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

James Bond's Bang-a-Chick System (tm)

I'm sitting here watching "James Bond 007: Tomorrow Never Dies" and I just had a freakin' revelation, something that I've probably been subconsciously thinking about for the past twelve years of my life or some deeply profound shit like that.

Basically, I break James Bond's Bang a Chick System (tm) down like this: If James Bond talks to a chick for more than, say, five seconds, there's about a 99.99999999999999% chance that before the movie is over, he's gonna sacrifice her vagina to Aphrodite (metaphorically speaking). Either that or she'll be dead.

There ARE, however, exceptions to this rule, namely two: James Bond's boss, M; and M's secretary, Moneypenny. Now, I can understand staying away from M - I mean, she's old, AND she's his boss. But Moneypenny is neither old nor his boss, and is available (a fact I've gleaned from her constant and obvious passes at Mr. Bond throughout the years). The only explanation I have for this is that Miss Moneypenny has some sort of deadly dangerous venereal disease (my guess is crabs). As we all know, based on his history, James Bond is promiscuous, yes - but he is far from stupid.

Many men, I'm sure, wish that the James Bond Bang-a-Chick System (tm) actually worked. As most intelligent people have known for a while, however, it is, in actuality, bullshit.

So.

Yeah.

Stay classy.

Group Interviews Suck Ass

I recently had a group interview at a major clothing store (since I'm not a dick I won't say which one), and I'm going to have to say that they suck major dong.

When I went to the interview, not only was I kept waiting for twenty minutes, but they bullshat me. After the group interview (which I'll get to later), there were individual interviews - if you could call it that. The interviewer called me into the office, and before I'd even finished closing the door (let ALONE sat down), I was told that there were no job openings (and I was the third person called in out of 16 total - what the hell was the interviewer going to say to the other 13? That's some ol' bullshit).

But yeah, to the actual group interview. There were 16 people in the room, including me, and we were all asked questions as a group and were expressly told NOT to speak over each other (how the fuck does that work? You're asking us all the same question at once and we're competing for a limited number of jobs. Of course we're going to want to get our piece said first). I noticed that there were a few archetypes of characters in the room. There was the SUPER PROFESSIONAL old lady that sat next to me and read off the company's mission statement and other company-morale-related shit in response to the questions being asked; the foreigners who have TONS of work experience in "old country" but none here (not ragging on them, I just found it funny); the single mother who spent more time explaining the hours she was available than she did giving her example of great customer service; the out-of-work professional who's wearing a pimpin' business suit but has 24-7 availability so you know they're unemployed; the cookie-cutter airheads that all give the same exact answers and have the "I'm a people person" speech down to a science; and the one guy from like Uganda who is SUPER PASSIONATE about what he's saying, but his thick-ass accent makes it so you have absolutely no clue what the hell he's talking about.

I mean, I'm sure that there are well-done group interviews (I'm actually positive, as my girlfriend had a well-done group interview today, at the same mall, ironically enough), but this was not one of them. I mean, the thing that pissed me off the most was twofold. One, the fact that I was on time and had left early from my dorm - and brought my girlfriend with me so she could drop off her applications and offer moral support - and was kept waiting for at least twenty minutes past the time for which my appointment was scheduled; and two, the fact that they bullshat the hell out of me, because they knew that there were jobs or else they wouldn't have called me to the "individual interview" (aka "bullshit interview," aka "open door, attempt to close door, get bullshat, leave") third out of 16 people. What happened to the other 13, did they get jobs or did they get bullshat too? Who knows. Moreover, who cares?

I need a fucking job!

Stay classy

"Do you mind?"

Once again, folks, I'm back with a linguistic "what the hell" in this observation.

Last time it was the fact that 99% of people think that "me too" is the end-all to any conversation (and, if you haven't been reading, I disputed that and asserted that the TRUE end-all to any conversation was "fuck off").

The time before that, it was the fact that a majority of people seem to find pleasure in doing or saying something, and then immediately afterwards, asking you and/or others in the vicinity to tell them exactly how or why they did or said what they just did or said (and, again, if you haven't been reading, I gave reasons why I not only couldn't explain to them why or how, but didn't want to).

This time, however, it's a little different, and it's something that - while it still makes me wonder how these people managed to get into college - I can understand happening.

I'm talking about "Do you mind" as a question. Just for the sake of my argument, I'm going to explain the question. In asking me if I mind that you do something or if I mind doing something for you, or whatever the case may be, you're asking if I would have any qualms about it or any reason not to do whatever it is you're asking me to do. Now, if I did not have any qualms or reasons not to do it, I would answer "No, I don't mind" and would carry out whatever task it was. However, if I DID have qualms or reasons not to do it, I would answer "Yes, actually, I do mind" and would NOT carry out whatever task it was. With me so far? Good.

The thing that bothers me is that people seem to be stuck in a mental rut when it comes to being asked if they mind. I can only fathom at the reason, but the best I can come up with is that they're so used to being asked if they would do something in a much more straightforward manner (i.e. "will you do this for me?"), and as such they know that if they want to do whatever it is, they respond with a "yes." This leads me to believe that they're so used to saying "yes" when asked to do something, that even when the question is switched up a bit and they should answer "no" (which would mean "yes"), they answer "yes" out of habit (which means "no").

I mean, I expected this sort of thing when I was younger. I knew a kid named Chris when I was about three, whose mother took care of me while my folks were at work, and whenever I'd ask him if he minded if I did something, he would always reply "yes" and I would have to clarify if he meant "yes I mind" or "yes you can do (whatever I'd asked)." And he would just keep saying "yes" because he was an idiot.

But that was when I was three. There's no excuse for that shit now.

Stay classy.

Shocking Lack of Diversity

This is an issue that, in all seriousness, I feel very strongly about. Diversity in America seems to be one of those things that the average fool thinks is a done deal. Diversity is NOT a done deal. I remember getting pamphlets and whatnot from Yale University with four people on the front of it, all four smiling. There was a white guy, a black chick, an Asian guy and a Hispanic chick. The thing that I got out of this picture of diversity was not "wow, Yale is a pretty ethnically diverse university," it was more along the lines of "wow, how long did it take to find these people at Yale?" I mean, the white guy and the Asian guy would be a cinch to find (let's not kid ourselves here, and if anyone wants to dispute this, bring it on. I lived down the street from Yale University from birth until I left for college. I know what I'm talking about).

What I'm trying to say is, diversity is still a major problem in America. People look around and see all types of ethnicities being included in movies, music, literature, etc. But what are they doing in these portrayals? I mean, the most accurate depiction of a black guy in movies as a "black guy in movies" was in "Not Another Teen Movie," with "the Token Black Guy."

But this isn't about Yale University's show of diversity, which is ironically coupled with a lack thereof. Nor is it about how minorities are portrayed in popular culture. Nor is it about "Not Another Teen Movie," nor about "Token Black Guy"s.

The shocking lack of diversity to which I'm referring is this:
Why is it, on EVERY SINGLE PENIS ENLARGEMENT/MALE ENHANCEMENT COMMERCIAL, THERE IS NOT A SINGLE BLACK GUY?

Stay classy