Jason you better like this or I might kill myself, and people will find this and come after you…because I’m loved

A short explanation of why this post has a more serious tone
Fans of my writing have been wondering why I haven’t posted anything recently. Since I don’t have any fans, I was forced to ask myself. After a particularly bitter argument over the value of Rosie Perez’s life, I decided on about a buck and a half. Following that, I reasoned that other than a lack of time, the primary reason for not writing was due to the premise I set for myself. Though I didn’t specifically state it, I was trying to avoid any life lesson-type writings where I evaluate some aspect of life and pretend I know what’s best for everyone. As you might imagine, I was really caught off-guard when I learned that I actually do know what’s best for everyone. So from here on out, I will no longer restrict myself to writing about such superficial topics as:

- my trials and tribulations with a piece of shit bike
- the really only mildly annoying construction that is now mostly done in Ypsi
- whatever the hell the last post was about

I’m thinking this will be a good thing, giving me more to write about, but one thing’s for sure: it’ll still be better than the crap on LiveJournal. Here’s a madeup post I feel is an accurate representation of said crap, which happens to also be a near carbon-copy of the crap cell phone conversations I hear in public places: crap:

Oh my god, so listen to what happened to me today. No, me, not you. So I was, like, driving, or something, listening to DRQ [Drugs, Rappers and…Quiznos apparently] when that totally hot [fill in name of current week’s “hot artist” that starts off with a 15 second electronic intro that the producer made in the same amount of time] song got cut off? Don’t you hate that? Don’t you? Don’t you!? I, like, do.

I hear these kinds of people every day, with their $300 phone that takes pictures and video and can automatically calculate how many brain cells they’re killing of the people who are on the other end of the phone just from listening to them.

I decided a long time ago that I just really don’t like most people. I can’t connect with them because it seems they can’t connect with even themselves. I’ll be the first to admit I’m cynical, but I don’t think I’m one of those eternally pessimistic people that just like to bitch because their life sucks. You know who I mean. They’re the ones who, when you say “Nice day, huh?” they respond with “Not many of these left, because, according to my predictions, my grave demeanor should be sucking all the remaining sunshine out of this world.” I’ll always make fun of people, I think. I’m not kicking these people in the face after all; I’m cracking jokes about their choice in hairstyle.

But just because that’s the way I am doesn’t mean I like having so much to make fun of. In fact it seems like each year it’s a little more depressing because I just feel that much more disconnected from most people. And to really focus in on that label, I define most people as the ones who:

1. Don’t have the fucking courtesy to get off their cell phone in a public place
You’re annoying. No one wants to hear the mundane details of your life. Turn your damn ringer down too, it’s loud enough to startle people on the other side of the store. And while you’re at it, did you know there’s an option to turn off that god awful Nextel two-way sound. Of course not, you didn’t read your manual because that requires reading, and that promotes learning and self-improvement. If I could change one thing in this country to pacify some of my daily agitations, it would be to make everything stop beeping and flashing.

2. Drive enormous vehicles
I know, so far I’m covering pretty typical bitches, but the focus is coming in clearer by the rant. You don’t need an SUV. You’re probably the same motherfucker that complains the loudest about gas prices, and you get 6 miles to the gallon. What do you need a car that big for? Don’t think too hard, the answer is No Solution. Come to think of it, you should probably get a vanity plate that says that. The soccer moms have progressed from station wagons to minivans to SUVs. Why? A Taurus can fit three snotty kids, their bookbags full of ecstasy and sports gear, and a generous helping of Oatmeal Cream Pies smeared into the upholstery. As if excess weren’t enough, you’re funding terrorists, so ah, thanks for that, you piece of shit.

3. Can’t wait to get married, have kids, and apparently, die
This one is mostly attributed to the ladies, if any are still reading. It’s the women’s version of the American Dream that’s ingrained in their head before their tits are even fun to play with. From Easy Bake Ovens to Baby Pisses And Shits Himself And Is Generally A Pain In The Ass to Loving Family Everything’s Gonna Be Just Rosy (pictured, available in Caucasian or African-American varieties!)



That’s right girls, this is your dream. Whether you wanted to or not, a picket fence and 1.5 kids was good for ages four and up. You couldn’t wait to find a husband that looked like Johnny Depp but treated you like he looked like Steve Buschemi. Fast-forward to now, where you settled on the first guy who waited a couple weeks to fart in bed.

Check back often for the next update, which will either continue this list or come up with something else that you’ll absolutely love pander to.

The Funny Stuff

Long overdue, I now present The Funny Stuff, which will hopefully be better than my previous excremental drivel.

While walking on campus today, I heard this (paraphrased but accurate) cell phone conversation. To fully relive the moment, add a gay inflection:

Yeah well I talked to my therapist about it, and she said blah blah (whatever it is therapists say—wasn’t listening). The thing is, my parents are so controlling in my life that…

What caught me off guard about this was the fact that the person saying this was probably around 18 years old. Maybe he wasn’t gay, but for the moment let’s assume he was. Now, I’m not a part of the gay community, but I’m sure they experience challenges everyday that most people don’t have to deal with. However, unless they are near a group that is afraid of and despises them, like Republicans, I would wager a guess that it’s on par with discrimination felt by black people, women and any number of minority groups that I am not a part of, being the white male bastard I am (read: The Man).

That said, no one needs to see a therapist that early in life unless they’ve experienced severe trauma. Well, I guess if you knocked up some girl who happened to be passed out on a sidewalk, you’d had some issues that might require some outside help, but other than that, your life can not be so fucked up from your parents that you need to sit down on a bad couch and talk it over with a therapist who makes somewhere between “A lot” and “Fucking A I could do that.”

Before I continue it should be said that I am 100% OK with gay people. I believe in gay marriage and all that. If you prefer companionship in the same sex, go for it, I have no quarrels there. However, there is something I want to address that’s been bothering me.

To illustrate, I’ll use an analogy. It doesn’t refer to anything specific, just gives perspective. You know when you’re at a concert, let’s say a heavy metal concert. Just go with me, it’s a goddamn example. And let’s say it’s a band that has been mostly underground but has recently garnered attention, and threatens to cross the threshold to mainstream. At the concert are the usual diehard fans, with their standard long hair (crap). But interspersed among them are a different breed, the wannabes. They only know the words to songs on the radio, and they wore the shirt of the band playing. Yeah, those people. The ones everyone hates.

It seems there is currently a gay trend. In order to easily identify (and thus avoid) these people (from here on out referred to as Dexters), I’ve made the following checklist which reveals their unimaginative nature:

    - Sweater (especially if it’s not even cold out)
    - Black boxy glasses
    - Short spikey and/or messy “cute guy hair”
    - Man satchel to store laptop or possibly nothing at all (must cross chest)

Now be careful, some people may check off some, but not all items (such as myself, see picture at top). To qualify as a Dexter, one must check off all items.

It’s my (and probably no one else’s) belief that these people are not actually gay, but are riding on it’s coattails for the potential benefits. These benefits include:

    - Being able to talk about your feelings and having a witty response to the “Fag!” accusation by morons in trucker hats
    - Getting girls to become so comfortable with you that they pretend you are a girl. This reaps so much in itself that it deserves a sublist. Thus:
        •They get naked in front of you
        •They choose you for the “Do my boobs feel bigger?” question
    - Female friends wondering if might be the one who can “turn” you

To continue this thread of discussion to make readers question my sexuality, I’d like to talk about what I’ve dubbed “gay flair.” Gay flair is the demeanor exhibited by some homosexuals and every Dexter. You know, that feminine walk and talk that is either non-intrusive or completely over the top and irritating. If you’ve always spoken that way, you’re fine. However, for the others, I have a question. If you didn’t realize you were gay until a certain point in your life, did you talk that way before? If not, why afterward? Is there an unwritten law that says everything must be dramatic and that everyone within 15 feet should be able to hear about how you wanted to fuck the busboy at Denny’s?

I’d like to end with an anecdote that will hopefully save my soul from an eternity of damnation. Not antidote, that doesn’t come till Indy gives back the diamond. This event occurred about a week ago at Pray Harrold, when I was in the bathroom. I was at a urinal doing something or other when some guy came up to another urinal. The odd thing was, he was in it. He was leaning so far in, his hands had to be touching the Wall Of Pee. To really give you an idea, I spent a lot of time making this awesome illustration.



It’s obvious the gentleman couldn’t allow anyone to see his gigantic package.