Navigating the volatile terrain of the human female...
I'm a creative person, right? I need an outlet, I need to put some thoughts down, so strap yourselves in 'cause away we gooooooooooo...
Let's break the female form into a few categories, because I've learned nothing pisses people off more than categorization. For the sake of this little diatribe, I require the simplicity of labels. Yeah, yeah, you were all brought up differently and I'm sure all the nuances of girl's personality are wonderful, but that's all going out the window for a while. We have 5 different types of girls: hardnosed task-oriented powder kegs, artsy fartsy free spirited dreamers, red white and blue midwestern tom-boys, pompous little wannabe princesses, and self satisfying pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contigency. Did I leave any out? Yeah you'be probably just thought of four or fiver more random examples. Fuck you, I'm writing this.
The hardnosed task-oriented powder keg is a working woman. She's got all the personality sparks of a granite kitchen counter top. She wants it her way, she gets it her way....because quite frankly she's such a bitch no one feels like arguing with her. They're never happy, but that doesn't mean they're sad, they're just writing off their persistent disappointment as professional slackery. They could be making all the money in the world but will still come off as a frosty piece of glacier. Although, they do look great in a uniform. And they are called 'powder kegs' because all that inner 'oh my god i must do better' turmoil could explode at any moment.
The artsy fartsy free spirited dreamer can usually be spotted with a camera (what is the fucking deal with girls and photography? Is it because an image of something imprinted in a roll of film is the only piece of reality they'll ever really be able to control or manipulate?) or book about eastern philosophies. They think they are the reincarnated spirit of Clara Barton or Calamity Jane or Janis Joplin or some other shit. They are usually enchanting in that 'oh I've never met a girl like you before' until you meet 30 more of them and realize the local hemp shop or used bookstore cranks a few dozen out a day. It's ok, they usually date musicians and we all know how that cheese melts.
Red, white, and blue mid-western tom boys are raised in families with a lot of males (father, brothers, abusive uncles) and are usually seen as 'one of the guys' until 'one of the guys' fucks them and blows the whole illusion. These girls are great additions to your social circle though...they'll hang out drinking beer all day and talk about how bitchy other chicks are with you. It's cute. They think they're being all different and independent and not-girly. Like the aformentioned dreamers, its easy to fall for one of these girls because its 'oh man i've never met someone as down to earth as you'...until you meet the next bunch. They're everywhere, usually surrounded by a crowd of guys, and you can never figure who's hitting it because showing affection in public is...afterall...girly.
Pompous little wannabe princesses pretty much explain themselves. They came up either in a rich household, or a very small town, where they were lavished with extreme amounts of attention. By the time they come of age, they are well aware of their appearance's perks, but lack the charm of a dreamer or tom boy and the drive of the hardnosed powder keg.. So they manufacture an attitude, usually copied from something they see on TV about how teenage girls act, and 'wa-la!' they seem fake when you meet them. They always have nice cars though, banging bodies, and if they are fucking anyone its probably some random european guy that leaves you wondering 'whats the appeal?'. It's all part of the decor, something they learned on E!'s 'wild on morocco' or something.
Pleasure seeking crazies of the loose contingency are the most honest of them all. They fuck out loud, so to speak. Every girl has one of these inside of them, buried by all that extra bullshit we've already gone over. See, you may think its sexy when your conservative tom boy reveals her kinky side, but these girls wear it on their sleeve even when they aren't wearing a shirt. You could call them sluts, but these women define themselves by having a good time. In effect, they are more tom boy than the tom boy. Best of all, they are the last ones to get attached or feed you any type of emotional bullshit. You know the movie "Leaving Las Vegas" where the girls says "You can come on my face, just keep it out of my hair, I just washed it." Yeah, it's like that. Business. They are not to be looked down on, because when any of the other girls break your heart, its in these girls' beds that you end up. Poetic, no?Now that I've successfully judged women, feel free to add a whole bunch of other categories...just don't tell me I left any out. If you want to do this than you blatantly ignored my original warning of fucking off. And if you ignored that, whose to say that you glossed over other vital parts of this blog, hmm?
Look girls, I think its great and cute when you do all the little things you do. You have all earned your own special place in the world. Just keep in mind I see through all the charades, the makeup, the attitudes, the stupid way you talk like you're in the movie Clueless or the cute way you talk like you're from Little House on the Prairie, the way you dance or the way you feel like you're above it, the fashions, the hobbies, and of course the middle finger you'll give me when I call you out on all of it. Don't fret though, odds are I'm probably going to marry one of you and settle into that blissfully constant argument that starts at middle age and ends with a flatline. You know the one where we constantly draw lines in the sand about you're a woman and I'm a man, the stuff that makes stand up comedians their small income on the club circuit. It's a beautiful thing.
Me? Well just because I'm reading the labels doesn't mean I'm writing them. I've got my own little square and I'm doing quite well. Ideally, I'd like to be that dashing, tragic, heroic, manic, clever, strong, and hopelessly romantic fellow you see with the beautiful girl. Maybe I'll even be decked in the prerequisite guitar, or on a motorcylcle, or in a really expensive suit, fulfilling that last fantasy of absolute freedom that every woman pines about.
Rest assured though, I'm doing it for the chicks. Even though you are all decorated in the categories above, as stupid and lame and as contrived as they are, you still stir up some damn good feelings. Good fucking god, is there a better reason out there?
I don't think so.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Homeless people can fuck right off!
On any given day, the one block stretch between my apartment and the closest 7-11 has exactly 3 homeless guys on it. Asking for change. They sit pretty much 20yds apart from each other, positioned in front of the exits to different stores. A marvelous tactic, but each day I have to duck my head, wave my hand in a "go away you homeless piece of shit" fashion, and then...almost feel guilty about it. I almost feel fucking guilty because I am ignoring 3 homeless, unemployed, and (most likely) junkie wastes of life on my street en route to getting a dinner *I've* starved for all day.
I'm sorry, but something's wrong with that. I shouldn't feel guilty. Jesus christ, even the foyer to my apartment building...not the lobby...the foyer...the area between the outside door and the door you need a key to access...has the occassional homeless dude crouched in there because its too cold outside. Too cold? Yeah, that's why people have jobs...SO THEY HAVE FUCKING HOMES WHEN IT GETS COLD OUTSIDE. I'm not sure if I've ever encountered a counter-argument to my bitching. Everyone I know pretty much hates homeless people too. Nay, they despise them. So how the fuck does this continue. Why is a guy fucking sleeping in my foyer and no one is doing anything about it? Is it in bad taste to call the police on that? Fuck, I guess its not *THAT* big of a deal, but the point remains: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BUILDING I'M PAYING FOR.
I also love the approaches of the homeless. You can always spot them in your peripheal vision a block away. They single you out and say something like "Hey big man, you think you can help me out?" I almost want to jingle the change in my pocket loud enough so hears it and say "NO." Or when they're ex-marines or something, that's funny too. Yeah, use that one. I don't care if you used to be a fireman, a surgeon, a senator, or a puppy. You're homeless. Go away. You want my money? Learn some tricks and entertain me. It's a barter system, asshole. I can't even start to fathom the overweight people in motorized wheel chairs that ask for money. Not only are they beggars, they're fat, they're ugly, and of course - they make me feel the worst. Once again, WHY THE FUCK DO I FEEL BAD IF I DON'T HELP YOU OUT. God damn...fuck this puritan country's imposed system of morality. You can't shovel coal, get the fuck off the train.
Anywayz...to alleviate my guilt, here's some proposed solutions:
-The diamond trade. Why break the backs of little South African kids when we can ship our strapping homeless population over there with DeBeers work permits. Less homeless, more bling bling.
-Write a book. "Homeless in America" would be 'hilariously insightful' possibly according to Maxim, and Joe Crusty Beard can tour the talk show circuit and fund his meth habit all at once. Hurrah.
-Bring that manned carriage thing to the states. You know, the ones you see in China. Have the homeless just trucking around people in the city, offering cheaper rates than cabs. Why the fuck not.
-Cure depression. All these drug companies make billions on bullshit medicine. I say, sell homeless people off as "friends" to sad people. Think of them as Paid-Mood-Slaves.
-Gas prices too high? Give every homeless fellow in the country a shovel. One fresh tuna salad sandwich goes to the first one who strikes oil. The sandwich would of course be garnished with crack cocaine.
-Include the homeless in our national surveys on obesity. When averaged out, I'm sure the overall weight of americans would drop 30%. Uh...I guess that really doesn't solve the problem though.
These are just a few ideas I'm throwing out there. I left my more radical "FINAL SOLUTION Pt. II" ideas out of it because...well, it's facebook, and I'll save my homeless-into-dogfood machine blueprints for the book. I also think beer companies like Pabst and Schlitz would benefit with more honest campaigns about who drinks they're product. "PABST BLUE RIBBON: It won't make your teeth fall out. That's just a coincidence" or "SEAGRAM'S GIN: Because you didn't do a fucking thing all day." Although, in a way, I guess laying around on the street all day wrapped in newspapers is the most 'liberated' thing a person could do. I guess instead of incinerating them, I should be patting these folks on the back? Could they even be more American than our greatest heroes? Is being a homeless, jobless, drug addled, toothless, street urchin beggar truly living the dream?
Nah. Fire up the ovens.
I'm sorry, but something's wrong with that. I shouldn't feel guilty. Jesus christ, even the foyer to my apartment building...not the lobby...the foyer...the area between the outside door and the door you need a key to access...has the occassional homeless dude crouched in there because its too cold outside. Too cold? Yeah, that's why people have jobs...SO THEY HAVE FUCKING HOMES WHEN IT GETS COLD OUTSIDE. I'm not sure if I've ever encountered a counter-argument to my bitching. Everyone I know pretty much hates homeless people too. Nay, they despise them. So how the fuck does this continue. Why is a guy fucking sleeping in my foyer and no one is doing anything about it? Is it in bad taste to call the police on that? Fuck, I guess its not *THAT* big of a deal, but the point remains: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE BUILDING I'M PAYING FOR.
I also love the approaches of the homeless. You can always spot them in your peripheal vision a block away. They single you out and say something like "Hey big man, you think you can help me out?" I almost want to jingle the change in my pocket loud enough so hears it and say "NO." Or when they're ex-marines or something, that's funny too. Yeah, use that one. I don't care if you used to be a fireman, a surgeon, a senator, or a puppy. You're homeless. Go away. You want my money? Learn some tricks and entertain me. It's a barter system, asshole. I can't even start to fathom the overweight people in motorized wheel chairs that ask for money. Not only are they beggars, they're fat, they're ugly, and of course - they make me feel the worst. Once again, WHY THE FUCK DO I FEEL BAD IF I DON'T HELP YOU OUT. God damn...fuck this puritan country's imposed system of morality. You can't shovel coal, get the fuck off the train.
Anywayz...to alleviate my guilt, here's some proposed solutions:
-The diamond trade. Why break the backs of little South African kids when we can ship our strapping homeless population over there with DeBeers work permits. Less homeless, more bling bling.
-Write a book. "Homeless in America" would be 'hilariously insightful' possibly according to Maxim, and Joe Crusty Beard can tour the talk show circuit and fund his meth habit all at once. Hurrah.
-Bring that manned carriage thing to the states. You know, the ones you see in China. Have the homeless just trucking around people in the city, offering cheaper rates than cabs. Why the fuck not.
-Cure depression. All these drug companies make billions on bullshit medicine. I say, sell homeless people off as "friends" to sad people. Think of them as Paid-Mood-Slaves.
-Gas prices too high? Give every homeless fellow in the country a shovel. One fresh tuna salad sandwich goes to the first one who strikes oil. The sandwich would of course be garnished with crack cocaine.
-Include the homeless in our national surveys on obesity. When averaged out, I'm sure the overall weight of americans would drop 30%. Uh...I guess that really doesn't solve the problem though.
These are just a few ideas I'm throwing out there. I left my more radical "FINAL SOLUTION Pt. II" ideas out of it because...well, it's facebook, and I'll save my homeless-into-dogfood machine blueprints for the book. I also think beer companies like Pabst and Schlitz would benefit with more honest campaigns about who drinks they're product. "PABST BLUE RIBBON: It won't make your teeth fall out. That's just a coincidence" or "SEAGRAM'S GIN: Because you didn't do a fucking thing all day." Although, in a way, I guess laying around on the street all day wrapped in newspapers is the most 'liberated' thing a person could do. I guess instead of incinerating them, I should be patting these folks on the back? Could they even be more American than our greatest heroes? Is being a homeless, jobless, drug addled, toothless, street urchin beggar truly living the dream?
Nah. Fire up the ovens.
Ticketbastard (or how AC/DC taught me to appreciate rape)
Yesterday, amidst the 12.5 hours of moving cinder blocks from one pile to another, I found the time to spend $417. On what you ask? Certainly nothing that will improve my mental health. No, I opted to charge a whole week's worth of shit work to my debit card for the only thing worth doing anymore - seeing fucking AC/DC in concert, October 30th, Allstate Arena, fuck (FUCK!) yeah.
It's not as much a concert as it is a religious experience. So, like a battered wife who just blocks out the fact that her husband is a dangerously violent alcoholic, I just won't think about why it cost me $417 dollars....that's right...$208.50 per ticket. Steve and I are the only ones with the financial fortitude and stupidity it seems to spend that kind of money on a rock concert. It's worth it right? It's AC-fucking-DC on what could possibly be their last American tour ever. Dude.
Now in the past I've paid 70 dollars to see The Who...and even 90 dollars to see the Rolling Stones, two fairly big bands....so why the fuck does AC/DC cost so much. On ticketmaster, at 10am yesterday when the tickets went on sale, there was only one price: $89.50. Needless to say, I couldn't get through - and after about 30 tries of "Your tickets could not be found", I jumped to Ticketfuckers affiliate Ticketsnow or something, the official "resale" site that is not officially endorsed by the band. Essentially, all the tickets are already paid for before the on-sale time to the general public. Paying only 90 dollars? Mere pipe dreams, my boy. You have to pay jacked up resale prices (like I did) to find a fucking seat. In the end, I had to settle for 2 $175 tickets, the cheapest I could get at ticketsnow.
Then...why is my final price $417? Oh don't be stupid, silly. Convenience charges! I logged on to their website out of my own free will, and as a dubious reward, I should be righteously fucked out of another 50 dollars. It doesn't end there, though. Let's not forget the heavy charge of mailing two paper tickets to my apartment. That's another 20 dollars right there. Even if you go to a in-person Ticketmaster vendor, you still are charged a convenience fee. What the fuck is so convenient about having to drive down to a Tower Records or Jewel Osco to get tickets? You can't buy from the venue directly, so do you have any other choices? NO! You're fucked. Any way you slice the pie, it still gets loaded into a shotgun and blasted right up your ass. Blueberry sphincter, that's what they'll call you.
I ignore these bombardments of thought, however. It's AC/DC, the last band left on my "Why do you make lists about concerts you're attending, jackass?" list. I can't be angry with them. Well, I suppose if their show isn't the audio/visual equivalent of the apocalypse crossed with all the hype and hoopla of the final (and moving) episode of Cheers, I will take to the streets. Waving burning ticket stubs and demanding a refund of the small fortune I spent on them.
To AC/DC, I love you - don't let me down like a woman. To Ticketmaster, I will get my money back you fat wristed wallet fuckers. I will get all of it back and more. You're fucking 'ticketsnow' resale scam is going to hit a fucking brick wall. They're gonna rename the state of Kansas "How bad Josh fucked up Ticketmaster" when I get done with your filthy shit stained cock mongrel asses.
But no, seriously, AC/DC, you're still cool.
It's not as much a concert as it is a religious experience. So, like a battered wife who just blocks out the fact that her husband is a dangerously violent alcoholic, I just won't think about why it cost me $417 dollars....that's right...$208.50 per ticket. Steve and I are the only ones with the financial fortitude and stupidity it seems to spend that kind of money on a rock concert. It's worth it right? It's AC-fucking-DC on what could possibly be their last American tour ever. Dude.
Now in the past I've paid 70 dollars to see The Who...and even 90 dollars to see the Rolling Stones, two fairly big bands....so why the fuck does AC/DC cost so much. On ticketmaster, at 10am yesterday when the tickets went on sale, there was only one price: $89.50. Needless to say, I couldn't get through - and after about 30 tries of "Your tickets could not be found", I jumped to Ticketfuckers affiliate Ticketsnow or something, the official "resale" site that is not officially endorsed by the band. Essentially, all the tickets are already paid for before the on-sale time to the general public. Paying only 90 dollars? Mere pipe dreams, my boy. You have to pay jacked up resale prices (like I did) to find a fucking seat. In the end, I had to settle for 2 $175 tickets, the cheapest I could get at ticketsnow.
Then...why is my final price $417? Oh don't be stupid, silly. Convenience charges! I logged on to their website out of my own free will, and as a dubious reward, I should be righteously fucked out of another 50 dollars. It doesn't end there, though. Let's not forget the heavy charge of mailing two paper tickets to my apartment. That's another 20 dollars right there. Even if you go to a in-person Ticketmaster vendor, you still are charged a convenience fee. What the fuck is so convenient about having to drive down to a Tower Records or Jewel Osco to get tickets? You can't buy from the venue directly, so do you have any other choices? NO! You're fucked. Any way you slice the pie, it still gets loaded into a shotgun and blasted right up your ass. Blueberry sphincter, that's what they'll call you.
I ignore these bombardments of thought, however. It's AC/DC, the last band left on my "Why do you make lists about concerts you're attending, jackass?" list. I can't be angry with them. Well, I suppose if their show isn't the audio/visual equivalent of the apocalypse crossed with all the hype and hoopla of the final (and moving) episode of Cheers, I will take to the streets. Waving burning ticket stubs and demanding a refund of the small fortune I spent on them.
To AC/DC, I love you - don't let me down like a woman. To Ticketmaster, I will get my money back you fat wristed wallet fuckers. I will get all of it back and more. You're fucking 'ticketsnow' resale scam is going to hit a fucking brick wall. They're gonna rename the state of Kansas "How bad Josh fucked up Ticketmaster" when I get done with your filthy shit stained cock mongrel asses.
But no, seriously, AC/DC, you're still cool.
Presidential Election '08 Breakdown '08
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Profiles in Slurpage
I'll be honest, I go to 7-11 like everyday. Many times a day. It's like on every fucking corner, open 24/7, and has not once tried to sabotage my health with expired goods. It stomps, pisses, and shits on any previous convenience store I have ever encountered. I mean, I'm not on first name basis with the staff yet, but Hadji-Hadji Jihad knows who I am. There's no exchance of pleasantries or anything...just business and commerce. I've got my chicken salad sandwich, and he's pretty much got my total memorized by now. However, the biggest selling point of the 7-11 empire is the one, the only, the motherfucking...
BIG GULP.
You may just see it as a fountain soft drink, but its much more. The Big Gulp has evolved into a fucking parliament of thirst domination. Gone are the days of Small - Medium - Large. Yawn. That went out the window with the Olsen twins' food pyramid. It almost gets as complicated, but that's why I'm here to lay down the law. Keep in mind, I don't seriously have this information floating around in my head - I have to google this shit. Did you know wikipedia had an article on the Big Gulp? Ha! Of course they fucking did, LOSER!
Let's break it down:
Gulp - 20oz of your favorite poison - This one's for the women. If I see a dude sipping on just a Gulp, I'm gonna smack it out of his probably well-manicured metrosexual douche bag hand.
Big Gulp - 32oz - the original gangsta...and while I respect it, it's still not enough. I've long since gone beyond this one. It's like if your girlfriend got a boob job, but you were always offered the opportunity to play with the "old" version of girlfriend too. Boo! Obsolete!
Super Big Gulp - 44oz - ahh, this is more my speed. Don't get me wrong though, while I can certainly fit a lot of Mountain Dew in the cup, there's certainly been times where I've chugged this sucker empty, leaving me to yearn for...
Double Gulp - 66oz - Jackpot motherfucker. This bad mama jama never lets me down. No matter what, I cannot fit 66oz of fountain soda into my stomach at one time. I just can't. I probably shouldn't even try. Nevertheless, this hallmark of pure American gluttony is the ONLY choice for real, 7-11 going men.
But now it gets complicated. For all the wonderful things 7-11 has done for my life...they have to go throw THIS cog in the wheel:
Ultimate Gulp - 66oz - Yeah. That's right. They dared to jump another level in name value, but didn't even have the presence of mind to up the fucking amount of liquid you could get? What the fuck? Why call it ultimate then, assholes? Well...the Ultimate Gulp is like a giant plastic thermos, shrink wrapped and covered in pictures of NFL players or whatever. You have to purchase the container. Then open it. Pull out the "Free Drink" sticker thats inside. Go fill up your monstrosity. Then check out again and redeem the sticker. Who the fuck would buy it? I admit, I *was* tempted until I got a measure on the ounces. Fuck you, 7-11. You dare to charge me more when I can just buy the Double Gulp instead? Not today, comrade.
I challenge 7-11 to go for the gold. I wanna see a real Ultimate Gulp. 80oz of shut-the-fuck-up and suck me. That's a task in itself, because these giant Big Gulp containers require like 2ft long straws. You don't wanna know how many miles of bright orange 7-11 straws I have in my small studio apartment. I feel bad just throwing them away. Pedro Penniless in the Dominican could probably use them to build a hut or something...or at least fashion the into some sort of bizarre indoor plumbing.
I also feel bad throwing the cups away. Perhaps the only guilt I've ever felt in my life. They're made of fairly sturdy plastic. I mean, this is shit you can keep. I reuse mine all the time, though I still collect more - so my kitchen sink looks a lot like the drink fountain at 7-11. Just pick your size.
However, at my house we only have Super Big Gulp and Double Gulp. That's how I roll, nancy boy.
BIG GULP.
You may just see it as a fountain soft drink, but its much more. The Big Gulp has evolved into a fucking parliament of thirst domination. Gone are the days of Small - Medium - Large. Yawn. That went out the window with the Olsen twins' food pyramid. It almost gets as complicated, but that's why I'm here to lay down the law. Keep in mind, I don't seriously have this information floating around in my head - I have to google this shit. Did you know wikipedia had an article on the Big Gulp? Ha! Of course they fucking did, LOSER!
Let's break it down:
Gulp - 20oz of your favorite poison - This one's for the women. If I see a dude sipping on just a Gulp, I'm gonna smack it out of his probably well-manicured metrosexual douche bag hand.
Big Gulp - 32oz - the original gangsta...and while I respect it, it's still not enough. I've long since gone beyond this one. It's like if your girlfriend got a boob job, but you were always offered the opportunity to play with the "old" version of girlfriend too. Boo! Obsolete!
Super Big Gulp - 44oz - ahh, this is more my speed. Don't get me wrong though, while I can certainly fit a lot of Mountain Dew in the cup, there's certainly been times where I've chugged this sucker empty, leaving me to yearn for...
Double Gulp - 66oz - Jackpot motherfucker. This bad mama jama never lets me down. No matter what, I cannot fit 66oz of fountain soda into my stomach at one time. I just can't. I probably shouldn't even try. Nevertheless, this hallmark of pure American gluttony is the ONLY choice for real, 7-11 going men.
But now it gets complicated. For all the wonderful things 7-11 has done for my life...they have to go throw THIS cog in the wheel:
Ultimate Gulp - 66oz - Yeah. That's right. They dared to jump another level in name value, but didn't even have the presence of mind to up the fucking amount of liquid you could get? What the fuck? Why call it ultimate then, assholes? Well...the Ultimate Gulp is like a giant plastic thermos, shrink wrapped and covered in pictures of NFL players or whatever. You have to purchase the container. Then open it. Pull out the "Free Drink" sticker thats inside. Go fill up your monstrosity. Then check out again and redeem the sticker. Who the fuck would buy it? I admit, I *was* tempted until I got a measure on the ounces. Fuck you, 7-11. You dare to charge me more when I can just buy the Double Gulp instead? Not today, comrade.
I challenge 7-11 to go for the gold. I wanna see a real Ultimate Gulp. 80oz of shut-the-fuck-up and suck me. That's a task in itself, because these giant Big Gulp containers require like 2ft long straws. You don't wanna know how many miles of bright orange 7-11 straws I have in my small studio apartment. I feel bad just throwing them away. Pedro Penniless in the Dominican could probably use them to build a hut or something...or at least fashion the into some sort of bizarre indoor plumbing.
I also feel bad throwing the cups away. Perhaps the only guilt I've ever felt in my life. They're made of fairly sturdy plastic. I mean, this is shit you can keep. I reuse mine all the time, though I still collect more - so my kitchen sink looks a lot like the drink fountain at 7-11. Just pick your size.
However, at my house we only have Super Big Gulp and Double Gulp. That's how I roll, nancy boy.
It's not a downward spiral - it's a straight drop
I heard it on the speakers at some bar. I'm not sure where or when or how drunk I was when it happened. All I know is that it hit me like a ray of sunshine radiated from the golden face of god. It was at that moment everything made sense. Everything fit. Every synapse my brain was firing off in chemically induced disarray aligned for a mere second of total suspended clarity.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
I was, indeed, in the line for the bathroom. I looked over to my left and low and behold, there were *girls* in the line for the bathroom. I understood. They understood. This careful ballet of saturday night lunacy fluttered in perfect harmony as these words shot across the bar's soundscape. Some people were actually singing along. They must have heard it before. To my surprise, a human being must have decided to play this song more than once. Then I thought: Well, this could be happening at every bar, club, and after hours burger joint in the country right now.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
I pondered this sonic epiphany for only a few more mouse heart beats. I moved on to the larger ramifications of the statement. There are, of course, girls in the line for the bathroom. Being in line myself, I questioned silently why my gender wasn't included in this tribal shout but quickly bored myself with the semantics. More importantly, what does this song mean? What can it tell me about myself? What can it tell me about the world I...we...live in? I was able to deduce several things, as I was still in line for the bathroom and it really wasn't moving as fast as I'd liked it to be.
1. We are, collectively, all waiting for something to happen in our lives. If this rat race of a world is summed up in a single metropolitan dance club, most of us are really just standing in line for the bathroom.
2. A bathroom is relief. Escape. Not only for its obvious biological purposes, but its an oasis among the chaos. It's quieter. You've suddenly gone from a crowd to by yourself in a stall, or at least shoulder to shoulder with strangers who share your predicament. We all know women go in there to talk about the more pressing matters of the day. Point is, it takes you away.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
Unbelievable. My faith in humanity had utterly been shaken to its rocky foundations. This was something I honestly didn't expect when I excused myself from idle bar talk to relieve myself. Still standing in line, I was amazed at what new world had opened up to me in merely a few seconds. My spirit escaped itself, no longer trapped by the confines of a line, society, or the entire human race. I floated, disconnected from the selfish plights of bar going twenty-somethigs, outside of myself and above the madness.My glowing essence finally came to rest by the DJ, the fixture responsible for bringing this delightful nirvana to my being. My amorphis ectoplasmic hands formed two giant hammers, akin to that of Thor's. They solidified into stone as I became a force of pure strength and universal determination.
THEN I SMASHED THE FUCK OUT OF THE DJ, HIS FUCKING COMPUTER, HIS FUCKING TURNTABLES, AND HIS FUCKING IRONIC SPARKLING HAT AND I SCREAMED THAT IF ANYONE EVER PLAY THE GOD DAMN FUCKING POP BULLSHIT BATHROOM SONG ONE MORE FUCKING TIME I'M GOING TO PERFORM DEEDS SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN THE HOLOCAUST AND TYPICAL FUCKING SUNDAY DINNER AT JEFFERY DAHMER'S HOUSE YOUR IGNORANT FUCKING GARBAGE SUCKING ZOMBIE EXCUSES FOR MUSIC MAKERS. I HOPE EVERYTHING YOU EVER LOVE DIES IN AN UNINSURED ELECTRICAL FIRE.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
I was, indeed, in the line for the bathroom. I looked over to my left and low and behold, there were *girls* in the line for the bathroom. I understood. They understood. This careful ballet of saturday night lunacy fluttered in perfect harmony as these words shot across the bar's soundscape. Some people were actually singing along. They must have heard it before. To my surprise, a human being must have decided to play this song more than once. Then I thought: Well, this could be happening at every bar, club, and after hours burger joint in the country right now.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
I pondered this sonic epiphany for only a few more mouse heart beats. I moved on to the larger ramifications of the statement. There are, of course, girls in the line for the bathroom. Being in line myself, I questioned silently why my gender wasn't included in this tribal shout but quickly bored myself with the semantics. More importantly, what does this song mean? What can it tell me about myself? What can it tell me about the world I...we...live in? I was able to deduce several things, as I was still in line for the bathroom and it really wasn't moving as fast as I'd liked it to be.
1. We are, collectively, all waiting for something to happen in our lives. If this rat race of a world is summed up in a single metropolitan dance club, most of us are really just standing in line for the bathroom.
2. A bathroom is relief. Escape. Not only for its obvious biological purposes, but its an oasis among the chaos. It's quieter. You've suddenly gone from a crowd to by yourself in a stall, or at least shoulder to shoulder with strangers who share your predicament. We all know women go in there to talk about the more pressing matters of the day. Point is, it takes you away.
"All the girls in the line for the bathroom."
Unbelievable. My faith in humanity had utterly been shaken to its rocky foundations. This was something I honestly didn't expect when I excused myself from idle bar talk to relieve myself. Still standing in line, I was amazed at what new world had opened up to me in merely a few seconds. My spirit escaped itself, no longer trapped by the confines of a line, society, or the entire human race. I floated, disconnected from the selfish plights of bar going twenty-somethigs, outside of myself and above the madness.My glowing essence finally came to rest by the DJ, the fixture responsible for bringing this delightful nirvana to my being. My amorphis ectoplasmic hands formed two giant hammers, akin to that of Thor's. They solidified into stone as I became a force of pure strength and universal determination.
THEN I SMASHED THE FUCK OUT OF THE DJ, HIS FUCKING COMPUTER, HIS FUCKING TURNTABLES, AND HIS FUCKING IRONIC SPARKLING HAT AND I SCREAMED THAT IF ANYONE EVER PLAY THE GOD DAMN FUCKING POP BULLSHIT BATHROOM SONG ONE MORE FUCKING TIME I'M GOING TO PERFORM DEEDS SOMEWHERE IN BETWEEN THE HOLOCAUST AND TYPICAL FUCKING SUNDAY DINNER AT JEFFERY DAHMER'S HOUSE YOUR IGNORANT FUCKING GARBAGE SUCKING ZOMBIE EXCUSES FOR MUSIC MAKERS. I HOPE EVERYTHING YOU EVER LOVE DIES IN AN UNINSURED ELECTRICAL FIRE.
Top 10 Things to do with a Dead Girlfriend
So it's finally come to this, eh? Little Miss "Seemed like a good idea at the time" mistakenly bumped her head on an airborne toaster oven and has made herself your kitchen's newest floor decoration. Yes, we know it wasn't your fault. Her incessant nagging and unpredicatable criticisms conjured up weird indoor wind patterns strong enough to project appliances at skull-denting speeds. Her impatience with you and your friends meant there would be little blood spatter on the wall. Her talking during Sportscenter inexplicably made the volume of the TV go up at the moment of blood-curdling-scream impact.Whatever the case may be, you've got a dead girlfriend. But before you go all 'call the copsy' on yourself, let's examine the finer points of this situation:
10. Try out that new flying machine you've been building!
Obviously you've been too strapped for cash to pick up an actual crash test dummy. Hell, you couldn't even afford a used copy of "God Shuffled His Feet", the breakthrough effort by the actual Crash Test Dummies. But now, with a little duct tape and balance, the cardboard wings you cut from the box your refridgerator came in and lawnmower engine will finally get its chance at the sky. This is almost guaranteed to work if your girlfriend's name was Amelia.
9. Holiday Picture Time!
Before she gets grave waxy, suit up those red 'n green sweaters and start printing Christmas cards. Even better, caption them with "Sharon wishes she could be here this year, but she's hunting with her estranged Father in Vancouver. Much love!" No one's ever been to Vancouver. It's just that far away and imaginary to be believable. Afterwards just leave her dressed up, wouldn't you want to be found dead wrapped in holdiday spirit?
8. Argh, bills...bills...bills...
Damn the mail man you say! Nothing but poor bank statements and late notices. Well if you're gonna mail those checks (and christmas cards!) whose gonna lick those stamps and seal those envelopes? You have not got the saliva, my friend. It's your lucky day though, as you've got a sack of rapidly decaying salivary glands at your disposal. She *was* the one who convinced you to get H.D. cable afterall, so she should have to pull some of the weight too. It's only fair.
7. Add New Contact? FUCK YEAH!
Obviously Johnny Law and the Coroner's Office Brigade are going to confiscate all of your sweetheart's possessions. Including her cell phone. But then....how are you going to grieve with all of her hot friends at happy hour? Get those god damn numbers now. Anna was pretty smoking for a red head. Your girlfriend did used to get jealous when Kate would talk to you at parties. Stacy was way hot but kinda out of your league...and wasn't she dating that boxer? Then there's Ingrid. She seemed easy. Didn't Kevin sleep with her? Yeah.....Ingrid.
6. Feed the homeless!
Weren't all your friends always giving you shit because you never did any charity work? Well I hear the soup kitchen downtown needs some volunteers, and what a coincidence, you can bring some of your homecooked girlfriend pot pies along with you. I know it might be hard dicing up the girl who used to be so hypnotizing in that little red dress she wore, but then again...how can you really appreciate your girlfriend's curves without battering them with garlic and red win vinegarette, served under sauteed onions and green peppers?
5. Hot or not?
You know that deep down inside, you were always insecure about how good looking other people thought your girlfriend was. No one wants to be that guy with the ugly girlfriend. Well, that's why baby Jesus gave us webcams. Snap a few quick pics (use toothpicks to prop up her smile) and let millions of web surfers arrive at a verdict for you! 7.9? Not bad. 8.4? Heh, alrighty then. 6.5? Aww, she's better than that at least. 9.8? HEY DUDE BACK THE FUCK OFF THAT'S MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!......Oh, wait.
4. Lego My Eggo, bitch.
So since your toaster oven broke for whatever reason, you've had to make the trek to Sears and purchase a replacement. Sit your girlfriend up in a chair in the kitchen (shouldn't be hard, she was already on the floor there) and have her be witness to you actually cooking breakfast. Remember how she always would bitch at you for not cooking? Well how did these blueberry waffles get here? Make her a plate, and while you guys are enjoying Dr. Phil, ask her if she likes her meal. Then take her plate away and tell her she should stick with the diet. The memories of this moment should make prison bearable.
3. Doesn't she kinda look like Nicole Kidman?
Isn't that what some of your half witted buddies would say? Well, crack out her makeup kit (she probably kept it at your place) and do some A list hollywood work on her. See if you indeed can make her like Nicole Kidman. He skin and bone structure should be a little more malleable. Afterward, once you've nailed the likeness down, call the press and tell them you have Nicole Kidman at your house. See if they care.
2. Get a CLUE.
Yes, it was in the kitchen with the toaster oven, but why not in the study with the candle stick? Or in the parlor with the knife? Invite some friends over and play a game of Clue. You can be the charmingly delightful host, and your house which was once gruesome murder scene, is now a place of alcohol fueled mystery and intrigue on a weekend when most of your friends are out of town. Your girlfriend never let you throw parties, so afterward use her head as a mop to clean the den where the beer bong contest got a little out of hand.
1. Welcome to Wal-Mart!
Duh! Second income! Benefits! Discounts on products that's prices were already so rolled back its ridiculous. All she has to do is not be creepy, so use that box of crayola permanent markers to give her the kind of smile that says "entry level employee, doesn't have a fucking chance at management". Sync up a recorded greeting with the automatic doors, and cram it in the orifice you find most fitting. Realistically, judging from the health and dental breaks, it'll be the best thing you ever crammed in her.
********
So there ya go. Before your story becomes fodder for Forensic Files or CSI: Baton Rouge, have a little fun. I left out the blatantly redundant options of making a nice throw rug or raincoat out of her. Or even a retractable awning. Come on dude, she was your girlfriend. Use a little god damn imagination.
10. Try out that new flying machine you've been building!
Obviously you've been too strapped for cash to pick up an actual crash test dummy. Hell, you couldn't even afford a used copy of "God Shuffled His Feet", the breakthrough effort by the actual Crash Test Dummies. But now, with a little duct tape and balance, the cardboard wings you cut from the box your refridgerator came in and lawnmower engine will finally get its chance at the sky. This is almost guaranteed to work if your girlfriend's name was Amelia.
9. Holiday Picture Time!
Before she gets grave waxy, suit up those red 'n green sweaters and start printing Christmas cards. Even better, caption them with "Sharon wishes she could be here this year, but she's hunting with her estranged Father in Vancouver. Much love!" No one's ever been to Vancouver. It's just that far away and imaginary to be believable. Afterwards just leave her dressed up, wouldn't you want to be found dead wrapped in holdiday spirit?
8. Argh, bills...bills...bills...
Damn the mail man you say! Nothing but poor bank statements and late notices. Well if you're gonna mail those checks (and christmas cards!) whose gonna lick those stamps and seal those envelopes? You have not got the saliva, my friend. It's your lucky day though, as you've got a sack of rapidly decaying salivary glands at your disposal. She *was* the one who convinced you to get H.D. cable afterall, so she should have to pull some of the weight too. It's only fair.
7. Add New Contact? FUCK YEAH!
Obviously Johnny Law and the Coroner's Office Brigade are going to confiscate all of your sweetheart's possessions. Including her cell phone. But then....how are you going to grieve with all of her hot friends at happy hour? Get those god damn numbers now. Anna was pretty smoking for a red head. Your girlfriend did used to get jealous when Kate would talk to you at parties. Stacy was way hot but kinda out of your league...and wasn't she dating that boxer? Then there's Ingrid. She seemed easy. Didn't Kevin sleep with her? Yeah.....Ingrid.
6. Feed the homeless!
Weren't all your friends always giving you shit because you never did any charity work? Well I hear the soup kitchen downtown needs some volunteers, and what a coincidence, you can bring some of your homecooked girlfriend pot pies along with you. I know it might be hard dicing up the girl who used to be so hypnotizing in that little red dress she wore, but then again...how can you really appreciate your girlfriend's curves without battering them with garlic and red win vinegarette, served under sauteed onions and green peppers?
5. Hot or not?
You know that deep down inside, you were always insecure about how good looking other people thought your girlfriend was. No one wants to be that guy with the ugly girlfriend. Well, that's why baby Jesus gave us webcams. Snap a few quick pics (use toothpicks to prop up her smile) and let millions of web surfers arrive at a verdict for you! 7.9? Not bad. 8.4? Heh, alrighty then. 6.5? Aww, she's better than that at least. 9.8? HEY DUDE BACK THE FUCK OFF THAT'S MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND!......Oh, wait.
4. Lego My Eggo, bitch.
So since your toaster oven broke for whatever reason, you've had to make the trek to Sears and purchase a replacement. Sit your girlfriend up in a chair in the kitchen (shouldn't be hard, she was already on the floor there) and have her be witness to you actually cooking breakfast. Remember how she always would bitch at you for not cooking? Well how did these blueberry waffles get here? Make her a plate, and while you guys are enjoying Dr. Phil, ask her if she likes her meal. Then take her plate away and tell her she should stick with the diet. The memories of this moment should make prison bearable.
3. Doesn't she kinda look like Nicole Kidman?
Isn't that what some of your half witted buddies would say? Well, crack out her makeup kit (she probably kept it at your place) and do some A list hollywood work on her. See if you indeed can make her like Nicole Kidman. He skin and bone structure should be a little more malleable. Afterward, once you've nailed the likeness down, call the press and tell them you have Nicole Kidman at your house. See if they care.
2. Get a CLUE.
Yes, it was in the kitchen with the toaster oven, but why not in the study with the candle stick? Or in the parlor with the knife? Invite some friends over and play a game of Clue. You can be the charmingly delightful host, and your house which was once gruesome murder scene, is now a place of alcohol fueled mystery and intrigue on a weekend when most of your friends are out of town. Your girlfriend never let you throw parties, so afterward use her head as a mop to clean the den where the beer bong contest got a little out of hand.
1. Welcome to Wal-Mart!
Duh! Second income! Benefits! Discounts on products that's prices were already so rolled back its ridiculous. All she has to do is not be creepy, so use that box of crayola permanent markers to give her the kind of smile that says "entry level employee, doesn't have a fucking chance at management". Sync up a recorded greeting with the automatic doors, and cram it in the orifice you find most fitting. Realistically, judging from the health and dental breaks, it'll be the best thing you ever crammed in her.
********
So there ya go. Before your story becomes fodder for Forensic Files or CSI: Baton Rouge, have a little fun. I left out the blatantly redundant options of making a nice throw rug or raincoat out of her. Or even a retractable awning. Come on dude, she was your girlfriend. Use a little god damn imagination.
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