Well, a few people have stumbled across my blog (only a very few would do something so foolish on purpose) by using Google. This is a new thing for me. Apparently I am listed on the first page for a few search terms including a #2 rank for the phrases "undershirts everyday" and "Europeans and undershirts." I'm telling you, that's the benefit of using terms that most people don't use, like "undershirt" instead of "t-shirt." So that anyone else who uses the same term to search will find you! and not what he was really looking for.
I am more interested to announce, however, that someone found me by Googling "Impatiens, Fort Knocks." I cannot but think this person was looking for this site. But it probably wasn't someone whose blog I commented on... because the person would have just followed the links to me, right? So I guess someone came across this page and was just not-bored enough by it to want to swing by and see if it had gotten not-boring enough to read yet. Well, no such luck on that, I'm afraid.
But now I have to wonder... is that what really happened? I don't know anyone from New York (oh, yeah, it was a New Yorker), so I don't see what else it could be. And guess whether the mysterious peeker left a comment.
Of course not. Who are you, strange IP, that is interested enough to search for me, but not enough to say, "Hey, Fort Knocks, now you're only barely too boring to read," to which I would weep with equal parts joy, sorrow and Cubs-fan malaise, promising and begging with the alternate halves of my heart for better days.
How is it that I can get text messages, TEXT MESSAGES, from unsolicited sources, from marketers and from foreign personal callers with a subtle sexual bent, and not so much as a comment from someone who puts me at the top of the "almost not-boring" list?!
I've looked at other blogs before, I've flirted in my head, but any time I've gone back for a second look, I say, "Hey. Here I am. I like your moves. I dig your style." Except I don't sound so gay-- or maybe I do. Anyway, you're getting me off the point. The point is... I wonder who that was? What did I do right to attract the attention? What can I do better?
The only time I ever searched for a specific blog was when I had commented on it in politically forceful-ish language. It wasn't that bad. But all I remembered from the blog was that it was by a Jewish woman who had mentioned the Democrats' nominating Hillary, and said, "oh boy, oh boy, wouldn't Conservatives love that!" So there I was, trying to google "Hillary Jewish boy love" and "oh boy oh boy conservative Hillary Jew," and I just couldn't keep it up for long.
Besides, people walk past my back at work and can see my screen. I just hope they can't check my history.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Stories that aren't true, and a couple that are
Over the weekend, I heard someone talking about how he really appreciates self-defecating humor. I was confused to say the least, but also impressed. What could it possibly mean to have a self-defecating sense of humor? Does that mean you poop yourself in a really funny way? Or does your humor poop itself? Or do you poop humor? Or is it just the fact that pooping is funny, especially the facial expressions?
But to poop yourself in a funny way would require that you eat yourself first (you know, so you'd have something to poop). So, what? Amputate, broil and serve? I've heard of people eating their fingernails or boogers, but I just don't think there's enough there to get enough poop to be funny. Unless it's the fact that there's so little poop that makes it funny. Or if you mix the boogers with bran. Maybe make it a cereal-type deal.
Then again, I suppose poop is sort of a part of you-- I mean it's in you for a day or couple of days (or more, I guess, if you haven't had your metamucil). So why don't they just call it "defecating humor" instead of "self-defecating humor"? Maybe it means that hungover pooping (we call it birreria, which is actually Italian for beer store-- I know, those crazy dagos), where you actually slough off a bunch of intestinal lining and it feels like ejecting a pint of warm snot laced with tabasco sauce and chunks of jalapeno.
Well, anyway, it turns out it's self-deprecating humor, and there was no need for me to be so disgusting.
On Saturday, I went to a karaoke bar, and a girl slipped me a roofie. I did not know girls did this. I mean, I had never heard of a girl doing this. Ever. I thought I had picked her out, but looking back, it was clearly she who initiated the encounter by sidling up next to me at the bar, and whispering a sultry "sure, thanks!" to my offer of a drink. Well, one beer turned into three or four, and I had already had somewhere in the neighborhood of five. So I'm good and loopy but nowhere near passing out/blacking out phase. And I remember very clearly up to a certain point. I remember leaving for the bathroom, coming back to a fresh beer "my turn!" she smiled, and taking the first slug out of the bottle. And that's it. Bam. Complete blackout.
I wake up and it is dark. I mean dark. There are sheets on top of me. The bed is big-- king size big. It's warm, the heat must be up. There is breathing to my right. There is a tiny crack of light down near the foot of the bed, so I slooowly sit up, slowly reach out, and grab for it. Now I realize I am completely naked. Oh great, I think. Real great. Fricking perfect. Is this what getting raped is like?
The crack of light is the edge of an air-raid style heavy black curtain. And it's not that light, it's still nighttime outside. Oh, boy, my head feels hazy. And I know it's pitch dark, but my vision is still blurry as shit. And where the hell are my pants?
I shrug out of the sheet and slide myself down onto the floor at the foot of the bed. And start to crawl to the right, to go around the bed to the door. Yes, crawl. Keeping low, below the level of the bed. And now I am glad there is nary a photon of light, because this must look pretty ridiculous, crawling on elbows and knees, naked, in the pitch dark. But hallelujah, here are my jeans, right at the lower corner of the bed. We'll have to wait to get out the door to put them on, though.
Then it was the long, slow, inching crawl up past this sleeping figure, who starts every minute or two, so I have to stop and wait for the breathing to get regular again. But after fifteen minutes or so, I am past, through the doorway, and into the living room, pulling on my jeans as quietly as I can. Man, balancing on one foot was never harder, I swear.
My jacket is thrown on the floor near the door, fantastic. Pull that on. Shoes, socks, shirt, UNDERWEAR? No signs. "Oh well," I'm thinking, and run the cursory check: phone, wallet, key-- no fucking keys. You've got to be kidding me. Where are my effing keys?
I swear if it had been my phone, or even my wallet, I would have called it a sunk cost and bolted. But I can't drive my car without my keys. And I only have $7. Not even close to enough for a cab ride home. Thinking back, I guess I could have stopped at an ATM, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time. So I tip-toe back towards the bedroom, thinking desperately, trying to remember anything, and trying to think of the best way to go about looking for the keys.
OWW!!! You know that feeling of stepping on a toy or a lego when you're a kid going to that bathroom in the middle of a night? It's much worse with keys. I almost yelled, and did definitely grunt, but I was over it in a second. Got my keys, baby!
So I went back to the door, undid the two locks, and opened it just a crack. And then before I left, I turned around, unzipped, and unloaded a full bladder's worth all over the carpeted living room floor.
And then it was out the door, down the stairs (how did she manage this?), and outside. And then I discovered that I was a good half mile from the bar and my car. (Seriously, how did she manage this? Was there a wheelbarrow involved?)
So I hoofed it back to the car, with the pavement very very cold on my bare feet, and the wind pretty cold on my bare chest. And I drove home.
OK, now on to some stuff that really did happen.
Did anybody else hear about the Australian bar maid who got arrested for crushing beer cans with her breasts? Does anybody else wonder how she did that? But still, my favorite part of the story is the "colleague" who "assisted the licence breach by helping to hang spoons from De Faveri’s nipples." I'm sorry, what? Couldn't the barmaid hang spoons from her own nipples? Did it require careful application of epoxy or something?
And wow. "A woman has been charged with letting her 15-year-old daughter lean out of a school van on a highway to get beer from an SUV full of boys, authorities said Wednesday.
Terry Kisling, 47, was driving a van of Norris High School cheerleaders to a football game in Nebraska City earlier this month when a group of boys pulled up next to them, principal John Skretta said.
One of the girls apparently signaled to the boys and asked for a beer, and Kisling inched the van closer to the SUV, letting her daughter lean out to grab the can."
I wish my mom was cool like that.
But to poop yourself in a funny way would require that you eat yourself first (you know, so you'd have something to poop). So, what? Amputate, broil and serve? I've heard of people eating their fingernails or boogers, but I just don't think there's enough there to get enough poop to be funny. Unless it's the fact that there's so little poop that makes it funny. Or if you mix the boogers with bran. Maybe make it a cereal-type deal.
Then again, I suppose poop is sort of a part of you-- I mean it's in you for a day or couple of days (or more, I guess, if you haven't had your metamucil). So why don't they just call it "defecating humor" instead of "self-defecating humor"? Maybe it means that hungover pooping (we call it birreria, which is actually Italian for beer store-- I know, those crazy dagos), where you actually slough off a bunch of intestinal lining and it feels like ejecting a pint of warm snot laced with tabasco sauce and chunks of jalapeno.
Well, anyway, it turns out it's self-deprecating humor, and there was no need for me to be so disgusting.
On Saturday, I went to a karaoke bar, and a girl slipped me a roofie. I did not know girls did this. I mean, I had never heard of a girl doing this. Ever. I thought I had picked her out, but looking back, it was clearly she who initiated the encounter by sidling up next to me at the bar, and whispering a sultry "sure, thanks!" to my offer of a drink. Well, one beer turned into three or four, and I had already had somewhere in the neighborhood of five. So I'm good and loopy but nowhere near passing out/blacking out phase. And I remember very clearly up to a certain point. I remember leaving for the bathroom, coming back to a fresh beer "my turn!" she smiled, and taking the first slug out of the bottle. And that's it. Bam. Complete blackout.
I wake up and it is dark. I mean dark. There are sheets on top of me. The bed is big-- king size big. It's warm, the heat must be up. There is breathing to my right. There is a tiny crack of light down near the foot of the bed, so I slooowly sit up, slowly reach out, and grab for it. Now I realize I am completely naked. Oh great, I think. Real great. Fricking perfect. Is this what getting raped is like?
The crack of light is the edge of an air-raid style heavy black curtain. And it's not that light, it's still nighttime outside. Oh, boy, my head feels hazy. And I know it's pitch dark, but my vision is still blurry as shit. And where the hell are my pants?
I shrug out of the sheet and slide myself down onto the floor at the foot of the bed. And start to crawl to the right, to go around the bed to the door. Yes, crawl. Keeping low, below the level of the bed. And now I am glad there is nary a photon of light, because this must look pretty ridiculous, crawling on elbows and knees, naked, in the pitch dark. But hallelujah, here are my jeans, right at the lower corner of the bed. We'll have to wait to get out the door to put them on, though.
Then it was the long, slow, inching crawl up past this sleeping figure, who starts every minute or two, so I have to stop and wait for the breathing to get regular again. But after fifteen minutes or so, I am past, through the doorway, and into the living room, pulling on my jeans as quietly as I can. Man, balancing on one foot was never harder, I swear.
My jacket is thrown on the floor near the door, fantastic. Pull that on. Shoes, socks, shirt, UNDERWEAR? No signs. "Oh well," I'm thinking, and run the cursory check: phone, wallet, key-- no fucking keys. You've got to be kidding me. Where are my effing keys?
I swear if it had been my phone, or even my wallet, I would have called it a sunk cost and bolted. But I can't drive my car without my keys. And I only have $7. Not even close to enough for a cab ride home. Thinking back, I guess I could have stopped at an ATM, but I wasn't thinking all that clearly at the time. So I tip-toe back towards the bedroom, thinking desperately, trying to remember anything, and trying to think of the best way to go about looking for the keys.
OWW!!! You know that feeling of stepping on a toy or a lego when you're a kid going to that bathroom in the middle of a night? It's much worse with keys. I almost yelled, and did definitely grunt, but I was over it in a second. Got my keys, baby!
So I went back to the door, undid the two locks, and opened it just a crack. And then before I left, I turned around, unzipped, and unloaded a full bladder's worth all over the carpeted living room floor.
And then it was out the door, down the stairs (how did she manage this?), and outside. And then I discovered that I was a good half mile from the bar and my car. (Seriously, how did she manage this? Was there a wheelbarrow involved?)
So I hoofed it back to the car, with the pavement very very cold on my bare feet, and the wind pretty cold on my bare chest. And I drove home.
OK, now on to some stuff that really did happen.
Did anybody else hear about the Australian bar maid who got arrested for crushing beer cans with her breasts? Does anybody else wonder how she did that? But still, my favorite part of the story is the "colleague" who "assisted the licence breach by helping to hang spoons from De Faveri’s nipples." I'm sorry, what? Couldn't the barmaid hang spoons from her own nipples? Did it require careful application of epoxy or something?
And wow. "A woman has been charged with letting her 15-year-old daughter lean out of a school van on a highway to get beer from an SUV full of boys, authorities said Wednesday.
Terry Kisling, 47, was driving a van of Norris High School cheerleaders to a football game in Nebraska City earlier this month when a group of boys pulled up next to them, principal John Skretta said.
One of the girls apparently signaled to the boys and asked for a beer, and Kisling inched the van closer to the SUV, letting her daughter lean out to grab the can."
I wish my mom was cool like that.
Another stunt for the billionaire hack shitty-writer-british-whorebag
Does anyone still think Harry Potter doesn't suck? Does anyone doubt that JK Rowling is a pandering hack?
OK, what about now?
OK, what about now?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I hope this doesn't come out wrong. No seriously, I do.
Well, it's been noted that some of my recent posts have been a little racy. So how about instead of racy, I go with racist?
No, not really, of course, even though some people will think that's what this is. So let me preface the rest of this by saying that I am not a racist. or a sexist. I believe everyone is equal in basic human dignity.
I do not, however, believe that everyone is the same. I think it's a good idea for men and women to use separate bathrooms. Separate but equal. ok, it makes sense here, unlike separating drinking fountains by race, because people expose themselves when they go to the bathroom, and we deserve a measure of sexual privacy. So separate the bathrooms.
Races are different physically; this is not up for debate. It is not racist to say that a black guy is black, or that a white guy is white. They are.
Black people tend to have more fast-twitch muscles than white people, which means a lot of the time, they can jump higher and run faster. Eskimos are fatter, on average; they have a layer of fat that acts like blubber insulation. It's not racist to say these things; they're just true. Mexicans and Asians tend to be shorter than black people and white people.
Now are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. But that doesn't mean the tendency isn't there.
Most NBA players are black-- a much higher percentage than in the rest of the population. Is that surprising?
No, you say, that's a cultural phenomenon. Black kids grow up playing basketball, white kids play baseball and soccer, so of course most NBA players will be black. Well, I don't think that account for the disparity, but OK, I’ll give it to you.
How about track? Track is as mixed a sport as you can find—and in some areas, dominated by white kids. But the best ones, the world class sprinters,… Green, Johnson, Gay, Montgomery, Lewis—they’re all black.
So black people can run faster—ok. So what? They have different genes; it makes sense.
So why is it impossible that intelligence might have trends across racial lines? Why is it impossible that white people might have a higher average intelligence than black people?
Are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. Look at Condoleeza Rice, Martin Luther King, Alan Keyes, Chinua Achebe, Paris Hilton and my dumbass cousin Kenny.
But then the guy who won the Nobel Prize for discovering the structure of the DNA molecule (I’d think he’s got a pretty decent grasp on genetics) gets suspended and run out of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York, for saying that he was “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours — whereas all the testing says not really.”
Read the whole story here
The Mayor of London called it “racist propaganda.” And they threw his 79-year-old ass out on the street.
Look, I have no idea if white people are smarter than black people. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But I don’t think we can say with certainty that it’s not true. And if the guy who invented the field says he thinks the evidence indicates a certain thing, I wouldn’t be the first one to crucify him.
So there it is. Is that racist? I don’t think so. People are different. We’re equal, yes, but we’re not the same. If we were all the same, damn, the world would be a boring place to live.
Enslaving people of a different race? That’s a horrible, damnable violation of their human dignity.
Genocide? Ditto.
Saying black people can jump higher than white people? Ok, as far as I can see.
Saying American Indians are genetically predisposed to alcoholism? Unfortunately true.
Saying white people tend to be smarter than black people? I don’t know, let’s see the evidence. But don’t call someone who says it a racist if we really don’t know.
No, not really, of course, even though some people will think that's what this is. So let me preface the rest of this by saying that I am not a racist. or a sexist. I believe everyone is equal in basic human dignity.
I do not, however, believe that everyone is the same. I think it's a good idea for men and women to use separate bathrooms. Separate but equal. ok, it makes sense here, unlike separating drinking fountains by race, because people expose themselves when they go to the bathroom, and we deserve a measure of sexual privacy. So separate the bathrooms.
Races are different physically; this is not up for debate. It is not racist to say that a black guy is black, or that a white guy is white. They are.
Black people tend to have more fast-twitch muscles than white people, which means a lot of the time, they can jump higher and run faster. Eskimos are fatter, on average; they have a layer of fat that acts like blubber insulation. It's not racist to say these things; they're just true. Mexicans and Asians tend to be shorter than black people and white people.
Now are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. But that doesn't mean the tendency isn't there.
Most NBA players are black-- a much higher percentage than in the rest of the population. Is that surprising?
No, you say, that's a cultural phenomenon. Black kids grow up playing basketball, white kids play baseball and soccer, so of course most NBA players will be black. Well, I don't think that account for the disparity, but OK, I’ll give it to you.
How about track? Track is as mixed a sport as you can find—and in some areas, dominated by white kids. But the best ones, the world class sprinters,… Green, Johnson, Gay, Montgomery, Lewis—they’re all black.
So black people can run faster—ok. So what? They have different genes; it makes sense.
So why is it impossible that intelligence might have trends across racial lines? Why is it impossible that white people might have a higher average intelligence than black people?
Are there exceptions? Hell, yeah. Lots of them. Look at Condoleeza Rice, Martin Luther King, Alan Keyes, Chinua Achebe, Paris Hilton and my dumbass cousin Kenny.
But then the guy who won the Nobel Prize for discovering the structure of the DNA molecule (I’d think he’s got a pretty decent grasp on genetics) gets suspended and run out of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York, for saying that he was “inherently gloomy about the prospect of Africa” because “all our social policies are based on the fact that their intelligence is the same as ours — whereas all the testing says not really.”
Read the whole story here
The Mayor of London called it “racist propaganda.” And they threw his 79-year-old ass out on the street.
Look, I have no idea if white people are smarter than black people. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. But I don’t think we can say with certainty that it’s not true. And if the guy who invented the field says he thinks the evidence indicates a certain thing, I wouldn’t be the first one to crucify him.
So there it is. Is that racist? I don’t think so. People are different. We’re equal, yes, but we’re not the same. If we were all the same, damn, the world would be a boring place to live.
Enslaving people of a different race? That’s a horrible, damnable violation of their human dignity.
Genocide? Ditto.
Saying black people can jump higher than white people? Ok, as far as I can see.
Saying American Indians are genetically predisposed to alcoholism? Unfortunately true.
Saying white people tend to be smarter than black people? I don’t know, let’s see the evidence. But don’t call someone who says it a racist if we really don’t know.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
can't you smell that smell?
For the life of me, I cannot decide what smells better: a clean, beautiful, fragrant woman, or a beef/sausage combo from Portillo's. Obviously both are intensely arousing and immediately distract me from whatever I was doing.
Obviously both are waaaaay better when you're drunk.
But it gets tricky because the Smell-Goodness Factor (SGF) varies so much more with the combo. Obviously, the combo smells great at the end of a long night out (but so does the girl), obviously after a long day at work (but so does the girl), obviously first thing in the morning (and so does the girl). But the key is this: right after you've pleasured yourself completely with the combo, it doesn't smell as good anymore. This is unlike the girl.
No no, I'm not talking about when you hook up with a girl and have that awkward mild regret, or even real embarrassment if the beer goggles were a particularly high prescription.
I'm talking about the visceral repulsion of a giant stinky dripping beefy sandwich when you've just finished your own. Immediately after the ecstasy of your oral combo experience, you feel a little bit dirty, and not immediately ready for another go-round.
Also, you have to pay for them, which is not like the women I am talking about.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that combos are a type of prostitute. You're in the mood, one comes along, you can't resist, you do the deed, and afterwards you feel a little guilty and you're off them for a while.
But hoo-boy, just for a while.
Combo, I wish I could quit you.
Obviously both are waaaaay better when you're drunk.
But it gets tricky because the Smell-Goodness Factor (SGF) varies so much more with the combo. Obviously, the combo smells great at the end of a long night out (but so does the girl), obviously after a long day at work (but so does the girl), obviously first thing in the morning (and so does the girl). But the key is this: right after you've pleasured yourself completely with the combo, it doesn't smell as good anymore. This is unlike the girl.
No no, I'm not talking about when you hook up with a girl and have that awkward mild regret, or even real embarrassment if the beer goggles were a particularly high prescription.
I'm talking about the visceral repulsion of a giant stinky dripping beefy sandwich when you've just finished your own. Immediately after the ecstasy of your oral combo experience, you feel a little bit dirty, and not immediately ready for another go-round.
Also, you have to pay for them, which is not like the women I am talking about.
This is why I have come to the conclusion that combos are a type of prostitute. You're in the mood, one comes along, you can't resist, you do the deed, and afterwards you feel a little guilty and you're off them for a while.
But hoo-boy, just for a while.
Combo, I wish I could quit you.
Monday, October 22, 2007
I am the kind of guy you hear about, if, you know, you're a therapist: a three-strike story
"That's a nice dress," I said, "it allows everyone a nice view of your breasts."
She narrowed her eyes for a moment. "I'm Christine."
"Good, good. Can you get me a drink?"
Another pause. More narrowed eyes. "I can't decide if you're funny, if you're nice, or if you're an asshole," she said, "but it's one of the three."
"Both," I said and smiled. Then I planted a kiss on her mouth and left to get myself another beer.
Later, after we had snoggled for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come to her place. "Hey, want to come to my place?" she said.
"No."
And then, for the first of three times, she gave me a chance to take back a mistake. "You're not that type of guy, huh?"
"No, no," I said, "I'm just not interested." Then I laughed, and she laughed too-- a little uneasily at first, but then more heartily.
"Nice, funny, or asshole, it's one of the three," she said again. We resumed snoggling.
This continued for some time. "There's a lot of you to handle," I observed presently. She looked at me, not even asking what I meant. She was pretty apparently confused. I clarified for her. "Like, the handles-- the fat rolls, you know?"
She masked her hurt by putting on a hurt face. "You can NOT say that to a girl," she said. It was strike two.
She decided to leave. It was pretty late. We were at the door. "Why haven't you asked for my phone number?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm not interested," I told her, which was true enough.
She laughed again, but more tentatively now. "You won't take my phone number, huh?" she smiled.
"No, thanks."
She went down the stairs more rapidly, calling after her, "I know which one of the three you are now!"
"No you don't," I reassured her, and laughed and laughed.
It was a very tongue-in-cheek night.
She narrowed her eyes for a moment. "I'm Christine."
"Good, good. Can you get me a drink?"
Another pause. More narrowed eyes. "I can't decide if you're funny, if you're nice, or if you're an asshole," she said, "but it's one of the three."
"Both," I said and smiled. Then I planted a kiss on her mouth and left to get myself another beer.
Later, after we had snoggled for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come to her place. "Hey, want to come to my place?" she said.
"No."
And then, for the first of three times, she gave me a chance to take back a mistake. "You're not that type of guy, huh?"
"No, no," I said, "I'm just not interested." Then I laughed, and she laughed too-- a little uneasily at first, but then more heartily.
"Nice, funny, or asshole, it's one of the three," she said again. We resumed snoggling.
This continued for some time. "There's a lot of you to handle," I observed presently. She looked at me, not even asking what I meant. She was pretty apparently confused. I clarified for her. "Like, the handles-- the fat rolls, you know?"
She masked her hurt by putting on a hurt face. "You can NOT say that to a girl," she said. It was strike two.
She decided to leave. It was pretty late. We were at the door. "Why haven't you asked for my phone number?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm not interested," I told her, which was true enough.
She laughed again, but more tentatively now. "You won't take my phone number, huh?" she smiled.
"No, thanks."
She went down the stairs more rapidly, calling after her, "I know which one of the three you are now!"
"No you don't," I reassured her, and laughed and laughed.
It was a very tongue-in-cheek night.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The phrase is "tongue-in-cheek"
Top five things I do every day that you don’t and how it is ok to feel about them
But before we get to that, I would like to offer a final explanation for my belief that thinking is better than feeling. You might remember the beginning of this monologue (I’d prefer not to call it a diatribe, but whatever-- maybe we can go with sermon) from this post. To summarize, I sometimes have trouble apologizing because my attitude is mistaken for flippant when I intend to signify mutual forgiveness. I mean to convey “I’m over it, I hope you’re over it, are we good? Ok great,” and instead am interpreted as, “I don’t care, you might be hurt but I’m not, so I piss on you.”
But here’s the deal, people: if I say I’m sorry, please have the courtesy to believe me. And don’t judge me by how you feel about what I feel, judge me by what you think about what I say.
Why? Because do you know what I think about all your feelings? They’re so unoriginal. They’re the most unoriginal thing about you, and you are a pretty unoriginal person. Yeah, you feel unique? Guess what? Thousands, millions of people have felt unique before you. You feel sad? Lonely? Content? Depressed? Overjoyed? So has everyone else. So don’t tell me you feel upset about some situation, for God’s sake; I’m bored already. Everyone feels upset about situations. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you want to do-- because no one has ever thought these specific things and done these specific things before. But everyone on God’s green earth has felt the way you feel. So if that’s all you want to talk about, go tell someone who likes hearing the same thing all the time, over and over again.
Basically, I’m talking to all you women out there. Feelings are so boring. So start thinking, you know, with your brain? And stop feeling. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of telling me how this makes you feel. I swear I’d rather drown myself in a shallow pool of my own urine.
I am going to be such a good husband. On to the list:
Top five things I do every day that I bet you don’t, and acceptable ways to describe how I feel about them
1. Drive to work in a car that is 14 years old. Plus, the previous owner, who is also my landlord, who is also my mother, who also gave me the car for free this summer, crashed it, or let one or more of her dumb sons crash it (no, actually, I never did-- that was my dumb brothers) and it’s pretty beat up. It makes me feel like Ace Ventura, only with better hair. Or maybe I mean worse hair. Well, anyway, more mundane hair. And smaller teeth. See? It’s ok to say that, because feeling like Ace Ventura is not a common thing. This is not a thing people have boring heart-to-hearts about because no one ever felt like Ace Ventura, because he wasn’t a real person. So it’s ok to say you feel like a fictional character. Except to feel like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic as the king of the world, or like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because, yeah, dumbass, my cousin has said that before you. And he’s seven and has water in his brain.
2. Eat three soft-boiled eggs every morning for breakfast. Sure, they might be a little slimy, and sure they might smell a little like a dusty fart, but they got plenty of protein. Which is why they make me feel like a domesticated pro wrestler without the roids. I remember an old baseball teammate telling me about how his brother had three eggs for breakfast every morning to put on weight because he was a wrestler, and running out of ways to eat them, so he just ate them raw, and I remember thinking “man, your brother sounds like a douche bag,” but I didn’t say that because the guy was bigger than I was. The only time I ate raw eggs was when my rich friend offered to buy me two thirty packs in college to eat one in the shell, so that was obviously a great deal (if you’ve been to college, you know I’m right).
Sidenote: my Microsoft Works Word Processor just auto-corrected douchebag to douche bag. I think this is either the hippest word processor program ever, or my computer is making fun of me. Or maybe both.
3. Have a well-motivated bowel movement between 10 and 11 am every day. This makes me feel two things: regular, and clever for thinking of the term ‘regular.’ And no, that is not why I poop at the same time every day. I just do.
4. Eat a lunch prepared by my mother. Yes, indeed, she is not just my transportation source and landlord, but also a hell of a chef. And when I got back from work today, it was just in time for a delicious plate of spaghetti. And oh yeah, remember those soft-boiled eggs from earlier? Yeah, she made those too. So how do I feel about that?
The perfect blend of the seemingly contradictory smug and embarrassed. Hey, I’ve got a lunch that everybody envies, but at the same time, I’m twenty-one and my mother is making all of my meals. Actually, my feelings are deep and complicated on this matter. I feel alone, and yet united to the world. I feel complicated and deceptive, and yet cathartically honest. I feel alone and together.
There, see how gay that was? I eat the lunch prepared by my mother, and I feel Roman, because the Romans had a matrilineal society, and mothers were important to Romans. So even though my nose is a generic Irish pug and I fricking detest toga parties, I like olives, pita bread and my mom. And vomitoriums, at times.
5. Gauge the traffic to my blog according to IP address. That’s right, I know who you are. That makes me feel like Norman Bates without the shower. And if you’ve heard that before, if you think that doesn’t prove my point, if you’ve heard of this emotion before, well then… I guess I was talking too loud while looking through the pinhole in your cubicle. No, over here, on the other side.
And we’ll stop this before your feelings get the best of you and you scream for the janitor, because he’ll find me here for sure. Damn feelings.
But before we get to that, I would like to offer a final explanation for my belief that thinking is better than feeling. You might remember the beginning of this monologue (I’d prefer not to call it a diatribe, but whatever-- maybe we can go with sermon) from this post. To summarize, I sometimes have trouble apologizing because my attitude is mistaken for flippant when I intend to signify mutual forgiveness. I mean to convey “I’m over it, I hope you’re over it, are we good? Ok great,” and instead am interpreted as, “I don’t care, you might be hurt but I’m not, so I piss on you.”
But here’s the deal, people: if I say I’m sorry, please have the courtesy to believe me. And don’t judge me by how you feel about what I feel, judge me by what you think about what I say.
Why? Because do you know what I think about all your feelings? They’re so unoriginal. They’re the most unoriginal thing about you, and you are a pretty unoriginal person. Yeah, you feel unique? Guess what? Thousands, millions of people have felt unique before you. You feel sad? Lonely? Content? Depressed? Overjoyed? So has everyone else. So don’t tell me you feel upset about some situation, for God’s sake; I’m bored already. Everyone feels upset about situations. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you want to do-- because no one has ever thought these specific things and done these specific things before. But everyone on God’s green earth has felt the way you feel. So if that’s all you want to talk about, go tell someone who likes hearing the same thing all the time, over and over again.
Basically, I’m talking to all you women out there. Feelings are so boring. So start thinking, you know, with your brain? And stop feeling. And for God’s sake, don’t even think of telling me how this makes you feel. I swear I’d rather drown myself in a shallow pool of my own urine.
I am going to be such a good husband. On to the list:
Top five things I do every day that I bet you don’t, and acceptable ways to describe how I feel about them
1. Drive to work in a car that is 14 years old. Plus, the previous owner, who is also my landlord, who is also my mother, who also gave me the car for free this summer, crashed it, or let one or more of her dumb sons crash it (no, actually, I never did-- that was my dumb brothers) and it’s pretty beat up. It makes me feel like Ace Ventura, only with better hair. Or maybe I mean worse hair. Well, anyway, more mundane hair. And smaller teeth. See? It’s ok to say that, because feeling like Ace Ventura is not a common thing. This is not a thing people have boring heart-to-hearts about because no one ever felt like Ace Ventura, because he wasn’t a real person. So it’s ok to say you feel like a fictional character. Except to feel like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic as the king of the world, or like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because, yeah, dumbass, my cousin has said that before you. And he’s seven and has water in his brain.
2. Eat three soft-boiled eggs every morning for breakfast. Sure, they might be a little slimy, and sure they might smell a little like a dusty fart, but they got plenty of protein. Which is why they make me feel like a domesticated pro wrestler without the roids. I remember an old baseball teammate telling me about how his brother had three eggs for breakfast every morning to put on weight because he was a wrestler, and running out of ways to eat them, so he just ate them raw, and I remember thinking “man, your brother sounds like a douche bag,” but I didn’t say that because the guy was bigger than I was. The only time I ate raw eggs was when my rich friend offered to buy me two thirty packs in college to eat one in the shell, so that was obviously a great deal (if you’ve been to college, you know I’m right).
Sidenote: my Microsoft Works Word Processor just auto-corrected douchebag to douche bag. I think this is either the hippest word processor program ever, or my computer is making fun of me. Or maybe both.
3. Have a well-motivated bowel movement between 10 and 11 am every day. This makes me feel two things: regular, and clever for thinking of the term ‘regular.’ And no, that is not why I poop at the same time every day. I just do.
4. Eat a lunch prepared by my mother. Yes, indeed, she is not just my transportation source and landlord, but also a hell of a chef. And when I got back from work today, it was just in time for a delicious plate of spaghetti. And oh yeah, remember those soft-boiled eggs from earlier? Yeah, she made those too. So how do I feel about that?
The perfect blend of the seemingly contradictory smug and embarrassed. Hey, I’ve got a lunch that everybody envies, but at the same time, I’m twenty-one and my mother is making all of my meals. Actually, my feelings are deep and complicated on this matter. I feel alone, and yet united to the world. I feel complicated and deceptive, and yet cathartically honest. I feel alone and together.
There, see how gay that was? I eat the lunch prepared by my mother, and I feel Roman, because the Romans had a matrilineal society, and mothers were important to Romans. So even though my nose is a generic Irish pug and I fricking detest toga parties, I like olives, pita bread and my mom. And vomitoriums, at times.
5. Gauge the traffic to my blog according to IP address. That’s right, I know who you are. That makes me feel like Norman Bates without the shower. And if you’ve heard that before, if you think that doesn’t prove my point, if you’ve heard of this emotion before, well then… I guess I was talking too loud while looking through the pinhole in your cubicle. No, over here, on the other side.
And we’ll stop this before your feelings get the best of you and you scream for the janitor, because he’ll find me here for sure. Damn feelings.
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