I've recently resumed the downward spiral of self-flagellation and misery that is applying to doctoral programs in philosophy. Hopefully I will detail my adventures in this mire of Lovecraftian terror better than I did last time AND MORE IMPORTANTLY MAYBE THIS TIME I WILL BE SUCCESSFUL.
I am currently struggling with the various essays I have to write. First I need a writing sample. Last time I used my senior thesis from the Honors program at the University of Scranton. Somehow this seventy page pile of sparsely cited thirteen-point-font madness, written in the space of twelve hours four days after it was due, did not manage to impress upon anyone that I can tie my shoes without pissing myself, let alone communicate complex thoughts coherently. "The Death of Democracy," it's called, and it's horrifyingly available at the Weinberg Memorial Library here in Scranton. My thesis, as I recall, is that I am a retarded person who should be put in government care--or, at the very least, have someone with me at all times to slap things out of my hands that I am slowly putting in my mouth.
So, new writing sample, written whole-cloth and hopefully not the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever. My topic ideas:
1. Technology!, or: Why Heidegger and Marx Can Suck On It ("It" Being My Penis)
2. Plato's Republic vs. The Constitution of the United States, or: Plato Was a Dickhead, USA! USA! USA!
I'm leaning more towards the second one, as everyone knows that Plato was a dickhead, but not everyone knows that Heidegger and Marx should suck my dick.
They will, however. They will.
Furthermore, there are these strange little things I have to write up that are called "Personal Statements," "Statement of Purpose," "Statement of Intent," "Academic Statement," &c. As far as I can cobble together these are all the same things...unless one institution requires two of those things. Apparently some schools ask that I explain the following:
1. Why I want to study philosophy. (Money, power, women.)
2. Why I want to study philosophy at their particular school. (I don't. I want to go to the place that will give me the most money. If you are not that place, then I don't want to go to you.)
3. What makes me so god-damn special. (According to my family and friends: my incredible ability to embarrass myself in front of large groups of people I respect. According to my professors: my ability to find new and interesting ways to avoid any cognitive functioning above that required for respiration and, on my best days, wearing clothes. According to me: one time in Halo I killed my friend Annie with a rocket that I fired from the other side of the map. Yeah, Cornell. I know you want me.)
I think I might just write "I am a winner and sex machine." and see how far that gets me. I think honest-to-god philosophers would have a lot of fun with that one. What does me mean by "a winner"? Does that mean that he has won things in the past or simply has the potential to win things in the future? And what things? Grocery store sweepstakes? Carnival prizes? The affection of the masses? Why is his status (possibly--nay, probably--self-proclaimed) as a sex machine relevant? Is his proclamation positive or negative--a deconstruction of the modern feminist idea of a "sex object"? Can a man be a sex machine?
Clearly, I can. Just look at the airbrushing on my van, bitches. Plus I think it would be cool to have people ask "Doctor, why did you offer Mr. Jackson a position as a graduate student here?" And the answer be, simply, "Oh, he's a winner and a sex machine."
Now if only SQR could mass-produce an "I AM A WINNER AND A SEX MACHINE" t shirt.
Anyway, I'll keep you idiots updated on my quest to further debase myself in a manner second only to walking around downtown Scranton wearing a beautifully hand-written sandwich-board sign saying, "I shat my pants."
Showing posts with label Scranton Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scranton Stories. Show all posts
Friday, October 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Food Monster
A few days ago I spent the afternoon in the company of an old friend, Mr. Matthew "Midnight" Serverster. He has recently moved back to Scranton after a stint of substitute teaching in Delaware. He's a good man and will make some lucky fella an excellent wife some day if he manages to get his rampant body hair problem under control. (You see, the joke is that I implied that Mr. Midnight is a homosexual--and it's funny because homosexuality is morally wrong and socially unacceptable).
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Six degrees of Canada Jackson.
I have, in my long and glamorous life, met two whole celebrities. Well, kind of celebrities. In that if you saw them walking down the street you might say, "Hey, is that that guy from ______?" and then realize that even if it were that guy from ________ it wouldn't matter because they would probably ask you for bus fare if you tried to talk to them.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.According to Wikipedia, Bronson Pinchot owns a god damn town near Scranton. He moved there and bought all the buildings with his "Perfect Strangers" and Beverly Hills Cop money. And, for whatever reason, he occasionally relaxes with a warm cup of the distilled, burned offal we call coffee at the Scranton [Demarcations]. How he has not killed himself is anyone's guess.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.It has occured to me that nearly everyone has some cool story of meeting a real life celebrity or otherwise important public figure. My cousin got to shake hands with President Clinton while he was still president. RJP4 has met several celebrities during his exile in New York City. My sister saw Jake Gyllenhaal and Kirsten "Beastly Whore" Dunst buying rice--and was once yelled at by Sean Connery.
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
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PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
----------------------------------------------------------
PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
More reasons I hate my job.
1) Thanks to this here recession we got goin' on my hours have been cut to the point of having one day of work a week. Sometimes I have a full 8 hour shift, sometimes not. One week I was only scheduled to work four hours. Somehow this hasn't stopped me from hemorrhaging money like I have the Dollars-Tuberculosis. I cough demurely into a white handkerchief and look anxiously as dimes fall from it.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.Thursday, February 12, 2009
Books: You're doing it wrong.
This is why I hate my job:
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Neo Nerd."
I have bemoaned, here and elsewhere, that while the Internet is a wonderful invention in terms of its capacity for expanding freedom of expression and thought—and possibly democracy itself—it is also killing us all, dammit. While there is a certain charm in the idea that any dribbling hill person can have an Internet Web Log in which to stammer out the innermost machinations of his or her brain (long Swiss-cheese’d by a combination of Creutzfeldt-Jakob and turpentine cocktails), the Internet is fraught with the same perils of all cultural expansions. Not only does it open up an unprepared West for all the horrid perversions of the Orient, it also allows groups formerly relegated to the outskirts of acceptability and decency a place to congregate, confabulate, and masturbate.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: “Wal-Mart Shoppers”
After reading Canada Jackson post on Asshole Taxonomy, I felt the need to share some of my thoughts and encounters with Assholes in Scranton. While Demarcations is clearly a place where assholes gather and make crude attempts at socializing, a true hotbed for assholes and other bottom feeders is none other than your local small business-destroying corporation, Wal-Mart. The assholes you meet here will truly astound you and deserve their own classification and are simply titled "Wal-Mart Shoppers."
I had never been to Wal-Mart before I went to school in Scranton, so what I knew about Wal-Mart I heard from other people at school. I imagined a store of immense size where everything you could imagine for sale, where everything is clean, and where people were pleasant. This is not what I witnessed when I first visited Wal-Mart. First, there was the sign stretched across the front reading “Grand Re-Opening.” Can you really have a grand re-opening? The parking lot was littered with cars and trucks that seemed to have all been involved in the same monster truck/demolition derby show. When I entered the store I realized that this was a place where culture goes to die and where social inadequacies somehow becomes advantages. Trying to navigate a shopping cart through any part of the store felt as if I was stuck in some bizarre video game where I had to avoid being struck by rogue carts and fat children. It was as if they had released ever retard in Scranton and put them in Wal-Mart with a shopping cart. I was routinely hit from behind by other carts or had to quickly stop to avoid hitting some obese child making a break for the free sample lady. Scientists who study obesity and why it is so prominent in this nation need not look at the human genome, but only need to visit their local Wal-Mart, and they will discover that the average grocery cart has enough garbage in it to put a family of three into a diabetic coma.
Unfortunately, that was not the last time I visited Wal-Mart during the years in Scranton. It seemed that no matter what time you visited this pustule, there was also something unnerving to witness. On one occasion Canada and I had to go to Wal-Mart for some reason, and immediately upon entering, we saw in the 10-items-or-less-lane, an enormous fattie of a women arguing with the clerk over coupons. I’m betting this cow was upset because she couldn’t get enough off her fifteen loaves of Wonder Bread. She was dressed in black, most likely hoping that the color would have the beneficial “slimming effect” that she had read in US magazine. She was covered in crumbs, and I can only guess where the crumbs came from, probably from the sixteenth loaf of Wonder Bread she pounded before getting to the register. Unfortunately for her, and anyone who happened to look at her, she more closely resembled something that had just been dragged out of the La Brea Tar Pits, with a light coating of bread crumbs.
I can only imagine the shanty this plaque of a human lives in. Wooden paneling being held up with staples, six cars strewn across the front yard, all with “Terrorist Hunting License” bumper stickers on the back. The smell of freshly microwaved SPAM wafting through the air, two brand new satellite dishes on the roof, but plywood in the windows. This is the the type house that shows up on one of those lame excuses for reality TV that the once respectable A&E now peddles. “Tonight, on Home Exterminators, we visit a house that is overridden with cockroaches and toxic mold.”
Several times upon going to Wal-Mart we would see stray children meandering through the aisles totally unsupervised. Where are these children’s parents? Wait, I forgot there was a sale on anti-freeze in aisle 48. I bet they were looking to get drunk good and cheap. And why not! It’s cheap and tastes like sugar. The products that you find in the “watch for falling prices” bins always amazed me too. Eight DVDs for $2.50! Hot Dog! I’ve always wondered how the Japanese interpreted Snow White. Camouflage linens? Heck Yes! How’d they know I wanted it to look like I was sleeping in a pile of leaves? Perhaps it wasn’t that these bins existed that amazed me, but the fact that people actually bought the crap in them. I even remember two acne scared teenagers arguing over some lame ass DVD. How about the lard ass ripping open the toy boxes while good old tramp stamped mom is hitting on the stock boy? Saw that.
As I said earlier, Wal-Mart is where culture goes to die. Any place that I can visit at 3am and buy a gun, an Ipod, NASCAR underwear, a desk and knock off Dr. Pepper should be shut down and firebombed with extreme prejudice. The philistines that lurk around Wal-Mart would undoubtedly think you were making a “momma” joke if you asked them if they had ever been inside the MOMA. The closest these people come to hanging art in their homes is the Boondock Saints poster and the poster of Bob Marley smoking a blunt they have on their kitchen walls. These are the type of people who save up their money to buy a new fishing boat instead of getting their cavities filled.
I’m sure you can tell that Wal-Mart shoppers do not hold a special place in my heart. Even just visiting Wal-Mart I feel as if a bit of my soul has been crushed. If you don’t believe me, just drive up to your local Wal-Mart and spend a few hours people watching and I’m sure you’ll feel the same way.
I had never been to Wal-Mart before I went to school in Scranton, so what I knew about Wal-Mart I heard from other people at school. I imagined a store of immense size where everything you could imagine for sale, where everything is clean, and where people were pleasant. This is not what I witnessed when I first visited Wal-Mart. First, there was the sign stretched across the front reading “Grand Re-Opening.” Can you really have a grand re-opening? The parking lot was littered with cars and trucks that seemed to have all been involved in the same monster truck/demolition derby show. When I entered the store I realized that this was a place where culture goes to die and where social inadequacies somehow becomes advantages. Trying to navigate a shopping cart through any part of the store felt as if I was stuck in some bizarre video game where I had to avoid being struck by rogue carts and fat children. It was as if they had released ever retard in Scranton and put them in Wal-Mart with a shopping cart. I was routinely hit from behind by other carts or had to quickly stop to avoid hitting some obese child making a break for the free sample lady. Scientists who study obesity and why it is so prominent in this nation need not look at the human genome, but only need to visit their local Wal-Mart, and they will discover that the average grocery cart has enough garbage in it to put a family of three into a diabetic coma.
Unfortunately, that was not the last time I visited Wal-Mart during the years in Scranton. It seemed that no matter what time you visited this pustule, there was also something unnerving to witness. On one occasion Canada and I had to go to Wal-Mart for some reason, and immediately upon entering, we saw in the 10-items-or-less-lane, an enormous fattie of a women arguing with the clerk over coupons. I’m betting this cow was upset because she couldn’t get enough off her fifteen loaves of Wonder Bread. She was dressed in black, most likely hoping that the color would have the beneficial “slimming effect” that she had read in US magazine. She was covered in crumbs, and I can only guess where the crumbs came from, probably from the sixteenth loaf of Wonder Bread she pounded before getting to the register. Unfortunately for her, and anyone who happened to look at her, she more closely resembled something that had just been dragged out of the La Brea Tar Pits, with a light coating of bread crumbs.
I can only imagine the shanty this plaque of a human lives in. Wooden paneling being held up with staples, six cars strewn across the front yard, all with “Terrorist Hunting License” bumper stickers on the back. The smell of freshly microwaved SPAM wafting through the air, two brand new satellite dishes on the roof, but plywood in the windows. This is the the type house that shows up on one of those lame excuses for reality TV that the once respectable A&E now peddles. “Tonight, on Home Exterminators, we visit a house that is overridden with cockroaches and toxic mold.”
Several times upon going to Wal-Mart we would see stray children meandering through the aisles totally unsupervised. Where are these children’s parents? Wait, I forgot there was a sale on anti-freeze in aisle 48. I bet they were looking to get drunk good and cheap. And why not! It’s cheap and tastes like sugar. The products that you find in the “watch for falling prices” bins always amazed me too. Eight DVDs for $2.50! Hot Dog! I’ve always wondered how the Japanese interpreted Snow White. Camouflage linens? Heck Yes! How’d they know I wanted it to look like I was sleeping in a pile of leaves? Perhaps it wasn’t that these bins existed that amazed me, but the fact that people actually bought the crap in them. I even remember two acne scared teenagers arguing over some lame ass DVD. How about the lard ass ripping open the toy boxes while good old tramp stamped mom is hitting on the stock boy? Saw that.
As I said earlier, Wal-Mart is where culture goes to die. Any place that I can visit at 3am and buy a gun, an Ipod, NASCAR underwear, a desk and knock off Dr. Pepper should be shut down and firebombed with extreme prejudice. The philistines that lurk around Wal-Mart would undoubtedly think you were making a “momma” joke if you asked them if they had ever been inside the MOMA. The closest these people come to hanging art in their homes is the Boondock Saints poster and the poster of Bob Marley smoking a blunt they have on their kitchen walls. These are the type of people who save up their money to buy a new fishing boat instead of getting their cavities filled.
I’m sure you can tell that Wal-Mart shoppers do not hold a special place in my heart. Even just visiting Wal-Mart I feel as if a bit of my soul has been crushed. If you don’t believe me, just drive up to your local Wal-Mart and spend a few hours people watching and I’m sure you’ll feel the same way.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Fattie"
Something that you may not know about Scranton is that recent census statistics show that between ninety-eight and ninety-nine percent of all residents are insufferable assholes. Whereas most cities have at least something resembling a shadow of a sense of community, Scranton and its immediate vicinity is virtually identical to most popular depictions of post-apocalyptic survival societies—in which not only has civilization as an institution broken down, but also civility on an individual, person-to-person level. As my good friend and brother-in-arms RJP4 has so aptly said, Scranton, Pennsylvania is Thunderdome.
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
Monday, December 29, 2008
Ringing in a New Year
DRock here again. Hahahahahaha! I'm back. I think you cats can tell that I really like this whole blog thing. Keeps my mouth off of people's ears and on their eyes instead, I guess. I want to talk about the holiday known as New Years. Or as I like to call it "I make promises that I don't keep and get stupid drunk in a pool of my own misery and disappointment while filled with false hope of a better year than last." Damn, I'm a joyous person eh?
' Like gettin' raped in the face.
AnyCindyLouWho...I personally think New Year's is a good idea. We reflect upon the past 12 months. We think about the future, and even enjoy celebrating in the present. It's probably the only time of year that the American collective consciousness is consistently alive and well in what has been, what is, and what may be. So cheers to that!
As far as my own plans go for kissing 2008 goodbye, I'm not sure yet. One thing's for sure though...I'm not kissing it goodbye...
I'M KICKING ITS WHORISH SLUT MOTHER BITCH CRAP ON YOUR DAY CRAP ON MY DAY INSULT YO MAMMA ONE IN THE STINK LOHENGREN CMON SHOW I DON'T CARE SO SCREW YOU SHAVED POSSE MEMBER YEAH FUCKED BY A TRANNY FUCKED BY YOUR DEAD RELATIVES WHILE RIDING A PINK HORSE AND WEARING A PINK BUNNY SUIT ERGO PINK NIGHTMARE SUCK ON A STICK O' DYNAMITE MY WIFE LEFT ME MY DOG LEFT ME MY OWN DICK LEFT ME FOR CHRIST'S SAKE EVEN MY FAVORITE PAIR OF SOCKS LEFT ME donkeycheese DONKEY PUNCHIN ASS GOODBYE!!!!!!
*hehe*
Yeaaaaah...it's been a shit year. So I guess I'm one of the false hope fools who longs for 2009 to have a shred of something better. We. Shall. See.
What do you all have in mind for this beloved and despised time of year? Please, comment and share. Let's all get crazy.beautiful.sexy.baby.buttsex.nutso on this one eh? Let's get it together. Meeting of the minds. HELL!!!!! LET'S MAKE IT A SPORTS QUIZ NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!
We'll get all of our old guests together at Tinks in Scranton and reallllllly party it on down! Just think of it, Bill Cosby chastising everyone for drinking alcoholic beverages. Kermit the Frog committing racial crimes!! Chris Walken humping a barstool, mistaking it for a fine piece of ACE! Father P jerking off onstage!!! The list goes on and on and on.....and on............on...........
I mean it. Let's do it. Because if we don't, I'm just gonna have to settle for a threesome with Canada and Tyler, and although that's fun, we've pretty much exhausted our creativity in that arena already. (Unless someone's got a Crocodile we can borrow, and a can of powdered organic south African bee honey.)
Don't let me down peeps.
' Like gettin' raped in the face.
AnyCindyLouWho...I personally think New Year's is a good idea. We reflect upon the past 12 months. We think about the future, and even enjoy celebrating in the present. It's probably the only time of year that the American collective consciousness is consistently alive and well in what has been, what is, and what may be. So cheers to that!
As far as my own plans go for kissing 2008 goodbye, I'm not sure yet. One thing's for sure though...I'm not kissing it goodbye...
I'M KICKING ITS WHORISH SLUT MOTHER BITCH CRAP ON YOUR DAY CRAP ON MY DAY INSULT YO MAMMA ONE IN THE STINK LOHENGREN CMON SHOW I DON'T CARE SO SCREW YOU SHAVED POSSE MEMBER YEAH FUCKED BY A TRANNY FUCKED BY YOUR DEAD RELATIVES WHILE RIDING A PINK HORSE AND WEARING A PINK BUNNY SUIT ERGO PINK NIGHTMARE SUCK ON A STICK O' DYNAMITE MY WIFE LEFT ME MY DOG LEFT ME MY OWN DICK LEFT ME FOR CHRIST'S SAKE EVEN MY FAVORITE PAIR OF SOCKS LEFT ME donkeycheese DONKEY PUNCHIN ASS GOODBYE!!!!!!
*hehe*
Yeaaaaah...it's been a shit year. So I guess I'm one of the false hope fools who longs for 2009 to have a shred of something better. We. Shall. See.
What do you all have in mind for this beloved and despised time of year? Please, comment and share. Let's all get crazy.beautiful.sexy.baby.buttsex.nutso on this one eh? Let's get it together. Meeting of the minds. HELL!!!!! LET'S MAKE IT A SPORTS QUIZ NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!
We'll get all of our old guests together at Tinks in Scranton and reallllllly party it on down! Just think of it, Bill Cosby chastising everyone for drinking alcoholic beverages. Kermit the Frog committing racial crimes!! Chris Walken humping a barstool, mistaking it for a fine piece of ACE! Father P jerking off onstage!!! The list goes on and on and on.....and on............on...........
I mean it. Let's do it. Because if we don't, I'm just gonna have to settle for a threesome with Canada and Tyler, and although that's fun, we've pretty much exhausted our creativity in that arena already. (Unless someone's got a Crocodile we can borrow, and a can of powdered organic south African bee honey.)
Don't let me down peeps.
Friday, December 12, 2008
The Marty McFly of the digital age
I work at a local book store--shall we call it, perhaps, "[Demarcations]." Now, this being one of the few book stores in the area (draw from that fact what you will) we get some interesting people. Most of them are just unremarkably crazy. For instance, there is a person who regularly vomits in the men's room. This is not really worth much hullabaloo because this person has what we might call brain and behavioral problems, which means he may think that it is OK to purge oneself on the floor of a public place. This is something that everyone knows crazy people do, so why blog about it? It is not blogworthy to say that a crazy person did something that, to non-crazy people, appears crazy. (I imagine that crazy people have a kind of supra-sane communication and understanding, and that other crazy people would respond to a person purposely vomiting in public with sage nods and "good shows" all around. But then again I am not a doctor and am, by most rubrics, mentally retarded.)
But beyond the shuffling and vomiting hordes, [Demarcations] also provides its many services to some genuinely astonishing people. Tonight I had the pleasure of helping a young boy who had clearly traveled through space and time from the distant lands of what can only be called "1992."
(I have done a Google Image Search of the phrase "1992" in order to better show what I mean, but I got distracted by one of the results:
This woman, who looks considerably like television's Ricky Gervais. She is also a "traffic manager" from 1992.)
At first I was struck by the time traveler's appearance: light blue tapered jeans; an oversized striped sweater of the colors green, orange, and red; white high top sneakers; a green down vest; and a perfectly shaped blond semi-mullet. Unlike a regular mullet, which was worn primarily by the lower class (a tradition carried on today only by idiot sub-humans), the semi-mullet was the rich man's mullet--being business in the front and slightly more drunken business in the back. For those of us who grew up televisually inclined, think of the blond Taylor child on Home Improvement.
Next came the mysterious time-wanderer's request: He wanted the Simpsons. "Ye Gods!" thought I. Trapped in the confines of the early nineties, this poor soul has yet to see the fate of the Simpsons! Sure that he would not believe me, I--with heavy heart--led him back to the glass DVD cases, where I unlocked for him seasons four and five.
After my brief encounter, I thought that he had gone. But he returned again to continue marveling me with his antiquated tastes and behaviors. He approached me, apologizing for taking up my time again. Can you imagine? A child! Apologizing and being needlessly polite! He wanted to purchase another boxed set--this one of some wrestling business. How can this boy afford all these boxed sets, I thought. But then, slapping my forehead, I remembered: the nineties were times of economic prosperity. Mulleted children with day glow slap bracelets and deep seated fears of a Negro President scampered around buying ridiculous shit all the time. Such a strange and terrifying world this boy had come from: a land where Sonic the Hedgehog is a cultural icon, where the "overall" is not extinct, and Star Wars--Oh! Those beautiful Star Wars!--remains unblemished. He probably still played outside, thought computers were only for doing math problems, and had never called anyone a "gay ass bitch faggot" after they "killed" him in cops and robbers.
As he left the building--surely to disappear in a ball of lightning--I could not help but think of such a brave old world.
But then some crazy motherfucker tossed his biscuits in the bathroom.
But beyond the shuffling and vomiting hordes, [Demarcations] also provides its many services to some genuinely astonishing people. Tonight I had the pleasure of helping a young boy who had clearly traveled through space and time from the distant lands of what can only be called "1992."
(I have done a Google Image Search of the phrase "1992" in order to better show what I mean, but I got distracted by one of the results:
This woman, who looks considerably like television's Ricky Gervais. She is also a "traffic manager" from 1992.)At first I was struck by the time traveler's appearance: light blue tapered jeans; an oversized striped sweater of the colors green, orange, and red; white high top sneakers; a green down vest; and a perfectly shaped blond semi-mullet. Unlike a regular mullet, which was worn primarily by the lower class (a tradition carried on today only by idiot sub-humans), the semi-mullet was the rich man's mullet--being business in the front and slightly more drunken business in the back. For those of us who grew up televisually inclined, think of the blond Taylor child on Home Improvement.
Next came the mysterious time-wanderer's request: He wanted the Simpsons. "Ye Gods!" thought I. Trapped in the confines of the early nineties, this poor soul has yet to see the fate of the Simpsons! Sure that he would not believe me, I--with heavy heart--led him back to the glass DVD cases, where I unlocked for him seasons four and five.
After my brief encounter, I thought that he had gone. But he returned again to continue marveling me with his antiquated tastes and behaviors. He approached me, apologizing for taking up my time again. Can you imagine? A child! Apologizing and being needlessly polite! He wanted to purchase another boxed set--this one of some wrestling business. How can this boy afford all these boxed sets, I thought. But then, slapping my forehead, I remembered: the nineties were times of economic prosperity. Mulleted children with day glow slap bracelets and deep seated fears of a Negro President scampered around buying ridiculous shit all the time. Such a strange and terrifying world this boy had come from: a land where Sonic the Hedgehog is a cultural icon, where the "overall" is not extinct, and Star Wars--Oh! Those beautiful Star Wars!--remains unblemished. He probably still played outside, thought computers were only for doing math problems, and had never called anyone a "gay ass bitch faggot" after they "killed" him in cops and robbers.
As he left the building--surely to disappear in a ball of lightning--I could not help but think of such a brave old world.
But then some crazy motherfucker tossed his biscuits in the bathroom.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Scranton Stories
I have a shameful confession to make: I was born, raised, and currently live in Scranton, Pennsylvania. That's correct. That strange, nearly mythical, dying city in the Northeast is my home. Much has been made of Scranton recently, what with the popularity of The Office and Joe Biden's status as the Vice President elect--but even before this, Scranton was consistently in the national dialogue.
Granted. this city's mention is usually as the butt of a joke (e.g. Home Alone, My Father the Hero, and numerous Saturday Night Live appearances), but it is still strange that such an unimportant and largely inoffensive place should warrant such repeated reference. It's almost as if there is some strange fascination with Scranton--even though most Americans have never (nor will ever) grace our exceedingly humble shores.
I feel it is warranted, then, to not only jump on the Scranton bandwagon but to add a little clarity about this place. I will admit that, at times, Scranton can be used as proof that if God were to vomit on a mountain it would roll downhill and sprout semi-habitable buildings--but there are other times when Scranton can actually be a very nice place.
But, for the most part, the stories I will tell will be embarrassing and indicative of a serious corruption of the local gene pool. Fortunately, my parents are from Jersey.
Stay tuned.
P.S. Disregard the entire image of God vomiting, etc. The architecture here (the old architecture, at least) is actually one of the plusses.
P.P.S. Disregard the previous. The new buildings more than destroy any advantage the old buildings would have given us. The "new" high school alone--which resembles the hideous result of Dr. Seuss having violent sex with a federal prison--is enough to turn our architectural heritage into some kind of half-assed post-post-modern nightmare.
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