The Thrill of the Chase Is Total Bulls--t

You know, there's something I've been meaning to get off of my manly, hairy chest for quite some time. You are all allowed to think whatever you want, but I know at least a small part of you are concerning yourselves with what I have to say... I recently was fortified in that belief by a simple series of strokes on a keyboard.

Anyway. In case you didn't already figure out theme here, the thrill of the chase is indeed total bullshit. I understand that there are other species who do this as a matter of determining who makes the best mate. Aren't we evolved enough as a species to completely forego this process? Why do we keep doing this to ourselves? I have seen people do things recently that have left me in that sad state of being both stunned and completely unsurprised, all in the name of dipping the wick.


Here's the deal: you should just immediately bypass the rest of this because I am what I am. I am a gunshy, complex, wallflower-esque person when it comes to putting my ass on the line in order to just get a date. Allow me a diagram if you will.


This is me normally. Notice how approachable and well-adjusted I am.



This would be me trying to approach someone I find of interest. Please note the sweat, the sweat stains under the arms, the pulling at the clothing, etc. You also can't tell from this rendering, but I have wet myself. Never mind the concept of carrying on a conversation, I'm totally screwed here.

Do you see what I'm getting at? Coming out of a relationship is hard, but the hardest part is remembering exactly what it is that made people want to date you in the first place. I'm at the same point now that I was at the end of high school: completely devoid of romantic suggestion. And just like any other normal human being, I refuse to blame it on myself. I will continue to blame it on the shortcomings of others and their total failure to recognize my perpetual state of awesome. I mean, come on...

What's not to like?

North on I-380

When I visit my folks, it takes me to a town called West Liberty. For those of you unfamiliar with the cornucopia of culture that is southeastern Iowa, it's about fifteen miles away from Iowa City. It's pretty much a straight shot from WL to Cedar Falls, mostly going via Interstate 80.

There's a reason why I consider this trip so special. It's mostly because once you get out of the booming metropolis of Cedar Rapids, there's not a whole lot on the road that's going to keep you occupied. I know that sometimes deer get a sense of daring and will try to cross the road, but that's not going to keep you completely focused on the road.

You see, I-380 from Cedar Rapids to Cedar Falls is a chance to catch up on your thoughts whether you want to or not. You'll often find yourself being the only car on the road for miles. What else are you going to do but take stock in your life? This can either be a curse or a blessing, depending on what you're thinking at the time. For me, it was replaying two instances over and over in my head.

The first one involved me arriving in Wet Lib early Thursday afternoon. That night I went over to a friend's house and played bowling on the Wii. This reminds me: thanks Japan. Thanks for being you. Anyway, there were a few guys there I hadn't seen in a few years who were friends of mine from high school. Time was unable to deteriorate our affability towards one another. In other words: it was like picking up right where we left off.

The second one was coming back from this friend's house. He lived on Clark Street. My parents' place was across town on Maxson. Somehow, in the midst of it all, I got lost. Mind you, I'd lived in this town of 3,000 people for pretty much 20 years, and I was lost. Can you imagine how ashamed I was? My brother put it totally in perspective.

"Jesus, dude," he said, drawing out both words in exasperation. "I can't believe you."

Yeah, that about sums it up.

I would like to remind you that I was playing my radio, but it wasn't doing a damned bit of good. I-380 is too expansive and monotonous to keep you from daydreaming. Staying in Cedar Falls has shaped me in a lot of ways, and has made some things go down lately that I have recognized as sacrifices, but hey: love me, love my long trips on I-380 and the crazy shit I come up with on said trip that defines who I am.

The Five Stages of Grief, by Ralph

For those of you who are unaware, the human mind goes through five different periods following a traumatic event. They are fairly easy to remember since they form an acronym that I'm sure you've all used in everyday conversation: "dabda." If not, you need to start hanging out with me a lot more. I tend to use nonsense syllables on a regular basis. Anyway, here they are, as I would go through them. Remember, each person experiences these for different periods of time, so you may be different.


Denial. Nothing happened, I'm okay. For you see, I am the hope to the masses. If I am to experience fallibilty, they might become disillusioned. Case in point: the minute I started to recognize that maybe I was worse off than I had hoped? BAM! Economic collapse.That's right: this was all because of me.


It's important for people to remember that things can get them down, though. That way you can deal with them in a completely rational manner. This leads me to the next stage:


Anger. That's right: motherfuck the world! It was everyone else's problem, not mine! Surely it couldn't have been anything that I did wrong! Although now I'm denial over the economic problem being my fault, now I'm in stage two of the original problem. That's okay, I know how to deal with it! I'll take out on everyone around me. That surely won't fail.

On second thought, my bad. I guess I'd better move on to the next stage.


Bargaining. I'm fairly sure that when bad stuff happens to me, this stage doesn't happen. My broke ass doesn't have anything to make deals with. Unless you count making deals with God to make it all go away. Maybe that's what they mean here...

"Oh, knock it off! It's your stupid blathering that got you in this mess in the first place!"

Well, damn it. This stage does me no good. Moving on...

Depression. That's right, woe is me. God told me to slag off, the economy is in the toilet, and I made someone cry. What to do now? Drink too much and feel bad for myself! The problem is that you are told never to drink alone, so someone has the job of making you feel like less of a blubbering wussbag. It's important as the friend here to avoid trying to offer advice. This sadsack of a creature (me) is going to just get mad at you. Then where does that leave you? You probably either feel like an asshole, you'll want to punch me, or both. I don't need that right now.

Acceptance. I'm not sure what this feels like, to be quite honest with you. Every horrible thing that has ever happened to me has been suppressed and I carry it with me. I'd like to think in a small way this has made me a better man. For example...

This is an artist's rendering of me and my troubles.

So there is a bright side.

And in conclusion, there's only one thing that can be said as far as advice goes: don't get to know anyone or do anything that may cause you grief down the road. It kind of screws you up. Need proof? Read this whole diatribe again.

25 and Working In A Kitchen

I was at work last night when some drunken idiot approached me, bitched about the price of pizza, and then had this exchange with me:

Idiot: "So how old are you?"
Me: "25."
Idiot: "That's too bad... you know, working here."

He then proceeded to smile and walk away. I wished him a thousand painful deaths, proclaimed a jihad on all of his family, and then punched the doorman's counter. Sorry, Jonathon, I didn't mean to scare you.

Let me vent for just a few minutes, if you will. I know most of you don't read my stuff, and that's fine. It made me laugh one day when someone mentioned the reason that they didn't was becasue they were "too long." Really? It takes me less than fifteen minutes to write these... really?

Anyway. Normally the idea of working in a bar's pizza kitchen selling high-quality, affordable Italian delights is a point of pride for me. I determined after some time that what really bothered me was the request for my age. It's as if someone whose aged 25 is not allowed to work in the service industry, lest he be deemed a failure. This, of course, is all predicated on the idea that man's worth is derived by what he does for a living. Are we still at this point in our society, or was this one inexplicably stupid asshole the exception? I sincerely hope its the latter.

Trust me, I've heard all the jokes. I've heard all the jokes about how I'm working on a decade's worth of schooling. I've heard all the jokes about when I was a freshman, the printing press had just been invented. I take all of these in stride, mostly because it's my friends who are doing the ribbing. If you can't laugh at yourself, you have no right to laugh at others, after all.

So I am a 25-year-old guy living in a college town, having college friends, working at a college bar. Most of my friends are significantly younger than me, and I rarely meet someone whose older than me who doesn't already have a job that supplies them with stock options. That's fine, but let me explain something to the lot of you who think that this is something I should be ashamed of... and I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

First off, I have friends that are 19 years old. That's a lot of years of separation. Let me assure you though: if I am hanging out with you, it's because I think you are a cool person and I enjoy conversing with you. It has nothing to do with me hanging onto my long-forgotten youth and trying to be young again. Hanging out with me for at least an hour will show you that I am one of the most juvenile people around, so that can't possibly be it.

Second, I'm happy doing what I do right now for a living. Rarely do I dread going into work. The vast majority of work days finds me happy and having a good time. This is all defined by (RECURRING THEME ALERT) the people I work with and how I think they are fun to be around. If you have ever teased me for this whether it be to my face or (even worse) behind my back to others, you are the worst kind of person. You are a black hole of humanity.

My age and my years spent in this town have been one of the greatest blessings of my life. I love the community of Cedar Falls and if it were up to me, I'd live here for the rest of my life. I love the people I associate with, and I love how I fit into all of it. There are sacrifices that must be made in the form of romantic relationships, perception of maturity, and other things that could easily be shook off it people allowed themselves to do so. Ah well.

Finally, the ultimate sacrifice for me is that I have a harder time than most meeting women. That comes with the territory, but I common theme I keep hearing is what people will think if word gets out that they're dating someone 3-6 years their senior. My parents are separated by five years. But that's beside the point. If you want to forsake the idea of someone having lived long enough to know how to treat a lady, and to do things the right way, that's fine. Spend some time with some punk college sophomore who has his whole life ahead of him and doesn't care whether or not you're a part of his longterm plans. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

So in conclusion, fuck that guy and his ridiculous modern-day faux alligator shirt. I am awesome, and there's not a damn thing any of you can do about it.

Them's the Breaks

We are a fascinating and unique species. Unfortunately, that means that we pretty much suck to deal with on a social basis. If we could be like the rest of the animal kingdom, things would be a lot easier. Not necessarily more fun, but definitely easier. Think about it: the female of most species goes into heat when she's ready to mate. Humans don't. Easier, yes. More interesting? Well, the other side of that is that you would see a lot of females in heat watching two dudes fight over the prize. Come to think of it, it's not all that different from what we're doing now. Ever watch two rams lock horns? You ever watch two brahs try to wrestle feebly in a bar while bouncers break them up? Is there REALLY that much of a difference?

My point is this: it might be possible to remain friends with your significant other following a breakup, but it's pretty unlikely. It's not nearly enough to just say that you'll make the effort. You might want to make the effort, but your thoughts and feelings betray you every single chance they get. That's the problem of self-awareness and free thought. You are way too aware of yourself and you think way too damn much.

It's mostly just vanity, really. The thought of someone you shared your most intimate thoughts and motiviations with will now spend their time with someone else doing the same thing. It's easy with your friends. You tell them something, they listen. You tell your mate something, there's a chance that they may still tell you to get lost.

What then? You're stuck feeling like an asshole, basically. You start to think of all the little things you did to screw up a good thing, that maybe you had the chance and you failed. You wonder if maybe you were a little too selfish at times. Then, after all this thought and speculation, you decide it was their fault. It's always their fault. Lying, cheating scum is what they are.

So being friends with this person is hard. Don't lie to yourself and say otherwise. Most of the time, no matter how hard you try it's just not going to work. Sometimes too much was invested, as a result... too much was lost.

But seriously: how about those CUBBIES?

Please Forgive Me, I May Be An Idiot

If there's one thing that frustrates me more than the introduction of the word "Webisode" into the vernacular, it's my inability to get people. See, I can read 1-3-1 zone defense from my seat at center court better than most people. I know what the difference between a "Sam" Linebacker is and a "Mike" Linebacker. No, they are not brothers who meet at the annual Linebacker Family Reunion. But damn, those people can barbecue, son.

See, I have been on the earth longer than most of you (I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that most of you reading this are less than a quarter-century old). I still don't know anything. I still make futile attempts to reason with God like he's a Repo Man taking my HDTV. One thing I've learned is that God is not anyone's Celestial Bellhop. But damn it all if I still don't feel like trying.

The only thing I can really do is acknwoldge and accept my own shortcomings. I come on too strong at times, I have the social skills of an Irish professional drinker (which is both a curse and a blessing), and I indulge too much in life's little distractions. For those of you who say that I forgot about being in school for my eighth year, I say this to you: FUCK OFF. Mind your own damn business.

That's about all I can do. The good news is that making those acknolwedgements can help you identify social problems before they arise. There are a few instances where it still doesn't help you because temptation can be a powerful influence. So all I can say when those kinds of things happen is this: my bad.

The other thing I can do is keep the faith. I live in a social circle where most of my friends think that God is basically a trading card in a Magic: The Gathering game. I know none of them say it to me, but they find my belief in God to be misguided. Let 'em think so. Attempting to find proof either way is a waste of everyone's time because you just won't find it. I know what I know, and that ain't a whole hell of a lot. I like to think there's someone else who is looking out for me. I know I can't do it on my own. Look how much trouble I've gotten into so far.

The Glad Game

These are a list of little things that make me glad. I call it "The Glad Game."

• The first day that it becomes prudent to wear a hoodie.
• Football Saturdays!
• When a song comes on the radio that you like and know all the words to. This inevitably leads to you singing like Freddie Mercury.
• When you're making out with a girl for the first time and she elects to take her shirt off, saving a lot of potential stress.
• Days that are sunny, and hovering at around 65 degrees.
• Drink specials that you'll actually take advantage of (note: 4.50 Jagerbombs don't do a thing for me, okay?).
• Night time at 2 a.m. and it's completely quiet.
• New bag day.
• Having your parents cover the dinner check as though they're doing you a favor.
• Having a good game in pickup basketball.
• A cute girl saying "hi" to you as you're walking opposite directions.
• Finding an episode of "Mythbusters" that you haven't seen yet.
• Hearing UNI mentioned on National TV.
• Your girl coming over to sleep at your place despite hers and your busy schedules the next morning.
• Getting a new HOODIE!
• Knowing that George W. Bush is gone in January.
• Your favorite bartenders knowing what your usual drink is (this goes out to you, Sorg and Philly).
• Good tip nights.
• Getting a new text message.

Got any more? Share them.

Why I Won't Vote For Barack Obama

But first, let me tell you why John McCain sucks.

Ironically, John McCain used to be a lot like Barack Obama. He was given a lot of credit around 2000 for taking stances that went against the party line. Even if I don't agree with a candidate, I'll respect his or her ability to actually do what they feel is best. McCain used to be this way. Now, he is a whiny lapdog for the GOP. He keeps knocking Barack Obama, calling him a celebrity. I find this to be McCain's official conversion to the dark side. It also turned him into a magnificent pussy, and a douchebag.

John McCain honestly believes that he can put together a campaign that does nothing but show everything wrong with his closest competitor. That would be a great way to do things of Wal-Mart trailer trash could vote twice. I'm sure Republicans would like nothing more than that as the 2008 elections approach, but it doesn't work that way.

And that is why John McCain is a wiener.

Now, on to our regularly scheduled program.

Barack Obama is a position right now where all he has to do is show people that he's not full of shit. He has created a campaign that people desperately want to believe in. I find the optimism of people to be both encouraging and desperately needed. There was one inevitability, however: when it became clear that he was in fact the frontrunner, his skeletons would come out. So far it seems he's just like any other politician: a conniving bastard. But I'm not looking for a nice guy to be my leader, I'm looking for a leader. Ask Lou Piniella if he cares whether or not people think he's cuddly. The Cubs are in first place. END OF STORY.

So yeah, Obama is great and is giving people hope. But I am still a Libertarian, and I know of a candidate that is still better suited for me than Obama. His name is Bob Barr, and he currently has 6% of the popular vote according to recent polls. Bottom line? I'm not alone, and I'm not throwing my vote away. BELIEVE DAT.

Being Oggled By the Mind's Eye

In case you didn't know, someone, somewhere, really wants to hump you. Imagine that for just a second. They would consider it a major coup in their life's journey if they could have sex with you. You, you naive bastard. I am sure that there are people who are desiring relations with me, although they might not necessarily be doing so now. Give them time, though.

Stop moping. Whether you are skinny, fat, black, white, single, married, or "In An Open Relationship," someone thinks you are worthy of their sexual exploits. My advice to you is to go and find one of these people. If you're not single, this should be relatively easy. Trust me: your significant other imagined you naked at some point today. You'll feel better, and your mind will be clear, if only for a second.

Why do I say this? Because right now there's somebody out there who wants to do me. I know this because it's happened before. I remember how I felt after a good batch of shagging. AWESOME, and never any less than that. I tell you all of this now because nobody knows the merits of sex better than someone who isn't having it.

Now, go in peace.

Sexism In Modern Times

Attention, fools:

I give you this.

I want you to read the article. Then I want you to look at the pictures provided. I want you to hear the anecdotes not from the girls being interviewed for the piece as if their opinion means dick to their overbearing twat of a father, but from the twats themselves. I want you to realize that it's incredibly important in this day in age to realize that we, the youngest generation with the power to truly change things, have to recognize a problem.

Also, you have to know that these girls are going have MASSIVE fucking daddy issues their whole lives.

A "purity ball?" Hey, let's party like it's 1799! Instead of Prince, we can get Prince Wilhelm IV of Prussia! Instead of karaoke and party games, we'll be auctioning off black people in a faux-slave auction. Seriously, we're already half way there to putting women back in the fucking kitchen where they belong, right?

A purity ball. Jesus Christ, save me.

I found this on someone's Facebook notes. I'm not much for labels, but I'd say she's as close to a modernized feminist that I know. She, naturally, is outraged. I'm sure she has her reasons, including lashing out at a borderline-psychotic attempt turn back the clock because we are all scared. Scared of what, I don't know. She has her reasons, I have mine. Let me tell you mine:

It's because of people who believe in this "purity ball" shit that I don't get laid more often.

Roll with me here. What is a purity ball, essentially? An effort by a group of creepy wannabe daughter-fuckers to ensure that their seed remains theirs and theirs alone. There's a guy in the article who has the nerve to take his daughter to one of these things despite having fathered nine children with seven women. I don't care how much you say you've changed and the light of Baby Jesus has touched you: FUCK. OFF. That's the kind of contradiction that lasts for life. You are an alcoholic you're whole life, whether you've been sober thirty years or are piss-drunk now. You don't force your son or daughter to go with you to your AA meetings, you pompous fuck. Leave them out of this.

The whole socially conservative movement gets its bread and butter from the impressions made on youth. It's far easier to mold the mind of child who doesn't have contradictory viewpoints being told to them. I grew up in a household that features a Democrat for a dad and a Republican for a mom. I'm now a Libertarian, and I think they're both morons. But at least I love them for showing me that absolutely NOTHING in life is all one color. I guess it's at least a little true that you can't have an understanding until you despite someone for their viewpoints. How sad.

In this case, these purity balls represent a bunch of piss-ant macho males fucking their daughters' minds up totally. Want to know why so many girls who make virginity pledges lose it in the back of a Ford Taurus on a gravel road just outside town? DADDY. ISSUES. See, it's paranoid fathers who plant that seed in girls' heads. "Sex is bad until you're married," they'll say. Well, girls need more than one positive male role model, just like boys should have as many positive female role models as possible. They'll eventually think they've found it in the arms of Chip the Small Town Quarterback, who ironically took a chastity pledge of his own at Bible Camp.

We are the only species on earth that believes sex is something to be ashamed of. Mind you, that's not something is instinctive. It's shamed into us by adults when we are young. They do it for our physical protection more than anything. I get that, and I respect it. We are now in an age, though, where people realize their sexuality at a younger and younger age. There's absolutely no reason whatsoever to keep from embracing it. How about a message of "Sex is a wonderful, personal thing. But with it comes responsibility." How much responsibility can a person learn when they hear "No. Shut up. Sex is evil. Now sit on your dad's knee while bounces you up and down." A bit of a contradiction, to say the least.

I have ranted long enough. You are more than welcome to disagree with me, but at least hear me out when I say that these purity balls are an effort to ensure no outside information is heard. That is all.

Life After Facebook

A long time ago, you could date someone with little to no hassle. Nowadays, it's possible your friends will get pissed off at you if you never posted a small and meaningless blurb on an online profile about how you are now "in a relationship." Back in the day someone who annoyed the piss out of you in a social setting could be easily forgotten, even if you gave them your name. Now? You're fucked son. Next time do a background check on someone who wants to be your friend.

Yes, I'm talking about facebook. Facebook has the serious possibility of being the downfall of our society. Buy N' Large might not even get that chance. I'm having a hard time envisioning a future where humanity's every move will be registered through one mega-site (damn you, mini-feed), but that future may not be far off. Listed below are some ways to prevent this future from happening.

Stop saying "Facebook Official." This one ranks right up there with people who type "LOL" when they meant to make a joke. Frankly, my mindless hookups and failed one-week relationships with that crazy bitch at the bar are none of your concern. Likewise, I get a migraine whenever I have to read the following sequence on my mini-feed:

• Dipshit is listed as "in a relationship." (3:06 pm)
• Dipshit is in love! (3:13 pm)
• It's complicated with Dipshit. (3:19 pm)
• Dipshit wonders what the future holds. (3:25 pm)
• Dipshit is no longer listed as "in a relationship." (3:40 pm)
• Dipshit is crying themselves to sleep. (3:53 pm)

Congratulations: now everyone on the internet knows you're a God damned basket case. And don't try and offset this by making your profile restricted. People still talk without computers, you know.

You are not a ninja. Nor will you ever be one. In some sort of practical joke that went too far, literally millions of people spend at least part of their day on Facebook trying to upgrade their ninja skills by challenging other Facebook ninjas and (most importantly) having no respect for other friends' time and intelligence by repeatedly requesting that they join them as online ninjas. This could be remedied by Mark Zuckerberg simply creating a "fuck the fuck off" button to click when someone sends you this request. This would only work if the fake ninja was told explicity that he should have intercourse with himself, of course. I'm okay with that, though.

This presents a danger because like fantasy sports, it's something that needs to be relegated to a small corner of the internet. Anyone who talks openly about their ninja quest is simply going to be rendered mentally atrophied in a few years, and it's important that they not spread their seed. Think about it: would you consider someone's Donkey Kong Kountry exploits quality conversation? Of course not. Do us all a favor: dispose of these people. They will be our downfall.

Fuck you, mini-feed. I do a lot of things on Facebook purely for shits and giggles. The rest of Facebook's expansive community doesn't need to know that I wrote on fifteen people's walls, that I joined a group commemorating Woody Woodpecker's 84th anniversary, and that I repeatedly tried to Facebook flirt with a crush. I am an idiot. Talking to me for five minutes in person will make this apparent. Stop clogging other people's shit up with meaningless updates. This also holds reciprocal. I don't need to know that Dipshit is cluuuuuuubin it up with Asshat and PinkyDick. If I really wanted to know, I'll ask them.

The Following Phrases Will Make Me Hate You

Anyone who uses the following words or phrases in front of me without any semblance of irony or humor will be shunned. Know this. It might save you a lot of trouble.

Airplane Reading/Summer Movie. They are pretty much the same thing. Many people will define airplane reading or summer movies as "Easy to digest mentally" or "brain candy." I call them "The mental equivalent of an Outback Bloomin' Onion dipped in chocolate sauce, covered in bacon bits, slathered in sour cream, and then topped off with butterscotch and semen." In other words, it might feel good, but you know that it's eventually going to make you rot away and even as you're eating it you know that something isn't right. The other thing that bothers me about these people is that if they finish their "airplane reading" they will ask you if you've read it. No, I have not read Summer of Deception Rebecca Sue H.P. Grafton. Tease me if you must about having read Catcher In the Rye, but we both know that your insecurity will suffocate you someday.

Fantasy Sports Analyst. Are you fucking kidding me? First off, I find nothing more insufferable that dipshits who discuss fantasy sports with people outside their leagues. I will make some concessions about guys (and it's almost always guys... sorry, ladies) who discuss their leagues with each other. But some people find it wholly necessary to listen to a guy on ESPN who is telling you to consider picking Schuyler Robertson from the Fresno Grizzlies AAA team because he's bound to break, and you'll like a genius. When ESPN breaks from their coverage of gruesome racing accidents or Brett Favre's latest Perot-esque renegging, this sends me into a pit of great annoyance. It all boils down to this: for what? You spend your time researching your fantasy sports team because you think it makes you more masculine? Replace "fantasy baseball" with "fantasy role-playing" or "Magic: the Gathering" and you still have the same idea. Some dipshit on ESPN telling you about it doesn't make it cooler.

LOL, LMAO, or any derivative thereof. Back when the internet was in its infancy (I am old enough to remember this very well... wanna fight about it?), the term "LOL" stood for "laughing out loud." I know this seems very elementary, but follow me for just a second. When you were chatting with someone online, you could show appreciation for a joke they just made by letting them know they succeeded in making audibly chuckle.

THAT IS ALL THAT IT MEANS.

Fast forward to now, where millions of hopeless troglodytes use it incessantly, most often as they are referring to something they themselves have done, using "LOL" as either a joke surrogate or to let you know that they were trying to be funny but have likely subconsciously conceded to the fact that they are despicably unfunny. A word of advice to these people: you are not funny. Stop trying to be something that you aren't. I don't go around wearing applebottom jeans and the boots with the fur so I can pretend everyone in the club is looking at me. They should have every right to kick my ass for being such a poseur. You need to do the same. Either that, or take funny classes at the learning annex.

One Single Photograph

I've learned quite a bit about myself in the last couple of months. Up until just recently, I didn't know that I could have literally dozens of attractive girls say "I love you" to me just for getting them quality pizza at a reasonable price (EAT MOJO'S PIZZA.). Say what you will, that can be quite the spoonful of sugar for one's ego.

I also found out that I handle being single in a strange fashion. I hadn't been single for three years. Then, suddenly, I was. The quickest lesson to be learned is to remember that you are a person on your own, and that your significant other should never, EVER define who you are. If you're going to do that, get a fucking hobby. Trust me: crocheting will never tell you that it needs to be crocheted by other people. The Chicago Cubs baseball team will never call you up and tell you "Look it's not you, it's us."

Anyway. That's the simplest, most rudimentary thing you can learn. The thing that I learned shortly thereafter is that you can invest a lot of time into a relationship, but that doesn't mean it was meant to be. Then you're stuck with a lot of memories that can be good ones, but they aren't tangible enough to warrant justification.

I have one single photograph left that I will keep for the rest of my life that will serve as a monument to my most recent relationship. I have no ill will, and things must be as they are. That being said, you can't start a 4,000-mile road trip with your car in reverse. Believe that.

ITEC Adventures

I will soon be posting pictures of UNITUBA's time in Cincinnati, Ohio. Suffice to say it was draining, and I could have slept for 40 days upon my return. But it was...

FUCKING AWESOME.

Believe it.

Ruminations soon. Yes, I'm still alive.

Oh Dear

I was Facebook cruising and came across a wholesome group page called "You know you're a band geek when..." and one of the wall posts was someone trolling for their website in which they get too drunk to remember having sex but it's all on VIDEO!

Although titillating, I find this to be kind of absurd. Let me do these people a service: here's some groups you SHOULD have posted that message on, instead of a marching band page. Not to make the claim that band kids are asexual (NOTHING is further from the truth), but... well, yeah.

Anyway. Some suggestions:

• "Girls Gone Wild" Fans
• I Am An AIM Porn Bot
• I Have Jerked It In Public
• Males With Rape Fantasies
• Males With Fantasies About Being Raped
• If It's In Another Area Code, It's Not Cheating
• Bacardi 151: A Legal Roofie
• I Heart Soulja Boy
• Sperm Guards For Keyboards
• Fans of Nickelback
• I Hit On My Applebee's Waitress
• Natty Light: God's Nectar
• How Do YOU Spell Fun? A-D-D-E-R-A-L-L
• Go White Sox!
• You Know You Enjoy Videos of Drunk Girls Getting Plowed When...

This advice comes pro bono. You're welcome.

Surviving Moments of Unawesome

The human mind is a wonderful thing. A glorious, magical, insanely stupid thing. Your mind is the one and only tool in how you perceive the world. Your mind has absolute power over conceptions of reality, and you know what they say about absolute power corrupting absolutely.



In short: every single person on this planet is a befuddled douchebag of a human being.



I give you this man as proof.





I have no point to all of this other than to once again remind you all the Chad Kroeger and the rest of Nickelback should spend all of eternity listening to their own music and getting shocked with 400 volts of electricity every time it sucks.

Or perhaps I do. Wait, it's coming to me...


Oh yes, now I remember. As much I try to pass myself off as a decent human being, sometimes I'm confronted with actions that I myself don't approve of. This causes cognitive dissonance. Of you don't know what that means or are Chad Kroeger (or possibly both), go look it up. Anyway, I think I am awesome. Therein lies the problem. When I do things that are unawesome, this presents a conflict. Here's a briefing on how I can cope, using a recent example:


I asked a girl on a date who was already seeing someone. Some people will tell me I should have done more research before I asked such a question. I could have let this unawesome incident get to me, or let my friends (as well-meaning as they were) tell me I was a doofus. I did not. Instead, upon hearing this news, I dismissed it as in instance where 70% percent of all the cool chicks are taken. Sometimes you have to put your ass on the line and ask one of them out. You have a 30% chance of scoring a cool chick. The last I checked, batting .300 will get you far in baseball.


Do you see what I'm getting at here? When I was pursuing my Crush of the Week people always used to tell me "What's the worst she can say? No?" This is advice I've finally started taking to heart. It will reap benefits someday, rest assured of that. The funny thing is when I excersize this newfound philosophy, all my friends (especially those who have known me for a long time, back when I was explicitly insecure) are bewildered and ask me why the hell I did such a thing. The answer is simple:


BECAUSE I AM AWESOME.

testing

Truth Nuggets

• Lewis Black said it best when he said that the teachings of Jesus Christ may make you into a better person, but just because you follow the teachings of Jesus Christ doesn't mean that you're immediately a wonderful human being. KNOW THIS.
• People who make a joke about something on the internet and then follow it up with "LOL" are endlessly irritating. Stop laughing at your own joke, you dipshits.
• If music is the language of emotion, then bad music must be the equivalent of shitting yourself after straining too hard to fart.
• If you enjoy something, it doesn't automatically mean that its creator is a genius. The guy who invented the word "hyperbole..." now THAT guy is a fucking genius.
• Take a little bit of pride in everything that you do. If you aren't proud of something you're doing then stop doing it. That seems pretty simple, right?
• Biz Markie once said "If it's gonna be this kind of a party I'm gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes." One of these days I will find a party that is that kind of party with mashed potatoes. It's hard to find parties these days with mashed potatoes, but when I do, I will hump the bowl.
• I've said it before, and I will sure as hell say it again: thinking you are a fantastic person is not arrogance, cockiness, or anything of the like. You cross the line into arrogance when you hurt others around you with your actions. Otherwise, go nuts.
• Sidebar to the previous bullet: this is why you hear me say "You're damned right I am" a lot.
• The older you get, the less it seems you know. This is why teenagers really fucking piss me off.
• Philosophers might have a lot of profound things to say about the nature of life and loyalty the day that the Cubs finally win the World Series.

Amusements: The Running Diaries of A Madman

So as of right now, here's my situation: my computer monitor got fried in what I'm assuming to be a lightning storm, one of my summer jobs is quite literally a wash due to an ill-timed act of God and now my bills are piling up, and the most unacceptable and soul-crushing thing of all is that I haven't been on a date in forever.

See, it's all about perspective, people. Take notes. Get study groups together. You'll get in "A" in life if you know how to prioritize as I clearly have.

I suppose I could give you some musings or thoughts about the recent high-powered floods that have turned most of Eastern Iowa's municipalities into large, foul-smelling swimming pools, but I'll leave that to the experts. Guys like Bruce Aune who have done a stellar job in convincing us that we're all going to fucking die. A Roland Emmerich-style disaster movie called "Flood" and based on a true story can't be too far behind, right?

This was supposed to be the summer I got my life back in order, began going back to school full-time, and graduated with a bachelor's degree before the age of 30. Well, right now it's not looking so hot. I had a fairly lucrative gig set up running a taco stand (check that... THE Taco Stand) at Riverfront Stadium this summer. Well, that's not happening as of this moment. The lack of cash flow is now baring down on me in unprecendented ways, and this may mean that I might have to forego yet ANOTHER semester of not going to school in time to graduate before Trucker Movies become popular again.

Oh well. If anyone has anything to say that would help, think about it, and then contact me.

Cloverfield: A Lesson In Frustration

Let me start this whole thing out by saying that I enjoyed Cloverfield, but it's unlikely that I will watch it in the near future again. There is a lot about this movie to be questioned. No, I'm not talking about the fact that a monster is raging through Manhattan. I understand that there's a certain degree of forgiveness I have to muster when talking about monster movies. Here's a series of things that I have a hard time forgiving, though, and these are all things that could have made the movie better.

A 350-foot bipedal monster would crush itself. This is basically what the monster looked like. I've heard that it was 350 feet tall. I'm sorry, but gravity being what it is, and the structure that this creature has would mean that all that money and manpower spent trying to bring down this badass thing wouldn't be necessary. It would just buckle and fall since the center of gravity this thing would undoubtedly produce would kill it.

See, the largest living, mobile thing on earth right now is the blue whale. It is 110 feet long. It lives in the ocean. The largest land creature to have ever existed is believed to be a sauropod that was 89 feet long and 35 feet high. See what I'm getting at here? It just seems to me like J.J. Abrams was trying to make his creature as big as possible just to have insane shots of it moving around downtown Manhattan. Which brings me to the next thing that irritated me about this movie...

What the fuck? Why is this thing so God-damned infallible? I watched some of the special features after the film, and they say that this thing was a baby. A BABY. A 350-foot BABY. God only knows how big it was supposed to get when it was full grown.

That being said, since when do babies have the ability to reproduce? This thing sweats/flakes/poops out tiny little athropodic versions of itself that can bite and thereby infect hosts. When ready to make another sweat/flake/poop creature, it bursts out of the stomach of the host Alien-style.

I understand the purpose of all of this from a plot standpoint: it's fucking scary and we have no idea what the hell is going on and it's pretty hard to grasp watching a friend burst out a sweat/flake/poop creature from her stomach. But let's say that this thing is from another world, further lending creedence to this whole suspension-of-belief concept. What planet's ecosystem could possibly support a creature that may be up to 1,000 feet tall and reproduces by parasitic spores that need a host? It would likely take less than two years for the entire ecosystem to be obliterated by Cloverfield Monsters.

Finally, this thing can withstand the full brunt of an all-out military campaign, bombs and all. A desperate millitary has stopped caring about preserving the city of New York, and just want this thing dead. That means that everything and everyone is collateral damage. In other words, full-speed ahead, United States Military War Machine. I get that this thing is 350 feet, and a lot of effort would be required to bring it down. But throughout the film you watch this bastard absorb literally tons of firepower without so much as a stratch. WHY? I'm 6'4, and pretty big, but please don't call me a pussy if I eventually succumb to a guy repeatedly kicking me in the shins. Oh, and did I mention he has a small knife blade glued to his boot?

So there you have it. Cloverfield was a decent film, and a very clever high-concept idea. Maybe I should just concentrate on making my own monster movie with my own idea of what would happen if it destroyed Manhattan. I don't know. All I know is, this movie was very annoying.

Ain't That A Shame

It's official: I give up.

I am arrogant, I am a jerk, and now I'm apparently too nice.

Yes, you heard me correctly. In a delicious bit of irony, someone has recently told me that I am the kind of guy that seems so nice that he must have an ulterior motive. Then others agreed. Then I promptly grew a brain tumor. Maybe.

Is it really so hard to believe that I am just a guy? One regular dude who doesn't have an agenda? The only ulterior motive I have right now that I am aware of is that I'm constantly looking for female companionship. I don't think that makes me any different than anyone else (unless, of course, you are female, and sometimes even then...).

I am speechless for right now, but maybe I'll have something to say about this later. In the meantime, I recently watched Cloverfield, and I there's a few things I have to get off my chest. Expect an update soon.

Things My Roommate Taught Me

Basically, he's introduced me to The Office, a show I'd never watched before. This should be a physical impossibility. Consider the following:

• I love Steve Carrell's work.
• I was a big fan of Office Space.
• I am a big fan of clever TV shows.

The Office has all of this and more. What the hell was I waiting for? No more, my friends. I have now seen the entire first and second seasons, and will begin watching the third season sometime this weekend. I have my roommate to thank for that, since it was his idea, and he keeps dragging his DVDs out for me to watch.

For those of you who have not watched The Office, it is best described as a series of awkward moments interspersed with genuinely affecting moments. There are far too many for me to list here, but let me break down a few of them that were particularly affecting. Keep in mind I have not watched anything beyond the second season currently.

Michael Scott has to fire someone. It has been said that if you don't know a Michael Scott, you are a Michael Scott. Steve Carrell's character is the boss, and will not hesitate to tell you. When forced to do actual boss stuff, though, he balks because he tries very hard to be everyone's friend. He has no friends at work. When he actually has to fire someone, the look of dejection and heartbreak on his face is something that really hit hard for me.

See, it's like this: Michael Scott is an annoying, abrasive, obnoxious, and clueless boob. But he, just like anyone else has enough of a good person in him to find the thought of damaging someone's life unconscionable. Leadership is not always about resume-building. The biggest thing that people need to know about stepping up and making their mark on society is that inevitably you will have to do something that you don't want. Michael Scott fails as a manager because he wants to be everyone's friend. You cannot succeed without pissing someone off, though. Simply put: if you have made enemies, you have some semblance of professional success. Don't revel in it, though, you asshole.

Michael Scott comes alive entertaining the kids. The office decides to have Daughters at Work Day, and Michael tries to tell people that he doesn't like kids, and he's not good with them. This turns out to be untrue as kids are drawn to him. This seems natural to me since he's basically just a big juvenile. At one point he tells the kids that when he was a kid he was on a children's program. He shows them the footage, and 8-year-old Michael Scott tells the puppet interviewing him this when asked what he wanted when he was older:

"I want to have 100 kids so that I will have 100 friends because they'll have to
be my friends."

Again with the heartbreaking look, as he apparently forgot about this part of the show. He spends a great deal of the rest of the day in his office, dejected.

It's one thing to be young and have no friends because no one can stand you. My fellow nerds and I all understand this feeling. Fitting in as a child is hard, and can sometimes be the source of a lot of problems and therapy sessions. It's another thing entirely when you are a full-grown adult. Michael watched his childhood self tell him that he'd essentially failed at something as simple as having friends when he was older. The look on his face as he sees this says a lot. It means that Michael desperately wants someone to relate to. It also means that deep down, despite his endless clowning and vying for attention, he knows that no one there really likes him.

The lesson here is obvious: as an adult it is considerably more easy to make friends because adults are not kids and will give you a lot leeway to act like a dipshit. Hell, I go out with friends sometimes for the expressed purpose of acting like dipshits. If you look around you and realize that all your acquaintances you call "friend" find you disgusting, you need become a lot more likeable. People want to listen and be listened to. They want friends, not bad entertainers or makeshift professors.

Jim and Pam. Don't spoil the ending for me yet because I don't see how this ends up, but the characters of Jim the salesman and Pam the receptionist are some of the most relatable on television right now. I like Jim on The Office. He's self-aware, kind, and gets along with everyone without having to strain. He also has a huge crush on Pam, seeing her for the complicated and real person that she is. He loves her for it. She likes him back too. Oooh, DRAMA!

But she's getting engaged to a guy who is, for all intents and purposes, not an asshole in the strictest sense. Roy, her fiancee, is a good guy and likes Pam. He recognizes the person she is, but he doesn't get it. He is unaware that he is suffocating her. He's obtuse and clearly believes the best years of his life are behind him. He's accepted this, but in a way expects Pam to do the same. Jim has told Pam repeatedly to make her own life, and make herself happy. He also really wants to make out with her, eventually telling her he loves her.

Guys, we all have or have had a Pam. Screaming in your mind at Jim to take the initiative and tell her how he feels is essentially the same thing as doing it to yourself. I put it out there that if you don't know a Jim Halpert, you are a Jim Halpert. Or perhaps it's possible to know and be both. I don't know. I have a Pam. I'm a pussy about it just like he is. Therein lies the beauty of it all: I can distract myself by setting someone's stuff in Jell-O.

Independent Films

I have a penchant for movies. A lot of you know this. I have a bitter and pronounced hatred for certain films, and my favorite films are ones that I will love my entire life. I rarely go to the theatre because I find it hard to cough up nearly 10.00 these days on something that is likely going to leave me longing.

Here is a short list of the last few films I have seen in theatres:

• Juno
• Knocked Up

And that's pretty much as far back as I can remember. Don't get me wrong, there were a few films that recently came out that I would like to see in the theatre (Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Iron Man, There Will Be Blood, Across the Universe) but I never got around to it because going to the movies is fucking expensive these days.

If there were more independent films in theatres, I'd probably see more of those. Juno would technically qualify as an independent film, and it's something I would like to discuss here. Juno was, for all intents and purposes, a good film. I enjoyed it. It does, however, fall prey to a trend that I find particularly annoying in independent film: quirkiness.

Why does this happen? It started with Garden State, continued through The Royal Tennenbaums, Rushmore, and now Juno. For what it's worth I liked all of those films because their work rises above the self-imposed parameters of quirkiness they set for themselves. Here's a question, though: why do they have to do that?

My theory is that a lot of mainstream films have a tendency to almost always take themselves way too seriously. Independent films then feel that it's necessary to counter this by going the opposite direction: NEVER taking themselves too seriously. What is the end result?

The end result is best exemplified by the main character in Juno. Would you ever, EVER, in a million years, meet a 16-year-old girl this self-actualized and snarky? When a 16-year-old's water breaks, I'm thinking the utterance "Thundercats are go!" would be way, WAY down on the list of things they would say. Perhaps "oh, God!" or "The baby's coming!" would be the choice phrase. Everyone in the theatre laughed at this, but it took me out of the movie for a second. Quirkiness was a big detraction for this movie.

What is my point in all this? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's that I would love to see a movie sometime soon that throws out predispositions and just plays itself out. There is a time for spectacle, there is a time for quirkiness, even. But sometimes I just want to keep it low-key and do my own thinking for once. Is that so hard to ask?

I Swear I'm Not Making This Up

If you go to the first post from my old Xanga blog (yeah, I had one... it sucked), I say "The revolution begins NOW!"

Jesus. What the fuck was I thinking?

I don't even post in that damned thing anymore because it wasn't anything really worth reading about. The only problem is that I now have that unfortunate feeling whenever I'm writing in this thing. Oh well, whatever.

"The revolution begins NOW!" God, I hope I was kidding.

One Day I'm Gonna Lose the War

Despite this reference to the saddest/creepiest Sublime song ever composed, I feel okay. That's the problem, though: I feel just okay. I'd like to feel good, but that ain't happening right now. At least if something traumatic were happening, I could have an excuse to feel bad. The thing is, though, nothing bad is happening right now, really.

But that doesn't necessarily mean that I can't find a reason, right? Let's get this train wreck-a-rollin'!

Each day I wake up it always seems like it's a lot later than I'd like. I've become so nocturnal without school-related matters to keep me focused that I have occaisionally been unable to sleep until the sun peeks up over the horizon. For most, that would be the welcome of a new day. For me, it means the end of one. It's heroically morose to think that a sunrise means the end for me, but whatevs, yo.

There's also this thing about going to bed alone every night. When my room got really cold this winter I could count on a girlfriend helping me keep my covers warm and comfortable. I don't have this anymore, but luckily the weather is picking up in both temperature and outlook. Each day I am trying to tell myself to bide my time until the day that I meet someone else, because it will happen. I am far too fucking awesome to be single for very long. At this point it's a timing issue more than it is a personal issue. That doesn't mean that I can't get frustrated, women popping up at every opportunity like so many pop-up ads on a computer screen. Clicking them away won't keep them away. God, where is my firewall?

Also, my arms are a tad sore from carrying around my tuba all night last night. Woe is me. Everyone is out to get me.

Okay, so maybe I'm not very good at this. Where's an emo kid when you need them?

The Essence of Atheism

There are a couple of words I can think of that have a special power. This power to render a person completely uninteresting when they are used by said party to describe themselves. They are:

• Emo
• Born-again
• Bisexual
• Indie-rock fan
• Atheist

I am going to take a constructive look at that last one. Don't get me wrong, I find the endless needling and near-insane attempts at guilt-tripping done by evangelicals to be far more irritating. A quick word on the evangelicals: they are scum. They are a group of people who are quick to tell you their opinions on religion but don't want to hear shit about your opinion, lest they dismiss you as a blasphemer. They are bullies in their most simplistic form. Anything that challenges their system of beliefs is deemed dangerous and should be eliminated, often through letigious means. They are also (not) ironically the first group of people to cry foul when they feel that their rights have been challenged. Some would be perfectly happy if public schools led each day off with a prayer, but when they are told that this would be a clear violation of religious freedom, they cry "discrimination" and make comparisons to the Holocaust with no semblance of perspective or even good taste.

There. That's one man's opinion. In other words, eat shit, you peddlers of misery and intolerance.

If evangelicals are scum, atheists are fucking boobs. There are those atheists out there who are perfectly happy with others believing in a higher power, but these people are very few and far between. The majority of atheists have adopted these beliefs because of somewhat varied reasons, but the result is always the same. They view your attempts at faith as laughable, and in need of ridicule. Then they will give you a litany of reasons why.

Look, if you don't believe in God, kudos. Now SHUT THE FUCK UP. It's (not) ironic that a lot of atheists adopt their beliefs because they believe religion can cause a conformist mentality, it restricts free thought, and marginalizes human achievement. Then they tell you why they are atheist, which I can only assume is because they want you to join them.

CONTRADICTION, ASSHOLE. BURN IN HELL.

Christ, even Satanists believe that pretentious is a dangerous sin (go look it up if you don't believe me). You will never hear a Satanist try to push their beliefs on you because their religion forbids them from doing so. Atheism annoys me because the noble cause of humanism is tainted by the pretentiousness that almost always comes with it. I want to acknowledge the belief system of someone who doesn't believe in God (I don't agree with them, but I'll hear them out), but for some reason every atheist I've talked to always ends up sounding like the kind of pissy, smug cunt-sniffer that owns a Mac.

If any of you can give me a good reason why I shouldn't believe in God, I'm waiting to hear it. For all of the accusations I get of being a pessimist, a cynic, and a hater, at the end of the day I still harbor the belief that there's a higher power ensuring that we'll make out okay in the end. And no, I don't think that "because you're a sheep" qualifies as a good reason to convert to atheism. Hypocrisy is a stinky cologne.

If Everyone Was Super, No One Would Be

There's something really annoying about a lot of people. It seems that there's a set of things that people think that they are good at, and no amount of evidence to the contrary will ever make them think otherwise. Here's a brief analysis of some of those things, in no real particular order:

Singing. You are not Mariah Carey. She has a four-octave range (or something) and despite the fact that nearly every one of her songs is aural eczema, she can sing. All you really need to do is watch the early episodes of American Idol for examples of this phenomenon. Hell, I'm sure you know someone who is like this. For some reason there's a lot of people out there who think that they are fantastic singers, despite professionals telling them they are garbage (American Idol again), and often rightfully so. I think the reason behind this is that if you play a musical instrument, for example, you really can't fool anyone. You have to spend the time to learn how to play the instrument well, or even to get a note out of it. Theoretically, every human has the ability to create different pitches with their voices. This is where tragedy begins, though, because most people who think they are good singers when in fact they are massive idiots all have one thing in common: they can't carry a God damned tune. Don't insult my intelligence. You suck at singing.

Poetry. Here, I wrote this haiku for you:

Haiku is easy
There is an obvious form
Please just stick with that

There is form to poetry, even when it doesn't rhyme. Oh, and contrary to popular belief, free verse is a lot more difficult than poetry that rhymes. Simply put, if you are writing a poem in free verse, it had damned well be worth saying. Screw that... if you are writing poetry at ALL, it better be worth reading. This is usually not where people fail, though. Most things people write bad poetry about are a good source of inspiration: love, nature, family, musings, etc. The problem is that poetry takes a certain amount of skill with words. Poetry should be like painting with words. More often than not most people just paint with whatever they found in a used Kleenex. This is why I don't attempt poetry anymore. I'm no damned good at it.

Music criticism. I don't have much to say about this that I haven't already said. There is a general rule of thumb that you should use whenever you talk about music to someone else.

If you can't write a song yourself, you have no business telling others what you think is good.

To be fair, I think most human beings have the potential to write songs. Moreover, I think that every once in a while they'll be pretty good. If you have never attempted to do so, shut up. Don't expect to have people agree with you on your appreciation of The Strokes if you don't know what a bridge is (no, it's not something you use to get across a river). And you BETTER not get down on others for their tastes.

Driving. I suck at driving. I know this. If you have ever pulled out in front of someone without realizing it, cut someone off, have been legitimately honked at, YOU SUCK AT DRIVING. It's okay, we can't all be Emerson Fittipaldi. But I recently read somewhere that over 65% of the populace considers themselves good drivers. Based of what I've seen, 65% of the populace is full of copious amounts of doo-doo. You WILL be a better driver once you realize that there's room for improvement. Trust me.

Great Moments In Honesty, Vol. 1

Part of a new series I'm starting, Great Moments In Honesty is dedicated all those whose honesty will grant them peace. More importantly, it will grant me something that I find absolutely hilarious.

Our first inductee: semi-prominent artist Steven Chandler.

Steven Chandler has created a painting from what I am assuming is Georgia mud. You can view it here. It's a pretty interesting work of art, but the Great Moment In Honesty I want to nominate this man for is what he had to say about his motivation behind creating this provocative work.

The money from this auction? Will I donate to another horse charity? No, not this time. I have an adopted parrot and a bunch of stray cats to feed. The fallen race horse industry is y'alls problem, you created it, you fix it. You people invaded my mental art making space and I make art, that's what I do, deal with it. No, I'm going to roll around in the money, just like you all do. I'm gonna roll and think of all you horse racing people that race your horses, gamble and send your kids to college on that money. Thousands, millions even, you make on those horses-I'm gonna roll in it. I hope that disgust you as much as you disgust me.If the painting doesn't sell, well that's fine too. I'll hang it on my wall and when another horse goes, I'll paint another until there are no walls left or until there is a great wall to China made of Michael Vick Rides....whoever is next.......

So there you have it. Steven Chandler plans on using his proceeds not for charity (as he did in a similar painting he made of Barbaro last year). He's going to spend it on himself.

A couple of things here. First and foremost, Steven Chandler is the fucking MAN. An artist who has had a decent amount of success selling past paintings has told his public that he doesn't give a shit if his painting sells, and I find this to be a breath of fresh air.

Second, there are those of you who know of my recent attempts at satire by referring to Barbaro as a "fallen hero," an "inspiration" and "possibly even Jesus Christ the almighty in horse form." Can I just tell you that there is a method to the madness. Barbaro was just a fucking horse. He died racing against other horses, and when they found out his leg was broken from racing, they put him down. He's dead now. So is this other horse that went down at the Kentucky Derby recently. They are not heroes. They were animals pressed into service for the amusement of a diminishing group of enthusiasts.

Sports involving humans are a different animal entirely, if you'll pardon the expression. I love football, which involves the slamming of hormone-fed beeftanks into each other at speeds unattainable without drugs. It's badass, and it's barbaric all at the same time. But the big difference between that and horse racing is that these creatures (football players, not horses) volunteered for it. I have a problem with anything that involves one party's entertainment without the consent of another. Horse racing is no exception.

Steven Chandler is on to something with his parallel of horse racing and pit bull fighting. But more importantly, he doesn't give a shit what you think. So here's to you, Steven Chandler:

STEVEN CHANDLER

Georgian artist

For excellence in the field of not giving a rat's ass.

The Nerds Win

Some people say that their high school experiences were some of the best of their lives. Others have contempt for their lives throughout high school that carries well into their 40's if they let it. Personally, I fall somewhere in the middle.

See, I grew up in a town about fifteen miles from Iowa City. West Liberty has a healthy and prominent Mexican population in a town of about 3,500. In other words, I had the small-town experience with very little of the small-town bigotr that goes with it.

This translated into my own experience being quite interesting. When I was young, I was far from the cutting edge of hip. I wore ridiculous outfits, never said the right thing, was a big introvert, and had a tendency to talk to myself a lot. You can imagine that I wasn't at the top of the invite list to the first boy-girl party. At the time I craved acceptance from everyone, but it just wasn't going to happen. I did, however, save myself a lot of potential beatings by somehow (to this day I'm not sure why they liked me) making friends with the kids at West Liberty who got into trouble a lot for fighting. No one screwed with me even though some of them wanted to because they would have to worry about repercussions.

Still, a big part of my personality is to want to show people how incredibly entertaining having me around can be. Once high school rolled around (and I started showering regularly), people began talking to me and being nice without there being any sort of cruel, sarcastic connotation behind it. I was starting to be known for playing tuba. In a town of only 3,500, I was the only one who could really play the tuba with any kind of ability, and for some reason I got to be a small celebrity for it. After a while, the inevitable gloriously occurred: I was invited to the cool kids' party. The best part was, no one really seemed to think anything of my presence. Even a kid who tormented me all throughout junior high even spent sometime talking to me because he found out I was a sports idiot savant, something that is still true even now.

So my first boy-girl party with the cool kids didn't really happen until I was 16. I was okay with it then, and I'm okay with it now. I had found my niche at Wet Lib: not really giving a shit. This became apparent one day in Psychology class when our teacher asked the class if there was anyone in the class they felt was self-actualized. A girl raised her hand and said "Marc." The class vocalized their unanimous consent.

Some of you may think I'm full of shit when I tell that story. I'm not lying to you. Rather, I'm trying to tell all of you of past experiences that have become a big part of the kind of person I am even now. I'm okay with tooting my own horn every once in a while because damn it all if no one else will. And that's fine, it's not their job to do so. I also make an effort to be as intuitive as I can with my friends because I appreciate the company of every single one of them.

All of this because of my tuba-playing, and my propensity to not give a shit.

Movie... Or Porn?

This is a recycled rant. I apologize for my laziness in advance.

There's an interesting pseudo-paradox at play in the minds of Americans. All you need to know about it this: take a good look at anything playing on FX. This is the network that brings you "The Punisher" with very little of the graphic violence removed. You will never see a boob or a wiener on television, however. FX will make damn sure of that, after they tell you about how there is no box.

FX: There is nothing to see here.

A bit of a sidetrack, I can't think of anything more irritatingly bloated and rediculous than the "edginess" that is "The Shield." This. Show. Fucking. SUCKS. Believe it. Type "the Shield" into a Google image search and you are assaulted by Michael Chiklis in all sorts of overly dramatic poses. Wow. What a badass. Douche.

My original point is this: I saw an episode of a mostly-lame show on FX called "Rescue Me" which went so far as to nearly show Denis "my career flamed out in 1994" Leary dog-styling some blond chick. I was titillated, disgusted, and had to retreat to my bedroom to violently masturbate. Sadly, the only thing that could get me to stop was realizing I was masturbating to Denis Leary's naked ass. GROSS'

Now I'm sure they did that to show you how "edgy" the show was. At some point "edgy" became a part of the vernacular, I would euthanize the person who did this if I knew who they were. "Edgy" does not mean good, and really, what the fuck does edgy even mean? Moreover, if we all pretty much agree that "edgy" is a word, what is so damned "edgy" about sex? When you plow your girlfriend or get plowed by your boyfriend, do you consider it "edgy?" No, I'm willing to bet you consider it ball-drainingly satisfying or orgasm-inducingly liberating.

Unless, of course, it's this genuinely disturbing piece of work brought to you by the fine people of Montana. Now THAT'S fucking EDGY, son!

But back to my original point.

You see, the problem is that we as Americans (this is NOT a European phenomenon, as far as I can tell) revel in the destruction of things. We love it when buildings explode, we watch that reprehensible "Bumfights" series, and we watch all the cop video shows our brain can handle before it has an aneurysm of stupid. Janet Jackson shows some boob, and suddenly we are "A Nation In Crisis." I hear people say "My child was watching that!" and my only response is "you think that's bad? Wait 'till your kid finds out he SUCKED on one of those for nourishment!" Actually, that's not true... my other response is "Man, I wish this woman would get the fuck off my TV screen before I hit her in the back of the head with a wiffle bat."

Hopefully in my lifetime we will be at the point where we can show a fine set of titties on television (and some of the not-so-good ones, I'm not a hater). Right now after nearly sixty years of mainstream television, what do we have?

This man's ass on prime time television. Hellloooooo ladies.

Let's make sure that we unite as a people and demand better alternatives. For God's sake. Dennis Franz's ass.

21st Century Courtship Rituals

A man sits in front of his computer. He sits and stares at his desktop for a long time, wondering if he has the nerve to admit to himself that what he'll be doing qualifies as creepy, or worse. He tries to convince himself it's in the name of getting to know someone a little better. He tries hard, but he fails. His inner-demons hold the truth over him like a torch, lighting the way towards his journey of pathetic.

He sighs. He takes the mouse reluctantly, and clicks on his Mozilla Firefox icon. He types in the address for Facebook, and stares at the screen again. This time the guilt is a tangible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows full well that what he's doing is sad and lonely. He tries to make one last attempt to reason with himself. He fails.

He types in the first three letters of her name, and the box appears. It shows her name, and status. It hasn't changed since the last time. He clicks on the box since it would be even more shameful somehow to type out her whole name. Her profile comes up. His mixture of guilt and being smitten overtakes him. There's essentially no turning back now. He clicks on photos, looks at a few and sighs audibly. He grows resentful of the vague allusion her relationship status. Married to her best friend? Really? Why can't she be honest! It's not funny anymore!

Now is the time we have reached the point of no return. He feels even more compounded shame and disgust with himself. He sighs one last time, and clicks the X on the top of the window. He decides he needs to stop doing this. He knows she's not single. Why submit yourself to that kind of torture?

He thinks for a few seconds, then clicks on the Mozilla Firefox icon again. He watches some streaming porn videos, tops himself off, and heads to bed. He'll likely go through the same routine in a few days.

Pretentious Nonsense

There is no such thing as honesty. Everyone's perceptions are shaded to the point where everything you say is a lie. Even the attempt of being completely truthful will betray you because your subconscious is a gossiping, dirty whore.

Everyone has an addiction. I don't mean the fun "I am addicted to new episodes of Lost!" kind of addictions. Everyone has an addiction, whether it be one to drama, hate, another person, self-destruction, or food high in preservatives.

Not everyone is special. In order to completely be at peace with yourself you must realize that at some point someone is going to have to finish dead last no matter how good they are at something. Someone is always going to be better than you.

There is hope. It can be found in the moments you have that end in an epiphany. It could be in the moments after screaming at someone. It could be found when you weep bitterly at the prospect that something you wanted is gone, and it's not coming back. If you can come back from that, you've already won something.

(puffs on pipe)

Damn, I'm good.

The Critic vs. Family Guy: An Unobjective Analysis

I'm really, really dating myself by making this statement, but here goes: The Critic was, and will always be one of my favorite television shows. A surprising number of people considerably younger than me (some of you would have been seven when this show was actually running) are aware of this show and enjoy it as well.

Go here and see a good example of what I'm talking about.

This show was taken off the air after only two seasons. There was a time when I would have said that it was easy to see why that happened: the show's frequent cut-away jokes became increasingly more hit-or-miss, and a lot of people couldn't quite get with it. My opinions on this have changed quite a bit, my understanding of this show's early demise being slowly replaced by bitterness and irritation.

Why? Because Family Guy has taken the things that made the prior unique and interesting and paid no dues. Essentially, I invite you all to my atomic piss-ranting at any and all Family Guy fanboys (the fact there even is such a thing makes me want to jump off a fucking cliff) in a point-by-point deconstruction, using The Critic as a comparison.

The Staffs. This is not totally fair just yet, since Family Guy is still running, and The Critic's last episode premiered in 1995, but take a look at some of the genuine talent this show had:

• Voicework: Jon Lovitz, Nancy Cartwright (The Simpsons), Maurice Lamarche (numerous cartoon credits, including Animaniacs), Christine Cavanaugh
• Creators: Al Jean and Mike Reiss, James L. Brooks (producers of The Simpsons)
• Music: Hans Zimmer (the guy who did "Pirates of the Carribean")
• Animation supervisor: Brad Bird (you know, that guy who does PIXAR now)

How about Family Guy?

• Voicework: Seth McFarlane in several different roles, Seth Green in several different roles with barely any variation on his voice, Mila Kunis (the girl from That 70's show), Adam West (they get points for this, actually)
• Creators: Seth McFarlane (has gone to do several other projects, all of which involve basically the same group of people that does Family Guy with him)
• Music: Ron Jones and Walter Murphy (not going to dog them... they do good work)
• "Animation" supervisor: some fucking idiots.

How very underwhelming. Have you noticed that none of the people currently involved with Family Guy really do anything else, and haven't for quite some time? There's a reason that they started doing this show after it got cancelled again: nobody else fucking wanted these talentless hacks.

Humor. I understand that The Critic had some gags fall flat, especially in its second season. But compare that to Family Guy, whose writing team simply HAS to look something like this:

Here's a clip from The Critic.

Here's one from Family Guy.

Now here's a comparison of that last one versus the source material.

I find myself asking this a lot: WHERE IN THE NAME OF FUCK IS THE JOKE?

Ask the people in the photo above, because I don't know. For the people who like Family Guy, pointing out pop culture references with no actual punchline apparently qualifies as comedy. Pat yourselves on the back, you worthless mutants, because someone just appreciated the vast expanses of your intellect! And for you Family Guy fans, "intellect" means smarts.

The Critic died a dignified death, Family Guy gave us THIS:

I was going to write more, but now I think I'm just going to let that one speak for itself. Christ almighty.

Adventures In Marketing

I love the NFL Draft. There, I said it. I know what many people are probably thinking right now: based upon the kind of person they think I am (and they're usually right), and the fact that I once went on a diatribe specifically denouncing the folly of the NFL Draft, that statement should make no sense on a logical level.

It does, though. Allow me to explain what I honestly am thinking the weekend of the NFL Draft (from here on out ending in an exclamation point!). One, I want to know who my team, the Chicago Bears have decided is worth the effort of procuring into a talent worthy of the world's highest level of American football (played in America, shockingly). So far, I have noticed that they are addressing needs that surfaced throughout a lackluster 7-9 campaign last year, one that was especially frustrating coming off of the 2006 season that saw Rex Grossman lose the Super Bowl.

On a side note, does anyone else think that Brian Urlacher and the rest of the Chicago defense should have gotten one free kick to Rex Grossman's ass after that Super Bowl? Hell, for that matter, let's let the entire o-line get in on the action too. Rex Grossman has carried the banner quite well in the last few seasons as far as powerfully underwhelming quarterbacks. The list is almost as long as powerfully underwhelming Chicago Cubs pitchers, and that's especially inexcusable because there's five pitchers in a starting rotation. The Bears can only have three, and usually only one or two ever sees significant time. In trademark Bear fashion, however, they keep pouring money into Grossman like a 85-year-old widow pouring her pension into a slot machine at an Indian casino. Gah.

One more side note: Brian Urlacher wants a better contract. The Bears might not give it to him, despite the fact that they've labeled him a franchise player. So it could be possible that the Bears will let Brian Urlacher, a future Hall-of-Famer, go somewhere else... but they'll stand behind Rex Grossman. Welcome to Chicago Bear fanhood. Also, it's kind of funny that when I typed "Urlacher" into the spell-checker, it came back with "Bellyacher" as a possible option. How deliciously coincidental.

Anyway, the other reason I keep up on the NFL Draft! is because I want to see if anyone from the University of Northern Iowa will get drafted. Granted, this doesn't happen often, and I usually don't need to check on this aspect until well into Sunday afternoon. But I'm just saying... one of these days it's going to happen again.

But back to my original point. The NFL Draft! has made itself felt in the hearts of football dipshits everywhere. ESPN calls them "hardcore fans," but this is usually only during the duration of the NFL Draft! and it's subsequent promotions. I'm sorry, I have to refer to these people as dipshits. You can make as big of a deal as you want about signing some completely unproven prospect, but the fact is he might be a total douchebag that you just poured 30 million guaranteed into. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to do well. You have a pretty good idea that some guys are going to flame out worse than a drunk pilot at an air show. Ryan Leaf? Who the fuck was that guy? He played for Washington State? What the hell of have they done? He passed for 3,000+ yards? So did Ty Detmer. Ty Fucking Detmer.

Another side note: here's a tip, NFL scouts: if a guy passed for more than 5,000 yards in a single season, I'm willing to bet he's a going to be a cumstain when he reports for camp. Why? Product of the system. Come on, work with me here. Show me a quarterback who passes for 5,000 yards in a season and I'll show you a pissed-off and scorned halfback and a defense so inept that they should probably be wearing tinfoil pirate hats and speaking in tongues.

But you can't stop the NFL Draft!, so don't even try. Too many people these days want to pass off promotional tidbits they learned from Darth Kiper, Jr. as knowledge. You can be sitting at a bar, chatting with your friend about the upcoming season, and some guy you don't know will sidle up and want to join the conversation. If he interjects with "you really think Glen Dorsey can make an immediate impact?" my friend, you have just scored a new drinking buddy. If he responds with "Glen Dorsey will save the Kansas City Chiefs!" you should probably move to another bar. This man is a product of ESPN's hype machine, which is almost Orwellian in its ability to tell people they're being educated about sports when essentially ESPN just wants them to buy more shit or watch more useless speculation passed off as "expert analysis." Just say no, for Christ's sake.

And that, my friends, is the NFL Draft! in a nutshell. A similar beast would be all these shit-smellers who consider themselves "recruiting gurus" in the college ranks, but they are far worse. That's a rant for another time, but I'll say this: at least in the NFL Draft! people can talk about how much they're being signed for monetarily.

To recap: the NFL Draft! should simply be a draft, nothing more. To cover the event for the whole weekend is absurd, stupid, and breeds a generation of hopeless knuckle-dragging sports twats who probably smell like stale pee and are at least fifty pounds overweight. Thank you for your time.

At Least I Don't Have Scurvy

All right, let's get one thing straight. For those of you who know me, you probably know a few things: some of you were starting junior high the year I started going to college. Get your jollies from that as long as you'd like. We all make choices we wish we could have back if given a second chance. There. Feel better? No? I can wait.

Second, there's a few of you who seem to think attempting to verbally sabotage my looks is going to have some sort of effect on me. Think again, sphincter. First of all, you can try to bring me down as much as you can. You WILL fail. I know in my heart of hearts that I am the most attractive, suave, interesting human being I know. Oh? You'd like to point out the fact that I'm probably fat to look at if I have no clothes on? There are people out there who could confirm your assumption. You know what? I still don't care.

And therein lies the problem. In this world of self-image, self-esteem, self-affirmation, and self-pleasure (I wrote the book on that one), it can be hard to know where you stand. Allow me to tell you all what I think the right amount of self-confidence is:

If you don't think you are the greatest thing to ever grace the planet earth, just get the fuck out.

Don't get ahead of me on this.

You see, no one is going to do you any real favors by telling you how awesome they think you are. The fact is that anytime anyone has to reaffirm you themselves, they kind of just lost some respect for you. If you can convince others that you are the bomb-diggity or whatever you kids are saying these days, they will likely believe it without them ever having to tell you. Sure, some people will think you're an asshole, but fuck them. They've got their own 300-pound, over-eating demons to worry about.

To recap: Satan is not a woman in a beautiful red dress to most. Maybe some, but not most. No, Satan is a grossly obese, whiny cunt-stain who just wants you to join him on the couch so you can eat buttered Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies and watch episodes of Rock of Love. Don't give in. Satan is a twat. You are not.

One Last Effort

If there's one thing I've learned in my time on this earth, it's that people are pretty much hopeless. You need not look any further than fans of Larry the Cable Guy or Dane Cook for affirmation of this sad truth. I've been alive long enough that I'm near the halfway point of existence, and that's sobering. It means that I have yet to make a mark that I consider satisfactory. Some of you can try and convince me that I've affected you somehow, but that's a load of crap because two things have not happened: I have not flown first class, and I have not had a threesome (or possibly more, I'm not picky). I know that you all think I'm joking when I use one or both of those as benchmarks, but trust me: anyone who has scored a threesome has done something right in their life and should feel proud.

Back to my original point, however. Imagine you are on a date, and this conversation happens:

Person one: "So, tell me a little about yourself."
Person two: "Well, I'm really into dance music, and I love the works of Danielle Steele."

Two things here. First, if you are a guy and a woman has ever said the preceeding sentence to you, RUN THE FUCK AWAY. If you are a woman and a man has said that to you, RUN AWAY EVEN FASTER. Second, you haven't said a God damned thing about who you are. You've merely told me things that you do for fun. Every single asshole on earth has said this. Whether you are an avid fan of Tila Tequila or Kurt Vonnegut, you have tried to pass these interests off as a personality trait.

Now, therein lies the problem. I know people who consider themselves big fans of Chuck Palahniuk. Some of them are good people, and some of them should be beaten to death with rotten deer corpses. That doesn't define the kind of person you are. It may say that you enjoy reading fiction about people who are impossibly fucked-up and look down on you, the reader, for it. That's it. There's nothing on the inside jacket of a Curious George book saying "All readers of this book are inquisitive by nature, and enjoy rough bondage during sex." To be fair, though, it would kick ass if they did.

Basically, I'll find out enough about your tastes as I get to know you better. I know people who enjoyed the movie "Glory Road" and while I think that particular film is abysmally stupid and obtuse, I'm not going to immediately file fans of the film as abysmally stupid or obtuse. They'll do that on their own. Want to know what will happen if you fall victim to pidgeonholing people based on their interests?

THIS.

That's right, you become a PhD whose doctorate is cleary in Lossofperspectiveology. Oh, and my sincerest apologies to Joseph Campbell. I'm sure you didn't want to get drug into all of this.

The Christening

So here's the deal: I was talking with a friend last night and it became apparent to me that no one read the previous attempts at blogging, so I figured I'd just start fresh. No one really reads them anyway. That means that the power I possess in the realm of free speech is truly staggering.

I don't want to blog just to blog. I fell into that trap too often before. When it's all said and done people don't want to hear about my life. My life is no more interesting than anyone else's, so it's incredibly arrogant to expect people to come to a blog that features nothing but a journal. I have a journal. I update it regularly enough. Why do it here? I might as well post pictures of cats I find cute or girls I would like to kiss. It's self-absorbed.

Instead, I hope to offer some insight on the issues that matter to all of you. In the near future you can expect to see some of the following issues be brought up:

• Barack Obama is not hope. He's just another politician who might actually get something done, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner my migraines will go away.
• Sports is an outlet for homoeroticism. That being said, hey cowboy.
• You all bore the shit out of me with you attempts at social commentary. Celebrity news is not news, and it never has been nor will it ever be.
• Why do people believe that the music that they listen to best defines who they are?

All this and more in the weeks, and hopefully months to come. Enjoy the madness.