What the hell happened to our inner child? And when I say our I guess I’m speaking of all the young adults out there who are officially adults due to the fact they can buy beer, porn, and cigarettes, but don’t really feel the part. I mean lets face it, life used to be so simple and awesome back in the day. You had a full time nanny/maid (mom), all the financial support you ever needed (dad), and a friend who supported you 100% despite all the flaws you might have had (Barney the purple dinosaur). School was actually fun, drugs were still bad, and the opposite sex was infected with a terrible disease that put AIDS and herpes to shame – cooties. Life was all play and no work. Life was good . . .
Now that I’ve reached adulthood all of that childish wonderment I had about the world has changed. I’m my own nanny, maid, and financial supporter. My closest friends are not creepy overly supportive dinosaurs who constantly sing to me that they love me and that we’re part of some magical happy family with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you . . . . They’re guys who will maliciously attack my flaws and tear me down whenever possible. What’s worse, is that after all those D.A.R.E. classes instead of saying no, I just said yes to alcohol and tobacco. In fact, I could sure go for some cigarette flavored vodka right about now. Yeah, that would be nice. But I digress . . .
Where was I again? Oh yeah. I work too much and play too little and I want to have sex with all the women I see. Okay, that’s a bit of an overstatement. Actually that’s a huge overstatement because I totally wouldn’t do Barbara Streisand or that weird looking lady on the news. But anyway, my point is that I no longer fear the cooties. I desire them.
So, I guess this all begs the question, as Adam Sandler put so well in the title of his classic comedy album: What the hell happened to me? I mean seriously. I used to want to be a zoo keeper when I grew up and now I have a job that involves killing people and no, I am not an abortion doctor (too soon?)! To complicate things even more, there is so much I want to get out of life now that I’m an “adult;” I want to be satisfied with myself; I want to find and embrace my purpose in life; I want to experience love and enjoy the fruits of companionship but still be able to do so without compromising who I am; And most of all, I want Rock band 2 with all the downloadable songs and a bitchin’ entertainment system to play it on. That shit is way too expensive for a kid to buy.
I guess these things complicate matters because they suppress the inner child. A child doesn’t want these things because I child can’t comprehend them and with the way public education is going these days, kids can barely comprehend basic multiplication tables. There’s even a study that shows some kids out there think we fought against the Russians and were allied with the Germans during WWII when everyone knows we teamed up with the Rebel Alliance to defeat the Galactic Empire during that war. But there I go digressing again . . .
Despite being adults, it’s easier to yearn for the days of our childhood because we knew exactly what we wanted. There was no rat race to run. No loneliness to battle. Even if our dreams of being a zoo keeper or a candy man were far fetched, we still knew what we wanted to be. There was beauty in simplicity and as a result, today we look to our inner child to return us to those simpler times.
Come to think of it though, is searching for that inner child really the right answer? I know I’m going back on myself after saying what the hell happened to our inner child but is it really what’s best for us? I talk about simplicity but let’s face it, simple is boring. Simple isn’t challenging. Easy on Rock Band is a drag on any instrument except drums, because I suck at the drums. You need to move up to the next level because when you finally face the complexity of life, you find it to be so much more beautiful and rewarding. The detail, intricacies, and complexities found in the works of the great artists like Michelangelo, Van Gogh, and El Greco are so much more pleasing to the human spirit than that dumb shit hungry caterpillar Eric Carle drew up. The elaborate trials and tribulations of adulthood teach us lessons about ourselves, about life. And these lessons are what really separate us from that inner child because we become aware of the unlimited possibilities life has to offer.
Yeah, all the unknown and random things out there can be kind of scary but that’s part of the great adventure of life. Kids love adventures and so should adults. So, as opposed to having your inner child keep you in a mental state of Scooby Doo underwear, tell that little shit to grow the fuck up and face what’s out there. Your inner child doesn’t have to die completely; however, they shouldn’t keep you from facing all that life has to offer. Use the spirit of your inner child to take a chance or do something random but have the maturity to learn and grow from it.
Now that I’m off my soap box of awesome, I have this final message of hope and encouragement. Whether you’re a man-boy (guilty), a wannabe princess, or still a huge fan of SpongeBob SquarePants (guilty), never fear. We’re going to make it through this. Seriously, we have no choice. I’m pretty sure being a child forever involves some sort of tax evasion and eventually the Feds are going to find your ass. Don’t do it. Keep that inner child alive but don’t let it consume you. If you do, you’ll just end up like Michael Jackson and he sleeps with little boys. That shit is wrong. Way wrong. Don’t be wrong.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
"Buzz Buzz" - That's Bee for "I'm an Asshole"
Fuck bees. What’s that you say? I’m stealing material? So let me get this straight, just because some comedian said that exact phrase in one of his stand up routines I can’t say it myself? Did it some how become intellectually copyrighted material? It’s absolutely idiotic to think such a thing. Seriously, the phrase combines a commonly used swear word with the use of imperative mood followed by a noun. There’s nothing original or unique about it. Anyone can use this format. Watch:
“Fuck Dane Cook!”
Moving on.
So bees have been added to the long list of things that I can’t stand. I would have thought bees were already on there too but they were not until now. You see, up until recently I had never been stung by a bee. That’s right, unlike Macaulay Culkin in “My Girl” (what, too soon?) I went through my entire childhood without ever experiencing the painful ass thrusting of a bee. I even made it through the awkward and emotionally painful days of high school unscathed by bees. I guess everything wasn’t complete shit in high school but I digress.
College, no bees. It’s not until I enter the adult world that I get stung by fucking bees. You would think that bees go away once you become an adult, like the boogey man or a belief in “happily ever after,” but I assure you, those sons of bitches are out there and their stingers are real. Hella real. I was stung twice in two days. Emotionally, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
The first bee sting came as quite a surprise. There I was walking through the woods minding my own business when a bee came around and started buzzing around my head. Now, up to this point I had been dealing with bees all summer. Every time they buzzed around my head I just applied the T-Rex Method. You know, “He can’t see you if you don’t move.” (Jurassic Park anyone?) This always worked like a charm. The bee would buzz around a little bit and then go on its merry little way. Seeing how a bee was buzzing around my head I quickly utilized the T-Rex Method and halted all movement. Well this bee somehow missed the memo because the mother fucker decided to sting me right on the head. That’s right, on my head. The “Bzzzzzzz” he made didn’t mean, “I pollinate flowers and make honey,” it translated more closely to, “I hope the venom seeps into your brain and you die ass clown.”
The pain was excruciating. I had never felt such a thing in my life. It was like all the terrible pop music from the past 10 years had condensed into one pin prick and injected itself into my head. It hurt like a bitch. What was worse is that I’m an adult as all this happens. I couldn’t cry for an extended period of time in hopes of gaining some self-assuring attention and I couldn’t run to mommy for an all better kiss on the head. All I could do was focus in on the unreasonable pain coming from my head. Hopelessness set in as I winced in pain, all alone, making such sounds as, “Ooooooooooo,” and, “shhhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh.” The terrible pain lasted for over and hour. I’m still scarred from it and I’m still bitter. I wish I could end my story here but the worst was yet to come.
What I’m about to tell you is factual and quite frankly very frightening. If you are rather squeamish, scare easily, or are under the age of 35 you may not want to read on. A true horror story is about to be revealed. Don’t say you weren’t warned. Second bee sting – the very next day:
So once again there I was walking through the woods minding my own damned business only this time the circumstances were a little more, how do I say this and sound ridiculously intelligent? Oh, right, the circumstances were gay. You see the second bee sting occurred while I was hiking up a mountain, in the middle of the night, while I carried 50 pounds of crap on my back. Why was I in such a situation? It’s too soon to talk about it. Too many bad memories . . . .
So I’m climbing this mountain in the middle of the night when all of a sudden I hear that familiar sound of a buzzing bee. Only this time the buzzing sound coincided almost instantaneously with a sting on my arm. Following the sting I quickly realized that the buzzing sound was coming from multiple sources and multiple directions. I had somehow managed to wander into a bee’s nest at night and it was very clear that the message the bees were sending to me with their buzzing translated into something along the lines of, “We are raging assholes who live only to inflict pain on helpless souls lost in the dark because we are hell spawn who hate freedom.” Yeah, it was something like that.
So what did your hero do? At this the point the T-Rex Method was moot considering I had already been stung and pin pointed as a target so I did what any manly man would do. I ran like a little girl up the hill screaming and cursing hoping the bees didn’t get me. Hey, don’t judge. I was instructed to run away if I came about a bee’s nest not swat at the bees like a moron only to be stung a million more times. You would have done the same thing. Well maybe not the whole screaming thing.
I ran about 100 feet up the mountain and stopped. While I was panting like a madman due to the combination of fear and physical exertion, I was relieved to be far away from the bees nest. Bees are small so 100 feet for them is like 15 miles for us. There’s no way they could have followed me I thought. Then I heard it. “Buzzzzzzzzz.” The bees followed, no chased me. They chased me up a fucking hill. Fearing for my life I took off sprinting up the mountain again only this time I sprinted further and faster and cursed a whole lot more. As I ran I pictured their stingers pointed at me, evil grins on their little bee faces as they sought to inject their poison into my blood stream.
After about 200 feet I stopped running. Sweat poured down my face as I stood there catching my breath, thinking about how crazy it was to have to run away from bees twice, up a mountain. It was almost comical in a demented way. Before I could wipe the sweat from my brow it happened again. “Buzz buzz.” You got to be shitting me was probably the first thing that came to mind. I broke T-Rex protocol and began swatting like a madman while simultaneously cursing the psychotic insectoid that stemmed from the Order Hymenoptera (I did a report on the Hymenoptera Order – of the insect Class that belongs to the Chordate Phylum which includes bees – in my zoology class in high school and I haven’t been able to show off the knowledge I gained form that report until now so please let me have this moment). Since it was dark I just swatted like a moron at the air while the bee continued to harass me with its buzzing taunts. Frustrated and nearly crying, I took off running uphill again.
It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie: a panic stricken victim running away from an unseen stalker who we all thought was dead but now he’s back and even more pissed and the victim is fleeing through the woods in the dark without any sense of direction. Except this horror movie sucked because it was me playing the role of the victim and there was no unnecessary boob shot. I mean, if you’re going to be brutally murdered by a raving poltergeist inspired psycho you should at least be able to see some boobs first.
I ran like a madman. I didn’t care that it was dark. I didn’t care about the rough terrain I was moving through. I zoned the fuck out and ran. All the while cursing, screaming, whining, and panting could be heard throughout the forest. I must have sounded like the biggest bitch in the world but I didn’t care. I was running for my life. After fleeing for quite some time I stopped to catch my breath and to assess the situation. Within just a few moments the horrific sound blared in my eardrum again, “Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” I shit you not. That bee was still on my ass. It was obvious that he wanted my tears, my blood, and my soul. I now know how Edgar Allen Poe’s character felt in the poem “The Raven.” I was on the very brink of insanity ready to turn my soul over to the darkness.
In a last ditch effort of self preservation I decided to try and run from the hell spawned bee one last time. This was it: victory or death. And once again I found myself running up a goddamn mountain in the middle of the goddamn night. As I ran sneaky allies of the bees began pitching in to assist in my demise. Tree branches, vines, and thick bushes all tried to wrap themselves around my body as I fled. I didn’t let them stop me. I plowed through them like progress through the rainforest and everyone knows you can’t stop progress. Nothing was going to stand in my way, well, except for more bees. And now that I think about it, a moat with some alligators in it probably would have been a difficult obstacle to overcome as well but there I am digressing again.
Despite Mother Nature’s best efforts, it was my own physical exhaustion that caused me to finally stop. At this point nothing mattered anymore. I gave 100 percent and then some. It was now time to accept my fate. As I stood there regretting all the things I hadn’t done in life I awaited the buzzing and then death by lethal bee injection. I waited and after 30 seconds the only thing that could be heard throughout the forest was my own breathing. Nothing. I waited awhile longer. No bee. It was now very clear to me. Somehow I survived. I regained composure and continued my march up the mountain forever a changed man.
Bees are terrible creatures. I am fortunate enough to have survived an encounter with them so I can warn you all about their evil plots of destruction. So next time you hear the familiar sound of a bee don’t be fooled. That “Buzz buzz” translates exactly into, “I’m an asshole.”
“Fuck Dane Cook!”
Moving on.
So bees have been added to the long list of things that I can’t stand. I would have thought bees were already on there too but they were not until now. You see, up until recently I had never been stung by a bee. That’s right, unlike Macaulay Culkin in “My Girl” (what, too soon?) I went through my entire childhood without ever experiencing the painful ass thrusting of a bee. I even made it through the awkward and emotionally painful days of high school unscathed by bees. I guess everything wasn’t complete shit in high school but I digress.
College, no bees. It’s not until I enter the adult world that I get stung by fucking bees. You would think that bees go away once you become an adult, like the boogey man or a belief in “happily ever after,” but I assure you, those sons of bitches are out there and their stingers are real. Hella real. I was stung twice in two days. Emotionally, I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
The first bee sting came as quite a surprise. There I was walking through the woods minding my own business when a bee came around and started buzzing around my head. Now, up to this point I had been dealing with bees all summer. Every time they buzzed around my head I just applied the T-Rex Method. You know, “He can’t see you if you don’t move.” (Jurassic Park anyone?) This always worked like a charm. The bee would buzz around a little bit and then go on its merry little way. Seeing how a bee was buzzing around my head I quickly utilized the T-Rex Method and halted all movement. Well this bee somehow missed the memo because the mother fucker decided to sting me right on the head. That’s right, on my head. The “Bzzzzzzz” he made didn’t mean, “I pollinate flowers and make honey,” it translated more closely to, “I hope the venom seeps into your brain and you die ass clown.”
The pain was excruciating. I had never felt such a thing in my life. It was like all the terrible pop music from the past 10 years had condensed into one pin prick and injected itself into my head. It hurt like a bitch. What was worse is that I’m an adult as all this happens. I couldn’t cry for an extended period of time in hopes of gaining some self-assuring attention and I couldn’t run to mommy for an all better kiss on the head. All I could do was focus in on the unreasonable pain coming from my head. Hopelessness set in as I winced in pain, all alone, making such sounds as, “Ooooooooooo,” and, “shhhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhh.” The terrible pain lasted for over and hour. I’m still scarred from it and I’m still bitter. I wish I could end my story here but the worst was yet to come.
What I’m about to tell you is factual and quite frankly very frightening. If you are rather squeamish, scare easily, or are under the age of 35 you may not want to read on. A true horror story is about to be revealed. Don’t say you weren’t warned. Second bee sting – the very next day:
So once again there I was walking through the woods minding my own damned business only this time the circumstances were a little more, how do I say this and sound ridiculously intelligent? Oh, right, the circumstances were gay. You see the second bee sting occurred while I was hiking up a mountain, in the middle of the night, while I carried 50 pounds of crap on my back. Why was I in such a situation? It’s too soon to talk about it. Too many bad memories . . . .
So I’m climbing this mountain in the middle of the night when all of a sudden I hear that familiar sound of a buzzing bee. Only this time the buzzing sound coincided almost instantaneously with a sting on my arm. Following the sting I quickly realized that the buzzing sound was coming from multiple sources and multiple directions. I had somehow managed to wander into a bee’s nest at night and it was very clear that the message the bees were sending to me with their buzzing translated into something along the lines of, “We are raging assholes who live only to inflict pain on helpless souls lost in the dark because we are hell spawn who hate freedom.” Yeah, it was something like that.
So what did your hero do? At this the point the T-Rex Method was moot considering I had already been stung and pin pointed as a target so I did what any manly man would do. I ran like a little girl up the hill screaming and cursing hoping the bees didn’t get me. Hey, don’t judge. I was instructed to run away if I came about a bee’s nest not swat at the bees like a moron only to be stung a million more times. You would have done the same thing. Well maybe not the whole screaming thing.
I ran about 100 feet up the mountain and stopped. While I was panting like a madman due to the combination of fear and physical exertion, I was relieved to be far away from the bees nest. Bees are small so 100 feet for them is like 15 miles for us. There’s no way they could have followed me I thought. Then I heard it. “Buzzzzzzzzz.” The bees followed, no chased me. They chased me up a fucking hill. Fearing for my life I took off sprinting up the mountain again only this time I sprinted further and faster and cursed a whole lot more. As I ran I pictured their stingers pointed at me, evil grins on their little bee faces as they sought to inject their poison into my blood stream.
After about 200 feet I stopped running. Sweat poured down my face as I stood there catching my breath, thinking about how crazy it was to have to run away from bees twice, up a mountain. It was almost comical in a demented way. Before I could wipe the sweat from my brow it happened again. “Buzz buzz.” You got to be shitting me was probably the first thing that came to mind. I broke T-Rex protocol and began swatting like a madman while simultaneously cursing the psychotic insectoid that stemmed from the Order Hymenoptera (I did a report on the Hymenoptera Order – of the insect Class that belongs to the Chordate Phylum which includes bees – in my zoology class in high school and I haven’t been able to show off the knowledge I gained form that report until now so please let me have this moment). Since it was dark I just swatted like a moron at the air while the bee continued to harass me with its buzzing taunts. Frustrated and nearly crying, I took off running uphill again.
It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie: a panic stricken victim running away from an unseen stalker who we all thought was dead but now he’s back and even more pissed and the victim is fleeing through the woods in the dark without any sense of direction. Except this horror movie sucked because it was me playing the role of the victim and there was no unnecessary boob shot. I mean, if you’re going to be brutally murdered by a raving poltergeist inspired psycho you should at least be able to see some boobs first.
I ran like a madman. I didn’t care that it was dark. I didn’t care about the rough terrain I was moving through. I zoned the fuck out and ran. All the while cursing, screaming, whining, and panting could be heard throughout the forest. I must have sounded like the biggest bitch in the world but I didn’t care. I was running for my life. After fleeing for quite some time I stopped to catch my breath and to assess the situation. Within just a few moments the horrific sound blared in my eardrum again, “Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” I shit you not. That bee was still on my ass. It was obvious that he wanted my tears, my blood, and my soul. I now know how Edgar Allen Poe’s character felt in the poem “The Raven.” I was on the very brink of insanity ready to turn my soul over to the darkness.
In a last ditch effort of self preservation I decided to try and run from the hell spawned bee one last time. This was it: victory or death. And once again I found myself running up a goddamn mountain in the middle of the goddamn night. As I ran sneaky allies of the bees began pitching in to assist in my demise. Tree branches, vines, and thick bushes all tried to wrap themselves around my body as I fled. I didn’t let them stop me. I plowed through them like progress through the rainforest and everyone knows you can’t stop progress. Nothing was going to stand in my way, well, except for more bees. And now that I think about it, a moat with some alligators in it probably would have been a difficult obstacle to overcome as well but there I am digressing again.
Despite Mother Nature’s best efforts, it was my own physical exhaustion that caused me to finally stop. At this point nothing mattered anymore. I gave 100 percent and then some. It was now time to accept my fate. As I stood there regretting all the things I hadn’t done in life I awaited the buzzing and then death by lethal bee injection. I waited and after 30 seconds the only thing that could be heard throughout the forest was my own breathing. Nothing. I waited awhile longer. No bee. It was now very clear to me. Somehow I survived. I regained composure and continued my march up the mountain forever a changed man.
Bees are terrible creatures. I am fortunate enough to have survived an encounter with them so I can warn you all about their evil plots of destruction. So next time you hear the familiar sound of a bee don’t be fooled. That “Buzz buzz” translates exactly into, “I’m an asshole.”
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Socially Interactive Drug of the Ages
I fucking hate Facebook. But then again, I have this lustful attraction to Facebook that keeps me coming back for more despite the destruction it reaps on my mental and emotional stability. You see Facebook is like the abusive asshole boyfriend the meek and impressionable girl can’t stay away from. It’s the heroin the rock star can’t seem to kick. It slowly breaks you down killing you inside every day you stay with it. It takes your livelihood, your self respect, and your soul. It owns you.
My addiction to Facebook began nearly four years ago. I was a young impressionable sophomore in college then with not a whole lot going on outside my studies and things seemed so mundane. There was something missing from my boring life and while some claimed that it was God, I knew the void I was feeling had to result from something far more superficial and potentially destructive. I needed a vice – a guilty pleasure that was wrong but oh so right. Quick fixes always beat the eternal satisfaction of spirituality, right?
While crystal meth, pain killers, and the TV show “Friends” all crossed my mind as possible vices, they just seemed a little too extreme to someone looking to ease their way into the world of vice. I was a good student after all – a genius at that – absorbed by his studies in the pursuit of increased intellectual capacity. I was a fucking nerd, okay? And for this reason, I knew I had to find a vice fast even if I might never come to like it (think lame ass unfunny dialogue from “Friends”). Within one week’s time, without knowledge, the vice slipped itself into my life and made me forget all about finding one. It happened once my peers began discussing a term that would become branded into my mind, branded on my very soul – Facebook.
The Facebook epidemic spread across my school in record fashion. It was like 14th century Europe all over again, well minus the whole bloated oozing bodies lying in the street thing. But nonetheless, a new and arguably more dangerous plague had just planted itself. I obviously got caught up in the whole thing. It was so cool at first. I mean look at all the neato things I could do:
I could be “friends” with people I was friends with in real life; I could be “friends” with mere acquaintances; I could reconnect with the 8 people I gave a shit about from high school; I could “poke” people; I could leave witty messages on the walls of my friends; and I could edit a personal profile that provided a window into the thoughts and feelings of the real me.
While Myspace – the online social network that preceded Facebook – essentially provided all the same gimmicks, Facebook was exclusive. Your school had to have a network in order to use it. If your school didn’t have a network or, if you didn’t even go to school (and by school I mean university), then you weren’t cool enough to be on Facebook. It also had a classier feel. It didn’t have that slutty back alley whore feel that Myspace had. There were no annoying ads or obnoxious display schemes. No Tila Tequila. It was like the new refined drug that was supposedly better for you and us pretentious college kids ate that shit up. Why do crack when you can do cocaine? Am I right Whitney?
Needless to say I was all about the Facebook. It was great. I finally had something to occupy my time with and it felt as if the void I was experiencing had finally been filled. Facebook provided me with hours of euphoric diversion, unmatched by anything I had ever experienced in life. I was making new “friends” nearly everyday. I had my profile just the way I wanted it. I even had the perfect profile pic up which screamed, “I’m cool. Look at me! Look at me!” In the morning I was on Facebook. If I had an hour or even 20 minutes between classes, I was on Facebook. After lunch I was on Facebook and before bed I was on Facebook. The high was amazing. I was addicted.
Pretty soon things got absolutely stupid on Facebook and by things I mean me – I got absolutely stupid on the Facebook. For example I started becoming “friends” with people I didn’t even like. It was like, “Douchey McDoucherson wants to be my friend? I fucking hate that guy.” And then without thinking I would quickly accept his friend request and read through his entire profile. Twice. And then there was the narcissistic obsession of making sure my profile portrayed me as the coolest guy ever. About once a week I would analyze my profile making sure that all the information displayed was not only correct, but witty and hip as well. I should have been swearing off Facebook due to my acts of lameness however due to its intoxicating pull, things I would have deemed in the common yet potentially offensive college lingo as “gay” or “retarded” didn’t seem to bother me.
At times it seemed like the lure of Facebook would wear off however every time you started to get bored they would add something new – as novel as it was – that would keep you hooked. First there was the ability to post photos and look at other people’s posted photos. Like many of my “friends,” I could now dedicate an entire photo album to increasing my level on the coolness meter. Posted photos were all too predictable. The albums I posted included all the typical photos like: me drinking, me being drunk, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark while being drunk. Posting “look how wasted I am” pictures became just as common as your average STD.
After photos, came notes, and then there came the infamous Facebook newsfeed. It was like the news except it wasn’t boring and unimportant like all the stories coming out of places like Iraq and Darfur. Honestly, why should I pay attention to some silly war when it was just revealed that Sally added Dave Matthews Band to her favorite music? This news involved people you knew! You could now count on something new being on Facebook every time you signed on. The frequency I signed on to Facebook multiplied after this. I just couldn’t get enough of the high. Five, six times a day, it never seemed to be enough.
My debilitating addiction to Facebook lasted without question for nearly three years. During that course, I had no idea that it was destroying me inside but soon, as all addicts discover, I realized the high I was getting from Facebook was a bad thing. Even though I kept coming back for more, the euphoric feeling I enjoyed so much began to wear away. I was getting on Facebook just to get on Facebook. It all started to seem so silly. I was keeping up on the lives of people I didn’t even bother to talk to. What was worse is I became bothered by information about certain people that I would not have known if it wasn’t for the Facebook newsfeed. Whether it was finding out that an old flame was in a relationship, engaged, or hell even married, or that one of my “friends” never responded back on my wall, Facebook bothered me when I wasn’t even on it.
My emotional state was all out of whack. It was like that movie “Requiem for a Dream.” Remember how things were all awesome in that movie for a little bit and then everything went to shit for the characters and the mom was put in a nut house, and the son lost his arm, and the black guy went to jail, and the girl went ass to ass, and all the childlike wonder you held about the world was utterly destroyed, and then a box full of kittens exploded somewhere???? It was that bad except in my brain! Ass to ass in my brain . . . I still don’t know how to explain what that’s like.
So, after doing some soul searching, suffering a Facebook induced nervous breakdown, and rolling around in 11 different bodily fluids, I had an epiphany:
Facebook is the most shallow form of human interaction possible.
Even though I had the Facebook newsfeed and I kept up to date on my friends’ profiles, my actions showed that I really didn’t give a shit about them and I’m pretty sure they didn’t give a shit about me (they would have written on my wall if they had). There was absolutely no interaction going on, merely peeping in on others lives without them knowing. If I had really cared wouldn’t I have at least sent an email to keep in contact? Facebook had turned me into a bad friend, hell, a bad person. Facebook was destroying what made me human – social interaction.
Because of my brilliant epiphany, I quit Facebook cold turkey at the beginning of the year. I was done with it. I deactivated my account. It was all over.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve been clean for 5 months and that life has been great. I wish I could say I’ll never go back to Facebook. But I can’t. After about two months of absolutely no Facebook I went crawling back. The withdrawals were just too much and I was too weak. I would get on my computer and the Facebook would just call to me. Every time I placed my fingers on the keyboard I would think about how amazing it used to feel to be on Facebook. My daily internet routine just wasn’t the same without Facebook time. For two months, life just didn’t seem the same and for that reason I had to go back. I just couldn’t stay away.
I know you must be disappointed in me especially after all I’ve said and been through. I know I seem like a hypocrite for telling you how awful Facebook is and then revealing that I’m still on it but I’m only human. Hey, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith is back in rehab. Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots just got out again. Those guys obviously didn’t quit the first time around. Cut me some fucking slack. At least I haven’t gone the way of Kurt Cobain. What? Too soon . . . ?
But when it comes down to it, Facebook isn't the problem. I'm the problem. I’m an addict and I need help. Looking back I was so naïve to think Facebook was actually a good thing. Had I known that I’d be in the state that I am in now I would have never started. Is there still hope for me? I’d like to think so.
So, let’s try this one more time:
Hi, my name is Faheem, and I’m addicted to Facebook.
My addiction to Facebook began nearly four years ago. I was a young impressionable sophomore in college then with not a whole lot going on outside my studies and things seemed so mundane. There was something missing from my boring life and while some claimed that it was God, I knew the void I was feeling had to result from something far more superficial and potentially destructive. I needed a vice – a guilty pleasure that was wrong but oh so right. Quick fixes always beat the eternal satisfaction of spirituality, right?
While crystal meth, pain killers, and the TV show “Friends” all crossed my mind as possible vices, they just seemed a little too extreme to someone looking to ease their way into the world of vice. I was a good student after all – a genius at that – absorbed by his studies in the pursuit of increased intellectual capacity. I was a fucking nerd, okay? And for this reason, I knew I had to find a vice fast even if I might never come to like it (think lame ass unfunny dialogue from “Friends”). Within one week’s time, without knowledge, the vice slipped itself into my life and made me forget all about finding one. It happened once my peers began discussing a term that would become branded into my mind, branded on my very soul – Facebook.
The Facebook epidemic spread across my school in record fashion. It was like 14th century Europe all over again, well minus the whole bloated oozing bodies lying in the street thing. But nonetheless, a new and arguably more dangerous plague had just planted itself. I obviously got caught up in the whole thing. It was so cool at first. I mean look at all the neato things I could do:
I could be “friends” with people I was friends with in real life; I could be “friends” with mere acquaintances; I could reconnect with the 8 people I gave a shit about from high school; I could “poke” people; I could leave witty messages on the walls of my friends; and I could edit a personal profile that provided a window into the thoughts and feelings of the real me.
While Myspace – the online social network that preceded Facebook – essentially provided all the same gimmicks, Facebook was exclusive. Your school had to have a network in order to use it. If your school didn’t have a network or, if you didn’t even go to school (and by school I mean university), then you weren’t cool enough to be on Facebook. It also had a classier feel. It didn’t have that slutty back alley whore feel that Myspace had. There were no annoying ads or obnoxious display schemes. No Tila Tequila. It was like the new refined drug that was supposedly better for you and us pretentious college kids ate that shit up. Why do crack when you can do cocaine? Am I right Whitney?
Needless to say I was all about the Facebook. It was great. I finally had something to occupy my time with and it felt as if the void I was experiencing had finally been filled. Facebook provided me with hours of euphoric diversion, unmatched by anything I had ever experienced in life. I was making new “friends” nearly everyday. I had my profile just the way I wanted it. I even had the perfect profile pic up which screamed, “I’m cool. Look at me! Look at me!” In the morning I was on Facebook. If I had an hour or even 20 minutes between classes, I was on Facebook. After lunch I was on Facebook and before bed I was on Facebook. The high was amazing. I was addicted.
Pretty soon things got absolutely stupid on Facebook and by things I mean me – I got absolutely stupid on the Facebook. For example I started becoming “friends” with people I didn’t even like. It was like, “Douchey McDoucherson wants to be my friend? I fucking hate that guy.” And then without thinking I would quickly accept his friend request and read through his entire profile. Twice. And then there was the narcissistic obsession of making sure my profile portrayed me as the coolest guy ever. About once a week I would analyze my profile making sure that all the information displayed was not only correct, but witty and hip as well. I should have been swearing off Facebook due to my acts of lameness however due to its intoxicating pull, things I would have deemed in the common yet potentially offensive college lingo as “gay” or “retarded” didn’t seem to bother me.
At times it seemed like the lure of Facebook would wear off however every time you started to get bored they would add something new – as novel as it was – that would keep you hooked. First there was the ability to post photos and look at other people’s posted photos. Like many of my “friends,” I could now dedicate an entire photo album to increasing my level on the coolness meter. Posted photos were all too predictable. The albums I posted included all the typical photos like: me drinking, me being drunk, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark, me standing next to some famous monument or landmark while being drunk. Posting “look how wasted I am” pictures became just as common as your average STD.
After photos, came notes, and then there came the infamous Facebook newsfeed. It was like the news except it wasn’t boring and unimportant like all the stories coming out of places like Iraq and Darfur. Honestly, why should I pay attention to some silly war when it was just revealed that Sally added Dave Matthews Band to her favorite music? This news involved people you knew! You could now count on something new being on Facebook every time you signed on. The frequency I signed on to Facebook multiplied after this. I just couldn’t get enough of the high. Five, six times a day, it never seemed to be enough.
My debilitating addiction to Facebook lasted without question for nearly three years. During that course, I had no idea that it was destroying me inside but soon, as all addicts discover, I realized the high I was getting from Facebook was a bad thing. Even though I kept coming back for more, the euphoric feeling I enjoyed so much began to wear away. I was getting on Facebook just to get on Facebook. It all started to seem so silly. I was keeping up on the lives of people I didn’t even bother to talk to. What was worse is I became bothered by information about certain people that I would not have known if it wasn’t for the Facebook newsfeed. Whether it was finding out that an old flame was in a relationship, engaged, or hell even married, or that one of my “friends” never responded back on my wall, Facebook bothered me when I wasn’t even on it.
My emotional state was all out of whack. It was like that movie “Requiem for a Dream.” Remember how things were all awesome in that movie for a little bit and then everything went to shit for the characters and the mom was put in a nut house, and the son lost his arm, and the black guy went to jail, and the girl went ass to ass, and all the childlike wonder you held about the world was utterly destroyed, and then a box full of kittens exploded somewhere???? It was that bad except in my brain! Ass to ass in my brain . . . I still don’t know how to explain what that’s like.
So, after doing some soul searching, suffering a Facebook induced nervous breakdown, and rolling around in 11 different bodily fluids, I had an epiphany:
Facebook is the most shallow form of human interaction possible.
Even though I had the Facebook newsfeed and I kept up to date on my friends’ profiles, my actions showed that I really didn’t give a shit about them and I’m pretty sure they didn’t give a shit about me (they would have written on my wall if they had). There was absolutely no interaction going on, merely peeping in on others lives without them knowing. If I had really cared wouldn’t I have at least sent an email to keep in contact? Facebook had turned me into a bad friend, hell, a bad person. Facebook was destroying what made me human – social interaction.
Because of my brilliant epiphany, I quit Facebook cold turkey at the beginning of the year. I was done with it. I deactivated my account. It was all over.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve been clean for 5 months and that life has been great. I wish I could say I’ll never go back to Facebook. But I can’t. After about two months of absolutely no Facebook I went crawling back. The withdrawals were just too much and I was too weak. I would get on my computer and the Facebook would just call to me. Every time I placed my fingers on the keyboard I would think about how amazing it used to feel to be on Facebook. My daily internet routine just wasn’t the same without Facebook time. For two months, life just didn’t seem the same and for that reason I had to go back. I just couldn’t stay away.
I know you must be disappointed in me especially after all I’ve said and been through. I know I seem like a hypocrite for telling you how awful Facebook is and then revealing that I’m still on it but I’m only human. Hey, Steven Tyler from Aerosmith is back in rehab. Scott Weiland of Stone Temple Pilots just got out again. Those guys obviously didn’t quit the first time around. Cut me some fucking slack. At least I haven’t gone the way of Kurt Cobain. What? Too soon . . . ?
But when it comes down to it, Facebook isn't the problem. I'm the problem. I’m an addict and I need help. Looking back I was so naïve to think Facebook was actually a good thing. Had I known that I’d be in the state that I am in now I would have never started. Is there still hope for me? I’d like to think so.
So, let’s try this one more time:
Hi, my name is Faheem, and I’m addicted to Facebook.
Friday, May 2, 2008
10,000 BC Called, They Want Their Fucking Morons Back
Despite all the progress humanity has made since the dawn of civilization – like the enlightenment and the development of the Segway to name a few – it amazes me that there are still Neanderthals running around amongst us. And by us I mean normal, critically thinking, intelligent Homo sapiens. I’m not sure what the exact break down of Neanderthals to Homo sapiens is within the population but I am sure that humanity is losing ground against this Cavemanic insurgency.
Just this past weekend my friends and I were jumped by a raving band of knuckle dragging Cro-Magnon (yes, I know Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon are two different types of humanoids but please let me rant) and by jumped I mean attacked from behind without any kind of Westside Story like build up to the fight. It was like a program straight out of the Discovery Channel involving chimps except these apes looked surprisingly like humans. They even dressed like us with their sandals, shorts, and trendy Hollister T-shirts.
The whole ordeal started after one of my friends accidentally flicked his cigarette onto the leg of one of the Neanderthals. Being the civilized and worldly gentlemen, my friend quickly apologized for the accident. Despite this act of sincerity, it appears that apologizing in the prehistoric world is the equivalent to staring one in the eyes or thumping your chest because these damned dirty apes exhibited all the signs of wanting to fight to include: hooting, hollering, smacking the pavement with both palms, and throwing fecal matter.
Seeing how we are both civilized and modern, my friends and I walked away from the animalistic pissing contest. This is 2008 after all, right? Well obviously in the animal kingdom this was not enough to satisfy the pride of the Neanderthal. Instead of being hilarious like Brendan Frasier from Encino Man, the cavemen were very un-funny and they attacked us with our backs turned while we walked away.
Once again, being the civilized Homo sapiens that we are, my friends and I tried to stop the attack through negotiations, defensive maneuvers, and other forms of reason that all humans would recognize as signals for a cease in hostilities. This only enraged the ape men. After already initially taking down two members of our group they went after the rest of us. I looked all around for some sort of monolith – like the one from 2001: A Space Odyssey – which I could attribute the wrath of these apes to but I could not find one in sight. These Neanderthals were clearly in some sort of primal and instinctive blood rage known only to the animal kingdom. It was fucking scary to say the least.
While these sub-human brawlers were certainly stronger than us, their primal intellect was more than obvious. There was no real plan to their attack, just to SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! Luckily for us, this prehistoric strategy – while quite fierce – didn’t produce the maximum amount of damage that they could have inflicted. Remember, it was the Homo sapien who came up with a complex plan like the D-Day invasion. I’m pretty sure the Cavemen always got their asses kicked by the dinosaurs and you can practically equate dinosaurs to Nazis, but I digress . . .
One Neanderthal was so dumb he rolled his own ankle after throwing a sloppy punch at one of my quick witted friends. Further proving their lack of intelligence, a pair of the Geico cavemen decided to hang around the area where the attack occurred right after the fight ended giving me the opportunity to flag down a patrolling police car, point out the attackers, and have them pursued and arrested.
Stupid mother fuckers. At least humans are smart enough to try and avoid getting caught after they do something wrong.
Even though about half our group suffered a decent licking at the hands of these primitive beasts, our wit, intellect, and respect for civilization remained intact. Like many members of the human race, we remained resilient in the face of adversity because that’s what human beings fucking do!
Sure, more than half the Neanderthals slipped back into Homo sapien society unnoticed but it is comforting knowing that having never evolved will eventually catch up to them. They will never have a better paying job than us. They will never hold higher status than us. They will never have the intellectual curiosity of us. And they will certainly never have an appreciation for the complexity of life like us.
So, to all the Neanderthals living amongst us, assuming you are having someone read this and translate it into grunts for you:
Evolve. Please
Until then, you will never be on my or any other human beings level. Ever.
Just this past weekend my friends and I were jumped by a raving band of knuckle dragging Cro-Magnon (yes, I know Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon are two different types of humanoids but please let me rant) and by jumped I mean attacked from behind without any kind of Westside Story like build up to the fight. It was like a program straight out of the Discovery Channel involving chimps except these apes looked surprisingly like humans. They even dressed like us with their sandals, shorts, and trendy Hollister T-shirts.
The whole ordeal started after one of my friends accidentally flicked his cigarette onto the leg of one of the Neanderthals. Being the civilized and worldly gentlemen, my friend quickly apologized for the accident. Despite this act of sincerity, it appears that apologizing in the prehistoric world is the equivalent to staring one in the eyes or thumping your chest because these damned dirty apes exhibited all the signs of wanting to fight to include: hooting, hollering, smacking the pavement with both palms, and throwing fecal matter.
Seeing how we are both civilized and modern, my friends and I walked away from the animalistic pissing contest. This is 2008 after all, right? Well obviously in the animal kingdom this was not enough to satisfy the pride of the Neanderthal. Instead of being hilarious like Brendan Frasier from Encino Man, the cavemen were very un-funny and they attacked us with our backs turned while we walked away.
Once again, being the civilized Homo sapiens that we are, my friends and I tried to stop the attack through negotiations, defensive maneuvers, and other forms of reason that all humans would recognize as signals for a cease in hostilities. This only enraged the ape men. After already initially taking down two members of our group they went after the rest of us. I looked all around for some sort of monolith – like the one from 2001: A Space Odyssey – which I could attribute the wrath of these apes to but I could not find one in sight. These Neanderthals were clearly in some sort of primal and instinctive blood rage known only to the animal kingdom. It was fucking scary to say the least.
While these sub-human brawlers were certainly stronger than us, their primal intellect was more than obvious. There was no real plan to their attack, just to SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! Luckily for us, this prehistoric strategy – while quite fierce – didn’t produce the maximum amount of damage that they could have inflicted. Remember, it was the Homo sapien who came up with a complex plan like the D-Day invasion. I’m pretty sure the Cavemen always got their asses kicked by the dinosaurs and you can practically equate dinosaurs to Nazis, but I digress . . .
One Neanderthal was so dumb he rolled his own ankle after throwing a sloppy punch at one of my quick witted friends. Further proving their lack of intelligence, a pair of the Geico cavemen decided to hang around the area where the attack occurred right after the fight ended giving me the opportunity to flag down a patrolling police car, point out the attackers, and have them pursued and arrested.
Stupid mother fuckers. At least humans are smart enough to try and avoid getting caught after they do something wrong.
Even though about half our group suffered a decent licking at the hands of these primitive beasts, our wit, intellect, and respect for civilization remained intact. Like many members of the human race, we remained resilient in the face of adversity because that’s what human beings fucking do!
Sure, more than half the Neanderthals slipped back into Homo sapien society unnoticed but it is comforting knowing that having never evolved will eventually catch up to them. They will never have a better paying job than us. They will never hold higher status than us. They will never have the intellectual curiosity of us. And they will certainly never have an appreciation for the complexity of life like us.
So, to all the Neanderthals living amongst us, assuming you are having someone read this and translate it into grunts for you:
Evolve. Please
Until then, you will never be on my or any other human beings level. Ever.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Here's to the Man-Boys
Society blows. Why do I say this? Because despite all the specific cultural revolutions that have occurred in the past 50 years, and despite the fact that Ashton Kutcher somehow became a role model, there are certain steps society expects you to take in life unless you be labeled “different” or “the fun uncle.” What steps am I talking about? You should already know the answer:
Step 1: Go to college
Step 2: Get a job you really don’t like
Step 3: Get married
Step 4: Have kids
Step 5: Don’t do the things you enjoy because you’re to busy with the job you don’t like, your wife, and your kids
Now I’m not trying to say there’s anything wrong with this lifestyle. If this is how you wish to live your life then by all means live the dream. This is America after all and President Bush assures me that terrorists are dying to protect our freedom. What I do have a problem with is that society expects us all to assimilate to this lifestyle like they’re the Borg or something. Yeah I made a Star Trek reference and I don’t even like Star Trek. That’s how serious this shit is.
While many feel the pressures of society one group of fine individuals in particular feels it the most. What group am I talking about? Man-boys. Men who want to enjoy life like a boy. You know, with video games and stuff.
The haters out there will criticize man-boys and call them immature or even losers. However, how is a man-boy immature if he makes a mature decision to do things his own way? How is a man-boy a loser if he maintains a respectable job that pays the bills? How is a man-boy not awesome?
The main problem with the haters is that they automatically assume that man-boys are unemployed morons who live with their parents. Not fucking true! My brother and I are self proclaimed man-boys and we don’t live with our parents. We are college graduates, we have respectable jobs, and we maintain our own residences. As opposed to selling out and bending to society’s will, we do our own thing and enjoy life much like a boy does. For example:
Just last week I played about 20 hours of Lego Star Wars. Am I ashamed of this? Fuck no. I beat the game, collected most of the characters, and lived every Star Wars nerd’s fantasy of killing Jar Jar Binks with a Tusken Raider. What’s even better is that I’ve only completed about 50% of the tasks in the game. This means I’ll have to log another 5 hours a day into the game this week so I can feel that glorious sense of accomplishment. I do have priorities right now and getting married just doesn’t happen to be one of them.
While members of society would be critical of my man-boy escapades it is obvious that deep down inside these people are envious. With men they are jealous because they grew up too fast and don’t enjoy life like they did when they were a boy. Instead of playing and having fun they work their asses off to support their family all while losing their hair in the process. How many balding boys are out there? Zero. How many bald men are out there? A lot. Interesting . . .
And with women it comes down to control. Women can’t control a man-boy because finding a woman and establishing a family isn’t their main concern. Women do not fall into the plans of the man-boy and as a result they become jealous of the video games and leisure items that get more attention than they do. Simply put, man-boys don’t need women. Honestly, who needs women when you have Halo, Season 4 of Aqua Teen Hunger Force on DVD, and enough Hot Pockets to feed a small African village?
What it all comes down to is this: society needs to accept man-boys for who they are and back off our shit. I mean, why should we get married when the divorce rate is over 50 percent? Why should we have kids when we can barely take care of ourselves? Why the hell shouldn’t we spend the money we earn all on ourselves? If society can give a good answer to any of these questions then I’ll settle down TOMORROW!!! Until then, the man-boy revolution shall continue.
So here’s to you man-boys. Keep on keeping on because in the end, you live the Toys R Us theme song while everyone else just wishes they were a Toys R Us Kid.
Step 1: Go to college
Step 2: Get a job you really don’t like
Step 3: Get married
Step 4: Have kids
Step 5: Don’t do the things you enjoy because you’re to busy with the job you don’t like, your wife, and your kids
Now I’m not trying to say there’s anything wrong with this lifestyle. If this is how you wish to live your life then by all means live the dream. This is America after all and President Bush assures me that terrorists are dying to protect our freedom. What I do have a problem with is that society expects us all to assimilate to this lifestyle like they’re the Borg or something. Yeah I made a Star Trek reference and I don’t even like Star Trek. That’s how serious this shit is.
While many feel the pressures of society one group of fine individuals in particular feels it the most. What group am I talking about? Man-boys. Men who want to enjoy life like a boy. You know, with video games and stuff.
The haters out there will criticize man-boys and call them immature or even losers. However, how is a man-boy immature if he makes a mature decision to do things his own way? How is a man-boy a loser if he maintains a respectable job that pays the bills? How is a man-boy not awesome?
The main problem with the haters is that they automatically assume that man-boys are unemployed morons who live with their parents. Not fucking true! My brother and I are self proclaimed man-boys and we don’t live with our parents. We are college graduates, we have respectable jobs, and we maintain our own residences. As opposed to selling out and bending to society’s will, we do our own thing and enjoy life much like a boy does. For example:
Just last week I played about 20 hours of Lego Star Wars. Am I ashamed of this? Fuck no. I beat the game, collected most of the characters, and lived every Star Wars nerd’s fantasy of killing Jar Jar Binks with a Tusken Raider. What’s even better is that I’ve only completed about 50% of the tasks in the game. This means I’ll have to log another 5 hours a day into the game this week so I can feel that glorious sense of accomplishment. I do have priorities right now and getting married just doesn’t happen to be one of them.
While members of society would be critical of my man-boy escapades it is obvious that deep down inside these people are envious. With men they are jealous because they grew up too fast and don’t enjoy life like they did when they were a boy. Instead of playing and having fun they work their asses off to support their family all while losing their hair in the process. How many balding boys are out there? Zero. How many bald men are out there? A lot. Interesting . . .
And with women it comes down to control. Women can’t control a man-boy because finding a woman and establishing a family isn’t their main concern. Women do not fall into the plans of the man-boy and as a result they become jealous of the video games and leisure items that get more attention than they do. Simply put, man-boys don’t need women. Honestly, who needs women when you have Halo, Season 4 of Aqua Teen Hunger Force on DVD, and enough Hot Pockets to feed a small African village?
What it all comes down to is this: society needs to accept man-boys for who they are and back off our shit. I mean, why should we get married when the divorce rate is over 50 percent? Why should we have kids when we can barely take care of ourselves? Why the hell shouldn’t we spend the money we earn all on ourselves? If society can give a good answer to any of these questions then I’ll settle down TOMORROW!!! Until then, the man-boy revolution shall continue.
So here’s to you man-boys. Keep on keeping on because in the end, you live the Toys R Us theme song while everyone else just wishes they were a Toys R Us Kid.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Damn You Andy Warhol
Yeah, I’m pissed at Andy Warhol. I’m pissed because his work is contributing to the dumbing down of society and the destruction of America. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “How can that be? He did Campbell Soup! And that Marilyn Monroe thing! The man is a genius! An American icon! I love Andy Warhol! Damn you Faheem!” But you see, I’m not talking about his traditional works here.
I’m not so much upset as to what he did as I am to what he said. Remember that quote, “In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes?” Well it has proved to be all too prophetic and I’m convinced that Andy’s prophecy is contributing to the destruction of America. Bear with me a moment.
The other day I was watching TV and I stumbled across one of VH1’s most popular shows Flavor of Love (part 18 or whatever). For those of you who aren’t familiar with the show, it has a bunch of degenerate women trying to win the love of rapper Flavor Flav – a man who closely resembles a crack addict turned burn victim.
I really wouldn’t have a problem with this show if it didn’t give so much exposure to the ghetto ass, trailer trash, nasty skanks who parade along like they’re hot shit. As a result of this show, socially undesirable nobodies who have probably worked for nothing in their entire lives all of sudden become famous. As millions of people across the world go unnoticed for the important things they contribute to society these whores are enjoying their “15 minutes” and people actually give a shit enough about them to keep watching every week.
Andy Warhol envisioned the horrors of reality television decades before it came into being. He allowed these worthless individuals to gain exposure for doing nothing other than acting completely worthless on television and it absolutely pisses me off.
Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Andy Warhol’s ‘15 minutes of fame’ didn’t create the mess that is reality television. His quote was simply providing commentary on the nature of pop culture and the attention span of the average American. Reality television was bound to come about with or without Andy Warhol!”
Well, that’s completely wrong and I still think Andy Warhol’s an asshole. You want my counter argument? Haven’t you read the book The Secret? It states that you can create something if you think about it hard enough and believe in it. I’m convinced that Andy Warhol utilized “The Secret” and created reality television by stating that quote and believing in it. So yes, Andy Warhol is directly responsible for the “famous” trash that is being produced by Flavor of Love.
And the bigger problem is that Flavor of Love is not the only reality show that gives exposure to generally worthless individuals. You can’t change the channel without seeing some talent less hack, obnoxious asshole, or dirty whore try to make something out of themselves. It’s like the only thing that people care about these days is gaining exposure and becoming famous. And that’s fucking sad because there are bigger things going on in the world right now other than some talent less hack’s attempt to gain fame. Did anyone care to notice that yesterday marked the 5 year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq?
Honestly, media gives the impression that nobody gives a shit about anything other than themselves. What ever happened to the good old days where we had positive role models in the media like Rosie the Riveter? Well, it appears that instead of building tanks and warplanes, Rosie the Riveter is running around on VH1 trying her damnedest to bang Flavor Flav. What the fuck happened to this country? Thank god Andy Warhol wasn’t around when we were fighting the Nazis. Then we’d all be fucked.
So, at what price are you willing to gain your 15 minutes of fame? If you’re willing to throw yourself all over a D-list celebrity or degrade yourself in any other way on national television then please do the whole world a favor and gain your 15 minutes in a more constructive way. For starters, how about getting eaten by an exotic animal . . . .
I’m not so much upset as to what he did as I am to what he said. Remember that quote, “In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes?” Well it has proved to be all too prophetic and I’m convinced that Andy’s prophecy is contributing to the destruction of America. Bear with me a moment.
The other day I was watching TV and I stumbled across one of VH1’s most popular shows Flavor of Love (part 18 or whatever). For those of you who aren’t familiar with the show, it has a bunch of degenerate women trying to win the love of rapper Flavor Flav – a man who closely resembles a crack addict turned burn victim.
I really wouldn’t have a problem with this show if it didn’t give so much exposure to the ghetto ass, trailer trash, nasty skanks who parade along like they’re hot shit. As a result of this show, socially undesirable nobodies who have probably worked for nothing in their entire lives all of sudden become famous. As millions of people across the world go unnoticed for the important things they contribute to society these whores are enjoying their “15 minutes” and people actually give a shit enough about them to keep watching every week.
Andy Warhol envisioned the horrors of reality television decades before it came into being. He allowed these worthless individuals to gain exposure for doing nothing other than acting completely worthless on television and it absolutely pisses me off.
Now, I know what you’re thinking:
“Andy Warhol’s ‘15 minutes of fame’ didn’t create the mess that is reality television. His quote was simply providing commentary on the nature of pop culture and the attention span of the average American. Reality television was bound to come about with or without Andy Warhol!”
Well, that’s completely wrong and I still think Andy Warhol’s an asshole. You want my counter argument? Haven’t you read the book The Secret? It states that you can create something if you think about it hard enough and believe in it. I’m convinced that Andy Warhol utilized “The Secret” and created reality television by stating that quote and believing in it. So yes, Andy Warhol is directly responsible for the “famous” trash that is being produced by Flavor of Love.
And the bigger problem is that Flavor of Love is not the only reality show that gives exposure to generally worthless individuals. You can’t change the channel without seeing some talent less hack, obnoxious asshole, or dirty whore try to make something out of themselves. It’s like the only thing that people care about these days is gaining exposure and becoming famous. And that’s fucking sad because there are bigger things going on in the world right now other than some talent less hack’s attempt to gain fame. Did anyone care to notice that yesterday marked the 5 year anniversary of the invasion of Iraq?
Honestly, media gives the impression that nobody gives a shit about anything other than themselves. What ever happened to the good old days where we had positive role models in the media like Rosie the Riveter? Well, it appears that instead of building tanks and warplanes, Rosie the Riveter is running around on VH1 trying her damnedest to bang Flavor Flav. What the fuck happened to this country? Thank god Andy Warhol wasn’t around when we were fighting the Nazis. Then we’d all be fucked.
So, at what price are you willing to gain your 15 minutes of fame? If you’re willing to throw yourself all over a D-list celebrity or degrade yourself in any other way on national television then please do the whole world a favor and gain your 15 minutes in a more constructive way. For starters, how about getting eaten by an exotic animal . . . .
Monday, March 3, 2008
What's My Motivation?
I’m going to try to be semi-serious so bear with me for a moment. If you want some smart ass commentary about something then I guess I can provide one quick quip:
Mark my words, MTV will be the downfall of Western Civilization. The girls from The Hills, Tila Tequila, all the posers on the show Next, these people are to society what Mexican food is to the colon.
Now to being serious….
My work life is one big Catch 22. When I’m working all I can think about is my time off and the weekend. Throughout the duration of the work week I zone in and out thinking about how awesome it will be to sleep in, sit around and do nothing, and perhaps go out one night. These tend to be the things that get me through those long days. I don’t hate my job however I’d rather be doing nothing if I could get away with it.
Now for the Catch 22.
Often times on my time off I think about how unfulfilling it is to sit around and waste away. Watching T.V., surfing the internet, and eating Taco Bell aren’t enough to make me feel like a worthy member of society. It’s at this point I start wanting to get back to work. That’s right, I want to get back to work. My job gives me purpose and direction in life and I feel that it separates me from the people who contribute nothing to the world and cheat their way through life, living a shallow existence while being perfectly content with it. By the time Monday rolls around the entire ugly contradicting loop continues.
What the hell is wrong with me? Damn my conscience and good sense for realizing that sitting around and doing nothing doesn’t amount to any purpose. In addition, damn the system that forces me to get a job and work so I can sustain myself and feel like a contributing member or society. It makes sense now why most European states are welfare state. The system makes it okay to do nothing thus allowing the people to feel good about doing nothing. Everyone’s a winner!!
I think I’m rambling at this point because I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some sleep before I work for 8 straight days where I’ll do nothing but think about the empty free time I’ll end up feeling guilty about. Perhaps a little MTV before work will be enough to make me cherish 8 glorious days of work.
Mark my words, MTV will be the downfall of Western Civilization. The girls from The Hills, Tila Tequila, all the posers on the show Next, these people are to society what Mexican food is to the colon.
Now to being serious….
My work life is one big Catch 22. When I’m working all I can think about is my time off and the weekend. Throughout the duration of the work week I zone in and out thinking about how awesome it will be to sleep in, sit around and do nothing, and perhaps go out one night. These tend to be the things that get me through those long days. I don’t hate my job however I’d rather be doing nothing if I could get away with it.
Now for the Catch 22.
Often times on my time off I think about how unfulfilling it is to sit around and waste away. Watching T.V., surfing the internet, and eating Taco Bell aren’t enough to make me feel like a worthy member of society. It’s at this point I start wanting to get back to work. That’s right, I want to get back to work. My job gives me purpose and direction in life and I feel that it separates me from the people who contribute nothing to the world and cheat their way through life, living a shallow existence while being perfectly content with it. By the time Monday rolls around the entire ugly contradicting loop continues.
What the hell is wrong with me? Damn my conscience and good sense for realizing that sitting around and doing nothing doesn’t amount to any purpose. In addition, damn the system that forces me to get a job and work so I can sustain myself and feel like a contributing member or society. It makes sense now why most European states are welfare state. The system makes it okay to do nothing thus allowing the people to feel good about doing nothing. Everyone’s a winner!!
I think I’m rambling at this point because I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some sleep before I work for 8 straight days where I’ll do nothing but think about the empty free time I’ll end up feeling guilty about. Perhaps a little MTV before work will be enough to make me cherish 8 glorious days of work.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Cheetah Girls
Who the hell are the Cheetah Girls? That’s the same question I ask myself every time I bust open a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese Dinner. You see, I’m a single male with piss poor homemaking skills and I eat a shit load of mac & cheese for dinner (this is due to the fact that it’s fast, easy, and most importantly of all, delicious) and every time I get ready to make my mac & cheese, the faces of these dolled out “Cheetah Girls” glare at me from the all too familiar blue box.
At first it really didn’t bother me. It was like, oh look, its some 14 year old girls made up to look like middle of the road jungle themed prostitutes. I’ve seen this before on MTV! And then it got ridiculous. It got ridiculous because my chance to “See the Cheetah Girls Live!” never seemed to end and I didn’t want to see them. I just wanted to stay in denial about my true age and live the childhood dream of a Macaroni & Cheese Dinner! Fuck!
Besides, even if I did want to see the Cheetah Girls live I was too scared to admit this out fear that the whole Cheetah Girl’s advertising campaign was just another plot to catch pedophiles by Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator. The last thing I needed was Chris Hansen materializing out of thin air into my kitchen asking me tough questions like:
“What are you doing here?”
“Why is a grown man eating Macaroni & Cheese Dinner with 14 year old girls on the box?”
“Why are there condoms in your kitchen?”
There had to be a reason as to why these Cheetah Girls never seemed to vanish from my precious blue box and thanks to my primal instinct of fear, I figured it all out. Everything comes down to marketing and it appalls me that, in addition to children, Kraft’s marketing team targets pedophiles with its Blue Box Blues. That’s right, pedophiles. Who else would these no name glamorized pre-pubescent Cheetah Girls appeal to?
What the hell is wrong with you, Kraft? There are plenty of markets out there that are begging for advertisement aimed in their general direction. Single males, Kraft! Single males! We can’t cook. We’re lazy. We’re easily manipulated. Just look at G4TV.
It would be encouraging to at least have some “of age” girls on your box. Or maybe a football or something that screams, “Buy me! Buy me you lonely and bitter single male. It’s the cheesiest!” But, no. You just had to tap into a market that nobody dared to go after. Thanks a lot you sick bastards. Now all the pedophiles out there have something to look at as they suck on succulent morsels of macaroni and cheese. Shame on you Kraft, shame on you . . . .
At first it really didn’t bother me. It was like, oh look, its some 14 year old girls made up to look like middle of the road jungle themed prostitutes. I’ve seen this before on MTV! And then it got ridiculous. It got ridiculous because my chance to “See the Cheetah Girls Live!” never seemed to end and I didn’t want to see them. I just wanted to stay in denial about my true age and live the childhood dream of a Macaroni & Cheese Dinner! Fuck!
Besides, even if I did want to see the Cheetah Girls live I was too scared to admit this out fear that the whole Cheetah Girl’s advertising campaign was just another plot to catch pedophiles by Dateline NBC’s To Catch a Predator. The last thing I needed was Chris Hansen materializing out of thin air into my kitchen asking me tough questions like:
“What are you doing here?”
“Why is a grown man eating Macaroni & Cheese Dinner with 14 year old girls on the box?”
“Why are there condoms in your kitchen?”
There had to be a reason as to why these Cheetah Girls never seemed to vanish from my precious blue box and thanks to my primal instinct of fear, I figured it all out. Everything comes down to marketing and it appalls me that, in addition to children, Kraft’s marketing team targets pedophiles with its Blue Box Blues. That’s right, pedophiles. Who else would these no name glamorized pre-pubescent Cheetah Girls appeal to?
What the hell is wrong with you, Kraft? There are plenty of markets out there that are begging for advertisement aimed in their general direction. Single males, Kraft! Single males! We can’t cook. We’re lazy. We’re easily manipulated. Just look at G4TV.
It would be encouraging to at least have some “of age” girls on your box. Or maybe a football or something that screams, “Buy me! Buy me you lonely and bitter single male. It’s the cheesiest!” But, no. You just had to tap into a market that nobody dared to go after. Thanks a lot you sick bastards. Now all the pedophiles out there have something to look at as they suck on succulent morsels of macaroni and cheese. Shame on you Kraft, shame on you . . . .
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Entitlement Issues
We all have issues. Employees have issues with their jobs, kids have issues with their parents, and most small intestines have issues with Chinese food. I for one have issues with just about every other thing you can think of. I have many issues, because let’s face it, there’s a lot of stupid shit out there that shouldn’t exist/occur/happen to me. One thing I have major issues with are other people’s issues.
Issues creating more issues? What a crazy concept! But not really . . .
You see, when you add issues you get more issues. When you multiply issues you get more issues. When you divide issues you get less issues but I’m not really sure how you would divide issues so that doesn’t count nor contribute to my point anyway. Its simple math and any third grader sufficient at his times tables can understand that other people’s issues piss me off.
This past weekend I was rudely bombarded by somebody else’s issue. Their issue – an entitlement issue.
This issue hit me like a ton of petrified dog shit while I was hanging out at this establishment called the “Pink Pony." What kind of establishment was this, you ask? Just look at the subtlety of the name. If you’re not a fan of subtlety then I suggest you read more and edumacate yourself. I like subtlety. It’s like a smart guy’s puzzle that makes you smarter and feel better than others. But I digress . . .
There I was at the “Pink Pony” enjoying myself when I felt the urge to enjoy myself more, so, naturally I ordered another round of drinks. The waitress served us our drinks and I paid in full and tipped like any good patron would. As opposed to smiling and saying, “thank you,” and then going on her merry way, this bitch decided to stay, shoot me a look meaner than anything I could ever come up with, and give me shit about how much I tipped her.
Now, I hardly ever tip over the standard 15% or $1 per drink, however I never short change someone even if their service is mediocre either. This wench felt entitled to a larger tip and had the nerve to bitch at a paying customer. Her entitlement issue pretty much killed my buzz and created a festering sense of anger that still lingers as I write this.
Who the fuck did this waitress think she was to demand a larger tip? Don’t they call it gratuity for a reason? She was probably showered with gifts a few days prior on Valentine’s Day – gifts she fully expected – and here she was just a couple days later giving me attitude because she felt my tip was not substantial enough. Fuck you, bitch! Who the fuck are you to demand a larger tip? Valentine’s Day – the very bane of my existence – is a day for entitlement, the weekend while I’m trying to unwind from a rough week at work is not. Man, Valentine’s Day is a crock of shit. But I digress again . . .
While my rage boiled over and I tried to find some logic behind this bitch’s actions, it all started to make sense to me. This waitress, like many other individuals, was not beaten as a child. I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t logical at all. But it is. Let me explain.
When you beat your kids the only thing they will ever feel entitled to is a beating because that’s what’s realist to them. Beatings are a bad thing to a child and they will, in time due to their frequency, learn to expect them all the time. When the only thing you feel entitled to is something bad, you learn to fear all that you are entitled to. So, to make the bad feelings go away you learn to feel entitled to nothing. Entitlement is essentially beaten out of the kids.
If you’re still not following me let me break it down into algorithm form:
Kids are entitled to beatings
Beatings are bad
Feeling entitled to anything is bad
Kids don’t like feeling bad
Kids don’t like feeling entitled to anything
There’s your logic. Once again, I am a genius.
Now, to my main point: Everyone is going to have issues but we need to make sure that the sense of entitlement is not one of them. Nobody wants a snooty ass server or bar tender that is going to ruin you’re good time because they feel entitled to something out of you. There’s enough shit out there to bug us already. Accept your tip and spit in the next drink if you’re so pissed off about your tip. There’s subtler ways to get back at someone than to be an outright bitch.
Parents, do society a favor. Beat your kids. Beat the sense of entitlement right out of them and maybe one day, we will live in a world where Valentine’s Day is only a fleeting memory. Did I digress again . . . ?
Issues creating more issues? What a crazy concept! But not really . . .
You see, when you add issues you get more issues. When you multiply issues you get more issues. When you divide issues you get less issues but I’m not really sure how you would divide issues so that doesn’t count nor contribute to my point anyway. Its simple math and any third grader sufficient at his times tables can understand that other people’s issues piss me off.
This past weekend I was rudely bombarded by somebody else’s issue. Their issue – an entitlement issue.
This issue hit me like a ton of petrified dog shit while I was hanging out at this establishment called the “Pink Pony." What kind of establishment was this, you ask? Just look at the subtlety of the name. If you’re not a fan of subtlety then I suggest you read more and edumacate yourself. I like subtlety. It’s like a smart guy’s puzzle that makes you smarter and feel better than others. But I digress . . .
There I was at the “Pink Pony” enjoying myself when I felt the urge to enjoy myself more, so, naturally I ordered another round of drinks. The waitress served us our drinks and I paid in full and tipped like any good patron would. As opposed to smiling and saying, “thank you,” and then going on her merry way, this bitch decided to stay, shoot me a look meaner than anything I could ever come up with, and give me shit about how much I tipped her.
Now, I hardly ever tip over the standard 15% or $1 per drink, however I never short change someone even if their service is mediocre either. This wench felt entitled to a larger tip and had the nerve to bitch at a paying customer. Her entitlement issue pretty much killed my buzz and created a festering sense of anger that still lingers as I write this.
Who the fuck did this waitress think she was to demand a larger tip? Don’t they call it gratuity for a reason? She was probably showered with gifts a few days prior on Valentine’s Day – gifts she fully expected – and here she was just a couple days later giving me attitude because she felt my tip was not substantial enough. Fuck you, bitch! Who the fuck are you to demand a larger tip? Valentine’s Day – the very bane of my existence – is a day for entitlement, the weekend while I’m trying to unwind from a rough week at work is not. Man, Valentine’s Day is a crock of shit. But I digress again . . .
While my rage boiled over and I tried to find some logic behind this bitch’s actions, it all started to make sense to me. This waitress, like many other individuals, was not beaten as a child. I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t logical at all. But it is. Let me explain.
When you beat your kids the only thing they will ever feel entitled to is a beating because that’s what’s realist to them. Beatings are a bad thing to a child and they will, in time due to their frequency, learn to expect them all the time. When the only thing you feel entitled to is something bad, you learn to fear all that you are entitled to. So, to make the bad feelings go away you learn to feel entitled to nothing. Entitlement is essentially beaten out of the kids.
If you’re still not following me let me break it down into algorithm form:
Kids are entitled to beatings
Beatings are bad
Feeling entitled to anything is bad
Kids don’t like feeling bad
Kids don’t like feeling entitled to anything
There’s your logic. Once again, I am a genius.
Now, to my main point: Everyone is going to have issues but we need to make sure that the sense of entitlement is not one of them. Nobody wants a snooty ass server or bar tender that is going to ruin you’re good time because they feel entitled to something out of you. There’s enough shit out there to bug us already. Accept your tip and spit in the next drink if you’re so pissed off about your tip. There’s subtler ways to get back at someone than to be an outright bitch.
Parents, do society a favor. Beat your kids. Beat the sense of entitlement right out of them and maybe one day, we will live in a world where Valentine’s Day is only a fleeting memory. Did I digress again . . . ?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Allure of Douchery
There I was the other day lounging around channel surfing when all of a sudden I found myself fixed on the Fox News Channel watching Bill O’Reilly and then Hannity & Colmes. Although I claim that Fox News is one of the few sources of masculinity out there – which has been scientifically proven – I can’t stand Fox News and its obnoxious conservative pundits like Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity. Despite this, I just sat there watching.
Like a terrible car wreck, or an awful deformity on an individual, I found myself unable to turn away from the network and individuals I claim to loathe so much. I just sat there and watched, even stooping to the low of turning back about every 30 seconds during commercial breaks to make sure I didn’t miss any of Bill’s and later Sean’s words.Despite my inner-self pleading, “No, Faheem! Stop! You hate these guys. They’re fucking annoying and they’re destroying America!” I lacked the inner strength and self respect to just turn the channel. At this point I made a profound discovery:
I am not a hypocrite rather I am just another normal person suffering from an attraction to douchery. The perception out there, especially amongst nice guys, is that women have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. After my transfixion to Fox News and their personifications of douche, I discovered that it is human beings who have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. As a species we have a tough time ignoring people we should logically despise. Think of all those famous douches who should have been written off as socially undesirable yet gained fame, fortune, and power: Hitler, Tom Cruise, King Tut, Grover Cleveland, I could go on.
So, where do we go from here you might ask? How do we as a species fight this? Fuck fighting this; you want to be a more socially attractive person, right? Start acting like more of a douche and I guarantee your social life will greatly improve. I figure if I start acting like a douche not only will I attract more ladies but I will gain more friends as well.
For those of you out there who already think I’m a douche that probably explains why we’re such good friends . . . . .
Like a terrible car wreck, or an awful deformity on an individual, I found myself unable to turn away from the network and individuals I claim to loathe so much. I just sat there and watched, even stooping to the low of turning back about every 30 seconds during commercial breaks to make sure I didn’t miss any of Bill’s and later Sean’s words.Despite my inner-self pleading, “No, Faheem! Stop! You hate these guys. They’re fucking annoying and they’re destroying America!” I lacked the inner strength and self respect to just turn the channel. At this point I made a profound discovery:
I am not a hypocrite rather I am just another normal person suffering from an attraction to douchery. The perception out there, especially amongst nice guys, is that women have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. After my transfixion to Fox News and their personifications of douche, I discovered that it is human beings who have a tendency to be attracted to douche bags. As a species we have a tough time ignoring people we should logically despise. Think of all those famous douches who should have been written off as socially undesirable yet gained fame, fortune, and power: Hitler, Tom Cruise, King Tut, Grover Cleveland, I could go on.
So, where do we go from here you might ask? How do we as a species fight this? Fuck fighting this; you want to be a more socially attractive person, right? Start acting like more of a douche and I guarantee your social life will greatly improve. I figure if I start acting like a douche not only will I attract more ladies but I will gain more friends as well.
For those of you out there who already think I’m a douche that probably explains why we’re such good friends . . . . .
Monday, February 4, 2008
"The Truth" vs. Super Bowl XLII
Last night my brother Screech and I got into yet another argument about the history of the world and the nature of our current establishment. You see, Screech believes that events in history have been dominated by a small group of elites who run everything from our banks to our governments and corporations, and have manipulated many events throughout our history in order to further increase their consolidation of power. Basically, he’s part of the “The government is behind 9/11” crowd.
Despite the fact that I disagree with just about everything my brother has to say regarding these issues, I decided to be open minded and look into some of the stuff he was telling me about. How can I claim to be educated and worldly if I’m not willing to look at other perspectives? Also, how can I provide smart ass commentary on something I think is utter bull shit if I haven’t even seen it yet? I need material, man!
So, I did some searches on Youtube and Wikipedia – sources more scholarly than anything the Harvard library has to offer – and found stuff involving “Zeitgeist,” the “Illuminati,” and the “Free Masons” to name a few. What I gathered from these sources was pretty much everything Screech told me about however there were a few things he failed to tell me. Things I found truly shocking – The shadowy behind the scenes ruling elite are actually reptilian humanoids from the planet Nibiru
(I can’t make this shit up . . . just watch the linked video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_9y1ORPZaw).
What did I learn from these websites, you ask? Not only are the raptors in Jurassic Park smart enough to open doors, they are also smart enough to control our money, run the office of the presidency while successfully hiding their huge talons from the public, and smart enough to execute the attacks of 9/11. It was on Youtube! How can it be false?
Another thing I learned which shocked me and made me a true believer is how the few ruling elite keep the masses in line and unknowledgeable about the truth – Entertainment. Everything from celebrity tabloids, video games, amusement parks, and sports are used as an opiate for the masses in order to keep us blind about the nature of the ruling elite. All of this new information came full circle when I realized that today was Super Bowl XLII. How inconvenient that the day I investigate the truth falls on the same day as one of the biggest entertainment days of the year.
So what did I do when faced with the option of further discovering the truth or taking in the opiate of the Super Bowl? Fuck the truth when you can watch a game like that. God damn, I still have goosebumps just thinking about how intense the last three minutes of that game were. I mean fans on both sides were on the edge of their seats, hearts pounding and palms sweating, waiting to see which team would come out on top. The Giants and Patriots both gave us one hell of a game that the average person would become more ignorant just to watch all over again. A football game like that makes me feel so much more alive than any amount of truth could ever provide.
I still can’t get over Eli’s game changing pass to Tyree or his touchdown pass to Burress in the last minute of the game. Football does not get any better than what I saw tonight. If I can get a game like Super Bowl XLII every year – hell, every five years – I would gladly serve my reptilian overlords. I would go as far as to help them plot conspiracies against an ignorant public. To hell with the truth when I can smoke, snort, and inject all that is football. I love this game! Woooooooooooooo!!!!
Screech, I believe it all. I believe it all because nothing as good as Super Bowl XLII can come without some sort of consequence and/or sacrifice. Raptors, you keep that shit coming and I’ll stay as ignorant as you want me to. Go Giants! Go Football! Go America!!!!
Here’s a link to another source about “The Truth.”
http://zeitgeistmovie.com/
Despite the fact that I disagree with just about everything my brother has to say regarding these issues, I decided to be open minded and look into some of the stuff he was telling me about. How can I claim to be educated and worldly if I’m not willing to look at other perspectives? Also, how can I provide smart ass commentary on something I think is utter bull shit if I haven’t even seen it yet? I need material, man!
So, I did some searches on Youtube and Wikipedia – sources more scholarly than anything the Harvard library has to offer – and found stuff involving “Zeitgeist,” the “Illuminati,” and the “Free Masons” to name a few. What I gathered from these sources was pretty much everything Screech told me about however there were a few things he failed to tell me. Things I found truly shocking – The shadowy behind the scenes ruling elite are actually reptilian humanoids from the planet Nibiru
(I can’t make this shit up . . . just watch the linked video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_9y1ORPZaw).
What did I learn from these websites, you ask? Not only are the raptors in Jurassic Park smart enough to open doors, they are also smart enough to control our money, run the office of the presidency while successfully hiding their huge talons from the public, and smart enough to execute the attacks of 9/11. It was on Youtube! How can it be false?
Another thing I learned which shocked me and made me a true believer is how the few ruling elite keep the masses in line and unknowledgeable about the truth – Entertainment. Everything from celebrity tabloids, video games, amusement parks, and sports are used as an opiate for the masses in order to keep us blind about the nature of the ruling elite. All of this new information came full circle when I realized that today was Super Bowl XLII. How inconvenient that the day I investigate the truth falls on the same day as one of the biggest entertainment days of the year.
So what did I do when faced with the option of further discovering the truth or taking in the opiate of the Super Bowl? Fuck the truth when you can watch a game like that. God damn, I still have goosebumps just thinking about how intense the last three minutes of that game were. I mean fans on both sides were on the edge of their seats, hearts pounding and palms sweating, waiting to see which team would come out on top. The Giants and Patriots both gave us one hell of a game that the average person would become more ignorant just to watch all over again. A football game like that makes me feel so much more alive than any amount of truth could ever provide.
I still can’t get over Eli’s game changing pass to Tyree or his touchdown pass to Burress in the last minute of the game. Football does not get any better than what I saw tonight. If I can get a game like Super Bowl XLII every year – hell, every five years – I would gladly serve my reptilian overlords. I would go as far as to help them plot conspiracies against an ignorant public. To hell with the truth when I can smoke, snort, and inject all that is football. I love this game! Woooooooooooooo!!!!
Screech, I believe it all. I believe it all because nothing as good as Super Bowl XLII can come without some sort of consequence and/or sacrifice. Raptors, you keep that shit coming and I’ll stay as ignorant as you want me to. Go Giants! Go Football! Go America!!!!
Here’s a link to another source about “The Truth.”
http://zeitgeistmovie.com/
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Lessons From Being a 5th Wheel
So a couple of weekends ago I took my first trip to New Orleans, Louisiana. Upon my arrival to Bourbon Street the first thought that came into my mind was, “This is like Vegas on acid.” It was only a matter of liquor and time before the good times began to roll and I found myself assaulted by the debauchery of New Orleans. While I could sift through the drunken haze of this weekend’s memories and probably compile some sort of entertaining story/rant, it would be in bullet form without the continuity required of all comprehensive stories. Here’s just a taste:
- Drank beer and threw beads. Saw boobs.
- Watched a “Citizen’s Arrest” against my friend.
- Talked to girl until she spouted the words, “I’m still in high school.”
I think you get what I’m talking about.
With all things considered, the story I’m about to tell involves an experience I had following such a debacherous night. You see I found myself in quite the awkward predicament the following morning. Get this, I found myself on a double-date in the French Quarters playing the role of the dreaded 5th Wheel. Granted, this was never a plan of mine when the weekend started but I really had no choice considering my ride home was on the date.
You see, my ride, a close friend of mine who I will call Sebastian, and I planned to stay in New Orleans the following day in order to watch the AFC Championship game between the New England Patriots and San Diego Chargers. You see, I’m a firm believer that in order to maintain your masculinity you must intake large doses of Sports Center, Fox News, and most importantly of all, Football. Basically these things will prevent me from turning gay. Debauchery and manliness equal a good weekend, right?
So the audible (you like that manly football reference?) on our plans was called after Sebastian and another guy from our group named Sam met two girls the night prior and ended up going home with them. Now I have nothing against random one night hookups – they’re almost as manly as Fox News – but they need to maintain their key characteristics: random and one night. Sam and Sebastian hung out with these girls the entire next morning partaking in brunch, shopping at a local flea market, and mass. Yes, mass. “Are you serious? That’s fucking retarded,” was my exact response as well.
Now it seemed the girls were going to accompany us while we watched the game. Sebastian said he wanted me to hang out with them because they were cool. And by “hang out” he meant “you tag along” and by “cool” he meant, “I hooked up with this girl and you ain’t got none, bitch!”
After we reunited and I latched on as the super cool 5th Wheel, Sebastian did his best to break the ice and incorporate me into a group in which I didn’t belong nor did I want to belong to. Despite my best efforts to scare the girls off with a cold scowl, I was trapped.
“We found the perfect girl for you,” Sebastian told me – great she’s busted – “The girls’ roommate just broke up with her boyfriend.”
Before I had time to reply and make a comment establishing myself as the asshole wet blanket 5th Wheel, one of the girls quickly chimed in, “Oh, she got back with her boyfriend.”
Seeing how I’m a college accredited graduate and a genius at that, I quickly saw through this girl’s comment – she was an undergrad after all. Through the scientific method, historical analysis, and triple integration I translated this young lady’s comment into, “You’re not even close to meeting my roommate’s standards. You are lame, Lamey McLamerson! Go lamely crawl back to your lame hole and wallow in your lameness.” Great, they hate me, I thought. They hate me before I had the chance to act like an asshole. And I hardly even said anything . . .
So, things are bad, right? Well they only got worse for the 5th Wheel of Lame. As we quickly walked through the French Quarters in search of a Sports Bar, we abruptly stopped in a square filled with palm readers. I began to panic. What the hell are we doing here, I thought. The game had just started and I wasn’t soaking in the rays of a flat screen TV radiating a masculine touchdown pass thrown by Tom Brady. Instead I was surrounded by a bunch of mystical witches whose powers infringed upon my Judeo-Christian upbringing. As the shakes set in, I watched in horror as Sebastian, Sam, and the girls approached one of these masters of Voodoo.
“Can we have our palms read?” asked on of the girls.
“Let’s have our Tarot cards read too!” piped in the other one.
No. No! NO! It can’t be. Was I really going to miss the football game so these girls can have their palms read with their one night stands turned soul mates? I had to do something.
I ran up to the palm reader, knocked her table down, and punched the girl who brought the idea up in the face. I then turned to the other girl and kicked her in the vagina. All of a sudden the palm reader pulled out her mini flat screen TV showing the game and we lived happily ever after.
Okay, none of that really happened although I definitely contemplated it all at the time.
Being the passive aggressive 5th Wheel that I was, I stood there and brooded in a concoction of misery, anger, and estrogen. It can’t take too long, I figured. I’ll stand here for 20 minutes and then I’ll be sitting in a warm bar, beer in hand, watching the game.
Twenty minutes later the palm reader was still on the first palm. My God! I just stood there in utter disbelief watching this heretic cast magic spells on the creases of the palm of a girl I did not want to hang out with. Meanwhile the football game was going on and I was not feeding off the masculine nectar emitted from the flat screen. Never had I imagined someone else’s one night stand could have such dire effects on me. It seemed like the palm reader wanted me to suffer as she took her sweet ass time.
Finally the palm reader finished the first girl. Hoping they all had had their fun I prepared to walk to the bar to watch the game. Wrong! The other girl had to have her palm read now. Once again I stood there in utter disbelief as Sebastian and Sam giddily watched another palm reading. At this point I had had enough and I pleaded to Sebastian that we go find a bar immediately. After all, Sebastian is a huge Patriots fan and I figured he would want to ditch the Wicked Witch of the West and go watch the game.
“This is really cool,” Sebastian told me, “We’ll go after this is all done.”
No! The witch had ensnared Sebastian along with the other three and was holding my masculinity hostage. As I stood there watching this feminine assault on my senses, I felt the masculinity drain from my body. All of a sudden I wanted to have my palm read too. This is fucking bull shit I thought, yet as I continued to miss Brady and the Pats duke it out on the football field my inner-man further subsided. Soon I felt the urge to talk about my feelings, watch “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” and simply cuddle with a nice girl. Shit was not good.
I watched a magic show from another master of the dark arts in the middle of all this but it did not provide the manliness I needed. The palm reader had me in her trance and it was quite possible I was going to have my palm read too. Fortunately for my sense of manhood, the happy couples decided to stop after Sam’s Tarot card reading and we finally made our way to a sports bar to watch the game. Unfortunately, my role as the 5th wheel continued to wear me down.
We entered the bar and I immediately noticed the four flat screen TVs displaying the game in high definition. I felt a wave of testosterone rush back into my body. It looked like I would stay straight after all. While I was certainly thrilled to be watching the game and drinking beer, it was already the middle of the second quarter. I had missed a quarter and a half of the AFC Championship game because the lovebirds just couldn’t stop doing cute things together. Regardless, I was watching the game, drinking beer, and trying to zone out the chatter of the two couples. It worked for awhile but I once again felt my unwelcome presence.
When the bill arrived from the bar we all scrounged around to gather the correct change for our portion of the bill. Sebastian and Sam did not have correct change and went to the ATM to get some money. Being a nice southern girl and all, one of the girls decided to reduce the hassle and pay for the bill herself. However, this happened only after I paid up. When I pulled a $10 bill out of my wallet, she snatched it like I just offered her immortality. At that point I felt like an even bigger douche. It was obvious they wanted me gone yet I couldn’t leave – the game wasn’t even half over. Like Han Solo frozen in carbonite, I just sat there with a look of frozen agony on my face. Boba Fett, Jaba the Hutt, the whole galaxy far far away was out to fuck me.
Eventually we left the bar in search of a cooler hipper one where the couples could get close. As we walked through the French Quarters my world seemed to be coming to an end. Being a 5th Wheel for so long made me forsake the very things that made me a man. I no longer wanted to watch the game. I no longer desired shots of manliness. I just wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and be alone. I had no idea that being a 5th Wheel is just as debilitating to your manhood as getting kicked in the nuts. I thought watching the football game would be an easy fix to what I was feeling but I was dead wrong. Like crystal meth, it was a only temporary fix. I needed a more permanent fix and it appeared that it wasn’t going to happen
I moped into the next bar and quickly ordered a drink. If I was going to be miserable at least I could be drunk and miserable. When all was just about lost I experienced something magical. Something so fantastic it brought me out of my rut and made me forget all about being a 5th Wheel. What saved me you ask? Cougars. Two lovely Cougars who desired a conversation with a man half their age. I managed to strike up a conversation about football with two Cougars on vacation in New Orleans. It was glorious. These Cougars were the Leia to the 5th Wheel encased in carbonite. Talking football with the guys is one thing, but discussing it with Cougars takes it to a whole new level. I immediately felt like a man again and I knew for sure this wasn’t going to be temporary.
And that’s how I discovered the ultimate cure when your manhood is at stake. You see, football can only take you so far. It is the compliment of a lovely 40-something year old Cougar which will sustain your manhood. True manliness comes from hitting on Cougars. I was down in the dumps being a 5th Wheel even after watching some pigskin. But you know, those Cougars really saved the day. So to all those Cougars out there, I salute you. Because you make the world go round and the football spiral, and most importantly of all, you warm the hearts of millions of young men looking for a good time.
You know now that I think about it, the booze also could have helped . . . .
- Drank beer and threw beads. Saw boobs.
- Watched a “Citizen’s Arrest” against my friend.
- Talked to girl until she spouted the words, “I’m still in high school.”
I think you get what I’m talking about.
With all things considered, the story I’m about to tell involves an experience I had following such a debacherous night. You see I found myself in quite the awkward predicament the following morning. Get this, I found myself on a double-date in the French Quarters playing the role of the dreaded 5th Wheel. Granted, this was never a plan of mine when the weekend started but I really had no choice considering my ride home was on the date.
You see, my ride, a close friend of mine who I will call Sebastian, and I planned to stay in New Orleans the following day in order to watch the AFC Championship game between the New England Patriots and San Diego Chargers. You see, I’m a firm believer that in order to maintain your masculinity you must intake large doses of Sports Center, Fox News, and most importantly of all, Football. Basically these things will prevent me from turning gay. Debauchery and manliness equal a good weekend, right?
So the audible (you like that manly football reference?) on our plans was called after Sebastian and another guy from our group named Sam met two girls the night prior and ended up going home with them. Now I have nothing against random one night hookups – they’re almost as manly as Fox News – but they need to maintain their key characteristics: random and one night. Sam and Sebastian hung out with these girls the entire next morning partaking in brunch, shopping at a local flea market, and mass. Yes, mass. “Are you serious? That’s fucking retarded,” was my exact response as well.
Now it seemed the girls were going to accompany us while we watched the game. Sebastian said he wanted me to hang out with them because they were cool. And by “hang out” he meant “you tag along” and by “cool” he meant, “I hooked up with this girl and you ain’t got none, bitch!”
After we reunited and I latched on as the super cool 5th Wheel, Sebastian did his best to break the ice and incorporate me into a group in which I didn’t belong nor did I want to belong to. Despite my best efforts to scare the girls off with a cold scowl, I was trapped.
“We found the perfect girl for you,” Sebastian told me – great she’s busted – “The girls’ roommate just broke up with her boyfriend.”
Before I had time to reply and make a comment establishing myself as the asshole wet blanket 5th Wheel, one of the girls quickly chimed in, “Oh, she got back with her boyfriend.”
Seeing how I’m a college accredited graduate and a genius at that, I quickly saw through this girl’s comment – she was an undergrad after all. Through the scientific method, historical analysis, and triple integration I translated this young lady’s comment into, “You’re not even close to meeting my roommate’s standards. You are lame, Lamey McLamerson! Go lamely crawl back to your lame hole and wallow in your lameness.” Great, they hate me, I thought. They hate me before I had the chance to act like an asshole. And I hardly even said anything . . .
So, things are bad, right? Well they only got worse for the 5th Wheel of Lame. As we quickly walked through the French Quarters in search of a Sports Bar, we abruptly stopped in a square filled with palm readers. I began to panic. What the hell are we doing here, I thought. The game had just started and I wasn’t soaking in the rays of a flat screen TV radiating a masculine touchdown pass thrown by Tom Brady. Instead I was surrounded by a bunch of mystical witches whose powers infringed upon my Judeo-Christian upbringing. As the shakes set in, I watched in horror as Sebastian, Sam, and the girls approached one of these masters of Voodoo.
“Can we have our palms read?” asked on of the girls.
“Let’s have our Tarot cards read too!” piped in the other one.
No. No! NO! It can’t be. Was I really going to miss the football game so these girls can have their palms read with their one night stands turned soul mates? I had to do something.
I ran up to the palm reader, knocked her table down, and punched the girl who brought the idea up in the face. I then turned to the other girl and kicked her in the vagina. All of a sudden the palm reader pulled out her mini flat screen TV showing the game and we lived happily ever after.
Okay, none of that really happened although I definitely contemplated it all at the time.
Being the passive aggressive 5th Wheel that I was, I stood there and brooded in a concoction of misery, anger, and estrogen. It can’t take too long, I figured. I’ll stand here for 20 minutes and then I’ll be sitting in a warm bar, beer in hand, watching the game.
Twenty minutes later the palm reader was still on the first palm. My God! I just stood there in utter disbelief watching this heretic cast magic spells on the creases of the palm of a girl I did not want to hang out with. Meanwhile the football game was going on and I was not feeding off the masculine nectar emitted from the flat screen. Never had I imagined someone else’s one night stand could have such dire effects on me. It seemed like the palm reader wanted me to suffer as she took her sweet ass time.
Finally the palm reader finished the first girl. Hoping they all had had their fun I prepared to walk to the bar to watch the game. Wrong! The other girl had to have her palm read now. Once again I stood there in utter disbelief as Sebastian and Sam giddily watched another palm reading. At this point I had had enough and I pleaded to Sebastian that we go find a bar immediately. After all, Sebastian is a huge Patriots fan and I figured he would want to ditch the Wicked Witch of the West and go watch the game.
“This is really cool,” Sebastian told me, “We’ll go after this is all done.”
No! The witch had ensnared Sebastian along with the other three and was holding my masculinity hostage. As I stood there watching this feminine assault on my senses, I felt the masculinity drain from my body. All of a sudden I wanted to have my palm read too. This is fucking bull shit I thought, yet as I continued to miss Brady and the Pats duke it out on the football field my inner-man further subsided. Soon I felt the urge to talk about my feelings, watch “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” and simply cuddle with a nice girl. Shit was not good.
I watched a magic show from another master of the dark arts in the middle of all this but it did not provide the manliness I needed. The palm reader had me in her trance and it was quite possible I was going to have my palm read too. Fortunately for my sense of manhood, the happy couples decided to stop after Sam’s Tarot card reading and we finally made our way to a sports bar to watch the game. Unfortunately, my role as the 5th wheel continued to wear me down.
We entered the bar and I immediately noticed the four flat screen TVs displaying the game in high definition. I felt a wave of testosterone rush back into my body. It looked like I would stay straight after all. While I was certainly thrilled to be watching the game and drinking beer, it was already the middle of the second quarter. I had missed a quarter and a half of the AFC Championship game because the lovebirds just couldn’t stop doing cute things together. Regardless, I was watching the game, drinking beer, and trying to zone out the chatter of the two couples. It worked for awhile but I once again felt my unwelcome presence.
When the bill arrived from the bar we all scrounged around to gather the correct change for our portion of the bill. Sebastian and Sam did not have correct change and went to the ATM to get some money. Being a nice southern girl and all, one of the girls decided to reduce the hassle and pay for the bill herself. However, this happened only after I paid up. When I pulled a $10 bill out of my wallet, she snatched it like I just offered her immortality. At that point I felt like an even bigger douche. It was obvious they wanted me gone yet I couldn’t leave – the game wasn’t even half over. Like Han Solo frozen in carbonite, I just sat there with a look of frozen agony on my face. Boba Fett, Jaba the Hutt, the whole galaxy far far away was out to fuck me.
Eventually we left the bar in search of a cooler hipper one where the couples could get close. As we walked through the French Quarters my world seemed to be coming to an end. Being a 5th Wheel for so long made me forsake the very things that made me a man. I no longer wanted to watch the game. I no longer desired shots of manliness. I just wanted to go home, crawl under the covers, and be alone. I had no idea that being a 5th Wheel is just as debilitating to your manhood as getting kicked in the nuts. I thought watching the football game would be an easy fix to what I was feeling but I was dead wrong. Like crystal meth, it was a only temporary fix. I needed a more permanent fix and it appeared that it wasn’t going to happen
I moped into the next bar and quickly ordered a drink. If I was going to be miserable at least I could be drunk and miserable. When all was just about lost I experienced something magical. Something so fantastic it brought me out of my rut and made me forget all about being a 5th Wheel. What saved me you ask? Cougars. Two lovely Cougars who desired a conversation with a man half their age. I managed to strike up a conversation about football with two Cougars on vacation in New Orleans. It was glorious. These Cougars were the Leia to the 5th Wheel encased in carbonite. Talking football with the guys is one thing, but discussing it with Cougars takes it to a whole new level. I immediately felt like a man again and I knew for sure this wasn’t going to be temporary.
And that’s how I discovered the ultimate cure when your manhood is at stake. You see, football can only take you so far. It is the compliment of a lovely 40-something year old Cougar which will sustain your manhood. True manliness comes from hitting on Cougars. I was down in the dumps being a 5th Wheel even after watching some pigskin. But you know, those Cougars really saved the day. So to all those Cougars out there, I salute you. Because you make the world go round and the football spiral, and most importantly of all, you warm the hearts of millions of young men looking for a good time.
You know now that I think about it, the booze also could have helped . . . .
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