Anniversaries

Today marks my one year anniversary of creating this blog. I won’t go too into history or background behind it. It would remind me too much of my birthdays as a child when my parents would tell me how happy they were that each had drinking problems and rented that Sharon Stone film to get them in the mood. I’m joking of course. Even by the time I was conceived Sharon Stone was on a down trend and my parents never would have admitted to having drinking problems. Except when they were mad at me. Then they’d say they were sorry they were such drunks and made such a disappointment of a son.

(Me, sad on my birthday. Why was I so upset this year? My cake design was pumpkin, Lincoln log cabin, giant snowman. I wanted ninjas)

Anniversary is a Latin word meaning “anally” and we only get our anuses checked out once a year by a doctor. We’re supposed to get it done twice a year but what’s 6 months? That’s why we have anniversaries once a year. To match up with our anal examinations. Sometimes people use the word inappropriately. Kids will say it’s their one week anniversary of dating someone. Actually, no. It’s not. You must last one entire year for it to be an anniversary. But you won’t last a year. You eat boogers and are fat and your girlfriend has braces and the biggest boobs in the 5th grade. The second a 6th grader with a mustache spots her, she’s his.

I’m never sure if bad things should be called anniversaries. Deaths, break-ups, cancer diagnosis, theatrical film release of Charlie St. Cloud, all of them are terrible yet there’s no better word than anniversary to use each year on that date. Pearl Harbor had the day that will live in infamy. But that’s a mouthful. Who even uses the word infamy when they’re not talking about Japanese sneak attacks? FDR had to use big words and great catchphrases. His twin brother Teddy Roosevelt came up with “talk softly and carry a big stick.” That’s an awesome quote. If I was a librarian/woodsman I would use it all the time. Teddy Roosevelt will always be my hero because he, like me, suffered from asthma as a child. He also refused to kill a bear. I’ve never killed a bear either. I believe Teddy was the one who formed the Bull-Moose political party. You see where I’m going with this? All I need is a mustache and a charge up a Cuban hill and we’re the same guy.

(One’s a neat freak and the other knows how to party hard. If they were actually brothers this could be great on NBC Wednesday night lineup)

The most common anniversaries that are celebrated in a positive light are marriages and birthdays. A marriage anniversary is simply called an anniversary. It has no special word because nobody outside of the two heterosexuals in the relationship really care. Gay people don’t have real anniversaries. They have fraudaversaries. A gay anniversary would be kind of weird. They’d get together at a diner and talk about how they first met at the truck stop. That’s how I understand gay people to be at least. Replace all places with truck stop, all activities with felching, and all names with Bruce Vilanch. Birthdays have their own special name. We all have a birthday. Men from the Caribbean sometimes have two birthdays, years apart. They don’t keep very good track of their birth certificates in those countries. I think they use their certificates as coconut bibs.

(Why do we always forget that this is the ugliest man alive?) 

I look back at my old documents on my computer from a year ago to see where my life was at. I don’t remember much of what I was doing other than struggling with ideas. Last April and May had been very unproductive months for me. I resorted to filling out some type of character profile to help try to spark some ideas on a shitty idea that I had. I’m sure you’ve seen them before. You answer dumb irrelevant questions about your fake person like what their favorite color is and what they’d do if they found a human head in the toilet after taking a dump. My character was just an asshole. It had already been a month of not having any brand new ideas so I decided to start-up a blog which nobody read. That continued for a month until my neighbor’s Internet I was stealing was blocked. Luckily I wised up and realized I don’t need to create characters. There are already so many nutty people around me. I can write about them! And that’s a little blurb on how to get over writer’s block. Do what I do and write about the idiots you encounter everyday. Give them a rocket ship or have them die in a horrific car accident. Remember to change their names though. Unless you’re pretty sure they’ll be dead by the time anyone else reads it. That’s my rule anyway.

A year from now who knows where I will be? I’d like to think I’d be so incredibly famous and busy to continue blogging but I know that probably will not be true. This is the longest I’ve consistently kept a blog going so there’s some celebrating to do I guess. There are so many pluralized topics to continue to go over. So many truths to be told and stories to be shared. On April 28, 2013, post-Mayan Apocalypse we can all laugh about how silly we were on this day. How fat we got in that year. How different yet the same our lives are. That’s why I think we have anniversaries. They help us progress further. Give us something to look forward to. Remind us that we need a finger up our butts.

(I never thought I’d say this but this stock photo is giving me an erection. She looks like she actually wants me to bend over for her)

Leagues

Bowling, baseball, ocean measurements, they all have leagues. Bowling leagues are made up of mostly fat men who cheat on their wives and younger people who lack talent at the real sports. You know, sports where you get laid for playing. Nobody has ever scored from being a bowler. They don’t even call their points scoring. Girls don’t want to sleep with the guy with the world record for turkeys in a game. Baseball leagues are divided into the American and National Leagues. I used to think that all of the white people from America played in the American League and the National League had the non-white people. You know, the talent and all of the stolen bases. Really, when was the last time an Anglo kid from a Nebraska farm stole a base? I don’t know much about the ocean measurements known as leagues. I always thought it was stupid that we have a new system for measuring distance in water. Is it because the water is always moving and it’s hard to place a ruler down on it?

(This looks closer to dancing than it does sport. Androgynous Jones here could be ready for a leaping camel or some other dumb dance move)

The leagues that I would like to discuss more in-depth are the leagues we divide ourselves into. For dating and stuff like that. There’s that term “out of my league” which I have been told several times by girls with cerebral palsy. Were they out of my league? Maybe! They had large breasts and their faces weren’t half bad. I only asked each member of The Cerebral Seven (the nickname given to the 7 of the most popular girls in high school with cerebral palsy) to dance because I thought it would be charitable. It was their loss, right?

Often times in my life I have wondered who would be in my league. Sometimes girls who are absolutely stunning seem attainable. Other times I feel like I have to hang around a gas station bathroom hoping someone’s lonely and short a few bucks. I’ve come to a conclusion that I’m a 7 to my face. That seems to be the best I can do when asking girls what I rank on a 1-10 scale. I’ve polled girls from all over the world and that’s the best I consistently pulled. This was also 3 years ago and I’m worried I’ve lost a step. And I’m aware that a 7 to my face means I’m realistically a 5. Being a 5 isn’t that bad. It’s so completely average. Girls are always looking for an average guy, aren’t they? It has its advantages. 3’s will talk to me thinking they have a chance and 8’s may settle if they’re drunk enough.

(Not a hijackers list. This is what the average woman from each of these countries would look like if you combined all their faces. I mean really? These look like cute 17 year olds. How is that average?)

I was at a Dunkin Donuts recently. Most of the people at this particular Double-D are older slobs or women with Black Hole Sun faces. You know, faces that belong on one of The Joker’s victims in the old Jack Nicholson Batman movie. They’re mostly rich yuppies. But one girl walked in and caught my attention. I didn’t look at her at first because I could tell she was tall. I’m afraid to look at tall people because I fear they will see my dandruff and smack their chins downward into it for some reason. Probably jealousy that I never have to duck. I caught a glimpse of her out of curiosity. Wow! She was stunning. Yellow skirt, white top, and nerd glasses. Nerd-fucking-glasses! Everyone loves nerd glasses. I don’t care who you are. We all secretly have a crush on all Tina Fey imposters.

(A Black Hole Sun face. Too many yuppies look like this to me)

As I walked out with my Wake-Up Wraps I wondered what kind of guy this woman would date. She was clearly doing well in life. She was probably on her lunch break to get some coffee. She’s so busy and loves her job so much that she needs some sort of afternoon spark to help her through the rest of the day. She was fit and cute. She did notice my existence though which is always good. Not by talking to me or asking what I was ordering like I fantasized about later on. “What would you recommend I get?” she’d ask me. Then without a word we’d kiss on top of a donut. Not a Krispy Kreme donut either. They don’t have those at Dunkin. Despite what that one woman who came in once thought, Krispy Kreme is its own company. Really, what a dick. Who goes into a Dunkin and order a Krispy Kreme? Next she’ll into a White Castle and order a mattress.

It’s girls like this one that I know I have no chance with. I like to think that any person can get with anybody. It’s a little princess fantasy of mine. Like how people are inherently good and not just out for themselves. Bullshit like that. But I need to ask myself, do I really want to be with such an intimidating presence like her? I’d always be nervous that I might say the wrong thing. I might fart too loudly or not loud enough, depending upon which one she’s more into. That’s why leagues exist. We find a place where we feel comfortable in the relationship. And isn‘t that what dating is all about? Feeling comfortable naked around someone else even when you‘re fat and dry.

Online Forums

We have no cure for cancer. After millions of dollars being poured into research, nothing. I don’t even know how you would go about trying to find a cure. My mind still works the way people’s did in the Civil War, cut it off if there’s a problem. But we can’t have everyone running around with cut off breasts, testicles, and brains. Still, some diseases have cures. One horrific disease, boredom, has the perfect cure. That cure is visiting an online forum.

If you’ve never visited an online forum you’re either lying or have never tried to kill yourself. The people on the suicide forums aren’t nearly as interesting as you would think. I used to peruse them late at night. I’m not exactly sure why. Plans to kill myself never got further than looking up at tall buildings thinking it would hurt really bad if I fell off. I would still recommend everyone make an account on one of these forums at some point. Either to help out some sad poet or to feel better about yourself. I’m guilty of them both.

(More poets should be like Edgar Alan Poe. He only whined about his lost Lenore. Not about how hard it is to get out of bed for a well paying job everyday)

Most large websites have forums. They allow for fans, or in most cases enemies, of the sites to express their opinions and bully 12-year-olds who post there. I believe bullying was invented to be used on forums. It’s the great place to shit talk and make someone feel like they’re subhuman. You not only get to hide behind a computer screen, you also are able to publicly showcase your insults to the rest of the members. It’s like that saying, if you calling someone retarded for having a lame opinion and there’s no one else around to see your great insult, does it hurt as badly? I’m not sure what the answer is because I might have used a double negative. Point is, online forums are a great place to make people hate themselves.

Personally I have never been bullied on a forum. It’s probably because I always forget my passwords and never log back to see the responses. The few forums I have posted on though I have always felt stupid after doing so. Fitness forums can be pretty bad. It’s a bunch of meatheads with how much weight they can move in a certain way posted under their misspelled opinions. I’m sure most of these guys are as strong as they claim to be. It’s not like most are closeted homosexuals trying to impress other men on the Internet. Why else would they post YouTube videos of them squatting shirtless in shorts? Anyway, if you hate being bullied avoid asking any question on a fitness forum. You will be met with a thousand opinions by a hundred guys who date a mirror.

There are a few terms on forums that you may need to know incase you’re thinking about signing up for one. The first is Signature Picture. These are the images used at the bottom of every post made. One time I made a “Sig Pic” on a wrestling forum. I’m like Internet famous. I’m Tub Girl only more blurry and covered in less fecal matter. There’s also the term “Moderator” which is important on forums. This lets you know which members don’t have senses of humor or real jobs.

(Every time Undertaker27 tells you about his lame opinion, you can see me in the center in front of a lime green sign with a rope going in front of my face. At least this picture confirms I am a half-inch taller than my friend)

I’ve been a moderator on two forums in my life. Both were on websites that my friend created. The first was a professional wrestling based forum which went nowhere. The second was a pornography based forum which went nowhere. Here’s a tip, don’t have a website about porn without any actual porn. It really is like that old joke of getting Playboy for the articles. So few people joined that we began to create fake accounts to encourage new people to sign up. I didn’t even know anything about pornography. All I knew to do was use names like Amber and Xilda, the standard porn names. A few Arab guys joined but never discussed anything. But really, who wants to talk about porn? What would you even say? “Did you see the rack on that one? Boy she knows how to make a man smile!” Two people who I knew joined. One had red hair and the other was a girl with thyroid problems. You’re only as good as the company you keep–

Like with anything on the Internet, things are negative. Forums are no different. People just love to be assholes online. This makes me believe that people are assholes deep down inside. Give them an anonymous nickname, an avatar of Captain America with a large erection, a lifetime of never fitting in and you have a mean Internet troll. Never post something you’re proud of online. If it ever becomes big your ego will be destroyed within 5 minutes. Yeah, people will be talking about. But you’ll be the new Rebecca Black. Nobody wants to be the new Rebecca Black. That’s too much pressure. You have to live up to being such shit.

(This face makes me hate the beginning of the weekend)

Collectibles

What do stamps, books, and sexually transmitted diseases all have in common? You guessed it, they’re all nouns. Besides that, they’re also things that can be collected. And that’s today’s topic, collectibles. Those useless items we can’t get enough of that end up where they probably belonged in the first place, in a pit of fire.

The 1980s and 1990s really created the huge collections crazes. People finally had money although they would often complain that they didn’t. But before that you could really only collect coins. I have a coin collection. Two actually. Maybe three if you count my quarters I’m saving up for laundry. One of them is also loose change so I guess that’s not so much a collection as it is an errand I have to run. But my actual coin collection was given to me by my dad. I’m sure he forgot. There’s not much and I’m sure it’s worth a ham. People used to collect coins because they would say one day they’d be worth more. Like with those state quarters which are worth more than 25 cents yet nobody ever can get a sandwich with 2 Delawares and a Nevada. Collecting coins is silly. All it means is that you had money stashed away that nobody ends up using. Who even puts a buffalo head on a coin? So stupid! I’m getting myself a pack of Skittles with that next chance I get.

(He’s got a cane and isn’t flinching with a hawk that close to his face. Clearly John Muir was a blind man)

Stuffed animals were the first big collection. I give credit to Cabbage Patch Kids. They made ugly children trendy. I don’t think you could find the creepiest pedophile in the world who would fuck a Cabbage Patch Kid. Those things look like Down Syndrome Vincent D’Onofrios. Have you ever seen such a flat face on something? I know you’re supposed to be able to find the beauty in every living thing, but luckily these things were never living. I don’t know what kids used to look like back when those were made but Jesus Christ! Why are most dolls so incredibly ugly? Even the blow-up dolls are unattractive. What if you just want to have a conversation with one? Assuming all prostitutes do is have sex is wrong. Fuck you sex toy industry. You have made a mockery of a once prestigious hobby.

(Do these things know wizardry? She’s not gripping it yet the cake stays afloat. Cabbage Patch Kids should be drowned)

The big collections I remember from the 1990s were Beanie Babies and Furbies. These weren’t quite stuffed animals. The Beanie Babies were filled with beans (which sounds tasty) and the Furbies were filled with Japanese robot parts (possibly as tasty). I had a few Beanie Babies. Go ahead, laugh it up. But I’ll be the one on top of the world once all of them retire. That was my favorite thing about them, they would retire. How does something that sits and does nothing but take up space retire? Next thing you know we’ll be collecting United States Senators. Ouch! Burn! My sister had a Furby. I think she won it at a boardwalk. Amazing how crazy girls will go for a talking Gremlin. You’d think because of that I would have had more dates in middle school. I was short, fat, and hairy. The spitting image of one of those dumb furry birds who always ended up being named Coco.

(Me back in high school. Don’t mind the black or stoner lips. I was going through a goth phase)

The other big collection of my childhood were Pokemon Cards. I hated those motherfuckers. I remember going out onto the baseball field at school and writing “Pokemon Sucks” in the dirt with my friend who saw me pee one time. A lesbian who I had a crush on came over and saw it (not me peeing, the Pokemon Blasphemy) and erased it with her dyke foot. Eventually I had to give in and purchased a few Pokemon cards once it was dying down. I was jumping on the collecting cards of dumb Japanese animals while my peers were jumping on the bandwagon of kissing girls. But the joke is on them once again. Their girlfriends can’t upgrade from a mere Squirtle into whatever a bigger Squirtle was. Can you tell I know nothing about Pokemon? Wasn’t one a shoe?

(I was right!)

Other collections invaded my life over the years. Things like Pogs, Crazy Bones, stickers, and a few others came and went. My biggest collection ever though was baseball memorabilia. I could write a book on this subject but I always stop after one page because nobody wants to read a book about me calling Pat Burrell an asshole every 2 pages. I know, who? I still have everything that I managed to collect. Most of it is in my front closet. I have a couple hundred thousand baseball cards, game-used equipment either bought or handed to me by nobodies, and a lot of baseballs. Really, I could drop the baseballs on your head one by one and you would eventually die I have so many. I don’t know what the most impressive things I own are. Only one thing graces my refrigerator (that’s where I keep the good shit I own). It’s a baseball card of Billy Ripken. You know, Cal Ripken Jr.’s more famous brother who once played in 2 consecutive games. On the knob of the bat, unbeknownst to him, written in black Sharpie the words “fuck face.” A teammate thought it would be a fun prank. I own that card! That’s mine and not yours. There are a bunch more out there but that’s the most interesting thing I own that might mean anything to you. Unless you’re a fan of letters from Bob Tewksbury. Then have I got a story for you!

(It’s impossible to read, but trust me. That black Sharpie beneath his hand says “fuck face” on it. Look at his face. Isn’t he one?)

No longer do I collect anything. I don’t have enough disposable income to buy things to stare at. That’s more of a kid or a mid-life crisis thing to do anyway. I think everyone should have a collection at some point in their lives. Don’t go overboard like me and have it basically become your life though. Or do. I had great times collecting stuff. All I’m trying to say here is all things in moderation. And don’t collect stupid shit. If it requires a battery and hasn’t been around for at least 10 years, you’re probably wasting your time. It’s not going to be worth more in the future. Has anyone who wasn’t a child murderer ever really wanted a Pez dispenser?

Excuses & Justifications

We all do terrible things. I’m convinced that we were all made to be immortal but eventually we do something so bad that we earn death. Our entire lives we’re told what’s good and what’s bad. For the most part our moral codes are the same. We know stealing is wrong and eating carrots is good. But what if what’s being stolen is bread for a starving family and what if every time a carrot is eaten a terrorist gets his pilot wings? Those are just two lame excuses and justifications that people may try to make in order to do a bad thing.

 (Bruce “Scorpion” Diamond, a once fierce competitor in Immortal Kombat, was moved over to Mortal Kombat due to his excessive demanding tone for people to “get over here”)

I try to make as few excuses as possible. It’s hard on me because I really don’t want to do very much. If I really didn’t mind making excuses I would do it a thousand times more than I do already. Can’t go out today, my knees hurt. Sorry I’m late, I was busy trying to come up with a solution to the abortion problem. There’s that old phrase “more excuses than a pregnant nun.” At least a pregnant nun can always go with immaculate conception. As long as the baby doesn’t turn out Brazilian (I think we can all agree that God isn’t Brazilian) her boss would have to believe her. If he doesn’t believe her then it’s because he believes the impossibility of immaculate conception in the first place. Therefore he denies the story of Jesus’s birth. So if you’re a pregnant nun reading this, feel free to use my argument.

Excuses are mostly for children. They can get away with a lot because they have sweet faces. You can also get away with hitting a kid. The children are our future yet we’re allowed to smack them. Isn’t that really sealing your fate of having the plug pulled on you 5 minutes into a coma? What separates us from children is that adults try to justify their errors. They give a reasoning behind why they made a mistake. Children don’t think that far ahead. They go to bed before 9 and actually like waking up at 6. I think it takes getting 5 hours of sleep on a consistent basis before you learn to justify being a bad person.

I always like to hear people’s justifications for using drugs. They say that marijuana is “from the earth” and that it’s “natural.” Plutonium is from the earth. Smoke that. Admit it, you only smoke pot because you enjoy it. Something being natural doesn’t mean you should do it. I don’t see anything natural about turning a coke bottle into a bong. For that to happen you need plastics, the invention of soda, and large corporations to distribute that product. You’re such a hippie yet you don’t realize how much capitalism it takes for you to forget about how your homework stress. Shut up and admit you just want to be lazier than when you are sober.

 (If a picture of your bong involves product placement then face it, you’ve sold out)

The best is when we get caught doing something we know is wrong. When a cop pulls us over for speeding we try to give some bullshit story about how we didn’t notice how much fiber was in our breakfast and that we really need to get to a toilet/Burger King floor. At least that’s what I would do. But I’m a good boy and never speed. I wouldn’t know what to say other than roll over and present myself to the cop and let him rape me for trying to get somewhere quicker. It’s the same reason why I would never cheat on someone. Eventually I would get caught and my only justification I could make was that I wasn’t thinking clearly. Then how about I clean out my brain with a shotgun bullet if I feel so confused? I hate when people say they “weren’t thinking.” Of course you were thinking. You were thinking about your own needs and wants. Whore.

Why do people even need to make excuses or to justify their behavior? Because we judge one another. If nobody was there to judge then people would do what they want and be happy. That’s not a good thing. If we didn’t have judgmental folk like myself then everyone would be fat unfunny sexual predators. It’s up to us to remind lesser humans how lousy they are so they don’t go out and become worse than they already are. I know if I wasn’t afraid of being judged I would be a terrible person. I would rarely shave, always be naked, and insult everyone I could. Not that I don’t already insult a lot of people. I would hide less behind a computer screen when I do it though.

(In the past warriors had shields to protect them. In today’s world we have the ability to hide our IP addresses)

To sum it all up, do what you think is right. Believe in what you do and you won’t need to make an excuse. It seems like too many people try to explain why things are the way they are. They say they like Backstreet Boys better than N*Sync because they were around first. No. Stop. Just say you like them better. You’re still a little queen, but at least you’re being less dishonest. We’re too caught up in doing our best not to make mistakes. There’s no need to worry sweetie. Everyone makes mistakes. Admit to them and you can move on. Don’t say that it’s the way you “thought it was supposed to be done” or other lame things I use.

“Excuse me while I whip this out.” – a black sheriff making an excuse for pulling out his junk. No need to do so sir, we all know it’s because you want to brag.

DMV Trips

Recently I had to go to the DMV. My reasoning was I wanted to waste an entire week waiting for help. Really it was because I got a ticket for having expired plates. I would have loved if I got some warning in the mail about this. They had been expired since at least November. The car used to be under my mom’s name so when she died I had to switch it over to mine. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I contemplated a sex change operation followed up by a name change to make things easier. Anything to avoid having to deal with government workers. Even if it means testicular removal.

I headed to the DMV which is conveniently located down the road from my work which is inconveniently located an hour away. I had been to this DMV before many times. I have lots of good memories. This is the same place I failed car inspection for having bad windshield wipers. I got there early armed with every piece of identification I could find. My birth certificate, social security card, registration, license, passport, copy of my finger prints, picture of my genitals signed by a doctor, a trustworthy friend who could identify who I am, a bill in the mail with my address, an old high school yearbook, and the video of me being birthed. They told me I was still a few points short, but would let it slide since I put in a valiant effort.

I filled out the form with a giant pen next to a Mexican guy who didn’t like me standing next to him. I got into the proper line and was treated like an idiot. I had to go back out to my car to gather up information on my insurance. I returned to see a woman with a television mom haircut in my spot and a new person helping out at the number 4 cubicle. An elderly black woman approached me and said she would help me. I knew this was a good sign as elderly black women can usually see the future. I had it made.

(“I predict white women everywhere will buy whatever I tell them to buy even if it doesn’t work or they do not need it”)

She returned shortly after saying that my registration was suspended. She seemed suspicious of me. Probably because I was the only one there who spoke English or wasn’t arguing. I was informed that due to my switching insurance last year it probably suspended it and that I should have filled out a form in the mail. So I think that makes two things that I never received in the mail. I was given a copy of the 4 step directions to get to the DMV in Trenton and after a little bit of debating I decided I would not go that day and hope that a revolution started before I had to get this problem resolved.

(The last time Americans revolted men died so young that they had to wear fake white hair just so we’d know who would die soon of natural causes)

Americans are too big of whiners to start a revolution so two days later I attempted to get to the Trenton DMV. If you need to know anything about Trenton it’s this, it stinks. I’m convinced it’s the worst state capitol. Or is it capital? I never remember that dumb rule. There’s literally nothing to do there. There are no happening spots. No places to pick up drunk chicks and drive them into the woods before killing them. The directions I had said that parking was across the street from the DMV. The problem with things being across the street from buildings that take up an entire block is that there are 4 across the streets. I pulled into the employee parking and had to back out. Then I did it again into another employee parking lot. How many employees are there at the DMV? I saw about 7 people actually working. I think the rest of the employees died years ago in some tragic terrorist attack and they’re afraid of moving a current employee’s car. Yeah, they could look up who the car belongs to but this is the DMV. That would require them to work.

I found parking and hit a light post. I hit lots of light posts. I moved my car because I was concerned that I hit the light post so hard that it could topple over. I’d let someone else suffer due to my mistake. I got out of my car as most people do when finished parking. I wasn’t sure if I should cross the street in the middle of the road or walk to the end and use the crosswalk. An outdoor adventurer, a homeless man with a giant garbage bag, led the Pickett’s Charge across. I followed at his side every step of the way. Who says the homeless are useless? Their good for shielding us from oncoming traffic.

(I prefer the homeless shield to shield my home)

The first line I got into looked promising. I figured this would go pretty quick. The receptionist in the front sent me to cubicle number 25. At 25 I was met with a woman with a dead hand. Maybe it was broken, but it also looked kind of tiny. Dead hands also amuse me so let’s pretend that’s what it was. She too thought I was retarded for having a problem with my motor vehicle. She gave me a blue note card with the number 229 on it and informed me that I should take a seat and wait to be called. That’s when the fun began.

I sat waiting to be called as my girlfriend texted me and picked a fight. Great, I’m at the worst government department on the planet, in a terrible city, still have to go to work later in the day, and now my girlfriend is telling me how much of a shit I am. If a man ran into the room with a gun my life would have improved. It was about 40 minutes before my number was called. They even started at 220 so I wasn’t that far away. It was that gap between 228 and 229 that killed me. That took 15 minutes. When I was called I eagerly popped up and made my way over to cubicle number 20. Maybe I would get this all resolved in under an hour.

The woman at cubicle 20 was an elderly black woman. I explained to her the situation and made sure to throw in about how I only changed insurance because my mom’s death. She didn’t give me an “oh child peace be with you” which I was hoping for. She disappeared briefly and I took a look around her office space. She had stuff for the Dallas Cowboys and a lot of breast cancer stuff. I was going to use this to my advantage. Troy Aikman, Don Meredith, mastectomies, any names or words I could think of popped into my head. If I couldn’t beat the system I was going to charm them into being nice.

(Hopefully none of these women ever get breast cancer. They’d be forever unemployed)

Cubicle 20 worker returned and told me she was going to do some “soul searching” to fix my problem. I thanked her and took a seat, again. This time things were more crowded. People were watching movies on DVD players. Long movies too. I think the guy got through the first two Star Wars movies and got to the first Ewok sighting in the third. I listened to a few conversations too. New Jersey stereotypes in front of my talking like Tony Danza and being fat and greasy really got on my nerves to the point I almost sat in the chair in front of the kid who kept kicking it. My number was called about 10 minutes later and I returned to Cubicle 20.

For the first time in history someone received good news at the DMV. I was told that everything had been fixed and I need not worry. My plates were now up to date. I had to sign one form and I was set. Before leaving, the cubicle 20 worker showed me sympathy. She even asked how my mom died and before I could give an honest answer she said “What it cancer?” Now I had my problem resolved and she was very nice to me, but I had already planned out in my head to pretend that it was cancer. You know, for bonus points. I said “Yes” because saying “No” would have raised more questions and ruined the connection we had made. It felt like if I didn’t say my mom died of cancer or tackling a Washington Redskin running back I would have had to wait longer. She told me that my mother would always watch over me and I know if that’s true she was probably laughing at my taking advantage of someone else. If you think I’m a jerk-off for doing this, remember, this was the DMV I was dealing with. I was ready to tell her that I had breast cancer to get quicker service.

I got my new registration really quickly from a Spanish man across the way. I headed out to my car and used another homeless man, this one carrying boots, as a shield. I got into my car and drove off into the sunset. That’s the great thing about the DMV. You can drive there into the sunrise and by the time you leave it’s the sunset. Get it? Because it takes a long time. The moral of the story; don’t trust mailmen, use the horrible things in your life and the lives of others for your convenience, and jokes from the 1980s are still relevant.

(Tomorrow, Airline Peanuts!)

Creative Types

The most creative person I have ever met is myself. Really, some of the ideas I come up with, classic! Changing that lightbulb with wet fingers, it gave me a jolt of energy that no caffeinated drink ever could.When I am killed sometime in the near future (I’m a realist) my brain will most definitely be placed in the Smithsonian. If Archie Bunker’s chair could make it into that sham of a museum, surely my mind has a shot.

(Why is there a picture of an enslaved African man next to this chair? If anyone would have little sympathy it would be Archie Bunker)

With my amazing creative skills I am still modest enough to acknowledge the creativity of others. Yes, sometimes I get jealous when I see someone impress me. I’m angry that I didn’t think of it first. I hope that this creative person has some sort of terminal disease and will soon die so I can claim their ideas as my own. I guess that’s why you never hear about anyone with Stage 5 AIDS inventing something cool. Is AIDS separated into stages? So many Broadway stars of the 1980s had it that I would think this would be a fun way to categorize the disease. And when they die you can joke and say “exit stage left” or something cute like that to lighten the mood.

I find that the more I am around creative people the more creative I become. It’s a very subtle thing too. I’m not so much influenced by them as I am in competition. My competitiveness isn’t so huge. Yeah I’ll scream, curse, and hit if I feel like my fellow Uno players are drawing better cards than I. But how else can you convince someone to forfeit and give you a better chance at victory? It’s good to be around both creative people who you think are better and worse than you are. Fitting somewhere in the middle of the pack lets your head keep from getting too big and detours you from blowing off that head with a shotgun due to how much you suck. That’s how I see it at least. I never like to be the best or the worst. Being the best means people will expect me to always be that tremendous. Being the worst means I should probably hang it up. And by “it” I mean my neck in a noose.

Surrounding yourself with creative people also has a downside. Usually they’ll be more judgmental of you. I hate being judged. That’s why I haven’t shown up to court for that vehicular homicide. That judge doesn’t know me. He has no right to be so judgmental. The worst thing about talented folk is that they can justify their telling you how crappy you are. Not that too many people with talent really care or notice us slobs at the bottom of the barrel of skills. That’s another thing, creative people never really care about other creative people. Take blogging for instance. It’s great to have other bloggers read your stuff, but it’s even better to have non-bloggers do it. Non-bloggers, or shit-heads as us bloggers call them, are much more valuable readers. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate all of my friends who are also writers, but I like it a lot more when those shit-heads I mentioned earlier read my masterpieces. Think of it like you’re a musician and only other musicians are in the audience. That’s not very much fun. They’ll be standing there with their lighters thinking not about how great you are. Instead they’ll be more focused on how they could do that if they wanted.

(Don’t have a blog? This is what you look like to me)

My most favorite thing about creative types is that if we’re lucky we can put our amazing brains together and create something awesome. The keyword in creative is create. That’s not to say the act of creating anything is creative. My nose creates boogers nightly and only about half of them are anything impressive. To be truly creative I think you need to be original, draw emotion from your creation, and be unafraid of failure. It’s not always the first try that brings in the success. So keep on failing readers. Perhaps some day you can claim writing about creativity as something creative like I just did.

Consistency Cycles

Think of your favorite cartoon character. Are you thinking of it? Does this character wear clothes? No? You’re a pervert. If you answered yes, continue on. What kind of clothes does this cartoon character wear? I mean each episode. Because a normal human being would change their clothing. But not a cartoon character. They wear the same damn clothes every damn day. Except sometimes during flashbacks or special occasions. Like that Flinstones episode where Fred had to attend Pebbles’ funeral. That was a real downer but we got to see Fred in a suit. This observation and obsession of mine has made me more aware of the clothing that actual life action humans wear. Freaky thing about this is that sometimes there are real people who dress like cartoons. People who always seem to wear the same thing every day.

(He sure seems chipper to be at his daughter’s funeral. Must have wanted a boy)

The only joke I’ve ever seen in a cartoon about this was on an episode of Doug. Doug, who always wore a green vest with a white shirt underneath, opened up his closet to reveal an entire rack full of the same outfit. In real life, few people own multiple versions of the same outfit. Or do they? I haven’t been in too many closets. That’s where monsters and homosexuals hide. My closet is full of mostly black shirts, but they’re all different. That’s more than certain people can say. People who I would like to ridicule for having inconsistent cycles of clothing wear.

I worry about stupid things. One of my big worries is that someone will notice that I’ve worn the same shirt in the same week. Luckily I don’t have enough quarters to do laundry that consistently. Phew! I also perfected the strategy of throwing on a button up shirt or sweatshirt so that nobody will see that I’m wearing the same thing as yesterday. I don’t do this often, but sometimes I do. You know, for good luck and such. If a rabbit’s foot, a horse shoe, or a coin can be lucky, surely my body odor can be too.

(Clearly the smelly men in this picture are the lucky ones. All that medical school to do this for a living)

To me, the unwritten rule of wearing clothes is don’t get caught looking dirty. Women own so many clothes that if I notice you wear the same thing a lot you’re doing something wrong. Men get a little more leniency. Don’t tell me this is a double-standard. I hate that excuse. Complaining that something is a double-standard is your way of admitting you think what you’re doing is wrong. If it didn’t bother you so much you wouldn’t be trying to justify it. So be comfortable with what a horrible person you are already.

(“If I killed only the French nobody would have minded. Such a double standard” – Charlie Chaplin lookalike winner 1938)

Pants vary from shirts with these laws. I think you can wear pants more often than you can wear a shirt. Why? Well a shirt will touch your gross disgusting body more. At least pants have your underwear to protect your fabric a bit. But the problem with pants is that you need to make sure they’re not a loud pair that you wear more than one day in a row. I know this guy, we’ll call him Sniffy because he always seems to move around a lot like a dog sniffing. He really irks me. I want to smack his nose and tell him to stop moving around. He’s way too young to give the Parkinson’s excuse. And he has neat girlish handwriting so he’s just being a nuisance to me.

(Knock it off! Find a place to shit and be done with it you grape colored dog)

Sniffy wore the same loud obnoxious cranberry colored pants three days in a row. They were the color of red velvet cake. I know I shouldn’t associate another man’s lower half with a delicious dessert, but that’s what it made me think of. What kind of man buys cranberry jeans? It’s the same shade as the rope at the movie theater and probably felt as soft. I don’t know. I’m not about to ask to rub his knees to find out. He has another pair whose color reminds me of a mermaid’s fin. They’re a very soft solid blue. My reasoning for noticing his pants so much is that I have bad eyesight and see colors stronger than anything else. I will also claim that I sit low in my chair and my eyes are around crotch level. Making eye contact is a strain on my neck. I have to keep it level. It’s not like I know the fly on each of these pants is silver-colored–

I’ve known two other people who always wore the same sweatshirt. Every day. All times of the year. The same exact outfit. Both these guys were pretty weird in general so I guess that wasn’t a concern of theirs. Even if it’s not the same shirt, you need some sort of rotation. I once kept track of a friend’s shirts and how often he would wear them. It took only about a month before I realized a pattern. Certain shirts were worn early in the week while others were purely bought for weekend purposes. He probably secretly called them his party shirts. I know I would. Super Mario fist pumping is the definition of a party.

(This should screams “I don’t live with my mother, she lives with me”)

What is your strategy to make sure you don’t wear the same thing every time you see a certain person? Please note that wearing something you don’t like that your grandmother gave you every time you see her doesn’t count. That’s not gross. That’s trying to make an old hag smile at her awful gift idea.

Mahs & Mehs

Have you ever had someone in your life who you seemed to develop your own language with? No? Well then you’re a lonely person who will die alone. Yes? Well then you’ll probably die alone anyway, but you will be able to relate more to today’s hilarity. Today I will teach you how to speak the language that my girlfriend and I have created. It has no name to it, but what’s in a name? Shakespeare said that and we all know how amazing a writer Shakespeare was.

(“Shakespeare is an asshole” – Sir Francis Bacon, creator of most of what Shakespeare wrote)

The first and most important words you should learn are “mah” and “meh.” Those words translate from the English “my” and “me” respectively. These will be used in such phrases as “doin’ mah hair” or “hand meh mah needle.” My girlfriend is a heroin addict so she’s always asking for me to hand over her needle. She’s really clumsy and always dropping it. Butterfingers! The origin behind these words comes from me making fun of how she said those words by their correct pronunciations. You see, I notice things like that and like to make sure I don’t let you forget your flaws. I think that’s her favorite thing about me. My ability to notice every little blemish.

The word mean is something we always say. If you have nothing to say, use the word mean. The problem with this is that sometimes we do say really mean things to each other and it’s tough to tell when the other one is joking. We probably are pretty mean to each other. I say mean things and she does the mean things. Actions speak louder than words so she’s a louder version of mean. I’m not sure when or why we started using this. Actually I might and if it’s true I won’t say it because it’s too private. I don’t need the world knowing our safety word.

(My girlfriend and I deciding if we should use pears or an apple)

Oof! If you want to speak our language, say that every time you get punched in the stomach. Believe it or not, we get punched in the stomach a lot. One time I was punching her in the stomach on the corner of a busy street. A taxi driver honked his horn at me. I like that he not only thought I was abusive, but thought honking his horn would get me to stop. Of course I wasn’t really trying to hurt her, just wanted to leave a little bruising. Chastity belts are expensive and the smell of urine doesn’t last very long. Have to mark my territory somehow. You can also say “oof” when walking up stairs or any time you suffer any sort of pain. For some reason walking up stairs hurt our feet a lot. That’s why we like handicap people so much. They allow us to use their ramps.

Some of the things we say aren’t necessarily words as much as they are the way we say them. The best way to describe it is the way a white person like me would imagine a black person like you talking to a baby. We say things like “thonk ya” instead of thank you. Again, this comes from me making fun of the way she talks. She insists I say bagel weird, which I don’t. I don’t say “bag-ull” like people in New York. I think my girlfriend is just deaf or stupid. We tend to drop the g’s in verbs endin’ in “ing.” This adds to the ghetto baby talk dictionary we’re putting together. No offense to any ghetto babies or anything. I would hate if you were well-read and apologize if I’m completely out of line righ’her.

This wouldn’t be a complete post if I didn’t at least make mention of the legendary McGwire the Dog. I guess he’s not so much a legend as he is sitting near me. I’m sure there are plenty of legends jealous of his current position in the universe in relation to myself. McGwire can actually talk. He doesn’t say much but our favorite thing that he says is “bahroo.” I determined that this means “hurry up stupid” because he only ever says it before a morning or evening poop. Lady Moose also had a teacher named Mr. Bahroo which is pretty freaky to think McGwire could possibly know this. The proper time to say bahroo is whenever you damn well please. It’s fun to say and it could help you become the next Dr. Doolittle. And by that I don’t mean your career will completely tank like the last guy to play him.

(Strange, he has done very little ever since playing a character of that name)

Probably the strangest or most normal thing we do is call each other by our last names. When we use our first names we know we’re mad at each other or have slipped up. I’m starting to even forget what her first name is. Like I sort of know, but I’m not sure how it ends. If it wasn’t for emailing each other or hacking into her Facebook account for spying purposes, I probably would have forgotten her name by now. I’m sure we’re not the only couple who call each other by our last names. It makes us seem like buddies more than a couple. We’re like Mulder and Scully except I don’t have a long face with tiny eyes and she’s worked in this decade.

(Aww that’s not fair for Gillian Anderson. She works hard at the pen factory testing the caps)

Offenses

What’s the greatest thing about white males? Is it how dominant we are? How everything except for peanut butter and the film Juno were invented by us? Really, white males are the undisputed champions of people. Yeah we die a lot and we’re kind of pricks. Remember though, God is a white male. It’s only natural that we are so incredibly awesome.

(This is what it looks like to me any time a group of white men are together. Except for maybe Dean Cain. He looks kind of Spanish here)

For some of you, this opening paragraph may have offended. Here are the people I think it may have offended most. First and foremost, women. Women are pretty easy to offend. All you have to do is make them feel less superior. A simple way to do that is quoting any textbook before 1965. Secondly, non-white people. Non-white people are offended by things because they aren’t always identified by a color or a made up word like Caucasian. At least calling someone African or Asian lets you know where they’re from. There’s not place called Caucasia. If it did exist that would be quite a paradise. A place with only white people? I’d probably have at least one home run record if I lived there. The only other group of people whom may have been offended were those that believe God isn’t a white guy. I mean come on. How ridiculous is that? He clearly is. Look at the Sistine Chapel. God clearly looks like a Frenchman.

 (“Oui Oui” – Ted 11:83. I can’t believe this image hangs on the top of a church)

I don’t like to offend people. Well, I do, but I don’t. I like to offend people to the point where their opinion sways. I hate to offend people and then get into an argument with them. I’m not a confrontational person. I hate having thick lips puttering in front of my face telling me I’m wrong. That’s why I usually keep my opinions to myself. Except on this blog. If I really don’t like you I can always block you or point out how lame you are for getting mad about something you read on the Internet.

I’m not a fan of people who are easily offended. I understand certain things should offend people. I can’t think of an example, but I’m sure it’s out there. And there’s a difference between being “offended” and actually hating someone’s actions. Someone doing something evil isn’t offensive, it’s just a bastard-move. So don’t say a murderer offends you. Say he’s someone who does bastard-moves and you’re quite displeased with it.

 (Amanda Knox, bastard-movist. No way this sweet face is guilty)

If you’re reading this, chances are not much offends you. I know my readers, they’re pretty tame on that scale. But I’m sure one lame ass is here. Possibly looking for pictures of tennis players or something else stupid. For you, easily offended douche, I want to help you get over your childish need to feel your heart sink whenever something hits a nerve. Here is a quick guide on how to stop being such a pussy.

Stop being important! That’s the first thing you need to do. Realize that your problems aren’t the most important ones in the world. Anyone who is easily offended is full of themselves. They think the issues they care about should be the most dominant ones in the hearts of the rest of us. And what makes an issue important to someone? It affects them. It’s simple, people only care about issues that involve them. You think I really care about gay marriage, affirmative action, or the music program at the local high school? I don’t. Not one bit. I’m never marrying a guy, have even less of a chance of being black, and if I ever join a high school musical class chances are I’m a gay black person already.

Things that offend people are always jokes. Nobody gets offended by a movie about a particular sensitive subject, but a joke about it will offend. Because not everyone takes their issue/problem as seriously as they do, they try to make the rest of us the bad guys. “You can’t make fun of that! That happened to me!” Shut your face. I never got being offended by something somebody else said. Why not fight back? It’s such a coward move to cringe and stick your chin up then say “That’s offensive.” Yes, and? Stop being a wimp before someone hits you in your high and mighty moral jaw.

(The way all easily offended people should turn out)

Now I doubt anyone reading this, whether it be true or not, thinks they are easily offended. Nobody would admit to that. That’s why the phrase “I love to laugh, but–” exists. Truth is, most people have horrible senses of humor. What makes a person have a bad sense of humor? Being offended by a joke ever. It’s one thing to feel uncomfortable or to acknowledge how much it stunk, but really be truly offended the same way you would feel if someone hurt you deeply is silly.

I guess my point through this whole “rant” was to hopefully get one person to read this and think “Hey, I am a big baby. I need to stop only caring about my own agenda and let other people do what they want.” I think I missed the mark though. It’s like I was playing darts in the bar and instead of hitting the board I put the dart into the nutsack of the bartender standing 10 feet behind me. Anyway, keep not being offended. Creative people usually aren’t. So if you’re offended easily, you’re not creative. Stop making shitty flute music and photography.

What offends you? The only thing that offends me are people who are oblivious to how much they suck. And don’t worry, I am aware of my suck factor.