The other day I was at work when one of the new supervisors told me I was needed in the bathroom. "Wonderful," I said into the radio, in my badass imagination. "Does a customer want to defecate into my open mouth? Or does the management?"
It turns out that the little boys' room was out of paper towels and that one of the stalls "wasn't working." My job was to replace the paper towels and discover how, exactly, a small room designed for shitting in can "not work."
First, I found out that the stall was "not working" because someone had locked it from the inside and then somehow left--presumably by crawling under the door. I also discovered that I had no idea how to open the paper towel dispenser. This left me posting an "out of order" sign on the door and standing outside the bathroom with a roll of paper towels in my hand.
A young girl approaches me. She needed help finding something, and decided to ask me the following question: "Do you work for the books, or do you just work for the toilets?"
Let me just restate this. I work at a job in which a situation arose that prompted a small child--the universal harbingers of innocent truth-telling--to ask me if I worked for the toilets. A child asked me if I labor on behalf of, and in service of, inanimate objects that function only as poo receptacles. Apparently, in this little girl's eyes, the shitters are, collectively, my boss.
And my response? I merely sighed and told her that I work for both the books and the toilets, and that I couldn't help her at that moment. I sent her off to find someone else.
Anyway, I have a couple posts in the Tubes. The next one is a long one, several weeks in the making: The Food Monster Final Tour. That's right, more of my friend committing dangerous acts of shameless gluttony for our amusement! Take that, TV ads of starving, near-homeless brown children!
Showing posts with label grumpy pants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grumpy pants. Show all posts
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge 2: This Time It's Personal
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."
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."
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Brief [Demarcations] update
Yesterday I sold a book to a fat lady called "Crystal Reflexology." On the cover some retard was jamming a crystal into her ear. No joke. Real thing.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Quick [Demarcations] update
A woman came up to me and asked if we had a book on crystals. I hesitated. There are books on crystals--as in the actual geological phenomenon, and there are books on "crystals"--as in "I am insane and/ or stupid and I think caressing certain rocks will cure my fetal alcohol syndrome."
"Uh," I sputtered. "What kind of crystals?"
"You know," she said. "Crystals. Like...crystals.
Yup. Retard. I just lead her to the Stupid Horseshit section and cut her loose.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge vol. II
My express train to failure, poverty, and self-loathing continues to chug along nicely. On this edition of Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge we will be discussing Marquette University, located in sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Today, Marquette University wrote to inform me that they could not offer me admission into their Doctoral program.
For those interested, I have compiled some information about Marquette University. From their brochure:
"Marquette University was founded in 1855 by known whoremonger and sexual deviant Herman Marquette. It was originally supposed to be the largest house of ill repute in the country until it was taken over by the Jesuits in 1860. The Jesuits, however, quickly found that prostitution was not a financially stable endeavor, so they turned it into a university.
Here are some quick Fun Facts about Marquette University:
-- Ninety-nine percent of America's serial killers graduated from Marquette.
-- Bestiality is not only accepted at Marquette, but a requirement to obtain tenure.
-- The current president of Marquette University is Robert Mugabe.
Marquette University received world notoriety in 1961, when it was visited by President John F. Kennedy. The young, charismatic president spent around fifteen minutes on campus before, according to his aides, he was so disgusted that he dropped his pants and defecated in front of cameras, reporters, and shocked students. He then ordered his staff and Secret Service agents to do the same. Years later he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by Marquette graduate Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Marquette University statistics:
-- 67% of Marquette University students are illiterate.
-- The other 33% of Marquette University students are cows.
Marquette University firmly believes in the supremacy of white males of European descent. In keeping with this tradition, every semester one or more of the following classes are offered: Intermediate and Advanced Eugenics (BIO216 and BIO416), Confederate Studies (HUM304), Introduction to the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy (PS263), and/or Lynching Theory (PE101).
Thank you for your interest in Marquette University.
Note: Irish and coloreds need not apply."
I feel better now.
For those interested, I have compiled some information about Marquette University. From their brochure:
"Marquette University was founded in 1855 by known whoremonger and sexual deviant Herman Marquette. It was originally supposed to be the largest house of ill repute in the country until it was taken over by the Jesuits in 1860. The Jesuits, however, quickly found that prostitution was not a financially stable endeavor, so they turned it into a university.
Here are some quick Fun Facts about Marquette University:
-- Ninety-nine percent of America's serial killers graduated from Marquette.
-- Bestiality is not only accepted at Marquette, but a requirement to obtain tenure.
-- The current president of Marquette University is Robert Mugabe.
Marquette University received world notoriety in 1961, when it was visited by President John F. Kennedy. The young, charismatic president spent around fifteen minutes on campus before, according to his aides, he was so disgusted that he dropped his pants and defecated in front of cameras, reporters, and shocked students. He then ordered his staff and Secret Service agents to do the same. Years later he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by Marquette graduate Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Marquette University statistics:
-- 67% of Marquette University students are illiterate.
-- The other 33% of Marquette University students are cows.
Marquette University firmly believes in the supremacy of white males of European descent. In keeping with this tradition, every semester one or more of the following classes are offered: Intermediate and Advanced Eugenics (BIO216 and BIO416), Confederate Studies (HUM304), Introduction to the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy (PS263), and/or Lynching Theory (PE101).
Thank you for your interest in Marquette University.
Note: Irish and coloreds need not apply."
I feel better now.
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.
----------------------------------------------------------
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.Monday, February 23, 2009
Kermit THE Bigot
As some of you may know, Sports Quiz was at one time a radio show that was held weekly on the family friendly 99.5 FM WUSR radio station. In this time of peace and prosperity, a cultural favorite was brought on the show as a guest. A Mr. Kermit THE Frog. We, the SQR staff, were delighted to have such a lovable and celebrated icon join us on our program. We danced jigs, played lutes and even engaged in the spanking of the wench around the town square. Our ecstasy was soon halted once Mr. Frog was given the opportunity to speak to the world. He came into our studio seemingly joyful, but something seemed...well a bit off. His presence brought with it the subtle scent of Wild Turkey. He habitually kept on sniffing and scratching his nose, even bleeding slightly from his left nostril at one point. What appeared to be track marks plagued his arms. This...ladies and germs...was Kermit THE Mess. He immediately lit a fat joint upon entering the studio space, and greeted us with the words, "Hey fuckers. I'm the fuckin' frog. It's not easy bein green and all that shit. Thanks for havin' my shitty ass." In our child-like wonder we could not accept such a horrid truth this said moment, so we went with it, making excuses to ourselves as to how and why this lovable character could fall. Directing him to a seat in front of the mixing console, we kept ginger and wide-eyed in the presence of our guest. Upon introducing him after our commerical break, he immediately vomited on himself...and began to laugh about it, not even bothering to clean himself. This is where everything turned ugly. Real ugly. Kermit decided he was going to rant on and on about poison of any race that isn't white. Even presented us with some sound clips from an episode on the Muppet Show where he degraded Rowlf the dog and Ben Vereen for being African American. He even played archival audio of himself reporting from the 1992 LA Riots, in which he made yet another horrendously charged racial slur.
After a few more devastating suprises, and much throwing of fecal material on Kermits part, we ended our time with the Frog and escorted him out of the studio. With heavy hearts, we eventually accepted the sad truth about our dear friend Kermit. The pressures of show biz surely got to him. And from then on, we spoke not a whisper of his name again, although I personally spent many nights sobbing hysterically in the shower. As for how Tyler and Canada handled the rape of their childhood memory, I do not know.
Years past with no word or sign of life from Kermit THE Terrible. The painful memories of that night began to fade, and life moved on...
Until a few nights ago...
I was watching everyone's favorite show about the american household, "Family Guy." Suddenly in a cut sequence, which the show is know for, Kermit is polishing a rifle in the swamp. Along comes a black man in a small boat, asking which way town is. Kermit points the rifle at him and says, "back the way you came."
Seems Kermit is still overcome by his amphibious bigotry. Unfortunatly now, he's being paid to display it on cable television.
Pisses me off, because someone probably heard him on our show, and decided to make a buck off of it. I'm going to go cry in my shower now.
After a few more devastating suprises, and much throwing of fecal material on Kermits part, we ended our time with the Frog and escorted him out of the studio. With heavy hearts, we eventually accepted the sad truth about our dear friend Kermit. The pressures of show biz surely got to him. And from then on, we spoke not a whisper of his name again, although I personally spent many nights sobbing hysterically in the shower. As for how Tyler and Canada handled the rape of their childhood memory, I do not know.
Years past with no word or sign of life from Kermit THE Terrible. The painful memories of that night began to fade, and life moved on...
Until a few nights ago...
I was watching everyone's favorite show about the american household, "Family Guy." Suddenly in a cut sequence, which the show is know for, Kermit is polishing a rifle in the swamp. Along comes a black man in a small boat, asking which way town is. Kermit points the rifle at him and says, "back the way you came."
Seems Kermit is still overcome by his amphibious bigotry. Unfortunatly now, he's being paid to display it on cable television.
Pisses me off, because someone probably heard him on our show, and decided to make a buck off of it. I'm going to go cry in my shower now.
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge Vol. 1
Recently I have been engaged in a pitched battle with what one might consider fate, or destiny, or the cruel and childlike whims of whatever deity might eventually send me to Hell--I have been applying to doctoral programs in the mysterious realm of "philosophy."
Little did I know, however, that for some reason philosophy programs are absurdly competitive. For instance, I saw information online showing that it is statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Harvard philosophy program than it is to get into Harvard law or Harvard medical. We could wonder for days as to why this is the case, but the answer we would eventually come to is that 84% of all philosophers are dicks who don't want to share their toys.
And so with great darkness and woe weighing heavy in my heart, I began the application process. As anyone who has been in my shoes knows, the application process is designed to be awful: time and money consuming on a grand scale, most likely to keep out the shabby mobs of poor people and negroes that are constantly banging on the gates of higher learning. The application process is the boiling oil that is doused upon the unwashed masses from the parapets, and as a person belonging to the general category that includes "poor people and negroes" I was very concerned.
It started with the GRE, which stands for Mostly Useless Test Which Measures Nothing Save Your Ability To Purchase GRE Preparatory Materials and Classes. Somehow, through reverse mishap, I managed to do well. This caused what the Greeks call "hubris."
"I am the paragon of book-learnin'," I thought. "I will have my doctorate before tomorrow noon."
But, lo, does calamity accompany me always. Not long after I began the application process did my trusty computer--bearing my only digital copy of my complete undergraduate thesis--decide to pack up its belongings, don its traveling hat, and limp off to the great central processor in the sky. Furthermore, upon discussions with a few of my old professors, all of the schools I had started applications for weren't really what I should be looking for--in other words, not only would I not get in, but I probably wouldn't find anyone there to help me with the things I'm interested in. So there I was: late in the game, with no helpful technology and starting over again.
Also, this was getting close to Christmas, and I work in retail. Add "working constantly" to that list.
I settled on five schools:
Duquesne in Pittsburgh, Marquette in Milwaukee, Boston College in...Boston, Loyola University in Chicago, and Notre Dame. Only one of which I had previously sent my GRE scores to. So here we have 80 more dollars to send the scores to these places, plus application fees, plus the original fee for taking the GRE, plus the cost of mailing the material so it gets where it has to go on time, and sorry, kids, Christmas is canceled this year.
Today, Loyola let me down easy with a polite little letter telling me I might as well have spent my money on Fabergé eggs and cocaine, and my time on training my dog to burp on command. But all is well, for Chicago is cold and full of gangsters, and I would most likely end up sleeping in a bus station carrying more knives than usual in order to fend off homeless sodomites. All wearing fedoras!
(I admit that most of my knowledge of Chicago has come from various confused stereotypes and possibly dreams I've had.)
And so, children, we regretfully cross Loyola off the list of places I may fail out of in the future. My best guess is that either 1) they read my re-typed thesis, which is the profane ravings of a madman bent on telling Plato to fuck himself in fifty pages, or 2) they somehow traced me back to this blog, and summarily submitted my name to the Hague to be investigated for crimes against humanity.
Little did I know, however, that for some reason philosophy programs are absurdly competitive. For instance, I saw information online showing that it is statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Harvard philosophy program than it is to get into Harvard law or Harvard medical. We could wonder for days as to why this is the case, but the answer we would eventually come to is that 84% of all philosophers are dicks who don't want to share their toys.
And so with great darkness and woe weighing heavy in my heart, I began the application process. As anyone who has been in my shoes knows, the application process is designed to be awful: time and money consuming on a grand scale, most likely to keep out the shabby mobs of poor people and negroes that are constantly banging on the gates of higher learning. The application process is the boiling oil that is doused upon the unwashed masses from the parapets, and as a person belonging to the general category that includes "poor people and negroes" I was very concerned.
It started with the GRE, which stands for Mostly Useless Test Which Measures Nothing Save Your Ability To Purchase GRE Preparatory Materials and Classes. Somehow, through reverse mishap, I managed to do well. This caused what the Greeks call "hubris."
"I am the paragon of book-learnin'," I thought. "I will have my doctorate before tomorrow noon."
But, lo, does calamity accompany me always. Not long after I began the application process did my trusty computer--bearing my only digital copy of my complete undergraduate thesis--decide to pack up its belongings, don its traveling hat, and limp off to the great central processor in the sky. Furthermore, upon discussions with a few of my old professors, all of the schools I had started applications for weren't really what I should be looking for--in other words, not only would I not get in, but I probably wouldn't find anyone there to help me with the things I'm interested in. So there I was: late in the game, with no helpful technology and starting over again.
Also, this was getting close to Christmas, and I work in retail. Add "working constantly" to that list.
I settled on five schools:
Duquesne in Pittsburgh, Marquette in Milwaukee, Boston College in...Boston, Loyola University in Chicago, and Notre Dame. Only one of which I had previously sent my GRE scores to. So here we have 80 more dollars to send the scores to these places, plus application fees, plus the original fee for taking the GRE, plus the cost of mailing the material so it gets where it has to go on time, and sorry, kids, Christmas is canceled this year.
Today, Loyola let me down easy with a polite little letter telling me I might as well have spent my money on Fabergé eggs and cocaine, and my time on training my dog to burp on command. But all is well, for Chicago is cold and full of gangsters, and I would most likely end up sleeping in a bus station carrying more knives than usual in order to fend off homeless sodomites. All wearing fedoras!
(I admit that most of my knowledge of Chicago has come from various confused stereotypes and possibly dreams I've had.)
And so, children, we regretfully cross Loyola off the list of places I may fail out of in the future. My best guess is that either 1) they read my re-typed thesis, which is the profane ravings of a madman bent on telling Plato to fuck himself in fifty pages, or 2) they somehow traced me back to this blog, and summarily submitted my name to the Hague to be investigated for crimes against humanity.
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.
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).
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Universe...you've done it again.
Wow. So apparently the universe is slowly but surely starting to hate me. Awesome! Well, universe...go fuck yourself.
We here at the Sports Quiz Media Empire have created a freeze ray that will cease the malicious doings of said universe. The downside is that it will also kill us all.
Price you pay I guess...sorry kids.
We here at the Sports Quiz Media Empire have created a freeze ray that will cease the malicious doings of said universe. The downside is that it will also kill us all.
Price you pay I guess...sorry kids.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Fair and Balanced
Let me start this entry off with a warning. My grumpy pants are most definitely on and pulled way up.
Over the past six or so months I have found myself increasingly apathetic about the news. This is an extremely dishearteningly trend for me especially since I almost became a political science major in college. At one point in my college career I could name every Supreme Court Justice from right to left, who appointed them, their religion, and one of the major cases they decided on. Since then I have avoided watching those cable “news” channels and reading much on the Internet. My last safe haven was the newspaper, and even that has been assailed by sensationalism and loss of objectivity. I find it increasingly hard to find truly unbiased news articles. I want to hear both sides of the story; I want to hear all the facts. I don’t want someone telling me what I should think or someone giving me their opinion. I want to come to these conclusions myself.
That is at the heart at my growing apathy towards much of the news. It is no longer news; it is sensationalism with no objectivity. This fact seemed to have become unbearably clear in the months leading up the election. My apathy often teetered on anger especially when I did read certain articles or more often when I spoke to people about the election, who often spoke with total conviction when they lacked any true understanding of the issue.
Unfortunately, the majority of these people seem to be supports of Obama. Too often it seemed people who supported him, and in turn, voted for him only understand two things in his entire campaign, “Hope” and “Change.” The have come to the conclusion that Obama can magically wave a wand and fix every ill in this country. Stop the war in Iraq? Done. Tax the rich more? Done. Save jobs? Done. Stop those evil Republicans? Done. Lower Gas Prices? Done.
It got to the point where it seemed that voting for Obama was not a political decision, but a decision made on what is hip and cool. Wearing your Obama pin around before and after the election was the latest fashion statement, not a political one. People blindly associated Republican evils with John McCain simply because he was one. Some of which he deserved and some that he did not. I found myself avoiding political discussions all together since I knew it would be less about politics and more about “how fat McCain’s fingers were." I did notice an overwhelming number of “election night parties” being held. Seriously? Is that what is fun now?
“Hey guys, let’s all meet at my place and watch CNN. That hunky Wolf Blitzer is going to me on, he gets me all hot and bothered.” Come on people.
“Hey guys! It’s a hologram! Just like in Star Wars!” Did someone say sensationalism?
“I wonder what type of dog Obama will get?” Did someone say loss of objectivity?
Now that the election is over I thought I would be spared all the crazy political hoopla. Wrong. I am now being barraged with TV ads trying to sell be “collectable” Obama victory plates and coins. It is a sad day when Montel Williams is doing commercials for coins with Obama on them. What happened Montel? Did you run out of “Who’s the Daddy?” candidates for your show? WHO THE FUCK BUYS THIS CRAP?
“Honey, can we get us that nice plate with Obama on it? It would look swell next to grandma’s urn.”
The realistic truth is that Obama will lucky to do the things he promised in his campaign. This is not to belittle Obama, but to highlight the fact that he works in politics, where deals are made and broken in the shadows, and everyone’s soul is for sale. The majority of this post focused on Obama supporters and how they “irked” me, but that is not to say that all of McCain’s supporters were leveled headed and fully informed. I’m sure we have all seen the Youtube video of that crazy old bat calling Obama a Muslim. Both sides are equally guilty of everything spoken about in this post, I only happened to encounter more Obama supporters than McCain supporters, probably due to my geographic location (The Northeast).
I’m sure I’ve ruffled some feathers in writing this post, and I’ll even throw it out there, I voted for McCain. I still really like Obama, I hope he does change things. God knows they need to be changed. I think he will be a great president and wish him the best. I’m just going to be realistic about it.
I just want to know if they're going to paint the White House now.
Over the past six or so months I have found myself increasingly apathetic about the news. This is an extremely dishearteningly trend for me especially since I almost became a political science major in college. At one point in my college career I could name every Supreme Court Justice from right to left, who appointed them, their religion, and one of the major cases they decided on. Since then I have avoided watching those cable “news” channels and reading much on the Internet. My last safe haven was the newspaper, and even that has been assailed by sensationalism and loss of objectivity. I find it increasingly hard to find truly unbiased news articles. I want to hear both sides of the story; I want to hear all the facts. I don’t want someone telling me what I should think or someone giving me their opinion. I want to come to these conclusions myself.
That is at the heart at my growing apathy towards much of the news. It is no longer news; it is sensationalism with no objectivity. This fact seemed to have become unbearably clear in the months leading up the election. My apathy often teetered on anger especially when I did read certain articles or more often when I spoke to people about the election, who often spoke with total conviction when they lacked any true understanding of the issue.
Unfortunately, the majority of these people seem to be supports of Obama. Too often it seemed people who supported him, and in turn, voted for him only understand two things in his entire campaign, “Hope” and “Change.” The have come to the conclusion that Obama can magically wave a wand and fix every ill in this country. Stop the war in Iraq? Done. Tax the rich more? Done. Save jobs? Done. Stop those evil Republicans? Done. Lower Gas Prices? Done.
It got to the point where it seemed that voting for Obama was not a political decision, but a decision made on what is hip and cool. Wearing your Obama pin around before and after the election was the latest fashion statement, not a political one. People blindly associated Republican evils with John McCain simply because he was one. Some of which he deserved and some that he did not. I found myself avoiding political discussions all together since I knew it would be less about politics and more about “how fat McCain’s fingers were." I did notice an overwhelming number of “election night parties” being held. Seriously? Is that what is fun now?
“Hey guys, let’s all meet at my place and watch CNN. That hunky Wolf Blitzer is going to me on, he gets me all hot and bothered.” Come on people.
“Hey guys! It’s a hologram! Just like in Star Wars!” Did someone say sensationalism?
“I wonder what type of dog Obama will get?” Did someone say loss of objectivity?
Now that the election is over I thought I would be spared all the crazy political hoopla. Wrong. I am now being barraged with TV ads trying to sell be “collectable” Obama victory plates and coins. It is a sad day when Montel Williams is doing commercials for coins with Obama on them. What happened Montel? Did you run out of “Who’s the Daddy?” candidates for your show? WHO THE FUCK BUYS THIS CRAP?
“Honey, can we get us that nice plate with Obama on it? It would look swell next to grandma’s urn.”
The realistic truth is that Obama will lucky to do the things he promised in his campaign. This is not to belittle Obama, but to highlight the fact that he works in politics, where deals are made and broken in the shadows, and everyone’s soul is for sale. The majority of this post focused on Obama supporters and how they “irked” me, but that is not to say that all of McCain’s supporters were leveled headed and fully informed. I’m sure we have all seen the Youtube video of that crazy old bat calling Obama a Muslim. Both sides are equally guilty of everything spoken about in this post, I only happened to encounter more Obama supporters than McCain supporters, probably due to my geographic location (The Northeast).
I’m sure I’ve ruffled some feathers in writing this post, and I’ll even throw it out there, I voted for McCain. I still really like Obama, I hope he does change things. God knows they need to be changed. I think he will be a great president and wish him the best. I’m just going to be realistic about it.
I just want to know if they're going to paint the White House now.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Not with a bang but a LOL
With Tyler bringing up "Calvin and Hobbes" and my previous post waxing nostalgic about simpler times, I feel the need to complain.
Recently at [Demarcations] I was talking with an older employee about comic strips. This, of course, made me think of Calvin and Hobbes--with which he had little contact. As we were talking about the strip I had a very sad realization: Calvin and Hobbes has become anachronistic--dated! It focuses on a boy who spends the majority of his time outside, building forts and snowmen and riding in a wagon. The kid also has an imagination so powerful that it shakes the foundation of the material world he lives in: dinosaurs flying fighter jets, cardboard box time machines, and that constant, fabricated companion.
I'm afraid that the generations after mine would look at this strip and see nothing of a foothold. No context, no frame of reference. When I was a kid I seem to recall being nearly always outside. I climbed trees. I dug massive holes for the hell of it. I went to the park and rode my bike, and I remember being called from the back porch as the sun went down. But now it is rare for me to see any kids in the neighborhood. Sometimes, as I am going to work, I see them slogging their way up to the old John J. Audubon School #42--and sometimes I see them slogging their way home. But that is it. The park is full of old people and young couples with dogs. I haven't seen anyone on a bike here in ages--at least, anyone who didn't have sunglasses and lycra shorts.
And this is how I know I am old. I have started my what's-with-the-kids-these-days speeches. Next I'll be confiscating errant frisbees (if there were any) and lose my ability to use a remote control. But I really do feel that these generational changes are significant--moreso, perhaps, then the one behind me complaining about "the rap music and the em tee vee."
I think it is better for kids to be outside getting scrapes and bruises and playing tag or Cowboys and Indians than screaming homophobic obscenities at each other while one of their avatars teabags another.
I think that if this generation had a Calvin he would be a fat, lonely little fuck altogether medicated and crushed out of existence. We could call it "Calvin and No One," because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to imagine his way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a separate being. Whereas the previous had remarkable insights and thoughtful observations, this bright and shining new Calvin would have fingertips stained orange from Cheeto-dust, pale skin from constant illumination-by-monitor, and would most likely grow up and go Columbine on all our asses.
Sweet Jesus, I just went back and read what I wrote and I come off as one of those internet assholes that are so popular these days. Sorry to put my grumpy pants on, all. But what else are blogs for but the late-night airings of our indignant rages passed off as legitimate social commentary and criticism?
The next post will be back on track. And will most likely mention vomit. I am noticing a pattern.
Recently at [Demarcations] I was talking with an older employee about comic strips. This, of course, made me think of Calvin and Hobbes--with which he had little contact. As we were talking about the strip I had a very sad realization: Calvin and Hobbes has become anachronistic--dated! It focuses on a boy who spends the majority of his time outside, building forts and snowmen and riding in a wagon. The kid also has an imagination so powerful that it shakes the foundation of the material world he lives in: dinosaurs flying fighter jets, cardboard box time machines, and that constant, fabricated companion.
I'm afraid that the generations after mine would look at this strip and see nothing of a foothold. No context, no frame of reference. When I was a kid I seem to recall being nearly always outside. I climbed trees. I dug massive holes for the hell of it. I went to the park and rode my bike, and I remember being called from the back porch as the sun went down. But now it is rare for me to see any kids in the neighborhood. Sometimes, as I am going to work, I see them slogging their way up to the old John J. Audubon School #42--and sometimes I see them slogging their way home. But that is it. The park is full of old people and young couples with dogs. I haven't seen anyone on a bike here in ages--at least, anyone who didn't have sunglasses and lycra shorts.
And this is how I know I am old. I have started my what's-with-the-kids-these-days speeches. Next I'll be confiscating errant frisbees (if there were any) and lose my ability to use a remote control. But I really do feel that these generational changes are significant--moreso, perhaps, then the one behind me complaining about "the rap music and the em tee vee."
I think it is better for kids to be outside getting scrapes and bruises and playing tag or Cowboys and Indians than screaming homophobic obscenities at each other while one of their avatars teabags another.
I think that if this generation had a Calvin he would be a fat, lonely little fuck altogether medicated and crushed out of existence. We could call it "Calvin and No One," because he sure as hell wouldn't be able to imagine his way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a separate being. Whereas the previous had remarkable insights and thoughtful observations, this bright and shining new Calvin would have fingertips stained orange from Cheeto-dust, pale skin from constant illumination-by-monitor, and would most likely grow up and go Columbine on all our asses.
Sweet Jesus, I just went back and read what I wrote and I come off as one of those internet assholes that are so popular these days. Sorry to put my grumpy pants on, all. But what else are blogs for but the late-night airings of our indignant rages passed off as legitimate social commentary and criticism?
The next post will be back on track. And will most likely mention vomit. I am noticing a pattern.
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