Posts Tagged ‘humor’

We hear a lot of the fight for equality. Equal to what though?

Equal to waking up to a pointless existence where no one appreciates you? Equal to working hard only to die before you actually accomplish anything worth a damn? Equal to Screech from Saved by the Bell?


(This is your goal)

I don’t want to be equal to anyone. That means they have everything I have. If a person can do that, and I’ve met people and boy I’ll tell ya I am not a fan, what’s that say about me?

Keep fighting for equality. It’s perception. Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to realize you’re better than comparing yourself to others. Equality is just a false-sense of security and saves you from the brief feeling of being an outsider.

Technology is great. It allows us to wash our nude bodies indoors with the light and provides the opportunity to watch others wash their nude bodies with the lights on.

Not all of technology is great though. Some parts are absolutely terrifying.


(Terrifying in person form)

Take socializing for instance. There are way too many ways to be bothered. Between Facebook, Twitter, email, and texting, mutes have become our equals in terms of communication. While they still all have a distinct baritone voice only excused because they can’t hear themselves sounding ridiculous, the deaf have tied us listeners in getting the message across.

And this is a problem.

I remember going a whole summer without talking to anyone from school. I avoided the Internet like the plague or the same way girls did me until I turned 22. The only thing different at 22 was I now had thinning hair and eye bags which to women reminded them of George Clooney if he wasn’t famous. The only downside was when they found out my real age after not understanding any of their references to the 1980s.

What’s a gay cancer?

I don’t like technology because now I’m forced to be empathetic. When someone is sad I have to read about it. I can’t ignore the problem either because I have a kind heart.

However if you have cried for help openly and I don’t respond, it’s because I’m intimidated by how cool you are. I also don’t feel like reconnecting with another person who will just commit suicide in three months. I don’t even own a suit for your funeral.


(Only a black man can pull off a suit that looks like my underwear)

Technology brings us places we shouldn’t be. Like work. Have you ever thought about your job? How important would it be in the apocalypse? Unless it’s oil salesman, road warrior, or cage dancer you’re replaceable. It’s okay because I am too.

One last thing to mention about technology: it keeps us alive longer. This is an awful thing, I think you’d agree, if you’ve ever met anybody.

Is there anything on earth better than a big meal? Maybe seeing an enemy starve us equal. Certainly nothing beats it.

After a big meal today though, I had my confidence shattered. Police officers are protecting our freedom at the entrance to the train I ride with random bag checks. They’re on the clock ensuring nobody blows up the train because if somebody did they’d let all of New Jersey down.

Sometimes I do have a bag, but today all I had was my charming personality and a belly full of food. Apparently, cleaning my plate at dinner was enough to cause stomach expansion to a level in which my stomach actually looked like I was smuggling something.

Aren’t police officers supposed to have good eyesight? Or am I confusing them with baseball umpires? Which is the one we’re supposed to spit on in an argument? I guess the answer depends on your race.

The lawman asked that I step over to have my bag checked. Not since my last physical when the final turn your head and cough moment has anyone asked to check any bag of mine. I agreed to the bag check only for the police officer to then question if I even had one. I didn’t so he let me pass.

I could feel bad about this. Instead I’m going to blame it on my four layers of baggy clothing. Between my oversized wrestling t-shirt, stretched out plaid business attire, gargantuan hoodie covered in dog fur and bearded lady facial remnants, and jacket–it’s no wonder the policeman didn’t ask me to remove the family from under my shirt.

I think he was embarrassed. If he wasn’t, I’m supposed to sue him for hurting my feelings.

Worst of all, as I was haunted by memories of being a fat kid, some mother snuck baby formula onto the train. Fat shaming me nearly cost America its innocence today all because I dress like a slob.

halo halo

(Okay, so maybe the cop wasn’t so crazy after all. He should have at least searched my giant head)

I haven’t blogged here much in the last two years. At first it was because I had a job that drained me plus I had found other outlets where I could make money. I’m still primarily writing elsewhere about sports (people love sports) and seeing some success. I’m not satisfied though as writing is still only a fraction of my “career.”

Unfortunately it’s a tough industry. More and more people are learning English plus women who know how to write are no longer tossed into rivers to see if they can float. This immediately doubles my competition, which I’ll have to accept.

A large part of me still does enjoy writing on humorous topics. It’s tough for me to get rid of completely because I don’t take much seriously. I add my jabs and sarcasm in as necessary when writing about sports yet it’s still limited at times and when I try doing it sometimes feels forced. So I may be writing here a little bit more now that fantasy baseball season is over. Probably, my train rides home will include a little bit more writing about my life or how much everybody else is a silly person.

Ultimately, my writing goals include nothing specific. I just want to be able to say something, be heard, and then have someone hand me enough money to pay my rent, buy food, and have a little extra left for pants whenever they rip in the crotch. Or maybe that last one is society’s fault and they should just learn to accept seeing more flesh than they’re used to.

hole in pants

(These aren’t my work pants, but just so you know, all 3 of my pants I have for work have giant holes in the crotch and I have no idea what to do about it other than lose shame)

Writing about your life isn’t exactly lucrative though unless you’re already successful at something else or killed someone. Nobody is interested in the autobiography about a person who thinks their life was interesting if the only thing interesting about it was that they wrote about it. We’re not as special as we think we are and as I’m looking at Kurt Cobain autopsy photos knowing he’s younger dead than I am currently alive, it’s humbling to know how insignificant I am.

I’d love to write a little more openly. An opportunity to entertain more than inform would be dazzling! Where I’m at in life, people only want facts from me instead of opinion. I’m also tiring of editing which is why you will certainly continue to find many typos on this blog. Between writing, eating, and making sure my blinds are drawn so my neighbors can “accidentally” get a glimpse as I change in the morning, re-reading anything I write falls to the side. I can’t imagine how painful it is for you to read it once when I’m incapable of even passing my eyes along it as I type.

All of the articles I see online about getting paid to write online are outdated and reiterate the same information. The days of content farms are over. Your best bet is joining an already established site where you can break off on your own blog or killing someone. I don’t own a gun and I’m too short to clobber someone in the head without them seeing it from a mile away. I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing instead and hope someone just gives me a winning lottery ticket.

I’m a pretty loyal person. I’ve been with the same bank since I was five and all of the congenital diseases/syndromes I was born with are still there. I’ve stayed at jobs far longer than I would have liked to because of my commitment and lack of real world skills. Road rules skills on the other hand…

On my recent trip to Asia (the continent, not the band) I decided to make a really big commitment. The overwhelming feeling of dying alone had engrossed me so greatly, I decided it was time to commit to something other than a documentary series on Netflix. I asked someone to marry me.

It may seem like a big thing to do. It’s not every day (more biweekly) someone believes it’s time to ask such a task from someone. But after more than two years in a relationship, I knew I was ready. I already felt married to her anyway even if the circumstances kept us apart by distance. Emotionally though, I’ve never felt so connected with anyone. This comes from a guy who was born with a conjoined twin too so obviously my future wife must be pretty special.

And she is.

After getting down on my knee and popping the question, she gave me a “yes” in her own words which were closer to “fuck you, of course I will.”

She claims she likes the ring too which is pretty sweet because it’s actually part of a lugnut that I found in a scrapyard.

I’m not sure when I’ll actually be a married man now, but it does feel different. The people who know me and interact on a regular basis seem to behave differently around me. There’s a larger sense of maturity I feel now mixed with only a little fear that this will all end in a court room and a sleazy lawyer sitting next to me. I’m doubtful it’ll end like that as we love each other and murder is far more likely.

So I’m engaged. To someone who understands me. Someone who knows if I could, I would grow my ass 100 times bigger then hover above earth and poop on everyone. It feels good. And I’m not yet at the point where I feel like there’s nothing left for me in life.

In case you were wondering if there were still crazy people in this world, there are. One agreed to spend her life with me.


On my birthday last week I rode a plane. *bloop bloop* – the sound a plane makes, not a fart (although I did do that)

I am officially an adult now. My penis is an adult size (at least compared to yours) and I am traveling the world doing adult things (like lying about my penis size to make you feel horrible).

Now at 28-years-old (which is dead in dog years) I made a very stupid decision. I decided to invest a lot of time into another human being rather than myself. I also spent money!!! to get there along with a plane ride that took approximately 24 hours away from my life I will never get back.

I’m writing this from the Philippines. It is one of those weird countries that has a “the” in front of it to differentiate between all of the other similarly named countries like “A Philippines” and “That Philippines.” This is “The Philippines” because they want to be the top dog among the nations named after Phil.

I’ll write more extensively about this life changing journey. I am envied for immersing myself in the culture over the last week–or at least I’m told so by my wonderful, lovely tour guide. I saw everything from security guards at fast food restaurants with shotguns guarding the napkins from the bad guys. Bad guys fucking love napkins. They are bad guys because they have such dirty hands that need cleaning with napkins so they’re always going into fast food joints taking them all. I also saw dogs pooping on the street like a boss and nobody seemed to give a shit (pun partially intended).

This was the longest I have spent away from home in a long time and only the second time I have ever left the United States in my short yet getting longer miserable life. But is it really going to stay so miserable?


I’ll surely add more about this adventure here or somewhere else. For some quickie satisfaction though, you can read another perspective about the week from the person I spent it with.

Hey Bayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet

I had a very tough time sleeping last night. I won’t bitch because it was actually more good than bad. Other than waking up at 6AM two days in a row and messing up my entire sleep schedule, I couldn’t sleep because I’m excited for new competitions in my life.

I’m very competitive. I’m the type of person that when I hear there is a new one I can enter, I do and quickly do some maths to determine my odds.

I’m in a new competition on a monthly basis over at a new blogging format I joined about 3 weeks ago at If you happen to also enjoy writing about sports, I encourage you to sign up and make money writing about sports. However, I’m pretty sure anybody I met through this blog would guess a basketball was shaped like a trapezoid.

The important notice I wanted to make here now is that although I’m not writing here or many of the other places I used to, I am overwhelmed with the written word now to the point where it’s taking up way too much time and I fucking love it. I’m making money too. Someone even randomly contacted me about becoming the editor for his site he’s reinventing. I’ve had lots of good news lately in my writing pursuits after a miserable first week in March in just about every aspect of my life other than plenty of bees.

The current competition I am in is based on unique hits to my blog, Innings Eaters. It’s all about baseball, a topic I was always very interested, but not until about a year ago realized I could make money writing at. I know it sounds like I’m a sellout writing with the motivation of money, but I gots kids to feed! And by that, I mean I eat so much it’s like I’m pregnant and already have several other children who depend on me for food.

So, if you could be so kind as to visit the blog and click around a bit, I’d greatly appreciate it. Hell, wait until Monday when the other competition ends. If you like baseball, read it frequently and share it. You won’t do it. You stink.