Some vegetables are better freshly frozen than canned, for instance, peas, carrots, and corn. Canned corn is disgusting; I don't care how many of you who share the sentiment, "they taste the same," peas, carrots, and corn are better frozen than canned. Peas-from-a-can taste like piss. When you open that can and pour out its contents, the canned peas are swimming in a mucky cesspool of swampy, syrupy-thick pea-water, like the peas were Asian stowaways on a cruise liner during the 1930's. An aroma of shame and undernourishment fill your nostrils. Your brain instantly thinks of the scene from "Schindler's List" when the orphan Jewish boy climbs into the toilet to hide from the Nazis, as if you indistinctly know if you were to not drain the pea can of its pond-scum bath water it has been wading in for a good decade or so, you would probably contract dysentery or some other form of pea-diseases (AIDs). Something is not right when you open the can of peas to find fifty or so of them mashed against the inside of the can. Maybe you should try buying baby-food instead - it's cheaper than a can of peas and it won't give you diarrhea. A can of peas should come with a Surgeon General's warning. Eating the aluminum can the peas come in is more healthy than eating the actual vegetable. If canned peas were a race Sally Struthers would be too ashamed to visit their country. A can of peas should be considered a national threat if it tried to board a plane. If a can of peas were transformed into a human by a wizard, Cano Peas could be Mexican, or a poor and homeless drunk with a vicious bladder and bowel problem...
And I'm done.
Frozen peas are not soggy, in fact, they are what fresh vegetables should taste like. And they come in a bag. Many good things come from bags - hardly do they ever come from a can. And within that pea-bag, there is no sight of mucky, green seamen left behind by erotic, sweaty, distrustful canned peas. If only you could create genocide against canned peas.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Outlander!
Remember when the train industry was pissed off that gangs or just silly people in general would come by their loading cars and spray graffiti all over them!? That, to me, is retribution - piss those bastards off as much as you possibly can, this all coming from the grandson of a railroad worker.
About every morning, while either driving in to town or just simply awake for the hell of it, and out for a walk, I spot a behemoth - simply put - a lummox, just idly resting on the railroad tracks about a quarter mile from my house. Every morning, that locomotive just sits there, blocking the road to a very useful highway I used to take to school/work, I USED to take! Not anymore; not since that fucker has barricaded the road every morning and made it impossible for anyone to ever take the highway into town.
Why, this very morning, I awoke, washed my hair and body and face, brushed my teeth, gums, and tongue, crept downstairs to retrieve a pair of slacks and a t-shirt I had only worn the night before that I planned to wear today as well, grabbed my keys, wallet, and cell phone, and before exiting my home, I took a long swig of water from the bottle it was resting in - I passed on grabbing a glass from the cupboard, and just drink straight from the bottle (I'm sometimes at a loss for sanitation when I have only had a few hours of sleep). Unlocking the door to my car, I hopped in, found a jam or two to listen to from my iPod for the drive up to work, and backed out of my driveway. Upon looking both directions down the road I was backing into (because I'm a safe driver!) I spotted it - that mother fucking train sitting on the tracks again, blocking my favorite means of driving into town. I honestly feel like those conductors love to play "trains" by just pulling forward a few feet, then backing up a few feet, continuously blocking the road they cross-over.
Delving into the past just a few years, I remember, just after receiving my license, I was headed to meet some friends in town, and low-and-behold, a train was blocking my way, in fact, it is the same way I have been explaining since paragraph two. You see, the street I live on continues to the north of us a mile or so, and it crosses a set of train tracks, the very tracks of evil I despise! Back to my memory, I remember thinking, "Fuck! Now I will just have to take the long way into town...," which is through South Hutch, and onto Avenue A street (completely irrelevant if you do not live anywhere near Hutchinson, Kansas)
That damn train just sat there then, as it did this morning. Upon taking the long way into town, I reached another destination where that same set of tracks crosses (4th and Adams if you are a local) and guess what!? That same God damn train was slowly moving across the tracks, blocking my way of path again. I remember thinking, "Don't tell me that's the same fucking train that was asleep on the railroad tracks a quarter mile from my house...." It was, and I was pissed.
This post is more about me just bitching about one incident in my life that cannot be changed. I have heard a time or two that you can call-in, and complain to the city about this subject because somewhere in some by-law or thick, leather-bond book of Kansas law that is collecting dust somewhere in the county courthouse, under section 13 or 6-B (some made up, official-sounding bullshit) trains are not allowed to block an intersection for a set amount of time, and therefore, the railroad commission can actually be fined if they violate this law. Now, I have no idea if that is true or not, and I am too lazy and pissed to give a shit to actually look the law up, but, back to the subject at hand, this, apparently, is the only way to "tattle" on the railroad commission of Reno county. I think anyone who has the nerve to call up the city office, and ask to speak to someone about this vary subject, and complain, and just ruin someone else's day, should be tied behind a government-issued Hummer, and dragged through the Australian outback for six straight hours, then have someone pour salt on their wounds. It's a bunch of horse shit to have someone call you up and just give you an ear-full of swear-words with a side of piss-poor attitude, when it isn't any one's fault a train is stalled on the railroad tracks for too long.
I have a pretty extensive history of naming a few of my friends in my blog. Here is the story of my friend Tess, and her experience with a woman who bitched her out at work because her dumb-ass son checked out a shitload of books and has yet to return them; it has been months upon months since her son checked out the books, and now they are horribly overdue, and her child has fines on his account. So his mother called up and wanted to know the amount due, well, since the books had been out for months upon months, the library had labelled them "lost," which means you either replace the books or never check out another library book again until you have paid-in-full. Well, the mother didn't understand how Tess didn't know the full amount that was owed. Tess told her to try back tomorrow or Monday, and talk with her supervisor Diane (GREAT! Another name to fucking remember) to get confirmation on the actual cost of the books. The mother acted belligerent, asking for Tess' name as well, to, most likely, bring up while in conversation with Diane, to probably relate to Diane that Tess was an awful human being, and a shitty worker who should be castrated if she were a man, and fired and never allowed to work again EVER as a librarian in the city of Hutch, when such accusations are ludicrous. The general public who call up the library are not the brightest people, and frankly, a lot of them have piss-poor attitudes they better correct before I beat a smile out of them! They BETTER be laughing while I am breaking every bone in their face, or so help me God...HUMMER + AUSTRALIAN OUTBACK = EXCRUCIATING PAIN...AND LOTS OF RED DUST, THAT'S NOT CAUSED BY BLOOD! So again, don't ever begin to threaten someone over a phone about a problem you have. I have total sympathy for my friend Tess who had to deal with a bad patron like that over the phone.
Back to my "people-who-like-to-fuck-with-me," thread, I think it is fair to say that the railroad has it coming when hoodlums and fuck-ups stroll by their box cars, and doodle a little puppy dog or mushroom or a "Hail Hitler!" or, the general slang and gang-related graffiti mostly seen on the side of each car. I have yet to see someone write on a box car, "Railroad Workers Love Anal" or, for someone to draw a penis-resembling-a-train, defacing both property and owner, the railroad. I think if I ever saw a penis-resembling-a-train stalled on the train tracks north of my house, I might not be as pissed off with the railroad; I would take pictures, and most likely post them on my blog, instead of a rant about trains. One question still remains, though: who writes "Hail Hitler!" on a train anymore, that's not a skin-head? Well, to answer that question....
About every morning, while either driving in to town or just simply awake for the hell of it, and out for a walk, I spot a behemoth - simply put - a lummox, just idly resting on the railroad tracks about a quarter mile from my house. Every morning, that locomotive just sits there, blocking the road to a very useful highway I used to take to school/work, I USED to take! Not anymore; not since that fucker has barricaded the road every morning and made it impossible for anyone to ever take the highway into town.
Why, this very morning, I awoke, washed my hair and body and face, brushed my teeth, gums, and tongue, crept downstairs to retrieve a pair of slacks and a t-shirt I had only worn the night before that I planned to wear today as well, grabbed my keys, wallet, and cell phone, and before exiting my home, I took a long swig of water from the bottle it was resting in - I passed on grabbing a glass from the cupboard, and just drink straight from the bottle (I'm sometimes at a loss for sanitation when I have only had a few hours of sleep). Unlocking the door to my car, I hopped in, found a jam or two to listen to from my iPod for the drive up to work, and backed out of my driveway. Upon looking both directions down the road I was backing into (because I'm a safe driver!) I spotted it - that mother fucking train sitting on the tracks again, blocking my favorite means of driving into town. I honestly feel like those conductors love to play "trains" by just pulling forward a few feet, then backing up a few feet, continuously blocking the road they cross-over.
Delving into the past just a few years, I remember, just after receiving my license, I was headed to meet some friends in town, and low-and-behold, a train was blocking my way, in fact, it is the same way I have been explaining since paragraph two. You see, the street I live on continues to the north of us a mile or so, and it crosses a set of train tracks, the very tracks of evil I despise! Back to my memory, I remember thinking, "Fuck! Now I will just have to take the long way into town...," which is through South Hutch, and onto Avenue A street (completely irrelevant if you do not live anywhere near Hutchinson, Kansas)
That damn train just sat there then, as it did this morning. Upon taking the long way into town, I reached another destination where that same set of tracks crosses (4th and Adams if you are a local) and guess what!? That same God damn train was slowly moving across the tracks, blocking my way of path again. I remember thinking, "Don't tell me that's the same fucking train that was asleep on the railroad tracks a quarter mile from my house...." It was, and I was pissed.
This post is more about me just bitching about one incident in my life that cannot be changed. I have heard a time or two that you can call-in, and complain to the city about this subject because somewhere in some by-law or thick, leather-bond book of Kansas law that is collecting dust somewhere in the county courthouse, under section 13 or 6-B (some made up, official-sounding bullshit) trains are not allowed to block an intersection for a set amount of time, and therefore, the railroad commission can actually be fined if they violate this law. Now, I have no idea if that is true or not, and I am too lazy and pissed to give a shit to actually look the law up, but, back to the subject at hand, this, apparently, is the only way to "tattle" on the railroad commission of Reno county. I think anyone who has the nerve to call up the city office, and ask to speak to someone about this vary subject, and complain, and just ruin someone else's day, should be tied behind a government-issued Hummer, and dragged through the Australian outback for six straight hours, then have someone pour salt on their wounds. It's a bunch of horse shit to have someone call you up and just give you an ear-full of swear-words with a side of piss-poor attitude, when it isn't any one's fault a train is stalled on the railroad tracks for too long.
I have a pretty extensive history of naming a few of my friends in my blog. Here is the story of my friend Tess, and her experience with a woman who bitched her out at work because her dumb-ass son checked out a shitload of books and has yet to return them; it has been months upon months since her son checked out the books, and now they are horribly overdue, and her child has fines on his account. So his mother called up and wanted to know the amount due, well, since the books had been out for months upon months, the library had labelled them "lost," which means you either replace the books or never check out another library book again until you have paid-in-full. Well, the mother didn't understand how Tess didn't know the full amount that was owed. Tess told her to try back tomorrow or Monday, and talk with her supervisor Diane (GREAT! Another name to fucking remember) to get confirmation on the actual cost of the books. The mother acted belligerent, asking for Tess' name as well, to, most likely, bring up while in conversation with Diane, to probably relate to Diane that Tess was an awful human being, and a shitty worker who should be castrated if she were a man, and fired and never allowed to work again EVER as a librarian in the city of Hutch, when such accusations are ludicrous. The general public who call up the library are not the brightest people, and frankly, a lot of them have piss-poor attitudes they better correct before I beat a smile out of them! They BETTER be laughing while I am breaking every bone in their face, or so help me God...HUMMER + AUSTRALIAN OUTBACK = EXCRUCIATING PAIN...AND LOTS OF RED DUST, THAT'S NOT CAUSED BY BLOOD! So again, don't ever begin to threaten someone over a phone about a problem you have. I have total sympathy for my friend Tess who had to deal with a bad patron like that over the phone.
Back to my "people-who-like-to-fuck-with-me," thread, I think it is fair to say that the railroad has it coming when hoodlums and fuck-ups stroll by their box cars, and doodle a little puppy dog or mushroom or a "Hail Hitler!" or, the general slang and gang-related graffiti mostly seen on the side of each car. I have yet to see someone write on a box car, "Railroad Workers Love Anal" or, for someone to draw a penis-resembling-a-train, defacing both property and owner, the railroad. I think if I ever saw a penis-resembling-a-train stalled on the train tracks north of my house, I might not be as pissed off with the railroad; I would take pictures, and most likely post them on my blog, instead of a rant about trains. One question still remains, though: who writes "Hail Hitler!" on a train anymore, that's not a skin-head? Well, to answer that question....
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Computers vs. People, and not a random story
Within two days, I have successfully collected over 29 cookies and probes from websites I have visited while on my computer at work. Cookies are not really a big deal, in fact, a lot of them are just another website's attempt to sell your name off to other websites or to products you might be interested in on the Internet. One huge thing they are is an annoyance.
I generally sweep my computer about once a week, and I have to say, if I have 29 cookies and probes listed in my "ready-to-quarantine-file" through Webroot, what other little nasty hiccups and intrusions do I have on my computer that has not been cited?
Browsing through Myspace is like walking through a swamp full of hands that grab at your pants' legs and won't let go. The only problem is, sometimes you get away, and sometimes you unearth a body, whose mouth is constantly running, trying to advertise to you, or scam you into something you don't want. Having a firewall or virus/spyware and adware program is like giving you a fly swatter to smack the hands away; so...so many hands....
That swamp of hands used to not be so crowded; that swamp used to have a gravel road which you could travel down, and, in the off chance you were grabbed, their hand would break off leaving a bloody stump in the ground, and a morsel of bloody hand still clinging to your clothes. But alas, the advancement of technology has destroyed that little trail, leaving you to calculate a safe-route through the swamp. Sure, back in the day, you could surf the Internet and not worry about cookies or someone threatening the longevity of your PC. However, you have to take into consideration that back-in-the-day, we did not know as much about the difference between harmful and safe computer applications that we have the knowledge of today. So are we better off? Yeah, I would say so. And yes, people were trying to hack your PC back-in-the-day; hacking has a pretty extensive history, but today people have Norton, and the rich crop of other virus protection, spam protection, pop-up stoppers, cookie-munchers, anti-spyware and adware agents, and sweepers that weren't thought-up or in testing in '95.
A lot of this has me thinking of my computer as more of a child than a tool. Defraging your computer keeps your computer healthy. Update your Norton definitions every two-three weeks. Don't let your computer play in a busy intersection. Putting peanut butter on a CD-ROM and stuffing it into a CD-ROM drive doesn't mean you're feeding the computer. Give your computer a check-up by updating software and inspecting its many components; pretty much, HP and Gateway, Apple and Dell are all like foster care, and you're adopting a machine.
So what other things could your PC be? Well, if you're in utter desperation, sexually, it could be your girlfriend; gamers and PC-enthusiasts alike know exactly what I mean when I state that. The computer can be your organizer. Let's say you are so organized, every appointment of yours, every meeting, every little quintessential thing you do in your fucking life is recorded on your PC, as, literally, external memory. Shit, my PC is my journal; I log on to blogger about three, maybe four-times-a-week and unload upon my maybe one fan what pisses me off, what makes me happy, what's going wrong and right in the world, and maybe a random story or two. Yes, I'll state it! The computer can run your life! Some people use it as a friend they don't have at a certain moment in their lives, and I will elaborate; some people play computer games hours-on-end because it's enjoyable. In fact, in a new study, people who are stressed out all the time will release some pent-up emotions by playing violent video games, and people out there say, "That's where violent tendencies start," and blah blah blah. In-a-way, yeah, that's true, for mentally disturbed people. For normal people, they cope; fantasy stays fantasy. No I don't see the connection between violence in the world and video games because you don't see a person robbing you, holding an xbox controller, you do not hear of a kid who pressed R1, L1, X, O, Triangle, L2, Square or R1, L1, A, B, L2, Y to set god-mode and infinite ammo simultaneously, and then go blasting his or her school with his parents' licensed 9mm's or rifle. You do, unfortunately, see kids running around screaming, "I'm just like CJ from San Andreas...blittatatatatat," them, imitating, acting as though they were holding an automatic weapon, and pointing it at someone else. Censoring is not the answer because it's all imitation. You censor violent video games, you might as well censor television more because if they don't get it from somewhere, they will get it from somewhere else. Next, it's movies, then books, then our culture, our past, our present, our future, our way-of-life...now I am repeating what I have said before; the government can not have that much power. It's scary stuff. In an essence, a computer can be a provoker.
It's quite astounding thinking about the jump we have made in the last decade with technology. If change can happen that quickly, what's next around the corner? Computers replace people everyday. When is that trend going to end, or, are we seeing a glimpse into the future?
I generally sweep my computer about once a week, and I have to say, if I have 29 cookies and probes listed in my "ready-to-quarantine-file" through Webroot, what other little nasty hiccups and intrusions do I have on my computer that has not been cited?
Browsing through Myspace is like walking through a swamp full of hands that grab at your pants' legs and won't let go. The only problem is, sometimes you get away, and sometimes you unearth a body, whose mouth is constantly running, trying to advertise to you, or scam you into something you don't want. Having a firewall or virus/spyware and adware program is like giving you a fly swatter to smack the hands away; so...so many hands....
That swamp of hands used to not be so crowded; that swamp used to have a gravel road which you could travel down, and, in the off chance you were grabbed, their hand would break off leaving a bloody stump in the ground, and a morsel of bloody hand still clinging to your clothes. But alas, the advancement of technology has destroyed that little trail, leaving you to calculate a safe-route through the swamp. Sure, back in the day, you could surf the Internet and not worry about cookies or someone threatening the longevity of your PC. However, you have to take into consideration that back-in-the-day, we did not know as much about the difference between harmful and safe computer applications that we have the knowledge of today. So are we better off? Yeah, I would say so. And yes, people were trying to hack your PC back-in-the-day; hacking has a pretty extensive history, but today people have Norton, and the rich crop of other virus protection, spam protection, pop-up stoppers, cookie-munchers, anti-spyware and adware agents, and sweepers that weren't thought-up or in testing in '95.
A lot of this has me thinking of my computer as more of a child than a tool. Defraging your computer keeps your computer healthy. Update your Norton definitions every two-three weeks. Don't let your computer play in a busy intersection. Putting peanut butter on a CD-ROM and stuffing it into a CD-ROM drive doesn't mean you're feeding the computer. Give your computer a check-up by updating software and inspecting its many components; pretty much, HP and Gateway, Apple and Dell are all like foster care, and you're adopting a machine.
So what other things could your PC be? Well, if you're in utter desperation, sexually, it could be your girlfriend; gamers and PC-enthusiasts alike know exactly what I mean when I state that. The computer can be your organizer. Let's say you are so organized, every appointment of yours, every meeting, every little quintessential thing you do in your fucking life is recorded on your PC, as, literally, external memory. Shit, my PC is my journal; I log on to blogger about three, maybe four-times-a-week and unload upon my maybe one fan what pisses me off, what makes me happy, what's going wrong and right in the world, and maybe a random story or two. Yes, I'll state it! The computer can run your life! Some people use it as a friend they don't have at a certain moment in their lives, and I will elaborate; some people play computer games hours-on-end because it's enjoyable. In fact, in a new study, people who are stressed out all the time will release some pent-up emotions by playing violent video games, and people out there say, "That's where violent tendencies start," and blah blah blah. In-a-way, yeah, that's true, for mentally disturbed people. For normal people, they cope; fantasy stays fantasy. No I don't see the connection between violence in the world and video games because you don't see a person robbing you, holding an xbox controller, you do not hear of a kid who pressed R1, L1, X, O, Triangle, L2, Square or R1, L1, A, B, L2, Y to set god-mode and infinite ammo simultaneously, and then go blasting his or her school with his parents' licensed 9mm's or rifle. You do, unfortunately, see kids running around screaming, "I'm just like CJ from San Andreas...blittatatatatat," them, imitating, acting as though they were holding an automatic weapon, and pointing it at someone else. Censoring is not the answer because it's all imitation. You censor violent video games, you might as well censor television more because if they don't get it from somewhere, they will get it from somewhere else. Next, it's movies, then books, then our culture, our past, our present, our future, our way-of-life...now I am repeating what I have said before; the government can not have that much power. It's scary stuff. In an essence, a computer can be a provoker.
It's quite astounding thinking about the jump we have made in the last decade with technology. If change can happen that quickly, what's next around the corner? Computers replace people everyday. When is that trend going to end, or, are we seeing a glimpse into the future?
Monday, July 16, 2007
The Blame Game; Weddings and Honeymoons
Anthony Williams, a young black man, once said, "No matter how you dress it up, nigga is a slave name."
The word is treated as a term of endearment among black youth...hell, I really do not have a say on the matter because I am white. I am sort of teetering a thin line even bringing the conversation up, but I can't see as much stock in a word that has had such a demeaning past. It would be like my friends saying to me, "What's up, fat ass!?"
Some believe by using the word affectionately and often enough, they prove that African Americans can no longer be shackled to condescension by hatefully being labeled. Maybe it's as similar as a homosexual man or woman being accepting of the term, "faggot" or "dyke," and who is or are courageous enough to express openly that, yes they are fags or...dykes and say, "What are you going to do about it?" to those with abhorrence against them. I, on the other hand, can't spot the good in statements like those that are so hateful.
Some call for a reformation, stating the term should be purged from our culture. For those with that mind-set, they are too few and far between. Others suggest that if enough people get behind abolishing our past or other terminology; that if enough people were tired of the word, and this is just an example, "armadillo," they could erase that from the Earth as well, and just rename an entire species of animal in result, as well. To me, it's a lot scarier to erase a whole period of our past, then to simply move-on and coincide. If that's too painful or arduous, then I suppose the only alternative would be to blame our ancestors.
Why can't we blame them? Thanks for not thinking forward, and not looking for more environmentally-friendly vehicles and steam engines GE or Ford - god damn'it! Whoever designed the Titanic, thanks a lot for being a giant douche and not supporting a better rutter-system on your colossal-beast of a cruise liner. Oh, and by the way, I bet those people who drowned and froze-to-death in the chill, artic waters of the Atlantic were thankful of the asshole who suggested the idea of not over-stocking the boat with enough life-jackets for everyone who was poor. The walls of the hull weren't even thick enough by building standards, you son of a bitch, Mr. Thomas Andrews, chief designer...oh, and let's not forget the shipping company, Harland and Wolff, you cheap dicks! Then again, people have the option of saying whatever they like to one another.
Let's brighten the mood, shall we. First, I would like to discuss weddings and honeymoons. This past month, we have seen the date read 07/07/07, just like last year's infamous 06/06/06 (It's just an occurrence; don't look anything into it)
July 7th marked the number one day of this year for consecutive wedding dates. I don't know what the deal was with getting married on 07/07/07, if, for instance, it meant something or what; seven has ties with being the number of our Lord, so I assumed people wanted married on what they perceived as a sacred day. That is all well and dandy, but then I started thinking of the honeymoon being, basically, a sex-vacation. Now, I know not everyone is as relaxed with sexual urges as others, and the honeymoon can be the first of many times the new couple could spend with one another, relaxing on what I have always foreseen as a tropical paradise, decked out with steel drum music, cabana bars, and sparkling blue-blue (crystal clear turquoise water, like you see in the movies) bays, with other happy couples and possibly children, snorkeling in the ocean water. That would be the ideal honeymoon. Some couples, though, the first chance they get, place the "do not disturb" sign around their door handle, strip down to nothing, and give each other a "workout," if you know what I mean, with the windows opened, and the seagulls carry the ocean breeze on their relentless cawing, hence, the sex-vacation.
This, in turn, reminded me of the Las Vegas commercials, where the slogan states, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." If all you did on your honeymoon was sex each other up, what would your alibi be for not seeing anything, and just staying in bed?
"Hey Keith, you just returned from your honeymoon, correct? Jamaican isles, right? What'd ya see?"
"Well, ahhh....we saw a big waterfall...."
"A waterfall!? Cool...do you remember the name?"
"Well... (I remember we could see it from the hotel, while we had sex) ...no, I can't - can't recall....the name...."
"You must've seen more than just a waterfall in Jamaica, right?!"
(The room-service guy saw my penis...why did he only knock twice, and then enter?) "Ummm...we surfed!" (I remember having to shove Jessica off my...when that room-service guy barged in....)
"How was that?"
"I never could stand fully up on the board long enough to actually surf. I just laid on my belly, and paddled... (Can't believe we snuck out to the pool after hours...they had it closed for two days after that because they found "foreign bodies" floating atop the water...)"
"Probably embarrassed the hell out of you, didn't it!?"
"More of a scare really...I didn't know if they would recognize the stuff floating in the water...."
"What stuff in the water???"
(Shit! You're just about to reveal to your boss that you came in the pool at your hotel...be cool; tell him a school of jelly fish were in the ocean...are jelly fish edible? Did they close the pool after a kid noticed cum floating in the water...what if your grandma swam in that pool after...why am I thinking of so many random things!?)
Honeymoons an excuse for a sex-vacation...totally plausible! Anything wrong with sex-vacations...nope.
The word is treated as a term of endearment among black youth...hell, I really do not have a say on the matter because I am white. I am sort of teetering a thin line even bringing the conversation up, but I can't see as much stock in a word that has had such a demeaning past. It would be like my friends saying to me, "What's up, fat ass!?"
Some believe by using the word affectionately and often enough, they prove that African Americans can no longer be shackled to condescension by hatefully being labeled. Maybe it's as similar as a homosexual man or woman being accepting of the term, "faggot" or "dyke," and who is or are courageous enough to express openly that, yes they are fags or...dykes and say, "What are you going to do about it?" to those with abhorrence against them. I, on the other hand, can't spot the good in statements like those that are so hateful.
Some call for a reformation, stating the term should be purged from our culture. For those with that mind-set, they are too few and far between. Others suggest that if enough people get behind abolishing our past or other terminology; that if enough people were tired of the word, and this is just an example, "armadillo," they could erase that from the Earth as well, and just rename an entire species of animal in result, as well. To me, it's a lot scarier to erase a whole period of our past, then to simply move-on and coincide. If that's too painful or arduous, then I suppose the only alternative would be to blame our ancestors.
Why can't we blame them? Thanks for not thinking forward, and not looking for more environmentally-friendly vehicles and steam engines GE or Ford - god damn'it! Whoever designed the Titanic, thanks a lot for being a giant douche and not supporting a better rutter-system on your colossal-beast of a cruise liner. Oh, and by the way, I bet those people who drowned and froze-to-death in the chill, artic waters of the Atlantic were thankful of the asshole who suggested the idea of not over-stocking the boat with enough life-jackets for everyone who was poor. The walls of the hull weren't even thick enough by building standards, you son of a bitch, Mr. Thomas Andrews, chief designer...oh, and let's not forget the shipping company, Harland and Wolff, you cheap dicks! Then again, people have the option of saying whatever they like to one another.
Let's brighten the mood, shall we. First, I would like to discuss weddings and honeymoons. This past month, we have seen the date read 07/07/07, just like last year's infamous 06/06/06 (It's just an occurrence; don't look anything into it)
July 7th marked the number one day of this year for consecutive wedding dates. I don't know what the deal was with getting married on 07/07/07, if, for instance, it meant something or what; seven has ties with being the number of our Lord, so I assumed people wanted married on what they perceived as a sacred day. That is all well and dandy, but then I started thinking of the honeymoon being, basically, a sex-vacation. Now, I know not everyone is as relaxed with sexual urges as others, and the honeymoon can be the first of many times the new couple could spend with one another, relaxing on what I have always foreseen as a tropical paradise, decked out with steel drum music, cabana bars, and sparkling blue-blue (crystal clear turquoise water, like you see in the movies) bays, with other happy couples and possibly children, snorkeling in the ocean water. That would be the ideal honeymoon. Some couples, though, the first chance they get, place the "do not disturb" sign around their door handle, strip down to nothing, and give each other a "workout," if you know what I mean, with the windows opened, and the seagulls carry the ocean breeze on their relentless cawing, hence, the sex-vacation.
This, in turn, reminded me of the Las Vegas commercials, where the slogan states, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." If all you did on your honeymoon was sex each other up, what would your alibi be for not seeing anything, and just staying in bed?
"Hey Keith, you just returned from your honeymoon, correct? Jamaican isles, right? What'd ya see?"
"Well, ahhh....we saw a big waterfall...."
"A waterfall!? Cool...do you remember the name?"
"Well... (I remember we could see it from the hotel, while we had sex) ...no, I can't - can't recall....the name...."
"You must've seen more than just a waterfall in Jamaica, right?!"
(The room-service guy saw my penis...why did he only knock twice, and then enter?) "Ummm...we surfed!" (I remember having to shove Jessica off my...when that room-service guy barged in....)
"How was that?"
"I never could stand fully up on the board long enough to actually surf. I just laid on my belly, and paddled... (Can't believe we snuck out to the pool after hours...they had it closed for two days after that because they found "foreign bodies" floating atop the water...)"
"Probably embarrassed the hell out of you, didn't it!?"
"More of a scare really...I didn't know if they would recognize the stuff floating in the water...."
"What stuff in the water???"
(Shit! You're just about to reveal to your boss that you came in the pool at your hotel...be cool; tell him a school of jelly fish were in the ocean...are jelly fish edible? Did they close the pool after a kid noticed cum floating in the water...what if your grandma swam in that pool after...why am I thinking of so many random things!?)
Honeymoons an excuse for a sex-vacation...totally plausible! Anything wrong with sex-vacations...nope.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Cellular Calamity and more from my Job
Aside from story time and graham crackers, my job is like day-care. One benefit of this is, I am not having to supervise children. As I have stated before, I am not prone to the care of children, nor do I enjoy the company of the little "booger-eaters," so keeping an eye on adults who are sometimes immature, like children, is okay in my book.
I have told people countless times at my job (I am talking more about the patrons than other co-workers) that cell phone usage is not prohibited within the computer lab, where I work. It gets annoying when you are confined in a small, glassed case full of desks with computer monitors resting upon their frame, and computer towers resting on the floor, and several of the patrons' phones begin to ring, and they do not understand that their phones come with volume control. It's also rather unnerving how predictable some people are.
People can pretty much give off a bad vibe; this revelation is the reason why I can tell which people are going to be problematic, and who is going to be calm. It is all about body-language, and that's self-explanatory. You sense something is wrong with a person if their composure is a little off-the-wall.
Cell phones annoy the shit out of me. They are a god-send, but also a curse. Think of the concept of cell phones - a phone you take with you, that never leaves your side, literally, because of belt-clips you can purchase for your phone to rest comfortably dangling from your pants, or, the simple fact that everyone carries a phone on them, be it in-pocket or outside their clothes. Even kids as young as nine-years-old have cell phones and that just up and scares me. A cell phone is not like a puppy, there to help convey the importance of responsibility. You honestly think a nine-year-old really needs a cell phone? I can imagine how costly that would be, but my assumptions conclude that the only people buying their nine-year-olds cell phones probably do not have to worry about money. What possible reason is there for a nine-year-old to have a cell phone, and not give me that bullshit that, "Well, we now know where she is at all times," because I don't buy that for a second! You bought the kid a cell phone because he or she is spoiled, and, since her friends wear make-up, she thinks she needs make-up, or his friend George is dating already, he should as well...her friend says, "At least my daddy bought me an iPhone..." That's the last thing your pre-teen needs to be: a follower.
I have, unfortunately, some people in my life - friends or friends-of-friends - who insist that I must be up at all times of the night. It amazes me how many phone calls I will receive after midnight when I have my phone set to wake me up at 8 a.m., and I am trying to get to sleep before one in the morning. Sure, it's my fault I use my phone as an alarm clock, but the last time I checked, I bought that fucking phone for three main purposes, they are, one: for emergency phone use, or wanting to talk privately to my friends, two: if I am unable to make a call, I want the option to text message instead, and finally, three: the alarm-function, which is now standard on every cell phone, is a necessity! No, I did not buy a phone for Snake, the outrageously now-unpopular 2-bit game for every phone made in the 90's; why would you even assume I wanted a phone for web-access...what are you looking up on the web that you couldn't look up on a god damn computer!? Oooo, nifty! You got the new jam from Kanye as your ringer - great! Can't wait for you to be in line with me in a crowded establishment, and have your stupid, fucking cell phone go off, and you fucking know it's your phone ringing, but you're grooving to your jam that sounds like it was recorded on a fucking answering machine, taken out and set on fire, then, ripped into a digit file transfer, and uploaded on to your fucking razor! That makes me fucking sick! Why is it that every fucking standard ring-tone on the fucking phone is like some Japanese kid's Final Fantasy soundtrack on crack!? Let me go through a few of these ringers for you; cricket...yeah, that's the ring tone I like - high pitched, fucking bleating...awesome! Let's see...Oh! FUCKING CANADA! That's funny...I don't know another countries' national anthem, but I'll put it on my fucking phone any ways...you hate Canada and you know it!
Here in the lab, we insist and enforce people to shut the ringer off on their phone, and to, once called, remove themselves from the lab quietly, and take the call outside. Some of those people insist to ignore the part about taking the call outside and instead mosey on into the book-stacks. That's a fare compromise, as long as they are quiet.
Some people, I'm afraid, for some odd reason or another, have to yell into their phones. Again, they just are too stupid to comprehend this new device called the cell phone...which has been around since the eighties, only now they are not as big as your arm as they were then. I won't even get into how annoying blue tooth is - "Oh wow, the receiver is an earpiece?! I never would have imagined I would be so worthless of existence to be lazy enough to not be able to hold a fucking cell phone to my ear...BY MYSELF!!!" Makes absolute, perfect sense - let's all go out and buy a useless $60-$100 attachment for our phone, so we don't have to press a button on the phone itself to answer a call or pick the phone up at all! I can see how beneficiary it would be if you were rock-climbing, or if you had only one arm, and even the one that was left did not work right, or you were having your eighth child in-a-row because you're a walking uterus, and only have two arms for two of the kids, while the other five are playing with assorted pits of rusty metal and broken syringes in a sand box filled with fragments of glass and possible fecal matter, considering its location were a back-alley in the Red Light district of Singapore, ripe with sexually transmitted disease and infection, while the one dangling from an umbilical cord, dragging along the ground unnoticed by its mother, is holding on to a severed hand...then I would understand the use of a blue tooth attachment...
It's a waste of money, as is this rant being a waste of someone elses' precious time.
My job can sometimes get the better of me. Patience is a not-so comforting seductress; she has a whip-in-hand, and is giving you a safety-word before you have tamed her. Many o' things can come down to patience. Behavioral problems are sometimes attributed with it. Luckily, my job does not entitle me to have to be patient with people, though it helps. Hell, I could be an asshole, and the benefactor of that would be me being looked upon more as an authority figure because we all know those with authority are assholes. Most of the time, though, if I am more at ease with the job, the job goes quicker; a nine-hour shift seems like four. But the people seem like children having to be led around. How complicated is this transaction: I ask for a first and last name, they give the first and last name, I let them have a computer. Not too hard, right, in fact, infantly simple. But then again, I get people who do not use commonsense. All the computers are left on the desktop screen, so you should be able to just double-click the internet explorer to browse the web. However, a patron will always ask, "Do I have to turn on the computer, or is it already on?" Grinds my gears....so in a sense, yes, my job is like day care for adults, and our rules, even when they seem unnecessary and encroaching, are there for a reason - so the workers of the computer lab do not get annoyed as much. If the rules are in clear view, as they are in the lab, tacked up on the walls, or you are on the honor system, do the right thing. Quit trying to be a martyr!
I have told people countless times at my job (I am talking more about the patrons than other co-workers) that cell phone usage is not prohibited within the computer lab, where I work. It gets annoying when you are confined in a small, glassed case full of desks with computer monitors resting upon their frame, and computer towers resting on the floor, and several of the patrons' phones begin to ring, and they do not understand that their phones come with volume control. It's also rather unnerving how predictable some people are.
People can pretty much give off a bad vibe; this revelation is the reason why I can tell which people are going to be problematic, and who is going to be calm. It is all about body-language, and that's self-explanatory. You sense something is wrong with a person if their composure is a little off-the-wall.
Cell phones annoy the shit out of me. They are a god-send, but also a curse. Think of the concept of cell phones - a phone you take with you, that never leaves your side, literally, because of belt-clips you can purchase for your phone to rest comfortably dangling from your pants, or, the simple fact that everyone carries a phone on them, be it in-pocket or outside their clothes. Even kids as young as nine-years-old have cell phones and that just up and scares me. A cell phone is not like a puppy, there to help convey the importance of responsibility. You honestly think a nine-year-old really needs a cell phone? I can imagine how costly that would be, but my assumptions conclude that the only people buying their nine-year-olds cell phones probably do not have to worry about money. What possible reason is there for a nine-year-old to have a cell phone, and not give me that bullshit that, "Well, we now know where she is at all times," because I don't buy that for a second! You bought the kid a cell phone because he or she is spoiled, and, since her friends wear make-up, she thinks she needs make-up, or his friend George is dating already, he should as well...her friend says, "At least my daddy bought me an iPhone..." That's the last thing your pre-teen needs to be: a follower.
I have, unfortunately, some people in my life - friends or friends-of-friends - who insist that I must be up at all times of the night. It amazes me how many phone calls I will receive after midnight when I have my phone set to wake me up at 8 a.m., and I am trying to get to sleep before one in the morning. Sure, it's my fault I use my phone as an alarm clock, but the last time I checked, I bought that fucking phone for three main purposes, they are, one: for emergency phone use, or wanting to talk privately to my friends, two: if I am unable to make a call, I want the option to text message instead, and finally, three: the alarm-function, which is now standard on every cell phone, is a necessity! No, I did not buy a phone for Snake, the outrageously now-unpopular 2-bit game for every phone made in the 90's; why would you even assume I wanted a phone for web-access...what are you looking up on the web that you couldn't look up on a god damn computer!? Oooo, nifty! You got the new jam from Kanye as your ringer - great! Can't wait for you to be in line with me in a crowded establishment, and have your stupid, fucking cell phone go off, and you fucking know it's your phone ringing, but you're grooving to your jam that sounds like it was recorded on a fucking answering machine, taken out and set on fire, then, ripped into a digit file transfer, and uploaded on to your fucking razor! That makes me fucking sick! Why is it that every fucking standard ring-tone on the fucking phone is like some Japanese kid's Final Fantasy soundtrack on crack!? Let me go through a few of these ringers for you; cricket...yeah, that's the ring tone I like - high pitched, fucking bleating...awesome! Let's see...Oh! FUCKING CANADA! That's funny...I don't know another countries' national anthem, but I'll put it on my fucking phone any ways...you hate Canada and you know it!
Here in the lab, we insist and enforce people to shut the ringer off on their phone, and to, once called, remove themselves from the lab quietly, and take the call outside. Some of those people insist to ignore the part about taking the call outside and instead mosey on into the book-stacks. That's a fare compromise, as long as they are quiet.
Some people, I'm afraid, for some odd reason or another, have to yell into their phones. Again, they just are too stupid to comprehend this new device called the cell phone...which has been around since the eighties, only now they are not as big as your arm as they were then. I won't even get into how annoying blue tooth is - "Oh wow, the receiver is an earpiece?! I never would have imagined I would be so worthless of existence to be lazy enough to not be able to hold a fucking cell phone to my ear...BY MYSELF!!!" Makes absolute, perfect sense - let's all go out and buy a useless $60-$100 attachment for our phone, so we don't have to press a button on the phone itself to answer a call or pick the phone up at all! I can see how beneficiary it would be if you were rock-climbing, or if you had only one arm, and even the one that was left did not work right, or you were having your eighth child in-a-row because you're a walking uterus, and only have two arms for two of the kids, while the other five are playing with assorted pits of rusty metal and broken syringes in a sand box filled with fragments of glass and possible fecal matter, considering its location were a back-alley in the Red Light district of Singapore, ripe with sexually transmitted disease and infection, while the one dangling from an umbilical cord, dragging along the ground unnoticed by its mother, is holding on to a severed hand...then I would understand the use of a blue tooth attachment...
It's a waste of money, as is this rant being a waste of someone elses' precious time.
My job can sometimes get the better of me. Patience is a not-so comforting seductress; she has a whip-in-hand, and is giving you a safety-word before you have tamed her. Many o' things can come down to patience. Behavioral problems are sometimes attributed with it. Luckily, my job does not entitle me to have to be patient with people, though it helps. Hell, I could be an asshole, and the benefactor of that would be me being looked upon more as an authority figure because we all know those with authority are assholes. Most of the time, though, if I am more at ease with the job, the job goes quicker; a nine-hour shift seems like four. But the people seem like children having to be led around. How complicated is this transaction: I ask for a first and last name, they give the first and last name, I let them have a computer. Not too hard, right, in fact, infantly simple. But then again, I get people who do not use commonsense. All the computers are left on the desktop screen, so you should be able to just double-click the internet explorer to browse the web. However, a patron will always ask, "Do I have to turn on the computer, or is it already on?" Grinds my gears....so in a sense, yes, my job is like day care for adults, and our rules, even when they seem unnecessary and encroaching, are there for a reason - so the workers of the computer lab do not get annoyed as much. If the rules are in clear view, as they are in the lab, tacked up on the walls, or you are on the honor system, do the right thing. Quit trying to be a martyr!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Red State
Some people are just fucking nuts; an example would be Fred Phelps. Him and his radical group slither in the grass up to funeral-motorcade for disembodied patriots, picketing the sites with slogans, such as, "Thank God for 9/11" or, again, in thankfulness to Him, for improvised explosive devices (IED's). Obviously, the man is not the most popular person on the face of the Earth, considering his website is, literally, http://www.godhatesfags.com/.
To prejudice someone for their lifestyle is in no way my concern in life, just as it's not Fred Phelps or anyone else's job to do the same to other people. If a person chooses to be homosexual or Jewish or a Fundamentalist Muslim or an orange, they have the right to do so. They also have the right to say, "You're going to hell," to anyone else, but it's no ones right to put their ideals into faith and say, "God says you're going to hell." You might have a connection with God, and that's awesome! - you love our Lord! But no one speaks for God, granted that Joan of Arc claimed she did. Besides, God didn't enlist Joan of Arc to go around clocking homosexuals or opposition of his faith over the head with a club, then instructing Joan to beat them mercilessly - though, I suppose it would be hysterical to see Joan pummeling random people, looking to the clouds and asking, "Like this, Lord - hit them like this!?" I don't think, since Jesus, has there been someone in the history of mankind who has said, "Guess what!?! Just got off the phone with Jehovah. He says you've got two options - become Christian and worship, or melt!" Frankly, I think if God, or Jesus-in-his-place, were to come down now, some drastic changes would be in order. So I like to assume that God has not necessarily thrown in the towel, but has become more lenient in what he does. Just look at masturbation. Some people claim it's sinful, but you can get away with it without Him smitting you on the spot. Back in the day, or, at least what has been stated in the Bible, if someone did something against God, they would be killed or he might level an entire providence of sinners for their actions. Unless God now has a filing system, and if you do something sinful, you get a hash-mark slashed beside your name. And maybe Heaven is like Chuck E. Cheese, where, upon reaching a certain level of sin, you are instantly placed upon a "naughty list" (You're going to hell...)
Kind of the opposite of Chuck E. Cheese, really. Instead of winning a Nerf product for 500 gold coins, you have only 500 slash-marks - fill those suckers up, and enjoy the dystopian lava-flow of hell, and don't forget the rape!
Back to the subject at hand, there are some right-headed people, and then there are iffy-people in our sane, for the most part, world. One day you might be driving down the freeway and notice a beat-up junker of a car passing by you with a "Baby's 'R' Us" bib suction-cupped to their right passenger-side window, a "Baby on board" bumper sticker, and a baby doorway jumper assembly box resting in their backseat, and that woman doesn't even fucking have a baby and does not know anyone who has birthed a human being - that woman saw the baby doorway jumper at the mall, and had (HAD) to have it! She also stores about fifty bottles of baby formula in her refrigerator, sometimes even washing off with formula sprinkled in her bath water, so she can literally smell like baby. And then there are people like me who only assume that frazzled-looking woman is like that.
For the most part, the deep south of America, and I am talking the bayou or southern Mississippi and Alabama, not "Deliverance" Georgia, is a looming preservation of how life once was and still, remarkably, remains for those few who accept...that....oh who am I fucking kidding, the deep south is full of the "old school" honest, but sometimes shady-folk, who still wish the Yankee's would have lost the war, and, sometimes, even though a few things got abolished in the 1860's, they continue to keep the mind-set their predecessors did way-back-when. In parts of the country like that, you might find a few people who think any man who wears sandals or dislikes the rebel flag are faggots or un-American. While in the restroom at the Dixie Stampede in Missouri - which is a little too close to the north to be considered the south, though, they like to think their just that - a man walked in, and, for no reason at all, as he hummed the National Anthem, he exclaimed, "those are the only colors I support - land of the free, and of the white...," in that isolated, red neck-tone we love to death! It doesn't help that our president can stand before the press and say, "If you're not with us, you're against us," and in another speech state, if you don't support the troop-serge, or support me, you're unpatriotic; un-American. By the way, I did not quote that last statement because I was unaware of its context - whether that was one statement or two. There is a difference, though, in supporting or being against war (pacificism) and supporting or opposing the troops themselves. I don't know what us "liberals," who are mostly made up of Democrats seen as Liberal because of their common distrust of Conservatives, have to say instead of the already resounding statement of, "I dislike war." It seems like every time someone says those three words, some supporter of the Iraq Conflict turns into Politiko, preserver of the Republican point-of-view, out to thwart those evil-doers who want to think independently, and dislike the title of sheep...
What ever happened to having your own fucking opinion, or, our country being a bicameral system of legislature? Bush might be a Republican president, but that does not mean the United States is now all-of-a-sudden Republican; we still have two main political parties. What's the rationalization here - are people just that dumb!? Honestly, just my opinion here, but it kind of sounds like a tyrant is in office. And maybe all it takes is for someone to get on Fox News, express their opinion, and if it cannot be countered and is not full of contradictions, then it must be right in the wrong person's eye. So maybe if Bill O'Reilly calls you a liar, and can switch the subject on you enough to blur the realm of reality, calling you out on what he knows is truth, but he would rather argue for the sake of ratings, then you should agree with him whole-heartedly because the facts are in favor of him...yet you're right....but he has unlimited resources at his disposal.....but you're right......
So I'll do what naturally gets done when someone is right, and the immature of the group decides to throw a fit - "You're wrong! You're WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!!!" ...and change the subject...some people are just fucking nuts; an example would be Fred Phelps.
To prejudice someone for their lifestyle is in no way my concern in life, just as it's not Fred Phelps or anyone else's job to do the same to other people. If a person chooses to be homosexual or Jewish or a Fundamentalist Muslim or an orange, they have the right to do so. They also have the right to say, "You're going to hell," to anyone else, but it's no ones right to put their ideals into faith and say, "God says you're going to hell." You might have a connection with God, and that's awesome! - you love our Lord! But no one speaks for God, granted that Joan of Arc claimed she did. Besides, God didn't enlist Joan of Arc to go around clocking homosexuals or opposition of his faith over the head with a club, then instructing Joan to beat them mercilessly - though, I suppose it would be hysterical to see Joan pummeling random people, looking to the clouds and asking, "Like this, Lord - hit them like this!?" I don't think, since Jesus, has there been someone in the history of mankind who has said, "Guess what!?! Just got off the phone with Jehovah. He says you've got two options - become Christian and worship, or melt!" Frankly, I think if God, or Jesus-in-his-place, were to come down now, some drastic changes would be in order. So I like to assume that God has not necessarily thrown in the towel, but has become more lenient in what he does. Just look at masturbation. Some people claim it's sinful, but you can get away with it without Him smitting you on the spot. Back in the day, or, at least what has been stated in the Bible, if someone did something against God, they would be killed or he might level an entire providence of sinners for their actions. Unless God now has a filing system, and if you do something sinful, you get a hash-mark slashed beside your name. And maybe Heaven is like Chuck E. Cheese, where, upon reaching a certain level of sin, you are instantly placed upon a "naughty list" (You're going to hell...)
Kind of the opposite of Chuck E. Cheese, really. Instead of winning a Nerf product for 500 gold coins, you have only 500 slash-marks - fill those suckers up, and enjoy the dystopian lava-flow of hell, and don't forget the rape!
Back to the subject at hand, there are some right-headed people, and then there are iffy-people in our sane, for the most part, world. One day you might be driving down the freeway and notice a beat-up junker of a car passing by you with a "Baby's 'R' Us" bib suction-cupped to their right passenger-side window, a "Baby on board" bumper sticker, and a baby doorway jumper assembly box resting in their backseat, and that woman doesn't even fucking have a baby and does not know anyone who has birthed a human being - that woman saw the baby doorway jumper at the mall, and had (HAD) to have it! She also stores about fifty bottles of baby formula in her refrigerator, sometimes even washing off with formula sprinkled in her bath water, so she can literally smell like baby. And then there are people like me who only assume that frazzled-looking woman is like that.
For the most part, the deep south of America, and I am talking the bayou or southern Mississippi and Alabama, not "Deliverance" Georgia, is a looming preservation of how life once was and still, remarkably, remains for those few who accept...that....oh who am I fucking kidding, the deep south is full of the "old school" honest, but sometimes shady-folk, who still wish the Yankee's would have lost the war, and, sometimes, even though a few things got abolished in the 1860's, they continue to keep the mind-set their predecessors did way-back-when. In parts of the country like that, you might find a few people who think any man who wears sandals or dislikes the rebel flag are faggots or un-American. While in the restroom at the Dixie Stampede in Missouri - which is a little too close to the north to be considered the south, though, they like to think their just that - a man walked in, and, for no reason at all, as he hummed the National Anthem, he exclaimed, "those are the only colors I support - land of the free, and of the white...," in that isolated, red neck-tone we love to death! It doesn't help that our president can stand before the press and say, "If you're not with us, you're against us," and in another speech state, if you don't support the troop-serge, or support me, you're unpatriotic; un-American. By the way, I did not quote that last statement because I was unaware of its context - whether that was one statement or two. There is a difference, though, in supporting or being against war (pacificism) and supporting or opposing the troops themselves. I don't know what us "liberals," who are mostly made up of Democrats seen as Liberal because of their common distrust of Conservatives, have to say instead of the already resounding statement of, "I dislike war." It seems like every time someone says those three words, some supporter of the Iraq Conflict turns into Politiko, preserver of the Republican point-of-view, out to thwart those evil-doers who want to think independently, and dislike the title of sheep...
What ever happened to having your own fucking opinion, or, our country being a bicameral system of legislature? Bush might be a Republican president, but that does not mean the United States is now all-of-a-sudden Republican; we still have two main political parties. What's the rationalization here - are people just that dumb!? Honestly, just my opinion here, but it kind of sounds like a tyrant is in office. And maybe all it takes is for someone to get on Fox News, express their opinion, and if it cannot be countered and is not full of contradictions, then it must be right in the wrong person's eye. So maybe if Bill O'Reilly calls you a liar, and can switch the subject on you enough to blur the realm of reality, calling you out on what he knows is truth, but he would rather argue for the sake of ratings, then you should agree with him whole-heartedly because the facts are in favor of him...yet you're right....but he has unlimited resources at his disposal.....but you're right......
So I'll do what naturally gets done when someone is right, and the immature of the group decides to throw a fit - "You're wrong! You're WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!!!" ...and change the subject...some people are just fucking nuts; an example would be Fred Phelps.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
A Couple Differences + Quick Decisions
A while back, I got into an argument with a Republican. Bunch of my friends and I meet every Friday for "game night," which means we don't have previous plans for the beginning of the weekend, so we all huddle up in my friend Steven's attic and play video games. Sounds pretty nerdy, doesn't it. It first began about two years ago when, while getting plastered at my friend Desi's, we managed to hook up an Xbox and we played the glorious "Fusion Frenzy." Then, we noticed our friend Steven was really good at video games, so we wanted to test our might against him, only this time sober. Tah Da! Game night.
Let me not get off topic ever again. My political foe brought up the subject of George W. Bush: Why you like/dislike him? Another of my friends, he's not as die-hard Republican as the person I have been talking about, said he liked G.W.B. because he told it like it is; he cared for the American people and did not care what other people thought of him - this trait was commendable. Let's get some names going, shall we! The Republicans name is Molly. The not-so Republicans name is Shaun. Molly asked how I felt about George W. Bush because she knew I was Democrat, though she called me Liberal. I guess to some people, there is no middle-ground. To quote our president, "You are either with us or against us," and that is how the argument felt right off the bat. I said to everyone and the room that I wasn't a very political person, and then corrected Molly by saying I'm Democrat, not Liberal. She said, "Same difference." I then tried to quickly change the subject by saying, "I wouldn't mind seeing Rudy win it simply because he is a politician who would want to unite both parties for one objective, and could narrow the gap between the left and right wings." That did not do anything. So, again, forced to say what I thought of our current president, I tried taking the high-road by saying, "Our foreign policy is fucked, due to circumstances in Iraq, and just the overall attitude of our current leader. He thinks he's being cute, but that also shows his lack of integrity, and it's downright childish." Of course, I get berated by Molly, and I'm not going to go into detail - I felt very uncomfortable up in the attic at that point since I was being told how-it-is by a debater.
You try and forget those awkward moments when a friend of yours tries to sway your thinking, and/or demonstrates how they can prove a point to a subject your reluctant to talk about in the first place. The last thing you need is someone who won't listen to opposing issues. I listened to Molly's, and, however ignorant or biased they might have sounded to me, I still gave her the benefit-of-the-doubt, and tried my best not to press the issue, though clearly, the issue was pressed like a new pair of pants.
I thought of this moment in my life after watching a documentary yesterday on IFC called, "The F-word". On the day of the Republican National Convention, radio show host Joe Pace joins the rallies, protests, delegates and citizens of New York City. Broadcasting his last show live, on-the-air, he goes on a one march for free speech - thanks http://www.imdb.com/ for that awesome synopsis. While covering this event no news station would touch, the character of Joe witnesses our country at a socially grim, but politically uplifting time. One part of the film, a group of Republicans with signs in-hand, who went solely to state their own opinions just like the rest of the people, were vacated from the grounds of the protest rally, for their own safety. The left wing began hitting these innocent people, calling them names, trying to start fights with them...the rallies got out of control. Police were called in, people were getting arrested, pinned to the pavement, beaten or shoved by cops, and even gassed. In the middle of the chaos were anarchists, who could be pointed out by wearing red bandannas over their faces, and their hair pinned back, fighting against cops and the left wing alike, starting fires, turning over cars, throwing projectiles - it was enough to make me sick. The last thing you need is for a peaceful rally, full of people shouting and expressing their own grievances and differential and similar opinions, and have it broken up because a group of whiny little toddlers weren't satisfied, and had to throw a fit. It all made me think of childhood really.
Remember at day care (if you were ever subjected to it) when the toys were brought out, you went to get the best toy, which was always a toy car, action figure, or doll, and someone beat you to it. Then, instead of sharing, they hogged that toy the whole play-period, and when you went to ask nicely to play with the toy because you were just learning the values of sharing, that son of a bitch had to say, "It's MY toy!" If you were like me, you just went and told the guardian about it, and sought their advice on the situation. Usually, they would go talk to the kid and try to express to them the value of sharing. But sometimes, the guardian would say, "Pick a different toy for now..." You have the option of getting upset over such a trivial thing or agreeing to the circumstances, and picking out a new toy. Debates between Republicans and Democrats are just like that. Usually the Republican takes the stance of the child who plugs his/her ears and dances around, chanting that worst of annoying phrases, "Lah, lah, lah, lah-lah," while the Democrat just raises his/her voice, shouting out random things like, "What's your plan to get us out of Iraq? We need out of that area - it is crucial to get our men and women out of Iraq - thousands upon ten-thousands of people have died, and it's obviously not about protecting the country because they are fed up with our presence there and you are endangering the lives of Americans - why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why? - listen here, I'm an official person! I'm important! Why aren't you listening to me!? Stop plugging your ears, damn'it!!!" Then, the Liberal comes up behind the Republican and pulls his pants down, the Republican turns around, lifting their pants, yelling in a shaky, embarrassed voice, "That's not nice!" at the uncaring Liberal. The Democrat, in return, kneels down behind the Republicans legs, the Liberal pushes him over, and the Republican gets up, with tears in his eyes and runs sobbing like a baby, "They double-teamed me, it's just not fair!!!" The Democrat and Liberal both laugh in unison, sharing in the moment the satisfaction of nailing the Republican, then, the Liberal, like always, sucker-punches the Democrat, and while the man is on the ground, the Liberal says, "Here's where you are wrong, along with the Republican," criticizing him about conspiracies, the truth, and contradictions in the Republican and Democrat's past statements. The Liberal then picks the Democrat up by the balls, and with a finale so grand, my testicles shrink a little, the Liberal says, "And here's how I help solve the problem," and he walks off. The Democrat ices down his inflamed nugget-pouch, while the guardian of the kids, the media, comes up to consolidate, then passes judgment more on the Republican then anyone else. Of course, the Republican plays the victim so well...
It's refreshing to know that some people still care about politics, though the averaging number of votes during the election process have dramatically gone down in the passed 10 years. People can truly make a difference only if others are willing to listen. I think one big disadvantage is when, in terms of arguing, people worry more about winning the small battles, then achieving a much larger victory. If you are going to object to every little thing said, it ends with both parties squawking, and not getting a single damn thing done. Going back to childhood, "He's a poopie-head!" "You're a poopie-head...and you eat bugs!" "I do not!" Next time you are at the polls, think the usual, 'I'm voting for a candidate with morals, who is a strong, passionate leader,' but also look for maturity.
Let me not get off topic ever again. My political foe brought up the subject of George W. Bush: Why you like/dislike him? Another of my friends, he's not as die-hard Republican as the person I have been talking about, said he liked G.W.B. because he told it like it is; he cared for the American people and did not care what other people thought of him - this trait was commendable. Let's get some names going, shall we! The Republicans name is Molly. The not-so Republicans name is Shaun. Molly asked how I felt about George W. Bush because she knew I was Democrat, though she called me Liberal. I guess to some people, there is no middle-ground. To quote our president, "You are either with us or against us," and that is how the argument felt right off the bat. I said to everyone and the room that I wasn't a very political person, and then corrected Molly by saying I'm Democrat, not Liberal. She said, "Same difference." I then tried to quickly change the subject by saying, "I wouldn't mind seeing Rudy win it simply because he is a politician who would want to unite both parties for one objective, and could narrow the gap between the left and right wings." That did not do anything. So, again, forced to say what I thought of our current president, I tried taking the high-road by saying, "Our foreign policy is fucked, due to circumstances in Iraq, and just the overall attitude of our current leader. He thinks he's being cute, but that also shows his lack of integrity, and it's downright childish." Of course, I get berated by Molly, and I'm not going to go into detail - I felt very uncomfortable up in the attic at that point since I was being told how-it-is by a debater.
You try and forget those awkward moments when a friend of yours tries to sway your thinking, and/or demonstrates how they can prove a point to a subject your reluctant to talk about in the first place. The last thing you need is someone who won't listen to opposing issues. I listened to Molly's, and, however ignorant or biased they might have sounded to me, I still gave her the benefit-of-the-doubt, and tried my best not to press the issue, though clearly, the issue was pressed like a new pair of pants.
I thought of this moment in my life after watching a documentary yesterday on IFC called, "The F-word". On the day of the Republican National Convention, radio show host Joe Pace joins the rallies, protests, delegates and citizens of New York City. Broadcasting his last show live, on-the-air, he goes on a one march for free speech - thanks http://www.imdb.com/ for that awesome synopsis. While covering this event no news station would touch, the character of Joe witnesses our country at a socially grim, but politically uplifting time. One part of the film, a group of Republicans with signs in-hand, who went solely to state their own opinions just like the rest of the people, were vacated from the grounds of the protest rally, for their own safety. The left wing began hitting these innocent people, calling them names, trying to start fights with them...the rallies got out of control. Police were called in, people were getting arrested, pinned to the pavement, beaten or shoved by cops, and even gassed. In the middle of the chaos were anarchists, who could be pointed out by wearing red bandannas over their faces, and their hair pinned back, fighting against cops and the left wing alike, starting fires, turning over cars, throwing projectiles - it was enough to make me sick. The last thing you need is for a peaceful rally, full of people shouting and expressing their own grievances and differential and similar opinions, and have it broken up because a group of whiny little toddlers weren't satisfied, and had to throw a fit. It all made me think of childhood really.
Remember at day care (if you were ever subjected to it) when the toys were brought out, you went to get the best toy, which was always a toy car, action figure, or doll, and someone beat you to it. Then, instead of sharing, they hogged that toy the whole play-period, and when you went to ask nicely to play with the toy because you were just learning the values of sharing, that son of a bitch had to say, "It's MY toy!" If you were like me, you just went and told the guardian about it, and sought their advice on the situation. Usually, they would go talk to the kid and try to express to them the value of sharing. But sometimes, the guardian would say, "Pick a different toy for now..." You have the option of getting upset over such a trivial thing or agreeing to the circumstances, and picking out a new toy. Debates between Republicans and Democrats are just like that. Usually the Republican takes the stance of the child who plugs his/her ears and dances around, chanting that worst of annoying phrases, "Lah, lah, lah, lah-lah," while the Democrat just raises his/her voice, shouting out random things like, "What's your plan to get us out of Iraq? We need out of that area - it is crucial to get our men and women out of Iraq - thousands upon ten-thousands of people have died, and it's obviously not about protecting the country because they are fed up with our presence there and you are endangering the lives of Americans - why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why? - listen here, I'm an official person! I'm important! Why aren't you listening to me!? Stop plugging your ears, damn'it!!!" Then, the Liberal comes up behind the Republican and pulls his pants down, the Republican turns around, lifting their pants, yelling in a shaky, embarrassed voice, "That's not nice!" at the uncaring Liberal. The Democrat, in return, kneels down behind the Republicans legs, the Liberal pushes him over, and the Republican gets up, with tears in his eyes and runs sobbing like a baby, "They double-teamed me, it's just not fair!!!" The Democrat and Liberal both laugh in unison, sharing in the moment the satisfaction of nailing the Republican, then, the Liberal, like always, sucker-punches the Democrat, and while the man is on the ground, the Liberal says, "Here's where you are wrong, along with the Republican," criticizing him about conspiracies, the truth, and contradictions in the Republican and Democrat's past statements. The Liberal then picks the Democrat up by the balls, and with a finale so grand, my testicles shrink a little, the Liberal says, "And here's how I help solve the problem," and he walks off. The Democrat ices down his inflamed nugget-pouch, while the guardian of the kids, the media, comes up to consolidate, then passes judgment more on the Republican then anyone else. Of course, the Republican plays the victim so well...
It's refreshing to know that some people still care about politics, though the averaging number of votes during the election process have dramatically gone down in the passed 10 years. People can truly make a difference only if others are willing to listen. I think one big disadvantage is when, in terms of arguing, people worry more about winning the small battles, then achieving a much larger victory. If you are going to object to every little thing said, it ends with both parties squawking, and not getting a single damn thing done. Going back to childhood, "He's a poopie-head!" "You're a poopie-head...and you eat bugs!" "I do not!" Next time you are at the polls, think the usual, 'I'm voting for a candidate with morals, who is a strong, passionate leader,' but also look for maturity.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Moments and Choices
I simplify things. In my opinion, life is separated in two categories: moments and choices. Think of a film reel. Each frame is its own individual moment, they occur randomly or planned and we as humans choose what to do in those instances. This happens to also be my basis for being supportive of abortion. A woman has the right to decide what she wants to do with her life, who she wants to have sex with, and also, she determines the livelihood of the life within her, if she were to get pregnant from said sex. We like to think that conception means "rights" for the child, but, in the most inappropriate way I can state this imaginable, the mother could easily drink a half-bottle of bleach and end it if she wanted to, or, go to a professional and end the life. It's all a matter of what she chooses, until the kid is out of her system and on its own, or (again, a terrible, unimaginable situation) until the kid is flooding in the basin of a toilet/in a trash can, aborted/the result of a forced miscarriage.
People are just fucked-up! They could have worn a condom, in another instance, they should have worn a condom, they could have easily stayed abstinent, or should have stayed abstinent until they were ready, if they were worried about getting pregnant. Sex is defined as the physical act used in conceiving a child; we interpret it as recreation more than for the use of procreation. Again, people have a decision at that moment. The Surgeon General states that the best way to not contract STDs or get pregnant is to use a condom if you must have sex, to limit your sexual partners down to the constraints of monogamy, or to engage in abstinence, but we as humans, and yes, we as Americans - we don't follow rules. So if you have sex, and get pregnant, that's entirely your fault, and not the child-spawn within you. Killing an innocent life form is no solution to an unwanted pregnancy, and if you were to choose the right solution, it should be to put the baby up for adoption once it is born. But again as humans, we are faulty. Not everyone chooses the right solution. They think, "Oh my god, ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod-I have to get rid of it!!!" That's not thinking straight. And they, in turn, destroy the pregnancy by having an abortion. Making right choices for people isn't anyone elses' job, but the person responsible.
Rules are there for us to follow and the government/brain-trust/powers-that-be enforce those laws, but anyone under 21 can choose to drink, any one person on the face of the Earth can choose to smoke marijuana/do heavier drugs, any person on this Earth can become a serial killer or abortionist, and, as long as no one knows about it, they won't be caught. What is at issue here is not necessarily what's right and what's wrong about abortion, most people citing that "what's wrong about abortion" is the only right - the question at hand is whether or not we want the government to have absolute power over what path we choose in life. At hand here is we can prevent murder through abolishing abortion, why can't we prevent murder altogether? Serial killers can be caught before anything happens, it's all down to how we catch a criminal - do we - screen more people for psychosis to prevent a serial killing - do we - step-up big brother's watchful eye, by surveillance; physically monitoring every citizen of the United States...that's just fucking stupid, but relatively realistic. So you've agreed to prevent one ring of murders by outlawing abortion, but you disagree with abolishing all murder in general because of how erroneous the process would be?
What about for those who need the abortion to stay alive - let's say - complications during the pregnancy give the mother one option, to abort the baby to save her own life? By outlawing a medical procedure, the mother and the baby die...when, if abortion was still an option, the mother might be able to survive, and, let's say, given the choice, could help the field of science by donating her son/daughter's fetus. It's all up in the air as far as it goes, but here's a good question, shouldn't that choice be left open? It's better to have more solutions to a problem, then none at all. One big solution to not having to worry about possibly choosing abortion is to not have sex. For those who engage in sex regularly, that's your choice - do what you please. For those who want to abort their child, that's their choice. As far as extremes go, why not outlaw sex to prevent from having unwanted kids? Obesity is a major killer in today's world, why not outlaw harmful foods? Obesity kills hundreds-of-thousands per year; it's an epidemic. Write a law that states you have to exercise at least 3-times a week. How would you enforce it, you might ask? How would you enforce anti-abortion laws?! Licensed practitioners wouldn't dare perform an illegal operation, but those "doctors" down in Mexico, who perform botched cosmetic surgery get by - they don't give a shit. Isn't it better to have a professional do something like abortion, then some whack-job in a dark alley, using unsterilized equipment, and reading step-by-step instructions printed off the Internet??? And for people who say, "Even if I did, unfortunately, get raped and get pregnant, I would still have the kid"... you don't know what you would do in that situation, unless it were real-life. That's all that needs to be said; there's no argument there...you don't know...
I like to think that if I were ever held-up at gun point that I would play off distractions, and if something did detour the shooter, I would karate-chop the person in the neck, they would go unconscious, I would then proceed, first, by picking up his/her dropped weapon, unload it, keeping the gun portion and throwing the bullets out randomly, and then escorting every other casualty from the crime scene. What would really happen would probably go along the lines of me, like a contestant in a game of "Simon Says," listening and obeying everything the shooter says. I could also see myself breathing heavily, maybe to the point of panic attack, I might even piss myself...I don't usually think about that kind of stuff because it's depressing; it's bothersome. And wouldn't you know, here's another point in my rant; I don't care about the abortion issue because it just flat-out irks me. I guess those on the front lines of the issue call to arms because, "if someone doesn't, who will stop the murder?"
You know what else is murder - sending people into a country and giving them orders to shoot anything that moves. The underlying factor of anything traumatic, violent, or just plain wrong is that if you were placed in that situation, you would not have a clue how you would react, unless physically placing yourself in that predicament. Well, I would assume if you were experienced with whatever it was that was troubling you, you might have a game-plan, but for those novices out there, and there's quite many of those, things would be a lot different. Moments like those then free-up the limited to unlimited possibilities of how to handle that certain situation. Choices arise and we pick what solution seems the best, even if it's the wrong one. Abortion is an issue that has just recently been accepted, on the terms that it's not as "hush-hush" as it was a hundred years, fifty years, or ten years ago. Then, it was a common and practiced medical treatment, like removing your tonsils. It was frowned upon, but other than that, and the whispers of who has had it done and why, the subject was never brought up at the dinner table as it frequently is today. Why? Because it wasn't an issue - or, in other words, no one cared.
Blood-letting was a common practice, where a doctor would poke a needle into one of your veins, and release a few pints of blood, or a leech/leeches were placed on you, and they drank what doctors referred to as, "excess blood." That treatment is not as common today, but in some cultures, and with some herbal practitioners, it is still in use. It's outdated, but it's not medieval, or in a sense that it is not cruel. It is believed that George Washington was treated in this manner following a story of him helping a friend out with an overturned or stuck wagon during a chill, rainy night. He caught pneumonia, and it was not until Pierre Charles Alexandre Louis demonstrated that phlebotomy didn't help cure a patient from pneumonia during the 1830's, that this form of prognosis was scrapped. As for Washington, almost 4 pounds of blood was withdrawn, contributing to his death by an infection in 1799.
Today's medical staff do not use it as a solution because of its fatality rate, yet cases of bloodletting still surface to this day. Bloodletting is still used and not griped about like abortion, but abortion is such a determining factor because it deals with babies. Kemo therapy is where doctors administer nuclear radiation to the cancer sufferer to dispel cancerous cells and tumors. Radiation is deadly to humans. If babies were cured with radiation, that solution might be stopped by the government. What's this!? Aborting a perfectly healthy child is wrong because nothing is wrong with the fetus, but the lack of the mother's interest....who's body is the fetus in? The mother's...so it's her decision, given that the baby is clinging to life by an umbilical cord. If the mother didn't want her appendix anymore, she could do away with that, and, again, there would be no fuss. Functioning correctly, the appendix is a life-form because it is made up of living cells. You cut that son of a bitch out of the woman or man, and the cells die, ultimately the appendix is useless/dead. Same principle as abortion. Moments and choices people, that's all life is.
I guess abortion has changed its purpose. No longer is it medicinal; it's seen as the wrong solution to an unwanted pregnancy. Our absence in legit reasoning has resulted in the right thing to do when facing endangerment to the baby and mother entering the wrong when dealing with morality. The only personal gain with abortion is the relief a doctor might feel in saving a patient. Let's not forget whose choice it really is; physician and mother.
People are just fucked-up! They could have worn a condom, in another instance, they should have worn a condom, they could have easily stayed abstinent, or should have stayed abstinent until they were ready, if they were worried about getting pregnant. Sex is defined as the physical act used in conceiving a child; we interpret it as recreation more than for the use of procreation. Again, people have a decision at that moment. The Surgeon General states that the best way to not contract STDs or get pregnant is to use a condom if you must have sex, to limit your sexual partners down to the constraints of monogamy, or to engage in abstinence, but we as humans, and yes, we as Americans - we don't follow rules. So if you have sex, and get pregnant, that's entirely your fault, and not the child-spawn within you. Killing an innocent life form is no solution to an unwanted pregnancy, and if you were to choose the right solution, it should be to put the baby up for adoption once it is born. But again as humans, we are faulty. Not everyone chooses the right solution. They think, "Oh my god, ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod-I have to get rid of it!!!" That's not thinking straight. And they, in turn, destroy the pregnancy by having an abortion. Making right choices for people isn't anyone elses' job, but the person responsible.
Rules are there for us to follow and the government/brain-trust/powers-that-be enforce those laws, but anyone under 21 can choose to drink, any one person on the face of the Earth can choose to smoke marijuana/do heavier drugs, any person on this Earth can become a serial killer or abortionist, and, as long as no one knows about it, they won't be caught. What is at issue here is not necessarily what's right and what's wrong about abortion, most people citing that "what's wrong about abortion" is the only right - the question at hand is whether or not we want the government to have absolute power over what path we choose in life. At hand here is we can prevent murder through abolishing abortion, why can't we prevent murder altogether? Serial killers can be caught before anything happens, it's all down to how we catch a criminal - do we - screen more people for psychosis to prevent a serial killing - do we - step-up big brother's watchful eye, by surveillance; physically monitoring every citizen of the United States...that's just fucking stupid, but relatively realistic. So you've agreed to prevent one ring of murders by outlawing abortion, but you disagree with abolishing all murder in general because of how erroneous the process would be?
What about for those who need the abortion to stay alive - let's say - complications during the pregnancy give the mother one option, to abort the baby to save her own life? By outlawing a medical procedure, the mother and the baby die...when, if abortion was still an option, the mother might be able to survive, and, let's say, given the choice, could help the field of science by donating her son/daughter's fetus. It's all up in the air as far as it goes, but here's a good question, shouldn't that choice be left open? It's better to have more solutions to a problem, then none at all. One big solution to not having to worry about possibly choosing abortion is to not have sex. For those who engage in sex regularly, that's your choice - do what you please. For those who want to abort their child, that's their choice. As far as extremes go, why not outlaw sex to prevent from having unwanted kids? Obesity is a major killer in today's world, why not outlaw harmful foods? Obesity kills hundreds-of-thousands per year; it's an epidemic. Write a law that states you have to exercise at least 3-times a week. How would you enforce it, you might ask? How would you enforce anti-abortion laws?! Licensed practitioners wouldn't dare perform an illegal operation, but those "doctors" down in Mexico, who perform botched cosmetic surgery get by - they don't give a shit. Isn't it better to have a professional do something like abortion, then some whack-job in a dark alley, using unsterilized equipment, and reading step-by-step instructions printed off the Internet??? And for people who say, "Even if I did, unfortunately, get raped and get pregnant, I would still have the kid"... you don't know what you would do in that situation, unless it were real-life. That's all that needs to be said; there's no argument there...you don't know...
I like to think that if I were ever held-up at gun point that I would play off distractions, and if something did detour the shooter, I would karate-chop the person in the neck, they would go unconscious, I would then proceed, first, by picking up his/her dropped weapon, unload it, keeping the gun portion and throwing the bullets out randomly, and then escorting every other casualty from the crime scene. What would really happen would probably go along the lines of me, like a contestant in a game of "Simon Says," listening and obeying everything the shooter says. I could also see myself breathing heavily, maybe to the point of panic attack, I might even piss myself...I don't usually think about that kind of stuff because it's depressing; it's bothersome. And wouldn't you know, here's another point in my rant; I don't care about the abortion issue because it just flat-out irks me. I guess those on the front lines of the issue call to arms because, "if someone doesn't, who will stop the murder?"
You know what else is murder - sending people into a country and giving them orders to shoot anything that moves. The underlying factor of anything traumatic, violent, or just plain wrong is that if you were placed in that situation, you would not have a clue how you would react, unless physically placing yourself in that predicament. Well, I would assume if you were experienced with whatever it was that was troubling you, you might have a game-plan, but for those novices out there, and there's quite many of those, things would be a lot different. Moments like those then free-up the limited to unlimited possibilities of how to handle that certain situation. Choices arise and we pick what solution seems the best, even if it's the wrong one. Abortion is an issue that has just recently been accepted, on the terms that it's not as "hush-hush" as it was a hundred years, fifty years, or ten years ago. Then, it was a common and practiced medical treatment, like removing your tonsils. It was frowned upon, but other than that, and the whispers of who has had it done and why, the subject was never brought up at the dinner table as it frequently is today. Why? Because it wasn't an issue - or, in other words, no one cared.
Blood-letting was a common practice, where a doctor would poke a needle into one of your veins, and release a few pints of blood, or a leech/leeches were placed on you, and they drank what doctors referred to as, "excess blood." That treatment is not as common today, but in some cultures, and with some herbal practitioners, it is still in use. It's outdated, but it's not medieval, or in a sense that it is not cruel. It is believed that George Washington was treated in this manner following a story of him helping a friend out with an overturned or stuck wagon during a chill, rainy night. He caught pneumonia, and it was not until Pierre Charles Alexandre Louis demonstrated that phlebotomy didn't help cure a patient from pneumonia during the 1830's, that this form of prognosis was scrapped. As for Washington, almost 4 pounds of blood was withdrawn, contributing to his death by an infection in 1799.
Today's medical staff do not use it as a solution because of its fatality rate, yet cases of bloodletting still surface to this day. Bloodletting is still used and not griped about like abortion, but abortion is such a determining factor because it deals with babies. Kemo therapy is where doctors administer nuclear radiation to the cancer sufferer to dispel cancerous cells and tumors. Radiation is deadly to humans. If babies were cured with radiation, that solution might be stopped by the government. What's this!? Aborting a perfectly healthy child is wrong because nothing is wrong with the fetus, but the lack of the mother's interest....who's body is the fetus in? The mother's...so it's her decision, given that the baby is clinging to life by an umbilical cord. If the mother didn't want her appendix anymore, she could do away with that, and, again, there would be no fuss. Functioning correctly, the appendix is a life-form because it is made up of living cells. You cut that son of a bitch out of the woman or man, and the cells die, ultimately the appendix is useless/dead. Same principle as abortion. Moments and choices people, that's all life is.
I guess abortion has changed its purpose. No longer is it medicinal; it's seen as the wrong solution to an unwanted pregnancy. Our absence in legit reasoning has resulted in the right thing to do when facing endangerment to the baby and mother entering the wrong when dealing with morality. The only personal gain with abortion is the relief a doctor might feel in saving a patient. Let's not forget whose choice it really is; physician and mother.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
'Why We Love the Spider'
Last night, in advanced, I purchased tickets to "Spiderman 3" reminded of last year, when I went to see "Pirates of the Caribbean 2" and was denied a ticket, due to the crowd that had festered around the lobby, waiting to get in themselves. When my brother and I arrived at the theatre, with our other friends waiting for us, we noticed a lapse in populace. Opening night must have harboured a better turn-out.
We entered the auditorium, beseeching upon a night of entertainment. I had read somewhere that Spiderman 3 was the most expensive movie ever made (to date)! It's final costs reaching close-to-over $500 million. Filmmakers take a giant leap when over-estimating their budget. I like to think of it as a loan, and that's exactly what it is. The studio-heads set a gross figure they think they will reach once the movie is released, and that, over-all, can equal the budget for the film. A lot of studios will jip-out on the budget of a film, for revenue, once the film hits theatres. This, in turn, makes the most money. So far, Spiderman 3 has only grossed $59 million within it's first weekend, a long-shot away from $500+ million it needs to hit for it to be labelled a success.
As far as the movie goes, it was alright. The dialogue was shitty and whenever there was supposed to be an emotional moment, the film was kind of 'blah'. It was purely a comic book, action film, though you could tell the creators of it strived to make fans and the audience happy. To argue that the director or the writers needed to step-up the pace, derive from the comic book more, or steal some of the flare that made the first and second movies well-loved would be unnecessary, mainly because the film itself is just a comic book/ the cartoon-series adaptation. The CGI was fantastic, the story seemed too rushed, but overall lack-luster. And...yeah...I realized why I, personally, love the Spiderman movies: wit. Bruce Campbell makes his famed appearance once more (which I always liked) and J.K. Simmons is always a delight in his role as J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle's high-strung editor.
If you liked the first film, you will definitely like this one as well, but if you're more of a fan of the second one, as I am, this one will seem the worst of the series. My Spiderman trilogy rank is: 2, 1, then 3...I'll flat-out say it; I worship Bruce Campbell...
We entered the auditorium, beseeching upon a night of entertainment. I had read somewhere that Spiderman 3 was the most expensive movie ever made (to date)! It's final costs reaching close-to-over $500 million. Filmmakers take a giant leap when over-estimating their budget. I like to think of it as a loan, and that's exactly what it is. The studio-heads set a gross figure they think they will reach once the movie is released, and that, over-all, can equal the budget for the film. A lot of studios will jip-out on the budget of a film, for revenue, once the film hits theatres. This, in turn, makes the most money. So far, Spiderman 3 has only grossed $59 million within it's first weekend, a long-shot away from $500+ million it needs to hit for it to be labelled a success.
As far as the movie goes, it was alright. The dialogue was shitty and whenever there was supposed to be an emotional moment, the film was kind of 'blah'. It was purely a comic book, action film, though you could tell the creators of it strived to make fans and the audience happy. To argue that the director or the writers needed to step-up the pace, derive from the comic book more, or steal some of the flare that made the first and second movies well-loved would be unnecessary, mainly because the film itself is just a comic book/ the cartoon-series adaptation. The CGI was fantastic, the story seemed too rushed, but overall lack-luster. And...yeah...I realized why I, personally, love the Spiderman movies: wit. Bruce Campbell makes his famed appearance once more (which I always liked) and J.K. Simmons is always a delight in his role as J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle's high-strung editor.
If you liked the first film, you will definitely like this one as well, but if you're more of a fan of the second one, as I am, this one will seem the worst of the series. My Spiderman trilogy rank is: 2, 1, then 3...I'll flat-out say it; I worship Bruce Campbell...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
"I hate that fucking kid..." and Other Nonsense
I was riding up in the elevator today with my boss, and along with us were a mother and her two kids. I recognized the mother and her children, and, upon first impressions with them, I hated the littlest child of hers because he would throw tantrums in the computer lab I work in whenever the child and mother come in to fiddle with our computers. This boss, because I have two, is the king of the library, and likes to meet new patrons, and chit-chat, so he's making faces at the kids, and being all cute...
Thankfully, the kids didn't have too much of a fit in the elevator. They exited, and my boss and I continued on up to the second floor of the library. He turns to me, after noticing my reaction with the family (somewhere between horrified, thinking that I'd have to stand and listen to a baby throw a fit in the tiniest of tiny places, an elevator, and the feeling of severe hatred of children, that I have had all my life) my boss says, "Come on, those kids were cute..." I end up scowling, saying under my breath, "I hate that fucking kid..."
People aren't parental anymore. Yeah, great, bribe the fucking brat, to get him to be quiet, and expect him or her to do the same when you have nothing to barter. Kids catch on quick. The ploy is amusing to them, and they will, likely, behave after you offer them maybe an ice cream if they are good, or candy. But take them out in public, at the worst fucking times - how about early or late afternoon, the nap period, or noon, before lunch or morning...let's do fucking morning, right before they wake up and are swaying back and forth in a carrier! Tempt fate, you fucking morons! Kids wake up at odd hours. Remember Christmas morning? I remember being eight and waking up at like 4 a.m., and around 5, I'd go in to my parents' room and bug the shit out of them, until 6. I would then, start silently tearing open a present or two, and hear my mom yell, "None of those presents better be opened...." and knowing I'd be in trouble. Kids are impatient. Don't expect those booger-eaters to wait. Waiting them out is ignorant, so what do you do - you bribe them with something. And how does that help? It NEVER fucking works. You just end up raising them spoiled, and you think screaming is hell, deal with a spoiled child for an hour.
Hell, do what I do - beat the shit out of children, or humiliate them. They act up, take them to a remote area of wherever you are, and spank them. That statement comes straight from my upbringing! Or, if that doesn't work, cause them the same discomfort you are going through. If a kid wants to embarrass you, do it right back to them. Maybe pants them, or be like, "Well...daddy doesn't have enough money to buy you a toy..." and then go buy a CD or something right in front of them, only if they have a concept of money, and, in today's society, you birth those buggers, and they've already got a money clip. So then they say, "Daddy, I want this!" "Sorry, son (daughter), but I already bought this CD for myself...maybe next time, don't disappoint me, and I might just have enough money for YOU!"
You might say to yourself, "But that preludes another catastrophe." Oh, the contrary, you disgusting bastard! You instill your style of beating-the-shit-out-of-your-kids...if they pipe up; "Oh, but it's not fair! Blah blah blah, I wanted a toy!" You warn those bastards with some kind of hand gesture, or look. Get the look down! Have that set in your mind - get angry when need be. Flash them an anticipatory glare; somewhat along the lines of, “I dare you – say something else,” or, like I stated before, a hand gesture that has one sole purpose and that is to scare the living shit out of your kid once they see it, and you’re good! "You said you didn't have enough money!" "Well, bitch, that's cuz I lied!" And just laugh in their face.
My dad used to fuck with us kids. He'd say, "Today, sometime, I want to go to your grandpa's and pull weeds!" So it would be early afternoon, and we didn't want to pull weeds. We'd be upset the whole day because we would have to get out of the house, and work for a couple hours. My dad would not tell us a thing the rest of the day. That's it! He would ruin our day, and then not do anything. Next day, he might say, "Damn, those weeds at grandpa's are getting huge." We still wouldn't do anything. The next day, we thought we were out of pulling weeds, and he'd wake us up early, surprising us, telling us, "Get dressed! We're going to grandpa's..."
"To play with the kitty cats?" I would inquire.
"No, your ass will be in a field of weeds...picking them.....until that field is cleared!"
He'd do that, or, if there was something we wanted, like I remember when I was like five or six, he bought my brother and I Gameboys at Sears. Then, we also got to pick out a game. He never let us live that one down. "But I don't wanna mow the lawn!" "Yeah, well, I DIDN'T WANT to buy you guys video games, but I did!"
I already can tell I'm going to be an asshole to my kids, but I plan to also be kind of cool - one of those dads that will understand if you come home drunk, but I'll fuck with you, or, one minute be pissed off at you, but I won't hold it against you. But yeah, if you are my kid and start busting my balls, be prepared...
Thankfully, the kids didn't have too much of a fit in the elevator. They exited, and my boss and I continued on up to the second floor of the library. He turns to me, after noticing my reaction with the family (somewhere between horrified, thinking that I'd have to stand and listen to a baby throw a fit in the tiniest of tiny places, an elevator, and the feeling of severe hatred of children, that I have had all my life) my boss says, "Come on, those kids were cute..." I end up scowling, saying under my breath, "I hate that fucking kid..."
People aren't parental anymore. Yeah, great, bribe the fucking brat, to get him to be quiet, and expect him or her to do the same when you have nothing to barter. Kids catch on quick. The ploy is amusing to them, and they will, likely, behave after you offer them maybe an ice cream if they are good, or candy. But take them out in public, at the worst fucking times - how about early or late afternoon, the nap period, or noon, before lunch or morning...let's do fucking morning, right before they wake up and are swaying back and forth in a carrier! Tempt fate, you fucking morons! Kids wake up at odd hours. Remember Christmas morning? I remember being eight and waking up at like 4 a.m., and around 5, I'd go in to my parents' room and bug the shit out of them, until 6. I would then, start silently tearing open a present or two, and hear my mom yell, "None of those presents better be opened...." and knowing I'd be in trouble. Kids are impatient. Don't expect those booger-eaters to wait. Waiting them out is ignorant, so what do you do - you bribe them with something. And how does that help? It NEVER fucking works. You just end up raising them spoiled, and you think screaming is hell, deal with a spoiled child for an hour.
Hell, do what I do - beat the shit out of children, or humiliate them. They act up, take them to a remote area of wherever you are, and spank them. That statement comes straight from my upbringing! Or, if that doesn't work, cause them the same discomfort you are going through. If a kid wants to embarrass you, do it right back to them. Maybe pants them, or be like, "Well...daddy doesn't have enough money to buy you a toy..." and then go buy a CD or something right in front of them, only if they have a concept of money, and, in today's society, you birth those buggers, and they've already got a money clip. So then they say, "Daddy, I want this!" "Sorry, son (daughter), but I already bought this CD for myself...maybe next time, don't disappoint me, and I might just have enough money for YOU!"
You might say to yourself, "But that preludes another catastrophe." Oh, the contrary, you disgusting bastard! You instill your style of beating-the-shit-out-of-your-kids...if they pipe up; "Oh, but it's not fair! Blah blah blah, I wanted a toy!" You warn those bastards with some kind of hand gesture, or look. Get the look down! Have that set in your mind - get angry when need be. Flash them an anticipatory glare; somewhat along the lines of, “I dare you – say something else,” or, like I stated before, a hand gesture that has one sole purpose and that is to scare the living shit out of your kid once they see it, and you’re good! "You said you didn't have enough money!" "Well, bitch, that's cuz I lied!" And just laugh in their face.
My dad used to fuck with us kids. He'd say, "Today, sometime, I want to go to your grandpa's and pull weeds!" So it would be early afternoon, and we didn't want to pull weeds. We'd be upset the whole day because we would have to get out of the house, and work for a couple hours. My dad would not tell us a thing the rest of the day. That's it! He would ruin our day, and then not do anything. Next day, he might say, "Damn, those weeds at grandpa's are getting huge." We still wouldn't do anything. The next day, we thought we were out of pulling weeds, and he'd wake us up early, surprising us, telling us, "Get dressed! We're going to grandpa's..."
"To play with the kitty cats?" I would inquire.
"No, your ass will be in a field of weeds...picking them.....until that field is cleared!"
He'd do that, or, if there was something we wanted, like I remember when I was like five or six, he bought my brother and I Gameboys at Sears. Then, we also got to pick out a game. He never let us live that one down. "But I don't wanna mow the lawn!" "Yeah, well, I DIDN'T WANT to buy you guys video games, but I did!"
I already can tell I'm going to be an asshole to my kids, but I plan to also be kind of cool - one of those dads that will understand if you come home drunk, but I'll fuck with you, or, one minute be pissed off at you, but I won't hold it against you. But yeah, if you are my kid and start busting my balls, be prepared...
Monday, March 12, 2007
Random Thoughts
While engaged in a shower yesterday, I thought of a few things I wished I had back-in-the-day that now seem trivial in my present life. When I was like six or seven, I wanted a pogo stick. Now, if I were to bounce on a pogo stick, I'd fall on my fat ass. In the day of lore, I also wanted a yellow, robotic-and-mobile piggy-bank that, once you placed a penny or a nickle in its mouth, it acted as though it were munching it down for a snack. Afterwards, it would lick its robotic lips, then die (or stop moving until you placed another coin upon his tongue). Back then, IT....WAS....AWESOME! Today, not so cool since I've been seduced by the Nintendo DS, and a robot that eats coins can't compare to video games. It's a good thing I did not waste money on such commodities, otherwise, it would be a waste, and that coin-eating robot along with his pogo stick friend, would be sold-off or under a washer on top of the Hutch landfill.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan
“And as a PF Falconer commander, Worcestershire courted marine life…mounted his new wife…fucked the shit out of her…he sounded like a well loved man, who is probably burning in hell right now, getting raped by the devil…sinner!” delicately stated the Preacher. “He applied himself.”
“Lucky shit! His end came in battle. Mine will be after I drink a scotch and put a bullet in my head,” said the Preacher.
“This guy is really bad…” whispered Jake Ryan Winters, PFC and the only black on the squad.
“Let us pray. Father who art in Heaven…send this bullet, this one here,” replied the Preacher, holding on to a golden-coppery, elongated pill. “Send this bullet straight to my brain. To destroy it…when I eat it…for lunch! Don’t leave me a vegetable, you senseless bastard! I want to die, not drool all over my last days. So help me if I shoot myself, and not die, I’ll bring upon the Antichrist! Also, send this man’s soul into your arms…”
“Receive him, I mean…I’ve got to remember not to drink during my sermons…”
“Why is the Preacher dressed like a storm trooper?” asked, in a whisper, PFC Winters. But nobody cared.
Brock saluted his commander, which didn’t make a lick of sense because Worcestershire had fallen to his death in a chasm. What lied in that coffin that day was only a store front mannequin, dressed in the latest fashions from the Gap.
“Don’t salute him,” said Tyra, “I’ll find our commander. I believe he’s still alive.”
“Good luck with thee,” said Brock, sarcastically, and with that, Tyra was on her way. And Brock took a handful of boob, and shook it for good luck.
Worcester nestled; Worcester tired; Worcester without the “shire.” Against rock, trapped under rubble, granite, and covered with gray matter, he awoke to a coughing spell. He breathed in fire to sustain what little life he had left. His lungs half-extended, but most of the air was filled with a red dust, that matched the rock that buried him. He barely could move with his broken bones. The Duracell battery still clutched in his shattered hand. His body snapped like a broken rubber band. The battery had been crushed. Its acid leaked onto the hand it was in.
He looked up to the darkened void; the rock face was broke apart like a bowel movement exposed to Metamucil. Stalactites hung at their gallows. Their feet dripping water droplets filled with proteins and minerals. One such foot soaked Worcestershire’s head, washing away blood, sweat, and rock particles.
He wished he could push this weight off himself.
His eyes fought the blur to settle upon the half skeleton visible that was the Megadrode. “Help.”
And more dripping. All the stalactites must be dripping. Something was tickling his foot. “At least I’m not paralyzed…” Drip, drip, drip up his leg. He squirmed and pain shot through him. A sting.
Then the numbness. His leg felt asleep, only there was no way it could be asleep. Not even when it’s trapped under a slab of rock.
“My tongue tastes like salt.”
“My strongue spase mike phalt.”
“Ma tong.”
“Mah Jong.”
Then, the sickness.
So thirsty.
Then, the thirst. The cotton-mouth.
A flushed face.
Sweat.
One syllable words.
“Captain.”
A list of contingencies; lies, falsehoods.
“Captain.”
I’ve never seen the ocean…the salt water breeze I taste at a bright sunset. The sea like a blue colored beer, foamy toward the surface at shore. I lick it up and taste it like the sweat after working the deck.
“Captain.”
What voice is that? Do I talk out loud and speak the ramblings of a senile mind?
The voice hints a sea breeze of frightfulness. Tattered dreams such a mess. The person who speaks this voice doesn’t want to be here. Back at shore, he works a press. He’d rather write books then pull up the anchor hooks. Stare out his mind’s eye then look out port holes. And he’s young, too. A he, the voice is. Thirteen and off-set in adult clothes.
What room am I in? And these ripped sleeves? Wool pants…mine were jeans. Where’s the caked cave dust? The rocks that left me helpless? The stalactite daggers; the stalagmite fingers that point towards Heaven? All I see now is a weary voyager, and a map sprawled out in a non-lit room with its back to the horizon.
“Captain.”
Stigmata. Well, invisible. While dicking around with bastard friends, I had a nail, unsterilized, driven into my left hand. A friendly, substance helped me not realize the pain. Now, the pain was so intense, I vomited. My eyes felt red. My face dripped red. And the ham frightened me.
The pain still lasts within my hand. Probably nerve damage or something. Would a paraplegic still fell like they had their limbs? Wake up in the dead of night to rub an itch on their face, try, and not feel their hand reach their face upon stretching it.
So when I switched scenes, first was the Captain’s quarters, was it not? The word “Captain” stands out, uttered from the steward. Second, the nail incident. My imaginary one-hand crucifixion; real within my life, but a fake momentary pain. Now, the ham.
Where did it come from? What does this progression mean?
And the eyes? My eyes red, dripping red, but not blood. Like melted red crayon; thicker than wax. My stomach feels upset, like it is full of candy and the sugar rush is unnerving. Light-headed again, the downward feeling. Have you ever taken the hottest shower you could think of, then, get a sudden cold moment, where the water turns to ice? And that rush through your body feels like a hot knife through butter. It hits deep to your core. That was my feeling just now, mixed with the stomach acid two-step. All at the sight of ham.
The closest to what that swine could represent would be another moment in my life…
I remember as a teen, I got food poisoning. I couldn’t eat or I’d vomit; lose control and feel vulnerable. Feel that turning like the merry-go-round turnstiles. Burning throat from heaving. The ham smothered me like a blanket, and I hid under the covers, cowering.
Shiatsu massage needed. Neck felt crumby. Bah.
Frame by frame went visions and hallucinations. What happened?
“Captain…”
Time to enter this portrayal. Captain of a fleet, who takes me on? Darkness. Clammy. Weak. Sick to my stomach; delusional. Somewhere in my body, I was hemorrhaging. How long I had, I wouldn’t know. Medical treatment couldn’t help me now. Then, the faint sound of rocks and rubble above moving down. Something up there in the dark was coming down. I saw a faint glow; I saw through delusions reflected light off of eyes; a horrifying sight. And it was coming down for me.
I envisioned the creature landing beside my crippled body, and disemboweling me. It ripped my arm out of its socket, even completely from my torso; the muscle, veins, and whatever else bloody was dangling from my nub. I screamed absolute murder, but only to deaf ears. It lunched on my forearm, and then was fed up with the sounds from my mouth. It silenced my screams by reaching its hairy, slender arm into my mouth, shimmying it down my throat until it reached my esophagus, and all the rest of my throat components, which it ripped out. I winced, the pain so extreme, my eyes bulging. A blood vessel popped in my left eyeball. Let this horror end.
His hairy arm groped my bloody mouth, everything of mine was bloody. Then, that same grotesque hand punched through my head, destroying my brain. I screamed, and woke to find myself alone. But that scraping sound, as though someone were repelling from above on the rock walls, continued. The eye of the storm had begun. In less than an hour, whatever it was that was up there, would be down here.
My throat burned even worse. Had I, in this time frame, accidentally swallowed a gallon of Chloraseptic? Inevitably, it was my windpipe closing.
The next few scenes startled me. When was I to be the Captain? I’m so use to that lead role. Here, I’m submissive. I wake early to the sound of a screeching, which really is a negative way to start the morning. It’s more like groan, itch, rise, and cuss. Then, on a road I drive, or, more like creep my way towards work at the speed of glaciers shifting. And everyone else is the same. Breakfast is gargling water, to break apart morning flam, then an extraction of piss. Longing for holiday, in fact, a calendar hangs in my office only to count down the days to such an event. Megadrode was excitement- it was my turn to destroy. My life is ordering around, then paper work. Work has taken over my life.
“Quit complaining, officer, and climb into the sack.”
And there I stood, by the edge of a pool, bare-assed, holding my genitals. And to my own shock, in the pool, along with our company, were women, with small, itty-bitty children. The women held their infants by their bellies, their feet kicking with glee, water generating rays, and motorboat splashes. Their arms paddled to the unison of a tweeting whistle dangling from an instructor’s lips.
“That’s the youth league. They’re learning to swim upstream.”
This person in front of me was blotched head to toe in gray, color seeping though. His clothes were completely white. The pool water blue, of course. The facility, in which we stood, was aqua. Orange swim caps topped off orange swim wear on the women and the children.
“That’s it! Get in the sack.”
Before the sack was tied off at the end, over my head, I heard the chant from the instructor. “That’s it! Paddle! Paddle those oars! Fishy, fishy, fishy! You’re at the white caps now. Paddle with all your might!” TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! And the words drifted over the youths, the instructor’s lips not even moving with the words.
I was in the sack. Now pushed into the pool.
The water soaked through the burlap, flooding my oxygen. I took a final breath.
Inside the sack, I noticed I was sitting at a mahogany desk, papers drifting up to the top of the sack, where an air pocket resided. The stapler obviously sank, being metal. So did the computer and keyboard. My Monday Mug tipped over, the coffee within neutralized in the pool water.
I was running out of air quick. My lungs hungry for an inhale. A few more seconds, I’d pass out. Then arms reached for me in my cozy, wet nook. I was pulled out of the sack, me, the one that was coughing and gasping for breaths. All the contents in the bag were gone, just me and my nudity. My mouth was pressed against a puddle, my body dripping water on the cement, and my lungs filling every inch. Why was I pulled out? Just die already. And that frustration radiated in the malice I showed toward my pool-buddy playing drowning instructor.
“Lunchtime!”
And that was my only relief.
“Lucky shit! His end came in battle. Mine will be after I drink a scotch and put a bullet in my head,” said the Preacher.
“This guy is really bad…” whispered Jake Ryan Winters, PFC and the only black on the squad.
“Let us pray. Father who art in Heaven…send this bullet, this one here,” replied the Preacher, holding on to a golden-coppery, elongated pill. “Send this bullet straight to my brain. To destroy it…when I eat it…for lunch! Don’t leave me a vegetable, you senseless bastard! I want to die, not drool all over my last days. So help me if I shoot myself, and not die, I’ll bring upon the Antichrist! Also, send this man’s soul into your arms…”
“Receive him, I mean…I’ve got to remember not to drink during my sermons…”
“Why is the Preacher dressed like a storm trooper?” asked, in a whisper, PFC Winters. But nobody cared.
Brock saluted his commander, which didn’t make a lick of sense because Worcestershire had fallen to his death in a chasm. What lied in that coffin that day was only a store front mannequin, dressed in the latest fashions from the Gap.
“Don’t salute him,” said Tyra, “I’ll find our commander. I believe he’s still alive.”
“Good luck with thee,” said Brock, sarcastically, and with that, Tyra was on her way. And Brock took a handful of boob, and shook it for good luck.
Worcester nestled; Worcester tired; Worcester without the “shire.” Against rock, trapped under rubble, granite, and covered with gray matter, he awoke to a coughing spell. He breathed in fire to sustain what little life he had left. His lungs half-extended, but most of the air was filled with a red dust, that matched the rock that buried him. He barely could move with his broken bones. The Duracell battery still clutched in his shattered hand. His body snapped like a broken rubber band. The battery had been crushed. Its acid leaked onto the hand it was in.
He looked up to the darkened void; the rock face was broke apart like a bowel movement exposed to Metamucil. Stalactites hung at their gallows. Their feet dripping water droplets filled with proteins and minerals. One such foot soaked Worcestershire’s head, washing away blood, sweat, and rock particles.
He wished he could push this weight off himself.
His eyes fought the blur to settle upon the half skeleton visible that was the Megadrode. “Help.”
And more dripping. All the stalactites must be dripping. Something was tickling his foot. “At least I’m not paralyzed…” Drip, drip, drip up his leg. He squirmed and pain shot through him. A sting.
Then the numbness. His leg felt asleep, only there was no way it could be asleep. Not even when it’s trapped under a slab of rock.
“My tongue tastes like salt.”
“My strongue spase mike phalt.”
“Ma tong.”
“Mah Jong.”
Then, the sickness.
So thirsty.
Then, the thirst. The cotton-mouth.
A flushed face.
Sweat.
One syllable words.
“Captain.”
A list of contingencies; lies, falsehoods.
“Captain.”
I’ve never seen the ocean…the salt water breeze I taste at a bright sunset. The sea like a blue colored beer, foamy toward the surface at shore. I lick it up and taste it like the sweat after working the deck.
“Captain.”
What voice is that? Do I talk out loud and speak the ramblings of a senile mind?
The voice hints a sea breeze of frightfulness. Tattered dreams such a mess. The person who speaks this voice doesn’t want to be here. Back at shore, he works a press. He’d rather write books then pull up the anchor hooks. Stare out his mind’s eye then look out port holes. And he’s young, too. A he, the voice is. Thirteen and off-set in adult clothes.
What room am I in? And these ripped sleeves? Wool pants…mine were jeans. Where’s the caked cave dust? The rocks that left me helpless? The stalactite daggers; the stalagmite fingers that point towards Heaven? All I see now is a weary voyager, and a map sprawled out in a non-lit room with its back to the horizon.
“Captain.”
Stigmata. Well, invisible. While dicking around with bastard friends, I had a nail, unsterilized, driven into my left hand. A friendly, substance helped me not realize the pain. Now, the pain was so intense, I vomited. My eyes felt red. My face dripped red. And the ham frightened me.
The pain still lasts within my hand. Probably nerve damage or something. Would a paraplegic still fell like they had their limbs? Wake up in the dead of night to rub an itch on their face, try, and not feel their hand reach their face upon stretching it.
So when I switched scenes, first was the Captain’s quarters, was it not? The word “Captain” stands out, uttered from the steward. Second, the nail incident. My imaginary one-hand crucifixion; real within my life, but a fake momentary pain. Now, the ham.
Where did it come from? What does this progression mean?
And the eyes? My eyes red, dripping red, but not blood. Like melted red crayon; thicker than wax. My stomach feels upset, like it is full of candy and the sugar rush is unnerving. Light-headed again, the downward feeling. Have you ever taken the hottest shower you could think of, then, get a sudden cold moment, where the water turns to ice? And that rush through your body feels like a hot knife through butter. It hits deep to your core. That was my feeling just now, mixed with the stomach acid two-step. All at the sight of ham.
The closest to what that swine could represent would be another moment in my life…
I remember as a teen, I got food poisoning. I couldn’t eat or I’d vomit; lose control and feel vulnerable. Feel that turning like the merry-go-round turnstiles. Burning throat from heaving. The ham smothered me like a blanket, and I hid under the covers, cowering.
Shiatsu massage needed. Neck felt crumby. Bah.
Frame by frame went visions and hallucinations. What happened?
“Captain…”
Time to enter this portrayal. Captain of a fleet, who takes me on? Darkness. Clammy. Weak. Sick to my stomach; delusional. Somewhere in my body, I was hemorrhaging. How long I had, I wouldn’t know. Medical treatment couldn’t help me now. Then, the faint sound of rocks and rubble above moving down. Something up there in the dark was coming down. I saw a faint glow; I saw through delusions reflected light off of eyes; a horrifying sight. And it was coming down for me.
I envisioned the creature landing beside my crippled body, and disemboweling me. It ripped my arm out of its socket, even completely from my torso; the muscle, veins, and whatever else bloody was dangling from my nub. I screamed absolute murder, but only to deaf ears. It lunched on my forearm, and then was fed up with the sounds from my mouth. It silenced my screams by reaching its hairy, slender arm into my mouth, shimmying it down my throat until it reached my esophagus, and all the rest of my throat components, which it ripped out. I winced, the pain so extreme, my eyes bulging. A blood vessel popped in my left eyeball. Let this horror end.
His hairy arm groped my bloody mouth, everything of mine was bloody. Then, that same grotesque hand punched through my head, destroying my brain. I screamed, and woke to find myself alone. But that scraping sound, as though someone were repelling from above on the rock walls, continued. The eye of the storm had begun. In less than an hour, whatever it was that was up there, would be down here.
My throat burned even worse. Had I, in this time frame, accidentally swallowed a gallon of Chloraseptic? Inevitably, it was my windpipe closing.
The next few scenes startled me. When was I to be the Captain? I’m so use to that lead role. Here, I’m submissive. I wake early to the sound of a screeching, which really is a negative way to start the morning. It’s more like groan, itch, rise, and cuss. Then, on a road I drive, or, more like creep my way towards work at the speed of glaciers shifting. And everyone else is the same. Breakfast is gargling water, to break apart morning flam, then an extraction of piss. Longing for holiday, in fact, a calendar hangs in my office only to count down the days to such an event. Megadrode was excitement- it was my turn to destroy. My life is ordering around, then paper work. Work has taken over my life.
“Quit complaining, officer, and climb into the sack.”
And there I stood, by the edge of a pool, bare-assed, holding my genitals. And to my own shock, in the pool, along with our company, were women, with small, itty-bitty children. The women held their infants by their bellies, their feet kicking with glee, water generating rays, and motorboat splashes. Their arms paddled to the unison of a tweeting whistle dangling from an instructor’s lips.
“That’s the youth league. They’re learning to swim upstream.”
This person in front of me was blotched head to toe in gray, color seeping though. His clothes were completely white. The pool water blue, of course. The facility, in which we stood, was aqua. Orange swim caps topped off orange swim wear on the women and the children.
“That’s it! Get in the sack.”
Before the sack was tied off at the end, over my head, I heard the chant from the instructor. “That’s it! Paddle! Paddle those oars! Fishy, fishy, fishy! You’re at the white caps now. Paddle with all your might!” TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! And the words drifted over the youths, the instructor’s lips not even moving with the words.
I was in the sack. Now pushed into the pool.
The water soaked through the burlap, flooding my oxygen. I took a final breath.
Inside the sack, I noticed I was sitting at a mahogany desk, papers drifting up to the top of the sack, where an air pocket resided. The stapler obviously sank, being metal. So did the computer and keyboard. My Monday Mug tipped over, the coffee within neutralized in the pool water.
I was running out of air quick. My lungs hungry for an inhale. A few more seconds, I’d pass out. Then arms reached for me in my cozy, wet nook. I was pulled out of the sack, me, the one that was coughing and gasping for breaths. All the contents in the bag were gone, just me and my nudity. My mouth was pressed against a puddle, my body dripping water on the cement, and my lungs filling every inch. Why was I pulled out? Just die already. And that frustration radiated in the malice I showed toward my pool-buddy playing drowning instructor.
“Lunchtime!”
And that was my only relief.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Nap.
This has always been a requirement I would like to instill to everyone: utilize the nap. Just kind of unwind, relax, sprawled out, and vegetate for a little bit because you have got to give your brain a rest. I nap constantly; it mellows me out, that way I don't blow a fuse, or get short with anyone. Napping is a key to raising your tolerance and patience, and, what a coincidence, it helps your body raise its immunities and regulates bowel and digestive health. Healthier through sleeping? Where do I sign!
I always feel better after a nap, and its even more of a sedative if music is involved. Make sure, though, you don't fall asleep while napping, and when I say sleep, I mean for hours on end. You will end up feeling like shit. But nap for, at least, 30 minutes a day. And don't give an excuse for not doing it, like, "Well, I just don't have time to nap..." Bullshit! Make time! Trust me - you are going to feel a lot better.
(Next post: the continuance of Worcestershire in Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan)
I always feel better after a nap, and its even more of a sedative if music is involved. Make sure, though, you don't fall asleep while napping, and when I say sleep, I mean for hours on end. You will end up feeling like shit. But nap for, at least, 30 minutes a day. And don't give an excuse for not doing it, like, "Well, I just don't have time to nap..." Bullshit! Make time! Trust me - you are going to feel a lot better.
(Next post: the continuance of Worcestershire in Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan)
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Story Time I: The Great Divide
I have always wanted to write a story as a blog. Right now, a lot of things piss me off, I'm really hating my job, and am tired of bitching. So, let's have a story!
Worestershire and the Sea Witch as told by Mr. Austin Smith
"Great, leathery scrotum!" ejaculated Seafoam Worcestershire, PF Falconer commander. His eyes set upon the megadrode's mega droid shell mass. He let loose double-pistol clips that caught net-like cleft shrouded shell after shell fury from it's gun arms, and strafed immaculately from side to side, rotating like a probe droid. None who had tested its power survived the encounter. "I spit at you," seethed Worcestershire, and he threw to the metal beast, a succulent grenade. A mechanical growl coughed back satisfaction, for not even the explosive power of a grenade could penetrate like a stiff penis-encountering a flap-lipped vagina, the malarkey Megadrodes titanium-steel sweat suit. And more power-canister bullets flew like spittle from the lips of an over winded speaker.
Worcestershire dodged the attacks with finesse. "Wor, hath done thee service to thou enemy?" asked Brock Palister, co-commander/treasurer of the PF Falconer Squad. Brock stood defensive, smashed against a metal miner's cart, which was flipped upside-down in the granite tunnel, which called home for the metal robot Megadrode, who was now releasing hell upon Seafoam Worcestershire, who wore tight trousers.
Brock sensed a mechanical malfunction with the Megadrode, something mechanically maleficent...something the douche-cock scientists who created the metal beast, did not sense would flaw. The flaw was literally senseless. It ceased to sense, like senseless sense.
Tyra Broadchest's bountiful, abrasive, beautiful breasts bounced boyishly as she ran to push them against Brock's bicep. "Tell me, Brock," she orgasmed desperately, with despair snagging her every word. "How is Worcestershire?"
Brock turned to cup Tyra's breasts in comfort.
"Shall thou asketh?"
"Oh yes," pushed on Tyra. "Thou shall..."
"Hero, thou state be calm or beseeched? What say thee?" cried Brock. "Thou...I mean, I'm dodging bullets...," answered Worcestershire. Brock turned to Tyra, once more cupping her exquisite rack.
"Hearth thou, marm?" asked Brock.
"Yes! He's in need..." and with that, Tyra's top blouse button popped.
"Unzip me," replied Brock, and Tyra did, releasing his cannon.
"Oh yes..." sighed Brock, and there, he stood erect, his magnum-force rocket launcher held firm within his grasp. Tyra fiddled with it for awhile, working it hard. At last, Brock pulled away, and announced to Worcestershire and the rest of the world, "I'm coming!"
Brock's knees stiffened as he convulsed with glee. Spurt, spurt, spurt went each dollop of load, mouthful after mouthful. Each skeeted their way to their target; a money-shot to say the least. "Bull's eye!" exclaimed Brock. They ram-rodded Megadrode's backside, in an explosion of white. The megadroid exploded, but was not down for the fight, merely dazed from the attack.
"Great shot, Brock," replied Worcestershire. "You really gummed up the works!"
“So exhilarating; I’m orgasmic!” ejaculated Tyra.
Worcestershire crawled toward the sound of Tyra’s voice. “I can almost feel those breasts in my palms,” he said out loud. “You’re incorrigible,” said Tyra. Worcestershire could not wait to eat alone in his apartment, him being a culinary superhuman. He could taste the meat he had steam-cooked for that night like the bureaucratic wolves could taste the meat of the young.
The ground he clawed at with his boots felt like it could give way at any moment. Why the government would create such a destructive machine, and just leave it here in an abandoned mine because it failed to stop death. The mine had been testing grounds for the colossus, and would therefore be the grave for it as well.
“You’re almost there, Wor,” replied Tyra.
Then, the Megadrode came to life again. It shot out proximity mines from its clay-pigeon holster looking, proximity mine-cannons. And the earth underneath Worcestershire collapsed…
Tyra screamed.
Brock’s grip on Tyra’s breasts loosened…then eventually recupped.
And Worcestershire fell.
“A voyage never ends,” replied Worcestershire as he fell.
“A voyage is never-ending. One might think it ends, but it doesn’t. Those who believe nothing ends, and believe that it only changes or begins a new, survive. I’m at a new beginning; where…I don’t know yet. Like a star’s nebula, I will explode into my supernova. But give life to a new star. Where is the end in that? Where is the end in all of this?”
Worcestershire continued to fall.
“When do the stars begin again? If one must know everything, then where is the excitement in that? Don’t ask questions your whole life. Use life to explore and find the answers. And if an answer is impossible, don’t go back to asking questions, but instead, come to conclusions that might settle your mind. And why didn’t we install jet packs to our suits? I fucking told those knob-jobs in the science facility to incorporate them with our suits, but they fucking didn’t! My body is snagged onto some roots…must be like a Redwood around here or something because these roots are HUGE! I think I left a bag of popcorn in the microwave back at base…oops, I’m slipping. This robot beast is still alive, but I found its battery pack…Duracell’s…well I’ll be a son of a bitch! The roots broke. I fall. Man should have never made machines…..my bones….”
Worcestershire was silent.
Worestershire and the Sea Witch as told by Mr. Austin Smith
"Great, leathery scrotum!" ejaculated Seafoam Worcestershire, PF Falconer commander. His eyes set upon the megadrode's mega droid shell mass. He let loose double-pistol clips that caught net-like cleft shrouded shell after shell fury from it's gun arms, and strafed immaculately from side to side, rotating like a probe droid. None who had tested its power survived the encounter. "I spit at you," seethed Worcestershire, and he threw to the metal beast, a succulent grenade. A mechanical growl coughed back satisfaction, for not even the explosive power of a grenade could penetrate like a stiff penis-encountering a flap-lipped vagina, the malarkey Megadrodes titanium-steel sweat suit. And more power-canister bullets flew like spittle from the lips of an over winded speaker.
Worcestershire dodged the attacks with finesse. "Wor, hath done thee service to thou enemy?" asked Brock Palister, co-commander/treasurer of the PF Falconer Squad. Brock stood defensive, smashed against a metal miner's cart, which was flipped upside-down in the granite tunnel, which called home for the metal robot Megadrode, who was now releasing hell upon Seafoam Worcestershire, who wore tight trousers.
Brock sensed a mechanical malfunction with the Megadrode, something mechanically maleficent...something the douche-cock scientists who created the metal beast, did not sense would flaw. The flaw was literally senseless. It ceased to sense, like senseless sense.
Tyra Broadchest's bountiful, abrasive, beautiful breasts bounced boyishly as she ran to push them against Brock's bicep. "Tell me, Brock," she orgasmed desperately, with despair snagging her every word. "How is Worcestershire?"
Brock turned to cup Tyra's breasts in comfort.
"Shall thou asketh?"
"Oh yes," pushed on Tyra. "Thou shall..."
"Hero, thou state be calm or beseeched? What say thee?" cried Brock. "Thou...I mean, I'm dodging bullets...," answered Worcestershire. Brock turned to Tyra, once more cupping her exquisite rack.
"Hearth thou, marm?" asked Brock.
"Yes! He's in need..." and with that, Tyra's top blouse button popped.
"Unzip me," replied Brock, and Tyra did, releasing his cannon.
"Oh yes..." sighed Brock, and there, he stood erect, his magnum-force rocket launcher held firm within his grasp. Tyra fiddled with it for awhile, working it hard. At last, Brock pulled away, and announced to Worcestershire and the rest of the world, "I'm coming!"
Brock's knees stiffened as he convulsed with glee. Spurt, spurt, spurt went each dollop of load, mouthful after mouthful. Each skeeted their way to their target; a money-shot to say the least. "Bull's eye!" exclaimed Brock. They ram-rodded Megadrode's backside, in an explosion of white. The megadroid exploded, but was not down for the fight, merely dazed from the attack.
"Great shot, Brock," replied Worcestershire. "You really gummed up the works!"
“So exhilarating; I’m orgasmic!” ejaculated Tyra.
Worcestershire crawled toward the sound of Tyra’s voice. “I can almost feel those breasts in my palms,” he said out loud. “You’re incorrigible,” said Tyra. Worcestershire could not wait to eat alone in his apartment, him being a culinary superhuman. He could taste the meat he had steam-cooked for that night like the bureaucratic wolves could taste the meat of the young.
The ground he clawed at with his boots felt like it could give way at any moment. Why the government would create such a destructive machine, and just leave it here in an abandoned mine because it failed to stop death. The mine had been testing grounds for the colossus, and would therefore be the grave for it as well.
“You’re almost there, Wor,” replied Tyra.
Then, the Megadrode came to life again. It shot out proximity mines from its clay-pigeon holster looking, proximity mine-cannons. And the earth underneath Worcestershire collapsed…
Tyra screamed.
Brock’s grip on Tyra’s breasts loosened…then eventually recupped.
And Worcestershire fell.
“A voyage never ends,” replied Worcestershire as he fell.
“A voyage is never-ending. One might think it ends, but it doesn’t. Those who believe nothing ends, and believe that it only changes or begins a new, survive. I’m at a new beginning; where…I don’t know yet. Like a star’s nebula, I will explode into my supernova. But give life to a new star. Where is the end in that? Where is the end in all of this?”
Worcestershire continued to fall.
“When do the stars begin again? If one must know everything, then where is the excitement in that? Don’t ask questions your whole life. Use life to explore and find the answers. And if an answer is impossible, don’t go back to asking questions, but instead, come to conclusions that might settle your mind. And why didn’t we install jet packs to our suits? I fucking told those knob-jobs in the science facility to incorporate them with our suits, but they fucking didn’t! My body is snagged onto some roots…must be like a Redwood around here or something because these roots are HUGE! I think I left a bag of popcorn in the microwave back at base…oops, I’m slipping. This robot beast is still alive, but I found its battery pack…Duracell’s…well I’ll be a son of a bitch! The roots broke. I fall. Man should have never made machines…..my bones….”
Worcestershire was silent.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Fifty Incident
The price of gas is, in as few of words as possible, gay. Stations around my area aren't applicable for the rise. One thing I've found difficult, is trying to pay for gas with a fifty dollar bill. It's circulated currency still, right, or have I neglected to receive the memo stating fifty dollar bills are nonexchangeable?
Every time I pull out a "Grant", if you will, the gas station attendant squares me up, glaring at me, sometimes sighing after he/she spots the bill.
I have gone as far as to give the attendant a one-hundred dollar bill to feed his/her cash register, and I was turned down. "We don't accept anything larger than a fifty...," where, upon my ears registering what he (because at this time, it was a male) said, I replied, "...And then even then, you guys throw a fit because I've given you a fifty for thirty dollars worth of gas!" He then eyed me and said flat out, "I can't accept this bill, sir..."
In fact, he didn't accept it. What ended our spat was me saying, "This is the only bill I have in my wallet, besides a ten, so you don't really have a choice - you accept the hundred, or I get a free tank of gas..." He then, very stubbornly, swiped his Dillion's Plus card through the card reader on his computer, not once, but THREE times, typed in a top secret code, and said, "Give me the ten." If you are wondering if that man is still working at that Kwik Shop, I'm sorry to say they let him go.
It's not like the Kwik Shop doesn't have change for a hundred. In fact, I was told by an attendant-friend of mine, Kwik Shops have safes full of a couple hundred, to a thousand dollars!
Now here's where the fifty-dollar bill plays into the matter. I had just picked up my paycheck, and saw that I was depleted in the gas-situation of my car. I "filled-her-up," like they say in the moving pictures, and went in to pay for the gas. My total was twenty even. I go up to the counter to pay, the lady, the time, said, "Twenty even," and I open my wallet, and finger through four hundreds, a fifty, and a couple twenties. I go for the fifty, pull out the fifty, lay the fifty on the counter. She asks, "Sir, do you have anything smaller," while she eyes the contents of my bill-fold. "I have a twenty, but I'd rather break the fifty." "We don't accept fifties," she says, looking over my head to bare witness to the line forming behind me. "But you have change for a fifty, right?" "Yes sir, but we don't accept them."
I peer over the counter, at the contents of her register. "I count, literally, four-to-five twenties in you till, a bunch of tens, and a couple ones. Can't you break this fifty?" "We hate breaking anything larger than a twenty." "So if I gave you forty dollars, with thirty in my tank, you wouldn't break forty dollars?" "No, we would, but as far as bills, we don't accept anything over fifty." "But you have big, diesel-gusseling vehicles, and gas-gusseling trucks coming in and out of here daily. You wouldn't break a fifty if they had one, if they had more than twenty, or even forty dollars worth of gas?" "Sir, I'm not going to accept your fifty." I ended up backing down for the sake of the line behind me.
My dad had the same problem at the station closest to our house. "I had thirty-some dollars worth of gas, and she wanted two twenties. I had a fifty, or a twenty. She finally took the fifty, but I knew the only reason why she did was she was forced to."
The ultimatum: you accept my fifty dollar bill, or I get a free tank of gas - my dad has used it, and I've used it. What's the difference between the two bills, the twenty and the fifty? Just thirty single bills, six fives, three tens, a twenty and a ten...etc. Gas prices have yet to peak. Start accepting the fifties, or have a bunch of irate people. Seriously, what's easier for you? You would think one bill - the fifty - but for some reason, they'd rather deal with two twenties. It dumbfounds the shit out of me! How ignorant is this debate - accept fifties, or I get a free tank of gas?
Every time I pull out a "Grant", if you will, the gas station attendant squares me up, glaring at me, sometimes sighing after he/she spots the bill.
I have gone as far as to give the attendant a one-hundred dollar bill to feed his/her cash register, and I was turned down. "We don't accept anything larger than a fifty...," where, upon my ears registering what he (because at this time, it was a male) said, I replied, "...And then even then, you guys throw a fit because I've given you a fifty for thirty dollars worth of gas!" He then eyed me and said flat out, "I can't accept this bill, sir..."
In fact, he didn't accept it. What ended our spat was me saying, "This is the only bill I have in my wallet, besides a ten, so you don't really have a choice - you accept the hundred, or I get a free tank of gas..." He then, very stubbornly, swiped his Dillion's Plus card through the card reader on his computer, not once, but THREE times, typed in a top secret code, and said, "Give me the ten." If you are wondering if that man is still working at that Kwik Shop, I'm sorry to say they let him go.
It's not like the Kwik Shop doesn't have change for a hundred. In fact, I was told by an attendant-friend of mine, Kwik Shops have safes full of a couple hundred, to a thousand dollars!
Now here's where the fifty-dollar bill plays into the matter. I had just picked up my paycheck, and saw that I was depleted in the gas-situation of my car. I "filled-her-up," like they say in the moving pictures, and went in to pay for the gas. My total was twenty even. I go up to the counter to pay, the lady, the time, said, "Twenty even," and I open my wallet, and finger through four hundreds, a fifty, and a couple twenties. I go for the fifty, pull out the fifty, lay the fifty on the counter. She asks, "Sir, do you have anything smaller," while she eyes the contents of my bill-fold. "I have a twenty, but I'd rather break the fifty." "We don't accept fifties," she says, looking over my head to bare witness to the line forming behind me. "But you have change for a fifty, right?" "Yes sir, but we don't accept them."
I peer over the counter, at the contents of her register. "I count, literally, four-to-five twenties in you till, a bunch of tens, and a couple ones. Can't you break this fifty?" "We hate breaking anything larger than a twenty." "So if I gave you forty dollars, with thirty in my tank, you wouldn't break forty dollars?" "No, we would, but as far as bills, we don't accept anything over fifty." "But you have big, diesel-gusseling vehicles, and gas-gusseling trucks coming in and out of here daily. You wouldn't break a fifty if they had one, if they had more than twenty, or even forty dollars worth of gas?" "Sir, I'm not going to accept your fifty." I ended up backing down for the sake of the line behind me.
My dad had the same problem at the station closest to our house. "I had thirty-some dollars worth of gas, and she wanted two twenties. I had a fifty, or a twenty. She finally took the fifty, but I knew the only reason why she did was she was forced to."
The ultimatum: you accept my fifty dollar bill, or I get a free tank of gas - my dad has used it, and I've used it. What's the difference between the two bills, the twenty and the fifty? Just thirty single bills, six fives, three tens, a twenty and a ten...etc. Gas prices have yet to peak. Start accepting the fifties, or have a bunch of irate people. Seriously, what's easier for you? You would think one bill - the fifty - but for some reason, they'd rather deal with two twenties. It dumbfounds the shit out of me! How ignorant is this debate - accept fifties, or I get a free tank of gas?
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Rant I've Been Wanting to Write
What's our stance today? How can we still be a Democracy when our president ignores the wishes of the people, and parades around like a tyrant, insisting he is correct, everyone else is ignorant, and the world is safer if he deploys thousands more of his sovereignty to a country that has no hope of reconstruction? Look at it like this: we were liberated once. We sought freedom, fought for it, lost lives in the fight to obtain it; we were once Iraq. And once we gained our independence from Great Britain, one side said, "I want to keep my slaves," another side said, "We're better than that. We can do our own field work."
We've seen opposing forces, living in the same country, loving the same national symbol, fight for differing opinions. We were once North and South. It's almost a given that once a country gains its own control, placed in front of the steering wheel for a change, if you will, and told to lead, there will be birthed opposition against a leading force, thinking they are right, the others are wrong, and sporting a much larger head than normal. We went through a civil war.
The French, in return for helping us win our war for freedom, did not ask, or simply request to stay in our country, help us run our state, and ultimately take the place of the tyrannical government that we fought so damn hard to rid ourselves of. They sailed back to their country, and, of course, we said thanks.
Why is it that the United States always wants something in return; we can't just help out a person in need, and be on our way.
Bush says, “I fully understand they could try to stop me from doing it. But I have made my decision. And we’re going forward." He wants more troops in Iraq to fight terrorism. I guess I misunderstand the terms the news, the president, the vice-president, and about everyone I know use when explaining Iraq. Which war do they refer to? The one our president says we're in against terrorism, or the one he says we're in against Iraq? Or maybe, is it the war we continue to fight at home?
Terrorist cells will remain in Iraq. When the British were overtaxing us, killing our people for no reason, and restricting what we could and could not do in our own country, the militia, I guess, was a terrorist cell against them. Now, we remain in a country we don't belong in, we've helped out all we really can, and now we are an annoyance. And the terrorists who lay down IE D's for our troops to get killed by, are basically protecting their way of life, like our militia protected America.
The troops are given orders, and those people either perform what they are told to do, or go to prison, or are tried, and sentenced with a dishonorable discharge. Nobody really wants to fight in a war. Those who say they do are trying to be noble, and there's nothing wrong in wanting to be a hero. I'm mainly just stating a fact here - our government hasn't hid this intention from us, either. We are expendable to them. What's a few lives if we can expand our so-called Democracy over the face of the globe?
It's our way or the highway - if congress wants to get in the way of "freedom", then shove them out of the way. Freedom can be many things. It can be freedom as in, Bush is free to do what he wants because he's the commander-in-chief. Freedom can be, the people have the freedom to overrule their elected official, but can't practice that freedom because they would be labelled a "terrorist" or a "national security threat," and ultimately, they destroy themselves in the process of saying what's on the minds of many Americans these days. So in an essence, Democracy isn't a government for the people, by the people; that illusion has been unearthed, and essentially dead. Real Democracy lies within one person - if that person chooses to abuse his or her authority, too bad. Are we still so blind that we can't spot the proof that one person has been given too much power?
We've seen opposing forces, living in the same country, loving the same national symbol, fight for differing opinions. We were once North and South. It's almost a given that once a country gains its own control, placed in front of the steering wheel for a change, if you will, and told to lead, there will be birthed opposition against a leading force, thinking they are right, the others are wrong, and sporting a much larger head than normal. We went through a civil war.
The French, in return for helping us win our war for freedom, did not ask, or simply request to stay in our country, help us run our state, and ultimately take the place of the tyrannical government that we fought so damn hard to rid ourselves of. They sailed back to their country, and, of course, we said thanks.
Why is it that the United States always wants something in return; we can't just help out a person in need, and be on our way.
Bush says, “I fully understand they could try to stop me from doing it. But I have made my decision. And we’re going forward." He wants more troops in Iraq to fight terrorism. I guess I misunderstand the terms the news, the president, the vice-president, and about everyone I know use when explaining Iraq. Which war do they refer to? The one our president says we're in against terrorism, or the one he says we're in against Iraq? Or maybe, is it the war we continue to fight at home?
Terrorist cells will remain in Iraq. When the British were overtaxing us, killing our people for no reason, and restricting what we could and could not do in our own country, the militia, I guess, was a terrorist cell against them. Now, we remain in a country we don't belong in, we've helped out all we really can, and now we are an annoyance. And the terrorists who lay down IE D's for our troops to get killed by, are basically protecting their way of life, like our militia protected America.
The troops are given orders, and those people either perform what they are told to do, or go to prison, or are tried, and sentenced with a dishonorable discharge. Nobody really wants to fight in a war. Those who say they do are trying to be noble, and there's nothing wrong in wanting to be a hero. I'm mainly just stating a fact here - our government hasn't hid this intention from us, either. We are expendable to them. What's a few lives if we can expand our so-called Democracy over the face of the globe?
It's our way or the highway - if congress wants to get in the way of "freedom", then shove them out of the way. Freedom can be many things. It can be freedom as in, Bush is free to do what he wants because he's the commander-in-chief. Freedom can be, the people have the freedom to overrule their elected official, but can't practice that freedom because they would be labelled a "terrorist" or a "national security threat," and ultimately, they destroy themselves in the process of saying what's on the minds of many Americans these days. So in an essence, Democracy isn't a government for the people, by the people; that illusion has been unearthed, and essentially dead. Real Democracy lies within one person - if that person chooses to abuse his or her authority, too bad. Are we still so blind that we can't spot the proof that one person has been given too much power?
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My Only Comment...
Askinstoo said...
Hi, i was looking over your blog and didn'tquite find what I was looking for. I'm looking fordifferent ways to earn money... I did find this though...a place where you can make some nice extra cash secret shopping. I made over $900 last month having fun!
My comments:
Wow, thanks Askinstoo...I don't know if you realized this or not, but this is a fucking blog, not an employment office! Thanks for commenting and everything, but all you really want to do is scam me. Thanks, but no thanks you fucking swindler!
Hi, i was looking over your blog and didn'tquite find what I was looking for. I'm looking fordifferent ways to earn money... I did find this though...a place where you can make some nice extra cash secret shopping. I made over $900 last month having fun!
My comments:
Wow, thanks Askinstoo...I don't know if you realized this or not, but this is a fucking blog, not an employment office! Thanks for commenting and everything, but all you really want to do is scam me. Thanks, but no thanks you fucking swindler!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Terror Bird!
I was about to do an anti-America rant, but it got cheesy, and I've just decided that part of me is too politically influenced, mainly by the corrupt speech that exits the mouths of most if not every politician out lobbying today. Instead, I'll sum up lobbyists by saying they are nothing more than finches in a dying bush, senselessly chirping away.
This bridges over into the reason why I wish I had a hawk.
I want a big, mother fucking falcon perched upon my gloved hand, dressed in the falconer's hood or whatever that little mask is called that hawks and other gaming birds wear, so they don't get wise and fly off, resorting to their wildlife tendencies.
I hate pigeons - rats with wings. If I had a hawk or said falcon above, I would never have to worry about seeing a pigeon again in my life, unless it was a pigeon carcass. Now, I realize pigeons have diseases, and if my bird-fiend were to snack all day on pigeon entrails and nothing else, I probably wouldn't have a hawk for very long. I also hate finches, and other annoying, miniature, novelty birds, unless they are parakeets or cockatoos. So my hawk should have plenty to eat.
I've hated little birds ever since I was little, and here is why.
INFLUENZA, commonly known as the Flu, is a nasty little son of a bitch, who manages to get into your system, and reek all havoc, sometimes causing you to hallucinate uncontrollably, as well as uncontrollably vomit, poop, cough, ache, sneeze, blow your nose, etc. to all icky things. I happened to hallucinate for six hours straight once with Influenza. Part of that time, I thought a flock of finches and mini-birds were outside my window enduring malfeasance, bleak-cheep-chirping away at the expense of the misery I sustained, while I tried to block out their annoyance with the assistance of many layers of blankets and pillows wrapped around my head. But the noises never stopped. I seek revenge.
My solution: acquire a hawk, falcon, or any kind of hawk-like bird. If my hawk's diet results in being all pigeon and no finch, and my hawk dies of disease, it will be an answer to my explication of what to do with the hawk once it has no purpose because it seems too cruel to lock such majestic birds up in cages like they do in zoos, and I don't want to be responsible for causing a bird-plague among other hawks and birds of prey if I were to release suggested sick bird. I would also hate for other hawks, once encountering my pansied-beast of flight, to peck at, or destroy him/her simply because they are not wild anymore. A dead bird is better than a dead bird, which is better than dead birds, I always say. If that bitch is destined to die, let it be as tragic as to die at the hands of disease.
This bridges over into the reason why I wish I had a hawk.
I want a big, mother fucking falcon perched upon my gloved hand, dressed in the falconer's hood or whatever that little mask is called that hawks and other gaming birds wear, so they don't get wise and fly off, resorting to their wildlife tendencies.
I hate pigeons - rats with wings. If I had a hawk or said falcon above, I would never have to worry about seeing a pigeon again in my life, unless it was a pigeon carcass. Now, I realize pigeons have diseases, and if my bird-fiend were to snack all day on pigeon entrails and nothing else, I probably wouldn't have a hawk for very long. I also hate finches, and other annoying, miniature, novelty birds, unless they are parakeets or cockatoos. So my hawk should have plenty to eat.
I've hated little birds ever since I was little, and here is why.
INFLUENZA, commonly known as the Flu, is a nasty little son of a bitch, who manages to get into your system, and reek all havoc, sometimes causing you to hallucinate uncontrollably, as well as uncontrollably vomit, poop, cough, ache, sneeze, blow your nose, etc. to all icky things. I happened to hallucinate for six hours straight once with Influenza. Part of that time, I thought a flock of finches and mini-birds were outside my window enduring malfeasance, bleak-cheep-chirping away at the expense of the misery I sustained, while I tried to block out their annoyance with the assistance of many layers of blankets and pillows wrapped around my head. But the noises never stopped. I seek revenge.
My solution: acquire a hawk, falcon, or any kind of hawk-like bird. If my hawk's diet results in being all pigeon and no finch, and my hawk dies of disease, it will be an answer to my explication of what to do with the hawk once it has no purpose because it seems too cruel to lock such majestic birds up in cages like they do in zoos, and I don't want to be responsible for causing a bird-plague among other hawks and birds of prey if I were to release suggested sick bird. I would also hate for other hawks, once encountering my pansied-beast of flight, to peck at, or destroy him/her simply because they are not wild anymore. A dead bird is better than a dead bird, which is better than dead birds, I always say. If that bitch is destined to die, let it be as tragic as to die at the hands of disease.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)