After all the mad people, the people that were mad for the world had left the room, I stood on the back of the hair of a dog and announced to the room that poetry was dead and those that followed that religion should be labeled as pimps and slaves and should be shot with a bang not a whimper!
Pausing to taste the stagnant air, I gained courage by taking another sip of burgundy and spit it out over the Bohemian whores that had gathered to speak in their pseudo rhythms. I heard my voice scream in more of a mandate than a challenge, letting them know the poets down here, they don't write nothing at all, they just sit back and let it all be. Poetry is the blasphemy for the inarticulate and I've seen the best minds of my generation poisoned with dreams of grandeur for this world. This world of kaleidoscopes dipped in tulip flavored water making love to a French julep by the river Thames with a salty teared kiss from the rain, and other such adjective and noun turned adjective worlds they strip themselves into.
Singer Songwriter Ryan Deblock, my pint faced friend, crammed a drink into my mouth, while inquiring into the nature of music. Feeling like a prophet, with words to savor, I told him when the scythe of art is lowered upon the chaff his will be one that is rewarded as they played by the rules of the oral tradition. I, then, graced him with a smile, fumbling in my pocket for change.
I stuffed another accoutrement down my throat and felt my body collapse onto a couch. The ash flicked off onto my hand, but I didn't care, even over the glow of my ember I looked out at this sad world of pretenders that try to capture poetry and realized I pitied them. While they're making pretty speeches, they're really being ripped to shreds. They try to capture the beautiful when in all actuality, it's something that will never be theirs, they can't even borrow it.
I stabbed my smoke out, with a force strong enough to stop a thousand ships. I had spoken my piece and was free to rise now, to go back to the world of art and a small cabin build there of clay and wattles and other shit.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Ive got concerns
I’ve got concerns
Stopped by the folks’ place last night. It was just supposed to be quick “how do you do” and then I would be off into the night to run various errands before heading home to the Little Lady.
My parents have both retired in the past few years, my dad most recently, and they are growing more and more insane with each passing day. I love the hell out of ‘em but seriously. Wow. They’re goofy. I don’t remember them being this bizarre as a kid. Maybe I was more focused on He-Man getting away from Mer-Man or something and I failed to notice. But I don’t think so. I think they’ve become unhinged now that they don’t have to act normal in society 40 hours of the week. Not that I blame them. I’m running my freak flag up the pole all day every day as soon as I get the chance. But it is disconcerting.
To be honest a large part of this may not be their fault. They’re certainly 100% batshit crazy but I mean the issue last night that led to this little post isn’t entirely their fault. My brother, who is well-meaning, had convinced them to get high speed internet, a wireless card for the laptop AND vonage digital phone service instead of their old standard phone line. He convinced them to do this all at one time. My parents are retirees and while there is no one I trust more when it comes to life and cars and stuff on this planet they definitely lack a bit when it comes to this sort of technology. Did I mention my well-meaning brother lives far, far away and can only assist by phone during the setup process? And also that he has no patience. He has never in his entire life paused for a moment to consider anything and expects that you do the same. Or else you’re an idiot. He’s what I like to call a loveable asshole. And no, I don’t mean THAT kind of loveable.
So I walk into this maelstrom (great word that, and dutch too which is always fun) of angry adult child on the phone and confused retirees in my midst and I say the stupidest possible thing at the stupidest possible moment. “Can I help?” What I should have done is gone out to the garage and grabbed a shovel and hit both of my parents in the head with it and then myself. It would have been a far more productive evening.
I spent the next few hours trying to set up email while my dad asked me to call the house to make sure the house phone was working and my mom asked me questions about the wireless card. It was chaos. I’m fairly certain that if I had looked up from the computer screen I would have seen Satan reclining on the couch with some potato chips laughing at all of us.
After much effort it was decided by my father that the wireless card is all well and good but he’d really rather run a wire to the computer. Thus making him feel good and safe because he understands wires and connections and he does not like wireless communications and spiffy little usb cards that have a little red glowing light. They are obviously evil and can only be killed by running wires throughout the entire house. If given the choice between manually running 119 wires throughout each room of the house or trying to understand the wireless system I can virtually guarantee you my dad would have been standing there with his drill and wondering when he could get started.
I ran away screaming into the night shortly after that and the rest is a blur.
Stopped by the folks’ place last night. It was just supposed to be quick “how do you do” and then I would be off into the night to run various errands before heading home to the Little Lady.
My parents have both retired in the past few years, my dad most recently, and they are growing more and more insane with each passing day. I love the hell out of ‘em but seriously. Wow. They’re goofy. I don’t remember them being this bizarre as a kid. Maybe I was more focused on He-Man getting away from Mer-Man or something and I failed to notice. But I don’t think so. I think they’ve become unhinged now that they don’t have to act normal in society 40 hours of the week. Not that I blame them. I’m running my freak flag up the pole all day every day as soon as I get the chance. But it is disconcerting.
To be honest a large part of this may not be their fault. They’re certainly 100% batshit crazy but I mean the issue last night that led to this little post isn’t entirely their fault. My brother, who is well-meaning, had convinced them to get high speed internet, a wireless card for the laptop AND vonage digital phone service instead of their old standard phone line. He convinced them to do this all at one time. My parents are retirees and while there is no one I trust more when it comes to life and cars and stuff on this planet they definitely lack a bit when it comes to this sort of technology. Did I mention my well-meaning brother lives far, far away and can only assist by phone during the setup process? And also that he has no patience. He has never in his entire life paused for a moment to consider anything and expects that you do the same. Or else you’re an idiot. He’s what I like to call a loveable asshole. And no, I don’t mean THAT kind of loveable.
So I walk into this maelstrom (great word that, and dutch too which is always fun) of angry adult child on the phone and confused retirees in my midst and I say the stupidest possible thing at the stupidest possible moment. “Can I help?” What I should have done is gone out to the garage and grabbed a shovel and hit both of my parents in the head with it and then myself. It would have been a far more productive evening.
I spent the next few hours trying to set up email while my dad asked me to call the house to make sure the house phone was working and my mom asked me questions about the wireless card. It was chaos. I’m fairly certain that if I had looked up from the computer screen I would have seen Satan reclining on the couch with some potato chips laughing at all of us.
After much effort it was decided by my father that the wireless card is all well and good but he’d really rather run a wire to the computer. Thus making him feel good and safe because he understands wires and connections and he does not like wireless communications and spiffy little usb cards that have a little red glowing light. They are obviously evil and can only be killed by running wires throughout the entire house. If given the choice between manually running 119 wires throughout each room of the house or trying to understand the wireless system I can virtually guarantee you my dad would have been standing there with his drill and wondering when he could get started.
I ran away screaming into the night shortly after that and the rest is a blur.
Monday, November 28, 2005
On Rotting In Hell for All Eternity
And as the cool November breeze of Thanksgiving washed over me, I wondered if I was indeed bound for hell. Here I am, Lord, wearing a sweatshirt that I had from high school, dirty pants, a dirty undershirt all clothes that I owned previous to college, wondering what the person that wore these clothes when they were new would think of this individual standing outside with an accoutrement and a glass of wine.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. Not in deeds, in deeds I have been fine, but in thoughts. The deeds, the helping others, have turned meaningless for me, yet I continue to do them. And all it leaves me with are the thoughts and the aftermath, the guilt.
I feel that I'm bound for trouble more then salvation. While I commit myself to actions that I believe people are grateful for, I know that I don't mean them. I go through these robotic acts so that everybody will be happy, so that the great wheel will continue to roll and the final destination will be achieved in the easiest possible way. Is it possible to invent perpetual motion and yet still be standing still?
Perhaps this is just growing up. Perhaps these are the growing pains that come with growing too fat to comfortably fit into the pants that you owned prior to college? These sacrifices that we make for others, even if we don't mean them, perhaps it's all in tune with the great deal of life. Perhaps my view is too blinded and I'm missing out on what others do for me and the sacrifices performed on my behalf? We help everybody else to advance the world and society, through self sacrifice we're able to give something back to the world.
Let us take a brief moment to thank the hippy that came up with the previous paragraph, may your bong, sir, always glow red. We all know that it isn't true. No act is ever done through a selfless act. We all make our decisions still based on ourselves and what we hope will be a happy outcome from it. When we choose self sacrifice we are just doing it because we obviously don't like ourselves well enough, or don't respect ourselves well enough to make the correct decision.
What that correct decision is, I don't know. That's not the path that I picked.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. Not in deeds, in deeds I have been fine, but in thoughts. The deeds, the helping others, have turned meaningless for me, yet I continue to do them. And all it leaves me with are the thoughts and the aftermath, the guilt.
I feel that I'm bound for trouble more then salvation. While I commit myself to actions that I believe people are grateful for, I know that I don't mean them. I go through these robotic acts so that everybody will be happy, so that the great wheel will continue to roll and the final destination will be achieved in the easiest possible way. Is it possible to invent perpetual motion and yet still be standing still?
Perhaps this is just growing up. Perhaps these are the growing pains that come with growing too fat to comfortably fit into the pants that you owned prior to college? These sacrifices that we make for others, even if we don't mean them, perhaps it's all in tune with the great deal of life. Perhaps my view is too blinded and I'm missing out on what others do for me and the sacrifices performed on my behalf? We help everybody else to advance the world and society, through self sacrifice we're able to give something back to the world.
Let us take a brief moment to thank the hippy that came up with the previous paragraph, may your bong, sir, always glow red. We all know that it isn't true. No act is ever done through a selfless act. We all make our decisions still based on ourselves and what we hope will be a happy outcome from it. When we choose self sacrifice we are just doing it because we obviously don't like ourselves well enough, or don't respect ourselves well enough to make the correct decision.
What that correct decision is, I don't know. That's not the path that I picked.
Friday, November 25, 2005
T-Day + 1
8:29 am
Show up casually late (half hour) proceed to fill up my large vat of water so that I will make necessary pee breaks throughout the entire day. The secret word of the day, kids, is Hangover. I fucking hate mornings. There is no need for Mornings.
8:36 am
First awkward conversation of the morning with a co-worker. As everybody in this office knows I am un-approachable prior to coffee and 10 AM. Most people get confused because they think that they can talk with me if it is 1) after 10 AM or 2) after the first cup of coffee. This is a common blunder and one that will received a cruel dissertation on the approaching person's inadequacies, from myself. In order for me to talk it needs to be both after 10 AM as well as after coffee. Only when both of those goals are achieved does morning begin to exist.
8:55 am
Have a slight dream of Naperville, IL. This has been with me for a while, for some reason the downtown area or down by the river. I think that I just need coffee.
9:01 am
Begin to contemplate cross country skiing again and the pros and cons of it. Begin to think that I'm still drunk from the previous night.
9:18 am
Receive a well wishing email from the president of the company congratulating us all on another s uccessful year. Yet, in an odd way. I feel no sense of accomplishment on this. I am now going to space out for the next ten minutes and give this some degree of thought. Perhaps I'll nap.
9:24 am
Slight inner monologue erupts in my head. How many lies could I use in a friendship, without losing the friend? Could I run an excel spreadsheet on this? Should I have more than one friend in this experiment? (I was thinking three: two that I would lie to and one that I would use as my control). I think I'm stupid. This folly has gone on long enough. I need coffee.
9:40 am
Stretch the coffee break into an accoutrement. It's not that I need them, but I need a break and they provide that. Re-animation process is beginning. Beginning to feel like a human again. I have been listening to a nice little Johnny Cash, Neil Diamond medley, good for the early morning hours but now I'm thinking I need to step it up a little bit.
10:04 am
I typically will put off caffeine for as long as possible. My thoughts on this are as such: if I can put off waking up for the first two hours of my day I can usually make the day go by faster. Of course now, I'm mildly coherent and need to find other distractions, outside of spacing out, to get through the remainder of my day.
10:30 am
Quality time in the restroom. I thought it was going to be much more recreational than it actually turned out to be. The sphincter was all business today, and it is always fun the day after wine to observe. Everybody is a winner.
11:18 am
Begin to contemplate lunch. I didn't bring in lunch and don't feel like leaving the building, so my options are limited or, rather not existent. But lunch still would be nice. So instead of lunch, I think about dinner. Maybe a nap.
11:27 am
I think that there is act ually a secret league that exists in my office that doesn't want me to have coffee. These sorry individuals know that I have two cups of coffee a day and don't wish for me to be happy. Thus, before my coffee breaks, they steal themselves into the break room and extract all of the coffee out of the pots so that when I go to have my coffee, all of it is removed and I am left feeling pissed at the world and need to make coffee. These people should all catch syphillis and die from it.
11:45 am
After lusting for food, I suddenly remember that I have leftover noodles here. Sure they're from roughly 1963, but mold still falls into the realm of food, it might even be considered roughage, which, so I've been told, is something that is good for me. I'm excited.
12:01 pm
I think I just had the world's first intelligent conversation of the pros and cons of watching video's of pornographic nature with the sound on or off. On one hand it is nice to hear the emotion and there are some elements of story that make it better, but on the other hand, the last thing you want is for somebody to hear you watching it. This reminds me of the time when I was a younger man, and was over at a friends house and we were watching a video of questionable content in his basement. Unknown to us, his mom, his sister and his grandmother were upstairs, and despite the fact that both his grandma and his sister are somewhat deaf, they were still able to hear most of our conversations and the video itself through the chimney. Most embarrassing comment for myself: That is the largest cock I've ever seen. I'm not proud.
12:29 pm
Begin to think about accoutrafying myself again. I've been walking around the office floor for the past half hour talking with people, but would like to actually get off the floor… now I need to convince somebody to go with me…
12:40 pm
I thought about peeing for a couple of seconds, but then decided better about it, especially after I walked over there and got into a conversation with somebody that was going to go. There is nothing more awkward than starting a conversation with somebody that is going into the bathroom. I don't know if you're supposed to call a time out so that you can go, or if you keep talking? I mean, I've been on both sides of that equation and don't really feel that comfortable with either of them
12:50 pm
I do not want a fourth cup of coffee, but I seem to have picked it up. I know that two cups of coffee are good for me, they fight some sort of oxidant or who the hell cares, the third is the roll of the dice cup and four is just plain bad for you. Still, it feels good to drink it and yesterday was the most gluttonous day of the year and I didn't eat, thus certain things are owed to me.
3:20 pm
Took an hour and a half lunch and then was stuck in a meaningless meeting for the past hour. Meetings aren't that bad. It gives me an opportunity to space out while staring at things that are different from what I usually space out on. For the common thug, this is something that isn't appreciated enough.
3:47 pm
Since the rest of the world is sane and doesn't work today, I have been keeping a running conversation going via text messaging. This, I feel is for the best so I, at the very minimum, have one intelligent person to talk to today. Seriously, I need to develop a second personality just so I have somebody to hang out with.
3:53 pm
The hangover is gone. So I make my first of what will be several attempts to talk somebody into going out to happy hour. It's not so much that I wish to go with co-workers to a happy hour and not so much that I want to d rive in the slop outside. I just wish to have something to look forward to when work is done, or a promise, to myself, that work will soon be done.
4:15 pm
Seriously, today cannot finish fast enough. Forty five effing minutes left to go. These are the hardest moments. The end is in sight, the feeling that we are going to make it is imminent.
4:18 pm
I enjoy sending out some of my orders without fully checking them for fees. I feel that it is too time consuming and that if I'm not going to make a buck off of the company, then somebody should. It's my little reward for the day, even though somebody else gets to spend it… effers
4:35 pm
Now I've painted myself into a corner. Numerous people now wish to go out to Happy Hour with me, but, in all actuality I don't want to go out with anybody and it's more a want to be included and then not to do it. This sucks for others and their social calendars but… it works for me. I conveniently have made up a lie that an uncle is coming into town and that I need to see him. It's last minute and I feel bad due to the inclimate weather.
4:36 pm
Begin to feel bad about the gas that I’m producing. It's been fairly audible all day, something I generally try to cover up with the fact that my chair is moving. But the smell, the sound, the lack of people in the office that would cover those up appears to have created a bit of a stir. Time to do a little bit of positive campaigning on behalf of myself.
4:56
Free at last… sweet baby, I am free at lastµ
Show up casually late (half hour) proceed to fill up my large vat of water so that I will make necessary pee breaks throughout the entire day. The secret word of the day, kids, is Hangover. I fucking hate mornings. There is no need for Mornings.
8:36 am
First awkward conversation of the morning with a co-worker. As everybody in this office knows I am un-approachable prior to coffee and 10 AM. Most people get confused because they think that they can talk with me if it is 1) after 10 AM or 2) after the first cup of coffee. This is a common blunder and one that will received a cruel dissertation on the approaching person's inadequacies, from myself. In order for me to talk it needs to be both after 10 AM as well as after coffee. Only when both of those goals are achieved does morning begin to exist.
8:55 am
Have a slight dream of Naperville, IL. This has been with me for a while, for some reason the downtown area or down by the river. I think that I just need coffee.
9:01 am
Begin to contemplate cross country skiing again and the pros and cons of it. Begin to think that I'm still drunk from the previous night.
9:18 am
Receive a well wishing email from the president of the company congratulating us all on another s uccessful year. Yet, in an odd way. I feel no sense of accomplishment on this. I am now going to space out for the next ten minutes and give this some degree of thought. Perhaps I'll nap.
9:24 am
Slight inner monologue erupts in my head. How many lies could I use in a friendship, without losing the friend? Could I run an excel spreadsheet on this? Should I have more than one friend in this experiment? (I was thinking three: two that I would lie to and one that I would use as my control). I think I'm stupid. This folly has gone on long enough. I need coffee.
9:40 am
Stretch the coffee break into an accoutrement. It's not that I need them, but I need a break and they provide that. Re-animation process is beginning. Beginning to feel like a human again. I have been listening to a nice little Johnny Cash, Neil Diamond medley, good for the early morning hours but now I'm thinking I need to step it up a little bit.
10:04 am
I typically will put off caffeine for as long as possible. My thoughts on this are as such: if I can put off waking up for the first two hours of my day I can usually make the day go by faster. Of course now, I'm mildly coherent and need to find other distractions, outside of spacing out, to get through the remainder of my day.
10:30 am
Quality time in the restroom. I thought it was going to be much more recreational than it actually turned out to be. The sphincter was all business today, and it is always fun the day after wine to observe. Everybody is a winner.
11:18 am
Begin to contemplate lunch. I didn't bring in lunch and don't feel like leaving the building, so my options are limited or, rather not existent. But lunch still would be nice. So instead of lunch, I think about dinner. Maybe a nap.
11:27 am
I think that there is act ually a secret league that exists in my office that doesn't want me to have coffee. These sorry individuals know that I have two cups of coffee a day and don't wish for me to be happy. Thus, before my coffee breaks, they steal themselves into the break room and extract all of the coffee out of the pots so that when I go to have my coffee, all of it is removed and I am left feeling pissed at the world and need to make coffee. These people should all catch syphillis and die from it.
11:45 am
After lusting for food, I suddenly remember that I have leftover noodles here. Sure they're from roughly 1963, but mold still falls into the realm of food, it might even be considered roughage, which, so I've been told, is something that is good for me. I'm excited.
12:01 pm
I think I just had the world's first intelligent conversation of the pros and cons of watching video's of pornographic nature with the sound on or off. On one hand it is nice to hear the emotion and there are some elements of story that make it better, but on the other hand, the last thing you want is for somebody to hear you watching it. This reminds me of the time when I was a younger man, and was over at a friends house and we were watching a video of questionable content in his basement. Unknown to us, his mom, his sister and his grandmother were upstairs, and despite the fact that both his grandma and his sister are somewhat deaf, they were still able to hear most of our conversations and the video itself through the chimney. Most embarrassing comment for myself: That is the largest cock I've ever seen. I'm not proud.
12:29 pm
Begin to think about accoutrafying myself again. I've been walking around the office floor for the past half hour talking with people, but would like to actually get off the floor… now I need to convince somebody to go with me…
12:40 pm
I thought about peeing for a couple of seconds, but then decided better about it, especially after I walked over there and got into a conversation with somebody that was going to go. There is nothing more awkward than starting a conversation with somebody that is going into the bathroom. I don't know if you're supposed to call a time out so that you can go, or if you keep talking? I mean, I've been on both sides of that equation and don't really feel that comfortable with either of them
12:50 pm
I do not want a fourth cup of coffee, but I seem to have picked it up. I know that two cups of coffee are good for me, they fight some sort of oxidant or who the hell cares, the third is the roll of the dice cup and four is just plain bad for you. Still, it feels good to drink it and yesterday was the most gluttonous day of the year and I didn't eat, thus certain things are owed to me.
3:20 pm
Took an hour and a half lunch and then was stuck in a meaningless meeting for the past hour. Meetings aren't that bad. It gives me an opportunity to space out while staring at things that are different from what I usually space out on. For the common thug, this is something that isn't appreciated enough.
3:47 pm
Since the rest of the world is sane and doesn't work today, I have been keeping a running conversation going via text messaging. This, I feel is for the best so I, at the very minimum, have one intelligent person to talk to today. Seriously, I need to develop a second personality just so I have somebody to hang out with.
3:53 pm
The hangover is gone. So I make my first of what will be several attempts to talk somebody into going out to happy hour. It's not so much that I wish to go with co-workers to a happy hour and not so much that I want to d rive in the slop outside. I just wish to have something to look forward to when work is done, or a promise, to myself, that work will soon be done.
4:15 pm
Seriously, today cannot finish fast enough. Forty five effing minutes left to go. These are the hardest moments. The end is in sight, the feeling that we are going to make it is imminent.
4:18 pm
I enjoy sending out some of my orders without fully checking them for fees. I feel that it is too time consuming and that if I'm not going to make a buck off of the company, then somebody should. It's my little reward for the day, even though somebody else gets to spend it… effers
4:35 pm
Now I've painted myself into a corner. Numerous people now wish to go out to Happy Hour with me, but, in all actuality I don't want to go out with anybody and it's more a want to be included and then not to do it. This sucks for others and their social calendars but… it works for me. I conveniently have made up a lie that an uncle is coming into town and that I need to see him. It's last minute and I feel bad due to the inclimate weather.
4:36 pm
Begin to feel bad about the gas that I’m producing. It's been fairly audible all day, something I generally try to cover up with the fact that my chair is moving. But the smell, the sound, the lack of people in the office that would cover those up appears to have created a bit of a stir. Time to do a little bit of positive campaigning on behalf of myself.
4:56
Free at last… sweet baby, I am free at lastµ
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Ode to the Football Fan
As we reach the halfway point of the football season, let us take a quick look at those dear souls that call themselves football fans. We will break down our football friends into two distinct categories; ones that we will break down by distinction, cross referencing our the good folks of the gay community.
Category 1: In the closet
The actual closet reference refers to the degree of love that this football fan has for the "sport" of NASCAR. Due to the low level of education that both sports employee, a natural marriage, or flirtation, is inevitable from both. Both claim to have actual athletes that play them (I have driven to Chicago before and know that I can make it there without stopping to go to the bathroom, take that Jeff Gordon) and both need little to no actual knowledge of the history of the game, or rules of the game, in order to appreciate. However, the distinction for these folks compared to a Category 2 football fan, is that they're not able to admit that they like NASCAR. Sure, sometimes at the bar the Category 1 fan will have an eye on the races, hating themselves with every sip of their beer. Typically, these folks aren't that well adjusted and spent most of their childhood trying on their mother's underwear.
Category 2: Out of the Closet
These are, by far and away, more comfortable with themselves than Category 1 football fans. They have accepted their love of NASCAR and now no longer care what other's think of them. Like our friends in the Gay community and their ability to develop a different lexicon in order to distinguish themselves, Category 2 football fans will typically utilize more of a broken English. This could be as simple as leaving words out of sentences that should be included, to something as difficult to comprehend as turning nouns into verbs.
Shared Characteristics
Similarities do abound throughout the football community. While the argument can be made that due to the shortened season, more games matter, it can also mean that the season is over, well now. Something that isn't lost on any true football fan. True football fans know that it isn't worth it to continue cheering for their team once they are down, and, perhaps, at that point they are able to grasp how truly boring their actual sport is to watch and thus they give up. This is the reason that there hasn't been a football fan in the city of Detroit since 1963. For the super bowl this year they are actually implementing animatronics (the same ones used during this year's World Series on the Southside of Chicago) in order to give the appearance of fans.
Other similarities include, but are not exclusive to: lack of knowledge of the sport, or rather lack of caring of the sport. With little to no actual history worth remembering in the National Football League, there is no worry about committing anything to memory. With the lack of athleticism that goes into playing any non-skill position on the football field, there is a feeling, for both category 1 and category 2 fans that they could, in effect, be called onto the field to play. And then there is the fact that it is just America's excuse to get drunk and watch guys rub against one another in tight pants.
So, go hug your football loving friends today; today, dear reader, is truly their day. For tomorrow, once the dispute over non-guaranteed contracts surfaces and there is a twenty year strike, these fine folks will become extinct.
-Mule
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
The NBA sucks
Why you and your friends don’t watch many NBA games anymore
I realize that many of you have been wanting to ask this question for a while but haven’t known how to begin. So let me help you. You think to yourself that hey you’re a Timberwolves fan no matter what and you plan on watching every game they have. You make random plans over a beer with a buddy and pretend that you’ll go catch a game or two at Target Center this year. But none of you want to ask the question. Why would you do something like that? What would be the point? You don’t want to ask that question because you know that Kevin Garnett is a hall of famer and it’s a pleasure to watch him play. You don’t want to ask because you know that watching a guy get an angle on a defender and blow past him showing a burst of athleticism every bit as magical as Spawn and his hell fire or whatever it’s called. But then that question is joined by others. Why do they need so many timeouts for a game that is all about angles and position and not plays? Why do they need that many coaches? Do they need coaches at all? Why are there so many games and yet over half the league gets in the playoffs anyway? I could go on but it’s too depressing. So here is my plan to fix the league. Notice I didn’t say save the game. The game will endure, it’s still a beautiful thing to watch when done correctly and it’s a blast to play. Too bad there are only a handful of people in the NBA interested in playing it right.
1. This is a game built entirely on angles and position so stop trying to pretend it’s something that it isn’t. All the plays in the world don’t add up to squat. Getting a guy to lean the wrong way is all that matters. Stop wasting my time. I don’t want to watch a guy hold the ball at the top of the key and wait for Rip Hamilton to drop his defender on a series of screens. Just move the ball and angles will present themselves. Give up the pretense.
2. All teams are only allowed three coaches. The Head, an offensive guru and a defensive guru. No one else is needed. Throw away all VCR’s, there’s no need to break down game tape. It’s a waste of time that assistants started so that they could justify their existence. Either limit the amount of coaches or lengthen the court because we’re running out of room on the sidelines here people.
3. Limit timeouts to 3 per team per half. There are plenty of tv timeouts to help the guys get their wind back. But seriously, the current system allows for 14 team timeouts PLUS tv timeouts every half. That’s just retarded.
4. Cut the season to 60 games so that the regular season actually matters. Spread out the games so that no team plays more than 5 back to back games because 99% of the time you can see the player’s hands in the mailslot before they even hit the floor. It’s like everyone is doing their own personal tribute to the mailman at least once a week. Why pay to watch people mail it in? I do that every day at work and they pay me.
5. Cut the playoff teams to 5 per conference. Why does half the league get into the playoffs again? What’s the point of the regular season if it takes 82 fucking games to eliminate 14 teams. I haven’t seen this much candyass decision making since the Kindercare up the block from me caved into all the 6 year olds who wouldn’t take a nap and played gameboy instead.
6. Let’s just try to get the playoffs done sometime before the next season starts. I think right now the other teams are in training camp for the next season by the time the Finals are wrapping up. It’s hideous. No one can watch the game that long. The Lord didn’t intend it.
7. Finally, what’s up with the metro-ification of the league? Headbands, sweatbands, little half-finger glove things with nike logos? Jewelry and high socks? WTF? These guys are prettier than the girls at the Edina prom. If you style your hair before you play the game you are a douche. Yes, I’m looking at you Wally. Just play the game fellas. You can try to get a date later.
There are more reasons, but I’d actually start watching if the NBA actually did these things. The game is great, it’s too bad it’s been left in the hands of marketing people and not knowledgeable fans.
I realize that many of you have been wanting to ask this question for a while but haven’t known how to begin. So let me help you. You think to yourself that hey you’re a Timberwolves fan no matter what and you plan on watching every game they have. You make random plans over a beer with a buddy and pretend that you’ll go catch a game or two at Target Center this year. But none of you want to ask the question. Why would you do something like that? What would be the point? You don’t want to ask that question because you know that Kevin Garnett is a hall of famer and it’s a pleasure to watch him play. You don’t want to ask because you know that watching a guy get an angle on a defender and blow past him showing a burst of athleticism every bit as magical as Spawn and his hell fire or whatever it’s called. But then that question is joined by others. Why do they need so many timeouts for a game that is all about angles and position and not plays? Why do they need that many coaches? Do they need coaches at all? Why are there so many games and yet over half the league gets in the playoffs anyway? I could go on but it’s too depressing. So here is my plan to fix the league. Notice I didn’t say save the game. The game will endure, it’s still a beautiful thing to watch when done correctly and it’s a blast to play. Too bad there are only a handful of people in the NBA interested in playing it right.
1. This is a game built entirely on angles and position so stop trying to pretend it’s something that it isn’t. All the plays in the world don’t add up to squat. Getting a guy to lean the wrong way is all that matters. Stop wasting my time. I don’t want to watch a guy hold the ball at the top of the key and wait for Rip Hamilton to drop his defender on a series of screens. Just move the ball and angles will present themselves. Give up the pretense.
2. All teams are only allowed three coaches. The Head, an offensive guru and a defensive guru. No one else is needed. Throw away all VCR’s, there’s no need to break down game tape. It’s a waste of time that assistants started so that they could justify their existence. Either limit the amount of coaches or lengthen the court because we’re running out of room on the sidelines here people.
3. Limit timeouts to 3 per team per half. There are plenty of tv timeouts to help the guys get their wind back. But seriously, the current system allows for 14 team timeouts PLUS tv timeouts every half. That’s just retarded.
4. Cut the season to 60 games so that the regular season actually matters. Spread out the games so that no team plays more than 5 back to back games because 99% of the time you can see the player’s hands in the mailslot before they even hit the floor. It’s like everyone is doing their own personal tribute to the mailman at least once a week. Why pay to watch people mail it in? I do that every day at work and they pay me.
5. Cut the playoff teams to 5 per conference. Why does half the league get into the playoffs again? What’s the point of the regular season if it takes 82 fucking games to eliminate 14 teams. I haven’t seen this much candyass decision making since the Kindercare up the block from me caved into all the 6 year olds who wouldn’t take a nap and played gameboy instead.
6. Let’s just try to get the playoffs done sometime before the next season starts. I think right now the other teams are in training camp for the next season by the time the Finals are wrapping up. It’s hideous. No one can watch the game that long. The Lord didn’t intend it.
7. Finally, what’s up with the metro-ification of the league? Headbands, sweatbands, little half-finger glove things with nike logos? Jewelry and high socks? WTF? These guys are prettier than the girls at the Edina prom. If you style your hair before you play the game you are a douche. Yes, I’m looking at you Wally. Just play the game fellas. You can try to get a date later.
There are more reasons, but I’d actually start watching if the NBA actually did these things. The game is great, it’s too bad it’s been left in the hands of marketing people and not knowledgeable fans.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The Sweet Unknown
The Verge
People always say they or we have a fear of the unknown. People use this to explain religion and exploration of the stars and whatnot. I think people like the unknown. I think people crave it. Variety is the spice of life is not only a catchy little phrase but it also is something we’ve all heard and something that indicates we don’t like the day to day routine. There’s something honorable in the routine but there’s nothing fantastic about it is there?
I bring this up, this weird infatuation with the unknown, because it is a huge part of our lives. We love the unknown. And here’s how I know. Music. Movies. Books. Comedy shows that are actually funny. If you or any of your friends run across something of quality you rush to them to share the experience no? Have you seen THE BIG THING yet? It’s fantastic you say. And your friends have seen it too and also think it’s fantastic. And everything’s super. But then the unknown comes and puts it’s foot down. You think that’s something? Everyone joining together enjoying something? You think that’s cool. You don’t know shit. Check this out.
The unknown introduces us to something unique and special... like a snowflake. It’s completely temporary but that just makes the moment all the more worthwhile. Honestly this analogy isn’t that great but I just like the cheesiness of comparing something to a snowflake because it’s something people I hate would do with utmost seriousness and preciousness. So, back to the unknown. The unknown spits on our general satisfaction with THE BIG THING and sells us something else entirely.
THE NEXT BIG THING. Have you heard of this THING? Have you seen it? I saw it at the Turf Club with 6 other people and one of them was just in there to stay out of the bitch ass cold outside. I read an excerpt from this THING online at a coffee bar in Rosedale and it is TREMENDOUS. This NEXT BIG THING will rock your world. I am so happy that I could introduce you to the NEXT BIG THING. And then we can discuss it and love it and share this THING with others and we can warm ourselves in the collective glow of this THING. Of course I’ll be sitting a little closer to the fire. I mean, I saw them first and all. And there is a hierarchy that states that he who sees the THING first is 1% cooler than those that follow all the way down the line.
We’ve all known this for a while now, but let’s face it, we like new music and movies and paintings because we don’t have any guarantees that anything good will come of it. We love not knowing what the future will hold because it allows us to focus entirely on the moment at hand and therefore we get a more visceral experience. I mean, we know what the Rolling Stones are going to do at this point right? We know what to expect and it takes away from the moment when you know that there will be 100 great moments like this in the future. We can focus all of our energy watching Atmosphere and see if they blow up or just rock the house for one night. We don’t know if we’re catching lightning in a bottle or if we’re just watching one little lightning bug in a ditch and there’s miles to go on this country road and many more little shows to see. The unknown is worthy of our love.
People always say they or we have a fear of the unknown. People use this to explain religion and exploration of the stars and whatnot. I think people like the unknown. I think people crave it. Variety is the spice of life is not only a catchy little phrase but it also is something we’ve all heard and something that indicates we don’t like the day to day routine. There’s something honorable in the routine but there’s nothing fantastic about it is there?
I bring this up, this weird infatuation with the unknown, because it is a huge part of our lives. We love the unknown. And here’s how I know. Music. Movies. Books. Comedy shows that are actually funny. If you or any of your friends run across something of quality you rush to them to share the experience no? Have you seen THE BIG THING yet? It’s fantastic you say. And your friends have seen it too and also think it’s fantastic. And everything’s super. But then the unknown comes and puts it’s foot down. You think that’s something? Everyone joining together enjoying something? You think that’s cool. You don’t know shit. Check this out.
The unknown introduces us to something unique and special... like a snowflake. It’s completely temporary but that just makes the moment all the more worthwhile. Honestly this analogy isn’t that great but I just like the cheesiness of comparing something to a snowflake because it’s something people I hate would do with utmost seriousness and preciousness. So, back to the unknown. The unknown spits on our general satisfaction with THE BIG THING and sells us something else entirely.
THE NEXT BIG THING. Have you heard of this THING? Have you seen it? I saw it at the Turf Club with 6 other people and one of them was just in there to stay out of the bitch ass cold outside. I read an excerpt from this THING online at a coffee bar in Rosedale and it is TREMENDOUS. This NEXT BIG THING will rock your world. I am so happy that I could introduce you to the NEXT BIG THING. And then we can discuss it and love it and share this THING with others and we can warm ourselves in the collective glow of this THING. Of course I’ll be sitting a little closer to the fire. I mean, I saw them first and all. And there is a hierarchy that states that he who sees the THING first is 1% cooler than those that follow all the way down the line.
We’ve all known this for a while now, but let’s face it, we like new music and movies and paintings because we don’t have any guarantees that anything good will come of it. We love not knowing what the future will hold because it allows us to focus entirely on the moment at hand and therefore we get a more visceral experience. I mean, we know what the Rolling Stones are going to do at this point right? We know what to expect and it takes away from the moment when you know that there will be 100 great moments like this in the future. We can focus all of our energy watching Atmosphere and see if they blow up or just rock the house for one night. We don’t know if we’re catching lightning in a bottle or if we’re just watching one little lightning bug in a ditch and there’s miles to go on this country road and many more little shows to see. The unknown is worthy of our love.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Bad Comparison
“Who’s the brains of this operation?”
“Uh, this isn’t really a brains-type of operation.”
That’s a great line from an otherwise ho-hum little movie called Way of the Gun. I think the screenwriter also wrote The Usual Suspects. I have no idea who he is and I fancy myself something of a writer. I could cruise over to imdb and check it out but again, if I haven’t stressed it enough to this point, I’m not really into research. I think his name was Chris something. Anywho, that’s not really the point. If it were the point I’d probably find out who did it. The point is that the writer either completely missed the mark on WOTG or he made a deal with the devil to write TUS and was obviously distracted with the whole “eternity in hell” thing when he continued his career and has quietly disappeared from the scene. I’m guessing he didn’t make a deal with the devil, I mean Suspects was good but I don’t know if it was THAT good. Know what I’m sayin’? So did he just get incredibly lucky or were the stars aligned or what for his first movie? And more importantly did he sneak that great line into the Gun just to remind us that he still has that ability? I only ask because I’m a baseball fan...
I bring this up because baseball has just seen a team play so far above their collective heads that they actually tarnished the World Series by not only appearing but by actually winning the thing. The White Sox, or as I like to think of them, the stupid, cocksucking white sox, had their deal with the devil season. I have never seen so many lucky bounces or small decisions work in their favor when all logic would seem to be saying that they were making a mistake. I’m thankful because I know they can’t repeat their past success, much like Chris whoever after The Usual Suspects. But that doesn’t erase their win from the record books and that’s what pisses me off. The only team I hate as much as the Yankees has won the Series. A team that is known for throwing games, a long history of horribly cheap owners like Comiskey and now Reinsdorf and his “hey let’s shut down the season in ’94 and hope no one blames me 11 years later”, a team that thinks Olde English is still a cool font. This is the reason why people think the devil is making all these deals. No way God was handing a Series title to these douchebags. I guess that’s where my comparison fails. I don’t really know Chris Whathisface’s history but I doubt he failed his writing classes in high school on a bet because he wasn’t getting paid enough by the school paper. I’m guessing he didn’t write his script in Olde English either. Just a guess there but I’m assuming 120 pages of that stuff would cause a seizure. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope we’ve seen the last of the stupid, cocksucking white sox in the Series for a while. Next year they’ll have a nice little run, much like a great line in a movie, and then they’ll fade away. Hopefully for another 85 years or so. Some call that sort of thing spiteful. I call it justice.
“Uh, this isn’t really a brains-type of operation.”
That’s a great line from an otherwise ho-hum little movie called Way of the Gun. I think the screenwriter also wrote The Usual Suspects. I have no idea who he is and I fancy myself something of a writer. I could cruise over to imdb and check it out but again, if I haven’t stressed it enough to this point, I’m not really into research. I think his name was Chris something. Anywho, that’s not really the point. If it were the point I’d probably find out who did it. The point is that the writer either completely missed the mark on WOTG or he made a deal with the devil to write TUS and was obviously distracted with the whole “eternity in hell” thing when he continued his career and has quietly disappeared from the scene. I’m guessing he didn’t make a deal with the devil, I mean Suspects was good but I don’t know if it was THAT good. Know what I’m sayin’? So did he just get incredibly lucky or were the stars aligned or what for his first movie? And more importantly did he sneak that great line into the Gun just to remind us that he still has that ability? I only ask because I’m a baseball fan...
I bring this up because baseball has just seen a team play so far above their collective heads that they actually tarnished the World Series by not only appearing but by actually winning the thing. The White Sox, or as I like to think of them, the stupid, cocksucking white sox, had their deal with the devil season. I have never seen so many lucky bounces or small decisions work in their favor when all logic would seem to be saying that they were making a mistake. I’m thankful because I know they can’t repeat their past success, much like Chris whoever after The Usual Suspects. But that doesn’t erase their win from the record books and that’s what pisses me off. The only team I hate as much as the Yankees has won the Series. A team that is known for throwing games, a long history of horribly cheap owners like Comiskey and now Reinsdorf and his “hey let’s shut down the season in ’94 and hope no one blames me 11 years later”, a team that thinks Olde English is still a cool font. This is the reason why people think the devil is making all these deals. No way God was handing a Series title to these douchebags. I guess that’s where my comparison fails. I don’t really know Chris Whathisface’s history but I doubt he failed his writing classes in high school on a bet because he wasn’t getting paid enough by the school paper. I’m guessing he didn’t write his script in Olde English either. Just a guess there but I’m assuming 120 pages of that stuff would cause a seizure. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I hope we’ve seen the last of the stupid, cocksucking white sox in the Series for a while. Next year they’ll have a nice little run, much like a great line in a movie, and then they’ll fade away. Hopefully for another 85 years or so. Some call that sort of thing spiteful. I call it justice.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Broken Things
I do not like broken things.
Throughout life there are things that are broken, things that are broken beyond repair and things that are broken with instructions on how to be fixed.
According to some of our Jesus friends, we can ignore broken things; we, as humans of God’s race, have the ability to chalk broken things up to divine intervention or as something that we’re not able to question and our outside of simple acceptance. We are to accept that our crude carbon forms are only capable of so much and that if something bad does happen to us, it’s God’s will, or in essence not our fault.
Right, wrong, good, bad, God’s will, free will, it still doesn’t change broken things. Broken things, broken things... I was out, the other night, with a friend of mine that told me not to worry about broken things, that I should focus more on the positive, more on what is good in life than to worry about those things that cannot be fixed; things that are beyond my control or those things that I do not wish to control. And I took those words and I drank to them. And even while I raised my glass, I half knew the toast was in vain, but even my drunk self appreciated the irony.
There are too many broken people in the world, too many that keep wanting what they shouldn’t; the beautiful dreamers, that if God had a say would be the people that were running the world.
In a perfect world, we would all be satisfied, we would all follow the Norse tradition of Valhalla and win the battle everyday and every night drink wine from the skull’s of our enemies. We would know that we are the best, that are competitors failed in their attempt to usurp us. That we are, in essence, perfect or at least working towards perfection. But there is no perfect and everybody that doesn’t accept that at least knows it.
Broken things only come with simple answers, or absolutes. Given that, some will live the rest of their lives under the assumption that something broken will never be talked about, or that it was never broken. Some will operate within the confines that something that breaks will be fixed or that it is fixed. Others will take something that is broken and throw it out, never think about it anymore. The last option is acceptance. To accept that once something is broken it can never be fixed, and then to deal with it; to take the pangs and arrows of a broken thing and learn to live with it. Perhaps not to like it, perhaps not to love it, but to accept it.
I do not like broken things, I do not like complete things, I do not like absolutes. I like not yet made up things. I like things that are still not broken, things that are still within the realms of beautiful dreamers imagination’s. And yet, I can recognize beauty in something that is broken. And, perhaps our friends of Jesus are right, yet they don't know it. Perhaps there is beauty in broken things. To see it, standing in front of you, naked, ripped from the burden that it was carrying, with it’s broken hands bleeding from the nails that had been driven into them. Perahps there is nothing in the world more beautiful than something broken; it’s just a shame that is always has to come to it.∂
Throughout life there are things that are broken, things that are broken beyond repair and things that are broken with instructions on how to be fixed.
According to some of our Jesus friends, we can ignore broken things; we, as humans of God’s race, have the ability to chalk broken things up to divine intervention or as something that we’re not able to question and our outside of simple acceptance. We are to accept that our crude carbon forms are only capable of so much and that if something bad does happen to us, it’s God’s will, or in essence not our fault.
Right, wrong, good, bad, God’s will, free will, it still doesn’t change broken things. Broken things, broken things... I was out, the other night, with a friend of mine that told me not to worry about broken things, that I should focus more on the positive, more on what is good in life than to worry about those things that cannot be fixed; things that are beyond my control or those things that I do not wish to control. And I took those words and I drank to them. And even while I raised my glass, I half knew the toast was in vain, but even my drunk self appreciated the irony.
There are too many broken people in the world, too many that keep wanting what they shouldn’t; the beautiful dreamers, that if God had a say would be the people that were running the world.
In a perfect world, we would all be satisfied, we would all follow the Norse tradition of Valhalla and win the battle everyday and every night drink wine from the skull’s of our enemies. We would know that we are the best, that are competitors failed in their attempt to usurp us. That we are, in essence, perfect or at least working towards perfection. But there is no perfect and everybody that doesn’t accept that at least knows it.
Broken things only come with simple answers, or absolutes. Given that, some will live the rest of their lives under the assumption that something broken will never be talked about, or that it was never broken. Some will operate within the confines that something that breaks will be fixed or that it is fixed. Others will take something that is broken and throw it out, never think about it anymore. The last option is acceptance. To accept that once something is broken it can never be fixed, and then to deal with it; to take the pangs and arrows of a broken thing and learn to live with it. Perhaps not to like it, perhaps not to love it, but to accept it.
I do not like broken things, I do not like complete things, I do not like absolutes. I like not yet made up things. I like things that are still not broken, things that are still within the realms of beautiful dreamers imagination’s. And yet, I can recognize beauty in something that is broken. And, perhaps our friends of Jesus are right, yet they don't know it. Perhaps there is beauty in broken things. To see it, standing in front of you, naked, ripped from the burden that it was carrying, with it’s broken hands bleeding from the nails that had been driven into them. Perahps there is nothing in the world more beautiful than something broken; it’s just a shame that is always has to come to it.∂
Friday, November 11, 2005
Mailbag!!!!!
Welcome to the mailbag. This is a mailed in version of an article that is used in lieu of actually writing something meaningful. It is also offers an opportunity for those of you that can’t speak your thoughts during the week. To make your opinion known, email badmothercoitus@yahoo.com with your question and your name and city and state you’re from.
Here are real letters from real people, that really read this.
"Cute [website] name, have you people ever been laid?"
Tami Erickson Phoenix, Arizona
Thank you, Tamara, and yes. However, as with most great questions in the universe it is one that ultimately comes down to perspective. I, myself, have a great love for the midget sex and physically do not love normal sized women. In one sense, it’s because my dick is too small, in another sense... well, it’s because my dick is too small. You see Tamara, when a person lacks a substantial manhood, he also then lacks the ability to pleasure a normal woman, and thus it doesn’t leave our gentlemen short dick caller with that many ladies to call upon. But it does leave the large population of midget women that are into normal sized men, that still want a dick that is more of a “comfort fit”.
The matter of perspective comes into play when translating the amount of pipe laid in midgets and creating a logarithm to turn that midget count into normal women. I, the one that enjoys casual relations with the little folk and has been known to yell out “Oh Bilbo” at given times (this was until I found out that even though it was girls that played the hobbits in the Lord of the Rings, they really were playing guys. Guy hobbits, not girl hobbits. And while I thought the hobbits were still cute, I still didn’t think it was right, and have, subsequently, removed all of their posters from my wall).
But I believe that one hobbit, or one midget or dwarf or whatever the little fuckers are, one of them should equal one women. But most other members of the staff here don’t agree, and they don’t agree with themselves. They still haven’t decided if one lady midget should count as half of one normal chick or if midgets shouldn’t count at all.
This leads me to point out two things. Women’s suffering and the fact that everybody has the right to vote. I don’t know what they mean, but I think everybody else does. It certainly shuts them up and gives them a nice glass of humble pie.
So in answer to your question, the answer would be two or twice. I’ve been laid twice. And yes, you can count one person twice if you do it with her on two separate days.
"Would you please explain people’s need to make comments in the morning or just even fucking talk? Especially on the elevator when I don’t want to talk with anybody."
Nate Summers, New York
I’m pleased as piss that you brought this up, Nathan, as Bad Mother Coitus will shortly be having a seven part, hard hitting column on the seven layers of hell on Earth. It will be beginning next week and concluding sometime in December, make sure to check local listings. Lucky fellow that you are, one of the many things that has notably found its’ way onto the seven layers of hell is the actual act of conversation.
To shed some light on your more case specific question, however, a bit of inferring and assuming must be done. I’m guessing that this situation, what other, less sensitive people may refer to as a condition, strikes mostly prior to 10 AM or, more to the point, before the first cup of coffee. You are not alone, brother. You are not suffering from any condition; it is everybody else that isn’t normal. They are the ones that should have the fucking leashes put to them.
These people that insist on talking, especially in the morning, are obviously clinically depressed people that have little to no self esteem, or a self esteem that is described as such that they need the physical/verbal reassurance that they are still alive and that they didn’t die in their sleep and that their sub-conciousess idea of heaven is to get up and go to work in the morning and lead their cold and lonely version of life.
Nathan, whatever you do, do not acknowledge them. If our good friend Pavlov taught us nothing, it is the simple fact that people will be become conditioned to asking questions at too early of hours and expecting some form of pleasant response back. Savages, one and all, and certainly not to be trusted. Keep the faith brother, be strong.
"You are sure gonna get a lot of interesting email once you actually post your address!! welcome to blogger. Thanks for stealing my template. I’ll beat you both up for that later. Visit my site, as I have linked to yours. Write a bitch about linking if you must, but youre still gonna be linked. So, how high are your estrogen levels today?"
The Almighty Doctor Gonzo, St. Paul, Minnesota
Well, thanks for pointing out to the entire world that we’re all women on this website and that while we did use male jargon, our desire to completely subvert the entire population of males on this earth. Especially untactful was your outting of the Estrogen button, and now all of malehood is going to know that we actually can keep track of our estrogen levels, and that we are able to press this button when we wish to go into Full Bitch Mode.
But thanks for linking to us, we’re always grateful for somebody that likes it enough to keep reading, even though the website was made to describe how much we hate the world.
-- Bad Mother Coitus --ˇ
Here are real letters from real people, that really read this.
"Cute [website] name, have you people ever been laid?"
Tami Erickson Phoenix, Arizona
Thank you, Tamara, and yes. However, as with most great questions in the universe it is one that ultimately comes down to perspective. I, myself, have a great love for the midget sex and physically do not love normal sized women. In one sense, it’s because my dick is too small, in another sense... well, it’s because my dick is too small. You see Tamara, when a person lacks a substantial manhood, he also then lacks the ability to pleasure a normal woman, and thus it doesn’t leave our gentlemen short dick caller with that many ladies to call upon. But it does leave the large population of midget women that are into normal sized men, that still want a dick that is more of a “comfort fit”.
The matter of perspective comes into play when translating the amount of pipe laid in midgets and creating a logarithm to turn that midget count into normal women. I, the one that enjoys casual relations with the little folk and has been known to yell out “Oh Bilbo” at given times (this was until I found out that even though it was girls that played the hobbits in the Lord of the Rings, they really were playing guys. Guy hobbits, not girl hobbits. And while I thought the hobbits were still cute, I still didn’t think it was right, and have, subsequently, removed all of their posters from my wall).
But I believe that one hobbit, or one midget or dwarf or whatever the little fuckers are, one of them should equal one women. But most other members of the staff here don’t agree, and they don’t agree with themselves. They still haven’t decided if one lady midget should count as half of one normal chick or if midgets shouldn’t count at all.
This leads me to point out two things. Women’s suffering and the fact that everybody has the right to vote. I don’t know what they mean, but I think everybody else does. It certainly shuts them up and gives them a nice glass of humble pie.
So in answer to your question, the answer would be two or twice. I’ve been laid twice. And yes, you can count one person twice if you do it with her on two separate days.
"Would you please explain people’s need to make comments in the morning or just even fucking talk? Especially on the elevator when I don’t want to talk with anybody."
Nate Summers, New York
I’m pleased as piss that you brought this up, Nathan, as Bad Mother Coitus will shortly be having a seven part, hard hitting column on the seven layers of hell on Earth. It will be beginning next week and concluding sometime in December, make sure to check local listings. Lucky fellow that you are, one of the many things that has notably found its’ way onto the seven layers of hell is the actual act of conversation.
To shed some light on your more case specific question, however, a bit of inferring and assuming must be done. I’m guessing that this situation, what other, less sensitive people may refer to as a condition, strikes mostly prior to 10 AM or, more to the point, before the first cup of coffee. You are not alone, brother. You are not suffering from any condition; it is everybody else that isn’t normal. They are the ones that should have the fucking leashes put to them.
These people that insist on talking, especially in the morning, are obviously clinically depressed people that have little to no self esteem, or a self esteem that is described as such that they need the physical/verbal reassurance that they are still alive and that they didn’t die in their sleep and that their sub-conciousess idea of heaven is to get up and go to work in the morning and lead their cold and lonely version of life.
Nathan, whatever you do, do not acknowledge them. If our good friend Pavlov taught us nothing, it is the simple fact that people will be become conditioned to asking questions at too early of hours and expecting some form of pleasant response back. Savages, one and all, and certainly not to be trusted. Keep the faith brother, be strong.
"You are sure gonna get a lot of interesting email once you actually post your address!! welcome to blogger. Thanks for stealing my template. I’ll beat you both up for that later. Visit my site, as I have linked to yours. Write a bitch about linking if you must, but youre still gonna be linked. So, how high are your estrogen levels today?"
The Almighty Doctor Gonzo, St. Paul, Minnesota
Well, thanks for pointing out to the entire world that we’re all women on this website and that while we did use male jargon, our desire to completely subvert the entire population of males on this earth. Especially untactful was your outting of the Estrogen button, and now all of malehood is going to know that we actually can keep track of our estrogen levels, and that we are able to press this button when we wish to go into Full Bitch Mode.
But thanks for linking to us, we’re always grateful for somebody that likes it enough to keep reading, even though the website was made to describe how much we hate the world.
-- Bad Mother Coitus --ˇ
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
SICK and TIRED
SICK and TIRED
I’m tired of following my dreams. I’m just gonna’ ask where they’re going and hook up with ‘em later.
Today I’m sick. It’s fabu. Fabu is short for fabulous. Try it out, it’s kind of fun. It kind of makes it more masculine. Well, as masculine as you can make a word like “fabulous” anyway.
I’m sick today, which doesn’t rock so much. It’s pretty annoying actually. It’s your standard sore throat, 40 pound head feeling. And no, I haven’t been hanging out with any birds on my worldwide travels so put away the torch and pitchfork you crazy mob you. America is kind of funny about this whole possible pandemic thing. For one thing, how often do these things roll around? Not to be a shit about it but doesn’t this just seem like something for tv news people to talk about? Every year it’s something that will kill us all if we’re not vigilant and how can you be vigilant if you’re not watching channel 5 news at 5 and Fox news at 9? I’ll deal with the tv news bullshit some other day, I just don’t have the energy at the moment, but I thought it merited mentioning.
Anyway, back to the pandemic already not in progress. There is a very good chance that none of what we worry about will affect us. I don’t know of anyone who has gotten the west nile virus and yet it’s been all over the front pages of the newspapers, on the ticker on CNN and on the radio updates on my way home from work. This thing has killed fewer people than a bad couple of hours in Baghdad but we talk about as if it actually impacts our lives. What’s the reason for this? I think we love having a virus to talk about. It melts your flesh? Sweet. It turns your organs to mush? Tell me more. We’re weird cats that way. Very curious and yet very afraid. That cat analogy totally rocks by the way. Scaredy Cat, Curiosity killed the cat…I kinda pulled that one out of my ass.
The entertaining thing about being sick is that while you’re all sweaty and half in a dream state you get to play the “maybe this isn’t the run of the mill flu” game and try to expand on your various symptoms. I think satan created webmd just to get people worrying about everything that might be wrong with them. Your toes are red and irritated? It could be athlete’s foot, or maybe a reaction to some new socks, or possibly…bowel cancer. I’d like to think I’m not a hypochondriac but c’mon, if you’re looking at symptoms for something relatively benign and then you see “cancer” somewhere in the story you immediately jump to that section right? I think this is just how we are. We’re horrified with this stuff and yet we always want to look at it more. Or maybe this is just me and I’m a whacko. ‘Tis a possibility. I mean, I do blog.
Maybe we thrive on fear. Maybe we’d thrive without it. I’m still trying to figure that sort of thing out and it’s difficult to focus when I’ve taken Nyquil. But it’s a fun sort of not-focusing. For now I’ll just plan on getting some rest and see what new disease I can google tomorrow.
- Harmon
I’m tired of following my dreams. I’m just gonna’ ask where they’re going and hook up with ‘em later.
- Mitch hedberg
Today I’m sick. It’s fabu. Fabu is short for fabulous. Try it out, it’s kind of fun. It kind of makes it more masculine. Well, as masculine as you can make a word like “fabulous” anyway.
I’m sick today, which doesn’t rock so much. It’s pretty annoying actually. It’s your standard sore throat, 40 pound head feeling. And no, I haven’t been hanging out with any birds on my worldwide travels so put away the torch and pitchfork you crazy mob you. America is kind of funny about this whole possible pandemic thing. For one thing, how often do these things roll around? Not to be a shit about it but doesn’t this just seem like something for tv news people to talk about? Every year it’s something that will kill us all if we’re not vigilant and how can you be vigilant if you’re not watching channel 5 news at 5 and Fox news at 9? I’ll deal with the tv news bullshit some other day, I just don’t have the energy at the moment, but I thought it merited mentioning.
Anyway, back to the pandemic already not in progress. There is a very good chance that none of what we worry about will affect us. I don’t know of anyone who has gotten the west nile virus and yet it’s been all over the front pages of the newspapers, on the ticker on CNN and on the radio updates on my way home from work. This thing has killed fewer people than a bad couple of hours in Baghdad but we talk about as if it actually impacts our lives. What’s the reason for this? I think we love having a virus to talk about. It melts your flesh? Sweet. It turns your organs to mush? Tell me more. We’re weird cats that way. Very curious and yet very afraid. That cat analogy totally rocks by the way. Scaredy Cat, Curiosity killed the cat…I kinda pulled that one out of my ass.
The entertaining thing about being sick is that while you’re all sweaty and half in a dream state you get to play the “maybe this isn’t the run of the mill flu” game and try to expand on your various symptoms. I think satan created webmd just to get people worrying about everything that might be wrong with them. Your toes are red and irritated? It could be athlete’s foot, or maybe a reaction to some new socks, or possibly…bowel cancer. I’d like to think I’m not a hypochondriac but c’mon, if you’re looking at symptoms for something relatively benign and then you see “cancer” somewhere in the story you immediately jump to that section right? I think this is just how we are. We’re horrified with this stuff and yet we always want to look at it more. Or maybe this is just me and I’m a whacko. ‘Tis a possibility. I mean, I do blog.
Maybe we thrive on fear. Maybe we’d thrive without it. I’m still trying to figure that sort of thing out and it’s difficult to focus when I’ve taken Nyquil. But it’s a fun sort of not-focusing. For now I’ll just plan on getting some rest and see what new disease I can google tomorrow.
- Harmon
The Most Blasphemous Day... Ever
The date, dear reader, has already been purged from my mind, but the anguish still lingers in my heart. Nuclear war, Jeb Bush elected president, a day without beer and this blasphemous, heinous day that, like the German word Putsch, is too foul a creati on that a literal translation has never been recorded. These are events that I never hoped to see in my lifetime, in my children’s lifetime nor in my grandchildren’s lifetime.
In fact, I was actually going to call my first son Nineteen. Young Ninete e n was going to be shipped off to Japan, immediately after baptism, where he was going to undergo thourough training in KARATE, in JUDO, in NINJITSU, in TAE KWAN FUCKING DO. All of this training, this lifetime of dedication would be done for the greater g ood. And not exclusivily for those that lived in this great country of America, but for the entire world. All so that this day, this day of days, this new infamy clad day would never exist.
Should I have actually had a son, and should I have actua lly named him Nineteen, and should he have undergone all above written training, and then been trained in time for The Most Blasphemous Day... Ever, what would have happened is young Nineteen hefting his sword or some sort of Chinese throwing star, or fuc k i t, even a motherfucking twenty-five dollar ballpark frank and, Ninjistically of course, hurling himself, with blatant disregard for self wellness, towards the south side of Chicago. There, my son, young Nineteen, would put a stop to the craziness, th is v ile, vomit filled hiccup that has happened to the entire world.
At that point, due to the nature of the ten fans that have actually attended a baseball game on the south side of Chicago, he would be shot. But having prevented such evilness from h appen ing, his death would not have been in vein and generations of good, model Americans would sing songs of what he did that day, on this his St. Nineteen day.
Unfortunately for all of us, I am not my own son, nor have I disciplined myself in arts that are anyway close to those that resemble Martial. Unless, of course, you consider Kung Fu the ability to eat an entire extra topping pizza in one sitting by oneself. If that is the case, I’m a Kung Fu fucking master. But alas, dear reader, I was not able to prevent this terrible, terrible evil. Did I walk around downtown St. Paul with a placard reading “The End is Pretty Fucking Nigh”? Of course I did. Was I subsequently beaten down by a compassionate conservative that was en route to a Norm Colem an ral ly? Of course I was.
And so the terrible day came and passed. For all I know the anti-Christ really was born at home plate as the final out was made. My eyes were too full of tears, crying for the death of the world. Surely this is hell.
mu le∂
In fact, I was actually going to call my first son Nineteen. Young Ninete e n was going to be shipped off to Japan, immediately after baptism, where he was going to undergo thourough training in KARATE, in JUDO, in NINJITSU, in TAE KWAN FUCKING DO. All of this training, this lifetime of dedication would be done for the greater g ood. And not exclusivily for those that lived in this great country of America, but for the entire world. All so that this day, this day of days, this new infamy clad day would never exist.
Should I have actually had a son, and should I have actua lly named him Nineteen, and should he have undergone all above written training, and then been trained in time for The Most Blasphemous Day... Ever, what would have happened is young Nineteen hefting his sword or some sort of Chinese throwing star, or fuc k i t, even a motherfucking twenty-five dollar ballpark frank and, Ninjistically of course, hurling himself, with blatant disregard for self wellness, towards the south side of Chicago. There, my son, young Nineteen, would put a stop to the craziness, th is v ile, vomit filled hiccup that has happened to the entire world.
At that point, due to the nature of the ten fans that have actually attended a baseball game on the south side of Chicago, he would be shot. But having prevented such evilness from h appen ing, his death would not have been in vein and generations of good, model Americans would sing songs of what he did that day, on this his St. Nineteen day.
Unfortunately for all of us, I am not my own son, nor have I disciplined myself in arts that are anyway close to those that resemble Martial. Unless, of course, you consider Kung Fu the ability to eat an entire extra topping pizza in one sitting by oneself. If that is the case, I’m a Kung Fu fucking master. But alas, dear reader, I was not able to prevent this terrible, terrible evil. Did I walk around downtown St. Paul with a placard reading “The End is Pretty Fucking Nigh”? Of course I did. Was I subsequently beaten down by a compassionate conservative that was en route to a Norm Colem an ral ly? Of course I was.
And so the terrible day came and passed. For all I know the anti-Christ really was born at home plate as the final out was made. My eyes were too full of tears, crying for the death of the world. Surely this is hell.
mu le∂
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
EXPECTATIONS
EXPECTATIONS – THE BANE OF EXISTENCE?
The other night a weird little grouping of people got together quite unexpectedly. There was The Little Lady, who just wanted to do her homework in peace and quiet. The Old Guy, who was and is an excellent mechanic and had no expectations to speak of at all. Tommy B, a good friend who just wanted to kill me repeatedly via a passive aggressive little theatre of the mind we call “Halo”. He also wanted pizza and several cans and/or bottles of light beer. He’s kind of whiny and he doesn’t kill me nearly so well when he has to drink a dark beer. I’d ask him to explain but again, he’s whiny, so he just ends up telling me he’s not whiny and that dark beer sucks and frankly I think we can all agree there’s a reason we play video games and call each other “bitch” instead of sitting down to chat over a nice Cabernet. Finally there was me. I just wanted to get through the night in one piece. You see it was my poor planning that led to all these people coming to my house on the same night to do things that didn’t involve the others. I triple-booked myself. I’m very popular. I’m proud to say we pulled it together. The Little Lady made some killer chili, the menfolk drank light beer and discussed several topics that we didn’t necessarily know anything about. Truth be told The Old Guy knew a lot but we had no idea what he was talking about so it basically boils down to him not knowing anything either right? I’m just trying to spread the blame here people. Okay fine, The Old Guy knows what he’s talking about. I have no inclination as to the best way or time or tools needed to dry corn and since it is the autumnal season and we’re in a state that still grows a lot of corn we discuss these things whether they have anything to do with our lives or not. I suppose that’s beside the point. The point being, of course, that we had a good time despite none of us getting what we expected. We all went to bed that night slightly disappointed in an evening that had good conversation, a good meal and the appropriate amount of adult beverages for all involved. So why didn’t we have a GREAT time instead of just a good one. Look at the title of the thing I’m doing here for help. I’ll even start a new paragraph now to make it easier to find after you scrolled to the top.
Expectations are an absolute bastard. Just think of how your day would be different if you had no expectations at all for what was about to come? Maybe my job wouldn’t suck if I went into work not expecting it to suck. Maybe it would still suck but because I didn’t know that ahead of time I would be constantly amazed at how much it sucked and therefore in a state of constant wonderment and that would at least make the day go by faster right? It might take me until 10:15 to realize my boss is a total douche. I’d have to reevaluate my belief system after learning such astounding news. What? The management group isn’t smart enough to get through orientation at a Mcdonalds? Who would have guessed it? I’d look up and it would be 11:30 before I realized what had happened. This isn’t really the best explanation of what I’m going for but c’mon, you’re the smart kids, you’ll figure it out.
The failure to meet the expectations set upon you, your team, your business is what sadness and depression are made of. We here in Minnesota got to watch our favorite teams go through a yearlong love affair with a little lady called Failed Expectations. She flirted with the Timberwolves, had a makeout party with the Twins and the Vikings were just seen snorting coke off her naked back on a boat party. She’s a foul mistress that one. And let’s face it, the bitch gets around.
This works in the business world as well with stocks and IPO’s and all the other stuff they do. I’d go into it but basically everything I know about these things I learned from two or three scenes from the movie “The Game” with Michael Douglas and Sean Penn from the late 90s. Michael Douglas ran a large company and had to fire his father’s old friend who had been with him through thick and thin. I believe the dialogue went something like this:
Old Friend: “But our sales were up 7% in the last quarter.”
Michael Douglas: “But we told our stockholders to expect 10%. And this time expectations were everything.” And yeah, I know it’s kind of cheating to quote a movie where the guy says EXACTLY what I’m trying to illustrate here but what the hell, I know next to nothing about the business side of expectations and I needed to stretch this paragraph out a little bit to justify mentioning it in the sentence a couple paragraphs up.
Most people base their day to day happiness on whether or not they’re doing what they expected to do when they were a junior in high school. Just let that sink in for a sec. The truth takes longer to digest. Okay? Let’s proceed then shall we? People create their lifelong beliefs as a teenager and then run with it for 20 years before stopping to ask themselves if maybe 38 year old Bob isn’t quite the post up player 18 year old Bob was back in the day. Then the whole midlife crisis thing hits. Bob goes into a cocoon of shame and doubt and a year later Bob’s a beautiful butterfly with a fully loaded Passat with a moon roof and a 6 cd changer full of Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay so the kids think he’s “edgy”. Not that I’m anywhere near the midlife crisis thing yet. But I am still solidly in the “I’m a writer” mode that I started back in high school. For what’s it worth I still think I’m a writer even though I don’t write much. Which, if I remember what I’ve read, is the one thing a writer should do. I’m with you people on this thing so don’t fight it. I know it’s difficult to change and to give up those ridiculous expectations from our gold-staying-pony boy childhoods but it’s time we let it go. What happens if we just stop expecting things and start doing stuff without worrying about the consequences? I have no idea, I haven’t done it yet. But I’m thinking about giving it a try. I mean, if this writing thing doesn’t pan out that is...
The other night a weird little grouping of people got together quite unexpectedly. There was The Little Lady, who just wanted to do her homework in peace and quiet. The Old Guy, who was and is an excellent mechanic and had no expectations to speak of at all. Tommy B, a good friend who just wanted to kill me repeatedly via a passive aggressive little theatre of the mind we call “Halo”. He also wanted pizza and several cans and/or bottles of light beer. He’s kind of whiny and he doesn’t kill me nearly so well when he has to drink a dark beer. I’d ask him to explain but again, he’s whiny, so he just ends up telling me he’s not whiny and that dark beer sucks and frankly I think we can all agree there’s a reason we play video games and call each other “bitch” instead of sitting down to chat over a nice Cabernet. Finally there was me. I just wanted to get through the night in one piece. You see it was my poor planning that led to all these people coming to my house on the same night to do things that didn’t involve the others. I triple-booked myself. I’m very popular. I’m proud to say we pulled it together. The Little Lady made some killer chili, the menfolk drank light beer and discussed several topics that we didn’t necessarily know anything about. Truth be told The Old Guy knew a lot but we had no idea what he was talking about so it basically boils down to him not knowing anything either right? I’m just trying to spread the blame here people. Okay fine, The Old Guy knows what he’s talking about. I have no inclination as to the best way or time or tools needed to dry corn and since it is the autumnal season and we’re in a state that still grows a lot of corn we discuss these things whether they have anything to do with our lives or not. I suppose that’s beside the point. The point being, of course, that we had a good time despite none of us getting what we expected. We all went to bed that night slightly disappointed in an evening that had good conversation, a good meal and the appropriate amount of adult beverages for all involved. So why didn’t we have a GREAT time instead of just a good one. Look at the title of the thing I’m doing here for help. I’ll even start a new paragraph now to make it easier to find after you scrolled to the top.
Expectations are an absolute bastard. Just think of how your day would be different if you had no expectations at all for what was about to come? Maybe my job wouldn’t suck if I went into work not expecting it to suck. Maybe it would still suck but because I didn’t know that ahead of time I would be constantly amazed at how much it sucked and therefore in a state of constant wonderment and that would at least make the day go by faster right? It might take me until 10:15 to realize my boss is a total douche. I’d have to reevaluate my belief system after learning such astounding news. What? The management group isn’t smart enough to get through orientation at a Mcdonalds? Who would have guessed it? I’d look up and it would be 11:30 before I realized what had happened. This isn’t really the best explanation of what I’m going for but c’mon, you’re the smart kids, you’ll figure it out.
The failure to meet the expectations set upon you, your team, your business is what sadness and depression are made of. We here in Minnesota got to watch our favorite teams go through a yearlong love affair with a little lady called Failed Expectations. She flirted with the Timberwolves, had a makeout party with the Twins and the Vikings were just seen snorting coke off her naked back on a boat party. She’s a foul mistress that one. And let’s face it, the bitch gets around.
This works in the business world as well with stocks and IPO’s and all the other stuff they do. I’d go into it but basically everything I know about these things I learned from two or three scenes from the movie “The Game” with Michael Douglas and Sean Penn from the late 90s. Michael Douglas ran a large company and had to fire his father’s old friend who had been with him through thick and thin. I believe the dialogue went something like this:
Old Friend: “But our sales were up 7% in the last quarter.”
Michael Douglas: “But we told our stockholders to expect 10%. And this time expectations were everything.” And yeah, I know it’s kind of cheating to quote a movie where the guy says EXACTLY what I’m trying to illustrate here but what the hell, I know next to nothing about the business side of expectations and I needed to stretch this paragraph out a little bit to justify mentioning it in the sentence a couple paragraphs up.
Most people base their day to day happiness on whether or not they’re doing what they expected to do when they were a junior in high school. Just let that sink in for a sec. The truth takes longer to digest. Okay? Let’s proceed then shall we? People create their lifelong beliefs as a teenager and then run with it for 20 years before stopping to ask themselves if maybe 38 year old Bob isn’t quite the post up player 18 year old Bob was back in the day. Then the whole midlife crisis thing hits. Bob goes into a cocoon of shame and doubt and a year later Bob’s a beautiful butterfly with a fully loaded Passat with a moon roof and a 6 cd changer full of Franz Ferdinand and Coldplay so the kids think he’s “edgy”. Not that I’m anywhere near the midlife crisis thing yet. But I am still solidly in the “I’m a writer” mode that I started back in high school. For what’s it worth I still think I’m a writer even though I don’t write much. Which, if I remember what I’ve read, is the one thing a writer should do. I’m with you people on this thing so don’t fight it. I know it’s difficult to change and to give up those ridiculous expectations from our gold-staying-pony boy childhoods but it’s time we let it go. What happens if we just stop expecting things and start doing stuff without worrying about the consequences? I have no idea, I haven’t done it yet. But I’m thinking about giving it a try. I mean, if this writing thing doesn’t pan out that is...
Sunday, November 06, 2005
The Fear of Blogging
When I was originally approached to write this column I had no idea that it was for a blog. To have the the axiom of Blogger attached to you moniker implies some sort of patheticness. This could be much in the same vein as the English Major that accepted the high school teaching position so that they could finish the book that they were writing, and seven years later they’re still in the same high school, bitter about life. The lesson learned from our new and modern culture is that you could literally shit out your mouth and then post it for the entire world to see it.
This is the most uncomfortable aspect of Blogging. My, now peers, are busily constructing these literary acts, confessing secrets that they wouldn't tell a lover, a parent, their best friend; yet here, in this virtual realm of anonymity, they're allowed this freedom to share all of their most guarded secrets with the billions and billions of people that are occupying the world. While on one side this could be seen as exciting on a more rational side we are probably more regulated to realizing how trivial the thoughts depressing the world and the problems that people face on an everyday basis truly are.
There is, no doubt, a further psychological question regarding members of society that actually read blogs that should be delved into as well. Are they shallow persons that have their own blogs and are looking for others that they could share their thoughts with? Are they social misanthropes that prey on the weak that wish to find those that are out there that are more pathetic than them?
This new world, this virtual world is a skyscraper with all of her lights on at night. It’s naked and yet powerful. It hides nothing and yet you don’t know who they are, or who you it is that you’ve created yourself to be; it’s mother nature’s new form of blindness, senselessness, selflessness.
And so here goes the next drop in the bucket that is being bailed into the ocean. Another person screaming at the moon, craving for the same attention that everybody else is twisting themselves into perverted postures over. As pathetic as this may be, dear reader, with luck, we’ll be able to piss some people off, change the world and be home in time for tea.
mule
This is the most uncomfortable aspect of Blogging. My, now peers, are busily constructing these literary acts, confessing secrets that they wouldn't tell a lover, a parent, their best friend; yet here, in this virtual realm of anonymity, they're allowed this freedom to share all of their most guarded secrets with the billions and billions of people that are occupying the world. While on one side this could be seen as exciting on a more rational side we are probably more regulated to realizing how trivial the thoughts depressing the world and the problems that people face on an everyday basis truly are.
There is, no doubt, a further psychological question regarding members of society that actually read blogs that should be delved into as well. Are they shallow persons that have their own blogs and are looking for others that they could share their thoughts with? Are they social misanthropes that prey on the weak that wish to find those that are out there that are more pathetic than them?
This new world, this virtual world is a skyscraper with all of her lights on at night. It’s naked and yet powerful. It hides nothing and yet you don’t know who they are, or who you it is that you’ve created yourself to be; it’s mother nature’s new form of blindness, senselessness, selflessness.
And so here goes the next drop in the bucket that is being bailed into the ocean. Another person screaming at the moon, craving for the same attention that everybody else is twisting themselves into perverted postures over. As pathetic as this may be, dear reader, with luck, we’ll be able to piss some people off, change the world and be home in time for tea.
mule
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