When I am bored and restless and thirsty, I generally tend to jump in my car, drive really fast, aim for small animals and purchase a lovely beverage. Sadly, gas prices have forced me to find alternative means of infotainment, namely pondering often-unanswerable questions. Random thoughts tend to intrude upon my otherwise serene state of calmness and, if you believe that one, I also have a time-share in Egypt I’d like to tell you about.
Here are some random things that came to mind over the past week or so…
- Of all the places in the world, I have noticed that I feel most alive in this place (http://redfordtheatre.com/). I have no idea why. I recently saw the movie “Airplane!” there and realized how connected I feel to the place, as if I used to frequent it in a former life. I am contemplating volunteering.
- I often wonder why it seems that those who can’t do a thing are the first ones front and center to criticize those who can. For instance, people who couldn’t create a work of fiction if they were provided with a template and a graph can’t wait to give their expert opinions on something they know nothing about. I am going to start crashing operating rooms and doing this to doctors. Apparently it is my God-given right and I have a lot of time to make up for.
- Have you ever noticed that those who warn us to avoid workplace romances are those who haven’t done it themselves (Avoided or indulged)?
- Have you also ever noticed that people with vanity license plates tend to be either really good-looking or bone-chillingly hideous? There is no in-between. Does that mean the average person doesn’t feel the need to advertise they are they are a “QT4U2C?”
- I predict a day when children are born with enormous thumbs and eyes, text messaging as they exit the birth canal. They will “evolve” into a legless stump with a perfectly round rear end for sitting and the cell phones will be attached to them via the lower intestines.
- Every other popular song on the radio sounds disturbingly similar to some song from my youth that I hated.
- Ronald Reagan’s presidency is the reason Americans would even for a moment seriously consider a big-mouthed lightweight like Sara Palin for anything more than drain commissioner.
- The more religious a person is in the Western World, the more hate-filled he or she is as well. The more spiritual they are, the more at peace and accepting they are.
- I don’t think “The Simpsons” will ever go off the air and I am thankful for that.
- People who like to say Jesus was a liberal are wrong. He might have had some groovy concepts about peace, love and understanding, but no liberal, i.e. progressive, is going to tell you he is the one and only way. Jesus was a moderate, like Bill Clinton or John McClone with cooler hair and super-powers.
- College history professors seem to have a vested interest in making sure students see the concept of secret societies running the world behind the scenes as sheer nonsense to be laughed off and cast away. Hmmmmmm…
- “I kissed a Girl” is the most juvenile, blatantly pandering piece of pop music fluff to hit the airwaves since Phil Collins’ “Another Day in Paradise.” But where the former had deep social relevance and meaning, Katy Perry’s experimentalism anthem is nothing more than shock value designed to freak out the Bible Belt.
-I am not alone in thinking “The Dark Knight” was an overrated exercise in futility. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had been the only one to feel this way, but the pervasive fanaticism with which this film was greeted would have forced me to question my own sanity. But there are some of us who see the film for what it really is: A sprawling, unfocused mess with almost zero thrills.
- Conservatives are criticizing feminists for criticizing Sara Palin by saying they are hypocrites to criticize a woman who is living the life she freely chose. In other words, if you were Jewish in 1930’s Germany or black in Eighteenth Century America, and you chose to join up with those who meant you ill will, you were immune from criticism. Okay. This must also apply to serial killers who surely decided freely to dismember their victims and should not be chided by society at large.
- With all the appearance of progress that has been made in the U.S. personified by the presidential election, one thing still remains sadly obvious. Barrack Obama’s white heritage, while acknowledged, is not being applied to his racial identity. In other words, Obama is actually the first bi-racial candidate (that we know of) in American history, but the old world slave mentality has ensured that only his brown skin is the determining factor in what he’s called. So, again, the smallest minority in the country, mine, is marginalized and ignored.
- Somehow, seemingly overnight, I have developed an appreciation for jazz!
- Marriage is not the horrible form of imprisonment to me it once was. By “once,” I mean a month ago. I still don’t believe it’s some divinely mandated union or the ultimate expression of love everlasting, but I have seen that it has some positive attributes.
- Certain ethnicities will always refuse to fully assimilate into American culture, which would be fine if they were OK with the same thing in their own countries. But they’re not. Third Worlders are the prime example of this hypocrisy. Anytime someone goes to one of their countries and starts living differently, they are physically attacked and often killed. If that happened here, the world community would condemn us as barbaric. Bottom line: Live however you want at home but in general population, you need to fit the fuck in or go home and oppress somebody who isn’t fitting in!
- I still can’t wrap my mind around why people camp out at the crack of dawn to call into a call center at six o’clock in the morning. I imagine these people with their hands hovering over their telephones, saying to themselves, “If I dial now at 5:59 they will be open by the time I go through the menu! I am the smartest person in the world muaaaa haaa haaa haaaa…um, why am I on hold?”
- There are still people who don’t know the difference between customer service and an operator. I am not some nasal, horn-rimmed glasses wearing woman in an old film and neither are my co-workers. Don’t call me for listings or to have phone calls put through. My job is to provide technical and billing assistance. Does an operator know how a switch works or how to reprogram a cell phone or synch up a PDA for online usage? Gonna take a wild stab and say, “Uh-uh!”
There you have it. A peek into how my mind works. Pretty dull, I know. Next time I’ll share with you my theories on the best grass seed and read my favorite “Cheers ‘n Jeers” throughout the years from TV Guide~
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
CALL OF THE WEEK
Scribe: How May I help you today?
Customer: Okay! I need yours and (your company’s) help!
Scribe: What can I do for you today?
Customer: My wife is on psychiatric medication.
Scribe: …Uh-huh…
Customer: Sometimes she gets disoriented and forgets where she is.
Scribe: …Okay…
Customer: Well, she went to West Virginia for a religious getaway and she took our nine-month-old son with her. She was supposed to be home last night.
Scribe: She didn’t make it?
Customer: No. She was supposed to take the train back to Indiana and she never arrived. I’ve been trying to call her for the past day and a half!
Scribe: (This is not an episode of 24. What does this poor guy think I can do?) She isn’t answering the phone either?
Customer: No it just rings and goes to voicemail! I spoke to the police and they said to contact you guys and see if you can get the most recent calls placed from her phone.
Scribe: (Cops are so ignorant of this industry) Well, actually we…
Customer: I have Sergeant (name omitted) working on this in Indiana but I also contacted the West Virginia police. A woman in Cleveland, Ohio reported a disoriented woman getting off the train with a child. Our son is only nine months old! Now I have the Cleveland police working on this, too!
Scribe: Ah…
Customer: So, I’ve gotta find a way to see if she might have overdosed on her meds and got all confused and disoriented.
Scribe: Okay. Well, what we normally…
Customer: And, sir! To be honest with you, my main concern right now has to be the child. He’s nine months old!
Scribe: Right. Well, I’m definitely sorry you’re going through all this right now. We actually don’t have access to recent call detail. We’re only able to view whatever has been processed onto your bills. Now, you can view recent calls on our website but they are usually going to be 24-48 hours behind.
Customer: Yeah, and this was last night.
Scribe: Exactly. So in these cases we ask you to have the police officer working the case contact our customer service department. At that point he can request our legal department and they can actually research the account for unbilled calling detail.
Customer: Okay, so just have the sergeant call? I can do that! I’m driving to the police station right now.
Scribe: Great. He should be able to get whatever information is available. All I can see right now is that there is reported usage on the handset as far as minutes used.
Customer: Okay, I’ll have him call! Listen, thanks for all your help!
Scribe: You’re welcome. Thanks for calling and good luck to you!
I felt like I was in a movie of the week! That poor Bastard was frantic and scared to death, yet somehow he was holding it together. Rarely do I wonder what happens to a customer after the call ends, but I have found myself returning to this one quite often. Did they find his wife and child? Was she really disoriented? Did she join some religious cult and sacrifice her baby to the divine leader? I will probably never know unless it makes the national news. I do know he called back and put the cop on the line. I didn’t think to save the account for future reference so that’s all I know. Such a strange world we live in these days, where this type of human connection can occur for just a brief moment in time and nothing ever comes of it~
Customer: Okay! I need yours and (your company’s) help!
Scribe: What can I do for you today?
Customer: My wife is on psychiatric medication.
Scribe: …Uh-huh…
Customer: Sometimes she gets disoriented and forgets where she is.
Scribe: …Okay…
Customer: Well, she went to West Virginia for a religious getaway and she took our nine-month-old son with her. She was supposed to be home last night.
Scribe: She didn’t make it?
Customer: No. She was supposed to take the train back to Indiana and she never arrived. I’ve been trying to call her for the past day and a half!
Scribe: (This is not an episode of 24. What does this poor guy think I can do?) She isn’t answering the phone either?
Customer: No it just rings and goes to voicemail! I spoke to the police and they said to contact you guys and see if you can get the most recent calls placed from her phone.
Scribe: (Cops are so ignorant of this industry) Well, actually we…
Customer: I have Sergeant (name omitted) working on this in Indiana but I also contacted the West Virginia police. A woman in Cleveland, Ohio reported a disoriented woman getting off the train with a child. Our son is only nine months old! Now I have the Cleveland police working on this, too!
Scribe: Ah…
Customer: So, I’ve gotta find a way to see if she might have overdosed on her meds and got all confused and disoriented.
Scribe: Okay. Well, what we normally…
Customer: And, sir! To be honest with you, my main concern right now has to be the child. He’s nine months old!
Scribe: Right. Well, I’m definitely sorry you’re going through all this right now. We actually don’t have access to recent call detail. We’re only able to view whatever has been processed onto your bills. Now, you can view recent calls on our website but they are usually going to be 24-48 hours behind.
Customer: Yeah, and this was last night.
Scribe: Exactly. So in these cases we ask you to have the police officer working the case contact our customer service department. At that point he can request our legal department and they can actually research the account for unbilled calling detail.
Customer: Okay, so just have the sergeant call? I can do that! I’m driving to the police station right now.
Scribe: Great. He should be able to get whatever information is available. All I can see right now is that there is reported usage on the handset as far as minutes used.
Customer: Okay, I’ll have him call! Listen, thanks for all your help!
Scribe: You’re welcome. Thanks for calling and good luck to you!
I felt like I was in a movie of the week! That poor Bastard was frantic and scared to death, yet somehow he was holding it together. Rarely do I wonder what happens to a customer after the call ends, but I have found myself returning to this one quite often. Did they find his wife and child? Was she really disoriented? Did she join some religious cult and sacrifice her baby to the divine leader? I will probably never know unless it makes the national news. I do know he called back and put the cop on the line. I didn’t think to save the account for future reference so that’s all I know. Such a strange world we live in these days, where this type of human connection can occur for just a brief moment in time and nothing ever comes of it~
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
'HOOD RATS The conclusion of my trilogy of offensiveness (for now)
In my ongoing quest to show how stupid people are, I have decided to go group-by-group until I have singled out and offended the entire planet and at least three off-world colonies you’re not yet aware of. The last installment dealt with PWT and all the joy they bring to the world. This time Scribe’s Spotlight (Hey, what a good name for this feature!) shines on hood rats and the love they spread to the rest of us. You will no doubt notice a few striking similarities, as I am still unconvinced that these two groups are actually different from each other.
In fact, during my ‘X-Files” conspiracy theorist days, I had this elaborate theory that they were one and the same and only died their skin to fool the rest of us. No worries, though. I am in therapy and am on some special medication now and can see things for what they really are: An alien-inspired illusion meant to train us as cannon fodder in various interstellar bids for power.
But enough about religion: Here’s what I find annoying about hood rats:
ADULT DIAPERS AREN’T JUST FOR OLD PEOPLE ANYMORE. For the past fifteen years or so, there’s been a real problem with young male hood rats. They are apparently incontinent. How do I know this? I reached the conclusion when I noticed that a vast majority of them appear to have crapped their pants and no longer possess the motor skills necessary to clean up the mess. Thus they are forced to walk around with their pants down to their ankles. While this is a a rather comical visual, especially when they look like the little guy who had to reach down to his feet to pull out his wallet I saw in a gas station once, but it a severe problem. ...OK, enough sarcasm. This is an obnoxious fad that has out-stayed its welcome and brings with it every negative stereotype and connotation imaginable. What kind of loser would want their style of dress to mimic what the prisoners in holding look like when they have to remove their belts? And although I mentioned youth, I’ve seen some as old as 50 sporting this look! Shameful and disgusting.
IF YOU CAN CREATE A POP CULTURE EXPRESSION FOR THE BEHAVIOR, YOU CAN DIGNIFY IT. This is common practice amongst hood rats, which are always striving for new ways to make themselves repulsive to mainstream society. My favorite example is the “baby’s daddy/mama” expression I first heard when visiting a woman I dated briefly. No, it wasn’t my kid! We were just friends at that point and she kept referring to her baby’s daddy, who she had at one time claimed was her husband (more on that next). This was in the mid-Nineties and I’d never heard it said before. And she drawled it out to the point where ya just wanted to stomp on her feet and tell her to hurry the hell up! My friend who came with me had never heard it either and he was didn’t live far from her! I can only guess the phrase originated in the south where most obnoxious trends in hood life seem to originate these days. Within a year I was hearing it everywhere. Thanks to pop music and daytime TV talk shows, it was soon being used by lots of different people. The rule seems to be that if it can be made to sound cool, it’s normal. They’re so good at convincing themselves of this that they believe everybody is the same! You can’t convince them otherwise, which also makes them hicks of the highest order.
IN NAME ONLY. As mentioned above, there is a tendency for hood rats to have “play-relatives” and spouses. For those who have never experienced this one, allow me to elucidate: An ex-girlfriend introduced me to her sister who looked nothing like her. I remarked on the fact and, eventually, the ex informed me she was her ”play-sister.” I told her how dumb I thought this was and there was an argument, of course. Whatever. I’ve since met women who claimed to be married whose significant others never even proposed to them. One former co-worker went on and on about her “huuuuuussssbbbbiiinnnn” and her daughter whose last name mysteriously reflected the mom’s. She once claimed to have “lost” her engagement ring which we saw daily for many months straight and moved out of her “husband’s house” in order to take advantage of government assistance when her baby was born. Why this was necessary when her (snicker) spouse had a very good job at one of the auto plants is beyond me. Is it even legal to give your child your maiden name if you’re married? In all fairness, this is a trend that seems to be reversing itself in the area of marriage but it isn’t going anywhere when it comes to relatives.
LET THE GUBMINT DO IT! Loath as I am to agree with anything spouted by the likes of Rush “Hillbilly Heroin” Limbaugh or Michael “S-t talker, esq.” Savage, they are right about one thing: There really are professional welfare recipients. I’ve seen them and met them. Thanks to the ex mentioned above, I’ve seen them up close and personal. The irony is how hard they work at maintaining government assistance. It’s often similar to the effort necessary to keep a decent job. There’s more scheming, plotting and planning involved in keeping the public till going than in the average intelligence operation out of Langley! As if this isn’t bad enough, many hood rats find this to be a source of pride and brag openly about it. It’s as if they’re daring someone to say something about it so they can create a racial incident. Much like the first group, this one makes everybody look bad and supports every conceivable negative stereotype and not-so-stereo-type.
PROPONENTS OF THE NOBLE SAVAGE THEORY REJOICE! For those unfamiliar with this concept, the noble savage theory is one espoused by members of an oppressed minority who tend to like to think their origins are steeped in perfection and greatness. Instead of being realistic about where they came from, some people choose to deify their ancestors to the point where their actions become polarizing and disturbing. A religion has cropped up around this mentality that teaches how a member of the only true race went rogue and created all the others who, of course, have no souls. (Don’t believe me? Click the link at the end of this post.) The idea is that if not for the intervention of a mad scientist, the world would be a mono-toned utopia. As laughably absurd as that is, there are many who embrace it, or at least a moderate version. These are the angry, militant hood rats that think they’re highly educated and judge all others as inferior and evil while dwelling in decaying neighborhoods with neighbors that are easily impressed. Usually male, the noble savage proponent loved to ignore accepted history in favor of the “real” knowledge, pronounced “rill nahlitch” of those highly evolved and technologically proficient ancestors who created everything and didn’t create foul odors when they went to the bathroom. He’s easy to laugh at, but ignore him at your own peril.
Well, there ya go. I promised myself I would stop with five on these so I am swallowing the remaining 50 billion I could have included. I’m not sure which group I’m going to pick on next, but rest assured I will come up with something pretty soon~
Discuss!
In fact, during my ‘X-Files” conspiracy theorist days, I had this elaborate theory that they were one and the same and only died their skin to fool the rest of us. No worries, though. I am in therapy and am on some special medication now and can see things for what they really are: An alien-inspired illusion meant to train us as cannon fodder in various interstellar bids for power.
But enough about religion: Here’s what I find annoying about hood rats:
ADULT DIAPERS AREN’T JUST FOR OLD PEOPLE ANYMORE. For the past fifteen years or so, there’s been a real problem with young male hood rats. They are apparently incontinent. How do I know this? I reached the conclusion when I noticed that a vast majority of them appear to have crapped their pants and no longer possess the motor skills necessary to clean up the mess. Thus they are forced to walk around with their pants down to their ankles. While this is a a rather comical visual, especially when they look like the little guy who had to reach down to his feet to pull out his wallet I saw in a gas station once, but it a severe problem. ...OK, enough sarcasm. This is an obnoxious fad that has out-stayed its welcome and brings with it every negative stereotype and connotation imaginable. What kind of loser would want their style of dress to mimic what the prisoners in holding look like when they have to remove their belts? And although I mentioned youth, I’ve seen some as old as 50 sporting this look! Shameful and disgusting.
IF YOU CAN CREATE A POP CULTURE EXPRESSION FOR THE BEHAVIOR, YOU CAN DIGNIFY IT. This is common practice amongst hood rats, which are always striving for new ways to make themselves repulsive to mainstream society. My favorite example is the “baby’s daddy/mama” expression I first heard when visiting a woman I dated briefly. No, it wasn’t my kid! We were just friends at that point and she kept referring to her baby’s daddy, who she had at one time claimed was her husband (more on that next). This was in the mid-Nineties and I’d never heard it said before. And she drawled it out to the point where ya just wanted to stomp on her feet and tell her to hurry the hell up! My friend who came with me had never heard it either and he was didn’t live far from her! I can only guess the phrase originated in the south where most obnoxious trends in hood life seem to originate these days. Within a year I was hearing it everywhere. Thanks to pop music and daytime TV talk shows, it was soon being used by lots of different people. The rule seems to be that if it can be made to sound cool, it’s normal. They’re so good at convincing themselves of this that they believe everybody is the same! You can’t convince them otherwise, which also makes them hicks of the highest order.
IN NAME ONLY. As mentioned above, there is a tendency for hood rats to have “play-relatives” and spouses. For those who have never experienced this one, allow me to elucidate: An ex-girlfriend introduced me to her sister who looked nothing like her. I remarked on the fact and, eventually, the ex informed me she was her ”play-sister.” I told her how dumb I thought this was and there was an argument, of course. Whatever. I’ve since met women who claimed to be married whose significant others never even proposed to them. One former co-worker went on and on about her “huuuuuussssbbbbiiinnnn” and her daughter whose last name mysteriously reflected the mom’s. She once claimed to have “lost” her engagement ring which we saw daily for many months straight and moved out of her “husband’s house” in order to take advantage of government assistance when her baby was born. Why this was necessary when her (snicker) spouse had a very good job at one of the auto plants is beyond me. Is it even legal to give your child your maiden name if you’re married? In all fairness, this is a trend that seems to be reversing itself in the area of marriage but it isn’t going anywhere when it comes to relatives.
LET THE GUBMINT DO IT! Loath as I am to agree with anything spouted by the likes of Rush “Hillbilly Heroin” Limbaugh or Michael “S-t talker, esq.” Savage, they are right about one thing: There really are professional welfare recipients. I’ve seen them and met them. Thanks to the ex mentioned above, I’ve seen them up close and personal. The irony is how hard they work at maintaining government assistance. It’s often similar to the effort necessary to keep a decent job. There’s more scheming, plotting and planning involved in keeping the public till going than in the average intelligence operation out of Langley! As if this isn’t bad enough, many hood rats find this to be a source of pride and brag openly about it. It’s as if they’re daring someone to say something about it so they can create a racial incident. Much like the first group, this one makes everybody look bad and supports every conceivable negative stereotype and not-so-stereo-type.
PROPONENTS OF THE NOBLE SAVAGE THEORY REJOICE! For those unfamiliar with this concept, the noble savage theory is one espoused by members of an oppressed minority who tend to like to think their origins are steeped in perfection and greatness. Instead of being realistic about where they came from, some people choose to deify their ancestors to the point where their actions become polarizing and disturbing. A religion has cropped up around this mentality that teaches how a member of the only true race went rogue and created all the others who, of course, have no souls. (Don’t believe me? Click the link at the end of this post.) The idea is that if not for the intervention of a mad scientist, the world would be a mono-toned utopia. As laughably absurd as that is, there are many who embrace it, or at least a moderate version. These are the angry, militant hood rats that think they’re highly educated and judge all others as inferior and evil while dwelling in decaying neighborhoods with neighbors that are easily impressed. Usually male, the noble savage proponent loved to ignore accepted history in favor of the “real” knowledge, pronounced “rill nahlitch” of those highly evolved and technologically proficient ancestors who created everything and didn’t create foul odors when they went to the bathroom. He’s easy to laugh at, but ignore him at your own peril.
Well, there ya go. I promised myself I would stop with five on these so I am swallowing the remaining 50 billion I could have included. I’m not sure which group I’m going to pick on next, but rest assured I will come up with something pretty soon~
Discuss!
Monday, September 8, 2008
POOR WHITE TRASH, part II of my trilogy of offensiveness
As an individual of bi-racial ancestry, I have often wondered which side of my heritage disgusted me more and usually decided they both did in equal measure. This mentality, which I assure you distinguishes me from most other bi-racial folk, has provided me a unique perspective on the subject of race and the behavior of those groups that comprise my heritage.
I stand alone, the most frighteningly handsome and well-endowed mastodon to ever trample the undergrowth of stupidity and ignorance. Let all those with stupid ways tremble before the mighty prehistoric stomper as he rolls through your safe little villages and hamlets on a mission to eradicate those who displease him!!!
TREMBLE, I SAY!!!!
MUAAAAA UAAAAA HAAAA HAAA AHAAAA HAAAA HAAA HAAAA HAAAA
…
ha?
Wow. I feel so exposed, so nekkid, so like a prison inmate bending over for the soap. I think I should get to the point of this descent into utter pointlessness.
This time we’re going to focus on PWT, although the ghetto equivalent is comin’. Oh, it’s comin’. The following are a few of the traits and behaviors I have noticed over the course of my life when it comes to these often marginalized individuals. And rightfully so! There isn’t really anybody more annoying. Here’s why:
WHAT’S SO DAMN FUNNY? Is it me, or do PWT females always seem to be laughing about nothing? Comments that to most of us are rather neutral or don’t require any type of response at all seem to inspire chortles in them. This seems especially true when they are discussing themselves. Example: “Yeah, so I went home and made myself some ice tea…hyuck hyuck hycuk hee hee hee haaa haaa ha hAAAAAA hAAAA!” etc. Nothing is funny. Funny is when you employ the use of irony and…what am I doing? These chicks probably think irony is what you do when your clothes are wrinkled!!!
(Now, dammit that was funny!)
WAS THAT A…JOKE…OR…HMM.. Here’s the one that is perhaps the most annoying of them all. We’ve all seen this guy but perhaps some of you haven’t really taken inventory enough to place him in a neat category. I don’t enjoy categorizing people, but I do like taking their traits and quirks and placing them into a nice…um…category…ok, maybe I do. This guy is that cookie duster mustache wearing, mullet sportin’, classic rock T-shirt showin’ off dork who tries to make a joke out of every moment while rarely displaying a pleasant facial expression. Recently I was out to dinner when a couple spotted what I assumed was her family while waiting to be seated. As the women hugged and acted like they liked each other, the dad or uncle or whoever said, “I was wonderin’ who was gonna pay for dinner.” Way to go, Seinfeld. Love the new material. I especially love the angry look on your face when you said it, like you resent having to indulge in human contact. Which brings up the next one:
IS YOUR NAME CHIP OR IS THAT JUST WHAT’S ON YOUR SHOULDER? Ah, the wonders of feelings of self-entitlement. Even more wondrous is when they are based on nothing else except race and gender. Enter the angry and bitter PWT guy who likes to complain about how this is no longer his father’s country (a good thing for the rest of us) and how “They took our jobs!” that he wouldn’t be caught dead doing. This guy likes to walk around with a thin smirk etched onto his lips and a cocky swagger meant to show he’s really the smartest guy in the room and you’re just too stupid to know it. He’s a smarmy know-it-all who was proven right just enough times to think he couldn’t be wrong. He’s definitely smarter than his boss, who’s a complete idiot because he went to college or something, and if he ran the place, he would blah, blah, blah…
WAIT. YOU’RE THEY’RE PARENTS??? Most of us probably know that parent or those parents who feel the need to be their childrens’ friend and be considered cool. Unlike parents of old, some can’t accept growing older as part of bringing another generation into the world. It’s sad but people only really started noticing when it became a phenomena among middle class and wealthy whites. PWT has been doing it for ages! In fact, acting like they’re one of the kids is a time-honored tradition, like serving Budweiser at a wedding. PWT parents tend to refer to their children by such gentle, loving nicknames as “You lil’ shit” and tease them mercilessly. The odd part is that once the kid starts doing it back or getting upset, suddenly they want to get all stern and act like real parents But then a few seconds later they can been seen smiling triumphantly like they just bested their sibling! I can only theorize that this is some bizarre form of pecking order enforcement and establishing of boundaries. It doesn’t work. What it does accomplish, however, is the creation and maintaining of those three “types” listed above.
YOU DON’T REALLY BELIEVE THE DIXIE FLAG STANDS FOR SOUTHERN PRIDE AND HONOR, DO YOU? Michigan is a state with more than its share of rednecks. Without getting too deeply into historical overviews, the auto industry caused a massive migration from the south in the early parts of the 20th Century. They haven’t changed much, if at all. I can still drive through towns where guys in massive, rusty pick-up trucks sport Dixie flag decals and bumper stickers on the backs of their vehicles. You may be wondering why in holy hoppin’hairy hell a Midwestern guy from one of the most northernmost states in the Union is sporting a Dixie flag at all and, frankly, there can only be one answer: He longs for the days of pre-Civil War government. He may not be able to articulate this, but he doesn’t really think slavery was as bad as people say it was and may in fact believe it was deserved. He feels neutered by life and the fact that he is probably person #3. He is going to show all the minorities and candy-ass white liberals and Jews that he has rebel pride and so what if they’re offended. That’s where I come in, driving through their towns in a foreign car (late model Toyota at the time) and sporting a bumper sticker with the Dixie flag encircled with a line through it, the caption reading: YOU LOST. GET OVER IT! Man, you could see the anger through the rearview mirror whenever I drove through shitholes like Hazel Park or any section of Downriver. Of course, nobody ever said shit to me because my appearance can be rather intimidating and they tend to be of the all talk variety unless their Klan buddies are in the vicinity. I miss that bumper sticker. My friend Al found it too crude and wants to find a Northern flag for his car. I tried explaining to him the redneck mentality and how they either wouldn’t get it or would find it wimpy but he is black and hasn’t had the same access to them that I have. Lucky me, huh? It’s very simple, people: Displaying the flag of a defeated nation that was formed as an act of treason against the established government is not history, it is anti-American. These idiots are actually guilty of the very thing they think they’re honoring!
Well, there’s my list. It could have been 3 times longer but I felt I ran the risk of employing the type of anger and hostility the people I’m criticizing exhibit on a regular basis. Next up will the ghetto fabulous list.
Same Scribe time!
Same Scribe channel!
Same Scribe underwear…
I stand alone, the most frighteningly handsome and well-endowed mastodon to ever trample the undergrowth of stupidity and ignorance. Let all those with stupid ways tremble before the mighty prehistoric stomper as he rolls through your safe little villages and hamlets on a mission to eradicate those who displease him!!!
TREMBLE, I SAY!!!!
MUAAAAA UAAAAA HAAAA HAAA AHAAAA HAAAA HAAA HAAAA HAAAA
…
ha?
Wow. I feel so exposed, so nekkid, so like a prison inmate bending over for the soap. I think I should get to the point of this descent into utter pointlessness.
This time we’re going to focus on PWT, although the ghetto equivalent is comin’. Oh, it’s comin’. The following are a few of the traits and behaviors I have noticed over the course of my life when it comes to these often marginalized individuals. And rightfully so! There isn’t really anybody more annoying. Here’s why:
WHAT’S SO DAMN FUNNY? Is it me, or do PWT females always seem to be laughing about nothing? Comments that to most of us are rather neutral or don’t require any type of response at all seem to inspire chortles in them. This seems especially true when they are discussing themselves. Example: “Yeah, so I went home and made myself some ice tea…hyuck hyuck hycuk hee hee hee haaa haaa ha hAAAAAA hAAAA!” etc. Nothing is funny. Funny is when you employ the use of irony and…what am I doing? These chicks probably think irony is what you do when your clothes are wrinkled!!!
(Now, dammit that was funny!)
WAS THAT A…JOKE…OR…HMM.. Here’s the one that is perhaps the most annoying of them all. We’ve all seen this guy but perhaps some of you haven’t really taken inventory enough to place him in a neat category. I don’t enjoy categorizing people, but I do like taking their traits and quirks and placing them into a nice…um…category…ok, maybe I do. This guy is that cookie duster mustache wearing, mullet sportin’, classic rock T-shirt showin’ off dork who tries to make a joke out of every moment while rarely displaying a pleasant facial expression. Recently I was out to dinner when a couple spotted what I assumed was her family while waiting to be seated. As the women hugged and acted like they liked each other, the dad or uncle or whoever said, “I was wonderin’ who was gonna pay for dinner.” Way to go, Seinfeld. Love the new material. I especially love the angry look on your face when you said it, like you resent having to indulge in human contact. Which brings up the next one:
IS YOUR NAME CHIP OR IS THAT JUST WHAT’S ON YOUR SHOULDER? Ah, the wonders of feelings of self-entitlement. Even more wondrous is when they are based on nothing else except race and gender. Enter the angry and bitter PWT guy who likes to complain about how this is no longer his father’s country (a good thing for the rest of us) and how “They took our jobs!” that he wouldn’t be caught dead doing. This guy likes to walk around with a thin smirk etched onto his lips and a cocky swagger meant to show he’s really the smartest guy in the room and you’re just too stupid to know it. He’s a smarmy know-it-all who was proven right just enough times to think he couldn’t be wrong. He’s definitely smarter than his boss, who’s a complete idiot because he went to college or something, and if he ran the place, he would blah, blah, blah…
WAIT. YOU’RE THEY’RE PARENTS??? Most of us probably know that parent or those parents who feel the need to be their childrens’ friend and be considered cool. Unlike parents of old, some can’t accept growing older as part of bringing another generation into the world. It’s sad but people only really started noticing when it became a phenomena among middle class and wealthy whites. PWT has been doing it for ages! In fact, acting like they’re one of the kids is a time-honored tradition, like serving Budweiser at a wedding. PWT parents tend to refer to their children by such gentle, loving nicknames as “You lil’ shit” and tease them mercilessly. The odd part is that once the kid starts doing it back or getting upset, suddenly they want to get all stern and act like real parents But then a few seconds later they can been seen smiling triumphantly like they just bested their sibling! I can only theorize that this is some bizarre form of pecking order enforcement and establishing of boundaries. It doesn’t work. What it does accomplish, however, is the creation and maintaining of those three “types” listed above.
YOU DON’T REALLY BELIEVE THE DIXIE FLAG STANDS FOR SOUTHERN PRIDE AND HONOR, DO YOU? Michigan is a state with more than its share of rednecks. Without getting too deeply into historical overviews, the auto industry caused a massive migration from the south in the early parts of the 20th Century. They haven’t changed much, if at all. I can still drive through towns where guys in massive, rusty pick-up trucks sport Dixie flag decals and bumper stickers on the backs of their vehicles. You may be wondering why in holy hoppin’hairy hell a Midwestern guy from one of the most northernmost states in the Union is sporting a Dixie flag at all and, frankly, there can only be one answer: He longs for the days of pre-Civil War government. He may not be able to articulate this, but he doesn’t really think slavery was as bad as people say it was and may in fact believe it was deserved. He feels neutered by life and the fact that he is probably person #3. He is going to show all the minorities and candy-ass white liberals and Jews that he has rebel pride and so what if they’re offended. That’s where I come in, driving through their towns in a foreign car (late model Toyota at the time) and sporting a bumper sticker with the Dixie flag encircled with a line through it, the caption reading: YOU LOST. GET OVER IT! Man, you could see the anger through the rearview mirror whenever I drove through shitholes like Hazel Park or any section of Downriver. Of course, nobody ever said shit to me because my appearance can be rather intimidating and they tend to be of the all talk variety unless their Klan buddies are in the vicinity. I miss that bumper sticker. My friend Al found it too crude and wants to find a Northern flag for his car. I tried explaining to him the redneck mentality and how they either wouldn’t get it or would find it wimpy but he is black and hasn’t had the same access to them that I have. Lucky me, huh? It’s very simple, people: Displaying the flag of a defeated nation that was formed as an act of treason against the established government is not history, it is anti-American. These idiots are actually guilty of the very thing they think they’re honoring!
Well, there’s my list. It could have been 3 times longer but I felt I ran the risk of employing the type of anger and hostility the people I’m criticizing exhibit on a regular basis. Next up will the ghetto fabulous list.
Same Scribe time!
Same Scribe channel!
Same Scribe underwear…
Saturday, September 6, 2008
SCRIBE IS SAD!!!
Yes, but the topic discussed in the previous post, but there's something even worse...
Some of you still aren't aware of my writing blog! And what's worse, only one of those if you who are have bothered to comment on the excerpt I posted from my forthcoming novel, "The Life, Times and Fashion Sense of Jesus Christ!"
OK, I made that title up. But in fairness, I made the title of my other book up, too, despite Rudy's insistence that it's non-fiction.
Take a look:
http://www.blogger.com/profile/09681882980938164084
Some of you still aren't aware of my writing blog! And what's worse, only one of those if you who are have bothered to comment on the excerpt I posted from my forthcoming novel, "The Life, Times and Fashion Sense of Jesus Christ!"
OK, I made that title up. But in fairness, I made the title of my other book up, too, despite Rudy's insistence that it's non-fiction.
Take a look:
http://www.blogger.com/profile/09681882980938164084
Thursday, September 4, 2008
SERIOUSLY???
This annoying, vapid, pandering, unqualified bitch could be our next vice-president?
How could anybody be fooled by this obvious attempt to counter-act the popularity of a non-white presidential candidate? Watching her speak last night made me think Dan Quayle had gotten a sex change. Completely lacking in substance or meaning, Palin's speech consisted of partisan rhetoric and personal attacks of the type popular on right wing radio shows.
I'm all for female candidates who are able to do the job, but this ridiculous "hockey mom" comes off as the stay-at-home mom who decided to go back into the workforce last week. She looks even more ridiculous standing next to John McMannequin. What frightens me most is the inherent stupidity of the Republican party's members and its apparent "talent" for overlooking abyssmal failure on the part of its candidates if it can keep the spearchuckers and the kikes from running the country. Goddam retards. Don't they ever get enough of incompetence?
Biden put it best when he said of the republican candidates that they want to ignore the previous eight years and have no plans for the next four. I expect McMannequin to be business as usual since his idea of middle class are those of us who haven't quite reached the coveted 6 million per year mark. But this Palin is supposedly the quintessential Washington, D.C outsider and maverick who stood fast against corruption and theft. Whatever. She's embezzled more money than she's distributed, check her record.
So now we're faced with a man of color who seems to get what's happening in his country and his running mate whose record of integrity is pretty good trying to convince Americans that the undertaker and his secretary are a bad choice.
In any other country this wouldn't be anything more than a latenight TV satire. In mine, ruled by conservatives who believe looking out for corporations is the same as looking our for them, it is a clear and present danger~
Monday, September 1, 2008
A SCRIBE FROM THE ASHES
I want to tell you about the day I died.
I swore I’d never write about this again, but recently I saw something that forced me to accept that I had no choice but to re-visit the past. Before I get to that, allow me a moment to recap.
It is rare that a person meets the love of one’s life. It is even more rare when that person reciprocates. Yet that somehow seemed to happen and for four years there was relative bliss. Yes, there were obstacles and road bumps and all the other clichés. Yes I allowed fear to rule over my better judgment and to erode away at my instincts until there was only a blank slate remaining.
I’m not known as a hopeful person. I tend to side with the Buddha when it comes to hope, regarding it as an extension of human arrogance and ego based on self-gratification. “Give up hope,” my Zen master said with a smile. This enraged a guest who had come to our temple who didn’t understand he was only saying it shouldn’t be necessary if you apply yourself to the moment.
I allowed myself to hope; I stopped living in the moment. I lived for a dream, a delusion, and an empty promise that was never fulfilled.
I allowed myself to believe in something and I paid the price. Although things had fallen apart, I knew they would be repaired. I knew. Just like I knew who you were the first time we kissed. But you didn’t seem to know who I was anymore. So, when I finally wrote to you and asked you why I felt like I’d been discarded and asked if there was even an “us” anymore, everything was summed up in two incomplete sentences.
“I’m sorry I haven’t written…yes, you are right. There is no “us” anymore…”
That was it. That was the last thing you ever said or wrote to me. Four years of my life wiped out just like that.
What followed was something I’ve had mixed feelings about ever since I did it. Some days I feel it was justified, others I am disappointed in myself. But at the time I was always five seconds away from total mental collapse. My reply to your terse and passive words was filled with venom, rage and accusation. I still have it to reference and have done so many times. How ironic that it’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written.
My regrets are numerous but that letter is the greatest of them. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t written it? Maybe nothing. After all, I found out through a third party that you’d met someone else.
Devastated and depressed are two of the most over-used words in the English language, yet they are the only ones I have available to me. I fell apart. I died inside. I told myself love was the widening chasm ever out of reach, always on the periphery. Not for me. Never for me.
And so I devoted myself to my so-called “art” and immersed myself in practicality. I was used to emptiness so its return was no shock to me. “Hello, darkness, my old friend.”
I have since lived a life absent of the kind of emotion I once embraced so readily. Joy is a person’s name, not a feeling I know. I have missed you terribly with an intensity second only to how much I miss my mother. Time has not tempered this in the slightest. So much for all the advice. When it’s real, I guess we are burdened with it as long as we live. Somehow I doubt you have this problem.
For more than half a decade I have carried our moments with me everywhere I go. I have whispered good night to you when no one could hear me and have spent just as much time trying to forget you. Despite my attempts at re-building, it has all seemed hollow, like the dream we have minutes before our bodies awaken. Even the book I wrote seems empty because you won’t be there to share in it, even as a friend. One day I realized all my attempts at fiction were about you and how much I wanted you to come back to me.
Still, in spite of all I have written today, it seemed as if I’d finally found some measure of solace in life. I didn’t feel unhappy anymore. My moods were generally good. I thought I’d moved on.
Then I decided to type your name into a search engine. It wasn’t a pre-meditated act; it was spontaneous, much like the way your disappearance from my life looked to me. I’d been searching for any trace of you or your family online for years with disappointing results. No matter what was said or written or done, I always wanted to make sure you were OK. But you were gone and no search turned up anything. I thought maybe you’d gotten married and changed your name. Finally, I gave up and accepted that I’d never see you again or know of your fate.
Enter MySpace.com, a site I personally have little use for and am only on because my publisher demanded it. I never thought I’d find you there!
Two people with your name came up and even as I clicked on to them I knew you would be one of them. I didn’t believe it at first but your face is unmistakable. I stared at the picture, my upper body growing numb, my mouth unable to stay closed. I felt myself swooning but not the way one swoons when overloaded by true love. I felt sick, I felt like I was going to pass out. I couldn’t look away from the screen as much as I tried. You looked happy.
So did he.
I will not descend into pettiness at this point. I will not go on and on about what I thought of what I saw. Not only would it not be constructive, it would be childish and, sorry ladies, very female.
Suffice to say he looks a bit like me. Not his features but his look is reminiscent of the one I had back when we were together. I don’t care what he looks like. My interest lies in a different direction.
Why is he wearing a tux?
Why is he wearing a tux? I repeated that question in some dark corner of my mind until I realized there were no answers. You weren’t dressed in white; you had on what appeared to be a red, spaghetti strap dress. Your profile had your last name listed, implying you weren’t married. Was there relief in that realization? I don’t know. I couldn’t get past your smile. You looked so happy, so complete. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream and throw things and scare the h_l out of the dogs until my house was in shambles and I was on my knees, dry heaving and wiping tears from my cheeks.
Instead, I sat there and stared at that picture until I knew I wouldn’t be alone much longer. No reaction, no nervous breakdown…nothing.
That was the day I really died. There was nothing else left inside to react anymore. You took that part with you and gave it to someone else.
When I think of you now, I think of two things. I think of the first time you saw me cry and it broke your heart. Then I think of the second time I cried, in public, in the midst of a nervous breakdown, and the blank expression on your face. Some memories are best forgotten, but some need to be constantly remembered.
I was reminded of it when I sent you a message informing you of my upcoming publication. I also said it would be nice to catch up. Within two days your profile had vanished. This is how it finally ends, with me feeling like a goddam idiot for carrying the barely lit embers of a torch that should have gone out a long time ago. Once my usefulness was over, so were we. I became little more than a resource.
You piece of shit. Fuck off and die horribly. If there's a hell, burn in it for eternity.
This is the day I came back to life~
I swore I’d never write about this again, but recently I saw something that forced me to accept that I had no choice but to re-visit the past. Before I get to that, allow me a moment to recap.
It is rare that a person meets the love of one’s life. It is even more rare when that person reciprocates. Yet that somehow seemed to happen and for four years there was relative bliss. Yes, there were obstacles and road bumps and all the other clichés. Yes I allowed fear to rule over my better judgment and to erode away at my instincts until there was only a blank slate remaining.
I’m not known as a hopeful person. I tend to side with the Buddha when it comes to hope, regarding it as an extension of human arrogance and ego based on self-gratification. “Give up hope,” my Zen master said with a smile. This enraged a guest who had come to our temple who didn’t understand he was only saying it shouldn’t be necessary if you apply yourself to the moment.
I allowed myself to hope; I stopped living in the moment. I lived for a dream, a delusion, and an empty promise that was never fulfilled.
I allowed myself to believe in something and I paid the price. Although things had fallen apart, I knew they would be repaired. I knew. Just like I knew who you were the first time we kissed. But you didn’t seem to know who I was anymore. So, when I finally wrote to you and asked you why I felt like I’d been discarded and asked if there was even an “us” anymore, everything was summed up in two incomplete sentences.
“I’m sorry I haven’t written…yes, you are right. There is no “us” anymore…”
That was it. That was the last thing you ever said or wrote to me. Four years of my life wiped out just like that.
What followed was something I’ve had mixed feelings about ever since I did it. Some days I feel it was justified, others I am disappointed in myself. But at the time I was always five seconds away from total mental collapse. My reply to your terse and passive words was filled with venom, rage and accusation. I still have it to reference and have done so many times. How ironic that it’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written.
My regrets are numerous but that letter is the greatest of them. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t written it? Maybe nothing. After all, I found out through a third party that you’d met someone else.
Devastated and depressed are two of the most over-used words in the English language, yet they are the only ones I have available to me. I fell apart. I died inside. I told myself love was the widening chasm ever out of reach, always on the periphery. Not for me. Never for me.
And so I devoted myself to my so-called “art” and immersed myself in practicality. I was used to emptiness so its return was no shock to me. “Hello, darkness, my old friend.”
I have since lived a life absent of the kind of emotion I once embraced so readily. Joy is a person’s name, not a feeling I know. I have missed you terribly with an intensity second only to how much I miss my mother. Time has not tempered this in the slightest. So much for all the advice. When it’s real, I guess we are burdened with it as long as we live. Somehow I doubt you have this problem.
For more than half a decade I have carried our moments with me everywhere I go. I have whispered good night to you when no one could hear me and have spent just as much time trying to forget you. Despite my attempts at re-building, it has all seemed hollow, like the dream we have minutes before our bodies awaken. Even the book I wrote seems empty because you won’t be there to share in it, even as a friend. One day I realized all my attempts at fiction were about you and how much I wanted you to come back to me.
Still, in spite of all I have written today, it seemed as if I’d finally found some measure of solace in life. I didn’t feel unhappy anymore. My moods were generally good. I thought I’d moved on.
Then I decided to type your name into a search engine. It wasn’t a pre-meditated act; it was spontaneous, much like the way your disappearance from my life looked to me. I’d been searching for any trace of you or your family online for years with disappointing results. No matter what was said or written or done, I always wanted to make sure you were OK. But you were gone and no search turned up anything. I thought maybe you’d gotten married and changed your name. Finally, I gave up and accepted that I’d never see you again or know of your fate.
Enter MySpace.com, a site I personally have little use for and am only on because my publisher demanded it. I never thought I’d find you there!
Two people with your name came up and even as I clicked on to them I knew you would be one of them. I didn’t believe it at first but your face is unmistakable. I stared at the picture, my upper body growing numb, my mouth unable to stay closed. I felt myself swooning but not the way one swoons when overloaded by true love. I felt sick, I felt like I was going to pass out. I couldn’t look away from the screen as much as I tried. You looked happy.
So did he.
I will not descend into pettiness at this point. I will not go on and on about what I thought of what I saw. Not only would it not be constructive, it would be childish and, sorry ladies, very female.
Suffice to say he looks a bit like me. Not his features but his look is reminiscent of the one I had back when we were together. I don’t care what he looks like. My interest lies in a different direction.
Why is he wearing a tux?
Why is he wearing a tux? I repeated that question in some dark corner of my mind until I realized there were no answers. You weren’t dressed in white; you had on what appeared to be a red, spaghetti strap dress. Your profile had your last name listed, implying you weren’t married. Was there relief in that realization? I don’t know. I couldn’t get past your smile. You looked so happy, so complete. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream and throw things and scare the h_l out of the dogs until my house was in shambles and I was on my knees, dry heaving and wiping tears from my cheeks.
Instead, I sat there and stared at that picture until I knew I wouldn’t be alone much longer. No reaction, no nervous breakdown…nothing.
That was the day I really died. There was nothing else left inside to react anymore. You took that part with you and gave it to someone else.
When I think of you now, I think of two things. I think of the first time you saw me cry and it broke your heart. Then I think of the second time I cried, in public, in the midst of a nervous breakdown, and the blank expression on your face. Some memories are best forgotten, but some need to be constantly remembered.
I was reminded of it when I sent you a message informing you of my upcoming publication. I also said it would be nice to catch up. Within two days your profile had vanished. This is how it finally ends, with me feeling like a goddam idiot for carrying the barely lit embers of a torch that should have gone out a long time ago. Once my usefulness was over, so were we. I became little more than a resource.
You piece of shit. Fuck off and die horribly. If there's a hell, burn in it for eternity.
This is the day I came back to life~
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