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

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

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

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

Beauty in Places You'd Never Expect

This is my suitemate (the one in the air) ramming his Ghost into an opponent, while the opponent Spartan Lasers him to death, exploding the airborne Ghost and rider at the same time. If you don't think that's epic, you can go eat a dick.

But regardless.

Stay classy

The Cold

Hey everybody (and by "everybody" I mean Maria, Coinstar, A-Ham, Marteen, and Waffles, seeing as they're the only ones who read this) - let's get something obvious out of the way: January + New York City = FREEZING COLD.

But as much as the cold delivers an icy pimphand to my face every time I leave a heated lobby . . . even though it's powerful enough to shake me from the inside out (my liver's been dancing all day) - and despite the fact that it has the ungodly power to turn my nipples into glass cutters and force my balls to retreat to someplace circa my navel - I like the cold.

Life is cold, for the most part. You start life cold (and wet, and hungry, and back-asswards, too, but that's besides the point). You end life cold. In between, you're always searching for the next thing that will keep you warm for a while, the next warm fire or space heater or whatever the hell you want the metaphor for happiness to be.

The cold reminds you that you're still alive, moreso than anything else, in my opinion. When you feel cold you feel alive - you instinctively know that you need to remedy the situation if you wish to stay alive. It tells you that you're not invincible - you can be as strong or as smart or as fast or as whatever the hell other adjective you wanna put in there as you want, but in the end, something invisible and intangible can bring you down to your knees like you're its bitch. Because truth be told, we're ALL the cold's bitch.

To tell you the truth, I dunno where I'm going with this. It's freakin' freezing outside, and as I was walking down the strip tonight it just hit me that the cold is there and we have to fight it, even while knowing that it's going to get us in the end. It's the fight that counts.

Keep fighting the cold in life.

And, of course, this goes without saying, but . . .

Stay classy

I Think I'll Stick with (Insert Treatable Disease Here)

Hey everybody. This is something I've been sitting on for a while, mostly because I've had more pressing matters to bitch and whine about to you, my faithful readers (all four of you), but also because it took a little research to put this business together and I was too lazy to sit down and look this shit up.

But now that the research aspect has been taken care of, let's start this shit.

Have you ever seen a commercial for a random wonder drug? Of course you have (if you've been watching TV at all in the past three years, anyway). Every single one, without fail, offers the latest, most complete, best, and above all, safest, treatment for some condition that can range from something stupid like a migraine to something damn serious like fibromyalgia. However, have you ever listened closely to the parts that come after the amazing benefits of the drug are laid out? You probably haven't - and what with the announcer's velvety-smooth baritone voice and the animations of little birdies and butterflies and other cute shit flitting all around the screen, that's not really too surprising.

What you're missing is arguably the single most important part of the commercial: the list of potential side effects. Examples, you say? Way ahead of you. Keep reading.

First off, we have Celebrex, a miracle treatment for the debilitating condition known as arthritis (or "arthur-itis" as my old friend Genevieve used to say). It will relieve your arthritis pain, no problem - but I bet you didn't know that it could lead to an increased risk of heart attack and stroke, which, according to the extremely eloquent and well-informed Celebrex website, and I quote, "can lead to death." Thanks for that, Evil Master of the Self-Evidently Unequivocal. I mean if you hadn't told me heart attacks and strokes can lead to death, I would've looked forward to having a couple for myself. Dumbasses.

Secondly, there's Treximet, a relatively new drug for the treatment of migraines. It works in two ways, by first targeting the specific blood vessels and neurons that are thought to trigger migraines, and by reducing brain inflammation to ease the pressure and pain of a migraine. However, at the same time, it could possibly cause a heart attack, stroke, serious stomach and intestinal problems (think ulcers and internal bleeding), and the kicker, a serious rash that, according to the Treximet website, "may be fatal and occur without warning." Well shit. Either I have a splitting headache . . . or a heart attack/stroke with a flesh-eating rash that will probably kill me. I'll take a couple aspirin and lay down. I mean shit - wouldn't you?

So yeah. Miracle drug my ass.

Stay classy

The Wheels on the Bus . . .

Okay, so it's been a while since I've made an observation (due in part to forces beyond my control, and due in larger part to the fact that I've been stuck in the most boring place on Earth - Hamden, CT - for the past two weeks). However, here's my latest observation, hot off the presses!

Or, hot off wherever the hell these freakin' brainfarts come from.

Anyway.

I was on the city bus on Monday for a good portion of the day. I was in the Bronx, staying with my cousin and his friend for the weekend, then going back to Queens to put my luggage and whatnot back in my dorm, then to LaGuardia to pick up my amazing girlfriend Maria, who was flying back in from Ohio. In total, I made five trips by bus on Monday alone: From the Bronx to Queens, back to the Bronx, back to Queens, to the Kew Gardens subway station, and from the Roosevelt Avenue station to LaGuardia Airport. While on the bus, I noticed that there was a specific set of character archetypes for the "average" city bus trip (similar to the way there was a specific set of character archetypes for the "average" group interview). My observations on the subject are listed below. Enjoy, bitches!

First off, and perhaps most subtly annoying, is the Finja. The Finja is a fat ninja, and man - this guy is fat as HELL. I'm talking MORBIDLY OBESE. His rolls have rolls and you need a minute or two to count up how many chins he has.
Yet, despite his TREMENDOUS girth, this guy is still able to sneak past you COMPLETELY UNDETECTED and take the newly-vacated seat that you were looking to sit in . . . and the one next to it.

Then there are the loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian ladies. Now, I'm not trying to be racist or sexist here, but I feel like it's my duty as an Observationalist to tell it like it is (yeah I made that word up, what of it?). For at least 90% of the bus rides I've been on, there has been at least one loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian lady, usually middle-aged (just so you can think I discriminate against older people too, if that's your angle), who pulls out her cellphone and just goes ABSOLUTELY APESHIT. God KNOWS what the hell she's saying, but it's LOUD, it's FAST, and it's FREAKIN' CRAZY. And you're sitting there turning up your iPod to the maximum volume to try to drown this crazy woman out, and at the same time trying to hear the driver's announcements (which aren't loud to begin with - and are incomprehensible as shit anyway), but it doesn't work, and perhaps she knows it, because she has a smirk on her face that never goes away.

My personal favorite are the people who speak to each other in a language other than English, thinking that the people surrounding them don't understand that language. For me, it's Spanish. Now, I'm far from conversationally fluent in Spanish, but I understand a LOT, and while I can't respond in a reasonably timely manner in Spanish, if you're talking about me in Spanish, I'll know. Invariably, there is a couple or group of Hispanics (and I'M Hispanic, so you can't say I'm racist now, ya prick) who will look around and start talking shit about me or someone else in Spanish, laughing to themselves because they think that I don't know what they're saying. Sometimes what they say is funny, so I let it go, no matter who they're talking about. Sometimes it's mean, and when it comes time for either me or them to get off the bus, I'll say something smart in Spanish (something that I spend at least five minutes conjugating and organizing in my head first), just to let them know that I knew what they were saying all along. Their expressions when they get a perfectly-crafted comeback in perfectly-dictated Spanish could probably be the eighth wonder of the world.

Lastly, there's the one guy who by himself only takes up one seat on the bus . . . but because of how he's strategically placed all his crap, he "metaphorically" takes up like two or three seats. On Monday, that guy was me - I had a suit-carrying bag, a bass and a bass amp, spread out on the bus. Now, everything started in my "personal space" and I only sat in one seat, but the seats immediately to the right and left of me remained unoccupied for the whole time I was on the bus.

So yeah. That's basically it. Watch out for the Finja, get those noise-cancelling iPod headphones for the loud, crazy-obnoxious Asian lady, pick up a second language, and tell that guy to move his shit.

And never forget.

Stay classy.

It Takes One to Know One - Y'know . . . or NOT

Hey everybody. Before I get into this observation, I just want to explain something about my relationship with my little sister.

She's a herb. For those who don't know what "herb" means, I'll give you a standard definition.

Herb (pronounced "HURB") (noun): Nerd; dork; geek; generally uncool person. Originated in early 1980s Burger King ad campaign in which a nerd named HERB was featured. The term was subsequently embraced by the hip hop generation. (courtesy of urbandictionary.com)

Anyway.

I was doing the dishes today, and my sister said something pretty stupid that prompted me to say aloud, "Wow, you're a herb." To which my mother replied, "It takes one to know one."

WRONG! It does NOT take one to know one. Let me lay out the illogical nature of this everyday phrase.

By saying that it takes one to know one, you're saying that in order to know a certain type of person, you have to be one yourself. If that doesn't sound stupid enough to you, let me take it a step further.

I know a loser. In fact, I know many losers. Does that make me a loser? No.
I know a Mexican. Does that make me a Mexican? No.

Now normally, these two true statements would prompt a reasonably sarcastic person (who knows me at least a little bit) to say "Oh really? You don't say!" or something related. However . . .

I know a mother. Does that make me a mother? Hellll no.
I know someone who died from sleep apnea. Does that make me someone who died from sleep apnea? How the hell could it?

"It takes one to know one" is a feeble cop-out. If you can't think of anything a bit more potent to say, then you're a herb.

Ya herb.

So, the next time someone you know says, "It takes one to know one," turn to them and say, "Well I know YOU, but that doesn't make ME a retard."

And walk away.

With ya bad self.

Stay classy

A Quickie

Insomnia sucks.

Stay classy

Something that Maria Noticed for which I'm Taking Credit

In the very first post of this blog (and I use the term "blog" lightly), I say that there will probably be a fair bit of cursing, as a warning to potential readers (it must've kept them away. As far as I know, my readership consists of A-Ham, Coinstar, Marteen, Maria, and me). In the unlikely event that someone read the blog and recommended it to someone, I wanted there to be no secrets between reader and blogger. I was laying everything out on the table before shit went down.

From the sidebar archive system on this blog, I can see that since early September of 2008, when this whole business started, I've made twenty-two separate posts (not counting this one).

The word "fuck" appears a total of twenty-one times. Of those twenty-one, one appeared as part of an AIM conversation between my suitemates that I reproduced as your Christmas present. In addition, one was said by my amazing girlfriend, Maria, in the second post of this blog, in an accurate description of herself.

So, personally-conceived iterations of "fuck" appeared a total of nineteen times in twenty personally-conceived posts (that's twenty-two posts total, minus the AIM convo and Maria's self-observation). Now, obviously each post doesn't have "fuck" in it (I'm positive there's at least one where I don't say "fuck"). But if you go by the average, then if you picked a post at random, there would be a 95% chance that "fuck" would be in there at least once.

Ha.

So much for trying to keep it reasonably clean.

And in case you're wondering, in this post I said "fuck" five times.

Wait . . . six.

Fuck it.

Stay classy

(Seven)

Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 2

Hey everybody. Hopefully you all had a nice, safe, relaxing holiday and a bitchin' New Years. As promised, here's the first post of the New Year, and I'm gonna start this off with a bang (I hope). Over this past holiday, a few more "wtf" statements have come to my attention, and I'm going to list them all here and offer funny, heavily sarcastic explanations and anecdotes that make them sound infinitely more retarded than they actually are (which is quite a feat on my part - they're pretty retarded as is without any help from me).

Anyway.

First off, we have "Are you sure?" asked as a question. "Are you sure?" Hmmm . . . what a question. The stupidity of this question varies by what it is about which you're being asked if you're sure. Generally, it's pretty dumb, but at worst, it's downright retarded. It can range from "are you sure you want to buy this car?" which isn't too dumb depending on who's asking, to "are you sure you don't want me to put it in your butt?" which is stupid no matter who's asking (but a little more stupid if it's someone with a vag). Bottom line: If I'm still standing here listening to you and I haven't left or kicked your ass (and you're not trying to sell me a used car), I'm pretty sure . . . that I'm sure. Asstart.

Next one: "Did you get a hair cut?" Actually, no, my hair just SPONTANEOUSLY FUCKING FELL OUT. Glad you noticed and brought it up, ya douchebag. Before you ask such a STUPID question, ask yourself a MUCH more sensible one: Is his hair significantly shorter than it was the last time I saw him? If the answer is yes, then you can probably assume that he did indeed get a haircut. Perhaps you could skillfully and subtly steer the conversation towards that and get him to say that he got a haircut without actually asking? Oh . . . wait, of course you can't . . . because you're a dumbass.

And now, even MACHINES are getting on in on the being retarded!? "Send failed - would you like to retry?" Well, let me think about that . . . hmmm . . . I've spent the last five minutes typing out a well-thought-out, (hopefully) funny and witty text message response, meticulously choosing each and every word so as to maximize the funny and minimize the not funny - all with my fucking THUMBS. Do I want to retry to send it? Hmmm . . .
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK?

Dammit.

People. Seriously.

Stay classy

My Suitemates Are Hilarious

Hey, in the spirit of the season, here's a gift from me to you. This is an actual conversation over AIM between two of my suitemates. And for all you creepers out there (ha as if anyone but my girlfriend and A-Ham reads this), I've changed their screen names. So don't try to IM them. Creepy bastards.

Anyway, enjoy, and have a safe and happy holiday. See you in the '09 bitches!

Stay classy,

-Fred the Observer

MrJuicy51 (9:21:46 PM): *grenade to the eye*
PoorRican12 (9:21:57 PM): *throws eye out the window*
MrJuicy51 (9:22:18 PM): why?
PoorRican12 (9:22:34 PM): cuz my eye had a grenade on it
MrJuicy51 (9:22:44 PM): oh it was a sticky
PoorRican12 (9:22:50 PM): spiker actually
MrJuicy51 (9:22:57 PM): ooooo
MrJuicy51 (9:23:03 PM): that had to hurt
PoorRican12 (9:23:05 PM): yea
PoorRican12 (9:23:07 PM): it did
MrJuicy51 (9:23:19 PM): did ur eye blow up
PoorRican12 (9:23:22 PM): i think so
PoorRican12 (9:23:29 PM): i gotta get a new one
MrJuicy51 (9:23:52 PM): good luck
PoorRican12 (9:23:55 PM): thanks
MrJuicy51 (9:24:03 PM): just take one of rays
PoorRican12 (9:24:08 PM): *cuts u in half w sword*
MrJuicy51 (9:24:19 PM): im dead
PoorRican12 (9:24:22 PM): yea u r
MrJuicy51 (9:24:37 PM): i got to get the super glue
PoorRican12 (9:24:48 PM): somehow\
MrJuicy51 (9:25:22 PM): *heat seeking missle to big toe*
PoorRican12 (9:25:34 PM): throws a heater at u
PoorRican12 (9:25:37 PM): i win
MrJuicy51 (9:26:10 PM): but im in antartica in an igloo cover with a bubble shield
PoorRican12 (9:26:29 PM): then ur safe
MrJuicy51 (9:26:35 PM): good
MrJuicy51 (9:27:36 PM): *napalm to right bicep*
PoorRican12 (9:27:55 PM): *instant transmission*
PoorRican12 (9:28:00 PM): *behind u*
MrJuicy51 (9:28:10 PM): fuck!!!!
PoorRican12 (9:28:13 PM): fss fss fss fss fsss
MrJuicy51 (9:28:23 PM): dam u
PoorRican12 (9:28:32 PM): =)
MrJuicy51 (9:28:43 PM): but i had over shield
PoorRican12 (9:28:48 PM): fss fss fss fss
PoorRican12 (9:28:55 PM): fsssssssssssssssss
MrJuicy51 (9:28:56 PM): no im already gone
PoorRican12 (9:29:07 PM): my knife is long
MrJuicy51 (9:29:47 PM): ur in antartica and im in italy
PoorRican12 (9:29:55 PM): its really really really long
MrJuicy51C2(9:29:58 PM): theres no way u could hit me
PoorRican12 (9:30:32 PM): really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really reallyreally really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really
PoorRican12 (9:30:34 PM): really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really reallyreally really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really
PoorRican12 (9:30:36 PM): really really really really really really really really really really really really really20really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really reallyreally really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really
PoorRican12 (9:30:37 PM): long
MrJuicy51 (9:30:51 PM): but u hv no acuracy and missed
PoorRican12 (9:30:58 PM): no ididnt
PoorRican12 (9:31:06 PM): its 10272185157211847651 feet wide
MrJuicy51 (9:32:26 PM): but its a straight knife so its in outer space
PoorRican12 (9:32:49 PM): i hit the moon
PoorRican12 (9:32:56 PM): and it crashed into italy
MrJuicy51 (9:33:15 PM): nNOOOOOOO
MrJuicy51 (9:33:20 PM): FACK U
PoorRican12 (9:33:23 PM): u cant talk
PoorRican12 (9:33:24 PM): ur dead
MrJuicy51 (9:33:37 PM): no im not
PoorRican12 (9:33:40 PM): yea
PoorRican12 (9:33:42 PM): yea u r
MrJuicy51 (9:34:15 PM): *instant transmission*
MrJuicy51 (9:34:19 PM): ur dead
PoorRican12 (9:34:23 PM): u already died
PoorRican12 (9:34:40 PM): u cant post mortem instant transmission
MrJuicy51 (9:35:43 PM): i did it before the moon crashed
PoorRican12 (9:35:50 PM): no u didnt
PoorRican12 (9:35:54 PM): i SAW
PoorRican12 (9:36:05 PM): i have reallystrong binoculars
PoorRican12 (9:36:14 PM): that reflect off of satellites
MrJuicy51 (9:36:25 PM): how could u see me when i was killing u already
PoorRican12 (9:36:30 PM): u werent
PoorRican12 (9:36:36 PM): u were in italy
MrJuicy51 (9:36:40 PM): yeah ur dead right now
PoorRican12 (9:36:41 PM): and i was in antarctica
PoorRican12 (9:36:47 PM): im not dead
PoorRican12 (9:36:48 PM): u r
PoorRican12 (9:36:54 PM): i crashed the moon on u
PoorRican12 (9:36:57 PM): ur dead
MrJuicy51 (9:36:58 PM): no ur confused cause ur dead
PoorRican12 (9:37:01 PM): no
PoorRican12 (9:37:03 PM): im alive
PoorRican12 (9:37:10 PM): and talkin 2 a ghost
MrJuicy51 (9:37:43 PM): NO
PoorRican12 (9:37:46 PM): yea
PoorRican12 (9:37:49 PM): i win
PoorRican12 (9:37:53 PM): I WIN
PoorRican12 (9:37:55 PM): SHUT UP
MrJuicy51 (9:37:57 PM): then were both dead
PoorRican12 (9:38:00 PM): no
PoorRican12 (9:38:02 PM): i killed u
MrJuicy51 (9:38:04 PM): yeah
PoorRican12 (9:38:05 PM): i killed u
PoorRican12 (9:38:10 PM): u didnt kill me
PoorRican12 (9:38:14 PM): i killed u
MrJuicy51 (9:38:28 PM): u cant talk to the dead and neither can i so were either both alive or both dead
PoorRican12 (9:38:58 PM): nah psychics talk 2 the dead
PoorRican12 (9:38:59 PM): brb

Wrapping paper - Another WTF?

Hey there folks. I was just talking to my girlfriend about wrapping paper when it dawned on me: Wrapping paper is stupid. Now, I'm not talking drastically stupid - it's note quite at the "bottled water" level, but it's a little higher on the stupid scale than this. Why, you ask? Allow me to explain.

What do you do with wrapping paper? Obviously, you wrap shit with it, usually shit of the present variety (birthday, Chrismahanakwanzaka, etc.). But what's the very first thing you do when handed something wrapped up in wrapping paper? It's okay, just shout it out when you know it.

Yeah, that's right! YOU RIP THAT FUCKER APART! You tear that beautifully-wrapped, painstakingly-chosen wrapping paper to shreds, to get at the good stuff it's hiding from you. I mean, in the end it comes down to basic psychology: the box represents what you want, and the wrapping paper is an obstacle between you and what you want. So, your natural response is going to be to want to remove the obstacle, and as long as you have hands and/or teeth that work, that shouldn't be a problem for you.

Then there's the fact that depending on the age of the recipient and/or people involved in the wrapping of presents, the cardboard tube that the paper comes on can be more interesting and play-with-worthy than anything for which the paper that came on it is being used to wrap up. It's the same with boxes - buy the little shmuck a baby swing and he'll delight way more in goofing off in the box than swinging on that lame ass swing. It's a fact.

Whew.

I just want two things noted, however. One, that none of this is a product of any bitterness that I might be feeling because my dad just popped me in the head with an empty wrapping paper tube (playfully!).

And two that there is one - and ONLY one - exception to this primal instinct, and that is this: if the wrapping paper is comprised of sheets of real, uncut $100 bills, you don't give two shits about what's in that box.

And you shouldn't.

Because it's probably a terrible Christmas sweater.

Stay classy. And have a safe and happy holiday.

Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit?

You know what I hate? When people ask stupid-ass, obvious-answer, "why-the-hell-would-you-ask-that" type questions, and/or when they say their statement counterparts ("stupid-ass, no-shit-Sherlock, 'why-the-hell-would-you-say-that'"). You know the ones I'm talking about - the ones that every action movie and "first-guy-on-the-scene-of-an-accident" absolutely HAS to say, but they're so obvious and stupid that it makes you want to grab a bat and pop 'em one upside the head.

For example, the classic question of "are you okay?" At least nine out of ten action movies have this in their scripts at least once, and whenever someone busts their ass in public, the first guy on the scene will either laugh himself silly or say this time-tested stupid-ass line. I mean, if I've just been shot by a freakin' terrorist and I'm bleeding profusely, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding and not die, lying prone behind cover with an expression on my face that plainly states "OW THIS FUCKING HURTS LIKE A BITCH" and my gun is on the ground in a pool of my blood instead of in my hand delivering .45 caliber slugs of patriotism to those terrorist bastards, I'm gonna have to say -
NO, I'M NOT OKAY, ASSHOLE.

It's either "are you okay?" or "you're hurt." NO SHIT. What was your first clue, Einstein? Was it the liter or so of blood I've lost, or maybe the bullet hole in my shoulder, or maybe the screams of pain I've been hollering for the last five minutes?
How about you stop stating the obvious and give me a freakin' Band-Aid, douchebag?

Also, there's "run." I mean, shit - I'm glad SOMEONE knows the proper response when something dangerous/deadly/about to freakin' eat us/etc. starts moving towards us at an accelerated rate, and moreover, has the tactical fortitude to let us retards know what we should do. God FORBID something happens that requires me to make a speedy getaway and you're NOT there, because I'll almost certainly be royally screwed!
By the time your infinite wisdom lets you in on the fact that we're being chased and should probably vacate the premises, I'll be safe and sound at my house eating a sandwich and watching the high-speed chase on the news. Dumbass.

And then there's "hold on." Scenario time!
You and I are flying in a helicopter over the ocean, when suddenly there's an epic burst of turbulence. Simultaneously, the latch on the door somehow fails and I'm pitched out of the chopper. Due to my amazingly quick ninja reflexes, however, I'm able to twist around in midair and grab the landing ski-lookin' thingy on the bottom of the helicopter and avoid plummeting to my doom. You immediately reach down and try to pull me back up, but you can't reach my hand. The pilot, meanwhile, has decided to do something actually intelligent and lowers the helicopter closer to the water's surface, so that if I DO fall, I won't hit the water at a zillion miles per hour and die on impact. I look down at the water, however, and see that a group of sharks is swimming around below me, in one of those cliche only-fins-above-the-water circles that they apparently love to do. So, I'm dangling by my fingertips from an airborne helicopter, suspended over freezing-cold water (did I mention it's January and the ocean is the Atlantic?), with hungry-ass sharks circling around maybe five yards below me, and you get the bright idea to shout over the roar of the rotors "HOLD ON!" HOLY SHIT! If you hadn't reminded me, I might've just let go! Jesus Herbert CHRIST, man, you might've just saved my freakin' life!
Here's an idea: Why don't you just pull me into the damn chopper and shut the fuck up!?

Sigh.

People are kinda dumb sometimes.

Whatever.

Stay classy