I was admiring the diamond bracelet silently, holding it up to the light and trying my best to be unimpressed. Jeeves the jeweler tried to keep his poise. “I assure you sir, those diamonds are of the highest quality.”
“Mmm,” I said, nice and bland, not giving anything away.
“Half a village was killed in the mines those diamonds came from.”
“Hmm,” I replied, “How many orphans did this particular bracelet make?”
“Oh,” he said, pulling out some cards. As he leafed through them, I laid it on thick.
“I’m not sure how my wife will know I love her if there were no orphans made harvesting those gems.”
“No, no, sir—I’m sure there were orphans! Ah, here we are,” he replied, brandishing the card with the proper stats. “Twelve orphans were made and TWO of those orphans died securing those bracelet’s gems.”
“Jeeves you son of a bitch, you just sold a diamond bracelet! Looks like I’ll be putting it in her ass tonight!”
Once upon a time, Valentine’s Day was a holiday for lovers. Both parties exchanged love notes (not just the men, ladies). The powers of Western laziness and advertising firmly warped this into the canned messages that is the greeting card we all know and love today.
Sadly, Valentine’s, like so many of our holidays, has degraded to one big fat reason to spend money on shit you really don’t need. Flowers that die and cards written by someone else to throw away. I hear guys bitching about having to buy presents, and if they don’t—they’re in Shitville, which rests in the fine country of NotGettingLaidia.
Worse than that is the anxiety I hear from the poor bastard who failed to please last year, so this year his gift has got be so good it obliterates all the memories of last year. Pressure’s on, douche! Welcome to the wide world of conditional love.
I’m not sure how it all goes down in the gay community—or if they’re even allowed to celebrate Valentine’s Day when a Republican is in the Whitehouse.
I do think it is good for some couples. I’ve been a cook before and Valentine’s is a big night for restaurants (and hookers), and I can remember looking out across the sitting floor and spotting those couples who go out three times a year—Valentine’s, their wedding anniversary and her birthday (which makes you ladies born on Valentine’s quite a commodity—but look out if you man wants to wed you on Feb 14th too, that’s just greedy).
I don’t have that kind of relationship with my wife. Every year to show her she’s special I make her something cute to exemplify my fierce love. This year, I’ve hand crafted her a three foot tall teddy bear, all made from my shaved back.* It only took half the supply though, so if any of you lesser men need a lender—hit me up.
Let’s break down the average V-day scenario: you go out on a dinner date, buy her a present(candies, flowers, certified orphan maker jewelry, etc), and get laid. What a great deviation from typical courtship! Why not get all crazy and go see a movie too?
And the phrase “be my valentine” suggests it’s an option. Pure bullshit! If you’re in a relationship it’s not like you can tell your significant other they didn’t make the cut this year—but her sister did. Better luck next year little miss sensitive gag reflex. It should be, “You’re my Valentine—deal with it.”
*Nah, we just get a hooker.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Bastards Like Violence
I’ve been considering the contradictory natures of sports in that many of them are violent, which holds an undeniable appeal—I could generalize even further about the general appeal of violence, but let’s keep the focus.
I’m not saying the entire reason people love football, hockey, UFC or any sport that includes a lot of contact is for the violence alone. There’s always strategy, teamwork and tactics that go hand in hand.
So yeah, we might like seeing guys get buried under linebackers, but they’re encased in armor that’s been designed with that very purpose in mind. And when an arm gets broke or the body gets a sudden injury—well that’s just part of game. The player in question can go cry into his big fat pile of money.
However, I don’t think anyone really loves seeing life altering injuries (paralysis, etc) or death. No one really hopes for that kind of violence (out side of air shows and NASCAR).
Last night, the worse injury in hockey that can happen, happened. You can read all the gory details on your own right here, but here’s the main point I need you to know:
“The Panthers' Olli Jokinen collided with the Sabres' Clarke MacArthur in the corner. As Jokinen fell, his right leg went airborne. Zednik was skating toward the play, and Jokinen's skate sliced into the right side of Zednik's neck.” --John Vogl, News Sports Reporter, (full article already linked)
He had his throat sliced open by a falling team mates razor sharp skate. How this man didn’t die is beyond me. It sounds like you can thank the fairly immediate response by the trainer followed by the attention of the two doctors that got the blood to stop before they loaded him on the ambulance and took him in for surgery.
By now, if you haven’t seen the footage of Mr. Zednik getting his throat opened you’ve either chosen not to or you need to get better at searching YouTube. Either way, do you think more people would have sought the footage out if Mr. Zednik had died, or less?
I’m not saying the entire reason people love football, hockey, UFC or any sport that includes a lot of contact is for the violence alone. There’s always strategy, teamwork and tactics that go hand in hand.
So yeah, we might like seeing guys get buried under linebackers, but they’re encased in armor that’s been designed with that very purpose in mind. And when an arm gets broke or the body gets a sudden injury—well that’s just part of game. The player in question can go cry into his big fat pile of money.
However, I don’t think anyone really loves seeing life altering injuries (paralysis, etc) or death. No one really hopes for that kind of violence (out side of air shows and NASCAR).
Last night, the worse injury in hockey that can happen, happened. You can read all the gory details on your own right here, but here’s the main point I need you to know:
“The Panthers' Olli Jokinen collided with the Sabres' Clarke MacArthur in the corner. As Jokinen fell, his right leg went airborne. Zednik was skating toward the play, and Jokinen's skate sliced into the right side of Zednik's neck.” --John Vogl, News Sports Reporter, (full article already linked)
He had his throat sliced open by a falling team mates razor sharp skate. How this man didn’t die is beyond me. It sounds like you can thank the fairly immediate response by the trainer followed by the attention of the two doctors that got the blood to stop before they loaded him on the ambulance and took him in for surgery.
By now, if you haven’t seen the footage of Mr. Zednik getting his throat opened you’ve either chosen not to or you need to get better at searching YouTube. Either way, do you think more people would have sought the footage out if Mr. Zednik had died, or less?
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Super Tuesday (for My Penis)
My current political party is apathy. I’m not saying I don’t pay attention, but I am saying the only reason I do know my factoids is because it would take more effort to remain oblivious. I listen to the sound bites on the radio, read an occasional paragraph below the headline and I try to stay up late enough for The Daily Show. So, I know all the candidates names, if for nothing else it allows me to maintain brief water cooler conversation. And may the gods help you if you can’t maintain water cooler conversation. You’re fucked.
Politics seem to come up again and again. Someone wants to talk about it. Feigning ignorance is just as bad. The “You Really Should Care About Politics” speech, and any other speach they get to deliver from ahigh on their horse, is just as annoying.
Here’s how to handle the unwanted politichat like a Bastard.
“Obama’s looking good.”
“He better look out for Hilary!”
That’s about what I try and keep the exchange to. Brief and unspecific, maybe followed by a sip of water so you can turn away and B-line it for your desk. Also, you could insert the republican names if you wanted too, they get mentioned just as often are talked about just as briefly. Sometimes, though, it’s a bit more sticky.
“Well, McCain is looking good. They say he’s the only one who can beat Hilary.”
“Well, he was a POW his perspective on war could help us out.”
See that? You just take the lead and respond with something that is easy for them to take as agreement. If they have a backwards way of making their point, they might go the other way on you.
“I hope Hilary goes all the way—I love her enforced health care plan, it really makes the medical lobbyist funding her campaign excited.”
Now you have to be careful. This may be the kind of person who fakes with a soft, casual response to gull you into an equally squishy response—but only because they want to come at your from the other side and beat you down with a few choice facts.
You can either disengage by quickly surrendering verbally.
“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’m totally voting for Hilary.”
You could fake an ailment:
“Ugh, I gotta go take care of this painful and contagious diarrhea.”
I don’t actually know if there’s a kind of diarrhea that is contagious. But you plant the seed of infection and you can buy yourself some buffering time from your coworker who likes NPR.
Lastly, you communicate your unwillingness to talk about what for the most part seems to be emotionally fueled issues lightly tempered with cherry picked facts that sometimes relate directly to issues—by establishing eye contact and farting.
Which explains my steady work diet of chili covered broccoli and roasted garlic. I’m not sure if garlic is one of those “gassy” foods, but it really helps with that hint of tire-on-fire.
Politics, as I understand them, is about selecting officials to govern us, the people, in a just and reasonable manner. Which is no where close to what politics are actually about.
Most people don’t actually think past their political figure head. Either they treat their choice like religion—whatever ma and pa roll with, or you go the other way and pick that other party so you can show them how independent you are.
And after that, it’s like watching a two team sport—but with much higher budgets.
I think having two parties actually works against us. I feel like you should sit down, see what you think is important and then see who best represents those beliefs. Make them fight to be your candidate! Competition is generally regarded as being good for any market.
Right now, it’s the opposite. All day long we’re told what the hot button issues are, and it’s more or less a given you’ll be voting for your potential party candidate. I am so sick of pro life/choice, I’m this close to aborting myself.
At the end of the day, it seems like both parties are both puppets on either hand of big business and money. Maybe the candidates want to make changes, but the ever present pressure of outside funding is always looming large. Sadly, that's but one of the many problems surrounding politics.
Politics seem to come up again and again. Someone wants to talk about it. Feigning ignorance is just as bad. The “You Really Should Care About Politics” speech, and any other speach they get to deliver from ahigh on their horse, is just as annoying.
Here’s how to handle the unwanted politichat like a Bastard.
“Obama’s looking good.”
“He better look out for Hilary!”
That’s about what I try and keep the exchange to. Brief and unspecific, maybe followed by a sip of water so you can turn away and B-line it for your desk. Also, you could insert the republican names if you wanted too, they get mentioned just as often are talked about just as briefly. Sometimes, though, it’s a bit more sticky.
“Well, McCain is looking good. They say he’s the only one who can beat Hilary.”
“Well, he was a POW his perspective on war could help us out.”
See that? You just take the lead and respond with something that is easy for them to take as agreement. If they have a backwards way of making their point, they might go the other way on you.
“I hope Hilary goes all the way—I love her enforced health care plan, it really makes the medical lobbyist funding her campaign excited.”
Now you have to be careful. This may be the kind of person who fakes with a soft, casual response to gull you into an equally squishy response—but only because they want to come at your from the other side and beat you down with a few choice facts.
You can either disengage by quickly surrendering verbally.
“Yeah, that’s a good point. I’m totally voting for Hilary.”
You could fake an ailment:
“Ugh, I gotta go take care of this painful and contagious diarrhea.”
I don’t actually know if there’s a kind of diarrhea that is contagious. But you plant the seed of infection and you can buy yourself some buffering time from your coworker who likes NPR.
Lastly, you communicate your unwillingness to talk about what for the most part seems to be emotionally fueled issues lightly tempered with cherry picked facts that sometimes relate directly to issues—by establishing eye contact and farting.
Which explains my steady work diet of chili covered broccoli and roasted garlic. I’m not sure if garlic is one of those “gassy” foods, but it really helps with that hint of tire-on-fire.
Politics, as I understand them, is about selecting officials to govern us, the people, in a just and reasonable manner. Which is no where close to what politics are actually about.
Most people don’t actually think past their political figure head. Either they treat their choice like religion—whatever ma and pa roll with, or you go the other way and pick that other party so you can show them how independent you are.
And after that, it’s like watching a two team sport—but with much higher budgets.
I think having two parties actually works against us. I feel like you should sit down, see what you think is important and then see who best represents those beliefs. Make them fight to be your candidate! Competition is generally regarded as being good for any market.
Right now, it’s the opposite. All day long we’re told what the hot button issues are, and it’s more or less a given you’ll be voting for your potential party candidate. I am so sick of pro life/choice, I’m this close to aborting myself.
At the end of the day, it seems like both parties are both puppets on either hand of big business and money. Maybe the candidates want to make changes, but the ever present pressure of outside funding is always looming large. Sadly, that's but one of the many problems surrounding politics.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Bastard Vs Bastard
My blog is fairly new, and I would like to thank those of you who are both reading my posts and even showing your friends. To those of you just doing one or the other—watch your back. Honestly though, I appreciate it. I’ve started publishing more—something I am committing to stay on top of. From here on out, I’ll be doing my damnedest to publish Mondays and Thursdays.
I consider myself a homebody with aspirations of becoming a shut-in. That said, I actually left my house this weekend. Typically, I’m distrustful of any group or organization willing to include me as a member. But even I have a small clique of friends. Granted, they should know better after all these years—but that’s why I’m pro-blackmail.
In my own life, I’m not really a violent guy. It’s typically avoidable. But, I do find the skill and technique involved in mixed martial arts fighting compelling. I’m fairly new to the Ultimate Fighter Championship, but my friends, if you enjoy boxing type sports (boxing being what everyone USED to watch before they see UFC), it’s hard not to love seeing two men step into the octagon.
One of those few friends was celebrating his birthday by watching UFC 81 at yet another friend’s house. (I’d really hate to give anyone the impression I have a large quantity of friends—I don’t. They’re all quality though.) Since one is paying to see the fights live; there are a lot of matches on the card. After the main event, you get to see the smaller, non-title match matches.
The great thing about UFC fights is you just never know who will win. Some matches look like a David and Goliath type match up, only David’s not allowed his sling and stone.
I watched guys lay on the ground as elbows and fists rained down on their heads, only to twist suddenly as their opponent shifted their stance and before you know it, they’re both on the ground and the big guy with the elbow storm is tapping like crazy to get the guy he just bloodied to stop applying the pressure to their knee.
Twice I saw the bigger guy lose because the smarter fighter was able to get a submission hold on their opponent. The only thing to rival to the fights are the after-fight interviews—
“You just spent the last fifteen minutes getting punched in the head. Could you say something profound for us about the fight?”
I say we have them them huff some glue real fast and then see if you can get some coherent thoughts from them. And then maybe fight some ninja's, for ninja-fighting-sake.
I consider myself a homebody with aspirations of becoming a shut-in. That said, I actually left my house this weekend. Typically, I’m distrustful of any group or organization willing to include me as a member. But even I have a small clique of friends. Granted, they should know better after all these years—but that’s why I’m pro-blackmail.
In my own life, I’m not really a violent guy. It’s typically avoidable. But, I do find the skill and technique involved in mixed martial arts fighting compelling. I’m fairly new to the Ultimate Fighter Championship, but my friends, if you enjoy boxing type sports (boxing being what everyone USED to watch before they see UFC), it’s hard not to love seeing two men step into the octagon.
One of those few friends was celebrating his birthday by watching UFC 81 at yet another friend’s house. (I’d really hate to give anyone the impression I have a large quantity of friends—I don’t. They’re all quality though.) Since one is paying to see the fights live; there are a lot of matches on the card. After the main event, you get to see the smaller, non-title match matches.
The great thing about UFC fights is you just never know who will win. Some matches look like a David and Goliath type match up, only David’s not allowed his sling and stone.
I watched guys lay on the ground as elbows and fists rained down on their heads, only to twist suddenly as their opponent shifted their stance and before you know it, they’re both on the ground and the big guy with the elbow storm is tapping like crazy to get the guy he just bloodied to stop applying the pressure to their knee.
Twice I saw the bigger guy lose because the smarter fighter was able to get a submission hold on their opponent. The only thing to rival to the fights are the after-fight interviews—
“You just spent the last fifteen minutes getting punched in the head. Could you say something profound for us about the fight?”
I say we have them them huff some glue real fast and then see if you can get some coherent thoughts from them. And then maybe fight some ninja's, for ninja-fighting-sake.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
In the Name of the King
The other day, I went to grab a burger for lunch. A simple task for me, a simple man, right? Not quite.
I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.
“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”
The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”
The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.
The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.
Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.
Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.
After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.
Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.
Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.
I placed my order, probably the most generic and common order ever, and then was floored.
“We’re sorry, sir. We no longer serve the Whopper.”
The words turned my blood to ice. It’s like I was being told my kids were dead, my car had been stolen or that porn was no longer allowed on the internet.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Burger King no longer carries the Whopper.”
The sounds of the world were buried under the dull roar filling my ears. A red film settled over my vision and when it cleared, I was alone in parking lot, covered in blood, fry sauce and brain—human brain, not the cow brain found in delicious fry sauce.
The cops understood, though. It happens quite often, apparently. They hosed me off and sent me on home wrapped up in one of those fuzzy grey blankets you normally have to survive a fire or a car crash to get.
Nothing makes me miss the days of not having cable hooked up to the T.V. more than commercials. As advertising slowly absorbs popular culture, commercials start to look like movies from the past.
Enter the Jackass style Burger King Commercials. What? You want a Whopper? Oh snap! You just got punk’d with a Big Mac, bitch! How entertaining! What effective advertising. I’m definitely going to willingly go to the website to see more commercials.
After I go buy a Triple Whopper, I mean.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for filming unaware people freaking out, especially if there’s profit to be made on top of my amusement (or they’re having sex). But watching people come unhinged and barely restraining themselves from starting a fist fight because they don’t get what they want for lunch isn’t as entertaining for me as it is disturbing.
Maybe it’s a little funny, but now remember one little fact: these people are roaming around, free to travel, loose in society. Maybe they’re in front of you in line at the gas station and about to find out their brand of smokes aren’t available. Maybe they’re behind you at the movies and you’re talking too loud. Maybe you just cut them off in traffic.
Me, I live in fear. I always have a Whopper in my pocket, you know, just in case someone I encounter by chance is out of their meds.
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