Archive for January, 2012

I’m a very nervous person. You’d never know it if you saw me. I’m actually a descendant of the guy from the film West Side Story known as Ice. You know, the guy that sings that song that goes “Let’s play cool” as in a reference of his nickname Ice which is cool. Cool as ice. See? Now you understand Vanilla Ice. He’s a cool white guy. Rap suddenly makes 1% sense.

(My great-uncle Rodney T. Winterbottom VII, the man who got me into musical theater)

When I get nervous, I think up worst case scenarios. They never come true. Not even close, ever. It’s silly really. I avoid doing things for fear that the worst possible thing might happen. Today’s post is more for therapeutic purposes. For me to work out the worst case scenarios in certain situations that I might not feel at ease with. Maybe it’ll help your problems too. And if it doesn’t, I don’t care.

Nervous Moment #1: Asking someone out

I still get nervous asking someone out. I think a lot of us do. We think that we’ll be rejected. We came into this world rejects. Our moms wanted so little to do with us that they were willing to cause great pain to themselves to get rid of us out of their bodies. Now we’re left thinking everyone is out to hurt us.

I remember the first time I asked a girl for her phone number. It was scary. I had seen a friend of mine do it once before. His confidence amazed me. Especially because he was such a stupid guy. But maybe his stupidity helped him. He wasn’t able to think up a worst case scenario of facing rejection. He also likes the band Nickelback. I mean, really likes them. See the kinds of people I’m dealing with? Once you admit you like Nickelback you can admit you’re a kid toucher and people suddenly think a little bit better of you.

(Raise your hand if you have bad taste in music)

The worst case scenario that can happen being rejected by someone whom you are asking out is that they say no. That’s actually not true. I think having a girl say to me “Sorry, I already have a boyfriend” is much worse. At least saying no is definite. It means that things will never change. It’s permanent. It’s death to my heart. Saying that she already has a boyfriend is like her saying if I was to kill her boyfriend, like say he falls off a bridge suspiciously, I might have a shot. But then I’d have to murder someone to get with her. That makes me more nervous. I think in my head that if I ask a girl out and she says no that I can’t go anywhere else in that town ever again. It’s so ridiculous that I believe I should be committed for thinking this way. It’s her loss, right? That’s what people who aren’t good enough tell themselves. I saw a guy on the street one time, well-dressed and well-groomed go right up to a woman and say “What are you doing Friday night?” She looked at him strange and said she was busy. He moved on. That’s the answer to all of our problems. Move on.

Nervous Moment #2: Pooping in a public restroom

I know, so amateur of me to write about. But it’s something that I am very touchy about. It’s a sensitive subject. I only do it when I really have to. Or if I think of a really good prank to pull.

Why am I nervous about it? Everybody poops! Well, you see, in my head I have this scenario. I go into the bathroom and do my business. The smell is terrible. Ungodly. It’s loud. It’s like a high school marching band but better. Someone enters and sees my feet. I exit and go out to wherever it is I am and they recognize my shoes. They look at me and think “That’s the guy who shits.” He’ll say it loudly and point. Possibly imitate the sounds of my colon. The rest of the citizens around him will join in. Pointing and laughing. Sticking their tongues out to make fun. I’ll never be able to show my face in public ever again just because I had to get something high fiber for lunch.

That would never happen. Nobody cares enough to make fun of me. I only think that might happen because that’s exactly what I think in my head when I see someone else shit. I’m a very observant person. I might not look at a woman’s shoes most of the time, but I notice a man’s shoes when they’re poking out from underneath a stall. Don’t wear gold boots. They’re a death sentence for shitters. I can spot them for far away. The real worst case scenario with public shitting is that you might clog a toilet and have to ask for assistance. Or you find a human head in the toilet. Much more likely than having a bully make fart noises in the mall food court at you.

(“McFly took a big shit. Let’s get him Ryan from The OC.”)

Nervous Moment #3: Sharing

Sharing can be a difficult thing for males. We’re told that we’re not allowed to cry. We’re not allowed to show weakness. We’re not allowed to wear a dress. I blame the media, mostly. They’re easy to blame. The media is faceless and nameless. There are also a lot of Jewish people working in the media and they’ve been blamed for so much already that it rolls right off their backs.

I try to share as many of my thoughts as I can. Certain ones can only be shared with certain people. Certain thoughts need to be bottled up and tossed into the ocean. There are much stranger things floating around in my head than I am ever willing to share out loud. I get nervous with sharing because like my two previous nervous moments, they involve rejection and being made fun of. If I have an idea that isn’t any good then someone will say “That sucks!” then someone else will yell out “Stupid!” These things actually do happen. Nobody likes a bad idea. Especially when it invades their creativity.

(Not the best idea that people have ever had)

The problem with sharing something personal is that it can totally creep a person out. We have no real line to draw with what is okay to share and what isn’t. We’re told to not bottle anything up which is absolute horse-hockey (grandmother for fucking bullshit). There are certain things you should never share. Worst case scenario for that? You get thrown in prison, you lose all your friends, no one respects you, it’s endless. So sharing still makes me nervous because those worst case scenarios are real. Bottle it up kiddos. Nobody needs to know everything about you.

Overall when speaking of worst case scenarios it comes down to this. The worst case scenario for most of us is death. You say something stupid then you die. That’s the worst thing that can possibly happen for most of us. Not for me. I think the worst case scenario is saying something stupid and not dying. Having to live with everyone knowing I uttered out stupid rhetoric. Embarrassment hurts much more than death. At least with death I won’t care anymore. Do dead bodies blush?

It’s been a while since I’ve made a friend. 5 years? Nah not that long. I’m not that much of an outcast. But it has been a good long while. Long enough where I don’t remember moving my car so it looked like I wasn’t home when a friend I didn’t like much was coming to hang out. Because that’s what friends do. Avoid each other.

The first friend I ever made was an imaginary man named John Cracker. He killed teenagers. He also always wore a tight yellow shirt. I think he was a gay murderer way ahead of his time. I don’t know how I came up with him. I never actually saw him, but I knew he existed. He was a real bastard. Realizing that imaginary serial killers aren’t the best of friends, I decided it was time to branch out. I made some new friends. And by friends I mean socialized with other children around me. That’s how children make friends. It’s just whoever else is there and isn’t a bastard.

When I got to school it was easier to make friends. I remember the first day of kindergarten. We got to pick where we’d sit. I saw a scary looking kid sitting next to a goofy looking kid. I figured “Hey, I’m somewhere in the middle of that combo.” I sat at their table. One of them was a bully who ended up moving a few years later. The other was a friend who ended up moving even sooner, Michael Barbera who I have previously mentioned in another post. He went from best friend to mortal enemy only because he moved away and did not keep in touch. How’s your life shitface? Those silver spoons taste good? Michael’s dad was either a prison guard or a security guard at a place called The Wiz! It was a more primitive version of Best Buy. Their slogan was “Nobody beats the Wiz!” Liars. You went out of business. The 1990s beat you. The Clinton Administration decapitated your business model. You’re a Gold’s Gym now. Fat people sweat where you once sold copies of Mrs. Doubtfire on VHS. But anyway, Michael’s dad hurt his knee and they became really rich. That’s why he’s not a friend of mine anymore.

(American Icon Toby Huss portraying “The Wiz” on an episode of Seinfeld. Much better than that douche Michael Barbera)

With Michael, I had another friend who wouldn’t care if I mentioned his name but I won’t because he wouldn’t care. We’re still friends to this day. 19 years of friendship. 19 years of coming from different families, having different experiences, and still ending up in nearly the same boat. It impresses me how similar we ended up considering how different we were raised. We met in kindergarten when he was discussing the Mel Brooks film Spaceballs and I was the only other person that had seen it. So, we bonded over slapstick comedy. Oddly enough, that’s been the main driving force of our friendship ever since. Writing our own slapstick-type comedies. Come to think of it, we don’t have anything else in common other than our height. He eats fast food a lot, I never do. He drives a nice car, mine has had sap on the windshield for a year. He’s slowly killing himself by smoking, I’m doing everything I can to survive. You just know I’m going to die of something freak. Like a meteor will enter the atmosphere, dissolve, and one piece will hit me on the top of my head. How embarrassing.

(Is he wearing a skirt? At least try not to look like such a wimp. He deserves to be crushed by an asteroid)

School was always easy to make friends for me. I would find someone fatter than me, someone uglier than me, and someone dumber than me and suddenly I had a wolf pack going. You’re almost forced into friendships at that age. You have to do these things called team building exercises. The hellish activity of working with others. Yuck! It’s terrible. How about I do it myself like I’ll have to in the real world. No matter what grade I was in, I was always able to at least make friends. Sometimes it was with the kid that always wore the same vest, other times it was with the kid with the hole in his shoe that liked Star Wars, and most of all it was with the kid who was suspended for a bomb threat. These were my people. Now they’ve grown up to be whatever shitty job it is they chose.

After graduating from whatever level of school you have completed, it becomes more difficult to befriend people. You have two options. Either through work or through a hobby. I never make friends at work. It’s not that they’re good people, but I don’t know what I could talk about to married women in their 40s. Menopause? I’m not even quite sure what that is. I think it has something to do with a mid-life crisis and dryness down below. I’m not talking about Australia either. My hobbies don’t help much either. Most of them involve being alone. Writing, watching television shows on my laptop, exercising, masturbating, thinking up get rich quick schemes, and wallowing alone are all activities that are harder to do with someone around. I don’t know where to make friends. I can’t post a Facebook event to tell everyone the next time I’m going to do any of those. And who would even come? I never go to their events. Look at me. Acting like anyone ever invites me to anywhere that doesn’t cost $20 with a two drink minimum. Assholes.

I have a new goal that I have come up with. It is to make as many friends as possible. Make them think I’m their best friend. The only catch is that I will do it with people who play the lottery frequently and compulsive gamblers. You see, that’s gambling by proxy. If they win big, I’m bound to get something of it. Especially if they think I’m their best friend. Why bother playing the slots when it’s so much easier to befriend a multiple 78-year-old women? That increases my odds exponentially. I am a math genius.

(Stop trying to figure out how to create a black hole and find a cure for Lou Gehrig’s disease, the most sporty of diseases after jock itch)

Where is it that a boy can make a friend? The process is too insane. I almost made one friend then realized I had been lying to him because I had assumed he was lying to me. That felt silly. But all he talked to me about was art and that’s not me. I don’t know anything about art. My favorite painter is Bob Ross. I have no artistic integrity and have lost what little respect you may have had for me.

(Incase you’ve been living under a “happy tree” here’s a picture of Bob Ross)

I would make finding a new friend a goal of mine except that it’s a silly lonely goal to make. I don’t need to go out in hopes of making a friend. That’s not a real friend. It’s not organic. I’d have to be fake to do it. Things like that should happen organically. Maybe someday I’ll find a new friend. Until then I’ll continue to actually be productive and undistracted by people wanting to go out and eggs cars.

“I’ll be there for you.” – chorus from a popular television show from the 1990s about a group of friends in New York city who work together to solve murders called Law & Order


Posted: January 28, 2012 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

I would like to take today to apologize for a few things. Nothing that I’ve done. Shit. I’m perfect. I have not a thing to apologize for to anyone. That’s a sign of weakness apologizing. That’s what tough guys that nobody likes say.

The apologies I would like to make are for men in general. I want to be honest for a moment because everything else I have ever said in my entire life has been a lie. Men are jerks. We are. Sorry. That’s how Zeus made us. Not our faults. Still, that doesn’t mean that we can’t apologize for being created so half-assed. I know there are women out there who say stuff like “God created man first because you always start with a rough draft” or something similar to that. I fucked up the quote, I think. But you get the point. Women who use that quote usually get punched in the face by the rough drafts they’re dating. It’s a silly argument to make. Why would God even need two attempts? It’s the same argument that you make with children. The second child can say to the older child “mommy and daddy wanted another baby because they did it wrong the first time.” I don’t think that to be true. A much better thing to say would be “mommy and daddy loved me so much that they decided to try to make perfection again, but they fucked up so badly that they didn’t try anything else after that.” I’m a middle child. I have an older and a younger sister. I like to say that they fucked up the first time and wanted to get it right the second time, they got it right and went to try for perfection again, but they fucked it up again and figured why try creating such beauty (me) again. That’s my logic for remaining existing.

(You really believe that this is completed?)

Onto my apologies for men. The first thing to apologize for are dick pictures. I’m sorry. Every girl has received a picture of a male genitalia at some point. It’s one thing if it’s solicited or asked for, but when it comes out of the blue then there is no reason for it at all. Girls do not get turned on by random pictures of the Loch Ness Monsters of private parts. It’s weird, strange, and reveals what a social outcast you are. Women want to be wowed. Showing a picture of your dick via text message makes your dick less like the Holy Grail and more like a bag of Peanut Chews. Very few people have seen the Holy Grail and for those who have, it’s an amazing experience. Many more have seen bags of Peanut Chews. They’re kind of everywhere. Pictures of your dick also have the same reaction as does the opening of the Lost Ark of the Covenant. See the first Indiana Jones movie as a reference.

My second apology is for cars in general. The inventor of the car, Henry Ford, was a man. Cars kill lots of people. They’re almost as deadly as asbestos. Asbestos is weird. It’s one of those things I know exists, but have no idea what it is. That’s what you get for watching The Price is Right. All you hear about are dog balls and mesothelioma. Men and cars are a deadly mix. I’m not a fan of men who love their cars. Those men rarely love others or even themselves. They need a large piece of metal to get hard. I am the complete opposite of a car fag. I’m not even quite sure how to pop the hood of my car. My car makes a loud sound not because of a muffler, but because it’s 10 years old and has 150,000 miles on it. I think there might also be a squirrel stuck underneath of it screaming for help. Or maybe it’s a Mexican. They kind of sound the same to me. It’s gibberish. So sorry for cars. And sorry if you’re Mexican. Don’t blame me for that. That’s between you and your maker.

Frat boys suck. That’s why I’m apologizing for them. They used to be white jerk-offs who play football and now they’re white jerk-offs who play football and wear their hats sideways. I wore a hat sideways once. It was because I had it on backwards and was punched for doing so. I was punched so hard the hat spun 90 degrees. The person doing the punching, myself. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to a frat boy. What could I say to a man who likes to give other men piggy back rides? Giddy-up? And take note, when I say frat boys, I mean every male under 30 who owns a shirt that says “Tap-Out” or has ever gone out in public in a plain white t-shirt. Why would a company call itself Tap-Out? That’s what you do when you lose. Oddly enough, anyone who wears those shirts has already lost at life.

(A loser from two different angles)

When guys get together they think they’re on the radio. That’s why I want to say I’m sorry for laughing at everything our friends say. Really, the intentions are good. We’re trying to let our shitty friends think they’re funny. We also want them to give us the same courtesy. All guys do is laugh at each other. They name a sexual act then laugh.  We’re full of testosterone. You ladies have it easy. You have something called estrogen. That sounds like a Gatorade ingredient. Testosterone is such a strong word itself. Test is in the name. Nobody likes tests. The only way to get testosterone out is to break something or laugh at a friend quoting Family Guy. I’m aware how annoying this can be, but like Mexicans, I did not choose to be a man. Sorry if this gets on your nerves. But even you have to admit it’s better than us slapping you every time you speak, which is what we all want to do.

(Chris Brown isn’t abusive, he’s honest. Like how he’s a gigantic Colorado Rockies fan…doubt it)

Finally, I want to apologize for being so incredibly dominant in the history of the world. Women still in most parts of the world do not have equal rights. You First World Women have no idea how great you have it. There are parts on this planet that you’re not even allowed to have a clitoris. I know! They cut it off like it’s a price tag and they don’t want the person they’re giving you to knowing how cheap you are. Can’t they just put some black Sharpie over top of it to cover the price? Even in America women have only been able to vote for under 100 years. It took a couple of mean and angry lesbians to get you the vote. Even black guys had the vote before you. A race of people who were taken from their homes on another continent, chained and forced to work in fields, then killed when they grew too old and weak. Men have more respect for each other than they do for you. I’m deeply sorry for that. You women are wonderful. We need to show more respect for the ladies. They provide us with babies and new episodes of Whitney.

Since I was the bigger man and apologized for things on behalf of billions of people, I think it’s women’s turn to apologize. What do you need to apologize for exactly? The first should be your stories. I mean, really? You thought that would be interesting? Another thing is making eye contact and then not having sex with us. Talk about mixed signals! Girls need to say they’re sorry for being so manipulative, pretending to be weak, and for having no souls. You don’t have to apologize for always being late. I find it cute when I tell you to meet me somewhere at 8 and you show up at 9:15 with a lame excuse.

I’m not too familiar with the British band Duran Duran. That’s why this post will start off as a short idea and then turn into something really long. Sorry, I’m lonely and don’t have much else to do but delve into my mind incredibly deep and get as many words as possible into a blog post. Maybe if you’re running late on time that you’ll get lucky and this post won’t be so long. Don’t count on it.

(One day David Bowie’s 5 bisexual children got together and formed a shitty band)

The Duran Duran Effect is a name I came up with. It really has very little to do with the actual band. Honestly, I’m only positive about one of their songs. That’s where the name comes from. Okay, now imagine this is an episode of Cold Case or some other flashback show. Let’s let the cinematography change a bit and then we dissolve to:


Big songs of the era play. What was a big song in 2002? Shit. Kelly Clarkson was probably big back then. Maybe that didn’t happen yet. Didn’t Blondie make a comeback around that year? Okay so whatever shit Blondie was doing that year plays in the background. The setting has been set. Moving forward.

(Blondie’s favorite food, Blondies! Didn’t she get really fat? I can’t find a picture anywhere. Maybe she turned into the dessert)

I’m sitting in front of my computer screen. All of my stories from 2000-present day begin this way. Some involve my pants removed and neatly placed on a nearby chair. This is not one of those stories.

I used to play a lot of Survivor simulation games. That is, a bunch of nerdy fans of reality television shows would get together and mimic the game as best they can. I could go on forever about that. The wars the erupted. The lies that corrupted. The black girl who said that the KKK was after her and I didn’t believe her then she saw a REAL picture of me and said I was cute so I suddenly believed her again. I never would send people real pictures of myself. I for some reason had a picture of a shirtless British kid that I would use instead. That’s probably going to get me arrested somehow.

But anyway, I’m in a chatroom playing one of these games. Things are about to get a little cringe-worthy, at least from my perspective. I was (am) a douche. I’m sorry. South Park had recently had a Christmas episode come out and in one part Santa Claus sings a Duran Duran song. “Her name is Rio and she–dances in the sand!” That’s all Santa got out before Jesus stopped him. I thought this was silly. I remember a popular boy at school quoting it. Hey, I want to be popular. Let me quote it, on the Internet! I’m in the chatroom and I’m a frantic mess trying to impress everyone and make Internet friends. I start quoting Santa covering Duran Duran. I thought it would be silly. One girl who I imagined being really hot but logically couldn’t have been, thinks I’m hilarious. She loves Duran Duran! I’m her new best friend.

(Santa and Jesus doing a duet to raise awareness for cancer and their hatred of Muslims)

Some time passes and we talk again. In another chatroom playing another dumb game based on a reality show. This one might have been The Amazing Race or Celebrity Rehab. You see, that’s a silly joke there. Celebrity Rehab wasn’t on air yet. It wasn’t until 2008 that celebrities could admit they had a problem. For the sake of the story, we’re playing Survivor, again.

This is what the Duran Duran Effect is. It’s making a good first impression and having explosive diarrhea during the second. My verbal diarrhea was so incredibly bad that we never spoke again. She even told me to shut up at one point. I had quickly become her best friend and now I had ruined it by not knowing more than one Duran Duran song. I knew less songs by Duran Duran than the band name contains the word Duran in it.

Songs by Duran Duran that I know – 1

Times the word “Duran” appears in the title of the band Duran Duran – 2

Things turned out for the best I guess. I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t be amazing the first time you meet someone. They expect that for the rest of the time they know you. I have a plan that anyone new I meet that I will act like a complete idiot. Then when I do mental math they will think I am improving. If I had always gotten C’s on my report cards, I wouldn’t have cried the first time I got one. At least it was in 8th grade. I saw a boy cry in 10th grade when he got his first C. Grow up pussy. Welcome to the world of failure.

Here’s a question that you’re all dying to have me ask. Has the Duran Duran Effect ever happened to you? I know, I’m a real cheeky fucker. You actually have to read most of this to even understand what it means. I didn’t ask some rhetorical question where you can answer without reading a thing.

I consider myself an expert when it comes to several things. One thing I am not an expert at is knowledge about yearbooks. That’s kind of a silly thing to be an expert at. Become an awesome fencer or the fastest person at saying the alphabet backwards. Those are real talents that will actually get you somewhere. Not like extensive yearbook knowledge which only leads to drugs.

(Yearbook Expert/Junkie, Bubbles)

To first understand the title of this post, you must know what a yearbook is. A yearbook is defined as “a piece of shit book produced by a biased organization full of censorship.” That’s a little harsh. I prefer to call it a booklet full of good memories, friends, and a couple of boogers. Most schools produce a yearbook for children each year of their existence. It’s nice and they don’t only do it for the money even though it’s only the graduating class that is ever featured.

I own three yearbooks. One from my 5th grade year, one from my 8th grade year, and one from my 12th grade year. I only would get one when I was graduating. I don’t know where my 5th grade one went. It had cardboard covers. It’s the one yearbook I wish I had most. I would like to see what the dead kids I know wish they had grown up to be. If it was dead then I would shit my pants. My 8th grade yearbook isn’t bad. My picture I don’t look too grotesque and I even have 1 or 2 hot girl who signed it. One of them drew a heart. The other didn’t even know my name I guess and wrote my screen name instead. Shit. All that time spent looking down her shirt in home room for nothing. She has the first nipple I’ve ever seen in person. She has no clue either. Don’t feel bad though for me being a pervert. She told someone who she wouldn’t date him because he wasn’t in good enough shape. Now she’s fat. That’s not karma, it’s the effects of alcohol and excessive pudding consumption. My 12th grade yearbook is pretty pointless. I didn’t bother going to get my picture taken. They wanted me to show up at 7:30 in the morning during summer. Yeah, what the fuck? I’ve waited all these months to sleep in and now I need to not only buy a suit, I have to wake up early and look nice for your damn photograph? No thank you. I bet they hired that same photographer who would say “turkey toes” to get us to smile. That’s smile entrapment. How can you not laugh saying turkey toes? It’s alliteration. The funniest formation of words are always alliteration. Big brown baby badger butt. Hilarious!

(Actual turkey toes. Not nearly as much fun to look at as it is to say it)

No matter where you went to school your yearbook is the same. I’ll stick with high school because most of us are too stupid to remember anything before that. I know I am. Every yearbook has colored photos of seniors and the rest of the class gets tiny black and white ones. It’s kind of degrading really. Seniors get to live in a Wizard of Oz world while the rest of the younger students are forced into a Schindler’s List scene. The younger kids also don’t get to vote on who they think is cutest, smartest, or most likely to be assassinated due to their politics. I tried rigging the votes my senior year by stuffing the ballots with the worst possible winners imaginable but those pesky administrators caught on. Or my compulsive lying friend lied to me. I’ll go with that one. I am much more likely to believe that a 17-year-old would lie to me over thinking a vice principal can count past his weekly earnings.

(Image taken from my high school yearbook of our marching band leading a visiting team’s mascot to her death)

I look through my high school yearbook now and don’t have many fond memories. There’s a picture of the “Whacky Races” an event I had no desire to attend. Then there’s the fashion show. Hey, that girl is ugly. She shouldn’t be allowed in the fashion show! There are pictures of people I don’t like walking, there are pictures of people I don’t like sitting, there are pictures of people I didn’t even know went to my school playing a guitar. I must not like him either. I remember everyone I meet. Who the fuck is this guy? I’d scan the picture on the Internet but it’s illegal to do. The yearbook company owns the rights to the pictures. Yeah, ain’t that something to kick a can of shit about. They can take a picture of you without your knowledge, throw it into a book, and there isn’t a thing you can do about it. I love you America!

Perhaps, in many years from now, I can look through my yearbook with better memories. Or more likely I’ll throw it away. Or that random freshman I asked to sign it might become famous and then I can sell that page at least. Either way, if you are reading this chubby black girl who had a crush on me back in 8th grade, I did what you told me to do in my yearbook. I stayed cool. I did it for you. I hope you had a great summer like I suggested. Even if you are a lesbian now.

I live in the ghetto. Well, it was a ghetto until I moved there. It’s hard for me to say anywhere I live is ghetto. I’m not very ghetto at all. I still wear underwear with animal prints on them. The underwear I’m wearing right now has a dog in a Santa hat. It is Pitbull though. That’s kind of ghetto.

It’s a weird thing for me to live in an area where someone gets murdered every other week within walking distance of where I bathe and tuck my imaginary children in at night. I didn’t always know that this place was so ghetto. It took about a week of living here when my dad sent me the police blotter. A police blotter is one thing you don’t want to see places you recognize.

(My imaginary children sitting on a swing set talking about how to kill daddy)

There are obvious signs now that I live in a ghetto area. The first being there is trash in front of my door that does not belong to me. Somebody who enjoys Salt and Vinegar potato chips thought it would be humorous to leave their empty package there. I think differently. Other random things appearing in front of my door have been toy cars, a potted plant, a basketball, and a small black child named Jamal who tried turning my doorknob. Did I need to say he was black? I said his name was Jamal. He had just moved in and his careless mother who lives above me was letting him roam around at 9 at night for some reason. This wasn’t the first time a child tried breaking into my home. When I was around 13 an autistic Spanish girl around 7 years old opened my front door. I yelled “Who are you? Who are you?” She closed the door then sat in front of my house picking at the grass as autistic children tend to do. I went outside with my sister and tried to communicate with her. I said whatever Spanish words I knew like “hola” which means hello and “cago en tu leche” which means I shit in your milk. My sister had noticed the property value in the neighborhood going down due to the new Spanish family that lived two homes away so we returned her there without a reward. Question, how do you not realize your young autistic child has been missing for a half hour? If she went two houses in the other direction she probably would have been murdered. Her mother should wake up and thank me every afternoon. They’re Spanish. They sleep in late.

(“Sorry I was late Mr. Belding, I didn’t think school started until 6 pm.” – AC Slater)

The other day I saw a truck with shopping carts on top of it. Apparently some of my neighbors really like shopping carts. They like them so much that they bring them home with them. The truck was picking them all up from nearby dumpsters and returning them to their awful grocery store that is within walking distance. The dumpsters in my complex don’t contain too many strange things. Squirrels usually jump out when I toss in bags of shit. Isn’t that weird? I have thrown and will throw more bags of shit through the air than women I will ever have sex with. Even if I become Wilt Chamberlain, I’ve thrown hundreds of bags of dog shit into a dumpster or garbage can in my lifetime. Hey, I think I’ve got my epitaph written up.

My apartment complex is directly next to a couple other complexes. Those are a lot worse than mine. People get shot there all the time. There are pot holes in the roads that never get fixed. Some of the windows have pieces of wood on them. There’s a tennis court with a tree in the middle of it. I’m really glad I didn’t move there to save $50 a month. I’ve never really felt threatened by anything in my time living here. Today while doing laundry a cute girl said hello to me. Or maybe it was hi. Shit. I was too distracted thinking “don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall” when she entered. I probably should have made some quip about brown underwear stains. If at any point that would be well received it would be laundry day. Instead I left and set my timer for when my clothes would be done drying. I think I blew my chance at ghetto sex.

(Whenever I drive through the more dangerous apartment complex I imagine myself getting a flat tire and ending up in a Black Hawk Down situation)

Despite all of the ghetto signs they try to make this look like a nice place. There are lots of pine trees, the maintenance guys are always walking about, a security guard drives around all night long, and each apartment has central air conditioning. I never had central air conditioning until I moved here. Ghetto people don’t have that. So maybe I’m not living in the ghetto. There might be loud arguments from neighbors, gang signs spray painted on trees, and random women’s weaves lying near my car, but that doesn’t make it ghetto. It makes it a place with a lot of character. A place I can call home.

I’m sitting here wondering about a world before pants. Actually I’m lying. I’m sitting here looking around the room for something to write about. I’m wearing pants for once which means that must be a sign I should write about them. The pants I’m wearing right now are pajama pants. They’re camouflage. I look like I belong in the Cuddly Marines because my pants are so incredibly soft.

(A POW of the Cuddly Marines. I don’t know this kid. It’s creepy that I’m posting his picture)

Pants have been around for a long time despite not being around at the beginning of time. Jesus never wore pants. He wore a gown. At least, that’s what it looks like to me. Julius Caesar never wore pants either. He was killed by his best friend, Brutus. If my best friend killed me I would not be surprised. I would not say “And you too?” I would say “I knew you were going to do this someday, bastard.” The earliest person I can remember ever seeing depicted in pants is Christopher Columbus. Using this logic, pants were invented in 1492. Let’s stick with that.

(I really hope he’s wearing pants or else he’s clearly playing with himself)

The purpose of pants is to cover up your private parts. And to cover up the knees of people with knobs for knees. Before pants we used fig leaves to cover our private parts. Then Isaac Newton came around and turned the fig into a delicious cookie, The Fig Newton. A couple of bullies called it The Fag Newton because bullies don’t like cookies without a chocolaty flavor. It’s true. Think about everyone who has ever picked on you. Did they or did they not have a chocolate stain on their lips? After the fig leaf went out of style we decided to wear furs over our crotches. We had developed the ancient art of killing an animal to cover our shame. That’s kind of silly. If someone did that today, killed an animal only to wear their skin, we’d be outraged by them. Survival used to depend on it. If you didn’t have the most trendy of raccoon skins for underpants you’d be made fun of then killed. The ancient world was a cruel place.

People eventually learned how to sew which led to the toga. The toga was used primarily because it could cover the entire body. The citizens of those ancient times were lazy and did not care to put on a shirt and pants separately. Oh, they had the technology to build pants. Believe me. They were just too lazy to do it. The Romans had bath houses to hang out in. It wasn’t even a gay thing. Can you imagine that? Hanging out with your buddies in a bath and it not be a gay thing? I can’t even sit next to a friend at the movie theater without feeling slightly homosexual.

(Speaking of slightly homosexual)

The night-gown, worn by Jesus and all of his disciples, was pretty popular for quite a long time. I’m not really sure what happened in history from the year 0 until 1492. It’s all kind of a blur. That was such a gigantic chunk of human history yet we seem to know less about that time period than any other. I think there might have been a few Crusades. The Crusades, where a bunch of white people invaded a country of olive-skinned people claiming that their god was a white guy who grew up in a land of only olive-skinned people. Okay–no wonder they had to make up King Arthur to get others behind that story.

(Common battle garb for a man in the times of Jesus)

Christopher Columbus somehow got his greedy hands on a pair of pants. The pants he wore were silly pants. They were tight and the kind of pants that a clown might wear. His discovery of a new land would eventually lead to the murder of a bunch of non-pants wearing people called the Native Americans. I guess back then they weren’t called Native Americans. They were called “in-my-ways.” That’s exactly what they were. In the way of pilgrims. Their presence alone was a nuisance. Native Americans used to actually live in gigantic beautiful mansions. They felt bad about taking up so much land and decided to conserve space by living in teepees. A small triangular home that was only big enough to shit in. They could no longer hang fancy paintings on their walls. They had to resort to hanging scalps which were much smaller. In today’s world, Native Americans do wear pants. Usually these pants are filled with poker chips. We killed their ancestors and gave them casinos. The world is a bloody mess where money fixes everything.

Were are we in history? We’re in like 1776 or so. People are still wearing silly Christopher Columbus pants. Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and other racists all wearing the same type of tight-fitting girly clown pants. Then the Declaration of Independence is signed. The United States is free from England, a country that thrives on not wearing real pants. We fight a couple of wars, enslave a couple of races, and before you know it blue jeans are around. I saw the film Gettysburg or at least part of it. It takes place in the 1860s in Pennsylvania. I actually almost got a hand job at Gettysburg, but that’s another story for another day with no real ending. The soldiers for the Union wore blue. This, my friends, the invention of blue jeans. It came out of hate, war, racial suppression, but I think it was all worth it. I would give my life so my children could live in a world with blue jeans. They’re so form-fitting that it’s worth death to have.

(Brett Favre killed 19 men to get ahold of these real comfortable jeans. He only showed 2 of them a picture of his penis)

Today, in the year 2015( don’t want this to be time sensitive) there are lots of types of pants. There’s the aforementioned blue jeans, there are khakis, there are cargo pants, douche bags wear dockers, there are pants that are impossible to stain, pants of every color you could imagine, pants that if you were thrown from a plane would act as a parachute, pants that have the bottoms cut off, pants with the backs cut out, the types of pants that exist are endless. Dogs also pant when they’re hot. This is one of those cases where why don’t they call a dog panting something else. Call it a dog breathing heavily. Or if you need its own word call it Supplenating. I made up a word that means nothing. Merriam Webster never did that. Too busy getting teased for having a girl’s name.