Peanut M&Ms

Bringing the world happiness, one chocolate candy at a time.

Saturday, October 30, 2004

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.

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