Tuesday, Mrs. Bastard asked me if I was ok. It happens from time to time, but usually because I’m being overly quiet and withdrawn, or I’m stomping around with a scowl under my beard. But I hadn’t done anything really to warrant the question.
“I read your blog, I worry when you don’t sleep.”
Bah! Sorry people. She’s been reading my blog. My “Mrs. Bastard: All Anal American Girl” article is going to have to wait for a few more weeks.
In the meantime though, did you know Mr. Rogers died on Wednesday? I guess if he wanted the news splashed everywhere, the bastard shouldn’t have died of cancer when there was all those drugs and hookers to be found.
You pick the cooler headline:
“Mr. Rogers Dies of Stomach Cancer” or “Mr. Rogers Found Dead Under Pile of Hookers and Blow.”
But, you know, whatever.
I did notice that my msn messenger is suspiciously free of news stories about him dying. I guess a man who lives his life helping others and then dying of a common disease at an old age isn’t what we want to focus on. Or yes, maybe many of us just assumed he was already dead.
However, no one in my office is running up and down the halls spreading the morbid word. Now that he’s gone, though, I suspect in the coming months all his dark secrets will be brought to light. Finally people can sell his secrets! Let the contest begin! Let’s predict the future. I’m calling a few bastard children and maybe a sex tape involving Britney Spears.
I for one won’t be happy until his entire career is called into question for something petty and laughable. Like, I bet he liked having sex! Or maybe he smoked! Or drank alcohol on occasion! C’mon people, help me out. I can’t enforce a hypocritical higher standard all by my lonesome.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Sleepers
We call you people who have no problem sleeping through the night, who can fall asleep again if you wake up midway to morning, who can seemingly nap on command, Sleepers. We have insomnia. We don’t always sleep.
I’ve had it since I was a young boy. I recall waking up in the dark and climbing down the bunk bed ladder to fetch books and toys to play with in the dark. If I flipped the light on, one of the parentals was bound to come in and yell at me to go back to bed, as if it were an option.
Laying down, I’d play and play until there was enough light to justify getting ready for kindergarten.
I’m 29-years old. Now I have options. I wake up and I’ll go sit in front of the computer and write something. I leave the T.V. on so I can roll over and watch whatever I wake up to—usually I’m half way through an adult swim anime. I keep a gameboy advance under my pillow. Sometimes I can play a game that is repiticious enough that playing it is just hypnotic enough I’ll nod off. That, or it’s something else that will entertain me for the hour I’m up before I can go back to sleep.
Lately, no matter the day of the week, I wake up at 6:30 am. My eyes slide open and any final tendrils of any dreams are gone from me. I’m just awake. There’s no groggy transitional period in which I require time for the caffeine to take to my blood, or that I grumpily insist I’m still in the process of waking up.
I’m just awake.
If the T.V. is still on, I’ll watch cartoons. I say “if” because Mrs. Bastard is annoyed by what I admit is a bad habit, enough so she’ll hop up and turn off the T.V.. But, she’s a Sleeper, so at no point should you stop feeling bad for me and start feeling bad for her. Beyond the general fact she’s married to me I mean..
If it’s an annoying cartoon—like any monster collecting show that ends in “—emon,” then I’ll get out of bed to silence the beast and start goofing off.
This entire weekend I had insomnia. For me, it included not being able to fall asleep, falling asleep and then waking up for an hour or two come 2 a.m., and the delicious frosting on the insomnia cake—waking up before 7am after everything else.
Sleep deprivation is it’s own kind of drug. If you’ve ever gone without sleep, reality is interpreted quite differently. Your mind state is altered.
Today, I’m just awake.
I’ve had it since I was a young boy. I recall waking up in the dark and climbing down the bunk bed ladder to fetch books and toys to play with in the dark. If I flipped the light on, one of the parentals was bound to come in and yell at me to go back to bed, as if it were an option.
Laying down, I’d play and play until there was enough light to justify getting ready for kindergarten.
I’m 29-years old. Now I have options. I wake up and I’ll go sit in front of the computer and write something. I leave the T.V. on so I can roll over and watch whatever I wake up to—usually I’m half way through an adult swim anime. I keep a gameboy advance under my pillow. Sometimes I can play a game that is repiticious enough that playing it is just hypnotic enough I’ll nod off. That, or it’s something else that will entertain me for the hour I’m up before I can go back to sleep.
Lately, no matter the day of the week, I wake up at 6:30 am. My eyes slide open and any final tendrils of any dreams are gone from me. I’m just awake. There’s no groggy transitional period in which I require time for the caffeine to take to my blood, or that I grumpily insist I’m still in the process of waking up.
I’m just awake.
If the T.V. is still on, I’ll watch cartoons. I say “if” because Mrs. Bastard is annoyed by what I admit is a bad habit, enough so she’ll hop up and turn off the T.V.. But, she’s a Sleeper, so at no point should you stop feeling bad for me and start feeling bad for her. Beyond the general fact she’s married to me I mean..
If it’s an annoying cartoon—like any monster collecting show that ends in “—emon,” then I’ll get out of bed to silence the beast and start goofing off.
This entire weekend I had insomnia. For me, it included not being able to fall asleep, falling asleep and then waking up for an hour or two come 2 a.m., and the delicious frosting on the insomnia cake—waking up before 7am after everything else.
Sleep deprivation is it’s own kind of drug. If you’ve ever gone without sleep, reality is interpreted quite differently. Your mind state is altered.
Today, I’m just awake.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Meat is Murder: By Meat I Mean Beef and By Murder I Mean Eat It, You Might Die. And Yes, I am Trying to Win the Blogspot Award for Longest Title Ever
Honestly I don’t see what all the fuss is about. So some footage of a diseased cows being physically dragged into the processing plant because they lack the physical ability to do so on their own have surfaced. And sure, the diseases are born due to persistant, horrible conditions. And maybe bovine immunity as a whole has been weakened by constant hormonal injections. And ok, yes, a majority of the meat was is sold to school disticts.
But really, what’s the big deal? Is this anything new? Egg farms burn the beaks off of chickens when they’re chicks. Before you get all uppity—it’s that or have them peck their faces off their neighbors after they go crazy from living in a space the size of a shoe box. The wounds would fester and eventually kill the chicken. What, you want diseased eggs to go with your diseased steak?
But what do you expect me to do, pay more than a buck for a dozen eggs? Fuck off, communist. If I’m to consume at a riduculous rate, I'm going need everything to be as cheap as possible.
I could go on and on, but I’m not really trying to shake my finger at anyone. A wise man once told me to get anyone to change you have to get them to ask themselves new questions.
When I pay attention to the news and current day society I see that a great concern seems to be that things are as cheap as possible. Really, I think we all just want the things we want. We seem to have a common sense of entitlement —myself included. But who couldn’t go on and on justifying their list of free downloads, home cache of office supplies or free roses from the neighbors front bush. Demanding everything to be cheap may be one of the underlying reasons why things are. One of many reasons though.
I guess it’s like Calvin said to Hobbs; “Saying I have to work for it is like saying I don’t deserve it.”
But really, what’s the big deal? Is this anything new? Egg farms burn the beaks off of chickens when they’re chicks. Before you get all uppity—it’s that or have them peck their faces off their neighbors after they go crazy from living in a space the size of a shoe box. The wounds would fester and eventually kill the chicken. What, you want diseased eggs to go with your diseased steak?
But what do you expect me to do, pay more than a buck for a dozen eggs? Fuck off, communist. If I’m to consume at a riduculous rate, I'm going need everything to be as cheap as possible.
I could go on and on, but I’m not really trying to shake my finger at anyone. A wise man once told me to get anyone to change you have to get them to ask themselves new questions.
When I pay attention to the news and current day society I see that a great concern seems to be that things are as cheap as possible. Really, I think we all just want the things we want. We seem to have a common sense of entitlement —myself included. But who couldn’t go on and on justifying their list of free downloads, home cache of office supplies or free roses from the neighbors front bush. Demanding everything to be cheap may be one of the underlying reasons why things are. One of many reasons though.
I guess it’s like Calvin said to Hobbs; “Saying I have to work for it is like saying I don’t deserve it.”
Monday, February 18, 2008
Pretty Pee Princess!
I consider myself a feminist in that I think a person should get the same amount of pay, respect, whatever, whether they are a man or a woman—which is why I think only women should qualify for the next draft. And I don’t like double standards, so I try to use terms like “slutty” and “cock sucking whore” in a general sense.
I work at a small company that has two bathrooms for either sex to use at anytime. Both the restrooms are identical, and they’re only about 20 feet apart. Let’s call bathroom 1 the main bathroom—most of the people B-line it for that restroom when they can. The majority of the employees that use it are female (as far as I can tell), thus there is a sign on the door politely demanding the toilet seat be lowered.
So for many of my co-workers, bathroom 2 only gets action when bathroom 1 is occupied. However, one of the girls refuses to ever use Bathroom 2, she says only the boys use it, and therefore, it’s dirtier.
Being a feminist, I resent this statement as I don’t feel it’s fact based. Especially since I’ve lifted the toilet seat only to be greeted by beads of urine dripping down the underside of the seat. Maybe you girls don’t realize you’re spraying so intensely, but I assure you it’s disgusting.
Maybe you’re thinking I’m confused—the piss could have gotten there via a male peeing on the toilet rim and then lowering the seat. I wondered the same, but the seat has those stoppers so there’s some clearance between the two surfaces. And, sometimes the urine has a distinctive “blood” color to it. It’s slime trail is much harder to ignore.
On the rare occasion I shit at work—I have to check under the seat, sometimes wipe the wet trails off, wash my hands and meditate on something to distract my thoughts away from I’ve just had to do. And never mind the fact nothing I flush clogs the toilet up, tampon flushers.
God help one of the men who dares leave that seat up though. There’s a girl (separate from the first girl I mentioned, but not cool enough I’m assigning her a fake name) who will walk up and down the halls, checking each room demanding, “WHO LEFT THE SEAT UP! Was it YOU?”
Equality—it’s a bitch.
I work at a small company that has two bathrooms for either sex to use at anytime. Both the restrooms are identical, and they’re only about 20 feet apart. Let’s call bathroom 1 the main bathroom—most of the people B-line it for that restroom when they can. The majority of the employees that use it are female (as far as I can tell), thus there is a sign on the door politely demanding the toilet seat be lowered.
So for many of my co-workers, bathroom 2 only gets action when bathroom 1 is occupied. However, one of the girls refuses to ever use Bathroom 2, she says only the boys use it, and therefore, it’s dirtier.
Being a feminist, I resent this statement as I don’t feel it’s fact based. Especially since I’ve lifted the toilet seat only to be greeted by beads of urine dripping down the underside of the seat. Maybe you girls don’t realize you’re spraying so intensely, but I assure you it’s disgusting.
Maybe you’re thinking I’m confused—the piss could have gotten there via a male peeing on the toilet rim and then lowering the seat. I wondered the same, but the seat has those stoppers so there’s some clearance between the two surfaces. And, sometimes the urine has a distinctive “blood” color to it. It’s slime trail is much harder to ignore.
On the rare occasion I shit at work—I have to check under the seat, sometimes wipe the wet trails off, wash my hands and meditate on something to distract my thoughts away from I’ve just had to do. And never mind the fact nothing I flush clogs the toilet up, tampon flushers.
God help one of the men who dares leave that seat up though. There’s a girl (separate from the first girl I mentioned, but not cool enough I’m assigning her a fake name) who will walk up and down the halls, checking each room demanding, “WHO LEFT THE SEAT UP! Was it YOU?”
Equality—it’s a bitch.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Fuckin' Romantic!
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.
“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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
