Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Death to technology!

I don’t own an iPod. I don’t even know what an MP3 is.
I don’t own a hi-def, flat screen, liquid plasma, 5,800-inch television with picture-in-picture, cup-holders and magic fingers option.
I don’t have a satellite dish system that allows me access to thousands of really important channels like the Home Shopping Network for People Who Really Like Cheese (HSNPWRLC for short) or ESPN 8 (the Ocho), or cool packages like the Sports Freak package (watch 10 different football games simultaneously until your eyes bleed!) or the Movie Buff package (your chance to enjoy every single movie that came out this year, including classics like Codename: The Cleaner, Norbit, Premonition and Are We Done Yet?).
I don’t own a satellite radio in my car and I’m sure I’m missing all types of fine programming, such as Howard Stern asking a stripper if she ever got Chlamydia from her dance pole, and Anthony and Opie listening to people making whoopee in church.
I don’t have a digital radio set up. Which means that I can’t hear all of those secret, hidden stations in between the regular stations I listen to. This saddens me to no end because I can’t help but wonder how many other radio stations there are out in the void of the air waves, all playing 15 minutes worth of commercials, all at the same time! (Has anybody else noticed that at any given time, four of your five car radio presets are commercials?)
I don’t have an iPhone, so I can’t scroll through whenever I want, or balance my bank account or do whatever it is people bought iPhones to do, (I assume that iPhones have some kind of super sweet option or ability that no other phone has, which is why people were stepping over each other to buy the damn things.)
I don’t have the latest video game console. I don’t have the hottest and newest game that looks so lifelike that I actually can feel the gun buck in my hands as I spray the streets of Los Angeles with lead. I don’t have large parties where I invite people over to play games where we have to simulate the act of bowling or fishing.
I have a c.d. player. I own hundreds of c.d.s. True lugging around a big ass c.d. case is unwieldy and heavy, but at least I don’t have to worry about dropping it, losing it or anybody stealing it.
I have a 20-something inch television. It isn’t super hi-def or whatever, but I can watch shows and movies on it regardless, so I guess it’s working. Works well enough for me, anyway.
I have cable. My cable gives me access to hundreds of channels, and you know what? Most of them are pretty pointless anyway. I basically just stick to the Food Network, Cartoon Network and a few other random odds and ends. Of the 300 channels available to me, I watch less than a dozen.
I’ve got a regular radio in my car. Nothing fancy, (though it does allow 12 presets on the FM dial. Classy!) but it gets the job done. I hit a button and I listen to a station. If there’s naught but commercials, I press another button and I get to listen to one of those c.d.s that I mentioned earlier. It’s a good system.
I have a cell phone. A Katana, actually. Guess what it does? It allows me to talk to other people when I want to. Isn’t that amazing? No need for extra bells and whistles. I don’t need to check my email on my phone, I don’t need to listen to the latest uber-digitized mega hit by Timbaland (I don’t think he even has real people singing in his songs anymore, he just uses Stephen Hawking’s computer voice thing. He wants to be this generation’s Roger Troutman, from Zapp.) And I don’t care about taking really grainy pictures that just end up looking like something Helen Keller took with her eyes closed (wait, would that even make a difference?)
I have a Nintendo 64. It came out in the late 90s. I’ve got a good half dozen games, but I play just one: Mariocart.
I am an analog man in a digital world. I don’t try to match my outfit or my mood to the color of the device playing my music. I’m not that shallow. I don’t want to turn my oven on with my phone from 300 miles away. I don’t need a feature that uses dots to represent where my friends are located on some map.
My laptop doesn’t work half the time and I don’t really mind. My digital camera has only 4 megapixels (for those of you that don’t know, megapixels are tiny little creatures that live in cameras and paint the pictures that you take. The more megapixels you have, the better the pictures) and is from Hewlett-Packard (which isn’t known for its cameras). It broke over the summer, but I don’t really mind.
I like it this way. I don’t feel the need to be a slave to technology. I prefer incorporating technology to fit my life, instead of trying to rearrange my life to accept new technology. I honestly don’t need a bunch of different little doodads to make my life any easier or more efficient than it already is.
So, when the day comes that some kind of technology-based disease or sickness arrives on the scene (oh, it’s coming, you’d better believe it!) I’ll be sitting pretty, laughing from my analog kingdom.
I think I’ll go punch Bill Gates in the face now.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Breeders’ Summit: The 2007 Accord

Ladies and gentlemen, a great thing has occurred. Never before have men and women come together for such a just and noble cause. You are about to bare witness to the birth of a new, more harmonious world wherein men and women are able to work and live together. Check it.
Back in the early months of this year, a cry went up into the heavens. Men and women everywhere were confused and angered by current events (like Britney going from a sex goddess adored by 98% of the human population to a diseased whorebag that not even Charlie Sheen would touch, Kobe Bryant humping random chicks in Colorado and giving out big ass diamond rings and gorgeous blond teachers banging their young and totally undeserving students) and decided to do something about it.
What they did was this: both sexes nominated 10 of their most lauded and respected members (you might remember all of those stupid banner ads on Myspace asking who was hotter based on their chin or whatever) and sent those 10 people to Djibouti, Africa to take place in the first ever Breeders’ Summit (sorry Friends of Dorothy, you’ll have to have your own summit).
These 20 people represent you, they represent your friends, your lovers and all other people who get down with heterosexual sex. It’s no use trying to argue or fight with the results of the summit. And there’s no reason you should. The 2007 Accord marks a break-through that all breeders can embrace. I was given a press release by the P.R. department involved in the Breeders’ Summit, to share with you. The following is a sample of the rules that have been agreed upon by men and women that you will follow for the rest of your life. The Accord has been divided into three parts, one for men, one for women and one for both. Included are a few of the most important rules. Don’t bother arguing with me about the rules. I didn’t come up with any of ‘em. I’m just the messenger.

For Men and Women:
· Whenever a date has been scheduled, the inviter either pays for everything or gets to choose the venue.
· “I love you,” doesn’t always have to be returned. There is no obligation to say it back.
· If both parties are drunk when any sexual activity goes down, then it is considered consensual for both. Even in the morning when you wake up next to Medusa’s uglier sister. No backsies!
· There will be no more dressing to match as a couple. Such uber-sweet activities have led to an increase of diabetes.
· Sex three times a week. Rain or shine.

For Men:
· You have to give up control of the remote 35% of the time.
· When cooking for women, be sure to have more than one item of food. Include a salad, or appetizer. Some sort of chocolate-laden desert is a must.
· When watching a long sporting event, (anything over two hours) an equal amount of time must be given to such channels as DIY, Home & Garden, Oxygen or Lifetime.
· You must watch at least one show that your woman watches, so that you can keep abreast of what interests her.
· Foreplay must take place at least once a week.
· Complement her in a way to make her feel special and unique, at least once a week. (Complements can be recycled.)

For Women:
· Only call your man with an agenda or purpose. Not just to talk.
· Feelings don’t always need to be shared.
· If your man has done something to upset you, you must tell him. Men are unable to read minds.
· From now on, you must check to see if the toilet seat is up or down. Having the seat down is your responsibility.
· You must lose an argument every other week. The previously established rule that women are never wrong has been repealed.
· You must watch one show that your man watches. So that you can keep abreast of what interests him.
· All fashion, talent or beauty-related reality shows must be watched on your own time.

Like I said, these are just a few of the more than 75 rules that we decided upon. If you were a part of the Breeders’ Summit, what rules would you make up?

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Dr. Gooch’s Guide to Happiness: 101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy

(Featured here is an excerpt of the preface from Dr. Gooch’s award-losing book: Dr. Gooch’s Guide to Happiness: 101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy, published with permission from the author. Any links added to the text are for the benefit of Internet readers. Views expressed by Dr. Gooch are not necessarily those of Eighty-Four Glyde or its parent company the Sheinhart Wig Corporation.)

This can be quite the sad world we live in these days; with wars, lead poisoning, Senators with wide stances and Myspace-induced suicide, it’s no wonder that people feel overwhelmed and close to death.
Death surrounds us and it’s closer for some people than others.
“For those aged 15 years and over, the number of deaths in 2004 of persons who were married was 919,270; widowed, 892,017; never married, 248,424; and divorced, 286,758*.”
In an interesting fact, according to the National Vital Statistics Report with final data from 2004, (the most recent statistics available at the time of this book’s printing) is that in America, you’re more likely to die from Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s or even Septicemia (a form of blood poisoning) than you would of homicide or even sexually transmitted diseases such as A.I.D.S. Yet, you don’t often see as many people rallying around those causes (actor Michael J. Fox being the most notable exception.) This is because people are not fully educated with regards to statistics and other information. People often fall victim to the Availability Heuristic, which shows a bias in common knowledge based on available information.
Those are facts not often addressed or considered by “John Q. Public” on a daily basis, and I don’t blame them. There are enough things in life for people to worry about, without adding more problems.
Even with many people lamenting these as the “end of days,” there’s no reason why people need to feel stifled or burdened by life. In fact, life should be celebrated and enjoyed by everybody (Except for the poor, diseased and others whose lives completely suck and cannot be salvaged, regardless of how much optimism they have. This book isn’t for people with real problems who should be allowed to be as depressed and as miserable as they see fit. This book is for the rest of us.) everywhere!
It isn’t always easy to turn that frown upside-down. That’s why I’m here. With the steps and tips included in this book, I promise that I can make even the most cynical, pessimistic person out there into Lil’ Miss Sunshine. I have over 50 years experience in medicine and behavioral studies. I have worked with the likes of Dr. Timothy Leary, Dr. Zimbardo and Dr. Mengele, amongst others. My knowledge is vast.
I have taken all my knowledge and crammed it all into this simple and easy to read, 150-page book. I will take you on a step-by-step journey to discover your inner happiness. Topics covered in my book include:
· 43 muscles to frown and 13 to smile, fact or myth?
· How to save money on electricity by smiling to brighten your life
· Alcohol and drugs, the lazy man’s route to happiness
· Is happiness really a warm gun?
· How to brainwash yourself into happiness
· Which religion promises the most happiness
· And a very special chapter by Will “Pursuit of Happyness” Smith

After reading this book, in no time your attitude about life and the world in general will be described by one of these words: bouncy, upbeat, optimistic, cheerful, bubbly, elated or deranged.
When this book first came out, I was speaking at a seminar in Elephant Butte. At the end of the seminar, a gentleman approached me. He was over 300 lbs, he was balding, his clothes looked to have been stolen from the children’s bin at a nearby Salvation Army and he could only afford to buy and wear Gators on his feet. But he was happy! His name was Esten Able, and he told me that reading my book (101 Ways to Tickle your Fancy) had given him a whole new outlook on life. He was feeling better, his health seemed to not be as bad, he had a bigheaded Korean girlfriend and was even considering moving out of his mom’s basement. It was all thanks to me. And those results can also be yours! Just read on my friends. Happiness is just a few chapters away.
Lastly, at the end of the book, if you still aren’t happy with your life, I’ve included a cyanide pill. Because face it, if you’re not happy, you’re just sucking up valuable air.

*Minino A, Heron M, Murphy S, Kochanek K, National Vital Statistics Report, Volume 55, Number 19: August 21, 2007

Monday, November 26, 2007

Life’s a funny old thing.
Often though, life’s got a much different sense of humor than people do.
It’s a dark sense of humor. It’s mean, brutal, juvenile and often ironic in a way that’s only funny in a cosmic sense. You might think that a knock-knock joke is funny. Life thinks that a deaf guy getting his hands cut off in a horrible industrial accident is funny*. Seeing a guy get hit in the crotch with a wiffle ball on TV might amuse you. Life is amused by the fact that the invention of pills like Viagra and Levitra has given AIDS a whole new demographic to run rampant in.
Some people see the twisted humor in life, and while they might not laugh, they certainly get the joke. For some people, the best coping mechanism for dealing with their own existence is to laugh the pain away; make jokes at their own expense. Sometimes, when life has you on the ropes and is pounding the will to live out of you, it’s either laugh through your tears, or go mad.
The best comedians are the ones with shitty lives, or the ones that recognize how shitty life can be and how shitty we can be to each other. Those comedians harness that pain and turn it into something to laugh at, something to be made fun of until there’s no space for pain because its all been pushed out.
There are people who are very good at this. They perceive the world through somewhat jaded eyes and can appreciate humor in a cosmic sense. They get the joke, whether they want to or not. It can be a gift and a curse. Sometimes the funniest people are the ones who are dead inside, their point-of-view of existence turning them into cynical observers of life. It can be lonely.
I’ve been to Iraq twice, (three times if you count that adventure with Hiro Nakamura, but that’s a story for another time, and I’ve got Scheherazade’s panties to prove it!) Back in 2003 I was in Kuwait when the first rockets were fired in March. My unit was part of the second wave into Iraq, once the war started. I didn’t get to see too many battles; all I got to see were the results of American influence on the area. Destroyed buildings, homes with holes the size of manhole covers in bedroom walls, partial donkeys, horses and goats in the gutter. I never got to see a lot of Iraq in its original state, only after a military make over.
As a photojournalist, I went to the front lines (as if there were any) quite often in those first few months of the invasion (I mean, liberation) of Iraq. It was during one of my first embedded missions with an infantry unit that I came across Achmed.**
I was spending the night with an infantry company at an agricultural college in An Najaf. I was excited to be in downtown Najaf because it could mean that a firefight could break out at anytime. I wanted to see some action; getting shot at by SCUD missiles wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I was there to do a story about a cache of explosives that had been discovered and was going to be blown up by an E.O.D. team, (explosions are always kick ass!) As I wandered around the college campus -camera in one hand, rifle in the other- I noticed a group of soldiers hanging out by a grove of trees. They seemed to be having a good time, so I headed over there to see what the happy haps. That’s when I was introduced to Achmed.
Achmed looked to be in his forties, maybe early fifties. His hair and beard were white. He didn’t look like a soldier, or like much of a threat, which is why it was weird to see him with a giant hole where his face was supposed to be.
It seems that Achmed had attempted to sneak back onto the campus earlier in the day, possibly to steal some explosives (possibly to get back his red Swingline stapler from a classroom. We’ll never know) and ended up in a body bag for his troubles.
The soldiers were all excited about having Achmed around, because it was proof of their killing skills. He was shot in the back of the neck (just a tiny little hole, no bigger than a penny) by a M-16A2 gas-powered, semi-automatic rifle at 50 yards. At that distance, the exit wound made ground beef out of his face. Naturally, I took an assload of pictures. I’d seen violent movies and dead bodies in funeral homes and on dissection tables and I thought that I was properly desensitized; but I’d never seen a violent death in its natural state.
As gruesome as it may seem, I wanted to study my first dead body. See, the army doesn’t do a great job in introducing soldiers to the horror of war. They’re great at making sure soldiers have all their proper immunizations, but drop the ball when it comes to showing soldiers what happens when they do their job properly (namely, killin’ folks). They’d probably have a lot less cases of suicide and PTSD if they actually treated soldiers like people instead of disposable weapons with legs.
I studied Achmed’s head: the way the layers of skin and fat under the top layer of skin were exposed, the interesting shades of purple, pink and red that blossomed from the wound, the remaining eye: sitting gray and sightless in what was left of the eye socket. I tried to imagine if he knew when he got up that day that he was going to die in the outfit he had put on. I wondered if he was able to sense that he was going to die. I wondered if he felt the bullet go through his head and splatter his thoughts all over the ground, to dry in the hot sun or get eaten by feral dogs. I wondered if there was anybody back at his house waiting for his return; if he was going to be missed.
The soldiers around had no such thoughts in their heads. They preferred to practice their flying elbows. There were three of ‘em, they were guarding the body so the dogs wouldn’t come for a night buffet. It was a boring job, so they decided to spice it up. What better way than by practicing WWE moves on a dead body? With smiles on their lips and laughter in the air, they would take turns attacking this body lying on the ground. Flying elbows, flying knees and other aerobic moves of pain where inflicted upon this body, further damaging and insulting an enemy combatant who could do nothing in return. I’m not a religious person, but I felt that more reverence or respect would have been natural. I didn’t know that people would take such delight and pleasure in adding further insult to injury. I didn’t know that some people would like their job that much.
In the many months that followed, I saw more bodies. I saw bodies that were burned; torched until the fat under their skin liquefied and boiled. I saw bodies of adults with gapping holes in them (a testament to the shooting skills of the American soldier. God Bless the U.S.A.) abandoned in ditches. I saw frail kids held in the arms of parents --smeared with their own children’s blood-- plead with soldiers to be let into bases for medical aid. I saw what was left of a driver of a car bomb, hell I almost tripped on his large intestine, which, along with other unidentifiable pieces of the guy, were splattered all over a street and nearby buildings and trees.
I attended and photographed dozens of memorial services for dead soldiers. (For more info on that, read the first Eighty-Four Glyde ever!) People that I only got to know after they died, through pictures and anecdotes told by their grieving friends. I saw the good that soldiers are capable of and I saw the evil that they can do (sometimes with big smiles on their faces.)
I saw the best-prepared soldiers killed and people who should have been killed walk away from the scenes of their near-deaths, whistling. I saw a guy get blown up by a mortar on the way to the mess hall. It was the day after Thanksgiving and he just wanted a good turkey sandwich.
I was already an atheist before I went to Iraq, but what I saw and experienced just confirmed my beliefs. When you know that the guy to the left of you could die simply because he was standing in that the wrong spot at the wrong time, you start to question things. In Iraq, anybody could go at any moment. It doesn’t matter how well prepared you are or not. It doesn’t matter if you just got promoted. It doesn’t matter how smart, or funny or attractive you are. When you (and by you I mean I) realize that the only thing keeping you alive is dumb luck, well, you just gotta laugh. It’s either that, or a lifetime of medication to keep you from going nucking futs.
I write this to give people an idea of my sense of humor. It’s not for everybody. Sometimes my jokes are funny, sometimes they hit too close to home or piss people off. Sometimes they aren’t funny in the slightest (well, that’s a lie, I’ve never said an unfunny joke.) Sometimes they’re just too over the top and my words turn into an Andy Kaufman-like inside joke, funny only to myself. But hey, if you can’t laugh at how pathetic and miserable life can be, then what’s left to laugh at?
Now, who wants to hear something funny?

*In the land of the deaf, he with no hands is truly mute.

**Not his real name, but I doubt he’ll put up a fuss about it

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

A better woman you’ll never find

My oddly disturbing appreciation of Danielle “Topanga” Fishel has been well documented in Eighty-Four Glyde, (you may remember my groundbreaking entry about Topanga in the appropriately titled “I have an oddly disturbing appreciation of Danielle ‘Topanga’ Fishel”*) but it doesn’t stop just there. I often find myself day dreaming about cute t.v. vixens from the 80s.
Anybody remember Soleil Moon Frye? You might remember her better as t.v.’s lovable Punky Brewster. Now, Punky wasn’t all that as a child --if I recall correctly she had the appearance of a Muppet—but she had one asset that many other girls in the 80s didn’t have. Well, two assets really, and I’m not talking about her Converse chucks with the mismatched shoelaces. Nope, Soleil had a disease. A terrible, life-threatening disease that affects countless people everyday and can destroy marriages and families.
I’m talking about whatever the hell that disease is that gives chicks ginormous ta-tas. Some call it a blessing; some call it a curse. Soleil was of that second group. Her ridiculously large bewbies often gave her back trouble and it was embarrassing for her to blossom at such a young age when all of her other friends were as flat as Mila Jovovich (have you seen her chest? She’s so flat I think it’s concave.) So, she got rid of her huge dirty pillows, and the fantasies of boys around the country died that day. It was as if a thousand voices cried out in pain, and were suddenly silenced. If you want to see pre-surgery Punky Brewster, then check out Pumpkinhead II. You’ll enjoy her performance.
But Punky, in all of her splendor was just the appetizer to the true perfect girl of the 80s: V.I.C.I., (which is short for Voice Input Child Identicant. And I’m pretty sure that identicant isn’t a real word.)
For those who may not recall, V.I.C.I. (pronounced Vicki) was a ten-year-old girl robot from the show Small Wonder. The concept of the show was that some nerdy guy created a robot but decided to hide her from the government by claiming that she was adopted. She lives in the bedroom closet of her “brother” Jamie, and gets involved in zany shenanigans. I don’t really care who the girl who played V.I.C.I. was, (though she was cute) I always thought the concept of keeping a girl in a closet was great! (Though not as good as keeping a girl in the well in your basement and forcing her to rub lotion on herself all day so her skin will be nice and pliable when it’s removed and re-stitched as a cardigan.)
She’s the perfect girlfriend! No unnecessary emotions to complicate things, the need to do everything I say hardwired into her brain, and best of all, when you’re done with her, you can just put her in the closet or under the bed, for easy storage.
“But Josh,” the ladies say, “where’s the love in a relationship with a robot you keep in the closet? How can you grow as a couple or feel the joy of loving another human being?” To which I reply that if vibrators and dildos had the ability to listen (and care) to all the jibba jabba that comes out a woman’s mouth, they would have gotten rid of men a long time ago. Don’t judge me! I feel that I would find great happiness with a girlfriend whose off switch I could flip whenever I felt like it. And I’m sure a lot of other guys would agree with me.

Robot girlfriend: Josh, I heard some new gossip today that I want to share with you, about my friends that you are indifferent to. Plus I had a rough time at work because of my boss and I want to let you know all about that. And I think I’m getting fat, I’m considering taking up yoga, or that exercise class where women use stripper poles. What do you think?

Me: Wow! That all sounds really interesting! Tell me all about it!

Robot Girlfriend: Okay, well first I…

*sound of me pressing the off button located on her left nipple*

Me: There. Much better. It’s Miller time!

Now that’s a relationship that’ll last.
On another note, to get everybody in the holiday spirit, and because I love to educate and raise awareness, here’s The history of Thanksgiving. Eighty-Four Glyde style. Enjoy!

*Not the actual title, but an incredible facsimile

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Stalking: for fun and enjoyment!

The interweb is a great thing. Without it I’d never be able to buy the copious amounts of Japanese porn that I love so much. Not to mention all that great Viagra and Prozac I’m getting. And without the Internet, I’d never have been able to increase my penis size by four inches in two weeks (total length: 4.5 inches. I feel like Ron Jeremy now!)
So it hurts me when people forget the initial reason Al Gore invented the Internet: the gathering and storing of information, (at least, I figure that’s why he invented it. I mean, that’s the “Green” thing to do right? Now, instead of cutting down trees for paper, we’re just running up huge electricity bills. Sounds good to me!) Anyway, the Internet is a place to go for information. Remember those commercials for Encyclopedia Britannica? (I’m sure that nobody born since the creation of Hypercolor tee shirts has any idea what an encyclopedia is, let alone the Encyclopedia Britannica) Well, those are instantly outdated. No longer do people have to go digging through enormous tomes of coma-inducing prose to find out the flight ratio of the un-laden African swallow. Now all we have to do is log onto your favorite search engine, type “African swallow” and enjoy the many pages of results about African fellatio porno movies. It’s brilliant!
And the beauty is that the Internet doesn’t just give you information about useless things that only your teacher and 26-year-old virgins would appreciate, it also allows you to keep tabs on anybody in the world. Sounds like a win-win situation to me. My favorite part of the Internet is looking up exes.
Oh come on! Everybody does it! Don’t act all high and mighty. Hell, these days it’s common practice to google the name of somebody you’re going out on a date with, just to see what they’re all about. But I’m not talking about getting information for advance planning. I’m talking about keeping tabs on people from your past.
I’m always checking up on people I’ve known and lost touch with for one reason or another. Some people like to call this “stalking.” I prefer the term “Proactive Individual Surveillance, (or P.I.S. for short. I love to P.I.S. on people. It makes the day so much fun!) If I didn’t P.I.S. on people, I’d have never known that my last high school sweetheart is preggers. Or, I’d have never have found out that another ex of mine is a totally hot lesbian now. And that’s important information dammit!
Knowledge is power, (I believe G.I. Joe taught me that, or something similar). That’s why our government and military spend so much time and money on making sure they have the best and most accurate intelligence before doing anything rash…like invading a country to find weapons that don’t exist. (Oops. I’m sure they meant well.)
Internet stalking comes especially in handy when the person you’re “stalking” won’t talk to you. How else are you supposed to insert yourself, unwanted, into their lives? And without the Internet, how are you supposed to know her work address and phone number so that you can show up outside her office at a strategic time with a bouquet of flowers and her name tattooed on your chest to show her your undying love? I’d like to see the Encyclopedia Britannica do that!
There’s a negative stigma (though I’m pretty sure using the word negative is superfluous*) attached to researching people with the help of the World Wide Web. I’m not sure why. After all, that’s basically why sites like Myspace and Facebook are around, isn’t it? Somebody realized that people aren’t so good with closure and moving on with their lives, so they invented “networking sites” that make on people that much easier.
I’ll admit. There’s one particular ex girlfriend that I stalk. Our relationship didn’t end well, (or start well, or continue well now that I think about it.) and she refuses to talk to me (some people would take that as a sign wouldn’t they?) I still care about her and much like a demented guardian angel, I like to check into her life every so often to make sure she’s doing well and enjoying herself (I know, I too was shocked when I heard that it’s possible for somebody to live well and enjoy life without my being there! Imagine how sorry I feel for all those people out there who are forced to go their entire lives without the benefit of my company! I shudder to think of it.) Sadly, she never had much of an Internet presence, so all I know about her is where she works. But I like to think that she’s very successful there and is rising through the ranks quickly to a high level of power and responsibility. It makes me feel good to think that she’s running shit (though it also makes me feel bad to think that she was able to pick up the pieces and move on so well after our breakup, I wonder if she ever stalks me?)
Oh, hey look! According to Google maps, there’s a tattoo parlor two blocks from her job. I wonder if I can set up an appointment for today…

*and redundant

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Campfires are good places to dispose of evidence

Nothing shows one’s appreciation for Mother Nature in all her bitchy glory like a good, old-fashioned, half-assed camping trip!
Last weekend was my 27th birthday. After a four-hour crying session, lamenting the fact that I grow older and closer to death with each passing year, I rallied, packed a bag with all types of things that are inappropriate for outdoor use (though really, when is it ever inappropriate to have a blow up doll with “real vibrating labia action”?) hopped in Keep Getting Caught (my car) and headed out, with some friends, for an exciting weekend of ball-freezing weather, unsanitary conditions and a whole lot of irresponsible drinking.
I love the great outdoors. Sure I don’t actually know what’s so great about them, but I do think they’re pretty nifty and as long as I’m not missing anything good on television (and these days, with nothing but dumb ass reality shows like Win a shot at Herpes with Tila Tequila, or Who cares about child labor laws? I know that I’m not missing a thing. End soon writer’s strike!) then I’m always happy to spend some time breathing in great big gobs of nature.
For those of you not in the know, I was a boy scout for many years, back in the days when the only thing a boy scout had to fear was being mauled by a bear, or forgetting how to do a taut-line hitch, and not his scoutmaster with the “bad touch.” Though it could be crappy at times, I enjoyed sleeping outside, cooking all my food over a fire and all that other shit that used to give Teddy “Bully” Roosevelt such a hard on. I’ve only experienced homesickness once and that was back in 5th grade when I went to a weeklong summer Webeloes camp. I thought that a week was too long to be away from the comforts of home. Little did I realize that a decade or two later I’d go camping in Iraq. Twice. For a yearlong stretch at a time.
Anyway, this camping trip was going to be sweet. We were going to Cape Henlopen, Delaware, on the shore of the lovely and not at all polluted Atlantic Ocean. We hoped to enjoy the august views of the mighty ocean crashing down upon the shore in majestic splendor. The plan was to do a little kite flying, a little grilling, a little drinking and enjoy the good weather. What we hadn’t counted on was Hurricane Noel.
Ever tried to set up a tent, chop veggies or pee in 45MPH+ winds? It’s not very easy and involves a lot of running around like a chicken with its head chopped off. Funny to look at, frustrating to be involved in. Of course, all those things were easy compared to trying to fly a kite the size of a parachute at the beach. Here’s a little advice for you: Don’t do it!
It’s not everyday that one gets to invent a new sport (though if kite/parachute dragging is a sport already, I don’t want to know about it) especially a new sport where, if done properly, your reward is to be dragged out to sea, never to be heard from again.
A few of my friends are kite people. I’m not talking Mary Poppins “Let’s go fly a kite” people, I’m talking “I wonder if I can use my kite string to chop off that dude’s head” people. So, they brought out a few power kites to play with at the beach. My friend Patrick brought a giant kite he made called a bowl. It’s almost the size of a parachute, but a lot more colorful, as if he split open Raggedy Ann and used her skin to make his kite. We decided that this would be the perfect kite to send up in almost hurricane-like conditions. Obviously we had had much to drink by this point (and it was only 10 a.m.).
Three of us wrapped the kite rope around ourselves, confident that our combined weight of at least 300 lbs would be enough to maintain control of the kite.
After, oh, 5 seconds, it was obvious that we were the kite’s bitches. It immediately picked us up into the air as if we weighed no more than Calista Flockhart (now there’s a name from the past! What the hell has Ally McBeal been up to these days anyway?). The smallest of us was tossed aside. Me and the other person foolish enough to hold on were dragged a few dozen yards, screaming our heads off at our friends to throw rocks at the kite, set it on fire, anything to get it to stop!
Eventually, people were able to jump on the kite to get the wind out of it and I was saved from a watery grave.

I lay on the ground, locked in a death embrace with my friend Charles, until the adrenaline subsided and the tears of fear and joy were swept away from my face by the powerful wind.

Then we got up and did it again.
We decided to be smart the second time and wrap the kite rope around a large driftwood log that looked to be between 300 and 400 lbs and hadn’t moved since the last time Oprah’s va-jay-jay got a work out (and you know that poonani hasn’t seen any action since before 9/11!) Then we hopped on top of the log, figuring the added weight would only help to keep the log and the kite in place. This time we lasted two whole minutes. Once it looked as though we had conquered the bowl we got lax, stopped paying so much attention and all had a good laugh at our last misadventure.
This was the break the kite was looking for.
Suddenly the wind picked up, the log reared up like a Wyld Stalyn (San Dimas High School football rules!) and bucked a few of us off. Unlike last time, I immediately jumped off. My first ride, face first, through yards of wet sand, had cured me of wanting to do it again. I yelled at my other friends to let go as well, that there was no way we’d be able to get the kite to stop before it reached the surf. But they didn’t let go, so I leapt at the rope, hoping my 220 pounds of chiseled man-flesh would help slow things down. I was wrong. Once again we went for a ride down the beach. I’m sure we were quite the sight, five grown men running around, yelling and swinging from this big ass kite. A few people were actually lifted in the air. Luckily, my prodigious beer belly kept me grounded.
It was a titanic struggle my friends. One for the ages. An epic battle between man and nature! We again were eventually able to subdue the kite. Afterward we caught our breath, checked our pants for any frightened pee stains, refilled our beer mugs and headed home to spread our tale of windy adventure. Much as I have just done for you.

P.S. Other shit happened during the camping trip as well, a lot of it involved throwing things into fires that were not meant to burn, (and would help bring sense to the title of this entry). But If I wrote about everything, it’d be a multi entry and I don’t get down like that.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I’m not one to jump on fads and current trends, (though I must admit an undying love of parachute pants and Tomigotchis) but I would be remiss if I didn’t add my own bit of seasonal flavor to this year’s Halloween.
Now I’m sure that everybody and their mother (Dorthy Mantooth is a saint!) are writing a stupid blog about Halloween (the history, past adventures, crap about costumes and other pointless junk like that) and I’m no different! Well, I’m different in one way, I’m actually a good writer (ooooh! Burn!)
Allow me to weave a myriad of truthful tales of horror and fright, in that special way that only Joshua: Something Something of the Eight-Four Glyde, can. Are you ready to enter a world of ghosts, odd sounds in the middle of the night and weird smells? (excuse me, I had Mexican for lunch) Of course you are. Americans love to be scared, that’s why we all drink and drive!
I shall begin by scaring you with the most frightening thing I can think of. A thought so terrifying and repulsive that the mere whisper has driven sane men crazy, crazy women even crazier and children to drink heavily. A thought so horrifying and evil that once I mention it, you will never have another peaceful night of sleep again!
George W. Bush is still president!
Alright, alright. That was a cheap shot, I’m sorry. It was just so easy, I couldn’t help myself. That sentence is also a great way to scare somebody into losing his or her hiccups. That’s a little tip from me to you!
So…Halloween. Candy, costumes, toilet paper, razor blades covered in apples, bag snatching, pumpkin destroying, grand theft auto. All wonderful things that make this such a special time of year, and all things that have been covered to death! Let’s talk about the truth. First hand stories of actual supernatural experiences. Got your attention? Good, cause that’s how I roll.
When I was younger, my dream growing up was to be a parapsychologist. Sure other kids wanted to be astronauts, doctors, fluffers in porn movies and what-have-you, but I was a little more grounded in my desires. For those who don’t know, a parapsychologist is pretty much a real life Ghostbuster. When I first watched the movie Ghostbusters, I saw that they started off as parapsychologists at Columbia University in NYC. So I immediately wanted to go there. I bought books on all that junk. And I’m not just talking about people who buy books about spiritual energy and auras and other new wave doodoo like that. I studied up on the scientific aspect of ghosts and ghost hunting. Low-frequency transitions, electronic voice capturing, measuring vibrations and stuff like that which either robs ghost hunting of its mystery or brings scientific legitimacy to some freaky shit.
Sadly, my mother told me that I’d never get into Columbia, so I didn’t even try and that dream dried like a raisin in the sun. Thanks mom.
Anyway, though my dreams of dealing with the supranatural (that’s like a whole ‘nother level above super!) were dashed so expertly, hundreds of miles away in Jersey, a cousin of mind discovered an ability that forced her into the world of ghosts. Let me just tell you that if you think that the Sixth Sense is fictional (or a good movie) you’re wrong (on both counts). There really are people out there who can see dead people and my cousin is one of them.
Ghosts don’t appear at convenient times you know. You can be in the middle of furiously rubbing one out in the privacy of your own bedroom (not that I do such abominable activities) when all of a sudden, out of the corner of your eye, you see your great grandfather sitting in your rocking chair with a horrified look on his face. Unsavory. On the other hand, ghosts can come at good times too to help you out. My cousin once went to Atlantic City and a vision of her father helped her kick ass at the roulette wheel. I shit you not.
Of course, having ghosts around isn’t always a good way to make extra cash; it can be draining on your psyche as well. My cousin did therapy and junk. Not fun. Her sixth sense is limited, she can only see dead family members, which is nice if you’re wondering what happened to your grandparents after they died, but not so nice if you consider a funeral and burial to be the last time you want to see that specific dead person
In college, I lived in a place called the SALT House. I’ve probably mentioned the place before, but if I haven’t, hold tight, there are dozens of Eighty-Four Glyde quality stories there for me to relate in future columns. Anyway, the SALT House was very old. So old in fact, that there were still gas fixtures on the walls from the gaslights that were used before electricity was invented. Tell me, have you ever lived in a place that old (besides your mom’s womb!)? That place was so old that the Blair Witch was too scared to go in the cellar. The SALT House was the kind of Amityville/Poltergeist house that couldn’t help but have a trillion years of mysterious and probably sinister past, full of murders, poisonings and people being bricked up in walls alive. Sadly, we never knew the history of the place, so we could only make up our own stories for the weird events that took place there.
That place had all the classic haunted characteristics: odd rapping sounds emanating from walls, creaks on the stairs when nobody was walking up or down them, doors that opened and closed themselves when you weren’t looking and, of course, blood cascading down the second floor hallway every night at ten, preceded by the appearance of a set of mute twin girls, (alright, that part was a lie, but then again that hotel from The Shining was one of the scariest joints ever!).
We never figured out what caused the haunting to occur. We just learned to live with it. Hell, our rowdy college behavior probably pissed the ghost off and made him leave. I know that if I were dead I wouldn’t want to be bothered in the middle of the night by a drunk dude pissing out his window because he’s too lazy to find the bathroom. Casper would have been gone in minutes, probably from alcohol poisoning. Though I wonder if a ghost could die that way. Hmmm sounds like it’s experiment time.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Don & Mike: Radio Snobs

I really hate that I have so many negative Eighty-Four Glyde entries where I seem to only focus on things that irk me. I would love to do a blog about the things that I like, (much like my column on Topanga a few weeks back). Sadly, this won’t be that kind of entry.
Joshua is national. So national, in fact, that Joshua can refer to Joshua in the third person. An honor such as this is reserved for the very few. To be honest, I’m international, read in such far away (and extremely foreign lands) places as Iraq, Korea, Germany and Jersey. Which means that the entry I’m doing today will only make sense to a few people, (probably just myself) and therefore, you’re not missing much if you skip it. With two strikes against today’s entry (1. It’s negative 2. It’s localized) feel free to just relax, check out some porn, create a virus to destroy the Tila Tequila empire and call it a day. For those who stay: prepare for the suckfest!
There’s a local radio show here in D.C. called the Don & Mike show. They broadcast on a talk FM station (106.7 WJFK) and are syndicated to a bunch of small markets around the country. Don and Mike have been together, doing the show in one form or another, for the past 20 years. They’ve been through much. They started off as a “wacky morning zoo” show on one station and eventually made it to the third or fourth highest rated show in the afternoon drive (my figures could be a little off, but, since they’re not going to read this, I’m not too worried) on another station. They’ve been together through a bunch of program directors, station managers, producers, interns, format changes and stupid FCC rules. They survived in the post-Janet Jackson “wardrobe malfunction” world and that Imus debacle. They’ve been together since Don’s son was a baby (he’s in college now) and through the tragic (though I’ve rarely seen a death that wasn’t tragic) death of Don’s too-hot-for-him wife. They’ve endured marriages, divorces and mid-show runs to the emergency room.
The problem is that they’re just too damn old.
If you don’t listen to the show, then you won’t know what I’m talking about, but bear with me here. They used to be hilarious guys. They had great bits and seemed to enjoy themselves (not in that way!) on the air. They had regular callers, guests and all types of sweet shit that made it imperative to listen to them everyday. But then they changed.
They started to insult callers more. Insulting callers isn’t a bad thing, it can make for interesting radio. But they weren’t just insulting the retarded callers who should have been tied in a bag and thrown off a bridge at birth. No. They would also insult callers who had the gall to call in and compliment the guys, telling them how much they love the show. And I’m talking brutal insults. They can’t get away with cussing on the air, but they seriously lay into these people for no reason. These people are their fan base. We are the ones that come out to live shows and support Don and Mike. We are the ones the show is meant for. Why, it makes about as much sense as having a president who doesn’t look out for the American people and is only concerned with his own selfish agenda, regardless of how low his approval rating is (shocking)!
They’re even worse with guests. If they like the guest, then they immediately start sucking that celebrity guest’s ball sack as if it contains grape drink (I want that purple stuff!) If they don’t like the guest, then they do sound effects that the guest can’t hear that do nothing but demean everybody who listens (just because you don’t like Alton Brown doesn’t make him a tool you douches!).
And I seriously think that they purposely stay out of touch with reality. They never know what’s going on in the world or who anybody is in the news. It’s all about the current events people! They’re both almost 50 and I think they’re trying to hold on to the old times as long as possible. They love to talk about Larry King, Regis Philbin and Wayne Newton. When was the last time any of those decrepit old fossils were relevant? Back when you were just a gleam in your daddy’s eye is when. They watch Good Morning America religiously and make sure to always comment about the anchors. Very weird. But what’s even weirder is when they devote whole hours of their show to small-time, nobody, local anchor people. They must know that people in Kansas don’t know or care about the weather lady at my local Fox affiliate. Yet they continue to talk about these people. Just to entertain themselves, I guess.
I’ll post a link to their site at the end of this, but it won’t be useful. You’ll just get an idea of the way Don & Mike are now, not of the glory days of the early to mid 90s. I would call the show to give my criticism, but I’m sure I’d simply be hung up on or yelled at. I’d go to their discussion boards and address what I feel are the concerns of a long-time and loyal listener, but the fools there would most likely bash me until I commit suicide or leave my computer and go enjoy the real world. Don & Mike are not good at taking constructive, or positive criticism, no matter what the intentions. I just wished that they’d listen to all of their listeners, not just the most vocal of us. And I wished that they’d take into account what the listeners think, and not just what they think we think.
The show will end next year when Don retires, and as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think I’ll miss them that much. At this point in their careers they are like Old Yeller, foaming at the mouth. They need to be put down before they embarrass themselves or cause any more damage to their once shining careers.
Don & Mike, if you guys ever read this, just know that I love you guys and listen everyday. And even though you might have been broadcasting together for over 20 years, you’ve lost touch with your fan base and with the real world. Time to go to bed.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Reasons to move to a deserted island

• Why do people say “who cares?” What they really mean is “I don’t care.” So why don’t they say that?
Steve: “Britney Spears just lost custody of her children!”
Dave: “Who cares?”
Steve: “Well, I do, for one. Obviously. Since I brought it up and all. Her kids could possibly have an opinion on this subject as well.”
• Why do people walk through doorways and then just stop on the other side of the entrance? I don’t get it and it frustrates the hell out of me. If you arrive in a building or room you’ve never been in before and the fancy walls, floor and ceiling astound you and leave you dazed and confused, then please, please, step to the side, out of the way of everybody, and get your bearings without holding up traffic.
• Why do some people equate questioning or criticizing the war with being unpatriotic or traitorous?
• Why does religion cause more problems than it solves, yet everybody thinks religion in general is just the bees’ knees?
• Who came up with the saying “bees’ knees?” Does that make sense to anybody?
• Why is our productivity defined by how many hours we spend at work? Why can’t I go to my job and do my work until I’m done, then leave? Why do I have to sit at a desk for eight hours a day for almost 30 minutes worth of actual work?
• Why do people put so much stock in the Constitution? Don’t they know it’s a worthless piece of paper? You can’t run a country based on a document that’s hundreds of years old and incredibly out of date, that’s like trying to set up your cable TV using directions for assembling a bike. It’s going to lead to some bloody knuckles and hella frustration.
• Why don’t people use their turn signals anymore? What is it about talking on a phone while driving that turns everybody stupid? They decide that with one hand on the wheel, and one on the phone, that they can’t reach the turn signal switch, I guess. Sadly, it’s not just people on phones. It’s just thoughtless people in general.
• Why do people always think that they’re the exception to rules? Everywhere you go you’ll see somebody try to cut in line or make a turn from a non turn lane, or something that they know they shouldn’t do, but they don’t care because everybody thinks he/she’s special. Or that the rules don’t apply to them. Parents are really bad at this. They tell their kids what they can and can’t do, but then go ahead and act any way they want around the kids without realizing that they’re being watched. Why am I supposed to do what you tell me to if you don’t think that you should follow that rule yourself?
• Why are people so willing to let our insane government take away all our rights and freedoms under the guise of fighting terrorism? Why do people let the drummed up fear of “terrorist acts” control them so much? Military people like to say that they’re fighting for our freedom, (a favorite saying of soldiers is: I may not agree with what you say, but I’ll fight to the death your right to say it!) the thing is, all of our freedoms are being stolen by our own government. Terrorists aren’t trying to keep us from smoking in public or lobbying to have Intelligent Design taught in school. Nope, that’s our own peoples doing that shit!
• Why do politicians put more effort into talking about shit instead of actually getting shit done? It’s like they’d rather spend all day arguing about why things are messed up instead of fixing anything.
• Why do political bloggers spend so much time insulting each other and doing character assassination instead of partaking in logical, well-thought out and researched debates? And what’s the point of political bloggers anyway? Has anybody ever been swayed by somebody’s tirade against the biased liberal media, or somebody’s rant against the holier-than-thou conservatives? Doubtful.
• Why is America so litigious? We’re quick to take offense at the smallest thing and instead of thinking, we have ignorant, knee-jerk reactions. What’s worse is that everybody thinks that they have these rights that they simply don’t have. If some dude tried to sue me for $65 million because he didn’t like the way his pants were dry cleaned, I’d slap the taste out his mouth. And if I were the judge in that case, I would get up off the bench, hike up my judge robes and walk over to the plaintiff to beat him to a bloody mess with my gavel.
• And while I’m at it, that Goldman guy shouldn’t get a bloody dime from the O.J. book. It’s not even about reparations with him, he’s purposely being a dick just for the sake of being a dick. Guess what guy? It won’t bring your son back if you get a judge to order O.J. to give you his watch!
• Am I the only one who thinks this political correctness thing has got to go? I’m down for everybody respecting people because it’s the right thing to do and people would like to be respected in return, but to force people to respect others is pointless. That way you just piss off both sides.
• Why do Americans take so much pride in being stupid? We can’t get along as the richest country in the world forever. Just like a model’s beauty fades and she has nothing to fall back on, so to will our civilization crumble if we continue to enjoy such fine television programming as Are you smarter than a 5th grader? Do people not realize that other countries make fun of us for having shows like that?
• Why do people confusing being fat with being ugly? Ladies and gents, just because you can break a toilet seat in half when you sit on it does not mean that you’re ugly. It just means you’re fat! There are plenty of attractive people out there of all sizes. It’s mostly women who tie up the self-consciousness of their size with low self-esteem about their looks. There’s no reason why you can’t be big and hot.
• On the other hand, people, don’t get it twisted. Being overweight is unhealthy. It just is, (so is being underweight, I’d like to point out). I don’t understand why our society’s cognitive dissonance on the subject resulted in people being proud of being fat. It’s not a matter of being right or wrong when you’re overweight, it’s a health issue. Don’t embrace your size (be it too large or too small) while ignoring the opportunity to make yourself healthier. Is it the fault of genes? Is it the fault of restaurants feeding us transfats and trying to trick us? Is it laziness? Who knows? But don’t let the reason for your size be the excuse for not improving yourself.
• What causes people to blame others for their problems? If you scared, say you scared, don’t blame big faceless corporations for everything. If you do that, then the real grievances with the soulless conglomerates get lost in the sauce.
• Does anybody else think that a democracy isn’t exactly the best way to run a country? I’m not a communist or anything, but think about it. It’s all about majority rules. That means that if 51% of the population likes something, and 49% doesn’t, then that 49% is screwed. Seems a bit off to me. I’m for a tyrannical dictatorship. If Bush just opened up and admitted that he’s mouth-raping the Constitution, the Congress and the population of this country, then I might actually have some respect for him. Instead, he won’t just come out and say that he’s evil.
• What’s up with the group mentality in America? Adults love to teach kids that peer-pressure to do drugs is wrong, but what about adult peer-pressure? Anybody remember Prohibition? The only people who wanted that were wrinkly, dried up old biddies, yet they were able to guilt others into passing that pointless amendment. Same with the “going green” crowd.
• Speaking of which, you know this whole movement to go green is just a fad, right? It’ll die out as soon as things become too expensive or it turns out to be too much of a hassle to stay green.
• I think vegetarians need to lighten up. Don’t you? Same with people who hate fur and people trying to get smoking banned outside.
• Why is this list of things so long? Is there anything I do like about America? What do you like?

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

The most expletive-laden Eighty-Four Glyde ever. Bitches!

The times, they are a changin’. It used to be, back in the wild and swingin’ 70s (or 60s, I don’t really know because that was a long time ago and I’m old enough as it is) that, according to George Carlin, there were seven words you couldn’t say on television. Some of these words were pretty high on the old cursometer, (the system of measurement for just how bad a curse word is), but some weren’t so bad, and a few are actually said on TV in this day and age. Words like: shit, piss and tits can be heard in any given episode of South Park, or Two and a Half Men (actually, I don’t know if that’s true since I don’t watch the dumb thing, I’ve just wanted to take a crack at that show for months now, but couldn’t figure out how to work it into an entry. Honestly, who watches it anyway? All the chicks Charlie Sheen has boned? That’s the only way to account for the high Neilson rating).
Is this the fault of American society? Have we become so loose with our morals and ethics that we have allowed curse words to infiltrate the everyday life of our culture, tearing it asunder? Have we lost sight of family values and the principles that this wonderful country (America. Motto: Either you’re with us, or we’ll unlawfully invade your country, rape your land and your women and make off with your livestock!) was founded upon? Has the proliferation of curse words in our society been the catalyst that caused the moral bankruptcy of America?
Don’t be a moron.
Curse words have been around for as long as man has accidentally dropped heavy objects on his toes. Curse words (or cuss words, whatever) are the very definition of freedom and liberty. By exclaiming curse words whenever we feel the desire, we are announcing our independence from the “accepted” everyday language used for business and the subjugation of our spirits by a totalitarian and nosy government.
When I was a kid, it was different. Me and my friends cussed when we hung out, to show how cool we were, how old we were and because our parents weren’t around. Naturally, had our parents been around when these cussfests were going on, I’m sure that any future kids I had will have been born with black eyes from the serious beatdown I would have received. (That is the most convoluted sentence involving past-conditional and future-conditional tenses I’ve ever written. I don’t think it came out right.)
I could never get the hang of cussing around my parents. It just didn’t seem right. I know other kids who could cuss around their parental units (and who called their parents by their first names, which was and always will be a weird thing that only WPs do) and would urge me to also cuss around their parents. But I just couldn’t. There were two worlds growing up, the world of kids, who cuss around each other and will sometimes write notes in school that consist of nothing but cuss words (just to show how many they know) and the world of adults who take cussing for granted because they’ve been doing it for so long, but still hold onto the ability to do so, thereby robbing kids of the freedom.
I always held my tongue around adults. I didn’t want them to know that I knew more cuss words, (in more languages) than they did. While they were busy censoring themselves, I was easily filling in the blanks in the conversation, Mad-Libs style, with great delight. Speaking of cussing in other languages, my elementary school, from 1st to 6th grade, was all in French. We all learned a bunch of cuss words in French that we could use at home around our unsuspecting parents, and that was great. But we also discovered French words that sound like cuss words in English, and we would enjoy hours of saying them around adults and then defending ourselves as just being really cultured. The French word for seal, by the way, is very similar to the English word one uses to tell another to go fornicate themselves. Try using it in polite dinner conversation; you’ll be amazed by the results.
But a problem as arisen. There are no new or interesting cuss words. We’ve run out of expletives to hurl at each other. Sure, in recent years, we’ve developed new insults, “asshat,” comes to mind, as does the suffix (and this has only recently become a suffix, I’d like to point out) “tard” tacked on to the end of something (i.e. asstard, hattard, or asstardhat) and I’m very happy that “douchebag” has make such a strong comeback since the 80s. But none of those are cuss words and that saddens me. We need to create a new cuss word.
Of course, to create a new cuss word, you need a niche to fill. Cuss words have to somehow involve bodily processes, activities that involve the body, body parts or just funny sounding names for body parts, like taint, coccyx or uvula. Sadly, these niches are already pretty well filled, and the Tourettes crowd is making great progress in combining these words into new hybrids that make no sense but sounds dirty as hell. They’ve got that covered. Which means we have look to the second reason curse words are made: to insult or make fun of other races.
Recently, it has come to my attention that some white people feel as if they’ve been unfairly treated. They feel that in order to make great strides for unity in this piece of land we call the U.S.* (motto: Supporting US Americans in Africa and the Middle East, such as, for years) that there should be a derogatory word for white people. Black people aren’t making too much of a deal about this, we just call whites stupid or crazy and just go about our business. But that’s not enough for some people. They want to be insulted! They want to be able to rally around a word, steal its power and bury it in a symbolic, yet completely pointless funeral service. And I’m here to oblige.
It’s time we came up with a cuss word for white people. Let’s bring them down a peg or two, shall we? I guess honky and cracker just aren’t good enough insults anymore. We need to create a stronger, more hate-filled word that scores high on the cursometer and will cause children to cry, women to cover their ears and men to start land wars in Asia. Any suggestions?

*Located on any map, just above Mexico and just below Canada. You’re welcome.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Oh fair Topanga, why has thine lovely visage flown from my sight?

It’s Friday night, mid 90s, and that can only mean one thing: the TGIF line up on ABC. TGIF was a block of family-oriented sitcoms that lasted for about 12 years (1988-2000). Every Friday I would remember rushing to take my shower after dinner (drying after the shower was optional, and often ignored due to my desire to get in front of the t.v. as soon as possible. Consequently, trying to pull my pajamas on while still wet lead to much loss of balance and gaps in my memory) and running to the t.v. to sit approximately five inches away.
Usually, I didn’t care what the show was, I pretty much loved them all. Of course, I did have a few favorites, Dinosaurs, Perfect Strangers and Family Matters (Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper was alright too.) But the show that drew my attention every Friday, (yeah, that’s right, I didn’t have that many dates back then. Fancy that! Television was, and always will be, my first love.) was Boy meets world.
Now, I could get into the entire seven or eight year history of the show --its many twists and turns, its highs and lows, its pathos, drama and how it was heavily influenced by the writers of Greek tragedies and the lessons and teachings of Confucius—but I won’t. Suffice it to say, Boy meets world was a work of genius, and (dare I say it?) far superior to Saved by the Bell. Not a TGIF show I know, but it longed to mimic the success BMW had achieved, (yes, SBTB came first, but it was still jealous.)
The highlight of the show was everybody’s favorite high school hippy: Topanga. Ahhhh, Topanga! Where have you gone? Relegated to G-Movies made by National Lampoon, acting alongside Vida Guerra. It’s a shame. But today we shall not dwell on what woes time hath wrought upon this unfortunate cherub, rather, we shall focus on the Topanga of old, the Topanga who could put your eye out with her nipple, the Topanga who wasted her time dating a complete and total (damn, how redundant is that?) tool who never lived up to the name “Savage.”
I must begin with the physical description. Though let me state that any words I commit to paper could never match up to the beauty and poise that was Danielle Fishel. Her eyes imparted a special glow, as if to say to me and me alone “hey there tough guy, I might be here stuck on t.v., but my fondest wish in life is to be all over your junx!” Her lips had the appearance of two plump Jimmy Dean sausages*, (or, Bob Evans if you prefer) as if she purposely had them stung by bees each morning.
Her breasts were full and large. She could have served as a wet nurse to a camel! (Can you picture that? Unsavory.) I’m more of a leg man myself, but even I couldn’t help but admire her dirty pillows.
Her chest was attached to one of her best features: her body. Topanga, as the veganized, soy-sucking hippy she was, somehow developed one of the tightest thick bodies in Hollywood. She was smart; she knew that guys really wanted a woman who could take their breath away (when she’s laying on top. Rim shot!!) And she delivered. Man, I miss the days when a Reubenesque body was seen as more than a person’s weak will power. Looking at Topanga, you got the feeling that she wore the pants in her relationships and made Corey Matthews her bitch. And I bet he didn’t mind at all. Lucky bastard!
You also got the feeling that she could beat up her female costars at any moment and probably ran shop behind the scenes, threatening to beat innocent women with her enormous ta-tas at the drop of a hat.
The only problem I had with Topanga was how she just let Corey run her life. In the first few seasons, Topanga was strong-willed. She didn’t hesitate to let people know the truth, and they could only stare slack-jawed, lamenting their pitiful brainpower in comparison. But one day, all of a sudden, she became a sheep. She seemed to like taking orders from Corey and forgiving him his trespasses when she shouldn’t have. It was a travesty.
A dark and gloomy day occurred in my life on November 5, 1998, (three days after my birthday no less!) the day Corey and Topanga tied the knot. Their marriage, (which took an excruciating two weeks to unfold) struck me as a dagger in my na├»ve heart. I could have offered her so much! Our marriage would have been the stuff of legends! The blasphemy was compounded by the terrible quality of life her husband supplied once they were in college. Corey was no provider. He was a fraud. He didn’t deserve to sniff Topanga’s farts!
A piece of me died the day Topanga Lawrence became Topanga Lawrence-Matthews. A piece of me is gone, never to return again.
Danielle Fishel, (unfortunate last name by the way) if you’re out there and you somehow manage to find this, let it be known: I will take you as my own! I shall show you pleasures and make all of your fantasies come true! I know you’re younger than me and for once, I am willing to make an exception to my older-women rule. I’m here baby! Let me know! I’ve been following the decline of your career for years, and I’ve got an idea for you. Dig this: an actress does a reality show wherein she marries a fan of hers she’s never met before. It’s brilliant! Give me a call, send me an e-mail, do some smoke signals, it’s all good!
(To Alyssa Milano, if you’re reading this, don’t be discouraged, you still have a chance, you just have to contact me first.)

*Sorry, I have no other way to describe her lips that doesn’t sound completely gay, or involves comparing them to food.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Captain Road…umm StreetMan? (Sorry, that’s the best my feeble mind could do)

Look on the avenue…
…It’s a motorcycle!
…It’s a scooter!
…No, it’s Captain Road-StreetMan. The superhero who brings awareness of the rules of the road and proper car etiquette!

“That’s right kiddies, it’s me, Captain Road-StreetMan, and I’m here to set you straight on the rules of driving so that when you grow up and get your drivers’ licenses, you won’t end up as greasy smears on the pavement. Or worse, as victims of somebody’s Road Rage.
“You see boys and girls, there are rules for driving, and they are in place because our nation’s roads are full of: a) Immigrants who refuse to learn English or how to drive in America
b) Old people who don’t care if they live or die
c) People who must have bribed the employees at the DMV
d) Women
“And we need protection from all these types of drivers. Especially so people like my friend Joshua won’t feel the urge to give in to his homicidal desires when he drives to work every morning. So let’s go over a few of my rules of the road…umm, street:”

1. Always use your turn signals. Not only does this let other people know how many lanes you plan on drunkenly weaving across, but it also helps you when other people do the same. Because there’s nothing worse than speeding down the road and some jerk who’s too cool to use his turn signal (and going at least 30 mph slower than you) decides that he likes your lane better and cuts you off. Then you have to slam on the brakes and you end up breaking your teeth on the damn steering wheel!

2. Don’t talk on your cell phones while you drive. There are better ways to multitask. Give or get roadhead, flip off other drivers, donate blood, do some smack, but don’t talk on your phone while you drive. While it might seem like it’s not a big deal to talk while driving, leading scientists* have proven (scientifically) that cell phones release certain chemicals in the brain that lowers people’s intelligence quotient by 70 points. This is why you so often hear people having incredibly pointless and sometimes embarrassingly private conversations in very public venues.

3. Don’t drive the speed limit. It’s too slow. Those aren’t limits, they’re suggestions. I would advocate using common sense to figure out how fast to go, but obviously, if drivers in this country had any sort of common sense, I wouldn’t exist. Always drive fast. It helps you get where you want to go quicker and, if you’re in an accident, the high velocity will ensure a quick and painless death, instead of a long, drawn out life full of suffering and immense pain.

4. Use your brakes sparingly. Most accidents occur for one of two reasons, bad judgment when people pull out into the road, or because people use their brakes incorrectly. Don’t be one of those people who steps on the brakes because somebody in the next lane does it. And don’t use your brakes so heavily when making turns. Forward motion works only when you’re moving forward. Don’t be afraid of your vehicles! Sure they’re a few tons of metal, plastic and glass that can go wildly out of control, killing people indiscriminately and causing millions on damage, but they can also be your friends. Remember Herbie the Lovebug, K.I.T.T. and the batmobile.

“Well kiddies, that’s all the time your old friend Captain Road-StreetMan has today. I have to go key a few cars of people who didn’t come to a complete stop at stop signs. Remember chiluns, always obey the rules of the road, because you don’t want me to come to your room in the middle of the night and punch you in the junx! Ta-ta.”

*What’s the opposite of a leading scientist? A following scientist?

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Tales of bathroom horror: Does a Josh shit in the woods?

With the fall here, I find myself rushing to do some things that I forgot to do during the summer. It happens. With my crazy, fastlane lifestyle, things fall through the cracks from time to time. So, when I get a free minute (in between performing life-saving heart surgery and feeding the hungry in Mongolia*) I like to spend my time relaxing in a proactive way.
To that end, last Saturday, I gathered the troops, some beer, a grill and plenty of food and headed up to a nearby lake for some quality fishing. And by fishing I of course mean “attempting to throw a dangerous hook attached to a line into the water without it first going through three layers of clothes and two layers of skin,” which is harder than it sounds.
Fishing. What a weird activity. By the way, who figured out using worms as bait? If I’m not mistaken, worms don’t tend to do much swimming or jet skiing. So why would somebody think to use them to entice and trap fish? And to be honest, I don’t think fish like worms anyway. My theory is that they just pretend to like worms to screw with people who go fishing. The fish swim up to the dangling worm, impaled on the barbed hook, and they laugh. Then they take little nibbles of the worm without getting anywhere near the hook, and when they’re done, they gently tug on the string to let you know that they’re ready for the next course.
I’ve never been a bass master or anything, (or even a master baiter!) when it comes to fishing, but I do enjoy the serene vistas and calm moods that fishing brings out. Unless you manage to keep losing worms to those blasted cunning fish and can’t get a decent bite even after four hours of trying! Then things can get a little heated. That’s why it’s always important to bring some potent potables to mellow you out. Sitting in a chair looking out over a lake for seven hours can also be kinda boring, which is another good reason to drink if I’ve ever heard one.
We were there all day, laughing, fishing, cavorting, frolicking and generally having a decent time of it. When we got bored with fishing we’d grill some food or take a nap. It was a good time. There was just one bad part…
…See, the previous night I had ordered some hot wings from Cluck U. And, well, I often forget that when they’re hot going in, they’re also hot coming out, and they like to be messy (ewwww.) That morning my stomach was talking to me and my anus was starting to join the conversation. My first thought was to run to a port-a-potty. But, sadly, we were at least a half-mile trek from where the cars were parked (and where I mistakenly thought there’d be some kind of bathroom facility. Silly me.) So, there was only one other option. I grabbed a roll of paper towels (which aren’t made to be soft or comfortable on ones bum, by the way) and headed off into the woods, out of sight of my friends.
I walked for a minute or two, until I was out of earshot (sometimes, in the heat of the moment I sound like a water buffalo trying to give birth) dropped trou and had a seat, (no, not in poison ivy, I’m not that dumb!) I figured that even though it was a lovely Saturday morning, it was too cold for people to be out and about enjoying nature. That’s why I didn’t realize that the spot I thought I was completely hidden in was actually 20 yards from a path. I didn’t realize that until a lovely old couple walked by.
Now imagine, you’re 70 years old or whatever. Your bones or old and brittle. You and your hubby don’t get out much. The one bright spot in your week is your habitual walk on the path of a nearby lake, where you get to enjoy the crisp autumn air, the company of your beloved life partner and the glorious feeling of being alive. Then, the next thing you know, there’s some weirdly dressed black man not 50 feet away from you, taking a dump in the woods and waving at you like you’re a long-lost friend. Crazy!
Honestly, what can you do when you’re caught out there going number two in a place that was a bit more public than you realized? I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me, or the old couple that kept sneaking glances at me because they weren’t sure if I was doing what it obviously looked like I was doing. All I could do was smile and wave with my pants around my ankles and my butt exposed to the wind.
We didn’t catch any damn fish either.

*Why not?

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Take two of these and call me in the morning

People like to go around, justifying their crazy and often self-destructive (if they’re going it right, that is) behavior with the phrase “Life is short.”

Dude #1: Dude, let’s stay up all night doing shots of Everclear. It’ll be awesome!
Dude #2: I can’t dude, I’ve got my final in underwater basket-weaving in the morning.
Dude #1: Screw that noise! Life is short dude. Let’s have some fun!

Oh, how that irks me to no end! (And I’m not one who’s easily irked.) People are insane. Life isn’t short. It’s long. It’s the longest possible thing you can do! Once that is understood, people can adjust their views accordingly. And maybe some good can come out of this crazy thing we call life, (well, actually, I call it Barry, but when I tell people that I love my Barry, they look at me weird.)
There are a lot of people out there telling others how to live their lives. Now, it’s even an actual job and people are getting paid for it. These people are called “Life Coaches” and as much as I want to hate them for having such a phony-baloney job, I’m really just jealous that I didn’t think of it first. I’d be a great life coach, because unlike, say, Tony Robbins, I actually know the key to having a good life, (and oddly enough, it has nothing to do with fame or power, which goes to show why there has never been a country or world leader who had a good time in life. Think about it!)
Let me break it down to you, for free. I won’t tell you everything you need to know, I’m just giving you a little taste, like your pusherman. When you come back for more, that’s when I start charging.
The key to living a good life isn’t to live in the present. It’s to think about the future. Whenever one faces a dilemma, or a choice between two things, one must consider what the future holds, (like how I used “one”? Makes me sound like Confucius!)
Picture yourself on your deathbed, old, liver-spotted, wearing diapers, and ready to finally go to that big Wal-mart in the sky. Do you want your last thought to be “Damn, I wish I had spent more time in high school doing pointless homework and monotonous class work,” or, “I’m glad I skipped school that day to go skinny-dipping with Rachel (unless your name is Rachel, in which case I guess it doesn’t apply to you.*)? Exactly. Skinny-dipping wins every time.
All it takes to have a good life is to picture yourself on your deathbed. Think about what you’d lament; think about what would give you great memories. Because, in the end, no matter who you are and what you have or have not accomplished in your life, you’re made up entirely of your memories, they are the only thing you can take with you when you go. Make them good.
Or, if you’re lazy, you can just win the lottery. That pretty much guarantees a good life. It’s not money that’s the root of all evil, it’s not having money. So say Confucius, (well, not really, but he would have if he saw the new iPhone!)

*Disclaimer: Not all skinny-dipping experiences with girls named Rachel are guaranteed to be great. User experience may vary, not available in all areas. Void where prohibited

Bad news, fans o’ the Glyde. Due to the fact that I’m trying to start some kind of a pathetic freelance writing career means that I’ll be cutting down Eighty-Four Glyde entries to once a week. So, gone are the Sundays when you could stumble out of bed at noon, bleary-eyed and hung over, wander over to the interweb and begin your day with a hearty belly laugh at my antics. You will have to make due with peeing yourself at work on Wednesday mornings, until my desire to make a real writer of myself is gone and I return back to my humble Eighty-Four Glyde roots. TTFN.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

In the golden afternoon

And so another summer draws to a close. Long hot days, short stuffy nights, weekends at the pool, grilling, water balloon fights, public nudity; all those things have to end now, which is a shame, because there’s nothing like grilling naked, feeling the breeze blowing through your giblets.
The end of summer is always a drag, isn’t it? You have to cram everything you wanted to do into those last, few precious days. And it can’t be done! You end up too stressed, driving to the beach with all the other poor shlubs trying to get in that last good weather weekend. And sitting in traffic for longer than a Jerry Lewis telethon (which is in its 8 millionth year I believe. Way to go Jerry! So what are you doing with all that money? Even Chris Rock is skeptical of your progress!) is never a good way to spend your dwindling summer.
The part I hate? The shortening of the days. The great thing about summer is having the sun already in the sky by the time you get up. Makes you feel like a regular person, arising when one was intended to. There’s nothing worse than getting up to go to work in the fall or winter and it’s still dark out. It’s like the sun is saying “Screw you, let me get another hour of sleep.” Then you have to stumble around in the gloom, cursing the darkness and wondering where you went wrong with your life and why you aren’t passed out in a big pile of money from your last platinum album like you pictured yourself when you were a kid, (wow, what a long and rambling sentence.)
Fall is okay, I guess, (except for getting up at “oh dark thirty” as we say in the army) the leaves transform beautifully, the air becomes crisp and refreshing and it’s not so hot. But still, the ever approaching darkness. Twilight at 4:30? What nonsense is this? And this year they’re changing daylight savings time, aren’t they? Now, instead of it being at the end of October, (wait, is that when it’s usually done? I need a damn almanac!) it’s going to be at the end of November. Spring forward, fall back. Don’t know how I feel about that yet. And who makes these decisions? How freakin arbitrary is daylight savings time? Why have it at all these days? Wasn’t it invented for farmers back in the days when maize was this country’s number one crop?
I like the sun too much. I want daylight all the time. Other than the fact that I was in a war, I enjoyed being in Iraq. It was always bright and sunny, (except for during the rainy season, when it was gloomy and depressing). Sure it was 200 degrees in the shade, but I didn’t mind, sweating profusely is the lazy man’s work out routine.
I feel sorry for people in Alaska. For almost half the year it’s always daylight, which isn’t too shabby. But that means for the rest of the year it’s always dusk. And I can’t support that action. Of course, I could be entirely wrong here. My vast, almost encyclopedic knowledge of everything could be way off base as to the weather patterns in Alaska. Can I tell you my horrible secret? I can’t find the United States on a map. I thought I was alone out of U.S. Americans that way, but it seems that I’m not. My plan was to go to Iraq and South Africa and such, but I can’t find those places on a map either!
But I digress. Back to the summer. It’s not too late people. The summer is waning, but it’s not gone yet. There’s still time to enjoy and pretend. Unless you have to go back to school, in which case, you’re screwed. When I was younger, I always felt weird the first week or so back at school after the summer. I felt as if I was Huckleberry Finn, captured out in the wild and bundled off to get an education. There I’d be in class, the teacher talking to the students about learning fractions and shit and I’d be lost in my imagination, staring out the window, waiting for the day to end so I could take my shoes and socks off and go down to the creek to try and catch crayfish. But those days are gone. Never to return. Unless I develop some kind of super power that allows me to relieve my past, (wouldn’t that be great? Man, think of all the mistakes that could be corrected! I could tell Brittany to put on some panties for christsake, or tell Lindsay and Paris to take a cab instead of driving. The possibilities are endless!)
Ahh, summer. The lazy mornings, the golden afternoons, the itchy evenings. I guess it’s a good thing summer only comes around once a year; it makes it more appreciated that way. But I know I’m going to miss the hell out of it until next May rolls around. Oh, and people from California? Yeah, I know the weather is perfect over there all the time. But that’s tempered by the fact that California is full of Californians, which means there’s no way in hell I’m moving to that freaked out state! I’d only consider it if the Governator extended me an invitation. And even then, it’s iffy.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

Friends: how many of us steal them?

Finally! After a year and a half of saying that I take requests, (hey everybody, I take requests for Eighty-Four Glyde columns!) somebody actually requested a topic for me to write about. So thanks Ashley, for giving your two cents. It’s about damn time!
Friend thieves. They’re out there. They could be sitting next to you. You could be one yourself. What’s a friend thief? Simple. Say you have a friend, (you do have a friend don’t you? If you don’t you should probably stop reading this now, it’s all about people who get along with other people and you’ll just depress the shit out of yourself if you continue) and your friend introduces you to a friend of his (you know, one day, you go over to your friend’s house to “watch the game” or perhaps play some “five card stud” or whatever the hell it is friends do, my lonely pathetic self has no idea) and the next thing you know you’re hanging out with your friend’s friend without your friend even being around! (did I write the word friend enough in that last sentence?) You have become a friend thief.
You might have stolen a friend before. You might have been the friend who was stolen. Think about it. Kinda creepy, isn’t it? Imagine people battling over who will get to hang out with you. It’s a self-esteem booster, that’s for sure. It’s like being Helen of Troy, I guess, only with less gay eye-candy.
Allow me to wander the corridors of my ever-shrinking memory (ah, memory. But that’s a topic for another time) for friend-thievery from my past. Hmmmm. Let……….me……thin……….k. (Don’t you love stream of consciousness thinking/writing? This is all in real time!) I got it!
Jay. The guy who filled in for me a few weeks ago with his rambling and oddly-worded Rant Stew. He’s constantly getting stolen from friends. See if you can follow me here: For a time my friend Lea had a boyfriend, (“for a time” is probably not the best choice of words, but I’m too lazy to think of anything else) her boyfriend had a friend named Jay. Although Lea broke up with the guy, she still hangs out with his friend Jay. Weird, I know. Then, when I came back from Iraq, Lea introduced me to Jay. I found him to be a jovial fellow and decided to include him in my wacky misadventures.
That makes Jay a twice-stolen friend. First he was stolen by Lea, then again by me. He gets stolen more than the innocence of young boys who hang out with Catholic priests, (not sure that makes sense, but I’ve always wanted to do a Catholic priest joke.) I wanted to get his opinion on this matter, just to see how he feels, so I asked him. The conversation went something like this:

Joshua: Hey Jay, why are people constantly stealing you as a friend? How does it make you feel to know that at any given moment somebody could snatch you up?
Jay: Huh?
Joshua: Yes, yes, I see. It all makes perfect sense now.

In my humble, yet extremely intelligent opinion, friend thieves are lazy. They don’t want to take the time to go out, socialize and meet new people. They’re perfectly comfortable with a “used” friend. Sloppy seconds, as it were. And that’s fine because that’s basically how America works. One day there will be friend stores where you can go shop for a shrink-wrapped friend from among hundreds, all lined up on shelves and each with their own cabbage patch baby-styled papers of authenticity and lineage. Won’t that be fun? No, it won’t. It’ll be a hassle. Not even sure it’s practical. I think I’m going on an odd tangent here. I’m digressing at an alarming rate!
Anyway, friend thieves are everywhere. Friend thievery is quite rampant. And you know what? It’s not a bad thing. Stealing friends is the best way to keep them in circulation, kind of like two dollar bills, or those useless Sacagawea dollars. To keep the American friend economy strong, friends need to be stolen, traded and spent.
So do your part people! Go out there and steal somebody’s friend today! It’s not that hard and it’s fun for the whole family, (except for the friend who’s being excluded I guess) and can be done in 30 minutes a day, three days a week*.
So thanks, little sister, for today’s discussion topic. Join us next week when I address the socio-economic status of small, badly-named Middle Eastern countries, (including ones with “stan” in the name!) And now, because I can’t think of a good way to end this disjointed and rambling entry, I think I’m just going to stop…….right…………………………………………………………………………now.

*results may vary.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Musings on a single lonely shoe

Oh, single lonely shoe,
Your appearance here saddens and confuses me.
What woe has befallen you,
To bring you so low?
What has caused you to be wrenched from your life,
And brought you here,
To the side of the road?
What sins could a single lonely shoe commit,
To warrant such a dismal fate?

Oh single lonely shoe,
I see that you also like to hang out
In the Lost and Found.
I know that you are Lost,
Single lonely shoe.
But have you ever been found?
There you lay,
Next to a nasty old pair
Of skid-marked tighty-whiteys
Trapped in a disgusting prison,
Not of your making.

Who would lose such a shoe as you?
How did you come to be here,
On the side of the road?
Looking forlorn and discarded,
As I drive by at 80 miles per hour.
Were you perhaps purchased as a set,
By a one-legged man who had no need for you?
And why are you always the left shoe?
Is there a large number of one-legged men with right feet out there?

Or perhaps you were stolen out of a trashcan
By an industrious raccoon,
Or other such vermin,
Who found his demise,
In the form of a Mack truck.
Launching you,
Single lonely shoe,
Away from the animal carcass,
To the median.
Where you rest,
Until the roadside chain gang crews
Come through to keep our highways and byways clean.

Oh single lonely shoe,
I look upon your fate with pity and remorse.
My mind filled with nary a clue as to how
A single lonely shoe
Could end up on the side of the road.
Speaking of which,
Where the hell do my socks keep going
When I wash them?!

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Rant Gumbo at Jay's Lounge

Welcome to the "Jay Lounge". It’s a great night to hang out with a bunch of people who are pretending to be your friends. In the house, towards the back, I see we have Professor Beakman, of "Beakman’s World"...(get that man a drink!). On the stage we have Casey & The Sunshine Band, Cree Summer and Lilly Allen warming up to perform together (get them a drink, too!). Oh, look who just walked girl, LoHo aka Lindsey Lohan (please take away her drink!). If you haven't noticed...I will be filling in this week for Joshua, the Barry Bonds of alcohol....who is taking some much needed rest before making an attempt at staggering past "756 beers" consumed during the month of August! What dedication! Folks, in all seriousness. If you haven't’s a very special moment for the "Jay Lounge." What is the occasion? Well, it’s the 1st time we have been syndicated on the net, instead of just in my mind. I want to touch on a couple of issues that have bothered me this week. I spend a lot of my time, working hard as hell at it’s nice to take a few moments to write and vent. So by exiting this hesitancy state, I shall present my rant!
Taken Orders:
Pedestrians! The dictionary definition says, "A pedestrian is a person traveling on foot, whether walking or running." Hmmm? Ok, but is this so? In modern times, the term mostly refers to someone walking on a road or footpath, but this seems to not be the case historically. More and more, I'm starting to think we should update this definition in the dictionary. How bout...... strategically moving road targets? Cause, that's what they seem to have become. I was riding in the car with one of my female sidekicks, (to protect her identity....I shall call her "not Ange-LEA Jolie".), when a woman decided to cross the street during a green light. I really never understood it....but it seems as if the pedestrian felt a can I say? Empowered? Just walking across the street taking her grand ass time. Talking to herself in her head, "Right foot, left foot, right foot? oops!"
Why do most pedestrians feel like they have the right to take their time to cross the street? More importantly, when did they start "mean mugging" people from the crosswalk as they cross the street? In some parts of DC and MD, people have constructed almost a pagan-like shrine to the cross walk gods. It comes complete with its own docking station and brightly orange or yellow colored flags that you are supposed to hold as you enter the crosswalk. This makes no sense, cause now instead of hitting the pedestrian.....the driver him/herself will get hit from behind. Just for slowing down and stopping for some punk ass dressed in the prep look.
I remember the good old days. Back then, as a sexy child, I would rarely cross any of the major roads. I would avoid them, point blank. When I had to....I followed the steps. There are documented certified steps for crossing the street (Exemption for those who live in NYC or some 3rd world country like Nebraska.) Step 1: Approach the crosswalk. Step 2: Look both ways and Step 3: Run across the street, screaming out of breath for your life. Note: You have to be screaming a noticeable pitch. I suggest, Mezzo-Soprano. It travels farther and sounds pretty nice. I used to love those days. Those were the days when people had respect for vehicles. No matter what type of car it was, we all treated each and every car operator with the respect they deserved. That of a seasoned killer.
I think I love Asians? For real, I think I might start hanging with Wesley Snipes. There is never a dull moment. Lets looks at the facts: 1) Tia Carrera- YEA! 2) Ping pong- Yea! (I made money on the DC streets this way.) 3) Vol-tron- Hell Yea! 4) Shoes made at some elementary trade school/factory in Asia, that seems to equal great quality and great prices. 5) Ummm...countless other improvements to the human race. You can insert your favorite here (------). I'm even sure Ihop was a product of the Asian culture, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was. Look, I'm just saying, I can understand why some guys swim the "yellow river." Cause its so sweet baby! You give me Ami Puffy Umi and a Wii....and I’ll show you a happy man. I mean, who can take the sunshine.....and sprinkle it with mod chips? The Candyman, cant....that's all I know.

Last Call: So, hurry up.
You know what I miss? Ok, I do miss Chelsea Clinton, but I really miss the '80s. I find myself wanting more and more shit from that era. I can’t wait to invite a girl over and cook her a meal with the tasty bake oven and top it off with a margarita from the snoopy slushy machine. Sit down and play Mike Tyson's punch out on the Nintendo? Maybe go pogo balling? Super soak her in the shower? Dry her up and let her wear some of my cross colors home? Do you understand where I'm going? I miss saying “rad”. I miss watching Snorks. I miss wearing my BK's around the hood. I miss getting treats from the ice cream man. This was the era when they were legitimate business men.....not shady, razor blade hiding in choc. eclairs, bammas. Where has my innocence gone? Do any of you fools, share my pain? (well, if you never had a Michael Jackson doll, then I don't really know how to relate with you.)
Here's a lil something for all you folks in a relationship. Even tho I'm not dating anyone, (this is mostly due to police involvement and the fact that I haven't found a girl that looks exactly like me.), I seem to posses this ability to help others with the opposite sex. I don't know...I just fell down my steps and woke up with all this knowledge. I will share just a lil bit with the fellas. I just want you guys to take the time to harass your love one. Men, once in a while, grab your girl and tell her you have chocolate syrup! Do you see where I'm going? No? This is why you’re probably single or having issues. Girls love to be harassed once in a while. You need to know the balance. It’s all about the balance. All women love a lil bad boy in a man. A "take no questions" type of guy. A vigilante. A type of man, when asked to do something, responds back like, "No Habla Ingles." These are what they want. These are some simple things you can do to just, to make her feel special...or at least feel like she’s worth at least minimum wage. Grab her ass. They really like that. Maybe even try to put your finger near the exit. You know what I mean, don't be ashamed. But wait, don't go in! Just let her know, you can get a lil nasty. She needs to know that, if needed to, you could eat her like crabs n old bay!
I’ll even share with you something real special. ***THIS IS A JAY EXCLUSIVE*** Maybe even dry hump her for 5 secs when she on the couch. You have to wait till she least expects it. Like coming home from work or leaving out of the shower. Hide behind something and just pounce on her. Take her down like the lions on the Discovery Channel. Dry hump her silly for a few secs, then roll out. Act like nothing happened. (This is my classic move....I have the patent.) Maybe watch her take a shower. Cook her food. (try not to ask her to go out and get you something to eat right after she finishes eating.) I mean, it’s not hard. You could even send her your undies. Yes, this is a great idea. Send it to her work place. They really like this. Just make sure that it is addressed to the right person. Delivering undies to a man can really be an issue. Point is, take the time to show her that she is totally hot and you want to be with her till the end of time...or at least until your done tapping it!
That one was for free. Maybe if Josh doesn't ban me from guesting on his blog in the future, I will give you guys and girls the "Rules for sleeping over" and "Jay’s guide to the woman-verse." If you have any problems or perceptions with dating, let me or Josh know. I'm sure we (meaning I) can get you through it.

Now that the blog is over, I’ll quickly list something for you to watch:
1) Grey’s Anatomy reruns
2) Codemonkeys
3) NY77: The coolest year in hell - This two-part, two-hour documentary tells the story of one of the most astonishing pop culture years in American history. New York City had fallen in decay and chaos.
4) Spaceballs The cartoon
I hope you enjoyed wasting your time reading my "Rant Gumbo." If you blend and stir, stir and blend, I'm sure you will find something you will like........way at the bottom! I hope you enjoy your weekend...and stay out of trouble. When you feeling down....look up, get up and never give up! Now, get the hell out of my establishment! I'm closed.