. . . that tomorrow, February the 28th, 2009, is in fact, Maria's birthday. She will be turning the big 1-9 (not sure if that's actually a milestone but yeah. Sounded good anyway).
So. An hour-premature happy birthday wish to a very special person.
Have an amazing and Happy Birthday Maria, tomorrow and for a long-ass while afterward (hopefully on the same day).
And as always . . .
Stay classy
Friday, February 27, 2009
What the Hell is the Deal With . . .
. . . Red Bull commercials? Now, I don't watch NEARLY as much TV as I did pre-college (surprisingly?) - the only two shows I watch with any kind of regularity are Fringe and Family Guy - but even still, I've noticed that Red Bull commercials have undergone a drastic change in the past few years. Before I outline the change, let me just say - I don't think it's necessarily a BAD change, it's just . . . interesting. Yeah. Interesting is a good word.
Anyway.
For those who have been living under a rock since the advent of Red Bull, allow me to outline a typical Red Bull commercial for you: something happens which involves the need for wings, the "main character" drinks a Red Bull, which gives said character wings, allowing him or her to fulfill his or her goal, the end.
Back in the day, there were two main commercials (two that I can remember, anyway).
In the first one, we're at the will-reading (is there a word for that?) of an old guy, whose elderly widow and children are present. However, he ends up leaving all of his money and worldly possessions to a leggy blonde mistress, which prompts his widow to pop open a can of Red Bull (you thought I was gonna say "whupass" dincha?), and fly up to heaven to chase down this fool of a dead husband.
In the second one, a rather fat yellow cat sits at his leisure in an armchair, doing all manner of personal hygienic shit - fixing his whiskers, flossing, etc. - and then the camera pans back to reveal an empty can of Red Bull, as well as a suspended bird cage, also empty, with a single yellow feather floating airy-fairy down to earth. The idea is that the cat drank some Red Bull, flew up to the birdcage, and ate the bird.
Both of those commercials are funny, clever, and - dare I say it - kinda cute. But then we have the more recent Red Bull commercials, which just shoot those compliments down to shit.
First off, there's the biochemistry major commercial. A college biochem major is trying to study, it's late, he has his final in the morning, he's nowhere near done studying, and his girlfriend is horny as shit and wants to bone.
Yeah.
Let that sink in for a moment.
Red Bull commercial.
Chick wants to bone.
Anyway.
When he resists on the grounds that he's studying and has his final in the morning and he's working on the THEORY of biochem and not the practice of it, she offers him a Red Bull, tells him that they can study the practice of biochemistry first and then work BACK to theory, giggles, and turns off the light. We all know what happens next.
Then there's the first of the two most recent ones that I've seen, the kid at the gentlemen's club. That's right.
Kid.
At a gentlemen's club.
Anyway.
A farmer boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen at the most, fills the water trough that the pigs drink from with Red Bull, chuckling and smiling smugly. He watches the pig drink the stuff up, and then runs to his mother in the kitchen of the farmhouse. He asks her if he can go to the gentlemen's club, to which she replies "When pigs fly." Of course, "Red Bull gives you wiiiiings", so mom looks out the kitchen window and sees her pigs flying around. Cut-to, the boy at a gentlemen's club, alone, with the stripper throwing her sash all up on his face.
Lastly, and perhaps most disturbingly, is the nudist beach commercial.
Yeah.
NUDIST BEACH.
Red Bull went there.
Anyway.
We start off at a nudist beach, and this guy rolls up next to this leggy blonde (who of course is naked), who's tanning or whatever. The guy is naked (with a black rectangle covering his junk), and sets up his blanket and whatnot next to hers. She gives him a Red Bull, which he promptly drinks (as a little kid - maybe seven or eight, and NAKED - rolls up to retrieve his ball that rolled over into view), and the guy COPS A FUCKING BONER (like the rectangle extends and everything).
YEAH.
HE COPS A BONER.
And the blonde laughs because she thinks she's gonna have a nice stiff one in her in a few minutes, but then the guy sprouts wings and flies off.
What. The. Fuck.
I mean, Red Bull is good shit in moderation, but seeing these commercials DEFINITELY doesn't make me wanna drink Red Bull. Like. How the hell do you get from cute and clever to semi-pornographic with the same product? That shit just don't make no sense (a trait that the grammar of that statement shares).
What the hell're you thinkin', Red Bull?
You know what you gotta do, Red Bull? The same thing as everybody else . . .
Stay classy
Anyway.
For those who have been living under a rock since the advent of Red Bull, allow me to outline a typical Red Bull commercial for you: something happens which involves the need for wings, the "main character" drinks a Red Bull, which gives said character wings, allowing him or her to fulfill his or her goal, the end.
Back in the day, there were two main commercials (two that I can remember, anyway).
In the first one, we're at the will-reading (is there a word for that?) of an old guy, whose elderly widow and children are present. However, he ends up leaving all of his money and worldly possessions to a leggy blonde mistress, which prompts his widow to pop open a can of Red Bull (you thought I was gonna say "whupass" dincha?), and fly up to heaven to chase down this fool of a dead husband.
In the second one, a rather fat yellow cat sits at his leisure in an armchair, doing all manner of personal hygienic shit - fixing his whiskers, flossing, etc. - and then the camera pans back to reveal an empty can of Red Bull, as well as a suspended bird cage, also empty, with a single yellow feather floating airy-fairy down to earth. The idea is that the cat drank some Red Bull, flew up to the birdcage, and ate the bird.
Both of those commercials are funny, clever, and - dare I say it - kinda cute. But then we have the more recent Red Bull commercials, which just shoot those compliments down to shit.
First off, there's the biochemistry major commercial. A college biochem major is trying to study, it's late, he has his final in the morning, he's nowhere near done studying, and his girlfriend is horny as shit and wants to bone.
Yeah.
Let that sink in for a moment.
Red Bull commercial.
Chick wants to bone.
Anyway.
When he resists on the grounds that he's studying and has his final in the morning and he's working on the THEORY of biochem and not the practice of it, she offers him a Red Bull, tells him that they can study the practice of biochemistry first and then work BACK to theory, giggles, and turns off the light. We all know what happens next.
Then there's the first of the two most recent ones that I've seen, the kid at the gentlemen's club. That's right.
Kid.
At a gentlemen's club.
Anyway.
A farmer boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen at the most, fills the water trough that the pigs drink from with Red Bull, chuckling and smiling smugly. He watches the pig drink the stuff up, and then runs to his mother in the kitchen of the farmhouse. He asks her if he can go to the gentlemen's club, to which she replies "When pigs fly." Of course, "Red Bull gives you wiiiiings", so mom looks out the kitchen window and sees her pigs flying around. Cut-to, the boy at a gentlemen's club, alone, with the stripper throwing her sash all up on his face.
Lastly, and perhaps most disturbingly, is the nudist beach commercial.
Yeah.
NUDIST BEACH.
Red Bull went there.
Anyway.
We start off at a nudist beach, and this guy rolls up next to this leggy blonde (who of course is naked), who's tanning or whatever. The guy is naked (with a black rectangle covering his junk), and sets up his blanket and whatnot next to hers. She gives him a Red Bull, which he promptly drinks (as a little kid - maybe seven or eight, and NAKED - rolls up to retrieve his ball that rolled over into view), and the guy COPS A FUCKING BONER (like the rectangle extends and everything).
YEAH.
HE COPS A BONER.
And the blonde laughs because she thinks she's gonna have a nice stiff one in her in a few minutes, but then the guy sprouts wings and flies off.
What. The. Fuck.
I mean, Red Bull is good shit in moderation, but seeing these commercials DEFINITELY doesn't make me wanna drink Red Bull. Like. How the hell do you get from cute and clever to semi-pornographic with the same product? That shit just don't make no sense (a trait that the grammar of that statement shares).
What the hell're you thinkin', Red Bull?
You know what you gotta do, Red Bull? The same thing as everybody else . . .
Stay classy
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Supervillains - Superdumb?
First off, I wanna welcome Rebecca aka R 'n R as a reader of this bullshit. It's a party, I promise.
Anyway.
I was just talking to Waffles about supervillains because we were watching Batman on Cartoon Network, and I realized that supervillains are freakin' retarded. Supervillains are all about destroying the world and shit. But like . . . if they succeed, where the fuck are THEY gonna live?
Like I'm all for supervillains having a goal in life and whatnot - life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and all that jive - but destroying the planet on which you live is a pretty fuckin' stupid goal to have. I mean, when you think about it, the superheroes are not only saving the innocent people, but the supervillains as well, because if they allow the supervillains to succeed, EVERYBODY'S fucked.
So yeah. If you were thinking of being a supervillain and trying to destroy the world . . . just remember. That'll be YOUR ass too. And in the afterlife we'd all kick the shit out of you.
Yep.
Stay classy
Anyway.
I was just talking to Waffles about supervillains because we were watching Batman on Cartoon Network, and I realized that supervillains are freakin' retarded. Supervillains are all about destroying the world and shit. But like . . . if they succeed, where the fuck are THEY gonna live?
Like I'm all for supervillains having a goal in life and whatnot - life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and all that jive - but destroying the planet on which you live is a pretty fuckin' stupid goal to have. I mean, when you think about it, the superheroes are not only saving the innocent people, but the supervillains as well, because if they allow the supervillains to succeed, EVERYBODY'S fucked.
So yeah. If you were thinking of being a supervillain and trying to destroy the world . . . just remember. That'll be YOUR ass too. And in the afterlife we'd all kick the shit out of you.
Yep.
Stay classy
Monday, February 23, 2009
Life is Good . . .
. . . for the most part. Shit's been pretty fucked up these past couple of weeks, but I'm glad to say that (again, for the most part) life's lookin' up again.
I just wish that I understood people better than I do, which is kinda funny coming from me. I'd like to think that I understand people better than the average person - at least for someone who hasn't had any formal training in behavioral analysis (which is gonna be what I go to grad school for . . . if I can afford it). Not to be a creeper or anything, but I've done my share of people-watching (for my writing!), so I would say I have a pretty good grasp on people, and I can read them pretty well.
These last two weeks have shattered that perception. People I thought I knew - people I thought knew ME - proved me wrong on both counts, and to put it mildly, shit went down. Shit that could've been avoided with some better communication. I dunno.
Everything is fine now (again, for the most part). And as for what's not fine, I've done all I can do at this point to make it fine, and to be honest it's out of my hands now. Just gotta wait.
Yup.
Oh!
And I'd like to welcome Chris aka Chris O to the readership. That brings me up to eleven! Woo! Keep spreading the word!
And of course . . .
Stay classy
I just wish that I understood people better than I do, which is kinda funny coming from me. I'd like to think that I understand people better than the average person - at least for someone who hasn't had any formal training in behavioral analysis (which is gonna be what I go to grad school for . . . if I can afford it). Not to be a creeper or anything, but I've done my share of people-watching (for my writing!), so I would say I have a pretty good grasp on people, and I can read them pretty well.
These last two weeks have shattered that perception. People I thought I knew - people I thought knew ME - proved me wrong on both counts, and to put it mildly, shit went down. Shit that could've been avoided with some better communication. I dunno.
Everything is fine now (again, for the most part). And as for what's not fine, I've done all I can do at this point to make it fine, and to be honest it's out of my hands now. Just gotta wait.
Yup.
Oh!
And I'd like to welcome Chris aka Chris O to the readership. That brings me up to eleven! Woo! Keep spreading the word!
And of course . . .
Stay classy
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Point of Headphones is so I DON'T Hear Your Crappy Music
Hey everybody (that's Maria, Welch, Waffles, Jeff, Juice, Marteen, Coinstar, Black, Spanky and A-Ham. I list my readers to make myself feel important). I'm back with something ELSE that pisses me off (watch out Lewis Black).
What the hell is with people who crank their freakin' iPods up to mega maximum, so even though they're rockin' the earbuds, I can still hear their shitty music across the freakin' room? Seriously? Does it seriously need to be that fucking loud?
First off, you're an idiot. That shit's gonna fuck your ears up permanently, and then I'm gonna laugh because you won't be able to hear your shitty music anymore, no matter how loud you put that shit. So I get the last laugh, dumbass. A laugh which you won't be able to hear.
Second, you're an asshole. It really isn't necessary for me to be able to hear whatever homo-ass music you're listening to across a freakin' classroom when the earbuds are buried in your ears. The whole point of you having headphones/earbuds in the first place is so that YOU can hear the freakin' music, not everybody else. Nobody gives a shit about your corny ass music. If they did, they'd be listening to it too - QUIETLY, on their own fucking iPod.
Turn your damn music down, dick!
Or I'll cut you.
Stay classy
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"Sexy Chat" Commercials - Yet ANOTHER WTF?
Okay, so I'm sitting on my bed watching Adult Swim and doing my Theology homework (and wouldn't Freud have a field day with THAT), and this commercial comes on. There's this lady dressed like a hooker explaining what basically amounts to softcore phone sex via a toll-free number. There are a few different service providers that advertise on Adult Swim (this one was called "Quest"), but each and every one of their commercials follows a similar pattern.
Scantily-clad, rent-a-hooker lady with a phone in her hand explains, through actual face-to-face monologue and voiceovers while she's doing sexy stuff and pretending to talk on the phone and laugh and smile and throw her hair around and whatnot, how to use the system, why it's the best, etc.
And not to be the stereotypical guy, but these chicks are hot. They're all dressed sexy (a little too much for a freakin' commercial though), their hair is nice, etc. etc. But. That leads me to the point of this.
Why in the Black Jesus would you get all dressed up and sexy TO TALK ON THE PHONE? In the words of a wise man, that makes about as much sense as wiping your ass BEFORE you take a shit (have you figured out who said that yet?). That just makes so little sense it makes me want to cry. That's like . . . I can't even think of something that stupid! The closest I can get is trick-or-treating on the phone in full Halloween costume, and that doesn't even come close.
Dammit.
Stay classy
Scantily-clad, rent-a-hooker lady with a phone in her hand explains, through actual face-to-face monologue and voiceovers while she's doing sexy stuff and pretending to talk on the phone and laugh and smile and throw her hair around and whatnot, how to use the system, why it's the best, etc.
And not to be the stereotypical guy, but these chicks are hot. They're all dressed sexy (a little too much for a freakin' commercial though), their hair is nice, etc. etc. But. That leads me to the point of this.
Why in the Black Jesus would you get all dressed up and sexy TO TALK ON THE PHONE? In the words of a wise man, that makes about as much sense as wiping your ass BEFORE you take a shit (have you figured out who said that yet?). That just makes so little sense it makes me want to cry. That's like . . . I can't even think of something that stupid! The closest I can get is trick-or-treating on the phone in full Halloween costume, and that doesn't even come close.
Dammit.
Stay classy
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Just Wanna Point Out . . .
I fully realize the irony inherent in the fact that the post prior to this one is entitled "You Can't Make This Shit Up" and the one before that one is entitled "Who Sat Down and Made This Shit Up?" I assure you that this was completely unintentional.
Just in case you thought the irony was lost on me.
Yeah.
Stay classy
Just in case you thought the irony was lost on me.
Yeah.
Stay classy
You Can't Make This Shit Up
And I should know. I'm a fuckin' pro at making shit up. Sorta comes with the whole writing thing.
Eddie was right.
Stay classy
Eddie was right.
Stay classy
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Who Sat Down and Made This Shit Up?
Ever hear or see something that's ridiculously and unnecessarily complicated and wonder "Who was the jackass who sat down and made this shit up?" I do it almost every day. Isn't that sad?
For example, metaphysics. What in the hell is metaphysics? I've been coming to this freakin' class since the start of the semester and I STILL don't have a firm grasp on what the Black Jesus metaphysics is. I missed class last week, but I don't think that the professor (who's a straight-up Asian guy with a Hispanic last name) explained metaphysics in a single 80-minute class.
Another example - the English language. Who the FUCK got wasted on the best crack in the world and made up this absolutely retarded language that I'm speaking right now? I mean, the grammar ALONE is enough to make me want to kick a baby. How you can't end sentences with prepositions and you can't split infinitives and the "there/their/they're" threesome going on - all that bullshit. I hate it. A:SLJSADL:KASJDLSAKJD that much
Also, colors. Here's something that'll blow your freakin' mind - without using the term "red" or any words like "bright" or "dark" or "pretty," try to explain the color red to me. Yeah. That shit's near-impossible, isn't it? Crazy right? Who the hell thought up the names of the colors, and why? That guy was probably the awesomest dude ever.
Ok. I'm gonna end it here, before the chick sitting next to me reading this thinks I'm crazier than I actually am.
Stay classy.
For example, metaphysics. What in the hell is metaphysics? I've been coming to this freakin' class since the start of the semester and I STILL don't have a firm grasp on what the Black Jesus metaphysics is. I missed class last week, but I don't think that the professor (who's a straight-up Asian guy with a Hispanic last name) explained metaphysics in a single 80-minute class.
Another example - the English language. Who the FUCK got wasted on the best crack in the world and made up this absolutely retarded language that I'm speaking right now? I mean, the grammar ALONE is enough to make me want to kick a baby. How you can't end sentences with prepositions and you can't split infinitives and the "there/their/they're" threesome going on - all that bullshit. I hate it. A:SLJSADL:KASJDLSAKJD that much
Also, colors. Here's something that'll blow your freakin' mind - without using the term "red" or any words like "bright" or "dark" or "pretty," try to explain the color red to me. Yeah. That shit's near-impossible, isn't it? Crazy right? Who the hell thought up the names of the colors, and why? That guy was probably the awesomest dude ever.
Ok. I'm gonna end it here, before the chick sitting next to me reading this thinks I'm crazier than I actually am.
Stay classy.
Monday, February 9, 2009
The White Crayon - Yet Another WTF?
First off, I wanna welcome my homeslice Dave aka Juice to the readership. That brings me up to like eight or nine . . . whatever. Keep spreading the word - there's an asshole who likes to bitch about stuff here on Blogger (and I mean me, because there has to be someone else out there trying to be me). End of commercial!
What this is really about, is something that was just brought to my attention by Waffles (like literally two minutes ago), and that is . . . what the fuck is with the White Crayon?
Like . . . seriously? Let's look at this logically. What color is the kind of paper you would (usually) draw on with crayons? White. What color is this crayon? White. What (usually) happens when you try to mark something up with something that is the same color? You can't see what you marked.
So, with that logic in mind, I put the question to you, Crayola - WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? It makes absolutely no sense (we're talking near-bottled-water-level stupidity), and you have to wonder if they're losing money with every White Crayon they make. I mean, seriously, when the fuck are you gonna use a White Crayon? How often to you actually have black paper? That's the only time I ever remember using a White Crayon, and I was a fuckin' artistic little shmuck when I was little - I used Crayons like it was my job.
What the hell Crayola? You smokin' crack fool?
Dammit man.
Stay classy
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Most Elusive Answer is to the Question of . . .
. . . WHY?
Why is shit so complicated? Why does my Theology professor hate me? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do I always end these fucking mindless "observations" with "Stay classy"? Why am I so freakin' constipated? Why am I awake at 2:23 in the morning talking about how constipated I am on the freakin' Internet?
Why is it that things can't go simply, and smoothly, like you intend them to from the start? Why is it that as soon as you feel like you may be able to be comfortable, something comes along and kicks you in the ass?
Is it because there's some slightly malevolent force out there in the universe that just about busts a nut at the thought of fucking up every life it can get its filthy claws into? I hope not, because that would fuckin' suck.
Is it because of karma? Hell no. Only Commies believe in that shit.
I'd LIKE to think it makes you a better person, or at least a more useful one. If everything you ever did went exactly as planned, you'd be such a herb it would be ridiculous. You'd be useless. The moment something went wrong - anything, something as simple as your shoelaces being suddenly untied - you'd go to pieces. What use is a person like that to anyone?
I think the best answer to the question of Why is "because." Which, of course, isn't an answer at all, but it is the single best way to respond.
Why? Because.
Because if shit weren't complicated, life wouldn't be exciting enough for me. Because my Theology professor probably thinks I'm dicking off in her class instead of paying attention (and she's partially right). Because life's not fair. Because it sounds good and I'm an idiot. Because I probably ate something I shouldn't have, and I've been under a lot of stress lately. Because I can't sleep and have nothing better to do (nothing that's relatively quiet, anyway, as my roommates are asleep).
Why? Because. Because that's just "how it is", and if you lay down and take it, congratulations, you're just like 99% of the human race. But if you stand up, grit your teeth, rear back and punch "how it is" right in the fucking mouth, regardless of how little damage it did, you did something. You did your best, which is more than anyone else is doing, and all that could be done.
I have no fucking idea where any of that came from. I'll probably look back on this in fifteen years and laugh and say some trite and corny adult line about teenaged angst (hopefully I'll know what "angst" means by then, or else I'll feel damn foolish talking about it).
Fuck. And in case you're wondering, that's the thirty-sixth time I've said that nifty and versatile little four-letter word in this blog.
Oh yeah. And a welcome to Parvez (aka Pez), who admits to having read this heap of shit at least once. Poor guy.
Stay classy
Why is shit so complicated? Why does my Theology professor hate me? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do I always end these fucking mindless "observations" with "Stay classy"? Why am I so freakin' constipated? Why am I awake at 2:23 in the morning talking about how constipated I am on the freakin' Internet?
Why is it that things can't go simply, and smoothly, like you intend them to from the start? Why is it that as soon as you feel like you may be able to be comfortable, something comes along and kicks you in the ass?
Is it because there's some slightly malevolent force out there in the universe that just about busts a nut at the thought of fucking up every life it can get its filthy claws into? I hope not, because that would fuckin' suck.
Is it because of karma? Hell no. Only Commies believe in that shit.
I'd LIKE to think it makes you a better person, or at least a more useful one. If everything you ever did went exactly as planned, you'd be such a herb it would be ridiculous. You'd be useless. The moment something went wrong - anything, something as simple as your shoelaces being suddenly untied - you'd go to pieces. What use is a person like that to anyone?
I think the best answer to the question of Why is "because." Which, of course, isn't an answer at all, but it is the single best way to respond.
Why? Because.
Because if shit weren't complicated, life wouldn't be exciting enough for me. Because my Theology professor probably thinks I'm dicking off in her class instead of paying attention (and she's partially right). Because life's not fair. Because it sounds good and I'm an idiot. Because I probably ate something I shouldn't have, and I've been under a lot of stress lately. Because I can't sleep and have nothing better to do (nothing that's relatively quiet, anyway, as my roommates are asleep).
Why? Because. Because that's just "how it is", and if you lay down and take it, congratulations, you're just like 99% of the human race. But if you stand up, grit your teeth, rear back and punch "how it is" right in the fucking mouth, regardless of how little damage it did, you did something. You did your best, which is more than anyone else is doing, and all that could be done.
I have no fucking idea where any of that came from. I'll probably look back on this in fifteen years and laugh and say some trite and corny adult line about teenaged angst (hopefully I'll know what "angst" means by then, or else I'll feel damn foolish talking about it).
Fuck. And in case you're wondering, that's the thirty-sixth time I've said that nifty and versatile little four-letter word in this blog.
Oh yeah. And a welcome to Parvez (aka Pez), who admits to having read this heap of shit at least once. Poor guy.
Stay classy
Thursday, February 5, 2009
A Little Diddy . . . About Black my Man . . .
Seems I've jumped up a bit in popularity these past few days. I've added my homies Waffles, Black, and now I'm welcoming Sabino (aka Spanky) and Jeff too. Since I'm currently out of things to bitch about, I'm gonna do a character portrait of my homeslice Black Erick.
I can't really remember how or where I met the man - nay, the legend - that is Black Erick. My earliest memory of him occurred in the local 7Eleven. He had just opened up one of the freezer doors, and eyes alighting upon the large quantity of Gatorade on the shelves, proclaimed "AHAAA! GLACIER FREEEEZE!" and proceeded to buy at least four bottles of the stuff.
Later that night, in true ninja fashion, I stole his Gatorade, and then I paraded around behind him - unbeknownst to him - carrying said Gatorade. And then, when I could no longer contain myself, I burst out laughing, and he whipped around and saw me, with his Gatorade, and he flipped a shit and tried to fight me. That ended with me picking him up off his feet (effortlessly) and spinning him around until I succumbed to laughter and put him back down.
Fast forward a few weeks. I recently purchased a Nerf gun at Toys R Us in Manhattan, and brought it back. Maria took it and ran with it down the hallway, hiding in Black's room. Mere moments later, Black came skipping down the hallway, as happy as any boy could be. He turned the corner to cross the threshold into his room, and got SHOT IN THE FACE AT POINT BLANK RANGE. Just imagine a guy skipping down the hallway all la di da di da and whatnot, and then BLAMMO! Right in the kisser!
Black is a funny guy, he is, and a source of inspiration for me, it seems. I guess from now on, when I can't think of anything to bitch about I'll start writing about the people around me . . . ? Sounds like a plan.
Stay classy
I can't really remember how or where I met the man - nay, the legend - that is Black Erick. My earliest memory of him occurred in the local 7Eleven. He had just opened up one of the freezer doors, and eyes alighting upon the large quantity of Gatorade on the shelves, proclaimed "AHAAA! GLACIER FREEEEZE!" and proceeded to buy at least four bottles of the stuff.
Later that night, in true ninja fashion, I stole his Gatorade, and then I paraded around behind him - unbeknownst to him - carrying said Gatorade. And then, when I could no longer contain myself, I burst out laughing, and he whipped around and saw me, with his Gatorade, and he flipped a shit and tried to fight me. That ended with me picking him up off his feet (effortlessly) and spinning him around until I succumbed to laughter and put him back down.
Fast forward a few weeks. I recently purchased a Nerf gun at Toys R Us in Manhattan, and brought it back. Maria took it and ran with it down the hallway, hiding in Black's room. Mere moments later, Black came skipping down the hallway, as happy as any boy could be. He turned the corner to cross the threshold into his room, and got SHOT IN THE FACE AT POINT BLANK RANGE. Just imagine a guy skipping down the hallway all la di da di da and whatnot, and then BLAMMO! Right in the kisser!
Black is a funny guy, he is, and a source of inspiration for me, it seems. I guess from now on, when I can't think of anything to bitch about I'll start writing about the people around me . . . ? Sounds like a plan.
Stay classy
The Loose Rug of Life
First off, I just wanna welcome my homey Black Erick to the readership. What's that bring me up to now? Five? I know I have Maria, Waffles, Mistah Welch, Coinstar, A-Ham and Marteen . . . so seven, with Black added. Welcome aboard sir. It's quite a party, I promise.
Anyway.
You ever just get the rug YANKED out from under your feet? Like . . . you're just chillin' like a villain, ready for some normal, everyday (but freakin' amazingly awesome) stuff, when something just . . . happens. And your world gets turned on its elbow, but it's really turned on its ass - because your world is so confusing and so confused that it doesn't know its elbow from its ass (wow that was eloquent).
What're you supposed to do when shit like that goes down? Psychoanalytic theory states that you would want to subconsciously keep things as they had been - a mild form of regression (and I only know that because I'm studying it for my major). But . . . that just leads to even more confusion - and in worst case scenarios, pain - because your common sense begins to see what your emotions either can't or don't want to see . . . that at the moment, things CAN'T be as they had been, and that trying to keep them like that would be just about as successful (and frustrating) as trying to keep water in your cupped hands: the more you try to keep it, the more pieces just seem to leave your grasp. The moment when you become conscious of this fact is one of the hardest moments you will ever live through - when you realize that the tighter you're trying to hold on, the faster what you're trying to save is slipping away.
It's a rough place to be in.
Trust me.
It's maddening. Absolutely maddening. Every single instinct and mental and emotional defense that you've honed to abso-fucking-lute perfection - for JUST this sort of thing - just suddenly decides to take a vacation, and you're left with your common sense and your emotions battling it out. You KNOW that things will be strange and unfamiliar for at least some time, and if you're optimistic (like I am), you fervently hope that things will work themselves out eventually for the better, and are willing to do whatever it takes to help things along to that end.
However, while you know all this, your feelings get in the way. They want instant gratification - you catch yourself thinking "if only I had a magic wand, I'd fix this . . ." which is a nice, imaginative thought. But when you actually start believing that there's something in the real world equivalent to that magic wand, something that could be said or done or given or removed that would somehow hit Life's "reset" button and put shit back the way it was - THEN, you're in trouble. And the worst part is, you won't even know it until you say or do something EXTREMELY retarded.
Because then it may be too late. It may not be, but it may be, and if you give HALF a shit about whatever it is, you're going to find yourself in a pretty fucked up state of mind (and if you're feeling like this to begin with, you give about 13019821093821093813098124 halves of a shit about whatever it is, so you're extra screwed). You'll realize that through all your efforts, through every word and action that you meticulously chose in order to maximize the chance of making things right, not only have you failed presently, you very well may have failed permanently, and that's enough to drive anybody crazy (or crazier, depending on the individual).
Because there are physical effects as well as mental and emotional ones. You'll stop sleeping at night, yet be perpetually in a state of near-exhaustion, so you're either nearly falling asleep or completely falling asleep during the day. Your appetite will fluctuate - you'll be starving until you take that first bite, and then your appetite will take flight (I did a little rhyme there, if you didn't notice). Your senses will start playing games with you - you'll smell a certain perfume, see someone in a crowd but they won't be there when you get closer; you'll feel like your phone is vibrating only to open it and see a regular old home screen, sans message or incoming call. You psych yourself out, and it drives you even MORE up the wall.
To put it extremely mildly, you're in a pickle. It seems that the only fix for it is time . . . but while that may be the only remedy, it's also the hardest pill to swallow . . .
I just don't know what to do . . . but I hope I figure it out soon. God knows I do . . .
But as for you, I know exactly what you need to do.
And if you're wondering, it's simple . . .
Stay classy
Anyway.
You ever just get the rug YANKED out from under your feet? Like . . . you're just chillin' like a villain, ready for some normal, everyday (but freakin' amazingly awesome) stuff, when something just . . . happens. And your world gets turned on its elbow, but it's really turned on its ass - because your world is so confusing and so confused that it doesn't know its elbow from its ass (wow that was eloquent).
What're you supposed to do when shit like that goes down? Psychoanalytic theory states that you would want to subconsciously keep things as they had been - a mild form of regression (and I only know that because I'm studying it for my major). But . . . that just leads to even more confusion - and in worst case scenarios, pain - because your common sense begins to see what your emotions either can't or don't want to see . . . that at the moment, things CAN'T be as they had been, and that trying to keep them like that would be just about as successful (and frustrating) as trying to keep water in your cupped hands: the more you try to keep it, the more pieces just seem to leave your grasp. The moment when you become conscious of this fact is one of the hardest moments you will ever live through - when you realize that the tighter you're trying to hold on, the faster what you're trying to save is slipping away.
It's a rough place to be in.
Trust me.
It's maddening. Absolutely maddening. Every single instinct and mental and emotional defense that you've honed to abso-fucking-lute perfection - for JUST this sort of thing - just suddenly decides to take a vacation, and you're left with your common sense and your emotions battling it out. You KNOW that things will be strange and unfamiliar for at least some time, and if you're optimistic (like I am), you fervently hope that things will work themselves out eventually for the better, and are willing to do whatever it takes to help things along to that end.
However, while you know all this, your feelings get in the way. They want instant gratification - you catch yourself thinking "if only I had a magic wand, I'd fix this . . ." which is a nice, imaginative thought. But when you actually start believing that there's something in the real world equivalent to that magic wand, something that could be said or done or given or removed that would somehow hit Life's "reset" button and put shit back the way it was - THEN, you're in trouble. And the worst part is, you won't even know it until you say or do something EXTREMELY retarded.
Because then it may be too late. It may not be, but it may be, and if you give HALF a shit about whatever it is, you're going to find yourself in a pretty fucked up state of mind (and if you're feeling like this to begin with, you give about 13019821093821093813098124 halves of a shit about whatever it is, so you're extra screwed). You'll realize that through all your efforts, through every word and action that you meticulously chose in order to maximize the chance of making things right, not only have you failed presently, you very well may have failed permanently, and that's enough to drive anybody crazy (or crazier, depending on the individual).
Because there are physical effects as well as mental and emotional ones. You'll stop sleeping at night, yet be perpetually in a state of near-exhaustion, so you're either nearly falling asleep or completely falling asleep during the day. Your appetite will fluctuate - you'll be starving until you take that first bite, and then your appetite will take flight (I did a little rhyme there, if you didn't notice). Your senses will start playing games with you - you'll smell a certain perfume, see someone in a crowd but they won't be there when you get closer; you'll feel like your phone is vibrating only to open it and see a regular old home screen, sans message or incoming call. You psych yourself out, and it drives you even MORE up the wall.
To put it extremely mildly, you're in a pickle. It seems that the only fix for it is time . . . but while that may be the only remedy, it's also the hardest pill to swallow . . .
I just don't know what to do . . . but I hope I figure it out soon. God knows I do . . .
But as for you, I know exactly what you need to do.
And if you're wondering, it's simple . . .
Stay classy
Sunday, February 1, 2009
This One's for You, Welch
Hey all (and by "all" I mean Maria, Waffles aka Waldy, A-Ham, Marteen, Coinstar, and Mistah Welch), I would just like to make a quick observation and say that Mistah Welch has now joined the very limited number of readers of this blog (if you can call it that. Because I sometimes wonder if I can).
That is all.
Stay classy
That is all.
Stay classy
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