Thursday, January 29, 2009
Man, I have bad luck. Not the I-was-born-with-spinabifida-so-bad-I-can’t-tie-my-shoes kind of luck and not the my-father-was-an-abusive-alcoholic-and-I-saw-him-sodomizing-kittens-when-I-was-four-years-old kind of luck either, but bad luck nonetheless.
A month ago Kim asked me to go to a concert with her and her two friends, neither of which I have met. I agreed as I have encouraged her to go out with her friends and now that she was heeding my advice, I figured part of my obligation was to be willing to meet some of these new friends.
Sure, I’ll go to the concert. Who is playing?
Styxx
Styxx, you mean the pretend rockers from the eighties that I couldn’t stand even when they were popular back then? The band whose idea of hard rock is Mr. Roboto?
Yes
Great. Can’t wait. Say honey, where’s the Drano. I’m feeling thirsty suddenly.
This isn’t so bad. I’d rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one with a dirty set of vise grips, but not too bad. I haven’t been out in a long time and just getting out for some drinks even with what will hopefully be a brief concert in between drinking sessions might just still be fun somehow. I have resigned myself to a good time. All is fine right?
Last night my buddy emails. He recently built a bar in his basement. He’s purchasing the UFC. Not A UFC. THE UFC with BJ Penn vs. Georges St. Pierre as the main event. This would be the grand opening to the public of this bar. Cigars, free beer, free fights, lots of cussing and shit-giving by a male only crowd excited with bloodlust. No bitches to worry about wrecking things.
“Ewww, is that a cigar? It stinks.”
So does your pussy, but you don’t hear me complaining.”
It would be one of those nights for the ages. I would wake up hungover with a sore belly from laughing and a sore throat from talking too loud all night. Alas, I gave my word. I am a man of my word. I shall go meet the wife’s friends who I’m sure are fine folks. I shall clap at the appropriate denouements between renditions of “Grand Illusion” and “Come Sail Away” that have simply not withstood the test of time. I will give an obligatory Wooooo! every so often to make it seem like I’m not pooping the party. And I will not think of my friends, at Jeff’s inaugural fight night, laughing, toasting, telling tall tales, and laughing some more. And I’m sure they won’t think of me either. If that last line sounded like I’m jealous. Yeah, well I am.
I have bad luck.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Got No Reason
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
In today’s newspaper I read about a support group being formed. A support group for short people. Now, as a guy who has been through counseling before, I don’t want to disparage support groups in general. I am a big fan of the therapy of listening and talking, but we’re not talking about the typical dwarf/midget/little person support group. Those people are tragically small and no matter if we call them disabled, disadvantaged, differently abled or whatever, they definitely had to begin their life marathon 100 yards further behind the starting line than the rest of us. The support group I’m talking about is for women 5’ 2” and under and men 5’ 7” and under.
I hope I’m not the only person in the world who asks this.
Really? I mean really?
A group for people that fall under average height? So they can share the trials and tribulations of being short? I’m sure I’ve heard more ridiculous things in my life, but not too many. Apparently this isn’t just a local phenomenon either. They are part of a national organization, NOSSA, which stands for National Organization of Short Statured Adults. Is it just me or does this sound like a MadTV skit?
Don’t people have enough real problems in their lives without being convinced that they have more things to be pissed at fate about? One woman is quoted as saying, “When I go to the grocery store, sometimes I have to ask somebody to get something off the shelf for me.”
WAAAAAAAA! You poor, poor put upon girl you! Not that! You need to go to a support group because sometimes you can’t quite reach the top shelf! Man, that certainly makes those kids starving in Africa, or the homeless freezing to death on the sidewalks look like a bunch of whiny pansies. I mean after all, there was that day you had to ask a clerk or passerby if they could hand you a box of Lipton Cup-a-Soup. How did you get by, lady? I probably would have just ended it all right then. Who can live with humiliation on such an atomic scale?
For the record, I’m short enough to qualify for this group. Right at 5’ 7” I’m tempted to join just because I know there won’t be anyone at the meetings taller than me and I can bully all the little people around. “Oops, my pen rolled under that table. Hey shortcake, mind walking under there and getting that for me? You, yeah you over there…the little one…no…no…the littler one….yeah you, did you know I’ve taken dumps bigger than you?”
I’ve never been a bully. Never had the mindset that making other people feel worse would ever make me feel better. These folks though, if they don’t deserve it then I don’t know who does. Everyone wants to be a victim. Everyone needs someone to feel sorry for them and if no one does…then we’ll make something up. This country is turning into such a nation of wussies, whiners, and attention whores that I just can’t stand it.
That’s it! I’ll form my own group. The Association Against Wussies, Whiners & Whores! The acronym will be AWWW and AWWW will also be our motto. It will be heard everywhere we go. We’ll meet once a month and give each other assignments on how to belittle folks who make up their own tragedies for attention. The first assignment will be to stand outside the short people meetings and mercilessly mock them in the same vein as the old fatherly adage of “What? You’re crying? I’ll give you something to cry about!”
We’ll swipe their keys and hold them up high over their heads and make them jump for them. AWWW, wassa matter….can’t get your keys? AWWW, c’mon…try a little harder.”
We’ll call them humiliatingly inappropriate names.
“Hey Stretch! How you doing Big Guy? Well look at Long Tall Sally over there. What’s up Stilts? AWWW, what…you mad a us fow making fun of ooooo?”
We’ll play Randy Newman’s “Short people” song and point at them and laugh. We’ll all have T-shirts on that say “You must be this tall in order to ride.”
We’ll make fun of them until we end up being scathed on Oprah. We’ll taunt them until they weep. Until their children are even shamed by them. We’ll run ads in the paper to make sure their friends know how inadequate they are because of their shortocity. We’ll basically just make their lives miserable until….well until they actually do have something to cry about.
In today’s newspaper I read about a support group being formed. A support group for short people. Now, as a guy who has been through counseling before, I don’t want to disparage support groups in general. I am a big fan of the therapy of listening and talking, but we’re not talking about the typical dwarf/midget/little person support group. Those people are tragically small and no matter if we call them disabled, disadvantaged, differently abled or whatever, they definitely had to begin their life marathon 100 yards further behind the starting line than the rest of us. The support group I’m talking about is for women 5’ 2” and under and men 5’ 7” and under.
I hope I’m not the only person in the world who asks this.
Really? I mean really?
A group for people that fall under average height? So they can share the trials and tribulations of being short? I’m sure I’ve heard more ridiculous things in my life, but not too many. Apparently this isn’t just a local phenomenon either. They are part of a national organization, NOSSA, which stands for National Organization of Short Statured Adults. Is it just me or does this sound like a MadTV skit?
Don’t people have enough real problems in their lives without being convinced that they have more things to be pissed at fate about? One woman is quoted as saying, “When I go to the grocery store, sometimes I have to ask somebody to get something off the shelf for me.”
WAAAAAAAA! You poor, poor put upon girl you! Not that! You need to go to a support group because sometimes you can’t quite reach the top shelf! Man, that certainly makes those kids starving in Africa, or the homeless freezing to death on the sidewalks look like a bunch of whiny pansies. I mean after all, there was that day you had to ask a clerk or passerby if they could hand you a box of Lipton Cup-a-Soup. How did you get by, lady? I probably would have just ended it all right then. Who can live with humiliation on such an atomic scale?
For the record, I’m short enough to qualify for this group. Right at 5’ 7” I’m tempted to join just because I know there won’t be anyone at the meetings taller than me and I can bully all the little people around. “Oops, my pen rolled under that table. Hey shortcake, mind walking under there and getting that for me? You, yeah you over there…the little one…no…no…the littler one….yeah you, did you know I’ve taken dumps bigger than you?”
I’ve never been a bully. Never had the mindset that making other people feel worse would ever make me feel better. These folks though, if they don’t deserve it then I don’t know who does. Everyone wants to be a victim. Everyone needs someone to feel sorry for them and if no one does…then we’ll make something up. This country is turning into such a nation of wussies, whiners, and attention whores that I just can’t stand it.
That’s it! I’ll form my own group. The Association Against Wussies, Whiners & Whores! The acronym will be AWWW and AWWW will also be our motto. It will be heard everywhere we go. We’ll meet once a month and give each other assignments on how to belittle folks who make up their own tragedies for attention. The first assignment will be to stand outside the short people meetings and mercilessly mock them in the same vein as the old fatherly adage of “What? You’re crying? I’ll give you something to cry about!”
We’ll swipe their keys and hold them up high over their heads and make them jump for them. AWWW, wassa matter….can’t get your keys? AWWW, c’mon…try a little harder.”
We’ll call them humiliatingly inappropriate names.
“Hey Stretch! How you doing Big Guy? Well look at Long Tall Sally over there. What’s up Stilts? AWWW, what…you mad a us fow making fun of ooooo?”
We’ll play Randy Newman’s “Short people” song and point at them and laugh. We’ll all have T-shirts on that say “You must be this tall in order to ride.”
We’ll make fun of them until we end up being scathed on Oprah. We’ll taunt them until they weep. Until their children are even shamed by them. We’ll run ads in the paper to make sure their friends know how inadequate they are because of their shortocity. We’ll basically just make their lives miserable until….well until they actually do have something to cry about.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Game Show Ideas for the Sophomoric and Twisted
Game Show Ideas for the Sophomoric and Twisted
I’ve always been disappointed in most game shows for not going quite far enough with the exception of the Fear Factor and let’s face it, I’m just not that amused watching people eating spider eggs by the spoonful. So here is my hurriedly concocted roughed out ideas for game shows.
Pick the Bitch
We bring in couples that have been dating a minimum of one year, a selection of their friends, and a few strangers. We reveal to one of member of the couple that the other is cheating on him or her. The person that has been cheated on, then must pick from a lineup of the friends and strangers the one that their significant other has been fooling around with. Every time they miss on a guess the prize money goes down. For fun and added drama, every once in a while we’ll bring in a couple that has been totally faithful to each other. If they figure out that their partner has been completely faithful to them before they get to the pick-the-bitch stage they get all the money.
How classic would that be? Everyone once in a while a couple that was doing perfectly fine and was perfectly faithful to one another would be brought in and invariably one would go through the entire lineup guessing which one her man was cheating with, only to go through the entire lineup and find out that her man, indeed had been faithful, but since she failed at guessing early that he was faithful and went through the entire lineup unsuccessfully guessing who he was sleeping with, the couple gets sent home with no prize money and a delicious feeling of mistrust and betrayal anyways. I predict high ratings for this one.
How Much is That Doggie in the Blender?
We get a gigantic blender and put someone’s beloved pet in it. Every time the contestant incorrectly answers a trivia question the speed on the blender goes up one notch at a time. If the person successfully gets to the end of the questioning stage and their pet is still alive, then one final stage is left. They can keep their prize money and keep their pet alive or they can exchange their prize money for what is in the briefcase, but if they take the briefcase, the blender activates to puree speed. One final, kick in the nuts, would be that there is a 50/50 chance the briefcase contains $100,000 or more dollars in cash or it has some completely useless prize in it like bellybutton lint from Ernest Borgnine or maybe a commemorative teaspoon from some Grand Canyon tourist stop.
Would you Rather Think of the Newlywed game mixed with Fear Factor. The spouse has to decide what her partner would rather have done to them.
“Mrs. Smegma, do you think your husband would rather be caned, forced to eat maggots, or use his testicle to set off a mouse trap?”
Then the husband would get a chance to pick one for the wife and if he deemed that she picked the worst possible trial for him, then he could either take the high road and give her the easy task or go tit for tat. “Mr. Smegma, do you think your wife would rather shred ten pounds of lettuce with a carrot peeler, eat a pint of Haagen Daas, or be urinated on by seven randomly chosen hobos? What’s that? You are picking the hobos? Excellent choice!”
I’ve always been disappointed in most game shows for not going quite far enough with the exception of the Fear Factor and let’s face it, I’m just not that amused watching people eating spider eggs by the spoonful. So here is my hurriedly concocted roughed out ideas for game shows.
Pick the Bitch
We bring in couples that have been dating a minimum of one year, a selection of their friends, and a few strangers. We reveal to one of member of the couple that the other is cheating on him or her. The person that has been cheated on, then must pick from a lineup of the friends and strangers the one that their significant other has been fooling around with. Every time they miss on a guess the prize money goes down. For fun and added drama, every once in a while we’ll bring in a couple that has been totally faithful to each other. If they figure out that their partner has been completely faithful to them before they get to the pick-the-bitch stage they get all the money.
How classic would that be? Everyone once in a while a couple that was doing perfectly fine and was perfectly faithful to one another would be brought in and invariably one would go through the entire lineup guessing which one her man was cheating with, only to go through the entire lineup and find out that her man, indeed had been faithful, but since she failed at guessing early that he was faithful and went through the entire lineup unsuccessfully guessing who he was sleeping with, the couple gets sent home with no prize money and a delicious feeling of mistrust and betrayal anyways. I predict high ratings for this one.
How Much is That Doggie in the Blender?
We get a gigantic blender and put someone’s beloved pet in it. Every time the contestant incorrectly answers a trivia question the speed on the blender goes up one notch at a time. If the person successfully gets to the end of the questioning stage and their pet is still alive, then one final stage is left. They can keep their prize money and keep their pet alive or they can exchange their prize money for what is in the briefcase, but if they take the briefcase, the blender activates to puree speed. One final, kick in the nuts, would be that there is a 50/50 chance the briefcase contains $100,000 or more dollars in cash or it has some completely useless prize in it like bellybutton lint from Ernest Borgnine or maybe a commemorative teaspoon from some Grand Canyon tourist stop.
Would you Rather Think of the Newlywed game mixed with Fear Factor. The spouse has to decide what her partner would rather have done to them.
“Mrs. Smegma, do you think your husband would rather be caned, forced to eat maggots, or use his testicle to set off a mouse trap?”
Then the husband would get a chance to pick one for the wife and if he deemed that she picked the worst possible trial for him, then he could either take the high road and give her the easy task or go tit for tat. “Mr. Smegma, do you think your wife would rather shred ten pounds of lettuce with a carrot peeler, eat a pint of Haagen Daas, or be urinated on by seven randomly chosen hobos? What’s that? You are picking the hobos? Excellent choice!”
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Current Playlist
How is it I've made it to the ripe age of 38 and this is the first time I've ever actually listened to this song?
The Asshole Song sung by George Jones
Well I was drivin' down I-95 the other night
Somebody nearly cut me right off the road
I decided it wasn't gonna do any good to get mad
So I wrote a song about him instead
It goes like this...
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an asshole tonight
Yes you're an A S S H O L E...
And don't you try to blame it on me
You deserve all the credit
You're an asshole tonight
You were an asshole yesterday
You're an asshole tonight
And I've got a feelin'
you'll be an asshole the rest of your life
And I was talkin' to your mother
just the other night
I told her I thought you were an asshole
She said, "Yes. I think you're right."
And all your friends are assholes
'cause you've known them your whole life
And somebody told me
you've got an asshole for a wife
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an aaaass...hole tonight
The Asshole Song sung by George Jones
Well I was drivin' down I-95 the other night
Somebody nearly cut me right off the road
I decided it wasn't gonna do any good to get mad
So I wrote a song about him instead
It goes like this...
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an asshole tonight
Yes you're an A S S H O L E...
And don't you try to blame it on me
You deserve all the credit
You're an asshole tonight
You were an asshole yesterday
You're an asshole tonight
And I've got a feelin'
you'll be an asshole the rest of your life
And I was talkin' to your mother
just the other night
I told her I thought you were an asshole
She said, "Yes. I think you're right."
And all your friends are assholes
'cause you've known them your whole life
And somebody told me
you've got an asshole for a wife
Were you born an asshole?
Or did you work at it your whole life?
Either way it worked out fine
'cause you're an aaaass...hole tonight
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Slamming
Well, I don't know. Been a lot of turmoil lately. I'm hoping instead of hitting the floor and getting the wind knocked out of me this time that I can just bounce back up, stronger and with more momentum. Spent a few hours puking yesterday. It wasn't from a cold either. It was from stress. That would be a new one on me. That's about what I need these days. Get an ulcer from dealing with more crap than I should have to. Definitely have to toggle my mindset onto a different setting here. Maybe just start forgetting about the house and put more energy into working out and other activities that allow release before I end up a total mess.
Isn't life just a great adventure? I know most of these last few entries don't make much sense, but sometimes it helps to chuck it all down on "paper" so to speak.
I'll be all right.
That sounded confident didn't it? lol
Right now I just want to work out. That's a good sign. Let's see if I still feel that way after adding another 7 hours to the hour and a half I've already worked.
Isn't life just a great adventure? I know most of these last few entries don't make much sense, but sometimes it helps to chuck it all down on "paper" so to speak.
I'll be all right.
That sounded confident didn't it? lol
Right now I just want to work out. That's a good sign. Let's see if I still feel that way after adding another 7 hours to the hour and a half I've already worked.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
More mental drippings.
Just how fucked am I still from all that has gone on? Will I ever know the release of being in an absolutely good place ever again? Will I ever be able to relax and say, “This is as it should be.” Will I ever be able to take a deep breath and exhale slowly, luxuriating in the good thoughts, effortlessly relaxing in a cloud of fulfillment?
Or is all that I have been through just waiting around the corner. Waiting to end me. Waiting to take from me everything I have held dear since I was old enough to know what I wanted out of life? Is the monster under the bed of the unknown just sleeping, waiting for me to relax and smile so he can jump on me. Claw me. Rend me flesh from bone. Tear my insides. Laugh at me as the drips of my shattered reality fall from it’s wet lips and jagged teeth.
I don’t know. Never will know until it is too late. And this time, too late may be fatal.
It’s hard for me to accept that no one has paid for what was done to me. What I have gone through…am going through…someone should have been made to pay. Someone should have to hurt for it. But I have better things to do. And someone will pay…in this life or the next. Not by my hand. I am above it. Because I am above it. I win.
Or is all that I have been through just waiting around the corner. Waiting to end me. Waiting to take from me everything I have held dear since I was old enough to know what I wanted out of life? Is the monster under the bed of the unknown just sleeping, waiting for me to relax and smile so he can jump on me. Claw me. Rend me flesh from bone. Tear my insides. Laugh at me as the drips of my shattered reality fall from it’s wet lips and jagged teeth.
I don’t know. Never will know until it is too late. And this time, too late may be fatal.
It’s hard for me to accept that no one has paid for what was done to me. What I have gone through…am going through…someone should have been made to pay. Someone should have to hurt for it. But I have better things to do. And someone will pay…in this life or the next. Not by my hand. I am above it. Because I am above it. I win.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Seminar writing.
I've been writing four days a week with my seminar students this year. Not much of anything has come out of it yet though. After absolutely slogging through writing anything at all last week, this fell out today. I'd want to hack at it a little more and I'm not sure it "works" but it's the first thing I've written in weeks that felt even a little worthwhile so I thought I would post it.
*******
Filling jars of emotion and putting them on the shelf.
Why do I save them?
Am I going to use them later like canned tomatoes?
Am I being cruel to them?
Caging them like goldfish in a tiny bowl where they swirl round and round never going anywhere or accomplishing anything.
What should I do with these many mixed emotions.
Should I let them have their run?
If I let them free would they hurt anyone?
If I let them free would they stay with me?
Can I choose which emotions to jar and shelve, or does the very fact of doing so
deaden all my emotions a little at a time.
Caging sorrow, caging remorse, caging self-pity, caging grief, caging distrust, caging rage…can I get rid of those and still enjoy the full pith and height of joy, happiness, and love?
Little neatly labeled jars of emotion. Sealed. Dated. Sit on my shelf.
Waiting
*******
Filling jars of emotion and putting them on the shelf.
Why do I save them?
Am I going to use them later like canned tomatoes?
Am I being cruel to them?
Caging them like goldfish in a tiny bowl where they swirl round and round never going anywhere or accomplishing anything.
What should I do with these many mixed emotions.
Should I let them have their run?
If I let them free would they hurt anyone?
If I let them free would they stay with me?
Can I choose which emotions to jar and shelve, or does the very fact of doing so
deaden all my emotions a little at a time.
Caging sorrow, caging remorse, caging self-pity, caging grief, caging distrust, caging rage…can I get rid of those and still enjoy the full pith and height of joy, happiness, and love?
Little neatly labeled jars of emotion. Sealed. Dated. Sit on my shelf.
Waiting
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