Wednesday, May 26, 2004
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Truth - the anti-faith
Last year my switch-hitting mother-in-law and her last lesbian friend came to visit over the holidays. Normally, this is the kind of thing that is reserved for National Lampoon's but it happened to me in real life. Oddly enough, it included a Vegas vacation. Nina and I were stomping the shit out of whatever asian blackjack dealer was feeding me aces when we got the call to go pick them up. This pissed me off because the airport is about ten minutes from the hotel and I was getting ready to buy the whole fucking place. But after circling the terminal three times we saw them standing around like hobos.
After arriving at the hotel, we watched them unpack. I would much rather have been watching this than the topless review down the boulevard. But I did have my attention caught when Marcia (mother-in-law) told us about the music box that Linda (man-with-tits (sorta)) was carrying. You see the music box was endowed with Linda's dead mother's spirit. And on occasion it would play a note or two despite being broken. This was the work of Linda's dead mother trying to ease her troubled daughter's mind. What it was not was the logical result of a wound up music box after two hours of being handled by airport personnel and three hours in the high pressure cargo cabin of the airplane. Every time this ceramic chunk of shit would sound off a flat C-sharp everyone would freeze in amazement and Linda would get this knowing grin on her face like mom just sent her a personalized telegram from beyond.
Seeing as how it was Vegas and Nina didn't want me ruining the very spiritual structure of yet another ghost-believing moron, the whole ghost in the box issue was avoided. But once we got home the music box was set up on my entertainment center, which is as close as I could come to a center mantlepiece in my shitty apartment. Now the white, untuned, pinging box would randomly put a halt to whatever we were doing like watching my movies, or playing my games, or drinking my vodka while hating my guests.
But hey it's the holidays, right? I can hold in my desire to shred another dimwit's belief in ghosts with logic for a few days. But then came our friend and neighbor Vanessa. Vanessa believes in ghosts. In fact, pretty much anything that isn't immediately understood must be attributable to paranormal intervention. So I'm on my fifth shot of Absolut when she sits on my couch and extends her hand into the air toward the music box as though it were some antenna to the dead. She says that she has a very fine-tuned sense of "these things". Now Mr. Alcohol finally decided to step in with the kind of erupting laughter that could only come from three days of failing to call bullshit by its true name. Immediately after this, I beacame aware that my wife was pinching my supersexy love handle to let me know that this behavior was inappropriate. I clammed up. In my own house. And resolved that you can lead a human mind to evolution but you can't make it think.
People, can all just please agree that there is a logical explanation for everything that happens and let it be? No, you can't sense ghosts. And no, your mother didn't turn the wheel on the music box. I thought I might of heard a ping or two while it was in the other room in Linda's luggage. Was that mommy letting the socks know that it's going to be ok? Even if ghosts do exist, do you honestly believe that they would be hanging around in a music box? And if they could affect change in the physical world like turning a music box crank, why not just lift a marker and write "Linda, wear some fucking foundation!" on the wall? Why do ghosts only speak in symbolism? You'd think if they only get the odd opportunity to say something they'd just fucking blurt it out.
You believers boggle me with your baseless faith. At least religion admits that it's all a leap of faith into that which is promised and unproven. But you "spiritual" people just believe in SPITE of logic, and are usually raging against whatever religious beliefs they were raised with. But this is a moot point, because I've obviously never been touched by a spirit in unrest. I've heard that one before too. It came straight out of David Koresh's "How to Sound Like an Imbicile and Recruit Your Friends". When I die, I'm going to take the opportunities I get to give my family members and friends projectile diarrhea. there's your statement from the grave right there.
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After arriving at the hotel, we watched them unpack. I would much rather have been watching this than the topless review down the boulevard. But I did have my attention caught when Marcia (mother-in-law) told us about the music box that Linda (man-with-tits (sorta)) was carrying. You see the music box was endowed with Linda's dead mother's spirit. And on occasion it would play a note or two despite being broken. This was the work of Linda's dead mother trying to ease her troubled daughter's mind. What it was not was the logical result of a wound up music box after two hours of being handled by airport personnel and three hours in the high pressure cargo cabin of the airplane. Every time this ceramic chunk of shit would sound off a flat C-sharp everyone would freeze in amazement and Linda would get this knowing grin on her face like mom just sent her a personalized telegram from beyond.
Seeing as how it was Vegas and Nina didn't want me ruining the very spiritual structure of yet another ghost-believing moron, the whole ghost in the box issue was avoided. But once we got home the music box was set up on my entertainment center, which is as close as I could come to a center mantlepiece in my shitty apartment. Now the white, untuned, pinging box would randomly put a halt to whatever we were doing like watching my movies, or playing my games, or drinking my vodka while hating my guests.
But hey it's the holidays, right? I can hold in my desire to shred another dimwit's belief in ghosts with logic for a few days. But then came our friend and neighbor Vanessa. Vanessa believes in ghosts. In fact, pretty much anything that isn't immediately understood must be attributable to paranormal intervention. So I'm on my fifth shot of Absolut when she sits on my couch and extends her hand into the air toward the music box as though it were some antenna to the dead. She says that she has a very fine-tuned sense of "these things". Now Mr. Alcohol finally decided to step in with the kind of erupting laughter that could only come from three days of failing to call bullshit by its true name. Immediately after this, I beacame aware that my wife was pinching my supersexy love handle to let me know that this behavior was inappropriate. I clammed up. In my own house. And resolved that you can lead a human mind to evolution but you can't make it think.
People, can all just please agree that there is a logical explanation for everything that happens and let it be? No, you can't sense ghosts. And no, your mother didn't turn the wheel on the music box. I thought I might of heard a ping or two while it was in the other room in Linda's luggage. Was that mommy letting the socks know that it's going to be ok? Even if ghosts do exist, do you honestly believe that they would be hanging around in a music box? And if they could affect change in the physical world like turning a music box crank, why not just lift a marker and write "Linda, wear some fucking foundation!" on the wall? Why do ghosts only speak in symbolism? You'd think if they only get the odd opportunity to say something they'd just fucking blurt it out.
You believers boggle me with your baseless faith. At least religion admits that it's all a leap of faith into that which is promised and unproven. But you "spiritual" people just believe in SPITE of logic, and are usually raging against whatever religious beliefs they were raised with. But this is a moot point, because I've obviously never been touched by a spirit in unrest. I've heard that one before too. It came straight out of David Koresh's "How to Sound Like an Imbicile and Recruit Your Friends". When I die, I'm going to take the opportunities I get to give my family members and friends projectile diarrhea. there's your statement from the grave right there.
"Honey, I want to fuck other people."
Can you even imagine what would happen should a man who is dissatisfied with his current relationship express this level of honesty to his wife? We all know men who have cheated. Some of them treat it as a routine act. And yet the infidelity is amost always left to the wife to discover. Why is this? If my wife isn't having sex with me enough, I tell her. If it got bad enough that I thought of cheating on her I'd let her know.
Think about it if the roles were reversed. Let's say your wife is feeling a bit unappreciated. you've been working more hours than previously. You've been stressed and expecting more from her in the wife role, but not as a friend or lover. It happens. So now she's depressed and crying to her girlfriends. She starts leaving you little hints like pointing out the really cute guy on TV or standing up for a cheating friend or cheating woman in a news story. You're a man, so the hints are like Sanscrit.
Now things have reached the point of decision. You're oblivious to the fact that she's completely unsatisfied. She's horny and lonely. And chances are she's been introduced to some new guy who may or may not be married himself. He's nice enough, listens to her like you used to, and gives feedback. Now she knows she can do it. She still loves you, but her hormones are blocking logic like it does with a man. She's decided. She's wants to try the affair.
Isn't this something you'd kind of want to know about before it happens? How would you react? Would you yell at her for being a cheating slut (even though she hasn't cheated yet)? Would you demand to know who this asshole is so that you can cut his nuts off? Would you end the relationship? Would you start crying and smashing dinner plates? Or would you sit down in disbelief and finally open your eyes to the fact that your wife has been neglected and needs to me reinstituted as your number one priority.
I think that most of us would choose the last option despite how we might be tempted to do all the rest. Our egos might tell us that we'd get all bold and not put up with that kind of shit from our woman. But in the end, we love her right back and want to rekindle what was once the reason for going through all that stress.
So why are women so different. Sure their emotions can cuase them to act crazy, and maybe not take the news so well. But one of the great things about women is that they know just how insane their emotions make them. And after a while, most will stop and wonder what they did wrong to cause this situation. If she receives that pre-cheating warning from you, she'll probably be able to understand (within 72 hours or so) that you didn't have to tell her. And that will mean something. And sometimes, one act of consideration is all it takes to get to get her back in gear and earn her man's fidelity.
And if it doesn't work out that she's intelligent enough to figure out that she's as much to blame for your intended straying as you are, then you can dump her outright feeling proud of yourself for taking the honest road. Hell there'll even be that other woman there to rebound too. It seems to me that in the face of infidelity, honesty is the way to a happy ending. She'll either get serious about pleasing you, lose her mind and send you into the arms of another, or start talking threesome. You can't deny that the logic is a powerful one.
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Think about it if the roles were reversed. Let's say your wife is feeling a bit unappreciated. you've been working more hours than previously. You've been stressed and expecting more from her in the wife role, but not as a friend or lover. It happens. So now she's depressed and crying to her girlfriends. She starts leaving you little hints like pointing out the really cute guy on TV or standing up for a cheating friend or cheating woman in a news story. You're a man, so the hints are like Sanscrit.
Now things have reached the point of decision. You're oblivious to the fact that she's completely unsatisfied. She's horny and lonely. And chances are she's been introduced to some new guy who may or may not be married himself. He's nice enough, listens to her like you used to, and gives feedback. Now she knows she can do it. She still loves you, but her hormones are blocking logic like it does with a man. She's decided. She's wants to try the affair.
Isn't this something you'd kind of want to know about before it happens? How would you react? Would you yell at her for being a cheating slut (even though she hasn't cheated yet)? Would you demand to know who this asshole is so that you can cut his nuts off? Would you end the relationship? Would you start crying and smashing dinner plates? Or would you sit down in disbelief and finally open your eyes to the fact that your wife has been neglected and needs to me reinstituted as your number one priority.
I think that most of us would choose the last option despite how we might be tempted to do all the rest. Our egos might tell us that we'd get all bold and not put up with that kind of shit from our woman. But in the end, we love her right back and want to rekindle what was once the reason for going through all that stress.
So why are women so different. Sure their emotions can cuase them to act crazy, and maybe not take the news so well. But one of the great things about women is that they know just how insane their emotions make them. And after a while, most will stop and wonder what they did wrong to cause this situation. If she receives that pre-cheating warning from you, she'll probably be able to understand (within 72 hours or so) that you didn't have to tell her. And that will mean something. And sometimes, one act of consideration is all it takes to get to get her back in gear and earn her man's fidelity.
And if it doesn't work out that she's intelligent enough to figure out that she's as much to blame for your intended straying as you are, then you can dump her outright feeling proud of yourself for taking the honest road. Hell there'll even be that other woman there to rebound too. It seems to me that in the face of infidelity, honesty is the way to a happy ending. She'll either get serious about pleasing you, lose her mind and send you into the arms of another, or start talking threesome. You can't deny that the logic is a powerful one.
Monday, May 24, 2004
I am becoming that which I most despise
Guys, you remember back in sixth grade when you and your few good friends would do basically anything they could to disgust each other? Those were the times! It was a magical era when a well timed fart and the odd snot-rocket were all the comical prowess one needed to become the alpha male. While the farts are still a classic, especially in an office environment, there's no doubt that the purity and sheer joy of the gross-out has fallen to the monotony and abasement of begging for sex.
Fortunately for me, Nina hasn't realized that the hypnotist never did remove the "drop trou and bend over when I say Crenshaw crackhead" command, so I'm up to my neck in trim. But it wasn't always so. There was once a time when I longed for nothing more than to meet up in the woods so that my boys and I could look at the dead frog. The nostalgia is getting me misty.
You see, these days the friends of this kind are harder to come by. Most guys in their late twenties are married, and those that aren't, while still good for the fart gag, are working their hardest to become married. Ladies, you heard right. Men do want desparately to get married. They just don't want to marry you. Now stop crying and leave my blog.
With the shortage of gross-out pals I've been forced to resort to fanning the flames alone. But since I can feel basically every disgusting bodily noise or gas release coming on none of it yields the true vomitous glory of those days past. Hard times. Definitely hard times. So what does one do to disgust oneself when one is left without others to disgust? Ah, of course:
BECOME A BUSINESSMAN!
Holy shit, this has got to be the most ingenious idea I've had since the cotton gin. I'll become a grounded, jargon spewing, wheeling and dealing, palm pressing, soulless contributor to the industry of business. And as each year passes I look in the mirror and feel true horror. It's disgust in its purest form to see a reflection of myself and say "Let me take that action item and contact you by C.O.B. tomorrow." Twelve-year-old Mike would be thrilled to see this level of wretchedness.
And as I pass my brethren of fellow deal-makers in the halls of whatever building I'm in every day I can spot that glint in the eye of the living. It's the acknowledgement that we are all just little kids waiting for our opportunity to be welcomed into the circle of gross-out legend. Hasn't anyone ever wondered why Donald Trump's hair looks like it's ripped off the corpse of an Elvis impersonator? It's because it's ripped off the corpse of an Elvis impersonator! He gets it, and we're not alone. With every meeting and each business card slipped in a handshake the nausea grows. And one day when the comedic gross-outometer is pegged to the red, we will all look up, puke ourselves into coronaries and choke to death on the laughter of having lived out the truest abomination ever created.
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Fortunately for me, Nina hasn't realized that the hypnotist never did remove the "drop trou and bend over when I say Crenshaw crackhead" command, so I'm up to my neck in trim. But it wasn't always so. There was once a time when I longed for nothing more than to meet up in the woods so that my boys and I could look at the dead frog. The nostalgia is getting me misty.
You see, these days the friends of this kind are harder to come by. Most guys in their late twenties are married, and those that aren't, while still good for the fart gag, are working their hardest to become married. Ladies, you heard right. Men do want desparately to get married. They just don't want to marry you. Now stop crying and leave my blog.
With the shortage of gross-out pals I've been forced to resort to fanning the flames alone. But since I can feel basically every disgusting bodily noise or gas release coming on none of it yields the true vomitous glory of those days past. Hard times. Definitely hard times. So what does one do to disgust oneself when one is left without others to disgust? Ah, of course:
BECOME A BUSINESSMAN!
Holy shit, this has got to be the most ingenious idea I've had since the cotton gin. I'll become a grounded, jargon spewing, wheeling and dealing, palm pressing, soulless contributor to the industry of business. And as each year passes I look in the mirror and feel true horror. It's disgust in its purest form to see a reflection of myself and say "Let me take that action item and contact you by C.O.B. tomorrow." Twelve-year-old Mike would be thrilled to see this level of wretchedness.
And as I pass my brethren of fellow deal-makers in the halls of whatever building I'm in every day I can spot that glint in the eye of the living. It's the acknowledgement that we are all just little kids waiting for our opportunity to be welcomed into the circle of gross-out legend. Hasn't anyone ever wondered why Donald Trump's hair looks like it's ripped off the corpse of an Elvis impersonator? It's because it's ripped off the corpse of an Elvis impersonator! He gets it, and we're not alone. With every meeting and each business card slipped in a handshake the nausea grows. And one day when the comedic gross-outometer is pegged to the red, we will all look up, puke ourselves into coronaries and choke to death on the laughter of having lived out the truest abomination ever created.
Hey, my grandma's dead too!
So one of my coworkers had a recent loss in the family, namely his grandmother. So he takes the allowed two business days off to grieve the loss and is supposed to return to work the following Monday. This means that grams was nice enough to pass on a Wednesday sometime allowing the survivors to take off the following Thursday and Friday, giving them a long weekend. Way to go grammy!
Except Monday came and went and nobody had heard from him. No call, no show. So we all decided that he must have been especially close to his grandmother. I think black men tend to be far more attatched emotionally to their mothers and grandmothers than most other races. personally, I saw my grandma's death coming a mile away. I mean she was damn near 70 and never did anything healthy in her life, people. Where's the shock here? Then comes Tuesday. Then Wednesday. This guy must really be suffering. I mean he's lost all ability to so much as use a phone and call his office.
Now I'm signing this bullshit "sorry you had to be reminded you're mortal" cards with each of my coworkers. I hate these things. It's like, "Hey Mike sorry about the pain you're in. Here's a shitty card we printed off of some shitty card making website. And look, we all signed it so you know it's heartfelt. Now get back to work".
Thursday has arrived and people are getting nervous. The question being asked is if anyone thinks he's going to come back. How is this even a question at this point? The man has been a no call, no show for four straight days. in the Army he'd have been hunted down, raped with a buck knife and shot five times for desertion. And he'd have deserved it because he should have been on the battlefield to stop an enemy's bullet from scratching their eight million dollar tank. Traitors are such selfish assholes.
Friday, people. Friday. Now we're coming to the realization that our beloved cart pusher might have abandoned us. Now comes the fun part, like rummaging through his desk and seeing what kind of illegal shit he had on his computer. What I love best is when the people who worked next to this guy for over a year start arguing over who gets the tape dispenser. American humanity at its finest.
And after work he calls me to say goodbye. Nobody has heard from this cat for over a week and we were all prepared to do our little solumn "I was sorry to hear about your loss". And in an office like this one, that's like admitting you're wrong. So he's calling me to tell me that he enjoyed working with me and that he hopes to see me outside of work. I never hung out with this guy. He's that really really black skinny guy who wants you to know how ghetto he is, though he's about as thug as Ernie singing "Rubber Ducky". And whenever I'm around him I'm supposed to play the role of that corny honkey who doesn't understand his ghetto reality. Black men, stop doing that! It's lame and old and it perpetuates only your stereotypes, not mine.
Apparantly, the loss of grandma was enough to tell him that he would be better off if he just up and quit his job without supplamental employment or any other way of feeding his daughter. Shit, that's deep. When my grandma died, I just wanted to know if I was going to get any money from the will or at least some sympathy pussy. Maybe I'm the shallow one, but I'll be the shallow honkey with a job.
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Except Monday came and went and nobody had heard from him. No call, no show. So we all decided that he must have been especially close to his grandmother. I think black men tend to be far more attatched emotionally to their mothers and grandmothers than most other races. personally, I saw my grandma's death coming a mile away. I mean she was damn near 70 and never did anything healthy in her life, people. Where's the shock here? Then comes Tuesday. Then Wednesday. This guy must really be suffering. I mean he's lost all ability to so much as use a phone and call his office.
Now I'm signing this bullshit "sorry you had to be reminded you're mortal" cards with each of my coworkers. I hate these things. It's like, "Hey Mike sorry about the pain you're in. Here's a shitty card we printed off of some shitty card making website. And look, we all signed it so you know it's heartfelt. Now get back to work".
Thursday has arrived and people are getting nervous. The question being asked is if anyone thinks he's going to come back. How is this even a question at this point? The man has been a no call, no show for four straight days. in the Army he'd have been hunted down, raped with a buck knife and shot five times for desertion. And he'd have deserved it because he should have been on the battlefield to stop an enemy's bullet from scratching their eight million dollar tank. Traitors are such selfish assholes.
Friday, people. Friday. Now we're coming to the realization that our beloved cart pusher might have abandoned us. Now comes the fun part, like rummaging through his desk and seeing what kind of illegal shit he had on his computer. What I love best is when the people who worked next to this guy for over a year start arguing over who gets the tape dispenser. American humanity at its finest.
And after work he calls me to say goodbye. Nobody has heard from this cat for over a week and we were all prepared to do our little solumn "I was sorry to hear about your loss". And in an office like this one, that's like admitting you're wrong. So he's calling me to tell me that he enjoyed working with me and that he hopes to see me outside of work. I never hung out with this guy. He's that really really black skinny guy who wants you to know how ghetto he is, though he's about as thug as Ernie singing "Rubber Ducky". And whenever I'm around him I'm supposed to play the role of that corny honkey who doesn't understand his ghetto reality. Black men, stop doing that! It's lame and old and it perpetuates only your stereotypes, not mine.
Apparantly, the loss of grandma was enough to tell him that he would be better off if he just up and quit his job without supplamental employment or any other way of feeding his daughter. Shit, that's deep. When my grandma died, I just wanted to know if I was going to get any money from the will or at least some sympathy pussy. Maybe I'm the shallow one, but I'll be the shallow honkey with a job.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Monica, muse for the sick and twisted
Since watching the trainwreck that is Matrix Revolutions I have been taking an interest in the actors that allowed such a brilliant idea to be turned so perfectly into a 129-minute shitstorm. Obviously the actors are being paid to do their jobs, but didn't it occur to a single one of them to raise their hand and say "Excuse me everyone. has anyone else noticed that the only way we could make this movie worse is by having serin gas pumped into the theaters?" I wouldn't expect such a display from Keanu, but come on Laurence, you were in Apocolypse Now! for God's sake.
After watching a film that leaves a stain on my very soul like this, I need to investigate the actors to see if they have fallen from grace properly or just grabbed at perhaps their only shot at a big budget event. Among the cast that I googled: Monica Bellucci (aka Persephone the lonely, bisexual dataslut).
It seems that Monica has become something of a modern Bridgett Bardot in her homeland of Italy. And with her star on the rise I looked up some other films I may have seen her in. one of these movies she was in that had an immense amount of controversy associated was Irreversible. So, being the film buff and general purpose genius that I am I watched it. This has to be one of the bravest, most intense actresses of our time. In the film, there is a rape scene that must last ten minutes in a single take. It is the most violent and disturbing scene of its kind I have ever witnessed. I actually covered my eyes, and this comes from a man that watched 'Man Bites Dog' for its cinematic value.
After watching this poor woman get violated and killed with the kind of realism that had the popcorning threatening to come back to the bucket I got to thinking about all of the sick fuckers out there who would be jerking off to a scene like this. And we all know that they're out there. Lonely, frustrated gamma males who lack the ability to focus their aggression toward healthy ends like football or jackknifing their car off of a bridge into the cold waters of icy death.
After a little surfing I realized that these rape-fantasy groups exist all over the world. And more suprising is the number of women who are advertising for an open man-handler position. They set up the scene, talk out what's they're doing and then arrange to act it out. What's wrong with you women? Isn't it enough that you have to deal with being smaller and weaker than men, with fewer options and less pay? Aren't you dejected enough by the sheer truth that the natural urge to reproduce mandates that you allow your body to be penetrated and thrust upon? Apparantly not. it would seem that some of you ladies of lesser intellect are just not satisfied unless you get the opportunity to play hapless victim for a few minutes with a would-be murderer who can't get laid without his ether.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of these bleeding heart male feminists. Far from it. The motto is "I'm a man, therefore I win". But let's keep the rules even here, humans. When a man is proving to be a detriment to the cause, we eliminate him. It's simple and it keeps us lean for the fight. Women, if you don't start cutting loose the crazy ones who perpetuate everything you're standing against you're going to end up back in corsets. And not the cute, fashionable kind either, but the ugly, breath restricting, tit-squshing reminders that despite equal recognition you have opted for the category of subhuman manslave. And that is more disturbing than even the most vile of rape scenes on film.
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After watching a film that leaves a stain on my very soul like this, I need to investigate the actors to see if they have fallen from grace properly or just grabbed at perhaps their only shot at a big budget event. Among the cast that I googled: Monica Bellucci (aka Persephone the lonely, bisexual dataslut).
It seems that Monica has become something of a modern Bridgett Bardot in her homeland of Italy. And with her star on the rise I looked up some other films I may have seen her in. one of these movies she was in that had an immense amount of controversy associated was Irreversible. So, being the film buff and general purpose genius that I am I watched it. This has to be one of the bravest, most intense actresses of our time. In the film, there is a rape scene that must last ten minutes in a single take. It is the most violent and disturbing scene of its kind I have ever witnessed. I actually covered my eyes, and this comes from a man that watched 'Man Bites Dog' for its cinematic value.
After watching this poor woman get violated and killed with the kind of realism that had the popcorning threatening to come back to the bucket I got to thinking about all of the sick fuckers out there who would be jerking off to a scene like this. And we all know that they're out there. Lonely, frustrated gamma males who lack the ability to focus their aggression toward healthy ends like football or jackknifing their car off of a bridge into the cold waters of icy death.
After a little surfing I realized that these rape-fantasy groups exist all over the world. And more suprising is the number of women who are advertising for an open man-handler position. They set up the scene, talk out what's they're doing and then arrange to act it out. What's wrong with you women? Isn't it enough that you have to deal with being smaller and weaker than men, with fewer options and less pay? Aren't you dejected enough by the sheer truth that the natural urge to reproduce mandates that you allow your body to be penetrated and thrust upon? Apparantly not. it would seem that some of you ladies of lesser intellect are just not satisfied unless you get the opportunity to play hapless victim for a few minutes with a would-be murderer who can't get laid without his ether.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not one of these bleeding heart male feminists. Far from it. The motto is "I'm a man, therefore I win". But let's keep the rules even here, humans. When a man is proving to be a detriment to the cause, we eliminate him. It's simple and it keeps us lean for the fight. Women, if you don't start cutting loose the crazy ones who perpetuate everything you're standing against you're going to end up back in corsets. And not the cute, fashionable kind either, but the ugly, breath restricting, tit-squshing reminders that despite equal recognition you have opted for the category of subhuman manslave. And that is more disturbing than even the most vile of rape scenes on film.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
You're the vulgarian, you fuck!
You know despite the stupidity, bad clothes, philosophy reading, and getting run over by a steamroller thing, there's a part of me that really identifies with Otto from "A Fish Called Wanda". I think it's the whole killing people and calling everyone an asshole thing.
We all have days like this, when you walk in feeling perfectly fine. You know, one of those moods that makes you want to cheer up those around you who have lost sight of the beauty of life. And then. Well you know what happens. It only takes one comment from the wrong person to turn it all around. And I don't mean wrong comment like "you're fired" or "boss, I'm pregnant" but something along the lines of "sometimes I wonder if you guys even know what your jobs are". This is by no means a major hit, but it presses the ignition button on the rage rocket inside of you. The joy of living is gone and has been fully replaced with a firm desire to disembowel your peers with a spork.
What causes these sudden changes in our moods? Of course, we are all affected by the steady barrage of bad encounters, but what is it that flips the needle from great guy to spawn-of-the-dark-lord-Beezelbub in a single sentence? Perhaps it's just the stress. Maybe I I still have latent memories of last night's dream where my wife gets fifth based by my best friend. Whatever the cause, it can be a disturbing experience.
However, it seems to me that the results are not all bad. As long as your quality of work is up to par, there's really nothing wrong with being the guy most likely to bring in the shotgun. Somebody in every office has to be that guy. I mean understanding that most people are perfectly content with pigeon-holing those around them into cliched stereotypes, there are definite advantages to being the one who could blow at any moment. For instance, the rate of rejects on actions you request dives well below the norm. Also, you don't have to put up with the mindless banter of your coworkers. Do they really want you to know that they have a gas leak in their house or what school their kids attend. you're crazy remember? And it's virtually guaranteed that you won't be invited to any annoying coworker weekend cookouts.
So on second thought, let those tempres flare, America. If the current administration has taught us anything, it's that sometimes, cooler heads don't prevail. And who am I to argue with the morals displayed by those appointed over us? Exactly.
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We all have days like this, when you walk in feeling perfectly fine. You know, one of those moods that makes you want to cheer up those around you who have lost sight of the beauty of life. And then. Well you know what happens. It only takes one comment from the wrong person to turn it all around. And I don't mean wrong comment like "you're fired" or "boss, I'm pregnant" but something along the lines of "sometimes I wonder if you guys even know what your jobs are". This is by no means a major hit, but it presses the ignition button on the rage rocket inside of you. The joy of living is gone and has been fully replaced with a firm desire to disembowel your peers with a spork.
What causes these sudden changes in our moods? Of course, we are all affected by the steady barrage of bad encounters, but what is it that flips the needle from great guy to spawn-of-the-dark-lord-Beezelbub in a single sentence? Perhaps it's just the stress. Maybe I I still have latent memories of last night's dream where my wife gets fifth based by my best friend. Whatever the cause, it can be a disturbing experience.
However, it seems to me that the results are not all bad. As long as your quality of work is up to par, there's really nothing wrong with being the guy most likely to bring in the shotgun. Somebody in every office has to be that guy. I mean understanding that most people are perfectly content with pigeon-holing those around them into cliched stereotypes, there are definite advantages to being the one who could blow at any moment. For instance, the rate of rejects on actions you request dives well below the norm. Also, you don't have to put up with the mindless banter of your coworkers. Do they really want you to know that they have a gas leak in their house or what school their kids attend. you're crazy remember? And it's virtually guaranteed that you won't be invited to any annoying coworker weekend cookouts.
So on second thought, let those tempres flare, America. If the current administration has taught us anything, it's that sometimes, cooler heads don't prevail. And who am I to argue with the morals displayed by those appointed over us? Exactly.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Holy shit, I'm politically active!
A few weeks ago Nina and I were blissfully watching the Diamondbacks take another trouncing in our pajamas when there was a knock at the door. Looking through the peephole I thought that I had been the victim of my first prank knock since nobody was outside. But after opening the door I found that I was merely the victim of yet another flyer distribution. But something was different. This guy felt that the flyer was important enough to warrant a rap on my door. Looking at the flyer I saw that we were being called to a community meeting to discuss the effort to incorporate the desert land containing my beautiful home into its own city: The city of San Tan, Arizona.
I personally didn't feel like being pulled away from my rented season of Sex and the City, but Nina thought we should check it out and get the unbiased facts. So at 5:00 we converged on the house that was hosting this little session Erin Brockavich style. After a brief introduction and thanks for attendance we were passed off on the man who is heading up the effort to incorporate my desert oasis. After about ten minutes I could sense the rest of the crowd being lulled into a trance at the very thought of involving themselves in something as big as...incorporation. But I wasn't fooled. this windbag answered no questions, insulted his opposition and lauded himself for bearing this cross for us that nobody asked him to bear. So as he ended his 90-minute pointless tirade Nina and I filed out through the line of hypnotised petition signers and decided to get involved...for the other team.
To achieve recognition of the petition for incorporation, the petition needs to have the signitures of two thirds of the registered voters in the area. But out of the 20,000 people living in our communities, only about 2,000 are registered to vote. This means that 1,334 people get to make a decision for 20,000 residents! Well daddy ain't about to let the man slip in and grab this land from under his nose. Nina and I are just going to have to create more voters. In the incorporation meeting, dickbrain asked that if we don't sign the petition to please above all else do NOT register to vote. That would increase the number of signitures they would need. ALARM! ALARM! Whatever we do, don't register to vote so that fewer people can make the decision for the whole?!? i don't bloody think so!
So we're setting up booths and tables and registering as many 18 and over residents as humanly possible over the next few weeks. And by humanly possible, I mean during our spare time in the weekends. But we're doing our part to stop the man, and my dick has just grown another two inches because of it. I'll let you know how this turns out.
Viva La Resistance!!!
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I personally didn't feel like being pulled away from my rented season of Sex and the City, but Nina thought we should check it out and get the unbiased facts. So at 5:00 we converged on the house that was hosting this little session Erin Brockavich style. After a brief introduction and thanks for attendance we were passed off on the man who is heading up the effort to incorporate my desert oasis. After about ten minutes I could sense the rest of the crowd being lulled into a trance at the very thought of involving themselves in something as big as...incorporation. But I wasn't fooled. this windbag answered no questions, insulted his opposition and lauded himself for bearing this cross for us that nobody asked him to bear. So as he ended his 90-minute pointless tirade Nina and I filed out through the line of hypnotised petition signers and decided to get involved...for the other team.
To achieve recognition of the petition for incorporation, the petition needs to have the signitures of two thirds of the registered voters in the area. But out of the 20,000 people living in our communities, only about 2,000 are registered to vote. This means that 1,334 people get to make a decision for 20,000 residents! Well daddy ain't about to let the man slip in and grab this land from under his nose. Nina and I are just going to have to create more voters. In the incorporation meeting, dickbrain asked that if we don't sign the petition to please above all else do NOT register to vote. That would increase the number of signitures they would need. ALARM! ALARM! Whatever we do, don't register to vote so that fewer people can make the decision for the whole?!? i don't bloody think so!
So we're setting up booths and tables and registering as many 18 and over residents as humanly possible over the next few weeks. And by humanly possible, I mean during our spare time in the weekends. But we're doing our part to stop the man, and my dick has just grown another two inches because of it. I'll let you know how this turns out.
Viva La Resistance!!!
Idle business hours are the estrogen's workshop
Guys, of all the things to emulate of the fairer sex, the drama shouldn't be one of them. Nina called me early this morning at work to tell me that there's already drama going on between her "boyfriends". First, a look at my wife's clique.
Nina is a damn fine pastry chef (my gut will testify) and had previously been employed with a five-star joint called the Phoenecian. Then early last year, she jacked her back up at work but good. Since then she's been on disability as she tries to heal, but that's an entirely different bitter-ass post. And with her living basically as a housewife she's had little outlet for a woman's need to make contact with other humans.
Enter the boys. Our neighbor Scott runs a start-up pesticide business out of his girlfriend's house. He sprays houses every day, but is basically left with the remaining hours to do whatever. Jeff is a man who works at Einstein Brother's Bagles where Nina and Scott eat breakfast most days and typically he joins them. By the way, their jalapeno bagle rocks fucking ass! Stu is another pest control guy who meets Nina, Scott and Jeff at the bagel shop some days too. The stage is set!
This past weekend Stu threw a cookout at his new house and everyone was invited. By the time Nina and I got there Scott and Jeff had already gotten comfortable. Jeff was well on his way to being gloriously smashed. Enough so that later that night he started in with that whole the-world's-against-me-and-everyone's-making-fun-of-me shit. Scott drove him home, problem solved. But no, these men can't follow the code of man to that degree.
Now Nina calls me up to tell me that Jeff is all embarrassed and apologizing to everyone and Scott was this giant dick to him on the phone, threatening his friendship if he does it again. What the fuck?!? Who among us has never been hit by a wave of half-memories of the previous night that we'd like to forget forever? And what's this treatening of friendship crap? you're a man! Friendship is not spoken of, much less threatened to be retracted, and certainly not becuase your buddy made a drunken ass of himself at a party. Shit, that's the kind of thing that strengthens the bonds between men, giving the other friend fodder for jibes for years to come. And this isn't an isolated incident. Every week Nina tells me about these guys involving themselves in some behavior that I'd expect to see out of seventh-grade girls.
Look guys, if you want to be more sensitive, go ahead, chicks dig that stuff. If you think your buddy's got a drinking problem, tell him. But this drama shit has got to stop. It's not pretty and it's best left to the true keepers of emotional instability, aka women. Just look at your pal, grunt, chuck him in the arm and get the fuck over whatever menial infraction he's committed. If you're going to get a yeast infection every time your guy friends act like losers then you're not going to keep your friends long. We don't break up and make up like women. you're a dick, fuck you, I'll find another buddy. That's the way it has been and should be. Otherwise we take yet another step toward an asexual genderless world and I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen.
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Nina is a damn fine pastry chef (my gut will testify) and had previously been employed with a five-star joint called the Phoenecian. Then early last year, she jacked her back up at work but good. Since then she's been on disability as she tries to heal, but that's an entirely different bitter-ass post. And with her living basically as a housewife she's had little outlet for a woman's need to make contact with other humans.
Enter the boys. Our neighbor Scott runs a start-up pesticide business out of his girlfriend's house. He sprays houses every day, but is basically left with the remaining hours to do whatever. Jeff is a man who works at Einstein Brother's Bagles where Nina and Scott eat breakfast most days and typically he joins them. By the way, their jalapeno bagle rocks fucking ass! Stu is another pest control guy who meets Nina, Scott and Jeff at the bagel shop some days too. The stage is set!
This past weekend Stu threw a cookout at his new house and everyone was invited. By the time Nina and I got there Scott and Jeff had already gotten comfortable. Jeff was well on his way to being gloriously smashed. Enough so that later that night he started in with that whole the-world's-against-me-and-everyone's-making-fun-of-me shit. Scott drove him home, problem solved. But no, these men can't follow the code of man to that degree.
Now Nina calls me up to tell me that Jeff is all embarrassed and apologizing to everyone and Scott was this giant dick to him on the phone, threatening his friendship if he does it again. What the fuck?!? Who among us has never been hit by a wave of half-memories of the previous night that we'd like to forget forever? And what's this treatening of friendship crap? you're a man! Friendship is not spoken of, much less threatened to be retracted, and certainly not becuase your buddy made a drunken ass of himself at a party. Shit, that's the kind of thing that strengthens the bonds between men, giving the other friend fodder for jibes for years to come. And this isn't an isolated incident. Every week Nina tells me about these guys involving themselves in some behavior that I'd expect to see out of seventh-grade girls.
Look guys, if you want to be more sensitive, go ahead, chicks dig that stuff. If you think your buddy's got a drinking problem, tell him. But this drama shit has got to stop. It's not pretty and it's best left to the true keepers of emotional instability, aka women. Just look at your pal, grunt, chuck him in the arm and get the fuck over whatever menial infraction he's committed. If you're going to get a yeast infection every time your guy friends act like losers then you're not going to keep your friends long. We don't break up and make up like women. you're a dick, fuck you, I'll find another buddy. That's the way it has been and should be. Otherwise we take yet another step toward an asexual genderless world and I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
I told my wife about the blog
It's been less than a week since I began this rant, and I've been very happy with the thoughts I put down, not that I've had even a single reader to date. But that's not the point is it? But since I started this I've been wrestling with the idea of how to tell Nina that I'm blogging. Sounds easy, right? You either tell her or you don't. Well if you've read any of my posts you know that I have to put more thought into it than that.
First, how could I possibly keep it a secret? It's public. In the end she'll find some evidence of it somewhere and it'll be known. And then it'll seem like I was hiding it. This never goes over well. So I had to tell her. But when and how? Do I just say, "Hon, I started an online diary today"? I don't think so.
Why not? Well, Nina has a great deal of influence over most of what I do. And I want this blog to have some purity in it, without any fear of upsetting my wife, family or friends. And if she knows it's there, then she'll read it. And if she reads it then I'll know she's reading it. And if I know she's reading it I may alter my content to a more censored version to avoid any arguments. And I fucking hate arguing with her.
Well in the end, I told her what I was doing as I was writing my post at my home office on loss of faith. She passed by the office and saw me typing away. She asked, I answered. Arms were crossed, terse questions were asked, and the room PSI rose. But in the end I think she understood that this wasn't any attempt to do anything vile, but just get my thoughts recorded. This has got to me my most boring post ever.
So if anyone out there is reading this, have faith. I will continue to write what I think as I think it and if that ever changes I'll let you know. Thank you for your kind non-attention
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First, how could I possibly keep it a secret? It's public. In the end she'll find some evidence of it somewhere and it'll be known. And then it'll seem like I was hiding it. This never goes over well. So I had to tell her. But when and how? Do I just say, "Hon, I started an online diary today"? I don't think so.
Why not? Well, Nina has a great deal of influence over most of what I do. And I want this blog to have some purity in it, without any fear of upsetting my wife, family or friends. And if she knows it's there, then she'll read it. And if she reads it then I'll know she's reading it. And if I know she's reading it I may alter my content to a more censored version to avoid any arguments. And I fucking hate arguing with her.
Well in the end, I told her what I was doing as I was writing my post at my home office on loss of faith. She passed by the office and saw me typing away. She asked, I answered. Arms were crossed, terse questions were asked, and the room PSI rose. But in the end I think she understood that this wasn't any attempt to do anything vile, but just get my thoughts recorded. This has got to me my most boring post ever.
So if anyone out there is reading this, have faith. I will continue to write what I think as I think it and if that ever changes I'll let you know. Thank you for your kind non-attention
Friday, May 14, 2004
Don't fear God? You should, that fucker'll kill you!
Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday fucking old man! Happy birthday to me!
I must say that 27 wasn't really all that different from 26. I have the same job. I attended the same college. I'm married to Nina still. All three cats survived both years. All things considered I've reached a bit of a stalemate against the turbulence I had created in younger ages.
However, one of the things that surprises me is that there has been almost no change in my basic philosophies of life. I mean at age 16 I was a strict Roman Catholic. By age 19 I was well swept into the cult that is Wicca (and yes it is a cult. Don't agree with me? Call me when you're deprogrammed). At 21 I was completely clueless and considered myself agnostic. By 24 I had myself convinced tat there is no God.
The around age 25 I started doing some thinking about the physical composition of the universe. After all we are all made of stardust right? Three years of independant study in astronomy, cosmology, physics, philosophy and the like, and my newer beliefs are only all the more strengthened, they haven't changed a bit. And for the first time they don't require that I hate anyone. It's a new exerience for me, so for comfort purposes, fuck the Aborigines.
Since my mother's recent visit to new-Mecca (aka. my 1926 square foot Arizona home) I have come to the realization that my mom, the very bedrock of my Catholic upbringing, may well be in the death-throws of faith. She asked me point blank what I believed. I explained my thoughts on science, the grand unified theory, and more. Moreover, I told her that I simply can't believe that in the eighty or so years (if we're lucky) that we've been rented out these fleshen vessels, that we must prove our moral worth to the point of eternal judgement. To this my mom tells me that she believes in reincarnation and that we return until we get it right.
Wait a sec. Reincarnation? What about the population boom, new souls or old? Why don't I rememeber my last lives? I'm pretty sure that any moral fiber I have was generated as a result of contemplation of occurances within my current lifetime. Plus, isn't reincarnation a belief that isn't exactly in line with the Catholic doctrine? If so, then my mom is a bad Catholic. And I know that means trouble.
Foe fucks sake people, isn't it good enough to know that we're here and that it's only a temporary thing? If you wanna know what lies beyond death, just hang out, your number will be called I promise. Just do what it is in your nature to do, your body and mind will guide you all by themselves. Trying to figure out the afterlife is an effort in futility. Mom, Nina, world, we're all going to get there regardless of how much thought or faith we put into it.
The reason I say that this may be the end of my dear mother's purer faith is this: Right when I was beginning to question my own Catholic faith the most around age 17 I turned to prayer. Lots and lots of prayer. But I just wasn't gettign any answers. The more devout I became, the more it slipped. The it was gone. I don't remember when exactly, but it disapeared and hasn't even stopped in to say hi. Mom is now sending me one of those very religious birthday cards and praying that I won't run out of gas and telling me that everything is going to be ok because God wants it to be. Sounds familiar, that's all.
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I must say that 27 wasn't really all that different from 26. I have the same job. I attended the same college. I'm married to Nina still. All three cats survived both years. All things considered I've reached a bit of a stalemate against the turbulence I had created in younger ages.
However, one of the things that surprises me is that there has been almost no change in my basic philosophies of life. I mean at age 16 I was a strict Roman Catholic. By age 19 I was well swept into the cult that is Wicca (and yes it is a cult. Don't agree with me? Call me when you're deprogrammed). At 21 I was completely clueless and considered myself agnostic. By 24 I had myself convinced tat there is no God.
The around age 25 I started doing some thinking about the physical composition of the universe. After all we are all made of stardust right? Three years of independant study in astronomy, cosmology, physics, philosophy and the like, and my newer beliefs are only all the more strengthened, they haven't changed a bit. And for the first time they don't require that I hate anyone. It's a new exerience for me, so for comfort purposes, fuck the Aborigines.
Since my mother's recent visit to new-Mecca (aka. my 1926 square foot Arizona home) I have come to the realization that my mom, the very bedrock of my Catholic upbringing, may well be in the death-throws of faith. She asked me point blank what I believed. I explained my thoughts on science, the grand unified theory, and more. Moreover, I told her that I simply can't believe that in the eighty or so years (if we're lucky) that we've been rented out these fleshen vessels, that we must prove our moral worth to the point of eternal judgement. To this my mom tells me that she believes in reincarnation and that we return until we get it right.
Wait a sec. Reincarnation? What about the population boom, new souls or old? Why don't I rememeber my last lives? I'm pretty sure that any moral fiber I have was generated as a result of contemplation of occurances within my current lifetime. Plus, isn't reincarnation a belief that isn't exactly in line with the Catholic doctrine? If so, then my mom is a bad Catholic. And I know that means trouble.
Foe fucks sake people, isn't it good enough to know that we're here and that it's only a temporary thing? If you wanna know what lies beyond death, just hang out, your number will be called I promise. Just do what it is in your nature to do, your body and mind will guide you all by themselves. Trying to figure out the afterlife is an effort in futility. Mom, Nina, world, we're all going to get there regardless of how much thought or faith we put into it.
The reason I say that this may be the end of my dear mother's purer faith is this: Right when I was beginning to question my own Catholic faith the most around age 17 I turned to prayer. Lots and lots of prayer. But I just wasn't gettign any answers. The more devout I became, the more it slipped. The it was gone. I don't remember when exactly, but it disapeared and hasn't even stopped in to say hi. Mom is now sending me one of those very religious birthday cards and praying that I won't run out of gas and telling me that everything is going to be ok because God wants it to be. Sounds familiar, that's all.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
How to get laid
One of the truly depressing revelations I've had over the past 28 years is that despite the coninuous pussification of American men through the constant barrage of feminine pressure to conform is that men today are still every bit as clueless about the inner workings of women as our troglodytic predecessors.
Bearing in mind that the purpose of every new forming relationship is to have sex as quickly as possible, I have come up with a set of rules that one must abide by if one wishes to land some of that mid to upper grade pussy floating around.
1. Remember that every woman is 99.3% identical to every other American woman. They all have roughly the same feelings, thoughts, general body structure, etc. Above all, you must find some distinguishing characteristic and point it out. Make up some shit about how the girl you're with is "not like other girls" or "unlike any woman I've ever known". They yearn for this shit. Apparantly their lives are filled with constant pressure to conform to an unreachable standard. Eventually they get sick of this. We win.
2. Brush your teeth, bathe, wear clean clothes, and wear a small amount of Angel for men.
3. Eye contact is a winner. If you watch women when they speak to each other the eye contact is almost constant and they point their bodies toward one another. If you aren't looking at her eyes than you aren't looking at her and she will feel nervous or unimportant. You lose.
4. Let her give you a revelation. This will probably be in the form of some kind or contradiction you make (which you probably didn't, remember...pussy) or some value that you do not possess that she believes you should. Glance momentarity to the floor as if pondering the nature of your existance and say, "wow, I guess I never thought about it that way. How'd you get so smart?" And she says in retrun, "I'm not like most girls". To this you offer to buy her another round to celebrate her huge brain.
5. In case you haven't, noticed all of these previous tips are based in communicating (or miscommunicating) with women. So at least pretend to listen to her. And when you mimic any facial expression she makes you seem interested. Like when she's telling you about how her best friend is dating some giant dick and looks all upset about it, you look at her as though this harms you in some way. And try to point out all of the ways that you are the same to establish intimacy.
6. Kiss her. Women want to be kissed. Got that? Women want to BE. KISSED. And if they don't want to be kissed by you then kiss them anyway. Mike the tunnel-minded stud estimates a 22% chance of changing her mind with this. Make it one of those strong and gentle at the same time kinds of smooches. Not sure how? Well that I can't teach you.
7. Thank me as loudly as you can when it's time for the money shot.
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Bearing in mind that the purpose of every new forming relationship is to have sex as quickly as possible, I have come up with a set of rules that one must abide by if one wishes to land some of that mid to upper grade pussy floating around.
1. Remember that every woman is 99.3% identical to every other American woman. They all have roughly the same feelings, thoughts, general body structure, etc. Above all, you must find some distinguishing characteristic and point it out. Make up some shit about how the girl you're with is "not like other girls" or "unlike any woman I've ever known". They yearn for this shit. Apparantly their lives are filled with constant pressure to conform to an unreachable standard. Eventually they get sick of this. We win.
2. Brush your teeth, bathe, wear clean clothes, and wear a small amount of Angel for men.
3. Eye contact is a winner. If you watch women when they speak to each other the eye contact is almost constant and they point their bodies toward one another. If you aren't looking at her eyes than you aren't looking at her and she will feel nervous or unimportant. You lose.
4. Let her give you a revelation. This will probably be in the form of some kind or contradiction you make (which you probably didn't, remember...pussy) or some value that you do not possess that she believes you should. Glance momentarity to the floor as if pondering the nature of your existance and say, "wow, I guess I never thought about it that way. How'd you get so smart?" And she says in retrun, "I'm not like most girls". To this you offer to buy her another round to celebrate her huge brain.
5. In case you haven't, noticed all of these previous tips are based in communicating (or miscommunicating) with women. So at least pretend to listen to her. And when you mimic any facial expression she makes you seem interested. Like when she's telling you about how her best friend is dating some giant dick and looks all upset about it, you look at her as though this harms you in some way. And try to point out all of the ways that you are the same to establish intimacy.
6. Kiss her. Women want to be kissed. Got that? Women want to BE. KISSED. And if they don't want to be kissed by you then kiss them anyway. Mike the tunnel-minded stud estimates a 22% chance of changing her mind with this. Make it one of those strong and gentle at the same time kinds of smooches. Not sure how? Well that I can't teach you.
7. Thank me as loudly as you can when it's time for the money shot.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
The Mexican soul is made of lead
Since I've moved into my four-bedroom, 2000 square-foot, contemporary yet Ikealess paradise in February I've seen my commute stretch from twenty minutes to 60 each way. But that's the price I pay for desert landscaped perfection. However, driving the rural Arizona backroads has given me the opportunity to see something that the rest of the world may not: the Mexican car accident death shrine!
And what is this shrine? Well for those of you who are spiritually empty, this is a little monument either in the shape of a cross or that little archway cove that the Virgin Mary hangs out in all the time. It gets placed in the very place that some guy got himself killed off the side of the road. Etched onto it is the name of the fella that took the front bumper colonoscopy and the date of his "transition". The area around is strewn with flowers, rosaries, cupie dolls, and chorizo to commemorate the unlucky man's life.
While I'm all for the sentimental remembrance of the dearly departed as well as the marking of places where people get bitch-slapped by old Grimmy himself, I admit that I don't really see the point in this practice. The first one was sad enough, but now they're every quarter mile. Perhaps south of the border there's an equation that determines the need for additional road expansion and safety measures based on the number of Mexican memorials littering the road. Two per mile gets a side rail. Three, we add paint. At seven per mile we ask Santa Maria for guidance down another route.
Now here's where it gets a little deep. Now marking as special the places of significant events seems natural enough like the flag at Iwo Jima or where the Treaty of Versailles was signed. But these memorials are set up like some kind of resting place for the dead man's soul. If not why the hell are they there anyway? Why not just put his picture on the mantle like everyone else?
Last I checked, most people considered death to be the separating of the body and the soul. the body turns to compost, the soul learns to play the harp and plays with the soul of your childhood pet. So if the soul leaves the body, then chances are it's not hanging out at the side of northbound mile 73 on Hwy 87 for all eternity unless the Mexican soul just happens to be made of some physical element like lead or Einsteinium and doesn't leave the planet. And if the point was to mark the place of this splitting of flesh and ghost then you've fucked up again. You see the Earth is spinning around in circles, orbiting the sun, that runs along its ecliptic in a galaxy that's rotating while zinging throught the universe and so on. Sorry, but that place where Javier met his maker is no longer in the same place, hence he didn't die there, thus you're wrong and I'm happy.
Still, these little cultural icons can be quite pretty and the sentiment is a nice one, so I'll lay off for now. Plus, maybe if we get another two per mile we'll finally get those potholes filled.
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And what is this shrine? Well for those of you who are spiritually empty, this is a little monument either in the shape of a cross or that little archway cove that the Virgin Mary hangs out in all the time. It gets placed in the very place that some guy got himself killed off the side of the road. Etched onto it is the name of the fella that took the front bumper colonoscopy and the date of his "transition". The area around is strewn with flowers, rosaries, cupie dolls, and chorizo to commemorate the unlucky man's life.
While I'm all for the sentimental remembrance of the dearly departed as well as the marking of places where people get bitch-slapped by old Grimmy himself, I admit that I don't really see the point in this practice. The first one was sad enough, but now they're every quarter mile. Perhaps south of the border there's an equation that determines the need for additional road expansion and safety measures based on the number of Mexican memorials littering the road. Two per mile gets a side rail. Three, we add paint. At seven per mile we ask Santa Maria for guidance down another route.
Now here's where it gets a little deep. Now marking as special the places of significant events seems natural enough like the flag at Iwo Jima or where the Treaty of Versailles was signed. But these memorials are set up like some kind of resting place for the dead man's soul. If not why the hell are they there anyway? Why not just put his picture on the mantle like everyone else?
Last I checked, most people considered death to be the separating of the body and the soul. the body turns to compost, the soul learns to play the harp and plays with the soul of your childhood pet. So if the soul leaves the body, then chances are it's not hanging out at the side of northbound mile 73 on Hwy 87 for all eternity unless the Mexican soul just happens to be made of some physical element like lead or Einsteinium and doesn't leave the planet. And if the point was to mark the place of this splitting of flesh and ghost then you've fucked up again. You see the Earth is spinning around in circles, orbiting the sun, that runs along its ecliptic in a galaxy that's rotating while zinging throught the universe and so on. Sorry, but that place where Javier met his maker is no longer in the same place, hence he didn't die there, thus you're wrong and I'm happy.
Still, these little cultural icons can be quite pretty and the sentiment is a nice one, so I'll lay off for now. Plus, maybe if we get another two per mile we'll finally get those potholes filled.
The seven year itch can scratch my balls
I wonder how many married men there are out there who haven't been verbally accosted by some bitter, unwanted divorced guy with tales about the horror and inevitablility of splitting up. Now granted, there are a lot of couples out there that should just quit while they still have the opportunity to latch codependently on the next unwitting sap, but surely some of us are meant to last.
What I love about these prophetic warnings is that the anniversary that Nina and I are going to split up just happens to be identicle to the year that he got dumped. It's like there's this invisible barrier that cannot be negotiated and that must claim even the strongest of bonds. After all, if it took his ex-wife seven years to learn that he jacks off to internet clips of 12 year-old Japanese school boys being raped and that there's a crackwhore in South Phoenix who's been paying for her apartment with the income he secretly made as a drug smuggler, then I must be doomed to exposure at the seven year mark too.
Now for those of you who have survived being married for a decade or two, you may not hear this very often, but after six years wearing this gold band I still have to sit at blackjack tables and listen to these miserable bastards tell me that the flame is still there because I'm still a newlywed. Newlywed?!?! Are you fucking kidding me? Hey man, once you can anticipate your partners's bowel movements I'd say the honeymoon is pretty much over. I mean six years is a long time, just ask any teenager.
Typically, this is how the conversation will go:
Divorced loser: So how long have you two been together?
Supercool married me: Just over six years.
Divorced loser: Oh, so that's why.
Supercool married me: Why what?
Divorced loser: Why you two are still nice to each other. You're still newlyweds.
Supercool married me: A six-year honeymoon?
Divorced loser: Yeah, man. Just wait until next year. That's when everything turns to shit.
Supercool married me: Really, and how long were you married?
Divorced loser: That bitch took seven years away from my life. WAAAAHHH!!!
Supercool married me: Tell you what, on my eighth anniversary I'll dedicate one of our twenty-three celebretory fucks that day to you.
Divorced loser: Hmmm. Maybe you two will make it and hiding from my wife that I'm a gay pedophile drug dealer with a penchant for crackwhores was a mistake.
Well, maybe that last line was more thought than spoken. And when did staying together become some kind of competition? Does the bitter lonely bastard who was divorced after ten years get some kind of prize that the bitter miserable bastard divorced after five doesn't? If anything I would think it was the other way around. Early divorce = newer pussy! Young failures win!
Conclusion: divorced people are like heroin addicts, sure they tell you how it couldn't be avoided and how great it is now, but once you're in the club you're just another whore for self-pity and loneliness. Mike the married stud: 1 Divorced losers: 0.
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What I love about these prophetic warnings is that the anniversary that Nina and I are going to split up just happens to be identicle to the year that he got dumped. It's like there's this invisible barrier that cannot be negotiated and that must claim even the strongest of bonds. After all, if it took his ex-wife seven years to learn that he jacks off to internet clips of 12 year-old Japanese school boys being raped and that there's a crackwhore in South Phoenix who's been paying for her apartment with the income he secretly made as a drug smuggler, then I must be doomed to exposure at the seven year mark too.
Now for those of you who have survived being married for a decade or two, you may not hear this very often, but after six years wearing this gold band I still have to sit at blackjack tables and listen to these miserable bastards tell me that the flame is still there because I'm still a newlywed. Newlywed?!?! Are you fucking kidding me? Hey man, once you can anticipate your partners's bowel movements I'd say the honeymoon is pretty much over. I mean six years is a long time, just ask any teenager.
Typically, this is how the conversation will go:
Divorced loser: So how long have you two been together?
Supercool married me: Just over six years.
Divorced loser: Oh, so that's why.
Supercool married me: Why what?
Divorced loser: Why you two are still nice to each other. You're still newlyweds.
Supercool married me: A six-year honeymoon?
Divorced loser: Yeah, man. Just wait until next year. That's when everything turns to shit.
Supercool married me: Really, and how long were you married?
Divorced loser: That bitch took seven years away from my life. WAAAAHHH!!!
Supercool married me: Tell you what, on my eighth anniversary I'll dedicate one of our twenty-three celebretory fucks that day to you.
Divorced loser: Hmmm. Maybe you two will make it and hiding from my wife that I'm a gay pedophile drug dealer with a penchant for crackwhores was a mistake.
Well, maybe that last line was more thought than spoken. And when did staying together become some kind of competition? Does the bitter lonely bastard who was divorced after ten years get some kind of prize that the bitter miserable bastard divorced after five doesn't? If anything I would think it was the other way around. Early divorce = newer pussy! Young failures win!
Conclusion: divorced people are like heroin addicts, sure they tell you how it couldn't be avoided and how great it is now, but once you're in the club you're just another whore for self-pity and loneliness. Mike the married stud: 1 Divorced losers: 0.
Monday, May 10, 2004
"The man" has taken a holiday
We all hear the phrase "there's no such thing as a free lunch". For a long time I thought that meant that there is always a cost associated with any decision we make. Then I took a freshman level economics course and it turns out that I am absolutely right! For every decision we make, say to accept a free lunch, we inevitably sacrifice some other next-best opportunity, say driving 50 miles home for a 25-second nooner.
Effective tomorrow my boss will be taking a vacation to Texas for the rest of the week. This leaves me without any real form of supervision for four days. The fools! But while I was beginning the process of selecting new and humerous websites I haven't exhausted and forming a plan of attack on this supercool car-rear-mirror-LED-combo invention thing I've dreamed up I began to wonder: couldn't this be an opportunity for me to show my superior levels of maturity and responsibility by performing above expected levels? Hell I could even show up a few minutes early just because it's the right thing to do.
Wait a sec. The right thing to do. Hmm. That one's bugging me. I mean economics wasn't the only freshman level college course I've completed. I've taken two in philosophy and if I've learned nothing else, and I assure you I didn't, it must be that any assumed path of righteousness must be pondered to determine if it is truly righteous. Surely I wasn't meant to spend the next 35 work hours slaving away blindly toward the CEO's ever-changing vision. After all, innovative thinking was part of what got me hired on here at this pool of productivity peddlers. And there's so very many personal projects that I haven't completed.
I'll be monitoring my emails for suggestions between the hours of 7:30 and 4:30 for the next four days unless I happen to be on break, at lunch, or if I should decide to cash in the $20 Harkins Theatres giftcard I was given for exceeding expected levels of productivity.
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Effective tomorrow my boss will be taking a vacation to Texas for the rest of the week. This leaves me without any real form of supervision for four days. The fools! But while I was beginning the process of selecting new and humerous websites I haven't exhausted and forming a plan of attack on this supercool car-rear-mirror-LED-combo invention thing I've dreamed up I began to wonder: couldn't this be an opportunity for me to show my superior levels of maturity and responsibility by performing above expected levels? Hell I could even show up a few minutes early just because it's the right thing to do.
Wait a sec. The right thing to do. Hmm. That one's bugging me. I mean economics wasn't the only freshman level college course I've completed. I've taken two in philosophy and if I've learned nothing else, and I assure you I didn't, it must be that any assumed path of righteousness must be pondered to determine if it is truly righteous. Surely I wasn't meant to spend the next 35 work hours slaving away blindly toward the CEO's ever-changing vision. After all, innovative thinking was part of what got me hired on here at this pool of productivity peddlers. And there's so very many personal projects that I haven't completed.
I'll be monitoring my emails for suggestions between the hours of 7:30 and 4:30 for the next four days unless I happen to be on break, at lunch, or if I should decide to cash in the $20 Harkins Theatres giftcard I was given for exceeding expected levels of productivity.
Infidelity must be in the jeans
Like most men, I absolutely hate shopping. Now by shopping I'm not talking about the selection of the right drapes or looking for the best price for Creatine online. No, this is the mindless and arbitrary wandering around the malls, strip malls, and other mall-like mercantiles in America in search of the best fitting shorts.
Obviously this isn't an activity that men typically engage in alone. usually, and my case is no different, it involves being tricked into following your wife or girlfriend around countless retailers telling her how she would look in everything on the racks having no clue whether she'll walk out looking like Helen of Troy or a pox-ridden wildebeest. though chances are she's going to walk out looking like your wife or girlfriend in another pair of fucking shorts just like the last ten pair. The trick part is the self-developed hope that you might get the opportunity to nail her in the dressing room, or at least rack up caring companion points for when you get home.
But during yesterday's venture to a new American wonder of consumerism, the OUTLET MALL (cue the heavenly choir), I was struck by an odd realization: if men are privy to the constant dressing and undressing of our girls surrounded by the public dressing and undressing of countless other girls, musn't there be some linking in our minds between shopping and the imagining of other women's naked bodies? I mean there we sit, men I mean, on stools, chairs, the floor, whatever waiting for our ladies to emerge and ask our opinions on the potential new duds. All the while, there are the bare feet of other women just feet from you engaging in an activity that in any other venue, would be considered foreplay. Skirts being slipped off and on, the sounds of cloth falling to the floor and slight foot movements that can only be mirror poses. All this is happening just inches from where your girl is doing the same. In my case, we're talking about my wife of six years, Nina.
This is usually where the time passes more bearably, in the midst of impulsive fascination. I mean who among us hasn't seen TV or movie scenes involving dressing room sex? it's practically a voyeur's lapdance booth. But I see my wife changing clothes practically every day. This is different; it's naughty and primal. While I would never act out on any thought I have in these places, it seems that these fantasies are an unavoidable impulse of the male mind. And therefore, our girls are bringing us to a place where we end up doing an entirely different kind of shopping. Right about now my left thumb instinctively begins to rub the underside of my weddding band, reminding me of my vows of faithfulness and several other intangibles. Perhaps this is the real torture of shopping. Sure, the mind-numbing, soul-sapping repitition is a drag. But if a committed man is brought by his girl to a place where other, sometimes fabulous looking, women will be undressing couldn't that be a sort of subconscious slap in the face? I'll sleep on that one. Right next to my wife.
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Obviously this isn't an activity that men typically engage in alone. usually, and my case is no different, it involves being tricked into following your wife or girlfriend around countless retailers telling her how she would look in everything on the racks having no clue whether she'll walk out looking like Helen of Troy or a pox-ridden wildebeest. though chances are she's going to walk out looking like your wife or girlfriend in another pair of fucking shorts just like the last ten pair. The trick part is the self-developed hope that you might get the opportunity to nail her in the dressing room, or at least rack up caring companion points for when you get home.
But during yesterday's venture to a new American wonder of consumerism, the OUTLET MALL (cue the heavenly choir), I was struck by an odd realization: if men are privy to the constant dressing and undressing of our girls surrounded by the public dressing and undressing of countless other girls, musn't there be some linking in our minds between shopping and the imagining of other women's naked bodies? I mean there we sit, men I mean, on stools, chairs, the floor, whatever waiting for our ladies to emerge and ask our opinions on the potential new duds. All the while, there are the bare feet of other women just feet from you engaging in an activity that in any other venue, would be considered foreplay. Skirts being slipped off and on, the sounds of cloth falling to the floor and slight foot movements that can only be mirror poses. All this is happening just inches from where your girl is doing the same. In my case, we're talking about my wife of six years, Nina.
This is usually where the time passes more bearably, in the midst of impulsive fascination. I mean who among us hasn't seen TV or movie scenes involving dressing room sex? it's practically a voyeur's lapdance booth. But I see my wife changing clothes practically every day. This is different; it's naughty and primal. While I would never act out on any thought I have in these places, it seems that these fantasies are an unavoidable impulse of the male mind. And therefore, our girls are bringing us to a place where we end up doing an entirely different kind of shopping. Right about now my left thumb instinctively begins to rub the underside of my weddding band, reminding me of my vows of faithfulness and several other intangibles. Perhaps this is the real torture of shopping. Sure, the mind-numbing, soul-sapping repitition is a drag. But if a committed man is brought by his girl to a place where other, sometimes fabulous looking, women will be undressing couldn't that be a sort of subconscious slap in the face? I'll sleep on that one. Right next to my wife.
Sunday, May 02, 2004
Badge Photo
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Saturday, May 01, 2004
The beautiful history behind the birthday pickle card
Throughout the world, it is a well known fact, that it is the winners who write the history books. Those nations and political parties whose might proves to exceed that of all opposition are granted the unique ability to rewrite the texts of historical reference to suit their noblest of causes, while damning and finally destroying the purposes of those who would support the opposition. As a result of this truth, there are literally thousands of cultures and subcultures, whose historical significance has been marginalized when defeated by the powers that be.
One such subculture was the peoples of the tiny nation of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal. The borders of the land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal laid in the modern day Sudan desert regions, just 150 miles south of the Egypt. The population of this great kingdom was a modest 125,000 during their most productive periods of 467 to 821 A.D.. While these great and skilled nomads were never accredited for their accomplishments, such as the invention of optical enhancing spectacles (or eye glasses), garnish, and the tea kettle, it is their mastery of the 1,001 uses of the common pickle that has made the greatest impact in today's world.
In the year 577, the nomadic prince of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was a seventeen year old, fair skinned man named Franjo. Due to his intense popularity among his people he was given the royal monikers Franjo the Popular and Kukutuku, which, translated in Paluthanarezfenarkenthalese means "Great and noble son of a king who has light skin and is well like by all of his peers". On his eighteenth birthday, Franjo was to be married to a woman whom he had never met. And while his chosen bride was a beautiful maiden who would serve him earnestly and faithfully all her days, Franjo was hesitant to become a husband before he had made his mark in the history books. He was also queer.
Franjo had been raised as a royal farmer and placed in charge of maintaining the crop of wild pickles, the cash crop of any desert dwelling peoples. Back in those days, the pickle farmers were granted many creature comforts and opportunities, such as education and fresh, unpasturized goat's milk. These comforts afforded the pickle farmers the ability to increase their pickle yield through cultivation and new fertilization practices, thus improving the country's standing in international trade.
While attending a Libyan sponsored convention on new tilling techniques, Franjo met and instantly fell in love with another pickle farmer from Niger, by the name of Bampf(click)oo'ko. And in the three weeks during the convention, they devised a plan that would allow them to forever remain in contact until they could execute their final plan of fleeing the bonds of their royal obligations and escape to a small island in the South Pacific, where it was rumored that the pickle crop was in desperate need of pickle farming experts. The plan would call for them to return to their native lands, and every six months, under the guise of diplomatic strengthening, send a supply of domestic pickles to the other's country. Within each pickle would be inserted a small strip of parchment with a portion of a note that had been written in code. The decryption sequence was decided by them before parting ways in Libya. Once decoded, Franjo and Bampf(click)oo'ko would be able to read up on the life of their true love.
All went well for six years. Every six months Franjo both delivered and received a large basket filled with increasingly full and zesty pickles. Then, in the year 584 the kingdom of Sudan decided that while they had grown in fortune through the trade of figs, olives, and instructional books on sand castle building techniques, they had still been unable to find an effective means of stopping the endless flow of the worthless and troublesome crude oil that spouted out of the ground like a plague. During a visit to Paluthanarezfenarkenthal, the Sudanese Master Trades Broker was struck with an epiphany. When placed in tight bundle configurations the wild pickle made the perfect natural plug for the thousands of oil spouts that blackened the Sudan. The king of Sudan was informed and Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was overrun by Sudanese death squads. Within three weeks, Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was crippled to the point of capitulation. Sudan claimed lordship over all the land, especially the precious, precious pickle farms.
Just before the last pickle farm was overthrown, Franjo was able to draft up a short message on a scrap of paper that would be stuffed into the last wild pickle he had in his possession. The plea to his love and best friend read only three words:
Invasion. Defeat. Help.
Entrusting the pickle to his most loyal of manservants, Franjo placed the hopes of all his people in the hands of a commoner with only one camel. Miraculously, the peasant was able to cross the borders of Niger without a first though of consuming the delectable vegetable. And upon arriving in the former capital Niger Capital City, The peasant placed the last pickle of hope and pleading in the hands of the best pickle farmer Niger had ever known, the now thirty year old Bampf(click)oo'ko. Upon slicing the pickle and decoding the message, Bampf(click)oo'ko assembled an army of his best fighters, archers, and Zulu warriors in Niger on vacation. And after a six week march through the unforgiving desert, Bampf(click)oo'ko arrived in the fallen land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal to retake the land for his love and dear friend, Frajo.
The struggle was Shakespearean in magnitude. As the bodies of Nigerian and Sudanese soldiers stacked up as high as the tallest pickle vines King Plaklinish in Sudan was forced to take measures he didn't initially think would be necessary. Upon sending word to his nations's allies, Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was overrun by soldiers from Egypt, Uganda, Algeria, Mali, and Zambia. The Nigerian army was quickly destroyed and order was reestablished in the former land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal, now known as North Sudan. Both Franjo and Bampf(click)oo'ko were put to execution by decapitation. As they marched to their fate, they interlocked their fingers. And as they lay dead, martyrs of their cause, their hands remained clinched...best friends even in death.
However, in the year 1928, during an excavation led by famous archeologist Sir Edward Pratt, a small lead box was unearthed near the site of the ancient battle. The box was shipped back to London for opening and study. After ginger care and careful prying, the box cracked open for the first time fourteen centuries, revealing its contents. It held only one item; a scrap of paper with three unintelligible words on it...stained in pickle juice. After dedicating his career to understanding the significance and meaning of the parchment, Sir Pratt was able to piece together the story you've just read. And when it was finally told to the Queen, it was declared to be so moving a tale, that the pickle was made the official postal carrier of love notes.
And so it has been since that day that friends and lovers around the world have expressed their heartfelt affection for each other through the written word on the face of the green pickle. So if you ever receive a strange card in the mail, a card shaped like this cucumber-like delight, take heart. For you have a friend in this world who wishes nothing more than to see you have as wonderful and happy a day as possible, even if they can't be there to share it with you.
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One such subculture was the peoples of the tiny nation of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal. The borders of the land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal laid in the modern day Sudan desert regions, just 150 miles south of the Egypt. The population of this great kingdom was a modest 125,000 during their most productive periods of 467 to 821 A.D.. While these great and skilled nomads were never accredited for their accomplishments, such as the invention of optical enhancing spectacles (or eye glasses), garnish, and the tea kettle, it is their mastery of the 1,001 uses of the common pickle that has made the greatest impact in today's world.
In the year 577, the nomadic prince of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was a seventeen year old, fair skinned man named Franjo. Due to his intense popularity among his people he was given the royal monikers Franjo the Popular and Kukutuku, which, translated in Paluthanarezfenarkenthalese means "Great and noble son of a king who has light skin and is well like by all of his peers". On his eighteenth birthday, Franjo was to be married to a woman whom he had never met. And while his chosen bride was a beautiful maiden who would serve him earnestly and faithfully all her days, Franjo was hesitant to become a husband before he had made his mark in the history books. He was also queer.
Franjo had been raised as a royal farmer and placed in charge of maintaining the crop of wild pickles, the cash crop of any desert dwelling peoples. Back in those days, the pickle farmers were granted many creature comforts and opportunities, such as education and fresh, unpasturized goat's milk. These comforts afforded the pickle farmers the ability to increase their pickle yield through cultivation and new fertilization practices, thus improving the country's standing in international trade.
While attending a Libyan sponsored convention on new tilling techniques, Franjo met and instantly fell in love with another pickle farmer from Niger, by the name of Bampf(click)oo'ko. And in the three weeks during the convention, they devised a plan that would allow them to forever remain in contact until they could execute their final plan of fleeing the bonds of their royal obligations and escape to a small island in the South Pacific, where it was rumored that the pickle crop was in desperate need of pickle farming experts. The plan would call for them to return to their native lands, and every six months, under the guise of diplomatic strengthening, send a supply of domestic pickles to the other's country. Within each pickle would be inserted a small strip of parchment with a portion of a note that had been written in code. The decryption sequence was decided by them before parting ways in Libya. Once decoded, Franjo and Bampf(click)oo'ko would be able to read up on the life of their true love.
All went well for six years. Every six months Franjo both delivered and received a large basket filled with increasingly full and zesty pickles. Then, in the year 584 the kingdom of Sudan decided that while they had grown in fortune through the trade of figs, olives, and instructional books on sand castle building techniques, they had still been unable to find an effective means of stopping the endless flow of the worthless and troublesome crude oil that spouted out of the ground like a plague. During a visit to Paluthanarezfenarkenthal, the Sudanese Master Trades Broker was struck with an epiphany. When placed in tight bundle configurations the wild pickle made the perfect natural plug for the thousands of oil spouts that blackened the Sudan. The king of Sudan was informed and Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was overrun by Sudanese death squads. Within three weeks, Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was crippled to the point of capitulation. Sudan claimed lordship over all the land, especially the precious, precious pickle farms.
Just before the last pickle farm was overthrown, Franjo was able to draft up a short message on a scrap of paper that would be stuffed into the last wild pickle he had in his possession. The plea to his love and best friend read only three words:
Invasion. Defeat. Help.
Entrusting the pickle to his most loyal of manservants, Franjo placed the hopes of all his people in the hands of a commoner with only one camel. Miraculously, the peasant was able to cross the borders of Niger without a first though of consuming the delectable vegetable. And upon arriving in the former capital Niger Capital City, The peasant placed the last pickle of hope and pleading in the hands of the best pickle farmer Niger had ever known, the now thirty year old Bampf(click)oo'ko. Upon slicing the pickle and decoding the message, Bampf(click)oo'ko assembled an army of his best fighters, archers, and Zulu warriors in Niger on vacation. And after a six week march through the unforgiving desert, Bampf(click)oo'ko arrived in the fallen land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal to retake the land for his love and dear friend, Frajo.
The struggle was Shakespearean in magnitude. As the bodies of Nigerian and Sudanese soldiers stacked up as high as the tallest pickle vines King Plaklinish in Sudan was forced to take measures he didn't initially think would be necessary. Upon sending word to his nations's allies, Paluthanarezfenarkenthal was overrun by soldiers from Egypt, Uganda, Algeria, Mali, and Zambia. The Nigerian army was quickly destroyed and order was reestablished in the former land of Paluthanarezfenarkenthal, now known as North Sudan. Both Franjo and Bampf(click)oo'ko were put to execution by decapitation. As they marched to their fate, they interlocked their fingers. And as they lay dead, martyrs of their cause, their hands remained clinched...best friends even in death.
However, in the year 1928, during an excavation led by famous archeologist Sir Edward Pratt, a small lead box was unearthed near the site of the ancient battle. The box was shipped back to London for opening and study. After ginger care and careful prying, the box cracked open for the first time fourteen centuries, revealing its contents. It held only one item; a scrap of paper with three unintelligible words on it...stained in pickle juice. After dedicating his career to understanding the significance and meaning of the parchment, Sir Pratt was able to piece together the story you've just read. And when it was finally told to the Queen, it was declared to be so moving a tale, that the pickle was made the official postal carrier of love notes.
And so it has been since that day that friends and lovers around the world have expressed their heartfelt affection for each other through the written word on the face of the green pickle. So if you ever receive a strange card in the mail, a card shaped like this cucumber-like delight, take heart. For you have a friend in this world who wishes nothing more than to see you have as wonderful and happy a day as possible, even if they can't be there to share it with you.
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