Well it finally happened. I have given up on humanity. I’m always teetering on the edge of converting all my assets and credit into cash, changing my name to Miguel and going off the grid. But this weekend pushed me more than one step closer to a life of south-of-the-border siestas. At roughly 11:00pm Saturday night my girlfriend and I were at Blockbuster video in St. Paul. We went through all the new releases, took our time and found our selections for the evening. Aside from the annoying people in line ahead of us who didn’t have their membership information, it was a generally typical and not entirely unpleasant experience. I even purchased a bottle of orange soda for the drive home which turned out to be a more important purchase than I could have imagined.
Having my plans for the evening set and even my very own Orange Fanta, I approached the driver’s side of my girlfriend’s car with a sense of contentment. With my movies and my soda in my right hand, I reached down to lift the door handle of the little white KIA Rio with my left. “What the hell is that?” I ask myself as I quickly pull my fingers away from the now open door, feeling some sort of slimy texture. I looked down at my hand, not believing what I am seeing at first--I am in denial. “No, it can’t be…” But it is. There is simply no denying the familiar color and odor. There I stand, in muted horror, looking at my left hand covered in dog shit.
Yes, you heard that right my friend. Someone crammed dog shit under the handle of the driver’s side door of the car while we were in the movie store. Not just any dog shit mind you, but the light-brown, still warm, semi-liquid variety… just viscous enough to adhere, out of sight, underneath the door handle.
Calmly I walked to the front of the car, resigned to my fate, and using my Fanta, washed my hand off wiping it on the pavement, the grass, the dirt anything I could find. For some reason I did not panic, I did not issue forth a stream of obscenities, I simply walked back to the car, got in and looked at my girlfriend. She had this expression on her face that simply said, “What were you doing out there?” I answered in the only way I could. The only way anyone who had experienced such thing could: “Someone stuffed dog shit into the door handle.” What else can you say?
Really, what more need be said?
So if you have anything important to say to anyone in your life, I suggest you do it within the next 45 days. You see, the Universe is about to unfold at a point and collapse in on itself. Not as the result of God’s final judgment on mankind, but rather as the result of curiosity. The Large Hadron Collider project is underway. The goal essentially is to bring about the Grand Unifying Theory of the Universe by bringing together such elusive concepts as gravity and energy. In other words, there are a bunch of scientists in an underground bunker in France trying to create black holes and inject matter into the Universe while simultaneously attempting to disrupt the gravitational constants that bind our little planet together so they can… “See what happens.”
This is the kind of shit that keeps me up at night.
I’m less afraid of nuclear war than I am of some Swedish scientist somehow ripping a gaping-wide whole in the space-time continuum or collapsing matter into itself in order to see what happens. I’m less afraid of killer bees… but only slightly because they still scare the hell out of me. I don’t think we’ll have time to see the effects of global climate change destroy our civilization. No… I am afraid of nerds. I went through this same anxiety about 5 years ago when some punk European scientist claimed that he was able to transport a particle of light or some such nonsense and have it exist simultaneously in two places. Wait a minute… is he actually adding matter to the Universe? WTF? Hold on a minute there… are you sure you’ve thought this one through? I mean, won’t that sort of break physics? It turns out he was wrong. How do I know this you ask? Well it’s simple really, we still exist.
I know, I know… “They said the same thing about breaking the sound barrier or the Manhattan Project”. Comparing the Manhattan Project to this little experiment in Universal Russian Roulette is like… well I am not sure what it’s like. I’m not sure what to compare this to other than it’s like comparing an atomic bomb to a black hole that’s filled with a bunch of atomic bombs.
That said, I can’t wait to see what happens.
There’s a well documented phenomenon that I feel compelled to address… fat guys and the hot chicks who love them. Ever since Jackie Gleason made professional failure and spousal abuse hilarious on the Honeymooners, this has been a staple of the American sit-com, especially of the cartoon variety: The Flintstones, The Simpson’s, Family Guy, King of Queens just to name a few. As a short, aging fat guy I applaud this effort by the American media to brainwash the women of this country into buying into that double standard. Sadly however, I don’t think their efforts have been successful.
I was watching this show, Millionaire Matchmaker, where this oddly unattractive woman and her minions hook up millionaires with hotties who want to date them. Sort of the inverse of the fat guy hot wife sit-com phenom. It goes without saying that the stated policies Millionaire Matchmaker are that they do not accept girls who are gold diggers and the men are not allowed to have sex until the contract is over. Of course, this is all a lie. If this wasn’t about rich guys finding a chick they can pay to have sex with the show would just be called “Matchmaker”. So this is televised prostitution. I’m fine with that. But one thing I noticed sort of stuck out at me. There was this nice guy, obviously rich and successful, who didn’t seem like a dick and genuinely was looking for a relationship. Sounds like dream come true to these would-be heiresses. But very few were interested in him. Why you ask? Well because, in spite of being fairly good-looking, he was only 5’9”. What a loser! It’s not like these women were tall, they were like 5’6” to 5’9”.
This is, of course, shallow and lame. What’s that you say? “It’s a TV show Scott, what do you expect? That’s just those people they pre-screen for this to make it seem that people are pettier than they really are.”
Perhaps.
So today over lunch I perused the personals in a couple of local papers to get a sense for what people were looking for in a mate. I’ll admit, I’m not into the dating scene. I’m not on the market and haven’t been for quite some time. As such I was surprised by how little information was available. So I turned to the online standby: Match.com. As I perused the profiles of men and women looking for that special someone I noticed a common thread among all the profiles. They are all a pack of lies. Every God damned last one of them.
So in an effort to help out any single readers looking to meet that special someone here’s my handy translation to some of the most common lies I found:
What he says: “I’m looking for a woman who isn’t needy.”
What he means: “I’ll pay for dinner if you put out, but don’t expect me to talk about our ‘relationship’.”
What she says: “I want a man who is caring and patient who isn’t obsessed with sex.”
What she means: “I don’t give blow jobs.”
What he says: “I want a woman who can have a good time and I enjoy being with and just hanging out.”
What he means: “Do whatever I want to do when I want to do it and we’ll be fine… oh, and I’m broke.”
What she says: “I’m not into games.”
What she means: “I’m into games.”
What he says: “I’m a nice guy.”
What he means: “I’ve got a beer belly and I’m desperate to get laid.”
What she says: “I’m looking for a nice guy.”
What she means: “I’ve been cheated on, messed with and dumped repeatedly. I have a chip on my shoulder about it, but am still looking for a guy to do that to me again.”
What he says: “I don’t like the bar the scene.”
What he means: “I get drunk a lot and hit on chicks in bars without success.”
What she says: “I need a partner in crime.”
What she means: “I’m a tease.”
Oh and don’t forget about the “angles”. Be wary of the photos that clearly hid one’s true appearance. Shot at obscure angles with over lighting to conceal the fact that he/she weighs 250lbs or has a hunch-back.
Good luck out there.
I have recently been reminded of my penchant for what I call “hyper-anti-climactic jokes”. Before I go into them, be advised, there are only five people on planet Earth who find this even remotely funny. Three of them read this blog and the other two are most likely in China or India. That said, here they are (continue reading at your own risk):
A horse walks into a bar. The bartender asks, “Why the long face?” The horse says, “I’ve had a really bad day.”
So a priest, a rabbi and a politician are on an airplane that’s about to crash. There are only two parachutes. One of them is going to die.
Two cannibals are eating a clown. The first cannibal asks, “Does this taste funny to you?” The second cannibal replies, “Nope, tastes fine to me.”
Hitler dies and meets Saint Peter at the gates of Heaven. He asks Peter, “So, can I get into Heaven?” Peter replies, “No.”
A man walks into a bar. He is an alcoholic who is destroying his family.
“Knock Knock” - “Who’s there?” - “Someone at the door.”
How many goldfish does it take to screw in a light bulb? Goldfish can’t screw in light bulbs.
So a blonde, a brunette and a red-head all jump off of a cliff at the same time. Who will hit the ground first? Answer: Hair color doesn’t impact the speed with which an object falls.
So this family goes to see a talent agent. The agent says, "Okay, tell me about your act." “Well... the grandmother fucks a goat. The mom and dad do it doggy-style in a church pew. There's finger fucking, dildo-licking, group sex, beastiality, and for the finale grampa fucks a dead guy up the ass.” The shocked talent agent says: "What do you call yourselves?” "The Smiths."
I was going to acknowledge those who contributed some of these jokes. Then I thought better of it, assuming they would prefer to remain anonymous.
It’s no surprise to anyone who knows me that I am a victim of “SAD”--Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder. I had to look that up because I really think it should be pronounced the same but the acronym should read “SED”. I guess it just doesn’t roll off the tongue as nicely. I know Spring is in the air. I have previously written about the hope and optimism the season brings as if I was Barack Obama himself. This morning as I peered out my window to see the heavy snow falling I remembered why I hate hope and optimism. I’m just so sick of being dissapointed. I’m not sure to whom I should attribute this quote… perhaps it’s me: “Optimists are always dissapointed, while pessimists are pleasantly surprised.” There are a whole class of people who claim: “I love the Winter! I love to go out and cross-country ski and go ice fishing and snowmobiling and walking along the frozen shore of an ice-covered lake.”
Those people piss me off.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy being outdoors; camping, boating, hiking as much as anyone. But in the winter? I sense some sort of contrived attempt to hide the appearance of SAD amongst these people. I mean, no one really enjoys freezing their ass off and excercising at the same time do they? “Hey look at me! I’m fit and in-shape and enjoy outdoor winter activities. Aren’t I an optimistic go-getter getting the most of life?” No, you’re an annoying, self-delusional liar and we all know it.
Bite me.
Back to my point. I have SAD. I get depressed and consumed by a sense of ennui and morose internal reflection: “What have I done with my life?” “What have I accomplished?” “Where did my hopes and dreams of a life filled with love and adventure go?”. You know… the usual shit one goes through when they haven’t seen the sun or felt the warm evening breeze in forty days and forty nights. I’m not alone. It’s to be expected when you live in a place like Minnesota (or God help you, North Dakota). But there is a point in the season where my Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder starts to become Meteorological Affectiveness Disorder and instead of walking around all sullen and despondent, I’m just… pissed off. “Fuck you winter! Get the hell off my front lawn!”
It’s these last days of winter when it is, in fact, actually spring that really get me MAD. I’m not feeling introspective, I’m feeling MAD. I am just about done with this. The only small amount of joy I take in a late season heavy snow fall (eight inches forecasted for today) is that those annoying snow-shoeing winter activity people are exhausted by now. The fraudulent front of optimism has been worn down. They can no longer maintain the lie and they fall victim to SAD themselves. The usually up-beat, stupid, happy grin on their faces is replaced with a malaise and a grimace that I recognize immediately. In the true spirit of schadenfreude, I find a sense of calming satisfaction in their suffering. “Don’t like all this snow huh? Wish it was warm? Sick of shoveling and scraping windows and cold, wet socks?”
Welcome to winter.
I am sure somewhere there is a detailed explanation of this--either from some scholarly journal of psychology or, more likely, from a particularly astute comedian. Same thing.
The stereotype here is that this is a “girl thing”. As usual, the stereotype is correct. We have all noticed that women embrace the word cute much more than men. Ladies, men don’t like being called “cute” to our faces. Like the words ‘menstruation’ or ‘commitment’; cute is word better left spoken only to your girlfriends. In other words, calling a man cute is exactly the same as saying he has a small penis.
For some reason absolutely anything small is cute. As many of you know, I recently purchased a Cooper Mini. “It’s so cute!” Like a kitten, or a Keebler Elf. If the value of money were set by women, the dime would be the most valuable denomination. As a man, I have struggled with the reason for this all my life. Why the hell is ANYTHING small immediately and unquestionably “cute”? The answer is so simple. It’s part of the genetic, instinctive desire to possess, create and care for something small. A baby.
Babies aren’t cute because they are small. Small things are cute because they are like babies. I guess this is typically why men like things to be large. We hate babies.
So yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day--or as I prefer to call it: “rookie night”. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Irish culture. There’s something beautiful about an entire people dedicated to drinking themselves silly and getting into a fist fight with their own family members. I’ve spent my fair share of time in Irish pubs; it’s my preference for 364 days of the year. But on rookie night, I’d rather French-kiss the urine encrusted Blarney Stone than spend my time watching 25 year old girls vomiting green beer into their own shoe.
As Americans we have, for some reason, really embraced the Irish culture. But I just don’t see how. I mean, I like strong beer and the sound of bagpipes in the morning… but I get the impression that most of America doesn’t. So what gives? I mean, what has this wonderful culture given us that the typical, American St. Patrick’s Day reveler appreciates? I mean, I don’t see Guinness out-selling Miller Light any time soon, and I certainly don’t expect men to take to the streets en masse wearing kilts. I don’t expect to see hip-hop replaced by Celtic classics. So really, this is just an excuse to behave like a stupid, pathetic drunk--which is too bad since these rookies don’t have the necessary drinking skills to pull it off with anything approximating a true Irishmen’s skill.
Going to an Irish pub on St. Patrick’s Day is as fun as a barrel full of monkeys. You must realize however, that a bunch of angry, drunk monkeys crammed into a barrel will start flinging their own feces at you and clawing each other’s eyes out.
Every now and then I need to take a moment to acknowledge a good idea when I see one. I have seen one: http://www.barseenlive.com/. It hasn’t really taken off yet, but the idea is outstanding. You put web cams in bars around town, charge a small fee to the bar and allow people at home take a gander at the goings on of your establishment. "Should I go there? Is it too busy? Not busy enough? Will I get a table? Is Frank working tonight?" Awesome.
The site was featured in the Pioneer Press today. Though the article is a little heavy on the cheeky side of the technology, the possibilities are there to make this a success should the local bar scene take to it without fear.
This is the next generation of .com start up. We’ll see how it plays out. If they can build a proper business model and generate some ad revenue they should do well. If not, well it’s another good idea gone the way of the dodo.
As I stepped outside for a mid-afternoon constitutional I noticed a certain spring in my step--a spring that is in step with spring itself. The first real melting of the snow—the first real sign of spring. My senses were awakened with a sound I have not heard in many months, the sounds of a babbling brook… or in this case, the sound of dirty, melting snow and ice plummeting down the storm drain. I walked to the drain and saw the melting pile of dirty, black, garbage-strewn snow at the side of the road gently—reluctantly-giving itself up and returning to its liquid state. As if the city is slowly cleansing itself; washing off four months of funk and stalled decay. There was something symbolic in it as I watched the melting water pour down the drain carrying cigarette butts, empty plastic bags and myriad tidbits of the accumulated dirt and grime of the city into its bowels. It seemed to me like all the frustrations, irritations, inconveniences and troubles of winter were hidden within that snow bank on the side of the road. The accumulated ill-will of our metropolitan collective was being swept away in a small torrent of cleansing, dirty-brown water.
Though I have no doubt the snow will come again before this spring has sprung, this small respite provides some sense of hope--a sense of better things and better days to come.
It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I can’t wait.
As promised, it’s high time we address the issue of old people, and how much they irritate me. First we must define the term “old people”. For the purposes of this discussion, “old people” are defined as anyone older than me. That definition will hold true until such time as I am dead. But let’s start with the Baby Boomers. God I hate the Baby Boomers. They exhibit, in large part, what I hate about old people in general—this ignorant sense of self-entitlement and smug superiority. That’s really what it comes down to. They’re not the “Greatest Generation”. They are that generation's annoying kids. They are the generation that hoarded all the goodies from the piñata of post-WWII America, piled them up in a big field and set them on fire.
Thanks.
These people have no concept of what life is like for anyone younger than them. They have given their progeny the gift of a lower quality of life. For the first time in America (as far I can tell) their children are not going to have it better than they did. The selfish bastards. We are going backward and they don’t see it. They sit back and scratch their Rogaine-covered heads in bewteen sipping a Stabuck's latte and getting their Viagra prescription refilled wondering aloud: “Why can’t my kids seem to buy a house or afford college? When I was their age, I owned my own home had a college degree and already had children.” Maybe it’s because a new house doesn’t cost $30,000 any more and that the cost of a college education is roughly equivalent to the gross domestic product of Albania.
Do they realize that no one under 40 even thinks about Social Security? It’s not even considered. It’s just another tax. Like a user-fee at the library (remember libraries?). We just assume that all that money we are paying is going to go help somebody else or go toward some great public service. It’s not that we don’t think we’ll ever see any of that money again; it’s that we know we won’t. As such, it doesn’t even occur to us to think about it. Of course, if we did think about it we’d realize where all that money is going… to the Baby Boomers. The same self-important egomaniacal, irresponsible pricks that gave us this standard of living we are enjoying today.
Every time I hear one of these “old people” talk about the “good old days” and how younger people simply can’t handle responsibility, it makes me want smash a Neil Diamond album over their heads, tie an ascot around their necks and drag them bodily behind their Volvo through the streets of Maple Grove.
So thank you Baby Boomers. Thanks for the culture of distrust and for sucking every ounce of marrow from our economic future. Because you fucked everyone you met, we can’t fuck anyone. Thanks for that as well. I can’t wait to sit my grandkids on my lap and tell them stories about what life was like before we had to live in the dome.
As for the “Greatest Generation”… you raised these people. Thanks a lot assholes.
Well it finally happened. I have given up on humanity. I’m always teetering on the edge of converting all my assets and credit into cash, changing my name to Miguel and going off the grid. But this weekend pushed me more than one step closer to a life of south-of-the-border siestas. At roughly 11:00pm Saturday night my girlfriend and I were at Blockbuster video in St. Paul. We went through all the new releases, took our time and found our selections for the evening. Aside from the annoying people in line ahead of us who didn’t have their membership information, it was a generally typical and not entirely unpleasant experience. I even purchased a bottle of orange soda for the drive home which turned out to be a more important purchase than I could have imagined.
