Prelude:
A lot of times when I’m out with my closest guy friends, I will say something unflattering about myself to get a laugh—this sometimes comes to the expense of other people, but mostly my jokes are purposeful insults at myself. I accidentally cross the line and I often get caught on the other side. The same can be said about this blog. I say a lot of different things for the sake of story or out of context humor. Please take it with a grain of salt.
The beard experiment:
For the run of the Flyers postseason—the 2010 season in which the team came one goal and three periods away from winning the Stanley Cup—I grew a near equally impressive, yet totally awkward beard. Hockey playoffs are almost the only time you are permitted to have beard. You can have a beard in the regulatory year (non-hockey time) only if you accompany the beard with a scarf, sweatband, flannel shirt, fixed gear bike, ripped jeans with the leg folded up, and a remarkably scornful hatred towards corporate America…but then again if you had all that, you’d probably be a dick anyway. You would be hip, no doubt, but undoubtedly a dick…nonetheless.
On a side note: do hipsters know they are hipsters? I will look at a person who totally resembles a hipster, but yet they themselves will make fun of hipsters. Every hipster that I thought was a hipster claimed to hate hipsters. So hipsters for me have become like a ghost; everyone claims they have seen one, but nobody can point one right out to me… Do ghost know they are ghost? Is there a ghost alliance? When they are not haunting and gooling are they playing X-Box or watching a DVD? Will they go from DVD to Blueray? Can they get On-Demand? Will there On-Demand suddenly not work and give me an ER-55? (Stupid Comcast)… The same can be said about hipsters. I don’t think hipsters know they are hipsters; they are the ghost of society. Just the other day, I thought I saw a hipster. I was certain. But it just turned out to be this guy John who really likes the Arcade Fire. Nice guy, that John.
*
Anyway, when rocking an intense beard from April to June, there are some things that you just have to be cognitive of. By week two of the beard, one has to know that picking up women at this is point is wholly out of the question—which is good if you have friends who pressure you into talking to women at the bar, “Sorry man, can’t do it. I got the beard.” It makes your evenings less pressured and (in my case) less disappointing. You get to enjoy your Lager and you can fart all you want in bed that night.
On another side note: sleeping with someone who you just met—and I’m not talking about just having sex, but to actually sleep with someone for the entire night can be painful if you’ve been drinking Yuengling and eating late night dollar slices of pizza. It’s worse holding it in at night, then say at a during the day at your office, because at night you’re trying to sleep. You can’t travel to dreamland when you’re packing some intense luggage in your stomach. It’s not just the uncomfortable nature of holding your bowels as tight as a Chinese finger trap, but it’s the mental game. You spend all night tossing and turning, hoping one calamitous bubble of noxious air doesn’t slip during the sleeping hours of spooning.
And what if you do get to the activity of intercourse? If something is brewing in your stomach as you try the 9 minute push and pray with your newly acquired mate, you can get distracted by your internal suffering and not be at the top of your game… One way to get out of this jam is to do some recon immediately upon arriving in the apartment or room of your knew friend. If there is only one bathroom and it’s located inside of her bedroom and it has no fan, sorry Charlie, you’re going to have to pex (Pex; verb; to have sex when you really have to poop). But if there is a fan, in a bathroom in another part of the apartment, you have some room for a victorious release. Just make sure no roommates are around.
The best way to evade all of this internal conflict is to avoid sex until marriage…or at least to the point where you can fart in front of the person.
Tricks of the trade;
Whether you are married, engaged, dating, or just picked up a woman from Silk City, performing with adequacy is a must. Seeming in command of yourself is an attractive quality to find in a mate, which makes it seem unfair that men can’t fully control their own, well, “manhood.” I can control what my arm does. I can control what legs do and I am able to tell my body that I want even my smallest toe to wiggle. And I do these things and many more with great ease. So why can’t I tell my penis exactly what I want? The problem is, since Junior High, my penis has developed a most unfortunate independence—it acts on its own at mass, the supermarket, and even sometimes during visits to Grandmas. I could be there, having a nice conversation with Aunt Dotty about Olive Oil and Bocce Ball, when all of a sudden… Woops. Look who decides to stand up?**
Then what do you do?
Well, if you are not at the beach with your shirt off, you can isolate yourself and do what we in the business call, “The flip up.” The problem with that is, when you are at half mass, a few moments later, you have to stand awkwardly hunched in order to create an illusion that your pants are just crunched at the crotch area. “Stupid pants, got them at Target,” is the innocent look you give everybody. Looks like Uncle Jim has the same pants. See what I mean?
Back to the issue at hand; adequacy. As I claimed before, sometimes your downstairs soldier can go AWOL and shoot without orders. As the commanding officer, it is the man’s duty to seize fire until ready—which respectfully must come after the enemy (in this case the Vagina) shoots first. Sex is basically the Geneva Convention.
One of the most often used and simple method to prevent an early explosion is to think about things unsexy. Your mind becomes the main character in “The Hurt Locker,” as you frantically scramble to think about baseball players, bumble bees, the Republic of Haiti, or anything really that to get your mind off of sex. All of this is in order to communicate to your penis to delay action.
The dilemma:
So you’re there in the groove, giving it your all, thinking about Ryan Howard’s 2008 batting average, when suddenly you are struck with the notion that you are moments away from fulfilling nature’s obligation. You try to fight as best you can. You pray. You plead to the angel of love that you’ll volunteer at the homeless shelter, you’ll call you’re mom more often, you’ll even take to lunch that weird cousin in New Jersey who nobody likes only for a few more moments of pure bliss. Now you are intense. You’re not even looking at the girl anymore—she’s not even there. She becomes Rue McClanahan and all you are thinking about now is Ryan Howard. Ryan Howard; .301 average. Ryan Howard; 43 RBI’s. Ryan Howard; 199 strike outs. But no. It’s all over… You precipitately opened fire. You are left sweaty, disappointed, inadequate, and on your way to the bathroom to pick up a towel for clean up.
And it is there at the bathroom where you are hit with the terrifying realization that while you were at your peak climax, when you were at your ultimate glory and the only few seconds of the day where you feel complete elation, at that exact moment, you were in fact thinking about a 240 pound, St. Louis bred, Ryan Howard. You just defiled a Phillies legend.
Now you can’t even look at him the same. He goes up to bat and you have to go get a beer. When people talk about Ryan Howard you quickly change the subject to the weather or the Flyers. If Ryan Howard is on the front page of the sports section of the paper, you flip to something less depressing, like Economy page or news from the Middle East… The point is, if you are thinking about ball players in order to calm things down in the sack, make sure it’s a Greg Dobbs type player.
Back to the beard part two:
Before you can even think about the Ryan Howard dilemma or interrelations of any kind, you probably have to be clean shaven or at least in a developmental beard commonly known as the scruff. Think Chase Utley, not Jason Werth. Girls like the scruff…well this is what I thought at first…
It was a few weeks into the playoffs. The Flyers, who tired the series 3-3, were in the mist of fulfilling the best Philadelphia comeback in recent history by beating the Bruins—this was when I had a nice Rocky IV, log cabin type beard. At this point the bristles were all up in my neck and as thick as an alcoholic Jack Sheppard, when women, yes women, were actually speaking with me. Not out of kindness or in short form, but actually speaking candidly, flirting even... I figured the first woman I spoke with was some sort of mistake. Maybe she didn’t have her glasses on or her jealous ex-boyfriend was near by—but it happened again. Another conversation. A nice one at that. A conversation ending with a received phone number. This happened on several different nights at separate venues. But I have a beard? A beard! What are these women thinking?
This made me uneasy. It maybe out of self doubt or complete correctness, but whenever I get involved with a woman I think there is a catch. There must be a catch. There is always a catch. When I really like a girl and she, out of ignorance or disillusionment, really likes me back, there is something in the back of my head that says, “Jeez, this girl really has low standards. Do I really want to be with a girl such low standards? I mean if she is willing to be with me who knows what kind of hobgoblin she has been with before?” It seems odd, but if a girl actually wants to be with me, I tend to raise my eyebrow in curiosity and trepidation. I guess it’s like parking on a street in the city. The better the spot, the more you look around for that DO NOT PARK sign. And if you can’t find the do not park sign, you read every sign around it and read and re-read every detail. I have found that women are as confusing and most similar to those signs that say, “Do not park on school days,” when it’s the middle of the summer. It’s a Tuesday, but it’s July. Does that count? You’ll spend the whole day thinking about if you are going to get a ticket. Sometimes I think about getting a ticket the entire time I am parked there. The whole night. The whole weekend.
Earth is nothing but one big parking authority. And I already have a shit load of tickets.
So what can we conclude with the great beard experiment of ’10? Nothing. Who knows what the fuck girls are thinking? Just look at the 90s Sci Fi drama, The X-Files. Mulder can literally go back in time through the Bermuda triangle to the 40s and become a passenger aboard a Nazi ship, over take the ship, and solve the mystery of the dead girl, but it takes him 15 years figure out Scully has a crush on him.
Ah, whatever.
On another side note: Can ghost get summoned anytime? What if they are having coffee?
Chuck 0ut.
*You know what? I ride a bike. I like flannel shirts and The Decemberist. I think Bush was a lousy president….Oh. My. Gosh.
**My penis.
PS I’m sincerely sorry, Ryan Howard.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Song for the Dumped
“No jobs, no work here in Kansas, but I hear there is work is Missouri,” the man with the straw hat and overalls slowly claims as he goes back to hustling some hay. I know it sounds like a scene from the 1930s, but besides the blatant racism, there aren’t too many differences between now and then. People, my peers in entertainment who are trying to get work, have been gang raped by a bunch of thugs.
At least gang members let you know they are gang members. They have the decency to let be up front from the start, “I’m going to rob you, stab you, and then inappropriately touch your female companion,” the nice Crazy 88 gentleman says. A quick rob, a quick stab, and you’re done—but when the rich white executive befriends you, treats you to nice dinners and conventions, and gives you some market advice, before you know you lost your family’s fortune. So let’s put it in perspective, the gang member robs you of a hundred dollars at the most (really, how much money do you carry around in your wallet at any given time?), he may or may not stab you (and if he does stab you, you’ll have an awesome looking scar and a crazy story that you can tell some girl at a bar), and you wind up moving back to the suburbs…big whoop. It’s the high powered middle aged white dude who will steal your whole life savings, stab your soul, and rape your families name and reputation. It’s the middle age, wearing a hat to cover his bald spot while driving his convertible, fast talking but always seemingly listening to your concerns, white man who is the very person or who is a part of the very group of people responsible for the meltdown of the most powerful market in the world. They’re the scary ones. They are the thugs. I’ll hang out with a guy who looks like Bernie Mac over the guy who looks like Bernie Madoff any day. It’s hard to believe that in the world of the Bank of America, AIG, Toyota, and Enron, people are still prejudice towards anyone excluding a middle aged white man.
And I’m not trying to be a phonie working class hero, I’m ranting for other reasons…
Recently, I got laid….off.
For a lot of people, most of America, getting laid and getting laid off are very similar; in the end it’s confusing, sweaty, and you find yourself pleading that you can perform more adequate if given another chance. In my case, I understood that the project I was working on, at the place I was working at, was the only opportunity to work there and that when the project were to be complete, I would be no longer necessary. But for a lot of people, getting laid off is more of a shock—not a shock that it’s happening, but it’s a shock that it’s happening to you.
Working in the film industry, you are laid off every time production ends. This makes it tough because, unless you are well connected, you are unemployed every three months. The shock of getting laid of, at this point, always gets easier for me, but the soul crushing boredom of not working is always the same. You walk the streets in the middle of a weekday and you feel like everyone is looking at you and thinking to themselves, “Look at this putz, at a Ralphs at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday. He probably doesn’t have a job. He probably doesn’t even want a job. He is a bum… I should pick up some peanuts. Cashews are good. They are kind of expensive though. Why is that? 5 bucks seem a little high for this small container. Wow, they have a lot of fat in them. But it’s the good fat, right? Good fat? I never understood good fat. I mean, fat is fat, right? They say that about olive oil too…I hope Juno is on Starz tonight. That girl is so witty.” I’m sure people think a lot about a lot of things in a short period of time, but when you are unemployed you feel as though everyone is secretly judging you all the time.
Before I moved out of Los Angeles, my roommates had a yard sale on a weekday. A woman came up to me and before she asked about prices or product, she said out of habit and embarrassment, “I was a school teacher, then the school had cut backs and now I’m out of a job.” It was as though she, before anything, had to make sure that I knew that she wasn’t a bum. That she was there on our porch, on a weekday, looking at our used cheese grater and microwave because of public school cut backs, not because of her own laziness. That word, “laziness” is prevalent because it’s exactly how you feel, lazy. You can spend day after day, hour after hour submitting résumé’s and unique cover letters but yet feel lazy. A lot of people have jobs where they can get away with doing the absolute minimum, yet if they do the minimum 5 days, 40 hours a week, it seems they are more productive—a more respected human. It seems that even prostitutes have more respect walking the streets—at least they are providing a service of some kind.
I heard that losing your job has the same emotional effect as losing a loved one or ending a relationship… In the case of the latter, I just wish there was severance package that the girl could offer after she breaks up with you. Maybe something like hand jobs for the next 5 months…you know 60% of what you were getting before. The thing is, after you break up with someone, there’s always somebody who says, “Oh, I know the perfect girl for you. You guys would really click.” Nobody says that when you lose your job. Not these days. You’ll get calls from people who say, “I think there is work in New Mexico,” or elsewhere. It’s like looking for gold in the 1800s, people have a hunch where it is, but when you travel west there is nothing but CZ and toothless Dodgers fans.
It’s my fault. I chose the profession. I was the one who studied film at the state university. I could have studied something that may have landed me a nice paying job in a nice city—but I was told to try out the American dream. Our society centers on the idea to follow your dreams, but when dreams fail you become nothing but an inimitable American failure… Whenever somebody says to you “follow your dreams” there should be the fast talking radio commercial disclaimer guy who says quickly (read this part fast), “Some dreams are more obtainable than others. Offer is only available in striving economies and mostly only available to those who have connections. ‘Follow your dreams’ is a trademark of America. Void where prohibited, which in the case of now, is everywhere in America. Good luck. You’re going to need it...sucker” It always seems that the disclaimers in radio ads are a lot longer than the actual ad. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Chapter 2:
Now for the past six months, I’ve been working in an office. There are some perks about office work, but there are some things I won’t miss at all. The one thing that strained me in my office position was the fact that you are not alone. Ever. If you want to talk on the phone, you have to know that the entire office will be listening. You can talk about something like going to the Phillies game, but you can’t have a 10 minute debate on the phone about the probability that Enzyte* will actually make your penis longer or if it’s just a hoax and a waste of $40. When you buy Enzyte you have to go into it like you are going to Atlantic City to gamble; just think of it as you already lost your money, it would be nice if you win a few bucks at Blackjack or whatever, but if you lose you can’t go back to the ATM. The point is, when you go down to AC or buy Enzyte, there is a slight finical risk involved. You must accept the fact that you already lost the money.
ANYWAY, the biggest problem with working in an office is that when you have gas, you can’t get a completely accurate estimation if it’s a nice poop coming on or if it’s just methane that has to get out of your system. Either way, you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You can’t just fart in a cubical and expect to get away with it… On your way to the bathroom you have a lot of obstacles; you have to say hi to those who you make eye contact with, you have to look at the new baby pictures, you have to complain about Kyle Kendrick** all the way down the corridor until you finally reach the bathroom.
Once you’re in the bathroom, you have a whole other process to go through.
Now if you are like me, using public bathrooms can be very tricky. I’ll go in there, examine the seat, grab a horde of tissue paper (maybe a few wraps around the hand), wipe the seat, then grab three more pieces of tissue paper to cover the seat (one across and two down), then I’m finally able to drop pants and sit down.
All that work, all the preparation, and now it’s time to deliver…
You hear a loud, self fulfilling thunderous sound—one that bounces off the walls in an echo heard bathroom wide. But wait! No splash? You look down and to your bewildered displeasure there is nothing to show for it. You just shot a blank…Maybe a second push will do the trick….Ah, still nothing. You find yourself left with self doubt and a toilet bowl filled with tissues.
Just gas? All this work, this sacrifice just for gas? And just as General John Burgoyne*** after the Battle of Saratoga, you have to convince yourself that retreat is the only option.
To make matters worse:
There is somebody in the bathroom that you make small talk with before you go to the stall. If you get into the stall and realize its just gas, you can’t flush and stand up right away if the person is still there. The person in the backroom will think your some kind of freak if it only takes you 45 seconds to take a shit. So you just have to sit there on the toilet as a failure until the person leaves or a few two minutes roll by. This is why I like when people write on the walls; it gives you something to read as the time rolls by. Not in an office setting though. No bathroom graffiti there. You just have to sit there and literally count 65 Mississippi’s before even thinking about getting off that toilet.
As I said before, when going to the bathroom you have to walk past a whole barrage of people who know exactly where you are going and what you are going to do and how long it takes you to do it. Those people also know exactly how many times you do such a thing, so if you waste a trip on a fart, when you actually have to poop later on you can’t go without somebody saying to you on the way back, “are you feeling okay?”
When you are at work and around people all the time, everyone knows your business. When you by yourself most of the day you don’t get bothered. But you kind of miss it. It gets lonely all by yourself.
Farting whenever you want < eating and living life because you have a paycheck.
Releasing gas is nice and all, but I’ll take eight hours of holding it in any day. I guess the point of all of this is that work can get strenuous sometimes. It can get irksome and tedious as well, but being unemployed is far worse. People don’t want to be unemployed, even with all the freedom in bathroom use. So don’t be one of these people who say, “They should cut unemployment benefits because people are too lazy to get jobs.” Saying that is not only untrue, but it’s also un-American. To think that Americans and the American way and that our society is not of the utmost strongest—if you feel that we’ve become lazy, just get out. You forgot the definition of this country and the meaning behind it. You’ve missed the boat. You forgot the first, and often most elapsed word in the name of this ultimate nation; UNITED. We are United before we are states. We are United before with are America. We are the UNITED States of America. Don’t forget that….asshole.
Chuck 0ut.
*the natural male enhancer
**A young Phillies pitcher with a 5.0 ERA
***A British General who failed to bring down the American troops during one of the most important battles in the revolutionary war. (Go America! Screw the King!)
At least gang members let you know they are gang members. They have the decency to let be up front from the start, “I’m going to rob you, stab you, and then inappropriately touch your female companion,” the nice Crazy 88 gentleman says. A quick rob, a quick stab, and you’re done—but when the rich white executive befriends you, treats you to nice dinners and conventions, and gives you some market advice, before you know you lost your family’s fortune. So let’s put it in perspective, the gang member robs you of a hundred dollars at the most (really, how much money do you carry around in your wallet at any given time?), he may or may not stab you (and if he does stab you, you’ll have an awesome looking scar and a crazy story that you can tell some girl at a bar), and you wind up moving back to the suburbs…big whoop. It’s the high powered middle aged white dude who will steal your whole life savings, stab your soul, and rape your families name and reputation. It’s the middle age, wearing a hat to cover his bald spot while driving his convertible, fast talking but always seemingly listening to your concerns, white man who is the very person or who is a part of the very group of people responsible for the meltdown of the most powerful market in the world. They’re the scary ones. They are the thugs. I’ll hang out with a guy who looks like Bernie Mac over the guy who looks like Bernie Madoff any day. It’s hard to believe that in the world of the Bank of America, AIG, Toyota, and Enron, people are still prejudice towards anyone excluding a middle aged white man.
And I’m not trying to be a phonie working class hero, I’m ranting for other reasons…
Recently, I got laid….off.
For a lot of people, most of America, getting laid and getting laid off are very similar; in the end it’s confusing, sweaty, and you find yourself pleading that you can perform more adequate if given another chance. In my case, I understood that the project I was working on, at the place I was working at, was the only opportunity to work there and that when the project were to be complete, I would be no longer necessary. But for a lot of people, getting laid off is more of a shock—not a shock that it’s happening, but it’s a shock that it’s happening to you.
Working in the film industry, you are laid off every time production ends. This makes it tough because, unless you are well connected, you are unemployed every three months. The shock of getting laid of, at this point, always gets easier for me, but the soul crushing boredom of not working is always the same. You walk the streets in the middle of a weekday and you feel like everyone is looking at you and thinking to themselves, “Look at this putz, at a Ralphs at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday. He probably doesn’t have a job. He probably doesn’t even want a job. He is a bum… I should pick up some peanuts. Cashews are good. They are kind of expensive though. Why is that? 5 bucks seem a little high for this small container. Wow, they have a lot of fat in them. But it’s the good fat, right? Good fat? I never understood good fat. I mean, fat is fat, right? They say that about olive oil too…I hope Juno is on Starz tonight. That girl is so witty.” I’m sure people think a lot about a lot of things in a short period of time, but when you are unemployed you feel as though everyone is secretly judging you all the time.
Before I moved out of Los Angeles, my roommates had a yard sale on a weekday. A woman came up to me and before she asked about prices or product, she said out of habit and embarrassment, “I was a school teacher, then the school had cut backs and now I’m out of a job.” It was as though she, before anything, had to make sure that I knew that she wasn’t a bum. That she was there on our porch, on a weekday, looking at our used cheese grater and microwave because of public school cut backs, not because of her own laziness. That word, “laziness” is prevalent because it’s exactly how you feel, lazy. You can spend day after day, hour after hour submitting résumé’s and unique cover letters but yet feel lazy. A lot of people have jobs where they can get away with doing the absolute minimum, yet if they do the minimum 5 days, 40 hours a week, it seems they are more productive—a more respected human. It seems that even prostitutes have more respect walking the streets—at least they are providing a service of some kind.
I heard that losing your job has the same emotional effect as losing a loved one or ending a relationship… In the case of the latter, I just wish there was severance package that the girl could offer after she breaks up with you. Maybe something like hand jobs for the next 5 months…you know 60% of what you were getting before. The thing is, after you break up with someone, there’s always somebody who says, “Oh, I know the perfect girl for you. You guys would really click.” Nobody says that when you lose your job. Not these days. You’ll get calls from people who say, “I think there is work in New Mexico,” or elsewhere. It’s like looking for gold in the 1800s, people have a hunch where it is, but when you travel west there is nothing but CZ and toothless Dodgers fans.
It’s my fault. I chose the profession. I was the one who studied film at the state university. I could have studied something that may have landed me a nice paying job in a nice city—but I was told to try out the American dream. Our society centers on the idea to follow your dreams, but when dreams fail you become nothing but an inimitable American failure… Whenever somebody says to you “follow your dreams” there should be the fast talking radio commercial disclaimer guy who says quickly (read this part fast), “Some dreams are more obtainable than others. Offer is only available in striving economies and mostly only available to those who have connections. ‘Follow your dreams’ is a trademark of America. Void where prohibited, which in the case of now, is everywhere in America. Good luck. You’re going to need it...sucker” It always seems that the disclaimers in radio ads are a lot longer than the actual ad. There is no such thing as a free lunch.
Chapter 2:
Now for the past six months, I’ve been working in an office. There are some perks about office work, but there are some things I won’t miss at all. The one thing that strained me in my office position was the fact that you are not alone. Ever. If you want to talk on the phone, you have to know that the entire office will be listening. You can talk about something like going to the Phillies game, but you can’t have a 10 minute debate on the phone about the probability that Enzyte* will actually make your penis longer or if it’s just a hoax and a waste of $40. When you buy Enzyte you have to go into it like you are going to Atlantic City to gamble; just think of it as you already lost your money, it would be nice if you win a few bucks at Blackjack or whatever, but if you lose you can’t go back to the ATM. The point is, when you go down to AC or buy Enzyte, there is a slight finical risk involved. You must accept the fact that you already lost the money.
ANYWAY, the biggest problem with working in an office is that when you have gas, you can’t get a completely accurate estimation if it’s a nice poop coming on or if it’s just methane that has to get out of your system. Either way, you have to excuse yourself to the bathroom. You can’t just fart in a cubical and expect to get away with it… On your way to the bathroom you have a lot of obstacles; you have to say hi to those who you make eye contact with, you have to look at the new baby pictures, you have to complain about Kyle Kendrick** all the way down the corridor until you finally reach the bathroom.
Once you’re in the bathroom, you have a whole other process to go through.
Now if you are like me, using public bathrooms can be very tricky. I’ll go in there, examine the seat, grab a horde of tissue paper (maybe a few wraps around the hand), wipe the seat, then grab three more pieces of tissue paper to cover the seat (one across and two down), then I’m finally able to drop pants and sit down.
All that work, all the preparation, and now it’s time to deliver…
You hear a loud, self fulfilling thunderous sound—one that bounces off the walls in an echo heard bathroom wide. But wait! No splash? You look down and to your bewildered displeasure there is nothing to show for it. You just shot a blank…Maybe a second push will do the trick….Ah, still nothing. You find yourself left with self doubt and a toilet bowl filled with tissues.
Just gas? All this work, this sacrifice just for gas? And just as General John Burgoyne*** after the Battle of Saratoga, you have to convince yourself that retreat is the only option.
To make matters worse:
There is somebody in the bathroom that you make small talk with before you go to the stall. If you get into the stall and realize its just gas, you can’t flush and stand up right away if the person is still there. The person in the backroom will think your some kind of freak if it only takes you 45 seconds to take a shit. So you just have to sit there on the toilet as a failure until the person leaves or a few two minutes roll by. This is why I like when people write on the walls; it gives you something to read as the time rolls by. Not in an office setting though. No bathroom graffiti there. You just have to sit there and literally count 65 Mississippi’s before even thinking about getting off that toilet.
As I said before, when going to the bathroom you have to walk past a whole barrage of people who know exactly where you are going and what you are going to do and how long it takes you to do it. Those people also know exactly how many times you do such a thing, so if you waste a trip on a fart, when you actually have to poop later on you can’t go without somebody saying to you on the way back, “are you feeling okay?”
When you are at work and around people all the time, everyone knows your business. When you by yourself most of the day you don’t get bothered. But you kind of miss it. It gets lonely all by yourself.
Farting whenever you want < eating and living life because you have a paycheck.
Releasing gas is nice and all, but I’ll take eight hours of holding it in any day. I guess the point of all of this is that work can get strenuous sometimes. It can get irksome and tedious as well, but being unemployed is far worse. People don’t want to be unemployed, even with all the freedom in bathroom use. So don’t be one of these people who say, “They should cut unemployment benefits because people are too lazy to get jobs.” Saying that is not only untrue, but it’s also un-American. To think that Americans and the American way and that our society is not of the utmost strongest—if you feel that we’ve become lazy, just get out. You forgot the definition of this country and the meaning behind it. You’ve missed the boat. You forgot the first, and often most elapsed word in the name of this ultimate nation; UNITED. We are United before we are states. We are United before with are America. We are the UNITED States of America. Don’t forget that….asshole.
Chuck 0ut.
*the natural male enhancer
**A young Phillies pitcher with a 5.0 ERA
***A British General who failed to bring down the American troops during one of the most important battles in the revolutionary war. (Go America! Screw the King!)
Thursday, August 5, 2010
The Legality of Dance!
My good friend, Ross basically forces himself onto girls through the art of dance. What he told me is that, “When you force yourself onto someone through dance, this is not date rape. It’s a boogie.” Put the same motions on a girl as you would on the dance floor, the exact same touching, groping, and suffocation, without music, without anybody around, in a dark alley, and this will land you behind the walls of the state penitentiary for 12-18 years. But on the dance floor, it’s just another Saturday night. Approaching a strange woman on the streets and dry humping her leg = assault and sexual harassment. Dancing up to a woman (in a dance club) and dry humping the shit out of her gets you her number and a hi five from your friends followed by five minutes of chanting Kappa Sigma rules! This is why dancing is so confusing; same action, same movements, touching in all the same areas, but yet completely different results. Take the number of relationships which start from dancing and compare that number with the amount of relationships which get started with assault and battery and I think you’ll see my point. How did dancing turn into this phenomenon?
There are other things in life that confuse me as well. Right now, like thousands of others across the country, I am writing this blog in a café. I have coffee at home as well as a coffee machine. I actually drove to this coffee establishment. Not on my way to work or anything—there was no reason to be out of my house. In fact, it’s raining. I left my home, where I have coffee and a coffee machine to go to a place, wait in a line, and pay for a 300% more expensive, yet totally similar tasting cup of Joe. How am I allowed to do this? If an Alien saw me do this, I would be completely embarrassed.
Thank God for humans.
I can sort of understand why people go to Starbucks because they make coffee products with whip cream. I can’t do that at home. I mean I could buy the whip cream, but whenever I do I feel a bit kinky. “No this is for coffee, not toes.” I have to explain to the man with the furry mustache. He gives me a “yeah, that’s what they all say” type of look. So it goes.
Coffee places are one thing, but I am really confused with popularity of bars or taverns or establishments where people get their “crunk” on. The establishment itself is not as confusing as the concept behind it. Bars were pretty much around for two reasons;
A) To starts revolutions and the Marine Corps. This happened when a bunch of proactive Eagles fans in Philadelphia decided soccer is not a real sport and that America should be free from England and Manchester United. Note: America couldn’t have gotten started in a tavern in Pittsburgh, Boston, Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Queens because future sports franchises’ in those cities suck. Note: Fly Eagles Fly! Lets Go State!
And the second reason for the establishment of taverns is;
B) To pick up women.
Both, starting an independent revolution from England and picking up women are tough feats, but after years of fighting and bloodshed, both opposite parties (England and Women) will eventually give in.
The problem with revolutions/women is that, as I said before, they both take a lot of time and there will be many battles lost before you win the war with either. Right now for me, the red coats are winning…
When you are out of college and away from the grateful world of girls not having many standards or expectations, single men have to meet girls in bars where they are only given a brief few sentences to make an impression. The first has to be solid. This is what we in the business call a ‘pick up line’. Now the problem with pick up lines is that the girl knows you are using a pick up line. So what you have to do is use a pick up line that doesn’t seem like a pick up line. This is where I fail.
Whenever I go to speak with a strange woman in a bar I feel as though they know what I am up to—like I’m tying to get away with something. I mean, their right. I don’t need to know if they have any new perspectives about the domestic economic polices or how to get a milk stain out of corduroy pants, I can Google those things; all I want from a strange woman is to obtain a set of numbers which allow me to contact this strange woman so that one day she won’t be strange…and we can make out. They know it. I know it. The bartender knows it, yet our conversation is stricken to Miller Lite and the weather.
Chapter Two:
Sometimes we go to the bars as married or relationshipped people and sometimes we go “just to dance with our girlfriends.” And this is what I really can’t comprehend—which confuses me because I do the exact same thing. I go to the bar sometimes, not to pick up women or plan a fight with England, but to simply hang out with my cronies. But why? Why do I do this? Why do we as a society do this? I’ll go to a bar and buy a $6 Miller Lite and tip the bartender, just so I can sit and scream at my friends so they can hear me over the blasting Lady Gaga song. This seems even more absurd than the coffee place. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to hear any theories or details of life and world; I just want to hang out with my friends. I enjoy the fact that there are people sitting around the bar, but I don’t want to talk to any of them. In bars people kind of become ornaments; nice to have around but I don’t want to bother with them. In order to make drinking seem more reasonable, for some eccentric reason, we like to drink around people (but not with them).
We live life to make life more comfortable. So drink up.
And if you are a woman sitting at the bar and you’re not starting a revolution, don’t get upset if a guy comes up to you and tells you your hair smells nice.
Chuck 0ut.
There are other things in life that confuse me as well. Right now, like thousands of others across the country, I am writing this blog in a café. I have coffee at home as well as a coffee machine. I actually drove to this coffee establishment. Not on my way to work or anything—there was no reason to be out of my house. In fact, it’s raining. I left my home, where I have coffee and a coffee machine to go to a place, wait in a line, and pay for a 300% more expensive, yet totally similar tasting cup of Joe. How am I allowed to do this? If an Alien saw me do this, I would be completely embarrassed.
Thank God for humans.
I can sort of understand why people go to Starbucks because they make coffee products with whip cream. I can’t do that at home. I mean I could buy the whip cream, but whenever I do I feel a bit kinky. “No this is for coffee, not toes.” I have to explain to the man with the furry mustache. He gives me a “yeah, that’s what they all say” type of look. So it goes.
Coffee places are one thing, but I am really confused with popularity of bars or taverns or establishments where people get their “crunk” on. The establishment itself is not as confusing as the concept behind it. Bars were pretty much around for two reasons;
A) To starts revolutions and the Marine Corps. This happened when a bunch of proactive Eagles fans in Philadelphia decided soccer is not a real sport and that America should be free from England and Manchester United. Note: America couldn’t have gotten started in a tavern in Pittsburgh, Boston, Ann Arbor, Columbus, or Queens because future sports franchises’ in those cities suck. Note: Fly Eagles Fly! Lets Go State!
And the second reason for the establishment of taverns is;
B) To pick up women.
Both, starting an independent revolution from England and picking up women are tough feats, but after years of fighting and bloodshed, both opposite parties (England and Women) will eventually give in.
The problem with revolutions/women is that, as I said before, they both take a lot of time and there will be many battles lost before you win the war with either. Right now for me, the red coats are winning…
When you are out of college and away from the grateful world of girls not having many standards or expectations, single men have to meet girls in bars where they are only given a brief few sentences to make an impression. The first has to be solid. This is what we in the business call a ‘pick up line’. Now the problem with pick up lines is that the girl knows you are using a pick up line. So what you have to do is use a pick up line that doesn’t seem like a pick up line. This is where I fail.
Whenever I go to speak with a strange woman in a bar I feel as though they know what I am up to—like I’m tying to get away with something. I mean, their right. I don’t need to know if they have any new perspectives about the domestic economic polices or how to get a milk stain out of corduroy pants, I can Google those things; all I want from a strange woman is to obtain a set of numbers which allow me to contact this strange woman so that one day she won’t be strange…and we can make out. They know it. I know it. The bartender knows it, yet our conversation is stricken to Miller Lite and the weather.
Chapter Two:
Sometimes we go to the bars as married or relationshipped people and sometimes we go “just to dance with our girlfriends.” And this is what I really can’t comprehend—which confuses me because I do the exact same thing. I go to the bar sometimes, not to pick up women or plan a fight with England, but to simply hang out with my cronies. But why? Why do I do this? Why do we as a society do this? I’ll go to a bar and buy a $6 Miller Lite and tip the bartender, just so I can sit and scream at my friends so they can hear me over the blasting Lady Gaga song. This seems even more absurd than the coffee place. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t want to hear any theories or details of life and world; I just want to hang out with my friends. I enjoy the fact that there are people sitting around the bar, but I don’t want to talk to any of them. In bars people kind of become ornaments; nice to have around but I don’t want to bother with them. In order to make drinking seem more reasonable, for some eccentric reason, we like to drink around people (but not with them).
We live life to make life more comfortable. So drink up.
And if you are a woman sitting at the bar and you’re not starting a revolution, don’t get upset if a guy comes up to you and tells you your hair smells nice.
Chuck 0ut.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)