Thursday, December 29, 2005

Manton vs. Woman Episode III - Revenge of the Sith

We're going to move on now to what was actually a success in terms of dating - my first girlfriend. Not some other girl like I might have mentioned down below, or a 6th grade partner which just amounted to you circling "yes" on a sheet of paper. No, this girlfriend and I went on a DATE.

Notice the non-plural.

Sixth grade really brought about a lot of change in my life. First off, I was moving from elementary school to middle school, otherwise known as "the worst years of your short life." Secondly, my left knee decided to be an asshole and stop properly functioning. This was known about for a few years, as my knee would ocassionally lock up, forcing me to stop playing basketball and writhe in pain on the black top. I told my mom about this, and she said it was growing pains. We saw a doctor who said I had...uh...how to spell german words...Osgodschlauters, an affliction that is German for "growing pains." That, along with water on the knee and loose cartlidge, meant that I had to be on crutches for 6 weeks, and ruined sports for the next year or so afterwards. When I looked across the doctor's office at my mom after he gave me the diagnosis, she confidently turned her head to me and said, "I told you it was growing pains."

Couple those two events with a sudden weight gain, and I was set for my formitive hell years. I was always a thin child, weighing only 70 lbs at 11 years old. That summer, without the ability to really work out with my knee and my fascination with this new thing called "food," I gained some poundage. 46 in a year, to be exact. It was so bad that at the beginning of 7th grade, a lot of the kids couldn't recgonize me. Yeah. Yeah it was that bad. To say I didn't have confidence was to say I didn't like eating - it was an obvious lie.

This crippling lack of confidence, self-hatred, and overall malaise with middle school really didn't make me feel like a big winner in the female department. For a while, I just sort of didn't care, with the occasional liking and pining away for some young lass who was classes above me. Fate would have it, however, that I would find someone on Ellis Island, symbolic of immigrants finding freedom in America. Except I didn't have to truncate my name or be subject to embarassing medical examinations, nor face a horrible travel over from another country. So almost exactly like it.

There was a new girl in the middle of 7th grade, if memory serves, and because we didn't get a new girl for some time afterwards, she was new girl for a while. Her name was Kyle, a rather small and thin girl with a cute face and rather quiet demeanor. It was surprising that she had only a few friends, but I guess that's what happens when no one bothers to learn your name since, well, you're already named the new girl. In eighth grade, our history class was learning about Greece and Rome, so we took a trip to Ellis island.

On the way, she was in my group or what have you, and I said a joke, and she laughed. I kept trying to make her laugh, and I kept succeeding. During the walking audio tour narrated by Peter Jennings, we turned off the bootleg Walkman and talked about a wide variety of trivial shit that I can't remember. By the time we were watching the IMAX movie and she was telling me she was scared of either darkness or boring IMAX videos from the seat next to me, we were as good as engaged. Afterwards, at another exhibit, Ali Gletow talks to me for the first time in about 6 months (she asked me every day if she was fat, and I'd say no, so finally I just said she was fat and I got blackballed) and asks if Kyle and I are going out. Well, if everyone thinks we're going out, I guess we're going out.

Kyle and I then decided we were dating and exchanged phone numbers. This was before the time of cell phones, but still in the time of personal ground phone lines, so we exchanged numbers. Every night we would talk after school for exactly 45 minutes. It did not matter the circumstances, we had to talk for 45 minutes. Right off the bat, we should have realized that we weren't meant to be - we couldn't carry a conversation for 5 minutes. She brought up a Rob Zombie remix album that her sister got her called "American Made Music to Strip By" and I swear to you I came back to "do you, uh, strip to it?" or a similar joke every 3 or so minutes. I was awful.

This was not my first experience with girls on the phone. Carly Patterson used to call me in the summer of 6th grade, that dark transitioning time, and we would discuss bullshit like this. Usually this would occur with my more attractive friend Stephen (this is because almost every girl wanted him...and he never went after any of them...and it really bugged me) but still, it did occur without him every now and then. The coup with Carly was that one time, in the middle of the night, during an outdoor movie, she pulled up her shirt and showed Stephen and I her bra. It was the highlight of my sexual adventures for 2 years, until I went to Rachel's house one night and two people put my hands on Maggie's breast. It was the first breast I had touched, and touching was better than seeing, but I still feel like such a dirtbag.

Wait, so what are we talking about? Oh yeah, Kyle.

Well, Kyle was insistant on talking for 45 minutes, as if this were the designated time for a couple to be talking. Once 45 minutes were up, as if there was a timer, she would say she had to go - the Old Faithful of conversations. Poor Kyle desperately wanted a real boyfriend, and I certainly wasn't that guy. We didn't talk in school really, and there wasn't any hand touching. Meanwhile, kids were getting head a few lockers down in the Boys bathroom; the tortoise vs. the jet. She decided we should go on a date to really solidify the relationship, the precursor for later in life when you have a child to save a marriage.

Luckily for her, I was well versed in the dating game. I told her to stave off awkwardness, we needed friends. She was going to take her friend, and mine, Ali B, and I was going to take Jassim. When it came to picking a movie, we decided on Mission Impossible 2 because it was incredibly romantic. When the big date comes, after my mom picks up Jassim and we drive to Kyle's house, Ali B calls in sick. Ruh Roh. What do we do now? Well, we go to the movie and I ignore Kyle (who looked extroadinarily cute that night) who wanted to hold hands and cuddle. I don't think I touched her. Obviously, I didn't know shit about dating.

After that, the relationship started to fall apart, which is sort of a lie since it wasn't a relationship in the first place. One night, when I was playing my friend Pod in NFL 2K1, she called me to tell me it just wasn't working out any more. I agreed, laughing, calling Pod an idiot, and yelling TOUCHDOWN! as she made a very somber and serious evaluation of our time together. I wish I could tell you what she said, since I was too busy celebrating my 80 yard TD pass. Needless to say, she hated me until she left Park Ridge, saying nary a word to me for almost a year or so after we broke up. She was a great girl, and I'm sorry that I hurt her, but realistically, we had nothing in common and it would never have worked out. So boo hoo Kyle - you should've seen it coming.

Next, I actually get a girlfriend. For about a year. Yeah, a bit of a drastic change.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Manton vs. Woman - Part the one after the first one

Well, I was criticized for having blog entries that were too big, so I cut the first part into two seperate entities. It probably doesn't even matter, especially since I'm writing this one seconds after publishing the first part. I'm a schmuck sometimes.

After learning about dating through Canteen Night, and dispelling my notions of being gay because I didn't fight over the honor of having Ali Gletow correct my spelling tests, I dove head first into the pool. About 3 years later in 6th grade.

I had a crush for a while on a girl named Jenna. I took an instant liking to her in second grade when she would laugh at my little comments that I would make. For example, my teacher asked "what do cows make?" One of my astute classmates answered with "milk!" My teacher congratulated that student on his or her immense intelligence. She then said, "cows make milk and...." Before she could finish the thought, I yelled out "cookies!" and brought the fucking house down. My teacher and all of the kids were in hysterics. Sadly, that was the catalyst for what you're reading right now - the realization that I really enjoy getting laughter out of people.

Anyway, tangent over. Back to my misery.

I made it a point of coming in every day and trying to make her laugh. It's really a lot harder than you think, especially when it went on for 4 years. I pined away never revealing my affinity for her, just hanging around like a creep dropping stupid hints that no one picked up on. That all changed come 6th grade, when I realized it was time to bite the bullet and ask her out.

Here is where the first major problem came in - I had absolutely no idea what a date was, where it should be held, how intimate it should be, nor whose parents would be driving. The second problem was that I was rather sure she didn't like me. When asked which Friends character I was most akin to, Jenna answered with the dorky, hatable Ross, and not the funny, witty Chandler. (note: this was when the show first started and when ross was a nerd and a half. now, i don't have a problem with ross, and would be ok being called ross-like...but i still think i'm more like chandler, god dammit!!) Not getting the desired reaction, I realized that over the course of the year she had been rather mean to me for no real reason, and not in the "I'll-hit-you-cause-I-like-you" way, but the "queen bitch" way. By this point, I didn't care; I just needed to ask to prove to myself that I could.

It was a rather chilly day in late Fall, and there was rain early in the morning, forcing recess to be on the blacktop. That morning, I made a small decree to my closest friends that I was going to ask out Jenna today, probably during recess. 18 seconds later, every child in Bergen County was fully aware of my plans. Let me take the time now to tell anyone reading to not do this, because all this maneuver accomplishes is having more people around during an already stressful situation. The tension built up all day long with kids from my entire grade asking me if the rumor was true. I looked down at my brand new yellow and black reversable Nike shorts, got my confidence from my cool new wardrobe, and shook my head yes.

The last class before recess was music class, which amounted to chorus with a lot of movie musicals thrown in. On this day, a nice Asian man came in to talk about the growing popularity of bongo drums. He spoke for a good half hour about all sorts of drums, but only referenced No Doubt for actually using them, leaving us a bit unimpressed with his meager evidence of the bongo boom. Thankfully the bell sounded and we were unleashed on the blacktop. Luckily, a certain Jenna had forgotten her purple winter coat on the table. Some genius boy suggested this was my in - hand her the coat and ask her out. I looked him in the eye, shook his hand, and said, "you are my greatest ally." Ok, so I really said "thanks dude!" in a non-gender specific high-pitch shrill.

I nervously clutched the coat as I walked outside directly from the music room onto the black top. Some of the more athletic guys were playing football, but stopped throwing the ball around upon seeing me, and fell into a group behind me to witness the momentous occasion. Even the less-athletic guys on the swings and monkey bars came to see what the fuss was about. We all walked over, me leading in the front, towards Jenna, who had a gaggle of girls behind her, also eagerly awaiting the festivities. I stopped in front of Jenna, with her coat in an outstretched arm, I asked "Jenna, would-"

She had a preemptive answer of "I would never go out with you! You're too skinny, too ______ and too ugly for me to ever go out with you!" Taking her jacket, she turned around and walked across the rickety basketball court, through the large group of stunned girls. I stood there with a tinge of red-faced embarassment while the auidence was stunned in silence. Not the "ohmygodBruceWillishasbeendead!?!" sort of roaring shock, but the "I can hear the pin drop/Sprint commercial" silence. Everyone sort of turned and looked away, I would guess a sign of respect, and tried to carry on with their 30 minutes of supervised freedom. Immediately I turned to play football, knowing that I would be denied. Thankfully, my extreme lack of self-esteem saved me a good 3 years with a shrink. Ironic? Certainly.

There was another dating experience in 6th grade, when I went on my first date. My friend Stephen had the hots for a girl named Samantha, one of the first in our grade to get breasts. Instantly she rose on the charts, and she liked Stephen, and he really liked breasts. Needing moral support, as this was the first date in the history of our class, friends were needed to come along and smooth out any awkward silences. Suzy and I were selected, and the date was set for dinner at the Diner, followed by a viewing of Austin Powers at my house, and possibly some playtime on my sweet Nintendo 64.

The whole process was rather uneventful, except for the fact that Samantha spilled her drink three fucking times. The first spill was when we were all looking at our menus. Samantha, sitting across from me, knocked her Sprite over, flowing right towards the crotch of my khaki pants. Direct hit. If 5 minutes in to your first "date" you get ice cold liquid thrown on your crotch isn't a sign, I don't know what is. I was shocked as I held the menu with both hands in my lap and even more shocked when Samantha nervously blamed me. She knocked her newly-filled glass of Sprite over about 10 minutes later, now soaking my shirt and thighs. This time she bravely took the blame.

Back at the house, as I watched Austin Powers for the 20th time, Samantha was having another Sprite in my living room. This time, the carpet absorbed all of it. I looked at Stephen, and we both wondered what adding breasts to the equation did to a girl's overall sense of balance. Obviously, it didn't help. The awkward point of the night was when gifts were exchanged. Because it was in early December, someone decided to get gifts for everyone on the date...without telling me. After receiving some great stuff from the two girls and Stephen (including an awesom Reese's Peanut Butter Cups tin which I still have) I felt a bit put out. Luckily, I gave Stephen a wallet I got from my Mom earlier in the week that my Dad refused to employ and doled out some blank audio cassette tapes to the girls. I really was an ass.

Stephen and Suzy played Cruisin' USA on N64 while Samantha and I talked about...christ only knows. After my dad dropped the two girls off, Stephen slept over and we discussed our first experience with dating. We learned that some girls can't stop spilling drinks, Austin Powers is a fantastic movie, and that the N64 was so much better than Genesis. Stephen also learned, after a soul-searching 15 minutes, that he didn't really like Samantha and decided to dump her clumsy ass and go out with Suzy. Obviously, we never figured that Cruisin' USA would be so essential to the dating process.

The next morning, Stephen was getting ready to leave when he tipped over the Sam Goody's gift certificate (remember when that shit was on paper?) envelope revealing a note. There, written in meticulous and pain-staking detial, was a note in calligraphy. In it, it stated how happy Samantha was on simply going on a date with Stephen, and wished him and his family a merry Christmas. He read it, passed me the note, and paused I looked him in the eye. "What are you going to do?" I asked. He pondered for a second and replied, "oh well, sucks for her." Dating rules.

Manton vs. Woman - Part Uno

Every now and again someone will bring to me a story about how a guy asked a girl out with a love note or concocted a screen name especially for the event of talking to a certain girl. I hear those stories and I laugh. I do not laugh at the person (well, not all the time) but mostly because they haven't got shit on me when it comes to bad news and women. At this point, I would like to say that the term 'women' is used loosely, but if I used "young women/ladies" I'd be called a craddle robber, pedo, etc. and there is enough evidence of that already.

For this entry and others, I would like to share with you, the reader, how poorly I have related with females. No one can tell for sure what it is that made women dislike me. It could be my stutter, my stupid hair cuts I had from the age of 3 onward, my awkwardly tall body, my more awkward plump body, my inability to decipher codes (she sneezed - totally wants my shit). Maybe the fact that I think I'm dumb, not very fun to be around, and am rather bleh when it comes to the attractive scale. That or my massive overconfidence.

I will now zip backwards to a time of innocence, of MC Hammer and his parachute pants, of New Kids On The Block and Hey Dude! Elementary school will be the first stage; the formitive years.

The first experience I had with liking a girl came with Ali Gletow. This was pretty much well-worn territory with every boy in my first grade class, because, well, everyone sort of liked her. The big coup was to have her grade your spelling tests. So, every time the test was finished, we'd pull out our red correcting crayons (why is red always the color of failure?) and anxiously await to switch partners. Some of the boys would switch amongst themselves, and if we knew what being gay was when we were 6, the rest of us would certainly call those guys homosexuals.

After the big rush every week, it got to be a hassle. Knowing that I was slower than the rest, and seated as far away as possible, I gave in to my homosexual urges of just switching with Scott who sat to the left of me. It turned out well since no one would date her until she was in 6th or 7th grade, but I think he was 18 or so at the time, so we never really had a shot. I look back and think of all the energy they wasted, and hope it takes a year off of their life while I reap the benefits.

Kids have a wonderful way of naturally pairing people together. This was never more evident than in 4th grade, when it was time for the first Canteen Night. No one knew what a Canteen was, nor how it related to a dance in our elementary school's multi-purpose room, but no one really cared. What we all DID know, however, was that we needed dates, as dictated to us by Saved By The Bell. Instead of basing these dates on trivial things like feelings and attraction, we did it by the easiest way possible: physical similarities!

People were paired off based on hair color, height, width, and all of the other important things. Geoff and Erin were paired together because they were shorter than the rest of us, thereby making a suitable couple. I was chosen to be with Kristen, a longtime friend, and fellow eyeglass wearer. No one knows who really laid down the rules about who got who, but we all followed them. If we knew how to dance, and thought that slow dancing wasn't incredibly weird and awkward, we would have looked like we were straight out of a musical. Instead, all the boys stood on one side of the gym staring at all of the girls on the other.

None of the relationships lasted a month after Canteen Night, even with such strong similarities.

Part 2 will delve into 6th grade, when things start to get hot. And by hot I mean emotionally crippling.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

A time to learn

Christmas is historically known as the celebration of the birth of Jesus, the son of God, and savior of humanity. Christmas is more commonly known as the time to make our economy not seem like it's in the shitter. Also, it is the way to show how you truly valuable people, because more care=more expensive gift.

This Christmas has turned out to be more than just the exchanging of gifts. Oh, I know what you're thinking, but this isn't some happy horse shit "I learned people are good!" or "the spirt of christmas is inside of al of us!" No, no I found out some odd and unkown pieces of my family. And everyone who walked into Christmas walked out with the same sexual orientation so it's not that, either.

My Dad's side of the family literally has about 80 people in it. I wish I was kidding. Among them there are a great number of older folk that I refered to as Uncle and Aunt, like Uncle Michael, Aunt Stella, etc. One day, when I was 14, I made the shocking realization that I had been living a lie. It turns out that my father only has one direct sibling, his sister, my aunt Sue. Other than that, no one else came out of Grandma's womb.

Then who are these people that I consider my aunts and uncles? They were all cousins of varying degrees of seperation, but because of their older age, it seemed more appropriate to give them an uncle or aunt title as a sign of respect. Except that no one told me, the kid who thought his family tree was like a big, equal redwood. I felt betrayed and conspired against, so I ask my grandma and mom to explain themselves. I expected to hear a multitude of apologies, maybe a few tears, and lots of pity hugs. Instead, they laughed in my face and pretty much called me a dummy. The truth hurts sometimes.

This Christmas was just as informative. Apparently, my great grandfater Miller was acutally named Muller with the two little dot things over the o, and was incredibly German. Grandma has refused to admit it for years, fearing that she would be pegged as a nazi, completely forgetting that her family could have been persecuted by those Nazis. What a silly goose! My mom and I also believe that my Dad's side was Jewish at one point - the pieces all fall into place. Ironically, I got Schindler's List from my Grandma.

She insists that my heritage isn't a big deal, that I'm an American and that's that. That's all well and good, but nationalities were a very important thing when learning about other countries. In elementary school one year, we were all told to ask our parents what countries our relatives originally sprang from. For example, the Mazzeis were from the Czech Republic, which did not exist in the pre-1991 world map (the USSR didn't go away in the Park Ridge school system until 1998) and the Rogers who were somehow linked to almost every important American possible. Now I feel like a liar, putting down only Poland and Ireland, not knowing that I was cheating people of knowing about my 1//8th German heritage. Also, it kills my tried-and-true line of "I'm Polish and Irish - a dumb drunk." I'm more pissed about losing the line than being lied to.

Finally, I learned that my great grandmother on my mom's side's maiden name was Booth, and that the name John Wilkes was barred from the house. Therefore, it's conceivable that I descend from the man that killed Lincoln. My mom believes that is where my origins for participating in film and theatre come from. Personally, I believe it's because I'm an only child and the only way that I could keep myself entertained was to make a 3 hour G.I. Joe battle in my basement. This also explains why I'm shitty at Halo except with a pistol when someone's back is turned to me (stovepipe hat need not apply).

So, I could possibly be a President-killing Nazi. Joe Lieberman, I think I hate you now.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Productivity is for losers

It's 2:36 AM, and I have a test in 6 and a half hours on the subject I really understand the least, natural science. Instead of studying the Krebs cycle one more time and understanding its relationship to glycolosis (yeah 2 pyruvate!), or bitching about how I don't need to know this shit since I'm a FILM MAJOR, I'm going to post some random thoughts that have been in my head for a week or two now.

The NAACP, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People is inherently detrimental to its own cause. How can they advance if they are still using a term as old as Colored People? Haven't they upgraded themselves to African-Americans (even though most have never been to Africa)? Maybe it's for standing by traditions, or nostalgia, or maybe they don't want to be known as NAAAA.

Scantron paper simply cannot be erased. I'm not sure what technology they use to eradicate removing marks from any number 2 pencil using any eraser, but god damn, it's flawless. I had a final on Friday where I wrote the incorrect answer, tried to erase it, and ended up making it .1% lighter. Of course, I freak out because the all-powerful machine, while being able to correct a thousand tests, can't differentiate between shades of correctness. Later on, I skipped one question, writing down 3 wrong answers. I tried to erase them, I really did, but the results have left me thinking I automatically got three wrong. One erasing job was simply impossible to get rid of, and since I thought the answer was the same as the giant, not-going-anywhere mark, I left it as is. The next answer was erased in a lovely streak fashion, taking up B, C, and D; I did not attempt to make a correct answer. The last one became a tiny bit lighter, so I made the answer I wanted to choose darker than the night to ensure that the machine would know THAT was my final answer. The machine will still cyber-laugh and mark it wrong. Technology is a pain in the ass sometimes.

But then again, sometimes it's amazing. Has anyone thought of who made the tissue box where there is one tissue conveniently waiting to be plucked out of the box, ready to sacrifice itself so that your nose isn't as full of goo? Allow me to overshadow that valiant act for a second and center on how easy and helpful the tissue box set up is - there's always one waiting. Unless the box runs out or the tissue doesn't catch, and then we bitch and moan, completely forgetting about the luxury that box affords us 95% of the time. We are all selfish assholes.

I don't understand why Under Armour is expanding its line to other things outside of clothing to be worn by angry, yelling black men (as referenced by the house-protecting commercials). Why does one want an Under Armour gym bag? Do we really care if the contents inside the bag stay toasty warm or free of sweat? More importantly, will the back pack be skin tight to my shoulders and make me look jacked? Actually, will it make me look like the rail-thin, uber-pansy that I try and mask with loose-fitting clothes? If so, fuck that.

Am I the only one disturbed by the fact that according to Campbell's Chunky Soup commericals, Donovan McNabb has had about 4 moms? Is there some sort of controversy? A womb confusion? A squabble for money? I would like someone to get to the bottom of this, and I'm sure a very confused Donovan would, too.

If the q-tip is as bad as everyone says it is - why do they still make it? Wouldn't someone in the medical community have called the factory up and let them in on the secret? Or, there is a secret pact with Ear, Nose and Throat doctors and the Q-Tip company to get a kick back when people go in to get their ears cleaned out. People use q-tips thinking they are cleaning their ears but in reality they are just jamming the wax in deeper and deeper until it hits brain tissue. I smell conspiracy...and a built up of wax. Wait, does wax smell?

Finally, I hate the term "try something new" because no one ever tries something new. Everyone does something that someone else has done but passes it off as being new because what, they themselves haven't done it? I haven't swam with the mighty dolphin, but a shitload of people have. Therefore, if I were to try it, I would be trying something that is really old hat to anyone who has visited Sea World, or one of those beautiful resorts surrounded by crime and poverty. I suggest that the next time someone tries something new, actually go for it. Here are some examples:

Brush your teeth with Icy Hot
Eat a best-selling novel
Make out with a barnyard animal (I think I've seen videos of this already, though)
Drink orange juice with pulp and enjoy it, saying "man, all of this shit that is built up on my teeth right now actually makes the process of drinking a liquid so much more enjoyable!"
Skateboard on ice
Sleep with a penguin (not have sex with it, you sickos, just...cuddle, ya know, until lulled to sleep)

Friday, December 09, 2005

Fuck Boston

This city should go straight to hell. This anomaly of scientific weather patters can eat my balls. How the fuck can there be 7 inches of snow in Jersey, which, closest, is 200+ miles away, while in the NORTHEASTERN city of Boston it's 37 degrees and there can be no snow? No rational person could explain this. No one!

No one could explain why how, inexplicably, the first snowfall we got, that at least somewhat stuck, was on October 29th. Two days later, it was 65 degrees out. How does this happen? Is there some sort of curse from the Puritans? Wasn't it enough that Boston decided to preserve the paths for horse-and-buggies and consider using them for their modern, paved streets, causing the complete clusterfuck which is Kenmore Square (that's all true people)? Haven't we done enough to appease God to close liquor stores at 10, and close bars at 2? Isn't it enough that my local CVS in bumblefuck New Jersey is open 24 hours, as well as the Dunkin' Donuts/Baskin Robins, but nothing here stays open past 12?

WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM US?!?! WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN BOSTON WITH THIS WEATHER!!?!

I can't even relish in the fact that God sorta likes this area by bestowing upon them Curt Schilling or having the Pats win 3 out of 4 years. That has to be the trade off; championships for shitty weather. Everyone, please, give your rings back, because I'm tired in living in Day After Tomorrow land.

Today it was supposed to snow somewhere between 3-9 inches, probably nothing longer than the average penis (6"). I can take a penisload of snow...that really didn't come out how I imagined it would. Anyway, that's not a lot of snow, as last year had the most amount of snow in recorded history for Boston. Six inches? Bitch please.

Here's the problem. The ground wasn't cold enough for the snow to stick, so instead we have an accumulation of slush that ranges from 2 inches to around 8, to about a foot and a half in giant puddles. Boston, for whatever god forsaken reason, doesn't really believe in what we civilized people refer to as a "draining system." No, these backward-ass fucks believe that the sun will come and naturally evaporate the water in minutes, thereby dissolving the problem with minimal work done (the Boston way - look at the 20 years strong Big Dig...that's still not fucking finished). Oh wait, I forgot, YOU DON'T SEE THE SUN FOR WEEKS AT A TIME. Whoops! There's a monkeywrench in the works.

Instead, the city has plows and BU has snowblowers for these types of situations. Problem: there is no way to have a snowblower move out slush. It's impossible. It would be easier to find a gentile in Newton than to try and move water with a rapidly-moving fan-thing. So now we have 20 idiots trying to do the impossible, having no effect, but continuing to plow because that's what they're paid to do.

Even better, because of the lack of drainage, there are GIANT puddles that are easily twelve feet by eight feet, about every 400 feet or so, and are completely unavoidable. Throw that in with the fact that some are in the middle of traffic zones, which makes you prey to the worst drivers in the world in conditions that could hinder their braking systems in their vehicles that weigh at least a ton. It feels like I'm walking in one of the final levels of Super Mario, having to traverse all of those obstacles just to get to Bowser and learn that my princess is in another castle from a fidget with a giant mushroom hat on. Except this time, all I get is shoes that each gained 7 points because of water logging, pants that are wet up to my knee, and a general malaise with the city I currently live in.

Even better, I get another 4 months of this, as spring doesn't start until late April if you're lucky, and another two years of winters like this. How do I stop it? This July, I say we utterly destory Boston and start over. If they can fly away to distant Iraq and Afghanistan to do it, this should be a walk in the fucking park. Set up a grid system of streets, a proper system for draining rain and snow, and throw up a giant uv lamp so it at least gives us the impression that there's a sun, and that God hasn't shunned us after all.

I hate this fucking place.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Explaining and Understanding Friendship

There are all sorts of people in this world, and the odds are you have to associate with some of them. From the freaks, to the dorks, to the jocks to the senile old man who won't stop pestering you to repent your sins, this mortal plane is certainly full of diversity. I, however, will easily break down most people into 3 groups, because grouping by sexual orientation, skin color, place of birth, or actions are so gosh darn simple!

There are three types of friends: School friends, party friends, and friends. The last, which really should be listed first because of its importance, is the blanket type of pal; the one you can take anywhere. These friends you can end up having classes with, end up going to parties with, or just hanging out with. They are the all-purpose campanion, who in snow, sleet, rain or armaggedon will be there with you (I was warned to repent, so I can't say I wasn't given a heads up). The other friends, though, do not fall under this all-encompassing blanket. Oh no. Not at all.

The School Friend
Description: School friends are people in your classes who you are friendly with, but nothing too solid. While not prevalent in most high schools--at least small ones like mine--where the people you learn with are usually kids you've grown up with and are forced to be your school, party and overall friends. In college, the stakes are drastically different...especially one with 16,000+ undergrads. The school friend is someone who you'll hang around with in class, make jokes with, maybe study together. But that's as far as it goes. When you are outside of your college any ties to that person are immediately tossed aside. Walking to class and they're there? You walk by, and they're excited because they don't want to walk with you, either.

Pros: If they're annoying, you're done with them as soon as the lecture or discussion is over with. One such disposable friend from last year saw me the other day, and the experience was...incorrect. He's the kid that you don't really like, but you met at orientation, so you feel some obligation to be nice (98% of people from orientation you won't even acknowledge once school starts) and talk to them. You find out that this person is annoying, with a terrible sense of humor, and isn't very smart, which makes him a bad choice when it comes to group projects. But, you keep him along because you sorta feel bad. Next year, you see him, and you make an effort to be nice and say hi, start some small conversation, and this fucker blows by you, making it seem like it took too much effort to say hi back. ...THAT'S NOT YOUR JOB, THAT'S MINE! I'm pissed on the "cool" principle alone being ruined, not the fact that he was rude. The positive? I rarely see this fucker, and I'm happy.

Cons: If you like the person, the transition from school friend to all-around friend is a difficult bridge to create, and usually fails. You have to befriend people you can only stand for no more than 3 hours at a time - that's the trick. People you'll life, but get on your nerves, and luckily you won't have to see them anymore until your two classes tomorrow, and thank god for that.

The Party Friend
Description: You're drunk, I'm drunk, we're having a great conversation. Later, I see you on the street and I realize that without copious amounts of alcohol, you're a bore. Uh-oh. It's hard to rekindle the magic you get when you first meet someone when you're both trashed. There is this sort of social lubricant quality to alcohol that makes meeting people new and exciting on its own, let alone someone who is interesting. Once the drinks are done, the party cleaned up, and dude that no one knows who was passed out on the couch has left, this friendship is dead. Until next weekend, and then you're best friends again, saying things like, "this fucking guy...he's fuckin...this dude is fucking crazy man!"

Pros: "They're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone" -Billy Joel, Pianoman. When you drink on your own and don't have fun, well, you should start thinking about attempting something with 12 steps. Drinking with people you don't know is fun, too, because almost none of your actions have any rammifications outside of that party. Nicknames like "weird tall dude" and "guy that freaks me out" are ok because everyone's jovial and who cares if you see that guy or gal ever again! Unless they're the one angry drunk, then it's wise to call them "sir" or "ma'am."

Cons: Paying up at a party when you don't know who's throwing the party, and it turns out it's the person who you're asking "whose house is this, and do you think we have to pay for the beer?" Also, when you meet a kid at a party your frist weekend freshman year and have a 10 minute conversation with, and then realize he's in every one of your classes. This is what I'll refer to as "friend crossing," and crossing a Party and School friend is like mixing vodka and rum - you're gonna end up regretting the whole affair. So I never talked to that kid again. I think he was lonely, but I'm not going to end up vomitting up what tastes like sour OJ just because he doesn't have friends. The bitch.

The Friend
]Description: Buddy, chum, pal, compadre, brother-or-sister-in-arms. Many names, same meaning: someone who will hang out with you when you're sick, watch after you if you vomit everywhere, and will do stupid, potentially dangerous things with (I should write one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul things, I'm touching). They are the ones you turn to when things go terribly wrong and you need guidance, a laugh, or some substance to make you forget. They'll eat with you, see a movie with you, and be ok with the fact that you two men pretty much just went on a common date. The people you care for, the ones you mess when you're away, the ones that know you like few others do. And the one guy that you hate but you're friends with because you always need someone close in relation to you to dislike.

Pros: Spiritual guidance, companionship, help meaningless tasks go over in a somewhat entertaining fashion. They keep you company when you want it, or when you think you don't, but you really do. There are few bad things about friends.

Cons: ...Except for when you want to cut them loose. There is no easy way to stop being friends with the kid who's juuust too annoying, who talks a liiiiittle too much, who criticizes you for tooooo many things. Through the years, I've tried the "don't talk to them for a month" (with girlfriends, too), the "we're going to publicly embarass you and make you feel like you're less than scum...and you can't hang out with us anymore, either" technique, and have fallen victim to, "you're banned from the lunch table, go away." There is no easy way to deal with getting rid of a friend, or being the friend who's rejected. Hopefully, you'll just "drift apart," "go your own sepearte ways," or "grow up at different speeds." Usually, though, it's full of tears, sorrow, and either a horrible break or you just decide it's not fucking worth it so I'll just stick around and bitch to everyone about it. The latter is almost always the solution.

There are other types of friends, of course, but they usually fall into these categories. For example, a School Friend could also be an After-School Group Friend, an Athletic Teammate Friend, or a Marching Band Friend, which isn't a group, and most certainly is NOT a sport. Work Friends I would file under Party Friends, because usually working involves going out afterwards and gettin drunk or high to try and cope with the menial work you all survived. Drama Friends, however, are a group that defies logic, description, and any semblance of reality. Things you would never think you'd do, say, or feel happen when you're locked up with people playing dual roles as you and the person on stage. They are like War Friends, just without the blood, but all the pain. After going through all of this shit, you feel a bond, like you were in the 'nam, just without pot and The Doors.

If you have any sorts of other types of Friends, or stories to share, do so in the lovely comments section - that's what it's there for YA SILLY GEESE!!!

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

3 Random Rants

Does anyone really care what's in your away message? I didn't think so. Wow, you have a paper due this week? Me too! What a coincidince! I would never think that someone else in college is doing work, just like me! We can now relate on a level that goes beyond the mere "friendship" realm and into this new, deeper level about how we bitch about work that EVERYONE has to do. Also, if you're away, do you really need to prompt me to call your cell phone? Without it, my god, I would never think to go any further than iming until you came back, and never think about calling you on a mobile phone that you carry around anywhere. Thanks for the heads up.

The worst is the itinerary. Today I have this, this, and this, and then X and I are going to ____ before ( ). OMG so busy! I don't care, stupid. You're not there, I get it, that's what the message is for. Personally, I throw up lyrics or movie quotes or other things because you know I'm not there, so what's the point in me telling you I'm not? When I die I'll have someone put a post-it note on my coffin that says "Totally dead rite now, don't call the cell, it's dead, LIKE ME lololol kbye4eva."

I also think away message reading is cathartic, as I know there are about 5 or so screen names I keep on my buddy list not beecause I like the person, but because they make me so fucking angry. You'll check their info and their away messages just to scoff, ridicule, and smile before carrying on with the rest of your day. I know I'm not the only one, and if I am...you're all fucking liars.

Moving on...why are politicians like possible 2008 Presidential Nominee Hillary Clinton going after the video game industry? Let's ignore things like a ballooning defecit, a regretable war, welfare, mass hunger, and let's focus on selling violent video games to kids. What's next, you're going to make a bold fucking stance against rape? And the WORST part about all of this is that she has absolutely no idea what the hell she is talking about. Large chains have already instituted measures to keep games with a Mature (17 and up) rating from being bought by little kids - hell, they carded me once, and I am tall with gruff facial growth that could only be sported by a man's man's man.

Also, here's a fun fact: the average age of a video game player? 22 years old. That's a fact, jack. But does anyone know this? No, because we all conjure up the image of all of the little kiddies in front of their NESes being adorable and maleable by society. All of those kids grew up and they're STILL playing games, and are the lion's share of 'gamers!' My favorite is that they call Stubbs the Zombie, a game where you're (guess what?) a zombie, a cannibalism game.

Joe Lieberman, a former VP candidate, says, "It's just the worst kind of message to kids...they can be dangerous to your child's health." The worst message? Yes, kids, don't be a fictional horror character, it could be a bad influence! Who doesn't know what a fucking ZOMBIE is?!?! The things have been around since the 1950s, and that's probably a conservative estimation, and everyone knows that it's undead and eats brains. How ANYONE can think this is detrimental to a child is beyond me. What, is Li'l Jimmy gonna get thrown out of kindy-garten for trying to gnaw through Chris's head? If that's the case, then yes, but I assume that would only happen in an environment where they're already where bike helmets so they are protected.

Finally today, cell phones have become more and more 'tricked out' with weird shit that you don't really need. My cell phone has a keyboard for god's sake! Some phones can play songs downloaded from iTunes (why?), a 3.0 megapixel camera built in, and the ability to surf the web. But why hasn't anyone thought to fix the primary reason for having a phone: being able to talk on it? China is so advanced with their cell phone technology you can get signal anywhere. ANYWHERE. Have you ever heard of Tibet? Yeah, go there and make a call crystal clear, but go to suburban New Jersey and you're better off making one of those tin can phones.

I can't believe I can take a better picture with my phone than my actual camera, but can't make a call from my own room sometimes. This is a vast conspiracy, and it won't stop here. You just wait and see when there is the lukewarm refridgerator can download movies and no one will even care about their spoiled food. These phone people are geniuses! Maybe I can get a toaster that can't make toast, but can make a fucking phone call.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Introspective nonsense

It's time to kick up the coldplay folks because it's time for Michael P. to get introspective and contemplative just hours after the end of Thanksgiving. The turkey and sides have already been processed and I'm starving again, and after seeing Rent with Haley (my girlfriend...although I'm sure that's redundant to all of you) I just started to think. Oh, and the movie kinda sucks because Chris Columbus is the worst director ever and shouldn't be allowed by a camera ever again, the boring fuck with clicheed shots (oh my god something that isn't expected is happening let's do the first dutch angle/move the camera askew show in the entire flick to make it jarring and dumb looking because Mimi is dying!!! Fucking douchebag).

You never know the full effect you have on people, and you almost never know the effect that others have on you. Today was Thanksgiving, and it was the annual football game where classes that have graduated come together for a big ole' awkward lovefest (much like what I talked about below). I told people both in high school and out that I'd be coming, but after a late night and little sleep...I hit the snooze button. Thinking nothing of it, I texted Haley and told her I wasn't coming, figuring she was the only one who would even mind. Over the course of the day an im or two came and a call was phoned in asking about my whereabouts.

This certainly is not a popularity contest (3 people - wow) but I never thought missing a football game could get a person upset enough to voice their displeasure at me about it. Hell, a kid who isn't even in the high school imed me and asked why I wasn't at the play, and that he was confused as to why I wasn't there. Coldly, I've told my folks that it's because I've moved on, left this town behind, and it can go fuck itself with the nearest Woodcliff Lake. Now, I see that through living here for 19 years, I left some sort of a mark, be it large or small, on some people. There is an imprint that I left and even seeing me for a tiny bit of time would make it feel like the old days, or the good times, or just because hey, I'm a snazzy kinda guy.

That's all self-serving, I know, but I realized this because of the mark left on me by my friends. I contended that the only reason I came back to Park Ridge was for Haley - not family or friends or my dog, as Kevin had suggested. Almost reluctantly I return to the same room with the same walls that I grew up alongside of, simply because I get to see the one person that makes me happiest. I trudge through a dinner with my family and sometimes ignore my friends completely, because they haven't changed and things are still the same as they always were and it's horse shit. I've moved on - why haven't they?

I talk to Blood and he tells me about a party at the Rogers, the old stomping grounds, what was the idealized setting for my last point literally materializing in front of my face. I have to go, if for nothing else then to revel in the fact that I'm right. My friends, however, don't read this fucking thing (very supportive, huh?) and don't understand how important that party full of awkwardness is. Jassim said, "it's just I don't like...people." All I wanted to do was yell "WELL THAT'S THE FUCKING POINT LETS' GO!!!" We instead, however, crammed into my car and drove to some weird part of our town and smoked up.

We didn't do anything really. We sat and talked and smoked before going to Wendy's. It's so stereotypical, and stupid, and childish, and sophomoric...but I got to hear Russell say the most ridiculous shit, have Heller outright lie again, have Blood throw tennis balls at me for no good reason from the backseat and then blame Heller (and get away with it) while Meyer and Jassim ran commentary. I needed that experience more than I could imagine.

There isn't a lot of time to fuck around on this planet. Maybe this is the movie with about 18009823 people having HIV or AIDS talking, or just from experience. There are moments that come and go in our lifetime that could be so minute but mean so much. A girl in front of Haley and I at the movie was apparently "hitting on me" because she ate a Twizzlers in a somewhat seductive manner that I didn't even see. It was enough, though, to make Haley a tad upset. Later on during the movie, a simple head-tap and a smile made everything ok.

The big actions effect you just as much. From countless numbers of people dying, be it too early or otherwise, to the simple act of housing. What can you say when your house is knocked down for a new one, a better one, a bigger one that you can share with a new family...but you knock down a part of your Mom as well? It's wood and plaster and it's absolutely nothing; it's thanksgiving dinners and kisses and everything. All it is is a place to live, all it will ever be is the center of almost every memory, and it's going to go down....

I'm thankful for everything I have. I'm thankful for my parents, one of whom decided that they would out me as a spoiled brat in front of my extended family during dinner. I'm thankful that they spoil me and wish I wouldn't have the stigma of being a spoiled little bitch (I'm also thankful for my many dvds and cds and any other form of shiney plastic I own and love so dear). I'm thankful for my friends who by doing nothing have grounded me and made me realize that I'm growing up too soon already, and there is no need to speed up the process. I'm thankful for Kevin's post because as stupid as my dog is, I did miss her. I'm so thankful that people read this and complement me about it, because I'll never say I want attention, but fuck do I crave it. Thanks to everyone who reads this and can stomach my bitching, selfishness, etc. because I need a place to escape and vent, and you help a lot.

I'd do the thankful for the girlfriend, but, I already have one of those posts and I'm not libel to do that shit again. That's done in private. With 3 locked doors. And a sound proof room.

Hope your thanksgiving was great. If you have any interesting stories or comments by all means leave a comment. Leave your name too, Meg, because I know who reads this thing and signing it "ridger" ain't gonna cut it.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Oh, growing up

It's cute to see all the little kiddies putting up messages in their profiles and aways about how close it is until Thanksgiving break. Then, everyone can run back to their hometown, in many cases back to Park Ridge. I'm very sorry to say, the town you left is not the town you're returning to.

Everyone expects to come back to their hometown on their first big break freshman year to have big parties, see all the kids they used to see back in the day, and get back some form of normalcy that has been in their lives for, sometimes, 13 or so years. They all expect to come back like conquering heroes: we escaped, and now I'm back, and look at me!

The sad truth? No one cares.

I don't mean that in a way to make it seem like the Freshman class in college isn't special or anything. It's not my class is hot shit anymore, either. There is a certain maturation point that, when exceeded, makes the trip home almost worthless. Towns run on the kids that are in high school, who are moving and growing and learning; they are the ones that grind the gears. We got spit out, and we're enjoying the 4 year grace period before real life starts. We're stuck in neutral in the town's eyes, somewhere between kids and adults.

It's not just the townies either. You'll go home and you'll go to that party, the one that was just like freshman year of high school. And sophmore year. And junior and senior year. God, you'll think how great it is to have the old gang back together, how ecstatic you'll be when you get to party with the same people you've known and have partied with what seems like your whole life! And then reality hits: this isn't the same party.

Everyone grows up in college in different ways, different levels, different atmospheres. Pardon me for being scientific, but it's Darwin-esque: take the same specie and put it in different pools, you'll get all kinds of different fish. It's just the way things work. Go to that party and realize half the people there you really had nothing in common with. Go to that party and find out that maybe the glory days weren't so glorious as you remember. Fuck, wait, you remember hating these same parties. As a matter of fact, you're doing the same shit you were doing when you were a senior in high school and you'd look forward and say, "when college comes, we're gonna have crazy parties back home!" Then look around.

Same party, same faces, all-new people.

When you're at the big party, find someone who you saw at all the parties but never really talked to outside (what I deemed the "party friend," who much like the "school friend" you don't talk to unless you are in that environment). The conversation will go as follows:
Hey!
Hey what's up?
Oh nothing much, ya know chilling. You?
Yeah, yeah the same.
How's school going?
Oh it's going great.
Yeah.
Yeah how's it going for you?
It's pretty awesome at
Totally.

And then you'll hit this horrible, awful pause where you'll both realize "holy shit, I have nothing more to say to this person." It could be the same kid who sat next to you in every class every year since 6th grade on, and it doesn't matter. You'll hit the rut, and then you'll both split off to find someone else and you'll go through the same process with them. Maybe some old in-jokes will come out ("remember that time...." and "") and you'll be clutching your alcoholic beverage and slamming it down to try and remember (or forget this) and sucking that pipe like you've been underwater and this is the first breath you've gotten for a minute.

Don't worry, we all go through it.

I was talking to Johnny Lange, and after the conversation we said above, we had a chat about how only that comes across. Of course school is great, it's college, and it's frankly better there than Park Ridge, how we don't really see anyone from back home anymore, how it's changed, etc. Remember when we were idealistic and we knew we were all going to last as friends? We'd come back from wherever and we always knew we had Park Ridge, or your respective town. Suddenly, you go back, and while nothing has changed, everything has. It's an incredibly unique and strange feeling.

Watch out for falling heavy cliches.

Goldfish only grow to how big their tank is. We were all sharing time in the same little bowl, were tossed out into an aquarium and expect to fit back in that little bowl again with no problems. All we have left are memories of false-greatness and of times we'll never have back. Here we are, people who identify with a town that can't identify with them anymore. Every class becomes a red-headed step-child every June, another group to be shipped off, ready for the taking by the people outside The Bubble.

This is the first time that we realize time doesn't stop for us. Inversely, it speeds us on, and as we comment about how fast it is going we don't realize that all of the talk about it just reels us in faster. One day we'll all be in a bar drinking and just be thinking, "wait, what the fuck happened?" Welcome to the start of this wonderful process. It only gets better from here.

Here's my little ps: This of course doesn't go for everyone. I'm sure someone will read this and say that I'm just a pessimist, and I'll get people who say I'm right on. I'll get people who say they have so many close friends from back home, and I'll....well that's my entire reader base. But I'd assume people would say that they have no friends from back home and can't conceive having any. There are still a group of people from back home that I talk to on a regular basis, but that number is quickly dwindling.... This is what I've noticed, and I don't think I'm the only one...but I think I'm one of the few to actually voice it.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Mailbag! (or: Failure at making a Mailbag! post)

Well, I got a little cocky, that's all.

I thought I could have enough readers (like 10) and have broad enough of a topic of "people you hate" but I guess that wasn't so good. Or maybe all 3 readers read it and responded, including my pal Anonymous. Anyway, I'm still getting different original thoughts together, so why not burn off a post with what I got from my faithful readers.

First up, from Pam:
The guy who keeps his blinker on, well after he has switched lanes on the highway. Why does this happen? Can't he hear the little clicky noise or see the blinker light flashing in front of him? No, of course not. He has to make the other drivers suffer, have them wonder, "Is he really going to switch lanes? Did he forget he had the blinker on? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

I hate that guy.


I like how you tied in the point of the column there, Pam. Don't worry, I hate that asshole, too.

This has baffled me since I was old enough to understand what that weird clicky sound was in the first place. Maybe they like to be really early when they use their blinker? I was behind one woman who put it on and then a half mile later (I checked, trust me) and THEN made the right. I appreciated their heads up a minute before the turn came - I felt properly prepared to slightly break and blow by honking and giving that old clickity-clack bitch the finger.

Strangely, I saw something in Boston that trumpted that guy by miles. Before I start, I know, I know, bad drivers in Mass? Trust me, I'm as shocked as you are. This douche was driving with his hazards on, but not on the side of the road, but right in the middle of Commonwealth Ave (for out of towners - major road with 3 lanes that is a clusterfuck at various points on the roads that were based on the paths used by WAGONS BEING PULLED BY HORSES). This sets up an interesting dilema - this car lets you know it can go right, left, or straight, but what's it going to do? It's like a game show, except you can very easily be killed by guessing incorrectly! ...so it's like a Japanese game show. I should sell the rights to that idea....

Next, we have ole' Anonymous:
this group of fat bottomed girls that walk right in front of you once you entered one of these construction passerelles. Its always when you're in a hurry and there's no way out and you must suffer the slow pace stayin behind bcause you cannot be rude and say "yo ass is blocking the sidewalk, move it bitch". Also those people that wander in the mall when you, you have a target and its at the other side of the mall. you must go through all these obstacles, push all these people that have nothing else in life to do but to walk in the mall looking for things to buy they just dont know what, say excuse me 1000 times...one of these days im going to shout i have a bomb with me and they'll all let me through, yes it'll be a fine day! Cool blog by the way!


First off, fat bottomed girls and construction passerelles? Btw, passerelle isn't a word (I just checked to see if I wasn't as smart as I always assumed) but I'm guessing it's one of those scaffolding-like situations. Usually I have a problem with anyone walking slowly, but chicks (and also guys) with fat asses certainly have weight, gravity, and I'm sure inertia working against them, like trying to walk on the beach holding up a sail. What pisses me off even more is when there are like 3 people walking as fast as Christopher Reeves would and they are completely impassible. Being a tall drink of water, naturally the speed of my walk is a tad faster than others, so I would understand if they couldn't keep up to my pace, but fuck, enough's enough.

Malls are a whole different culture though. Being from Jersey, the Mecca of mall culture, there have been many a time where I would be at the mall for up to 5 hours doing nothing, since there was nothing of equal or better entertainment value to try (excercise is for pussies). Therefore, I can't fully shit on people who walk slowly in the mall. There are occassions, though, when there are a gaggle of 12 year old guys who are from obviously white neighborhoods and they're acting thug and walking in the mall all slow like to look cool, and I want to beat them all with a aluminum baseball bat until they scream "PLEASE MISTER GEE GOLLY!"

I could also accomplish that by having a black man who looks like he's strapped walk by. You can't make something turn whiter unless you had a fire hose spraying white paint out of it.

Not sure about that whole bomb thing though, unless you want to be raped in jail by fat ass prisoners for the next 8-10 years. And thanks for the compliment, I could use all the self-esteem boosts possible.

And finally Maggie:
I hate alot of people but a specific example that I noticed lately.. those people in art classes, they think that since they are an art student it is necessary that they ONLY paint pictures of john lennon or jimi hendrix to prove how cool they are, its horrible. I also hate one specific boy in my math class who raises his hand every 5 seconds and kisses our 94yr old teachers ass


Art kids make me want to vomit all over them. I was faced with the possibility of going to an art school, like Emerson College, and realized why half the student body want to kill themselves (I'm sure Ali's gonna comment on this one). There was a kid named Eugene who came to talk at my tour of Emerson to give us the "student perspective." He was a 6'2" asian man who was built like Baby Huey, and could have easily have been mistaken for the football on the top of a Homecoming float. What he was wearing was equally attrocious. He had one of those red Champion sweatsuits (sweat pants and the non-hoodie sweat shirt) all one uniform color of awkwardness; clothes my dad would proudly wear. To top it all off, he had spray painted some old Adidas shoes gold, so proudly smiling behind his square glasses. "Hi, I'm Eugene," the monstrosity said, "and I love it here!"

I immediately walked out, never to return. Fuck you Eugene. If you love it at Emerson, I will surely hate it.

Wait what are we talking about?

Oh yes. Well, the College of Fine Arts boasts a whole lot of Eugene-like characters, except that for the most part they are rich, wear designer labels, but try and hide it by wearing dirty looking designer labels, showing that they are truly beatniks-worthy. I'll see 6 or so standing outside the building smoking, looking miserable, right under the "no smoking" sign to be punk ass rebels. I know they all go home and watch Pokemon: The Movie. You're not fooling me, painter boy - you're still a sissy. You were the kid who struck out in kickball and no, no we didn't forget.

Other figures that they would paint to look bad ass: Hunter S. Thompson, Jim Morrison, Jerry Garcia, and never Ringo. Never ever Ringo. George, yes, but Ringo? No.

Well that concludes the first abomination of a mailbag. Thanks to Pam for writing on her own, Anonymous for piping in, and Maggie for letting me force her to comment cause I felt embarassed as shit that I only got 2 responses. To the other 2 of you, damn you for being quiet! ...why do I sound like someone at the Nuremburg trials?

Coming up for all of you loyal readers is going to be one random piece and then my epic 3 part series on Boys and Girls, their differences, obatining one as your mate, and then keeping what is called a "relationship" happy and healthy.

All that means is you're gonna hear stories about how I've fucked up with chicks, pretty much. I'm sure you're all eager for that like it's the results to your HIV test after waking up in Brazil with 3 prostitutes and no condom in clear sight.

Friday, October 28, 2005

People I hate (probably part 1 of many)

I have a mid-term in a course I'm shakey on in....6 hours, so why not stay up a little longer and write in my blog? Couldn't hurt right? Mom, if you're reading this, I'm sorry I'm blowing Dad's money. Also, please don't read the post below this, I don't think you (or half the people who read this (3 people)) want to know about my body hair.

There are certain people in this world who I unconditionally hate for no real reason. It's a terrible trait that I possess to make superficial judments on people and harshly dislike them because of one or two things that they do. Now, let's move on to examples:

The Guy In Class Who Thinks He's Better Than You:
There is always that one cocky fuck in any class across this nation, be it high school, college, or pre-k, that thinks that they are hot shit. Usually there is a smart girl who is generally smart, and you'll see her raise her hand and sorta feel bad that she's answering all the questions - that's ok. If you're smart and don't shove it in my face, all the power to you. But then there's the one guy....

Last year this guy always had this look about him that he was trying to be something he wasn't. He would wear the same fancy, expensive looking zip up-shirt-thing to fit in with the preppy cool kids but would wear a backwards hat to look thug. I wanted to bite him in the face because he was acting like he was in 8th grade when popularity mattered in a class room setting. So this snotty fuck comes into my group one day and we have to discuss something for our useless Rhetoric class. I bring up how we need to make a "cohesive" argument.

This son of a bitch stops our discussion, actually raising his hand to talk. In a very slow speech, as if he were talking to someone of a lower intelligence, he turns and looks me directly in the eye and comes out with this: "I think the word you were trying to use was coherent, as in the argument would be clearly heard and understood, not cohesive, which generally means to be together. I'm sorry, but you definitely used the incorrect word for that idea you were going to state."

....

It baffles me to think that this guy had the AUDACITY to clearly challenge my use of the word (and it was correct god dammit - we had 5 parts and we need to PUT THEM ALL TOGETHER, although I understand his point...) straight up to my face, with complete disregard for the small time we had to make our argument. I was so flustered and flabbergasted I didn't say a word the rest of class. Sitting there, with this pained look on my face, there were so many things that I wanted to say to him, but I couldn't find a coherent way to throw together all the curses.

For the record, every time I see this fuck (who looks just like Scott Tenerman from south park) as he walks around all uncomfortable because everything he stands for is a lie, I stare him down. Sure, this is petty and childish and I should let it go, but fuck him, he needs a constant reminder that he's a douche, and I'm the right guy for the job.

The Guy In Class Who KNOWS He's Better Than You:
There is a kid in my new class to take the role of Frosh Year Douche, and beats him by a mile. This kid doesn't have to go up to me personally and talk shit about your ideas, no, he does it in front of the entire class. Here, he will shoot down ideas like he's a Nazi behind a gatling gun on Omaha Beach, with no remorse for people who are desperately trying to formulate a thought.

He sits back with his poseur eyebrow piercing to show that he's hip and indie and not an asshole (luckily I see RIGHT THROUGH that poor disguise) and with this drowning voice that sounds like your alarm clock, he will knock down anything said: professor, classmate or nobel prize winner. The best part is, usually, he's wrong, but you can't tell that to ole' Bullhorn Full Of Shit. Coming from a rich town just outside of Boston, he is obviously entitled to be smarter and clearly better than anyone else.

He's the kid that you used to go to elementary school with and wasn't included in the reindeer games, so he'd sit back with his arms folded and make up silly ideas to try and justify how he wasn't hurt. I could see him with Oshkosh overalls saying to the kids playing basketball who won't pick him, "well that's fine, cause my star cruisers are like 10 million times more important than your stupid game and they require a more advanced form of thinking anyway." I hope this guy still goes home and cries that no one likes him, because he has no one to blame but his own stupid self.

Guy That Is Overly Needy:
I was in line tonight to get my usual counter-productive-to-working-out and artery-filling mozzy sticks when this guy walks up, and already I know he's going to be a pain in the ass. This haughty-taughty bastard is pointing with that finger that is on a swivel from the wrist, and goes up and down with the whole hand; the most obvious sign of someone I won't like. He points at the marinara sauce, which is a common condiment (especially with mozzy sticks), huffs, and asks, "what's that?" like he's staring at a soup of shit. I will give it to him that it isn't as common as catsup (old school) or mustard, but c'mon, you're at least 18 years old and you don't know what marinara sauce looks like?

He huffs and asks, in an overly loud voice so that everyone can hear his order and can't mess it up, for chicken fingers, mozzarella sticks, and french fries. When asked if he wanted that horrible looking marinara, he did the unaudible "pfft" (so just the face retraction) and said "no" as matter of factly as if he was asked, "do you love anything in this world?" He then asks for barbeque sauce, is not heard, and then points and goes, "excuse me I want barbeque sauce" and stops with his hand on his waist. If I could, I would have belted him right there, cause lord knows he wouldn't have faught back (but I'm a pussy). The guy behind the counter pours out the bbq sauce into one of those li'l cups and then hestitates, asking if he wants a cover on it.

There is no need for a cover. As I've already said, we have elevators, and you can ride them, regardless of the floor you live on, so there is little need to cover anything...unless you skip and do cartwheels instead of walking. This arrogant fuck looks like there isn't a need to be asked this question and emphatically states "yes," as if asked, "you have to know that everyone hates you."

I'm generally not a bad person. I hold doors open for people, always say, "god bless you" after someone sneezes, and treat my girlfriend and others in a reasonably nice fashion. My simple question is - why can't everyone?

The good part is they give me ammo to rant on at 3:30 in the morning, so I don't need to do silly things like sleep for my midterm in 5 1/2 hours, or study for said mid-term. So thank you, assholes, douchebags and pricks for giving me even MORE reason to despise you.




ps: I see that some columnist have a mailbag feature where they get letters or comments from their readers and then they comment on them. This is a fairly wide open topic, so I'm going to be ballsy and see if I can get a response from the 5 of you that enjoy this page (for whatever reason) to the question: which person do you irrationally hate? Leave it in the comments, im me, or e-mail (if you are reading this and you DON'T know either my sn or my e-mail...who are you and how the hell do you know about this?!). Anything would be appreciated, cause I don't want to eat my balls on my stupid blog. Thanks in advance.

Friday, October 21, 2005

You might not respect me after this

Just when you thought you were addicted to checking away messages and profiles (thanks for clicking that link btw you bored bastard or bitch) here comes FACEBOOK. It is the single greatest stalking/boredom controlling/social networking system ever created, far surpassing MySpace. MySpace sucks. It is full of little kids and emo bitches and artsy assholes who have dark backgrounds and terrible indie music 4 people have heard of while their hot-pink font tells their awful stories of woe that no one gives a shit about. It's a half step below having a blog - trust me, I hate myself justly.

Facebook is great to stalk people in your classes, on your college's hockey team, or down the hall. Let's say you meet someone one drunken night, stumble into their rooms and apparently talk about computers, ailienating yourself from that person forever. Seriously, that actually happened, and I'm such a dullard that I was bombed and discussed WINDOWS AND LINUX. If there was a shotgun near by, I'd be admiring the metallic taste before the matter that would process those thoughts were splattered on the near by wall. Back on topic, it is a place to look at that person's name, face, info, and know that you can never look them in the face again. It's a comfort.

Facebook is also great for random messages, but it is not good for poking. What the fuck IS a poke? What does it stand for, mean, lead to? Is it a strange form of flirtation, a simple hi before the commitment of asking for friendship, or just being a douche? Nothing good has ever come from the poke - nothing. There was a senior girl last year who poked me incessantly for no reason. I asked her why she was poking me, but she never answered. She has graduated, moved on with her life, and I sit here, still confused, still e-bruised from her e-poke.

The worst part about facebook is how it has become watered down. Sure, everyone gets the random friend request, where you sit there staring at the screen contemplating whether to accept it or not, debating the pros and cons. Now I see people who have 300 friends as freshman. Unless you are so loose that you make Paris Hilton blush, this is difficult, nay, IMPOSSIBLE to achieve. You should at least know some of the people that are your "friends," or else they'd merely be "play fellows" (thesauruses RULE!).

Moving it to high schools was a great move, too. Now people from all across the nation can harass my girlfriend because she is attractive. Just when I thought I had to be wary of the kids in my hometown and neighboring towns (i.e. anyone who goes to the Palisades, Garden State or Paramus malls) but now horndogs from as far away as Alabama. Facebook, making my paranoia even greater.

Secondly today, I would like to share an embarassing new revelation: I'm going through puberty again. I was checking out my massively large arms one day and I see these long, wispy hairs climbing north on my arm, now at almost shoulder-level. What once stopped at Farmer's-tan-level has now broken down that pigment discrepancy boundry and has started to advance. Even worse than that, the horribly itchy neck hair has started to migrate south for warmer climates, and possibly a ghoulish connection to my chest hair. Eeeeehhhhhhhhh.

Most girls do not know this but the neck hair is the most annoying hair growth one can attain, for it itches like mad and is impossible stop except for two areas. For whatever reason, the first 5 or 6 days of growth, all is well, but then for days 7-9 it burns like ants who are made of fire...or fire ants - either will do. The itch then subsides, leaving one confused. The worst is not over, for in another week it returns, this time with the passion of a thousand suns, before retreating again. Curing cancer? Ha! Start to cure Neck Itch and then we'll see who gets Humanitarian of the Year. Or what about itchy neck cancer....?

Anyway, body hair and I have always had a rather contentious relationship. First off, it never came quick enough. All my friends had leg hair since 4th grade, while I was as smooth as a baby's hairless ass. This lasted until middle school when my body hair felt bad that I gained 60 pounds in a year and threw me a bone. I got no confidence from this since I was hefty and hated myself, but at least if I got a cut on my leg I could have the joy of ripping off 20 hairs as well - surely a blessing in disguise, this leg hair was.

My first realization of hair in that classic spot "where hair wasn't there before" was quite painful, in fact. I have a dog named Whitney, a black lab who is a true Anton - she's lazy and always gets her way. We love her, but she's kinda dumb, vomits on the rug a lot, and leaves her thick dark hair all over the place. After drying myself off in the shower one day, I look down to see, once again, one of her "not good enough" hairs down below the belt. I go to pull it off and realize it is deeply rooted into my skin. I scream, not for pain, but for joy. This is what manhood feels like!

The question I bring to you now, dear readers, is why do these hairs all of a sudden appear, and are so fucking huge? I had not seen my ass for many, many years, probably around 3. One day in Junior year at a hotel room, while going into the shower, I peered into one of those obscenely large mirrors all hotel rooms have and noticed that my entire ass is covered in hair like the floor underneath a man who just had his afro shaved off. Obviously it was a dark day indeed.

More so, I just discovered an island hair in between the two points of the collarbone that lay just beneath the Adam's apple. The thing is solo, with no hair anywhere near it, and is about two inches long. Where does it come from, and how the hell do I not notice? It's akin to someone looking up one day in NY and being like "Chrystler building? What the fuck is that?!"

Dear reader(s), I understand that this blog entry might have been a bit........too personal for your tastes. Fear not, for how else would I realize where the boundries are unless I am to push them like so? If you would like me to stop swaying in the direction of, well, myself, please let me know. Odds are you got this through my profile on aim so im me and be like "hey, douche, I don't care about you or your freakish body hair. and you're ugly." That last part will hurt me, but I guess I deserve it.

Or, hell, if you have any comments at all just drop me a line cause I'm lonely. And sad.

...damn that's a bad way to end things. Well then, we'll end with this:

Monday, October 17, 2005

Some random thoughts suitable for 2:30 AM

I'm just going to throw some shit out here:

Captain Planet was easily the worst tv show ever created (and yes, I did see That 80's Show). The premise was stupid, and was a horrible ploy to get people interested in the most boring topic ever: saving the environment. Ever see Furngully? Yeah, my point exactly. Environmentally conscious themes and animation - bad news. I also didn't even realize that this was the first "politically correct rainbow of diversity because everyone is neat and keen!" show either.



Here we have a skateboarding white guy (red head - Irish), the incredibly African guy (with Run-DMC gold chains), the Indian (with...a monkey - will avoid the obvious racial joke here), the Asian girl, and the Swede chick (cause Eastern Block chicks are banging). They all can work together and form...a freaky looking blue guy with a horrible green mullet !!! My biggest problem with this piece of shit is that the one white American had a fire ring, and never used it. Simply burn all of the polluters and litter bugs and the show is over in 3 episodes. Wusses - want to save the rain forest but do it by arresting them and calling federal agencies. Make me sick.

The only good thing that came out of that show was "when our powers combine," which everyone in our generation uses ALMOST as much as the infamous "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so...SCARED ZACK!" from Saved By The Bell. If you don't know which scene that is, you obviously had no childhood.

Have you seen the commercials for the ultra-slick and great looking HDTVs? Can someone explain to me how this is a good idea? If my tv is incredibly shitty compared to HDTV standards, and that the graphics and resolution can't even compare to HDTV, why do I keep showing (simulated) screens on said tvs that my currect picturetube could NEVER show? It's like trying to sell 5.1 surround sound through the mono speaker on your radio - it just doesn't make sense.

There is nothing more irritating than improper use of an elevator. If you live in a dorm that is plus-6 stories, you will understand what I'm talking about. Obviously every facility has stairs, but for some weird reason, people on floors 2 and 3 don't understand this concept. How much do you want to just kick these assholes out of the elevator when you hit "6" and they hit "3?" There are only certain accepted ways that you can hop on the elevator if you're going to floors 2 or 3:

-With laundry
-With food
-With other bags (be them working out or shopping, backpacks do NOT count)
-If injured: crutches, wheelchair, that funny lookin' boot they give people with foot problems

Maybe you'll ask me about the grossly obese, and say "Hey Michael P, why can't you include them?" Maybe they wouldn't way 300 pounds if they would do all of the simple excercises, like climb TWO flights of stairs, probably to their lair full of comfort foot to forget when Daddy said they were the worst accident since Exxon Valdez, except that needed less clean up than you after a meal at Taco Bell.

How utterly worthless is the golden dollar? I went to purchase stamps, got lost and scared, and turned to a vending machine for my 20 stamps for $7.40. Only having a 20 on me, I figure it's going to be a quick, efficient, and all-around satisfying exchange between myself and this machine, leaving me with some much-needed stamps, and a few new, crisp dollar bills.

You can see this one coming can't ya?

Out comes the stamps and then a whooole lot of change. It reminded me a lot of when you're down the shore (yeah jersey) or at an arcade (fuck you other non-jersey people who didn't get my reference and thus have to make a secondary reference) and you win on the slots, and all you get are worthless coins where 500 of those disease-ridden pieces of scrap metal can net you 17 parachute guys? Same sort of feeling when I have 12 Susan B's and Sacagawea staring back at me, as if saying, "yup, we're pretty god damn worthless, too!" And no, the irony is not lost on me that the only time we honor a Native American through our government is on some sort of currency to be used at Foxwoods and Mohegan Suns of the world.

We in America are real stubborn bastards, aren't we? Europeans have been using dollar coins for many, many years, but we refuse to subject ourselves to currency that is worth picking up after we drop it unless it's in paper form. The 2 dollar bill was equivalent to that of the two dollar coin or the two dollar paper money Franc, but we hated that (especially now since it was French, but we let them go on the whole Statue of Liberty thing, as if it was chiseled in Brooklyn).

The metric system is the easiest, most scientifically helpful way to measure things, but fuck that. It was always fun in class when we would have to learn about pints and gallons and cups and the ratios between at the same time as learning the super-easy metric system. No one ever bitched about the all-american idiocy of our measuring practices, but god damn did we loathe the metric system ("it's all in meters, but then what's a meter really? Fuck this this shit is dumb, I'm going to go and buy 3 bushels and 5 cups of dog shit to throw at Europeans because of this!").

My favorite is the new problem of a language barrier, as if we're the first ones to have to go through with this. We feel the need to push English on the rest of the world, making in the official language of...Earth, but we can't STAND having to deal with Spanish being an option when you have to call up Cingular because they charged you long distance on every phone call you made (trust me, it's possible, and the bill was for 224 dollars). Countries all over Europe have two or three national languages that co-exist. Hell, Russia has over 100 different nationalities, but do you hear them bitching? No, they're too scared of the Great Purge II to ever talk bad about holy mother Russia and their exhaulted Pooty-Poot.

What I hear the most of is that "my great grandpa came from Italy and he HAD to learn English and he WANTED to learn American customs!" which is why we all eat pasta and pizza at least once a week. Ok. And we all didn't become drunks because of the Irish being here. Everyone brought over a piece of their culture, and you can't tell me you don't walk the streets of a city and hear any number of different languages. Take a trip to Chintatown and be horribly confused and scared when English gets sucked away like you're in a black fucking hole. Maybe we just hate Mexicans.

Hey, did you see a Mexican trying to save the world with the other Planeteers? Exactly. We're just bred to hate them from bitch. Fucking litterers.

Or to our Spanish-speaking readers, litterers de mierda.







(If that's wrong I took french in high school and used the translating widget on my mac osx. It's pretty sweet. 見なさいか。それは支配する!)

Monday, October 10, 2005

A reality I touch but for me it's hard to keep

Not going to be the normal, funny, quirky thoughts here for my 2 or 3 fans. Sorry if I disappoint.

Today I was on my friend's roof, a brownstone on Bay State Road in Boston. From there I could see the entire city from each side of the Charles, could see the third baseline in Fenway, could feel the wind kicking off the river as I stared into the outreach of lights and concrete that went on for miles. But there was a sharp contrast between that world and the one where my feet were placed, a very evident crack in reality. From where I stood I clearly saw the edge of the building, from 4 stories up. One of the kids walked right to that edge and stared down. One quick breeze and that was it.

You never think about how close you are to death, how rudimentary the whole process is, until you can stare at it from 10 feet away. Just to think that I can take 10 steps to the left and I'm 3 steps past death.

I am presently writing a paper for my psuedo-journalism class on the death of Joey Smeen, but more so the ramifications of what it meant. Most of the people who are reading this understand what I'm talking about, and there is no need to go any further, and a smaller minority were crushed by the passing of others in our bubble community of Park Ridge (MV, RG, and so on).

With such clarity, I can remember vividly getting asked by Tyler Rogers what I should do about one of his girl problems in 6th grade, about how there were notes being passed around, his feelings, and what he should do about it. This was a first, someone coming to me (let alone with the social stature of one Tyler Rogers) for advice. Easily it became the most important part of my life, where I dedicated the entire day to whether or not he should date this girl (who I forget, unfortunately). These were the questions that plagued me, that challenged me, that would haunt me on a day-to-day basis.

When should I ask out Jenna Peles? Who is better, Patrick Ewing or Shaq? If I had a choice between Rage and Limp Bizkit, who would I choose?

Remember when that was life?

There are built-in mechanisms in this world that assume that you will get to a certain maturation level, that you are mandated to grow up to this point by this amount of time. From first to sixth grade, you develop on your own to think abstractly and understand all forms of manners (and try not to fight over football game rules during recess). In middle school, you are being prepped for the work load and responsibilities of high school. In high school, you are being taught to be ready for the slings and arrows of being a young adult, with raging hormones thrown in for extra fun. This prepares you for college which, in four quick years, will fully prepare you for life.

Clearly, I believe this is horseshit.

We are all at, or coming to, a serious set of crossroads in our lives. Here we are, some of us sophmores in college, gearing up to have careers and lives seperate from all others in at least two more years. There is no other way to describe the feeling than terrified.

There are no other people to pass the blame on to, we are now at a point where our actions are our actions. Mommy and Daddy can't be called up to bail you out of any situation, running to them and telling on Bobby will not get you out of court. For every action there are a serious of repercussions that will occur whether you want them to or not: the ripple you cause cannot be stopped.

This summer has seen the likes of ethics being pushed to the boundries, the weighing down of someone's health vs. your life, the possibility of the validity in your future goals, as well as countless others that have been brought up with any number of the people who read this.

Now we are at a time where everything matters. At what point does experimentation become a dangerous addiction? Where is the line between forcing a girl to have sex with you and rape? Who deems it necessary for who gets help? Who doesn't need it? When does something become too much? When do you step in?

If you get caught smoking weed now and it is put on your record, your future could be dead while you're still learning how to get there. If you put your hand down that girl's pants no matter how bad you think they want it, how many times they said "yes" before just saying "no" how would you like to spend your jail time? How would you like to spend the rest of your life as a registered sex offender?

We have gone far past a cushy life where everyone gets along, everything is just fine, and eveywhere is happiness. The harsh reality is some of us will be lost to excesses of drugs and drinking, and some of us will be put in jail. Some of us will be incredibly successful too, but it will almost certainly come at a price. Very few get the silver spoon treatment (and being at a second-tier, incredibly expensive college fully understand the irony of this statement) and a good majority of us have to fight and claw and be let down, knocked down, and pushed down before we can make it back to the surface.

This is a world I'd rather not take part in. It's a place that's polluted and dismal and dreary, a place where dreams crash and die at your feet. Sometimes this is out of your control, and sometimes it is soley on your own volition. We can't control everything, we don't always know what's smart or right, but we are going to have to learn somehow. Unfortunately, the only way we can truly find out is learning by experience.

And hopefully that experience doesn't swallow us all whole.

Here's to life, adulthood, and the onset of reality. Cheers.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Awkward situations

Man, I usually love awkward situations. The ones like "man, Jeff was ALL OVER that bitch last night" in front of his girlfriend. That makes me giggle so, because no one wants to be there...but here we all are. No one knows how to respond to awkward situations, at least not honestly. People will smile and be like "oh that's ok" when inside they're thinking "I will kill you slowly with a butterknife." People will also be quiet, or act like they don't know what's going on. My favorite is the reach and scratch your head, and get-the-fuck-out-of-there move of "well, I...uh...have to...there's this thing...that..." *walk away*.

As I was walking back from class I thought of some awkward situations that I have realized are either not fun or won't be fun. Here are a few.

-When you're walking past a guy on the street who is poor and has the cup for change as the coins in your pocket hit your keys. Now you're "clang clang-ing" all the way, as if boasting to the homeless man, "you're not getting this, ya lazy ass."

-When you're walking and you see the crazy guy on the street, and he's right in the middle of side walk and you can't avoid him. To go from point A to point B you must go through Mr. (or Mrs.) Batshit Insane. This happened just recently. What do you do? Do you keep your head down as you listen to your fashionable iPod (which makes all music THAT much cooler) or try and talk to him? What if he doesn't even KNOW he's crazy? What the hell do you say then? "Yeah, totally, fuckin' penguins screwing with the Earth's temperature. I'm outraged too Mr. BI!"

-Talking shit about someone when they are either right behind you or are in earshot. One of the few things in movies that happen in real life. There is no way out of it, I mean, they heard it. What can you do, say someone else said it with a voice that has the particular tone and pitch as your's? Maybe you were cloned? No, no you take it and you take it right in the face.

-Any time you talk to your doctor, or are with them, I don't care who they are. When they go "turn your head and cough" to males, yeah, can't avoid the strange "eh-heh" sound that you put out. Also, the question of being "sexually active" or doing drugs, why is it so hard to say yes)? I can tell my mom I got high and was fucked in the ass but I can't tell my doctor?

-When you finally reveal your true self on your blog. Reeeaaaal awkward.

Monday, September 26, 2005

With friends like this, who needs sanity?

I forgot the name of our chorus teacher in high school, so I ask my friend Brett who knows everything about the place (even won most school spirited senior year). This is the transcript of that conversation:

KingManton: yo who was our chorus teacher
KingManton: Barbara......
KingManton: what was her last name
KingManton: it's killing me
Bschmuck7: mechagodzilla?
KingManton: fucking no
Bschmuck7: mechastreizilla
KingManton: the one who had a tv fall on her
KingManton: just recently
Bschmuck7: is this someone i know personally or ive heard of b4?
KingManton: OUR CHORUS TEACHER IN HS
Bschmuck7: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Bschmuck7: i never took chorus
Bschmuck7: hahahahahahahahhahahahhahaha
KingManton: you're fucking worthless russell you really
KingManton: really
KingManton: are
Bschmuck7: dude, i know nothing about chorus in prhs
KingManton: who is the music teacher
Bschmuck7: popolizio
KingManton: you didn't take music
KingManton: you still know
Bschmuck7: dude
Bschmuck7: sorry
Bschmuck7: honestly.. just tell me
KingManton: Farugia
KingManton: I didn't know I was asking you
Bschmuck7: alright, so i remember that name
KingManton: holy shit russell
KingManton: I'm going to stab you
Bschmuck7: but i never had her
Bschmuck7: nor did i ever speak with her b4
Bschmuck7: therefor i have no idea
Bschmuck7: sorry buddy, so shes ur teacher?

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

The Writing Challenge

I think 3 people have now told me that they read my blog. Now, I feel rejuvinated, invigorated...slightly horny. I felt like I needed a challenge, cause I didn't have anything to really write about, so I asked Pam to give me a topic.

She chose Bumper Stickers.

Obviously she has a great mind for the obscure!

Bumper stickers are as useless as shirts with stupid writing on them. "Don't piss me off, I'm running out of places to bury the bodies!" Oh man, that guy, that guy right there is CRAZY don't talk to him! "I'm not weird YOU are!" Of course not, pink-and-black stocking wearing, big clunky black shoes you trip over but looks "goth" and your hair that is unwashed becaues you're "rebeling." The new shirt? "I'm a jackass who you can easily label as an asshole, so just get away for your own good."

but on the back it says "How do you keep an idiot occupied? Read the front!" Ho ho!

Bumper stickers are only good when they offer the oppurtunity to see breasts like the genius Opie and Anthony WOW stickers. Usually they have terrible, clicheed things that don't make anyone laugh. In fact, they just make you want to ram your car into their rear, and when the whole mess is pulled over to the side, they will ask you some questions. "Why sir, did you slam into my car at 90 MPH?" At that point I would punch them in the face because whiplash alone does not let you get away with "You Can't Hug With Nuclear Arms."

As they lay on the ground confused, I'll point at their Dodge Minivan and spit on them. Even then, I will feel like justice has not been served.

People that aren't funny and attempt to be funny are some of the worst things in the world, like Osama bin Laden and cancer and the new Weezer CD. Nothing touches people who think they are HILARIOUS and can clear a room faster than Magic Johnson with a cut gushing blood.

These people get bumper stickers. They think they are hilarious. They think that everyone will enjoy reading their sticker, have a little giggle, and make everyone's day a little better.

There is a divider on the left side of you - please veer your wheel harshly into it. Thanks in advance.

ps having JESUS inside a Jesus fish is a bit redundant, isn't it? Wouldn't it be a Jesus Jesus fish? Silly christians, just wanna toss'em to the lions.

...again.