Wednesday, May 27, 2009

I can't believe this is still an issue.

Hey California Supreme Court! I got a good fuckin’ idea. Why don’t you lobby the real Supreme Court to banish all homosexuals to Yucca Mountain. You’ve already established that they’re second-class citizens anyway. Let’s just round ‘em up and dump ‘em in a place where they can continue doing what already doesn’t affect me at all but in a radioactive environment. Ooooh, while you’re following “the will of the people” and governing how people fuck each other, you should officially change their names to “faggot” too. They don’t need names. They’re not even real people. They’re monogamous heathens who drive cars, pay taxes, and mourn their dead. Why should they be able to enjoy the things that real people do?

Christ, remember when 26,000 of them made a desperate rush to marry each other after the liberals of your state opened that ridiculous window of opportunity for them to do so? They sure can imitate real-people happiness well. But I know truth. They’re just faggots. Thank goodness you, California Supreme Court, are around show the rest of the country that 18,000 gay couples are only as free as you allow them to be.

At least it’s over now. Jesus will finally stop nagging me to do something about them. He really hates it when men hump each other in the butthole, and he swears he’ll boycott ABC if his favorite show “The Bachelorette” starts pairing “the gays” up. Second-class people who’ve been together for decades shouldn’t be allowed to experience the deep and fulfilling love that first-class heteroes experience in a single season of “The Bachelorette,” “The Bachelor,” and “Who What’s to Marry a Millionaire?” (Am I missing any?). It’s too sacred.

Prop 8 Upheld

Monday, May 25, 2009

Kiss My Ass For Charity

I hope to one day be so desirable that European women will pay 56,000 dollars for a peck on the cheek...from me. For 56,000 I’d even point out the erection it caused. "See this, Adoring Fan? You caused this." That would be rather fulfilling, no? I’d definitely cover my bosom with a flattered palm if Angelina Jolie kissed my stubbly cheek then said "Check out these nips!" For 56,000 dollars, I’d do things that I’m too embarrassed to admit publicly. No, I’m not. For 56,000 dollars, I’d be more than willing, enthusiastic even, to drop my trousers and helicopter my genitals for a large audience of Catholic nuns, immediate family, gay convicts, small children, or Barack Obamas (That’s right. An auditorium of Barack Obamas). For 56,000, I’d kill a baby seal and strangle the president of PETA with cords of the little monster's skin. For 56,000 dollars, I’d push the ailing Muhammad Ali to the ground and say, "Who’s 'the greatest' now, bitch?" I’d slap the wife of the professional wrestler Batista. I’d sleep with a woman whom I’d be pretty sure is a man. I’d strap a pair of Nikes on my feet and streak the Vatican.

I guess what I’m saying is I need money. And I don't mean 12-hour-days-at-work money. That kind sucks. I want money that blooms like flowers on the trees in my backyard. I want to clean decomposing clumps of it from the rain gutters of my house. I want to grow hydroponic 100 dollar bills under UV lamps in my closet so that when celebrities are whoring their kisses for charity, I can wave a fistful of dollars and buy one for my ass.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

I'm Better Than You.

There's no point in making my life sound more glamorous than it is, and in order to make this as sociologically funny to you as it is to me, I must reveal that I work nights receiving phone calls about a dying corporation. Necessity has taken me to this sinking ship, and I weep existential tears after every shift. Anyway, here's a quick rundown of what I dealt with a few days ago.

1) I spoke to a child who was so young, I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Twice. I dropped protocol and called the creature by its androgynous first name in order to spare my dignity the indignity of speaking formally to a child. I can probably be canned for that, but whatever. I have my limitations.
2) A two-faced woman called and immediately fell into a whiny sob for much of our phone call, and after massaging my heart strings into sympathy, she screeched "This is fucking bullshit" when we'd said our goodbyes but before we had properly disconnected. I felt used and foolish for believing her to be a sweet woman. She'd mentioned a husband, so I hereby hex her marriage to a loveless facade.
3) One man had a severe speech and hearing impediment and kept forcing me to spell common words using an idiot phonetic alphabet: Foxtrot, Uniform, Charlie, Kilo! Though frustrated that I sounded like a Vietnam field radio, I felt bad for the guy 'cause he kept apologizing for himself. I sometimes stammer when I get excited, so I get you brotha. *high-five/chest bump*
4) Two consecutive callers had sexy, California-girl voices, and I had to reflect on my own psychology after the last one admitted a preference for Texas men and kept playfully trying to figure out what town I was in. Why did I take on a cool, flirtatious tone? And who's the bigger weirdo: the woman breathing heavily into her phone or the man squirming in his office chair, 1,500 miles away? I concluded that I've been sexually deprived all week and must speak with my darling Gilda about her next demonstration of love for me.

People are fascinating.

Monday, May 18, 2009

I'll Keep A Part Of You With Me

Dear Campbell,

I was elbow deep in your dirty unmentionables yesterday when a familiar scent pulled me away and led me to your vanity-lit powder room. You, and whom I can only assume was your driver, had just left for your scheduled preggo-pap examination, and I was already undressed and clicking around your house in my favorite pair of your pumps when the funk hit me. It took a second to cut through the overwhelming pre-gyno vinegar smell, but I eventually found what my nose told me was there: a pebbly turd conglomerate, floating brown and unbroken for nearly eight inches. Cloistered holy men have not known the rapture that seized me then. I rushed to the third shelf of your European-style larder, where I know you keep a box of 1 gallon freezer bags, and returned to your gilded toilet to collect my prize. I paused, relishing my closeness to your commode and gently caressed the smooth mahogany seat with languid fingertips then delicate butterfly kisses. Warm humidity still wavered from the deep bowl, and I hovered my face over its sauna a long moment before carefully cradling the enormous poo from its watery environment, bagging it, and removing the air from the Ziplock with a deep-chested suction from my lips. Oh, Campbell! The day had started without promise, but as I crawled back out of your kitchen doggy door with a bag of your perfectly molded intestines swinging from my teeth, I couldn't help but feel as though my discovery was a show of divine approval.

I closely studied the thick brown rod the whole bus ride back to the YMCA, and when I arrived, I ceremoniously lowered the seven pork ribs, whose marrow you had slurped clean four months ago, to the second shelf of my refrigerator. The number one spot is now crowned with the newest jewel of my collection: a real Campbell Brown.

The happiest man alive,

C

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Young and Old

And now, the physical and emotional barriers that have kept me from writing a blog this week.

Last Saturday, I managed to sleaze out of work a full three hours early and join a group of swinging dicks at Pitch & Putt for the "mancation" that Bash had organized. I'm not a golfer, and by the second tee, I finally swung hard and angry after missing four strokes completely, and the ball disappeared. It reappeared as a loud thump on a distantly parked car, and I feared for my life. 1.5 hours later, I was sweating Lone Star beer and celebrating my 200th stroke on the 9th green.
Fast forward a few hours and I'm slurring curses and smacking on greasy brisket. When I overheard Roger waxing books, I tried stealing his audience and making my suggestions his surrogate ones. He quickly said, "Don't read The Stranger" as though he'd been holding back his disdain for one of my favorite books the entire 4ish years I've known him. In theatrical outrage, I sprayed a mouthful of beer at him and comfortably sipped another one. When the mist cleared, Roger was staring at me with a rage I've never seen in him before, and through clenched teeth and tight lips, he said, "Don't spit beer on me again." Now if you've ever seen National Geographic, you've seen two gorillas fighting, and you know what's about to happen in this little narrative. The losing primate must walk away, disgraced and dethroned, and the viewer always feels sorry for the weaker animal. I couldn't be that gorilla and allow
defeat by intimidation. So when Roger told me "Don't spit beer on me again," I kindly asked, "Or what?" His anger had short-circuited his normally articulate brain, and his only response was the repeated "Don't spit beer on me again," this time seethier and with a cheeky tremble. I don't remember the rest of the exchange, exactly, but it had something to do with my taunting him with a "quack, quack" gesture of my dismissive hand and another "Or what?" He stood up, faster than I believed a drunk man capable and palmed my face. If, between his fingers, he'd seen the horror in my rolling eyes, I'd like to clarify right now, Roger, that the horror was in the knowledge that you were muzzling me with the same hand you mostly likely pleasure yourself with. He gave me a hard shove that craned my head back and tilted my chair on its back legs. I stood, spilling my cup of beer on my fashionable western shirt, and shoved him back. The other apes at our mancation stepped between us with loud "hey, hey, heys" and other howls and hoots of interference, and Roger stormed through Bash's house and left the
mancation. Mr. Bash called him, and because I had provoked the whole thing, I convinced him to come back by cooing and making kissing sounds into Chris' phone. Burn, Roger.

Fast forward a few hours, and it's Mother's Day. 7 AM to be exact, and I promptly vomit into Bash's toilet. My mother called at 7:15 to tell me
that the sisters were heading to breakfast at nine. I drove home with a protective vomit towel in my lap and didn't make it to Mother's Day breakfast. I'm a bad son. What I did instead was drive home and position my bathroom garbage can by my bedside. I made a violent deposit there every half hour for the next 5 hours. If I had to describe a living hell, that would be it. I nibbled bread and sipped water all day just so I'd have something more than guttural sounds to expel from my body. I even considered driving myself to an emergency room, but I understand there's a certain amount of sucking and flushing involved, and I thought death sounded like a faster solution. I'm not an accomplished drinker.

Fast forward a few hours: it's Monday, and I'm staring wide-eyed as a 70-year-old math tutor is seizing on the floor of the tutoring center. A student had rounded a corner with equally round eyes and shouted, "We need help!" I sprang from my seat and found the man convulsing on his side. I've been distraught ever since. My immediate instinct was to perform CPR, but he was having what looked like a seizure, so I stepped back and gave him room. I shouted into a room of 40 people for anyone with medical experience. They looked frightened and unsure so I ordered an ambulance from anyone listening, while I went back to the quaking man. A cell phone appeared at my ear, and the man stopped shaking and rolled over onto his face, breathing hard unnatural breaths that I counted for the EMS operator. The episode was over but the man was unresponsive, so I gave the phone to a watching student and tried turning him on his side. A big silent student knelt down to help, and I was relieved just not being alone. I left when EMS arrived, but I still haven't been able to shake my coworker's distorted expression from my memory. I hope he lives. He and another seizure after I had gone.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

My Circular Solution To All Things:

Folks, at some point, we're just going to have to give the Taliban some nukes. They're determined, and you've got to admit, they're impressively persistent. Perhaps the gesture will "disarm" them, so to speak, and we can all harvest poppies as a brotherhood of junkies. They might even be so touched by western generosity that they'll weep tears of joy and acceptance into their dusty beards and finally permit McDonald's to broaden its empire into Afghanistan/Pakistan's noble soil. Think of all the jobs the franchise will create! Ex-militants will find reward and satisfaction flipping meat-flavored carcinogen patties and then grinding them through the face grid of their wives' newly re-donned burkas. It would be a veritable utopia, made possible by nuclear weapons.
If you're not comfortable giving religious cave-dwellers a set of pearly nukes, let's try to at least compete with Heaven and offer seventy-three virgins (that's one more than Allah gives), so when they're balls deep in earthly pleasures, they'll say, "It was America who gave us this Paradise. Praise America!" The American prison system is already overcrowded as it is. Couldn't we can offer a handful of sexually pristine convicts the chance at freedom through indentured service? The solution seems so simple. These men are behind bars and faced with losing their innocence on a daily basis anyway. As one of 73 virgins, these hardened criminals will enjoy both the tender attention and jealous protection of a powerful Taliban warlord. They could even form a quaint sewing community of virgin husbands while their masters are out war-lording at McDonald's.
All I'm saying is that we've resisted these guys for so long, maybe it's time we try bartering with our nuke and virgin surplus, maybe even offer up Cuba since the US will eventually take the island over anyway. Thoughts?

Monday, May 4, 2009

"The Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living"

Since most of my rants well from a constant source of cynicism, I'll acknowledge and jiggle a small tumor of positivity. Over the last two semesters, I've worked with a 40-something student who was initially resistant and combative to both her professors and the tutors whom she'd voluntarily asked for help. Her profs were always "wrong" or my tutelage was always questionable, and I got the general impression that she thought college educators didn't know shit. She's a bit of a rowdy woman, complete with tattoos and scratchy voice, the kind of woman you'd expect to climb off a road hog and beat you with your own hands. She was a high school dropout and even had an intravenous drug problem at one time. Last semester, her goals were to squeak by with C's until she earned an associate's degree and began a profession. For her, college was not about learning or self-examination. It was an obstacle between her and a career. But with a little encouragement and the grades to prove that she was actually capable of success, her first A immediately became addictive. Her amended goals are now to transfer to the University of Texas in a couple semesters and pursue a bachelor's degree. She's thrived in higher education, and I've seen her soften and express tearful gratitude to the people around her who had told her the opposite of what she thought she knew: "you are not dumb."
Since last semester, I've watched a blooming awakening in this woman, an awakening that I too experienced in school and have always associated with information enlightenment. She's not the hard, angry person who first plopped in a chair beside me and bared her teeth. She listens carefully now and sponges information with thirsty eagerness. She wants to learn, and she's recognized college as a place of discovery. She doesn't look like she just got out of bed anymore either. Her hair is nice; she smiles a lot now, and her loud and horrible laughter is a common sound in the tutoring center. She's happy. I see one or two people awaken every semester. Sometimes they're young, sometimes they're old, but all were limited by what they had once decided is true: "I can't." But they always can, and to bear witness and be a part of what they will come to regard as a pivotal time in their lives is more valuable than anything I'll ever deposit into my bank account.
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