation pieces at dinner parties. Anybody who would be invited to such an event would already know the Mifflecreets went to South America, but the displayed souvenirs would serve well during the panic of quiet moments that occur far too soon to entreat a graceful exit.
Of course any couple about to leave the beautiful, warm, humid seclusion of Argentina who add tedious extra steps to organizing their luggage must have advanced experience with avoiding sex. Despite a healthy, even impressive track record for the first couple decades of the marriage, the combination of a stressful lifestyle and unhealthy eating habits have left Ellis incapable of physical intimacy. He and Phyllis agreed that it would be sinful to include alternative modes of stimulation and pharmaceuticals into the bedroom, so the unpleasant topic was allowed to drop. This made him feel comfortable, as he was then absolved from responsibility with no shortage of valid well-documented excuses. She was distraught at first; she wasn't ready for this chapter of their life together to be over. After years of ignoring temptation, once her children moved out her friends set her up with some pre-screened men, thus tying all loose ends for an airtight rationalization.
The Brazilian Walking Spider was hiding in the crevice made when the blanket is tucked over and partially under the pillows. They made the bed themselves as they always do on vacation when they woke up at 5:35 AM; it kept them busy they were waiting for breakfast to be available. It was now 9:30 and they were done packing, with several hours until they had to leave for the airport. They decided to visit their favorite vantage point, which overlooked a flat path that they were both still physically capable of exploring but at no point took the initiative. Phyllis was sure to make Ellis feel the weight of her curiosity to walk the pathway. Ellis begun his usual protest process with his skeptical groan as he removed his sandals and retrieved from his suitcase the most convenient socks and shoes, which happened to be the more active and durable pair. These shoes gave him the option to actually explore the walkway, thus eliminating one of his excuses. He felt his control over the decision slipping from his grip as he leaned back on the bed to pull on his left sock. He felt a small impact on his hip, immediately followed by a sharp pain that left him breathless for a second, stymieing an otherwise embarrassing screech into a hiccup. They both froze at the glance of the spider as it zipped towards temporary oblivion. They tried to retain dignity as they swatted at it with their shoes the way a reluctant debutante might swing a wine bottle at a reincarnation of Hitler; fighting for their lives but also prepared to rebound into composure if the specter were to vanish. The spider exited through the window, and Phyllis called for help as Ellis scanned online reference material, identifying the species very quickly.
They sent the only medic available, who asked a few routine questions and assured Ellis that he was going to be fine and if he remained calm he would suffer significantly less. His lack of muscle spasms and erratic breathing rate were good signs... the medic's command of English was far greater than his pronunciation lead one to believe, and when he mentioned "priapism" it slipped right by the both of them. Ellis didn't catch it, even though he had read it in his quick research. After the medic left, Ellis went to the bathroom to relieve himself... and after 25 minutes of "be out it a second", Phyllis demanded to know what was going on in there. When he emerged, he was sporting a rehearsed grimace and a pert erection. She laughed at how undignified he appeared at this moment. He explained that the "situation" was a very uncomfortable effect of the venom called "priapism", it may last several hours and hopefully won't require medical attention. The more he tried to be taken seriously, the less she heard him. All she could think of is that it was even bigger than she remembered. She was absently discussing possible plans of action when she interrupted herself to make a far more practical suggestion. She viewed this as an amazing opportunity for a worthy finale to their sex life. Ellis disagreed, he felt that it was a false representation of him and that even though it was not harnessed from a pill it was still not natural. Phyllis found her self once again absently participating in a useless conversation, as he lectured her about the medical research being done on the spider's toxin that was causing this priapism and how it may be incorporated into Viagra in the future, and how the erection was not because of his feelings for her, that she would be defiling herself by partaking in false pleasure. Then she thought about his weakened state. When he was done talking, she helped him to his feet to get a glass of water. She admitted that he was right and that there was no reason for them to sin. They sat down next to one another on the bed. As he tried to hold her hand, she proceeded to push him onto his back and sit on his chest in order to remove his pants. As she tried to flop onto his now exposed involuntary erection, he rolled over off the bed and stood up. He begged on behalf of their virtue, with his back to the corner near the window he pleaded that this isn't God's plan. When that didn't work, he tried to guilt her about the spider bite and how sick he felt. He saw the familiar expression she gave when she decided what restaurant they would go to or which house they would move into, so he threw in his whammy card and pretended to faint. Without hesitation she pounced on and started grinding. All he could do then was swing his arms side to side and call out towards the open window. She stuffed both of his socks into his mouth, and amidst fits of passion she proudly proclaimed her intentions to ride him until they had to leave for the airport as she tied his wrists together with an ugly paisley necktie*. It was at this point, when he had no course of action aside from passive acceptance, that he ceased his struggling. After a couple hours of inert staring, he clenched his jaw and trembled in such a way that spider venom doesn't cause. After a silent trip to the airport, the incident was not discussed.
They still made people endure a stodgy dinner party. Their friends and family close their eyes for a roll as they are directed to pass the veggies clockwise and the meats and starches counter-clockwise. Everything they discuss from their trip could be found in various reference material without visiting Argentina, which makes some people wonder why they go on these trips at all. Phyllis and Ellis' drinks still never get around to melting any ice as they ramble about each item from the latest trip as well as certain "classic" items, as though their dinner parties have a "Greatest Hits" compilation in the making. This year, however, everyone is dismissed earlier than usual. Somewhere in a hollowed trinket from their South America trip is a small vial of mysterious substance. Tonight it will be accessed in secret, the way it always is whenever Ellis wears his ugly paisley necktie.
*every year one of their kids gets him another hideous paisley necktie that they know he hasn't the sense of style to realize is completely at odds with the rest of his wardrobe. Phyllis can't stand them, but Ellis thinks they are funny and wears them whenever he wants people to think he has a sense of humor.
One only acquires a name like "Ellis" through legitimate and organized means. There are now lawmakers in his lineage, but his family always seem to benefit from the world as it is currently set up. He is heir to no permanent income; but rather more of a straight line of effort, as though someone wrote a simple letter on a pile of carbon paper. Each generation is assigned a sheet by which to express themselves. He noticed some of the words were blurry, but he still wanted what he was entitled to, so in order to maintain moral equilibrium he lives his life by a strict code of conduct that allows regimented indulgence paired with states of frantic penance; all of which he imposes upon everyone else as much as upon himself. A blend of Christianity and his own personal philosophies gleaned from old movies and classic American authors.
They were carefully folding their pleated slacks, thinking about which ones they would assign priority to in the instance of a hangar shortage. Then a stowaway crawled out of an open bag. It ran under the bed, then crawled up the lowest point of the bed skirt onto the surface, which it blended with pretty convincingly. The tastefully subdued linens which the Mifflecreets keep in their home would scarcely resemble the markings of a venomous spider from South America with a 5 inch leg span, but they didn't choose their vacation spot by bedroom linens. Nor did they plan an encounter with the Phoneutria nigriventer, commonly known as the Brazilian Wandering Spider or the Banana Spider (as it often stows away in crates of bananas). Their bag did not contain bananas, but gifts for friends and future conversation pieces at dinner parties. Anybody who would be invited to such an event would already know the Mifflecreets went to South America, but the displayed souvenirs would serve well during the panic of quiet moments that occur far too soon to entreat a graceful exit.
Of course any couple about to leave the beautiful, warm, humid seclusion of Argentina who add tedious extra steps to organizing their luggage must have advanced experience with avoiding sex. Despite a healthy, even impressive track record for the first couple decades of the marriage, the combination of a stressful lifestyle and unhealthy eating habits have left Ellis incapable of physical intimacy. He and Phyllis agreed that it would be sinful to include alternative modes of stimulation and pharmaceuticals into the bedroom, so the unpleasant topic was allowed to drop. This made him feel comfortable, as he was then absolved from responsibility with no shortage of valid well-documented excuses. She was distraught at first; she wasn't ready for this chapter of their life together to be over. After years of ignoring temptation, once her children moved out her friends set her up with some pre-screened men, thus tying all loose ends for an airtight rationalization.
The Brazilian Walking Spider was hiding in the crevice made when the blanket is tucked over and partially under the pillows. They made the bed themselves as they always do on vacation when they woke up at 5:35 AM; it kept them busy they were waiting for breakfast to be available. It was now 9:30 and they were done packing, with several hours until they had to leave for the airport. They decided to visit their favorite vantage point, which overlooked a flat path that they were both still physically capable of exploring but at no point took the initiative. Phyllis was sure to make Ellis feel the weight of her curiosity to walk the pathway. Ellis begun his usual protest process with his skeptical groan as he removed his sandals and retrieved from his suitcase the most convenient socks and shoes, which happened to be the more active and durable pair. These shoes gave him the option to actually explore the walkway, thus eliminating one of his excuses. He felt his control over the decision slipping from his grip as he leaned back on the bed to pull on his left sock. He felt a small impact on his hip, immediately followed by a sharp pain that left him breathless for a second, stymieing an otherwise embarrassing screech into a hiccup. They both froze at the glance of the spider as it zipped towards temporary oblivion. They tried to retain dignity as they swatted at it with their shoes the way a reluctant debutante might swing a wine bottle at a reincarnation of Hitler; fighting for their lives but also prepared to rebound into composure if the specter were to vanish. The spider exited through the window, and Phyllis called for help as Ellis scanned online reference material, identifying the species very quickly.
They sent the only medic available, who asked a few routine questions and assured Ellis that he was going to be fine and if he remained calm he would suffer significantly less. His lack of muscle spasms and erratic breathing rate were good signs... the medic's command of English was far greater than his pronunciation lead one to believe, and when he mentioned "priapism" it slipped right by the both of them. Ellis didn't catch it, even though he had read it in his quick research. After the medic left, Ellis went to the bathroom to relieve himself... and after 25 minutes of "be out it a second", Phyllis demanded to know what was going on in there. When he emerged, he was sporting a rehearsed grimace and a pert erection. She laughed at how undignified he appeared at this moment. He explained that the "situation" was a very uncomfortable effect of the venom called "priapism", it may last several hours and hopefully won't require medical attention. The more he tried to be taken seriously, the less she heard him. All she could think of is that it was even bigger than she remembered. She was absently discussing possible plans of action when she interrupted herself to make a far more practical suggestion. She viewed this as an amazing opportunity for a worthy finale to their sex life. Ellis disagreed, he felt that it was a false representation of him and that even though it was not harnessed from a pill it was still not natural. Phyllis found her self once again absently participating in a useless conversation, as he lectured her about the medical research being done on the spider's toxin that was causing this priapism and how it may be incorporated into Viagra in the future, and how the erection was not because of his feelings for her, that she would be defiling herself by partaking in false pleasure. Then she thought about his weakened state. When he was done talking, she helped him to his feet to get a glass of water. She admitted that he was right and that there was no reason for them to sin. They sat down next to one another on the bed. As he tried to hold her hand, she proceeded to push him onto his back and sit on his chest in order to remove his pants. As she tried to flop onto his now exposed involuntary erection, he rolled over off the bed and stood up. He begged on behalf of their virtue, with his back to the corner near the window he pleaded that this isn't God's plan. When that didn't work, he tried to guilt her about the spider bite and how sick he felt. He saw the familiar expression she gave when she decided what restaurant they would go to or which house they would move into, so he threw in his whammy card and pretended to faint. Without hesitation she pounced on and started grinding. All he could do then was swing his arms side to side and call out towards the open window. She stuffed both of his socks into his mouth, and amidst fits of passion she proudly proclaimed her intentions to ride him until they had to leave for the airport as she tied his wrists together with an ugly paisley necktie*. It was at this point, when he had no course of action aside from passive acceptance, that he ceased his struggling. After a couple hours of inert staring, he clenched his jaw and trembled in such a way that spider venom doesn't cause. After a silent trip to the airport, the incident was not discussed.
They still made people endure a stodgy dinner party. Their friends and family close their eyes for a roll as they are directed to pass the veggies clockwise and the meats and starches counter-clockwise. Everything they discuss from their trip could be found in various reference material without visiting Argentina, which makes some people wonder why they go on these trips at all. Phyllis and Ellis' drinks still never get around to melting any ice as they ramble about each item from the latest trip as well as certain "classic" items, as though their dinner parties have a "Greatest Hits" compilation in the making. This year, however, everyone is dismissed earlier than usual. Somewhere in a hollowed trinket from their South America trip is a small vial of mysterious substance. Tonight it will be accessed in secret, the way it always is whenever Ellis wears his ugly paisley necktie.
*every year one of their kids gets him another hideous paisley necktie that they know he hasn't the sense of style to realize is completely at odds with the rest of his wardrobe. Phyllis can't stand them, but Ellis thinks they are funny and wears them whenever he wants people to think he has a sense of humor.
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