Readership, I was talking to the ever-lovely Jordan today, and the subject of getting pussy came up.
Oh yeah.
But yeah. She related to me a highly philosophical debate she'd played party to in her days as a bartender. The debate stemmed from the question of "to pay, or not to pay for pussy." While this question was being debated, it was discovered that even if you don't directly pay for it, if you go through conventional channels (i.e. not rape), you will end up paying for pussy, even if it is highly indirectly. An explanation? Of course.
There are two ways to go about getting laid if you're a guy. One, is to hire a prostitute/go to a brothel/etc. This means you pay directly to get pussy. Is it dirty? Probably. Is it good? Probably not. But it's pussy. So you get laid.
The other way is to be a player about it. This is a blanket term for actually talking to a girl and taking her out to dinner and whatnot, and for going to the club and macking, etc.
If you're a broke ass dude, which is the easier of the two for your small budget? Most would say that it would be cheaper to actually mack and be a gent about it, but I'm going to disagree. Why?
How much money did you spend on the outfit you're wearing? Unless you're buying from the bargain bin, a good outfit with name brands is going to run you about $100-$120, then another $100 or so for some fly kicks. The watch, even if it's fake, will run you from $30-$50, and the chain another $50. That right there is $280 minimum. Add taking her to dinner ($40) and a movie ($30), and you're over $370. And factor in gas, and you're over $400.
Let's pause here. This is one date. In the preparation (clothes and transportation) and the actual date, you're spending over $400. And statistically speaking, you're not even likely to get any pussy from her that night.
Looking in your local newspaper at the escort classifieds, you can get a classy escort to come to your house and smash for around $200, depending on where you are.
In summation. While I don't personally prefer going after escorts to looking for a meaningful relationship (which I have now), speaking strictly financially, it is preferable.
Who'da thunk it.
Stay classy
Friday, January 22, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Barbershops
Readership, since my hair grows like a vociferous weed on plant-steroids, I've had to have several haircuts while I've been away at college in Queens. I had two last school year, and today, my second of this school year. There were three barbershops around St. John's. There were the Jewish guys, the black guys, and the Dominican guys. The black guys, much to my dismay, closed down at some point last year, second semester. I went to each barbershop once each, with the exception of the Dominican barbershop because of the aforementioned closing.
Anyway.
Each place was an experience, and since classes start tomorrow and I'm trying to be a good boy and get good grades - and thus won't have much free time to blog/bitch during the first week of classes - I thought I'd drop those experiences on ya. Let's do this (LEEEEROYYYYY JENKINSSSS).
The first place I ever went to get my hair cut was the black barbershop. Now, this was my first time ever setting foot inside a black barbershop, but I HAD seen the Ice Cube movie "Barbershop," so I had an idea of what to expect. I opened the door, stepped in, and instantly realized that the movie "Barbershop" was almost a carbon copy of the actual barbershop (minus Cedric the Entertainer) - right down to the one "Eminem" white guy in there cutting hair.
Suddenly, from around my left elbow, came a low, surly voice.
"Yo. You wanna get CUT?"
And I was like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" and I sorta freaked out a bit. But he gave me a look that said, quite plainly, "dumbass cracka" and said "Nah b, your HAIR." And I was like "oh fo sho."
About an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I'm still in the chair. I'm legally blind (duh) so I can't see my reflection too clearly, but from what I can see, he's just about done (cuz I'm lookin' good). Suddenly, he stops with the clipper, spins me around SUPER FAST to face him, and says, "yo . . . you want me to go get muh blade?"
"WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" He shot me the same "dumbass cracka" look, went out to his car, and came back with a butterfly-knife (which worried me even more). He grabbed a spray bottle full of (what I thought was) water, and told me, and I quote, "put your head back." Something told me "CLOSE YO EYES BITCH" and I did, just in time - because it wasn't water.
It was rubbing alcohol.
The Jewish guys were, again, an experience. There were like six of them, but only two of them were cutting hair. The other four were watching the door, like they expected half of Palestine to suddenly flood through the door and try and take over. The two cutting hair were polar opposites. One was old and wise, the other young and trendy. The young guy cut my hair, and kept asking me questions about how I wanted my hair cut, like I was a retard. "Do you want it . . . like mine? Or . . . like his?" And I was sitting there like "are you fuckin' serious bro?"
As an aside, they were the only barbershop I visited with a cash register.
Lastly, and most recently, was the Dominican barbershop. I've been twice, and both times I was highly satisfied with the results. When I went the first time, I got the chill, older guy (out of the three barbers there; the other two were a little older than me and crazy).
I'm gonna pause here for a second to drop a little knowledge. I'm Puerto Rican. Obviously, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans both speak Spanish. Most people will tell you that Puerto Ricans speak quickly, regardless of what language they're speaking, and they'd be right. However, when it comes to speaking Spanish at a rapid pace, there is no race better than the Dominicans.
So, I'm sitting there in the chair, and these guys are rapid-firing Spanish at each other, and from the little bit that I actually catch, I come to understand that they're debating amongst themselves. The topic? My ethnicity. Finally, the chill guy cutting my hair stops and says to me, "What are you man?" So I told him. He smiled and laughed, because he won the argument.
The first thing the crazy younger guy says when I sit in the chair? He starts arguing with the chill guy about my ethnicity again. The chill guy goes "boriquen" which is Spanish slang for "Puerto Rican," and the crazy guy goes "No. Wrong. What are you buddy?" He was pissed when I told him I was Puerto Rican.
So yeah. Three different barbershops. Three very different flavors.
Completely unrelated to the above: I don't wanna go to class tomorrow.
Stay classy
Anyway.
Each place was an experience, and since classes start tomorrow and I'm trying to be a good boy and get good grades - and thus won't have much free time to blog/bitch during the first week of classes - I thought I'd drop those experiences on ya. Let's do this (LEEEEROYYYYY JENKINSSSS).
The first place I ever went to get my hair cut was the black barbershop. Now, this was my first time ever setting foot inside a black barbershop, but I HAD seen the Ice Cube movie "Barbershop," so I had an idea of what to expect. I opened the door, stepped in, and instantly realized that the movie "Barbershop" was almost a carbon copy of the actual barbershop (minus Cedric the Entertainer) - right down to the one "Eminem" white guy in there cutting hair.
Suddenly, from around my left elbow, came a low, surly voice.
"Yo. You wanna get CUT?"
And I was like "WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" and I sorta freaked out a bit. But he gave me a look that said, quite plainly, "dumbass cracka" and said "Nah b, your HAIR." And I was like "oh fo sho."
About an HOUR AND A HALF LATER, I'm still in the chair. I'm legally blind (duh) so I can't see my reflection too clearly, but from what I can see, he's just about done (cuz I'm lookin' good). Suddenly, he stops with the clipper, spins me around SUPER FAST to face him, and says, "yo . . . you want me to go get muh blade?"
"WHOA WHAT THE FUCK NO!" He shot me the same "dumbass cracka" look, went out to his car, and came back with a butterfly-knife (which worried me even more). He grabbed a spray bottle full of (what I thought was) water, and told me, and I quote, "put your head back." Something told me "CLOSE YO EYES BITCH" and I did, just in time - because it wasn't water.
It was rubbing alcohol.
The Jewish guys were, again, an experience. There were like six of them, but only two of them were cutting hair. The other four were watching the door, like they expected half of Palestine to suddenly flood through the door and try and take over. The two cutting hair were polar opposites. One was old and wise, the other young and trendy. The young guy cut my hair, and kept asking me questions about how I wanted my hair cut, like I was a retard. "Do you want it . . . like mine? Or . . . like his?" And I was sitting there like "are you fuckin' serious bro?"
As an aside, they were the only barbershop I visited with a cash register.
Lastly, and most recently, was the Dominican barbershop. I've been twice, and both times I was highly satisfied with the results. When I went the first time, I got the chill, older guy (out of the three barbers there; the other two were a little older than me and crazy).
I'm gonna pause here for a second to drop a little knowledge. I'm Puerto Rican. Obviously, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans both speak Spanish. Most people will tell you that Puerto Ricans speak quickly, regardless of what language they're speaking, and they'd be right. However, when it comes to speaking Spanish at a rapid pace, there is no race better than the Dominicans.
So, I'm sitting there in the chair, and these guys are rapid-firing Spanish at each other, and from the little bit that I actually catch, I come to understand that they're debating amongst themselves. The topic? My ethnicity. Finally, the chill guy cutting my hair stops and says to me, "What are you man?" So I told him. He smiled and laughed, because he won the argument.
The first thing the crazy younger guy says when I sit in the chair? He starts arguing with the chill guy about my ethnicity again. The chill guy goes "boriquen" which is Spanish slang for "Puerto Rican," and the crazy guy goes "No. Wrong. What are you buddy?" He was pissed when I told him I was Puerto Rican.
So yeah. Three different barbershops. Three very different flavors.
Completely unrelated to the above: I don't wanna go to class tomorrow.
Stay classy
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Art
Readership, there's been something that's been bothering me for quite some. It's a bit . . . semantic. Allow me to explain.
Due to the natural progression of a society, certain words and phrases will go in and out of style, or change meanings. Usually it's a pretty drastic change - for example, in the twenties, a "pussy" was a normal thing to call a cat. Now it's slang for "vagina" or someone who fits the description of "scared to do anything" or a "bitch."
There's one word that has managed to change its definition so drastically that the original definition has been lost to the ages. What word is it?
Art.
Back in the Renaissance, art was a word that was reserved for something visual that stirred the soul - you looked up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or saw the Mona Lisa, or the Statue of David, and you KNEW it was art. There was no doubt in your mind that what you were looking at was something that transcended the very lives of the men who created them, and would be considered almost sacred centuries after their deaths.
Nowadays, art has as much of a set-in-stone, concrete definition as the word "thingamagig," or better yet, "jount." It's ridiculous. There are people who spend LOTS OF MONEY on "paintings" that were made, to be perfectly honest, by someone just throwing paint at a blank canvas until they felt they were done. There are these large, plastic "statues" (for lack of a better word) around Yale and Downtown New Haven that are just abominations. They're shapeless, mindless, and pointless. But it's "art." And I'm sure the guy that the City of New Haven contracted to create these "works of art" made a fucking killing.
Basically, it seems like anything can be art, and since the definition is so subjective, nobody could say that what you said was art, wasn't actually art. Technically, my shoe is art. So is my shower. That broken window? Art. That cardboard box, with one side ripped off? Art. The computer on which I'm typing this Observation? Art. The letter N? Art.
When I get back to St. John's, I think I might just go up to my old art teacher and take a shit right there on the floor in the middle of the classroom.
And call it art.
Stay classy
Due to the natural progression of a society, certain words and phrases will go in and out of style, or change meanings. Usually it's a pretty drastic change - for example, in the twenties, a "pussy" was a normal thing to call a cat. Now it's slang for "vagina" or someone who fits the description of "scared to do anything" or a "bitch."
There's one word that has managed to change its definition so drastically that the original definition has been lost to the ages. What word is it?
Art.
Back in the Renaissance, art was a word that was reserved for something visual that stirred the soul - you looked up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or saw the Mona Lisa, or the Statue of David, and you KNEW it was art. There was no doubt in your mind that what you were looking at was something that transcended the very lives of the men who created them, and would be considered almost sacred centuries after their deaths.
Nowadays, art has as much of a set-in-stone, concrete definition as the word "thingamagig," or better yet, "jount." It's ridiculous. There are people who spend LOTS OF MONEY on "paintings" that were made, to be perfectly honest, by someone just throwing paint at a blank canvas until they felt they were done. There are these large, plastic "statues" (for lack of a better word) around Yale and Downtown New Haven that are just abominations. They're shapeless, mindless, and pointless. But it's "art." And I'm sure the guy that the City of New Haven contracted to create these "works of art" made a fucking killing.
Basically, it seems like anything can be art, and since the definition is so subjective, nobody could say that what you said was art, wasn't actually art. Technically, my shoe is art. So is my shower. That broken window? Art. That cardboard box, with one side ripped off? Art. The computer on which I'm typing this Observation? Art. The letter N? Art.
When I get back to St. John's, I think I might just go up to my old art teacher and take a shit right there on the floor in the middle of the classroom.
And call it art.
Stay classy
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Jury Duty Can Suck My Civic Balls
Readership, once you turn 18, your name goes on a couple lists (at least in America). If you don't have a job, it goes on the State Unemployment list. If you have your license, it goes on the State DMV license registry. If you register to vote in your state, it goes on the State Registered Voters list. If you filed taxes in your state last tax season, you go on the Paying Taxes to *whatever state* list.
From these four lists, names are drawn randomly by computer, and if yours comes up, you're in for a treat. A treat dripping in as much sarcasm as the previous sentence.
Yup, you guessed it. Jury duty.
Jury duty, as the video they show you explains, is an honor. It is your civic duty as a proud citizen of your state to be selected to a jury of your fellow state residents so you can uphold another fellow citizen's Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial by a jury of his or her peers.
Fuck jury duty.
I woke up at around 7 this morning so I could be ready to leave by 7:45. I got to the courthouse at 8, still half-asleep. After going through a metal detector and up an elevator to the top floor, myself and about fifty other people were confined to what looked like a fucked up lecture hall with chairs in rows that didn't separate. There was a 32-inch television on one of those elementary-school-esque carts against the back wall, next to the podium, and it was perpetually tuned to CNN.
We're going to stop here for a moment. There was recently a REALLY bad earthquake in Haiti. Like REALLY REALLY bad. There have been a lot of deaths, and there are thousands of people still unaccounted for, even now at the moment that I'm typing this. CNN was reporting on the earthquake all day. So as if it wasn't bad enough that I was stuck in this fucking room with a bunch of strangers (and not a few creepy old guys), I was smacked in the face with a tragedy that genuinely saddened me, because my roommate and good friend Waldy has family down there, that when I last asked him, hadn't been accounted for.
To top it all off, some dickhead with a SmartBoard came on the screen, and used it to tell the viewers that 47% of Haiti's citizens lived in Port-au-Prince (which was the earthquake's epicenter), and also that Haiti had a 53% literacy rate.
Why the fuck was that important? I wondered, did he perhaps think that the earthquake had given the Haitian people an ultimatum before it struck - "READ ROMEO AND JULIET OR I'LL CRUSH YOU!" - and thus this statistic was relevant? Somehow I think not.
I digress.
All of this depressing and makin'-me-mad shit ceased for about five minutes, when this late-fifties Hispanic guy got on the podium. He had a sexy Telemundo voice, but spoke English (obviously), and spoke like a pilot. Everything was enunciated and pronounced super clearly and the cadence was fake as hell and I wanted to shoot him. I couldn't even pay attention to what he was saying because his voice pissed me off so damn much.
When he stopped, we got a "coffee break." The coffee was completely gone after everybody had some. And it wasn't even good coffee.
After the "coffee break," at around 10, they sat us back in the auditorium/lecture hall/torture chamber.
And we sat.
And we sat.
And I listened to Aesop Rock.
And we sat.
And this creepy lady dressed all in black who seemed to have went to Goku's stylist to get her hair done stood up against a pillar twenty feet behind me and stared at me for an hour or so.
And we sat.
Finally, at around noon, an announcement came over hidden speakers saying that we were free to go.
I SPENT FOUR FUCKING HOURS OF MY MORNING SITTING WATCHING DEPRESSING CNN AND DRINKING BAD COFFEE WHILE BEING STARED AT BY CREEPY MEN AND WOMEN.
And I got paid something to the tune of 10 bucks.
Fuck jury duty.
Stay classy
From these four lists, names are drawn randomly by computer, and if yours comes up, you're in for a treat. A treat dripping in as much sarcasm as the previous sentence.
Yup, you guessed it. Jury duty.
Jury duty, as the video they show you explains, is an honor. It is your civic duty as a proud citizen of your state to be selected to a jury of your fellow state residents so you can uphold another fellow citizen's Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial by a jury of his or her peers.
Fuck jury duty.
I woke up at around 7 this morning so I could be ready to leave by 7:45. I got to the courthouse at 8, still half-asleep. After going through a metal detector and up an elevator to the top floor, myself and about fifty other people were confined to what looked like a fucked up lecture hall with chairs in rows that didn't separate. There was a 32-inch television on one of those elementary-school-esque carts against the back wall, next to the podium, and it was perpetually tuned to CNN.
We're going to stop here for a moment. There was recently a REALLY bad earthquake in Haiti. Like REALLY REALLY bad. There have been a lot of deaths, and there are thousands of people still unaccounted for, even now at the moment that I'm typing this. CNN was reporting on the earthquake all day. So as if it wasn't bad enough that I was stuck in this fucking room with a bunch of strangers (and not a few creepy old guys), I was smacked in the face with a tragedy that genuinely saddened me, because my roommate and good friend Waldy has family down there, that when I last asked him, hadn't been accounted for.
To top it all off, some dickhead with a SmartBoard came on the screen, and used it to tell the viewers that 47% of Haiti's citizens lived in Port-au-Prince (which was the earthquake's epicenter), and also that Haiti had a 53% literacy rate.
Why the fuck was that important? I wondered, did he perhaps think that the earthquake had given the Haitian people an ultimatum before it struck - "READ ROMEO AND JULIET OR I'LL CRUSH YOU!" - and thus this statistic was relevant? Somehow I think not.
I digress.
All of this depressing and makin'-me-mad shit ceased for about five minutes, when this late-fifties Hispanic guy got on the podium. He had a sexy Telemundo voice, but spoke English (obviously), and spoke like a pilot. Everything was enunciated and pronounced super clearly and the cadence was fake as hell and I wanted to shoot him. I couldn't even pay attention to what he was saying because his voice pissed me off so damn much.
When he stopped, we got a "coffee break." The coffee was completely gone after everybody had some. And it wasn't even good coffee.
After the "coffee break," at around 10, they sat us back in the auditorium/lecture hall/torture chamber.
And we sat.
And we sat.
And I listened to Aesop Rock.
And we sat.
And this creepy lady dressed all in black who seemed to have went to Goku's stylist to get her hair done stood up against a pillar twenty feet behind me and stared at me for an hour or so.
And we sat.
Finally, at around noon, an announcement came over hidden speakers saying that we were free to go.
I SPENT FOUR FUCKING HOURS OF MY MORNING SITTING WATCHING DEPRESSING CNN AND DRINKING BAD COFFEE WHILE BEING STARED AT BY CREEPY MEN AND WOMEN.
And I got paid something to the tune of 10 bucks.
Fuck jury duty.
Stay classy
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Cows
Readership, I was having a deeply philosophical discussion with Mistah Welch tonight, and he brought up a very interesting point. How did the milking of cows come about?
Yeah. I said "hmmm" too.
The way I see it, there are three possible ways that milking a cow was "discovered." I'll outline them for you in order from least probable to most probable, below.
First off, we have what I'm going to call the "Genius Theory." In the Genius Theory, some know-it-all young dick (picture Einstein in his twenties with short hair) decided that since his momma's boobies gave him milk, that every animal's momma's boobies had to do the same thing. Actually, since according to this site, cows were first domesticated between eight and ten thousand years ago in the Near East (which is just fancy archaeologist-speak for what us normal bastards call the Middle East, minus a few countries), he probably had filthy long hair.
I digress.
This know-it-all young dick probably tried a few animals out first, but was frustrated by their distinct lack of boobies.
And then he saw the cow. Its udder was in plain sight. No need to search for boobies or nips. There it was.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Ancient history, actually.
The second theory, which I'll call the "Clean Accident Theory," follows a similar tact as the previous theory, except there was no intelligence involved. A regular ol' guy, same as you and me (except somewhere in 6000 BC Iraq), tripped over a rock towards a cow, and, flailing his hands out to try and grab something that would save him from his terrible tumble, his fingers fastened securely around the plump, full udders of a cow, squirting the delicious "Moo Juice" (as my father calls it) onto the ground.
He was then most likely kicked in the head by said cow, permanently fucking his brain up. It would be several years before anybody put two and two together and discovered that it had been the sudden and surprise milking that had pissed the cow off enough to strike back.
As an aside, this was also the first documented case of the whole "No means no" thing.
Lastly, and I believe, most likely, is what I'll call the "Dirty Accident Theory." In this theory, there was some sick-in-the-head, perverted Ancient Iraqi, who saw those plump udders and couldn't help himself. He had to have them. And he did.
Over. And over.
Stay classy
Yeah. I said "hmmm" too.
The way I see it, there are three possible ways that milking a cow was "discovered." I'll outline them for you in order from least probable to most probable, below.
First off, we have what I'm going to call the "Genius Theory." In the Genius Theory, some know-it-all young dick (picture Einstein in his twenties with short hair) decided that since his momma's boobies gave him milk, that every animal's momma's boobies had to do the same thing. Actually, since according to this site, cows were first domesticated between eight and ten thousand years ago in the Near East (which is just fancy archaeologist-speak for what us normal bastards call the Middle East, minus a few countries), he probably had filthy long hair.
I digress.
This know-it-all young dick probably tried a few animals out first, but was frustrated by their distinct lack of boobies.
And then he saw the cow. Its udder was in plain sight. No need to search for boobies or nips. There it was.
And the rest, as they say, is history. Ancient history, actually.
The second theory, which I'll call the "Clean Accident Theory," follows a similar tact as the previous theory, except there was no intelligence involved. A regular ol' guy, same as you and me (except somewhere in 6000 BC Iraq), tripped over a rock towards a cow, and, flailing his hands out to try and grab something that would save him from his terrible tumble, his fingers fastened securely around the plump, full udders of a cow, squirting the delicious "Moo Juice" (as my father calls it) onto the ground.
He was then most likely kicked in the head by said cow, permanently fucking his brain up. It would be several years before anybody put two and two together and discovered that it had been the sudden and surprise milking that had pissed the cow off enough to strike back.
As an aside, this was also the first documented case of the whole "No means no" thing.
Lastly, and I believe, most likely, is what I'll call the "Dirty Accident Theory." In this theory, there was some sick-in-the-head, perverted Ancient Iraqi, who saw those plump udders and couldn't help himself. He had to have them. And he did.
Over. And over.
Stay classy
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Married Chicks
Readership, married chicks at bars piss me off. Why, you ask? Lemme lay it out flat for you.
First off, every single chick at a bar that's a "chick at a bar" (as opposed to someone sitting at a bar who just happens to have a vagina - and there IS a difference) is dressed sexy. That's the bottom line. They are dressed to sexify your night. Short skirts, belly shirts and plunging necklines - and then the hair and perfume, and whew. There goes your mind.
So, naturally, being a man, you approach these ladies and drop your best lines, and then you get THIS bullshit:
"Uh . . . I'm married."
Uh . . . the fuck? You say you're married? So, uh . . . where the hell's your husband? Does he know you're dressed like a hooker trolling bars every night?
Or is this whole thing bullshit? Did you just hit up a toy store and toss a quarter into a machine, crank the crank and get a fake ass ring to wear, so you can be dressed like a filthy whore and then lure unsuspecting saps into your web of lies, only to be a snarky bitch and shoot them down to make yourself feel better?
Readership, YOU be the judge.
And please, whatever you do.
Stay classy
First off, every single chick at a bar that's a "chick at a bar" (as opposed to someone sitting at a bar who just happens to have a vagina - and there IS a difference) is dressed sexy. That's the bottom line. They are dressed to sexify your night. Short skirts, belly shirts and plunging necklines - and then the hair and perfume, and whew. There goes your mind.
So, naturally, being a man, you approach these ladies and drop your best lines, and then you get THIS bullshit:
"Uh . . . I'm married."
Uh . . . the fuck? You say you're married? So, uh . . . where the hell's your husband? Does he know you're dressed like a hooker trolling bars every night?
Or is this whole thing bullshit? Did you just hit up a toy store and toss a quarter into a machine, crank the crank and get a fake ass ring to wear, so you can be dressed like a filthy whore and then lure unsuspecting saps into your web of lies, only to be a snarky bitch and shoot them down to make yourself feel better?
Readership, YOU be the judge.
And please, whatever you do.
Stay classy
Friday, January 1, 2010
What the Hell, Pokemon
Readership, I'm going to open up the new decade with a Pokemon Observation. Let's hope that this doesn't come back and bite me in the ass. If this year is a bad year, I'm gonna blame this post.
Anyway.
Pokemon, as any idiot knows, originated in Japan. I'm gonna climb out on a limb of the Asshole Tree and say that Japanese people are immediately identifiable because of their squinted eyes (among other things). However, in the Pokemon animated series, there was only one person who had squinted eyes (well, technically like seven, but they're all related and only one of them is around for more than one episode). His name is Brock Harrison.
And he's black.
What the fuck. The ONLY character with "Asian" features in this show is a BLACK GUY?
Insert "blackanese" joke here.
Welcome to 2010, folks.
Stay classy
Anyway.
Pokemon, as any idiot knows, originated in Japan. I'm gonna climb out on a limb of the Asshole Tree and say that Japanese people are immediately identifiable because of their squinted eyes (among other things). However, in the Pokemon animated series, there was only one person who had squinted eyes (well, technically like seven, but they're all related and only one of them is around for more than one episode). His name is Brock Harrison.
And he's black.
What the fuck. The ONLY character with "Asian" features in this show is a BLACK GUY?
Insert "blackanese" joke here.
Welcome to 2010, folks.
Stay classy
Thursday, December 31, 2009
2009
. . . was a helluva year. God Almighty, what a year. A year of opposites, to be sure. Examples? Oh I got plenty.
There was quite a lot of fun. There was quite a lot of terror. QUITE a lot.
I laughed like a madman. I cried like a bitch.
I got to do things that I'd always wanted to do. I had to do things that I'd never wanted to do. Really.
I lost family - and through the loss, gained more family than I even know what to do with (in a good way!).
I got closer to some peeps. I fell out of touch with some peeps.
There were points where I liked the person I was. There were points where I didn't.
But at the end of the day (or year), I'm still standing. I've got my health, my sense of humor, my lovely lady, my homeboys, and (what's left of) my sanity.
One of the things I'm most excited about? I'm going to get published in a major anthology that is slated to be distributed widely in Barnes and Noble and Borders. I'm going to make a name for myself in a field dominated by fifty-plus-year-olds who've been at it since before I was even a glimmer in my mother's eye, and be successful. That sounds like a win to me.
So, in retrospect, as many have been saying, fuck 2009, but do it gently. While 2009 was a screaming terror ride through most of it, it taught me a LOT.
Seems like college is actually teaching me shit about life. Who'da thunk it.
Here I come 2010. Let's do it big.
Stay classy
There was quite a lot of fun. There was quite a lot of terror. QUITE a lot.
I laughed like a madman. I cried like a bitch.
I got to do things that I'd always wanted to do. I had to do things that I'd never wanted to do. Really.
I lost family - and through the loss, gained more family than I even know what to do with (in a good way!).
I got closer to some peeps. I fell out of touch with some peeps.
There were points where I liked the person I was. There were points where I didn't.
But at the end of the day (or year), I'm still standing. I've got my health, my sense of humor, my lovely lady, my homeboys, and (what's left of) my sanity.
One of the things I'm most excited about? I'm going to get published in a major anthology that is slated to be distributed widely in Barnes and Noble and Borders. I'm going to make a name for myself in a field dominated by fifty-plus-year-olds who've been at it since before I was even a glimmer in my mother's eye, and be successful. That sounds like a win to me.
So, in retrospect, as many have been saying, fuck 2009, but do it gently. While 2009 was a screaming terror ride through most of it, it taught me a LOT.
Seems like college is actually teaching me shit about life. Who'da thunk it.
Here I come 2010. Let's do it big.
Stay classy
Get off the Phone, Bad Guys!
Readership, I've noticed something through my scrupulous watching of movies over this winter break (when I should have been working kgb_ shifts, reading, or writing): whenever the movie is about some kind of organized crime bad guy that organizations like the FBI and people affiliated with such organizations want to capture or kill, there's usually a process to the whole thing. First off, we get the guy/gal's name, then someone (usually the superior) gives the FBI agent or FBI-affiliated a large-ish manila folder with a dossier and a bunch of pictures of this bad guy, and, inevitably, in every single picture, this evildoer is ALWAYS ON THE PHONE.
Really, bad guy?
Let's look at this logically - when do you want to be the MOST incognito? When you're talking to your evildoer cohorts, that's when! How is it that they don't catch you doing regular people shit, like jogging, or coaching your kid's soccer team, or running to the store for a gallon of milk, but they're able to catch you - without fail - planning your next diabolical scheme over the telephone?
Here's a free tip for you dumbasses: whatever it is you're doing when you're NOT on the phone, do that when you ARE on the phone. Because it almost seems like you're freakin' INVISIBLE to the people that would gain intel on you to try and stop you, UNTIL you put that phone up to your ear.
Shit. And then you wonder how they catch you in the end.
If you're a criminal mastermind trying to do some epic criminal shit with your evil underground criminal organization, STAY OFF THE PHONE IN PUBLIC.
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Really, bad guy?
Let's look at this logically - when do you want to be the MOST incognito? When you're talking to your evildoer cohorts, that's when! How is it that they don't catch you doing regular people shit, like jogging, or coaching your kid's soccer team, or running to the store for a gallon of milk, but they're able to catch you - without fail - planning your next diabolical scheme over the telephone?
Here's a free tip for you dumbasses: whatever it is you're doing when you're NOT on the phone, do that when you ARE on the phone. Because it almost seems like you're freakin' INVISIBLE to the people that would gain intel on you to try and stop you, UNTIL you put that phone up to your ear.
Shit. And then you wonder how they catch you in the end.
If you're a criminal mastermind trying to do some epic criminal shit with your evil underground criminal organization, STAY OFF THE PHONE IN PUBLIC.
And whatever you do.
Stay classy
Friday, December 25, 2009
Hey Assholes!
Merry Christmas, from all of us at Legally Blind Observations.
In case you don't know, that's just me. Cletus died of beard cancer. We'll do a Dan Fogelberg and drink a toast to the old guy's innocence/soul/memory.
But yeah. Get drunk, be merry, get laid, but above all, be safe.
Stay classy
-Fred the Observer
In case you don't know, that's just me. Cletus died of beard cancer. We'll do a Dan Fogelberg and drink a toast to the old guy's innocence/soul/memory.
But yeah. Get drunk, be merry, get laid, but above all, be safe.
Stay classy
-Fred the Observer
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Why Do You Say Such Stupid Shit? Volume 4
Once again, readership, I've come back with yet another installment of what seems to be the only thing that regularly pisses me right the hell off, that being how people tend to say the stupidest shit and make me sad on the inside.
As an aside, I might actually make this a "Feature" if I can get enough stupid shit that people say. Shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway.
The first one comes from a question someone (most likely a Communist) asked of Rebecca aka R n' R: "Did you know that Thanksgiving was on a Thursday this year?"
NO WAY SERIOUSLY? If you hadn't told me, I would've celebrated it on Wednesday, like I did last year. Oh no, wait a second . . . I'm pretty sure I celebrated it on Thursday last year . . . and the year before . . . and the year before that.
ARE YOU SENSING A TREND HERE, DUMBASS? It's ALWAYS on a Thursday. If you'd eat turkey instead of STUPID, maybe you'd be a little better off, asshole.
Another favorite: "What have I done!?" Usually it's drawn out, and sounds really REALLY confused, so it's more like "WHAT have I doooooooone!?"
Hey asshole - WHAT DID YOU JUST DO? Assuming you don't have extreme-short-term-memory amnesia (or whatever the technical term for that shit is), then you SHOULD remember what you just did, and thus SHOULDN'T have to ask, ESPECIALLY not in an "I'm not asking anyone in particular" rhetorical manner.
And the best one, by far - usually uttered by parental units when they're trying to make a point. Ironically enough, however, instead of making a point, they make me MAD.
But I digress.
You as a five-year-old: "But Jimmy told me to do it!"
Parents: "So if Jimmy told you to jump off a building, you'd just do it without a second thought too?"
NO, DUMBASS.
I might be young, Mommy, but I wasn't born yesterday. There is a HUGE difference between what Jimmy told me to do and PLUMMETING TO MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD DOOM OFF A BUILDING. And to be quite frank, Mommy, if you can't grasp the distinction between childhood shenanigans and five-year-old DOOM OFF A BUILDING, then perhaps you should put me up for adoption. Because raising retards is hard, but being raised BY a retard . . . is retarded.
Stop saying such stupid shit!
Actually wait. I find myself at an interesting internal struggle here. If people were to stop saying such stupid shit, while it would make my life a lot less stressful, it would also deprive me of something to bitch about here, and writing these Observations DOES make me happy.
Hmm. Carry on, idiots. Give me something to write about.
And whatever you do, for God's sake.
Stay classy
As an aside, I might actually make this a "Feature" if I can get enough stupid shit that people say. Shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway.
The first one comes from a question someone (most likely a Communist) asked of Rebecca aka R n' R: "Did you know that Thanksgiving was on a Thursday this year?"
NO WAY SERIOUSLY? If you hadn't told me, I would've celebrated it on Wednesday, like I did last year. Oh no, wait a second . . . I'm pretty sure I celebrated it on Thursday last year . . . and the year before . . . and the year before that.
ARE YOU SENSING A TREND HERE, DUMBASS? It's ALWAYS on a Thursday. If you'd eat turkey instead of STUPID, maybe you'd be a little better off, asshole.
Another favorite: "What have I done!?" Usually it's drawn out, and sounds really REALLY confused, so it's more like "WHAT have I doooooooone!?"
Hey asshole - WHAT DID YOU JUST DO? Assuming you don't have extreme-short-term-memory amnesia (or whatever the technical term for that shit is), then you SHOULD remember what you just did, and thus SHOULDN'T have to ask, ESPECIALLY not in an "I'm not asking anyone in particular" rhetorical manner.
And the best one, by far - usually uttered by parental units when they're trying to make a point. Ironically enough, however, instead of making a point, they make me MAD.
But I digress.
You as a five-year-old: "But Jimmy told me to do it!"
Parents: "So if Jimmy told you to jump off a building, you'd just do it without a second thought too?"
NO, DUMBASS.
I might be young, Mommy, but I wasn't born yesterday. There is a HUGE difference between what Jimmy told me to do and PLUMMETING TO MY FIVE-YEAR-OLD DOOM OFF A BUILDING. And to be quite frank, Mommy, if you can't grasp the distinction between childhood shenanigans and five-year-old DOOM OFF A BUILDING, then perhaps you should put me up for adoption. Because raising retards is hard, but being raised BY a retard . . . is retarded.
Stop saying such stupid shit!
Actually wait. I find myself at an interesting internal struggle here. If people were to stop saying such stupid shit, while it would make my life a lot less stressful, it would also deprive me of something to bitch about here, and writing these Observations DOES make me happy.
Hmm. Carry on, idiots. Give me something to write about.
And whatever you do, for God's sake.
Stay classy
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Heat Surge
Readership, I know I've been a little on the low side with the Observations lately. There is a reason - I went through a few of my more recent ones, and realized that there wasn't too much quality in them. I'll say it plainly: after Blame Elevators for Obesity, the next "good" Observation (in my mind) was Pigeons. This saddens me, so now I'm going to opt for a more "quality over quantity" approach. This means that you might have to wait a little longer for Observations, but each one will be a winner.
Like this one.
There's this new product out there called the Heat Surge. It's made by Amish craftsmen, costs around $300, and as you can see, it's basically a portable space heater made up to look like a fireplace, complete with fake coals and a fake roaring fire behind them up against a screen. The cool thing about it is that the "fire" emits heat, but as it's not actually real fire, it doesn't burn when touched. How does it work? From the website's Frequently Asked Questions:
Like this one.
There's this new product out there called the Heat Surge. It's made by Amish craftsmen, costs around $300, and as you can see, it's basically a portable space heater made up to look like a fireplace, complete with fake coals and a fake roaring fire behind them up against a screen. The cool thing about it is that the "fire" emits heat, but as it's not actually real fire, it doesn't burn when touched. How does it work? From the website's Frequently Asked Questions:
"Virtually silent fan forced technology, 24 blade Air-O dynamic fan draws cool air through the back into the wind tunnel heat chamber, and disperses out into your home the bone soothing heat."
Have you spotted the one little snag here yet? Read it again. Go on, I'll wait.
Still no?
Okay, I'll tell you.
When in the hell have Amish people EVER used "virtually silent fan forced TECHNOLOGY," or ANY TECHNOLOGY AT ALL!? They almost have to go to confession for wearing a damn wristwatch, for God's sake, but a fucking silent forced fan that draws cool air back into a wind tunnel heat chamber and disperses it out into your home, and has a nifty little fake fire and coals to put the image of a cozy fireplace in mind? I mean, shit, might as well just start shopping online and watching TV too, cuz you're Amish-cred is shot to shit after that.
For $300 (more, after shipping), I'll buy a sweater and an Xbox 360 and be warm and entertained.
Sheesh.
Stay classy
Have you spotted the one little snag here yet? Read it again. Go on, I'll wait.
Still no?
Okay, I'll tell you.
When in the hell have Amish people EVER used "virtually silent fan forced TECHNOLOGY," or ANY TECHNOLOGY AT ALL!? They almost have to go to confession for wearing a damn wristwatch, for God's sake, but a fucking silent forced fan that draws cool air back into a wind tunnel heat chamber and disperses it out into your home, and has a nifty little fake fire and coals to put the image of a cozy fireplace in mind? I mean, shit, might as well just start shopping online and watching TV too, cuz you're Amish-cred is shot to shit after that.
For $300 (more, after shipping), I'll buy a sweater and an Xbox 360 and be warm and entertained.
Sheesh.
Stay classy
Friday, December 11, 2009
Blame Elevators for Obesity
Unintentionally, it seems that I've done back-to-back "Blame X for Y" posts. While this is a complete coincidence, readership, the issue that I'm bringing up in this Observation is quite a serious one.
The following is a true story.
It will sound mean. It is mean.
It will sound exaggerated. It is the truth.
Today, I was going to see my girlfriend Jordan on the fourth floor. I live on the ground floor, which, due to some retard's design decision, is called the "basement." So technically, she lives on the fifth floor, but whatever.
Anyway, I got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth (aka fifth) floor, and stood back. As the door began to slide shut, a strange sound reached my ears. It was almost as if a mute elephant had been airlifted to the top of one of those amazingly high and steep staircases that the Mayans seemed to love to put on the sides of their temples, and then dropped down the entire staircase. Except with like fourteen elephants that were three times as large as they would usually be in the wild.
At this point, I'm like "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?" The ground's shaking, and whatever the hell is making this noise is getting closer - and fast. I start to mash the "door close" button, hoping beyond hope that whatever fucking super-tiger-dinosaur creature that's coming towards me gets assed out of eating me because the elevator door closes on it.
No such luck, however. A large, morbidly obese arm - notice how I said ARM, not PERSON - hooked itself around the door and basically forced it back open again. And what followed was the biggest, morbidestly obesest person I'd ever seen, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf after an asthma attack. It (because I honestly couldn't tell if this was a dude or a chick) stepped into the elevator with me - and the elevator dropped an inch or two - and I stepped back as far as I could, giving this creature room.
The chubbiest of fingers reached out towards the row of buttons, and pressed . . .
1.
WHAT THE FUCK!?
What you're saying is, you could run at nearly SIXTY MILES PER HOUR so you could finja your way into the elevator and fucking SMOOSH me into the CORNER, but you couldn't climb TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS!? And then have the nerve to be like "hurry up . . fucking elevator . . . " under your breath!?
GET SOME EXERCISE ASSHOLE.
And for God's sake, whatever you do.
Stay classy
The following is a true story.
It will sound mean. It is mean.
It will sound exaggerated. It is the truth.
Today, I was going to see my girlfriend Jordan on the fourth floor. I live on the ground floor, which, due to some retard's design decision, is called the "basement." So technically, she lives on the fifth floor, but whatever.
Anyway, I got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth (aka fifth) floor, and stood back. As the door began to slide shut, a strange sound reached my ears. It was almost as if a mute elephant had been airlifted to the top of one of those amazingly high and steep staircases that the Mayans seemed to love to put on the sides of their temples, and then dropped down the entire staircase. Except with like fourteen elephants that were three times as large as they would usually be in the wild.
At this point, I'm like "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?" The ground's shaking, and whatever the hell is making this noise is getting closer - and fast. I start to mash the "door close" button, hoping beyond hope that whatever fucking super-tiger-dinosaur creature that's coming towards me gets assed out of eating me because the elevator door closes on it.
No such luck, however. A large, morbidly obese arm - notice how I said ARM, not PERSON - hooked itself around the door and basically forced it back open again. And what followed was the biggest, morbidestly obesest person I'd ever seen, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf after an asthma attack. It (because I honestly couldn't tell if this was a dude or a chick) stepped into the elevator with me - and the elevator dropped an inch or two - and I stepped back as far as I could, giving this creature room.
The chubbiest of fingers reached out towards the row of buttons, and pressed . . .
1.
WHAT THE FUCK!?
What you're saying is, you could run at nearly SIXTY MILES PER HOUR so you could finja your way into the elevator and fucking SMOOSH me into the CORNER, but you couldn't climb TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS!? And then have the nerve to be like "hurry up . . fucking elevator . . . " under your breath!?
GET SOME EXERCISE ASSHOLE.
And for God's sake, whatever you do.
Stay classy
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Blame Darwin for Porn
And anything else people do that you don't like. But I'm gonna stick with porn for this Observation.
Anyway.
Humans are obviously very special, unique members of the animal kingdom, for many reasons. Our opposable thumbs, for example, make us very different from many animals, except for our monkey ancestors.
But there's something else, something so rare in the animal kingdom that we only share it with one other animal (the dolphin). What is it?
We get pleasure from sex.
Now you all see the porn connection. But what about Darwin? Glad you asked.
Darwin's theory of natural selection basically states that traits that will help an organism survive and reproduce - or are basically "desirable" - are passed on to the next generation, and those which will not, or aren't desirable, die with the last carriers of them. For example, most animals that exist today have the right side of their bodies controlled by the left side of their brains, and vice-versa. Why, you ask? Imagine being attacked from the right side, and someone smashing the right side of your head. Now, if the right side of your body was controlled by the right side of your brain, the right side of your body would be pretty nonfunctional right now - not good for you in this situation, because your right side is the side closest to your attacker. However, seeing as in actuality the right side of your body is controlled by the left side of your brain, if you were to be smashed in the right side of the head, you'd still be able to raise your right arm and defend yourself. A desirable trait? Fo sho.
But back to porn.
Since humans are one of the two known species that gain pleasure from sex, with regards to Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, there had to be a reason why this trait - gaining pleasure from sex - had to be more desirable than the alternative. The reason why? Years in the future, a business called "the porn industry" would make untold millions - even perhaps billions! - of dollars, exploiting the fact that human beings get pleasure from sex (even if it's with Jackie or Palmela instead of with a significant other).
So yeah. Hate porn? Blame Darwin.
But whatever you do
Stay classy
Anyway.
Humans are obviously very special, unique members of the animal kingdom, for many reasons. Our opposable thumbs, for example, make us very different from many animals, except for our monkey ancestors.
But there's something else, something so rare in the animal kingdom that we only share it with one other animal (the dolphin). What is it?
We get pleasure from sex.
Now you all see the porn connection. But what about Darwin? Glad you asked.
Darwin's theory of natural selection basically states that traits that will help an organism survive and reproduce - or are basically "desirable" - are passed on to the next generation, and those which will not, or aren't desirable, die with the last carriers of them. For example, most animals that exist today have the right side of their bodies controlled by the left side of their brains, and vice-versa. Why, you ask? Imagine being attacked from the right side, and someone smashing the right side of your head. Now, if the right side of your body was controlled by the right side of your brain, the right side of your body would be pretty nonfunctional right now - not good for you in this situation, because your right side is the side closest to your attacker. However, seeing as in actuality the right side of your body is controlled by the left side of your brain, if you were to be smashed in the right side of the head, you'd still be able to raise your right arm and defend yourself. A desirable trait? Fo sho.
But back to porn.
Since humans are one of the two known species that gain pleasure from sex, with regards to Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, there had to be a reason why this trait - gaining pleasure from sex - had to be more desirable than the alternative. The reason why? Years in the future, a business called "the porn industry" would make untold millions - even perhaps billions! - of dollars, exploiting the fact that human beings get pleasure from sex (even if it's with Jackie or Palmela instead of with a significant other).
So yeah. Hate porn? Blame Darwin.
But whatever you do
Stay classy
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Wives of Ninjas
Readership, half-asleep in a stupor borne of having to write a 5-page history paper that I didn't know about until yesterday, due today (which I finished), I had a revelation. Ninjas, while awesome, would have made absolutely terrible husbands. Stick with me here.
I'd have to think that a ninja wouldn't tell his wife that he was a ninja at first, which I imagine would lead to some shit.
"Where were you last night, Isao? And what is this stain on your collar? Hmm!?"
"Uhhh. . ."
"Ohhhhh I knew it, you're cheating!"
"Okay, listen. I assassinated a visiting dignitary last night. The stain on my collar is the blood of a traitor."
Yeah that shit wouldn't go over too well.
And also, in Feudal Japan, the wife was basically the servant to the husband. She cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, planted crops, etc. etc.
Ninjas had to have OD high metabolisms (because of all the running, climbing, and fighting they did), so they would always be eating, meaning his wife would be always at the stove cooking some grub up for him to assassinate- er, eat.
Also, ninjas stay slayin' muthafuckas, so there would be a lot of blood splatters on their clothes and whatnot. I dunno about you, but every time I've tried getting blood out of fabric, it's been pretty difficult, especially if it's set in - and you know ninjas did NOT have that Tide To-Go Pen shit handy after they sliced some dishonorable bitch open and got all his blood on his jacket, so that shit's set in by the time he gets home.
From what I understand of women, "I'm gonna sneak around all the time, murdering people and getting my clothes all bloodied and maybe ripped, but you better wash and mend my clothes and make me dinner cuz I'm HUNGRY!" don't fly. I guess for ninjas back in the day, it was less about finding a wife and more about finding a hooker.
Stay classy
I'd have to think that a ninja wouldn't tell his wife that he was a ninja at first, which I imagine would lead to some shit.
"Where were you last night, Isao? And what is this stain on your collar? Hmm!?"
"Uhhh. . ."
"Ohhhhh I knew it, you're cheating!"
"Okay, listen. I assassinated a visiting dignitary last night. The stain on my collar is the blood of a traitor."
Yeah that shit wouldn't go over too well.
And also, in Feudal Japan, the wife was basically the servant to the husband. She cooked, cleaned, washed clothes, planted crops, etc. etc.
Ninjas had to have OD high metabolisms (because of all the running, climbing, and fighting they did), so they would always be eating, meaning his wife would be always at the stove cooking some grub up for him to assassinate- er, eat.
Also, ninjas stay slayin' muthafuckas, so there would be a lot of blood splatters on their clothes and whatnot. I dunno about you, but every time I've tried getting blood out of fabric, it's been pretty difficult, especially if it's set in - and you know ninjas did NOT have that Tide To-Go Pen shit handy after they sliced some dishonorable bitch open and got all his blood on his jacket, so that shit's set in by the time he gets home.
From what I understand of women, "I'm gonna sneak around all the time, murdering people and getting my clothes all bloodied and maybe ripped, but you better wash and mend my clothes and make me dinner cuz I'm HUNGRY!" don't fly. I guess for ninjas back in the day, it was less about finding a wife and more about finding a hooker.
Stay classy
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