What was once the blog that got me fired. Now try and figure it out. I intend to Track the eventual overthrow of mankind by robots. Conspiracy theories. Election Fraud concerns. Documenting the Silent Totalitarianism of the Surveillance Society. Or maybe this is just my real life, only fictionalized.
At the risk of offending some, I don't have that much to say about Memorial Day.
I won't lecture you about grilling steaks and taking your 3 day holiday for granted, because I don't believe in giving lip service to the banalities that you hear on TV. And I am not going to tell you how I honor "their service" because I don't.
The sad truth is I never think about the "sacrifice" all "these people" make to secure me my freedoms.
According to the Onion I am no different than anyone else who is not a member (or a family member) of our Armed Fighting Forces
I may not be a super patriot, but I won't defend myself by guiltily regurgitating the silly left wing reaction that "because service men volunteer to join the Army just to blow shit up" we should get to mock the white trash that take bullets for us in far off strange countries.
The truth is that getting to blow stuff up is a great reason to join the Army, and if the service did not require push ups to enlist I would have joined up for the very same reason.
But don't go jumping to conclusions. I have problems with military service. For one, I don't think we should defend this country. I have my reasons. Allow me to enumerate.
We do a lot of bad shit in the world.
We have a history of doing evil.
We do evil shit to ourselves (like the working poor and middle class who do the fighting for us thereby letting the rich win the class war.)
These are just facts. If you don't like them, then you should avoid caring about facts the way Sara Palin does.
Now that we have thought about those facts for a second let me extend to you a corollary to these facts. Nazi Germany may have worked out okay. You know sometime later. In the long run that is. Because overall the Germans are a civilized people and would have seen the errors of their ways just like Americans eventually decided that slavery was bad.
Most Americas even feel guilty about the genocide that we committed at the hands of the Indigenous population that was here before us.
There used to be a hell of a lot more Buffalo than there are now. You fucking Genocidal American.
If America can overcome the history of genocide that started this country, if it can overcome the heinous sin of slavery that allowed it to prosper, and learn from those experiences to become the beacon of light that allowed it to kill 200,000 Filipinos in the 20th century without blinking, then surely we can fathom a future * side-place where the Germanic people could have overcome their little "Jewish problem."
So if the Armed forces aren't necessary to defend us against the greatest evil of the 20th century are they really needed at all? Muslims don't have much in terms of an army. And none of the countries we are currently bombing and killing are able to do much other than grab a few box cutters on commuter flights.
I told you I don't think we are worth defending. And the second point was that I am not sure if I think we need to...
But Happy Memorial Day to you G.I. Bill getting mother fuckers anyways!
*see Lost and the "flash" sideways if you want to discuss.
In my room under my bed there is a white towel. A crusty white towel with stains on it that I can not identify. I pick up the towel and walk into the bathroom. Someone has scattered dirty q-tips on the floor. The toilet is unflushed. My toothbrush lies useless though the cap on the toothpaste is open.
Those were the first words Kevin heard as he sat down next to us. Kevin looked over at the bartender like he needed to wipe the poop out of his ears.
Kevin used to be fat, but now he is not. Kevin shaved off all his hair on a whim a few days ago. If you add the shaved head to the orange t-shirt that he layered under a red vest, and then stuck a pen behind Kevin's ear, you might understand why he got asked what he got asked.
Kevin looked kinda gay, but I am certain that they don't teach bartenders to scream out at patrons potentially embarrassing questions like, "Do you mind if we remark upon your possible sexual disposition?" Even at the English Bar Tending Academy of Assholery (albeit they would be talking shit with an English accent and an accent makes everything you say seem cool.)
I was sitting next to SweetLeif and farting when Kevin walked into the bar. I think my farting is somehow connected to the fact that I am shitting yellow again.
I shit yellow because my liver is melting apart like an AIDS patient on his fourth med cocktail. If you don't know anything about AIDS, and the multiple medications they give you to control the disease, and how when mixed those multiple medications literally eat your body apart, then do yourself a favor and try not to imagine your insides liquefying into a gooey mess that leaks out of your anal cavity onto the floor into some extra heavy duty colostomy bag.
Kevin sat down without mentioning my farts and tried to wipe the shocked look off his face. He mumbled something to me about never "dressing down at work again" and he asked me if he looked gay.
I told him "ya." But I only tell him that because he is a homophobe, and I don't want him beating the snot out of some rinky dink twink who gets the idea that Kevin could be his "sweet daddy bear."
The bartender is obnoxiously drunk, but for some reason I am the only person in the bar who realizes this. I keep trying to tell Leif and Kevin that the bartender is really drunk but they keep telling me that she "looks normal."
I ignore their protests, because I am on "pep pills" and pep pills give me near super human powers of observation. I stole three of the "pep pills" Leif uses as a "diet aid" right out of his car before we both walked into the bar.
Leif is a skinny bitch that has all the girls at Wal*Mart telling him how they'd love to have his "figure." Even though Leif is as skinny as an Olson Twin he is still trying to squeeze an extra 10 pounds off his already too thin frame. I imagine that Leif has the same conversation with himself that the Olsen Twins have every morning before they brush their teeth together in their twin sinks.
The conversation goes something like "how fat they are," and "how they could stand to miss a few meals," and then something about "how homeless people have all the real style in the world," and how it's "too bad" rich people can't spend thousands of dollars on a outfit that makes them look like they've taken heroin for two weeks and are on a comedown and now they've stopped caring about things like showers and clean clothes, or stuff that matches, and instead they have replaced all those common sense ideas with the theory that they should "from now on" only wear stuff that looks "insanely big on them."
Thinking about the Olsen Twins has gotten me irritated, or maybe it's just the pep pills that have got me revved up, but now I am pissed off at the crazy Irish man sitting across the bar from us screaming at me how he is "Irish" and he how he needs to know if "we are" and "if we are not Irish what ARE we?"
"NOT Irish." I tell him. By emphasizing the "not" I hoped the drunk would get the hint that I was not interested in playing any of his ethnocentric labeling games.
But the drunk did not get the hint.
Fed up with the drunken Irish guy and the obnoxious bartender I grabbed the pitcher of beer we were drinking and followed Leif outside to the smoking patio. Kevin walked out to his car to find his drinking cigars. Kevin "only smokes cigars when he drinks" he liked to remind us. Like after he smoked a cigar I was going to make him count 4 Hail Mary's or something.
"I may like to touch little girls." I tell Kevin. "But I am not your priest."
I was in a mood to argue with someone. I like getting a rise out of her Kristine the bartender. Though whenever we debate we mostly talk over one another.
That night her arguments consisted mostly of and ad hominem attacks on my personality (that happen to be true) like "how I am too much of a coward to defend my country," and "how I never do anything with my beliefs in the real world- if you don't count yelling at people I don't like at bars and the like."
"All true." I tell her. And then I remind her that I never told her that I was a "good person." Then I told her that "just by thinking that some people" (in her case military people) "have more of right to say about how things 'ought to be' could easily lead to situations like Nazi Germany."
Now, I know that whenever a liberal like myself uses the Nazi Card that we have scrapped the bottom of the barrel when it comes to making an argument. But like I said before, the girl was obnoxiously drunk, and not listening to anything I said, and basically kept sticking her giant finger in my face and spilling Miller Hi Life on my Converse sneakers. She was getting annoying, and I figured calling her out as a Nazi was the best way to get her to shut the fuck up and listen.
Only what she said next got me to shut up, because she basically said that Nazi Germans were "right" to follow orders and that Nazis were better people than "faggot little commies like me" where she took "faggot" to not mean gay "Cuz I mean no disrespect to you (she points to Lief and Kevin) and your faggotey friends."
You would think things would get weird then. I mean a drunken bartender just called me a commie faggot, and then the she defended the extermination of 6 million Jews under the pretense that people who train to kill other people should be more involved in the organization of the social order. You might think this would cause even the backwater rednecks that populate this neighborhood bar to take a step back and think.
But it did not.
In between hugging her goat-bearded, badly tattooed, Irish, ball shaving, adulterous companion, my bartender complimented me on "having the balls to be outspoken" and "for standing up for what I believe" and "for living in a country where we can take all this freedom for granted" though I am not sure what I had to do with the last part.
I do know that the squirrelly Irish man did not appreciate that I could keep up with his woman during a debate, and how she fawned over the challenge that I presented to her in the form of my nuanced rebuttals of her patently fallacious theories.
The final pièce de résistance? Our bar tab was free. She insisted that we owed nothing when we asked to settle our account.
My friends left her a generous tip, and I offered to pay their way at WhataBurger. My attempts at gallantry was soon rebuffed by the automated payment system at WhataBurger where my card was impolitely declined on no less than three separate occasions.
The evening was capped off by the inhalation of several viles full of the legal plant Salvia which at the modest 5x strength imparts to its participant nothing more than the warm feeling of bemusement at life's inner tragedies.
Today I met a girl who looked just like the girl pictured below.
Really. That pretty.
Though it turned out she was Mormon and was probably only being nice to me so she could indoctrinate me into her cult.
Women this pretty are only nice to me if they think they can get something out of me. Usually the thing they want is cash. Which in my case is not a lot. I usually only carry 4 dollars in change and a bus pass on me.
My poverty only pisses off the strippers that unluckily end up sitting next to me. The conversations we have are usually brief, but sometimes they are hideous entertaining.
The girl I met at work today smiled at me a lot. She had the prettiest little smile you have ever seen. It was a smile that showed something of her soul. It was like she really was as nice as she appeared when she gathered up her grocery bags and told me to have a "really great day."
I was basking in the glow of her comment when my
Mormon courtesy clerk told me that "that chick you thought was hot, was a Mormon."
My face just crumbled. I sighed and shrugged my shoulders at him. "I guess there is no hope for me after all." I said.
My bagger just nodded at me.
"It's funny how you still get your hopes up after all these years." He said. "Your so old." He reminds me. "When are you ever going to learn?"
I guess maybe never. Just like the American people never learn. The Texas Bumpkin with the funny economic beliefs might be a racist, xenophobic, Christian fundamentalists, who would rather offer up his daughters to a rape craving crowd before he'd ever hire watch a couple of dudes play Howdy Doodie in the parking lot of his Holiday Express.
The girl at the grocery store is just like Rand Paul or John Stossel. She dresses nice and seems like a normal person. But you can't take anything she says seriously. Remember, she's in a cult.
I should have been wary of the sparkle that girl had in her eye for me. Just like you should have been wary of the sparkle in John Stossel's eyes, or in the folksy charm of a crusading Texan and his melon headed offspring.
People on a mission always have a zest for life.
I bet if you ran into the path of one of the crusaders he would have sat you down and insisted on telling you about the "invisible hand of the free market" that guided him down to this spot. He would have told you that rational thinking is silly. He would tell you we should give up on thinking and just relax. Let the market take its course.
Then he would have fed you some bullshit about how companies are "constitutionally protected people with civil rights." With feelings as well i guess since we aren't allowed to insult BP.
All I know is that corporations serve at the pleasure of the government. And hence is you want the protections and privileges that are now provided in perpetuity (like not paying taxes) then you have to understand that the corporations are not "private entities" but are in fact "vehicles of public accommodation."
That fact is plain and apparent to everyone (even to an asshats like John Stossel.) The fact that he and others (I'm talking to you Rand and Ron Paul) would try and conflate the private individual (with his rights and protections) with a public entity like the corporate stock company makes me more than sick to my stomach. (It gets me a little gassy too.)
You can try a trick like insisting that corporations aren't "public" but "private" but only if you are under the influence of an all encompassing world view that structures your every thought and belief. In short a cult.
Let's be honest. I'd convert for a cult where I got to keep a hot chick on my very own planet. But that's because Mormonism is my kind of cult. Unlike Libertarianism. Which is a cult. But a cult with only one hot chick.
I'm sure you've all seen the latest video making headlines around the world. It features a group of 7 year old's dancing to a routine they call "All the Single Ladies."
Some say that the dance routine is "pretty out there." Though it does validate my idea that I should buy a van and get a personal license plate that says "Ilostmypuppy" because nobody will care.*
I'll get away with my idea as long as I can suggest to the public that what I am doing is some kind of "art display" and that the kids have a "good time" in the back of my van playing with all the masking tape and making construction paper dogs while we drive around looking for "their" lost puppies.
White Man, I don't understand how any of you can still get upset about social problems when you've got 7 years old's being nasty but being cheered on by their pedophiliac parents. But I guess white people are a lost cause.
What about the Mexicans? A reader of mine asked me to share my thoughts about the whole anti-immigration stance Arizona's government has taken recently. I bet he thought I was as upset about the craziness as he was.
But frankly, I was just surprised by his question. Arizona has been anti-immigration for so long that the latest craziness is just lumped together with all the other shit Sheriff Joe does like his raids on public libraries and the constant "rat tat tat" of the right wing machine gun in this state.
What you brown skin sympathizers need to know so as not to worry is that The Right Wing is "fighting back" only because the brown people are slowly winning over the state and that inevitable victory is what gets the white people living here antsy.
None of this will matter soon, because all the white people will just move to Utah anyway. I just hope I haven't alienated enough of the white race that they start to consider me "brown too" when they begin their slash and burn retreat to Utah.
I have no idea what White people plan to do after they surrender Arizona, but I am guessing it involves thousands of pounds of fertilizer. I guess that because as a white man in Arizona (under the latest law) I am required to keep a few hundred pounds of fertilizer in a storage facility. The government pays for everything, so I don't mind.
And the only people who seem to mind the new law in Arizona are the Mexicans. They show up a few hundred or few thousand strong at marches and demonstrations. But they are just pissed that Abulita might get tossed back to the dirt floors of her pueblo. "Her bare feet scratching on the floor."
Nobody cares otherwise. People make jokes to their Mexican friends about taking their i.d. with them. But no one I know yet has been really hassled. Though you will see the occasional alarmist pretend that he got pulled over and asked for I.D., but since the law has yet to be put in effect I am sure the people telling stories about driving while brown are just looking for attention and sympathy from the 6 liberals that live in this state. And frankly it's kind overwhelming at this point, so can you please wait for the law to get in effect before you complain to me.
Also, you need to be placed in jail before I am going to get upset. But don't expect any sympathy from me when NaNa gets sent back across the border. She was never legal, and I have no idea how she qualified for food stamps when my broke ass making 14,000 dollars a never did.
You may want me to sympathize with your plight and join your marches because, "she has been in the USA for 50 years," but she still speaks broken English. (Though she made me some awesome tortillas the other day! Thanks NaNa!) But the thing is I don't even protest against the shit that effects me. Why I am going to stand up for you, Jew-boy?
Unlike the liberal outsiders I am not going to worry about proposed bills from the Arizona legislature. Heck, every year some idiot proposes some new law. Like the guy who thought it was a good idea to allow people to take guns into bars and clubs. You know to curb drunken violence. I am sure that law worked. I hardly ever get shot at now when I go drinking because all the gangsters now think that the rednecks are carrying concealed weapons too!
One more victory for white America.
But like I said we all know this is the "end game" here. The Mexicans may have lost the shooting war, but they are way better prepared than the white man for the population war. The Mexicans will continue to breed like good little Catholics who have never heard of Trojan condoms, and the only hope white people have of maintaining their customs is to marry some of the lighter skinned Mexican girls who feel dirty when they get in bed with a dark skinned Latino.
The truth being that Mexican women love white men more than any other race. This is a fact that I can speak to personally. My store location is 40% or more Mexican, and I get looked up and down by the middle aged Mexican women they way I look at...well let's not worry about who I am looking at...just know that these girls can't get enough of me and I have to beat them off with a stick.
So don't worry White Man. Sheriff Joe is not going to arrest you. And most likely that law wont pass muster and the Supreme Court will not allow Tempe cops to arrest NaNa. She will continue to sell her tortillas outside the grocery store, and and maybe some of her cute nieces won't get fat (if you inculcate the snobby white girl attitude into her that you love so much), and while that means they won't cook or clean for you, it does mean they will be a little dirtier in bed than your white ex wife, because we all know immigrants bring their loose morality and their indigenous promiscuity to the bedroom. Just pray you don't get the Aztec STD as I hear it takes a blood sacrifice to get rid of that one. And I hear the blood sacrifice involves 7 year old's and a strange fertility dance routine.
What I am saying is that there is no reason to panic about Race wars. Just go back to playing the Atari 2600 or if you parents are lucky enough to have bought you the 5200 then play with that. That's what I am going to do. That is until I am outnumbered and outgunned. Then I unlock the storage faculty, and hop on a bus to Utah, where we have a decent pro basketball team (even if we do have few more black people on it that necessary!)
*Best thing about the Mexican takeover? The 7 year old dance troupe video will be on prime time TV and all the grandmothers will gush how cute it is! I'm thinking Governor Terminator outta just let Arizona be the land of the pedophiles. He don't need that whole island thing when the culture that is taking over already sexualizes their children to the point that most hebophiles get uncomfortable.
If I could only get to you fuckers when all my shit is fresh then you would be eating out my hands. I still wouldn't feed you much. I like you better when you are thin and hungry.
I have a lot of work to do this weekend. I have to file an answer to a wage garnishment. I have to get a haircut. I have to buy one of those 2.5 mm to 3.5 mm headphone adapters so I can listen to V-cast videos on the Env3 when I ride the bus home.
I have to write my long term review of the Env3 and send it in to Phonedog.com as part of a plan to get a gig writing reviews.
I was going to incorporate two of my latest rants into the review of the cell phone, but both are so long forgotten that all I can remember is a tweet from one of them. It went something like, "Dear Middle class: You have been abandoned by all the political, economic, and cultural institutions of America. Please understand this. The middle class is dying. The rich have won the class war. Now it is time to blow this shit up and start over again."
That is the TELL and not the SHOW of it because I can't remember the SHOW of it anymore. So you will just have to deal with the lame crappy over handed TELL.
Again. Deal with it people.
But that whole idea got me thinking and getting pissed off at lawyers and I had a big ass rant about how they don't know anything "they just know how to look stuff up."
It's true. Ask a lawyer anything and all you will ever get as a response is "it's complicated but.."
The simpler the question you ask a lawyer the more the lawyer will look at you like your dog does when you try and explain quantum physics to him.
That's because lawyers don't know anything. Unlike say a doctor. Ask a doctor a fucking easy question and he gives you a fucking answer. Ask a doctor a difficult question and she will start telling you some shit that you can't follow even when she condescends the conversation down to your level.
Doctors are pretty smart. I bet most doctors are smarter than me. But that's not the case with lawyers. I'm probably smart enough to be a lawyer, and that should make you worry. All you need to be able do to be a lawyer is know how to look shit up.
It took me 5 minutes on the internet to find out how to answer a wage garnishment and find a way to make around 200 dollars of my income a week except. I'm sure some lawyer would have charged me two grand for that which would have made the whole thing a push and sent money from the working class to a member of the moneyed elite rather than one of the evil institutions of financial power.
Either way working people all fucking lose there!
All that got me thinking about all you posers out there with your fucking rockabilly outfits, and your fucking scarfs, and your leather pants, and all the fucking winter hats you wear in the fucking summer, and I began to want to puke on my self from the fucking retarded nature of your shit.
None of you are fucking rebels. None of you want anything other than to be nostalgic for the immediate past. You want a biographer so that you can pretend that everything you do has some kind of quasi importance. That's why you twitter yourselves every three seconds. You Facebook. You have take fucking pictures till the albums come out of your fucking ass.
None of you want to change anything. None of you want to risk anything. You are all perfectly happy chasing alternative versions of the American dream that some marketing asshole has thought up while chewing on Kraton and wearing a 134 dollar t-shirt and rocking one of those obnoxious trucker hats.
He's fucking laughing at you all the way to the bank. And you've traded away real security for access to cheaply made commodities. (I'll hyper link some this later you fuckers!)
Well at least you have lowered your expectations to getting things like the coolest cell phone and the nicest pair of shoes because that's all you'll be getting. Your gonna lose your homes. Your gonna lose your retirements. Your gonna lose your medical care. Your gonna watch as we repeat the mistakes of the 60's and 70's. Your gonna watch how we never stopped the war.
Fucking hippies. They think they stopped a war. What? 20 years too late. After we had committed genocide and determined that only a full scale nuke attack would prevent the yellow man from attacking us. Then you see all those generals getting sick of war. Suddenly they don't have the stomach to fucking wipe a race out. Now they want to leave, and all you fuckers getting mellowed out on Quaaludes thought you had something to do with that. Whatever.
Just like the fucking emo crop of losers we have now who sit back and let the volunteers kill as many Muslims as we can. We are no fucking different. We are a bunch of fucking losers.
We, Collectively that is.
Not YOU!
You are a fucking winner!
I saw you at the fucking peace rally.
Like I give a shit. This society is beyond repair. What the fuck. Go out and fend for yourself. Just don't stop at trinkets. Go get yourself something. Go on a real bender. We've got nothing to lose anymore. This is not even a society anymore. This is moral decadence that even the Nazis could be ashamed of. Our moral decay world would silence the crowd at a Roman Vomitorium.
By not knowing me in real life you missed out on the best night ever! You're just fucking blog readers so you have no idea how great it is to be my friend! I can't even describe to you what last night was like. But it was awesome!
I was in rare fucking form tonight!
I pissed off a fucking 5 tour Vietnam Veteran at the TailGate bar. I was going off on how the ruling class is "stealing all your motherfucking money." I must have pissed him off because then this mother fucker asked me the most bullshit question ever.
He's like, "what the fuck have you done to deserve fucking being an American?"
Now I should point out how I was already in a fucking shit hole of a fucking mood. I opened my mail earlier in the day to discover yet another fucking wage assignment against my paycheck. My third. More than 25% of my salary which is against federal law. Not that fucking knowing any fucking lawyers as friends has helped my fucking ass here.
So I am pissed that the worst of America is fucking going against me already, and I am ready to take on all the comers who have something to fucking say for this shit forsaken bullshit crap ass country of ours.
Now is there any of my blog friends who wants to hang with me when I am going off on a 60 year old 5 tour fucking Vietnam Vet for saving our country from them Evil Comms?
I fucking doubt it. It's fucking uncomfortable to tell off a man for killing people after he tells you that he has killed no less than 40 fucking VietKong to, "serve his country."
You have to call this man a fucking murderer.
Have you ever called someone a fucking murderer?
They don't take it fucking lightly. And this murderous asshole was no exception.
"Tonight is going to be fucking epic." I told Leif.
I know the thought was just like a thought out of a character from a Chuck Klosterman novel. And the truth is it fucking was.
Now, I know I won't be able to fucking transpose the shit that went down like Chuck would. If you feel like you have to confirm what I am telling you, just ask Kristal. She listened to maybe 10 minutes of my "epic going off." And she was not one of the recipients of my verbal blasts, she was just a lucky a bitch that got to listen to me go off on others.
"Look none of these people KNOW anything. The mere fact that they are HERE proves to me that they don't KNOW anything, because anyone who knew ANYTHING would not be HERE!" I yell into the cell phone at Kristal.
I am not screaming this so much as I am "telling it" at top of my voice. What I am doing is talking as loud as I can without seeming like I am screaming. I am doing this because the MBA bartender behind the bar is staring at me again like she can't quite figure me out. She worries about me like I am some kind of freak. Like my idea of fun is dipping my genitals in peanut butter and heading out to the local pound. But I am not just some kind of fucking Chuck Klosterman archetype. So while I think the whole idea of 66 year old forgetting her responsibilities and dipping her genitals in peanut butter and getting it on at the local pound is hot, it's not exactly my idea of fun (if you can catch the fucking David Foster Wallace allusion there...)
Weird thing about Chuck Klosterman. His arms are fucking weirdly old looking. I saw a picture of him on the internet and her was wearing a blue sweater with an untucked dress shirt beneath, it just like he described one of the characters in his work. The only thing is that he never discussed how he or the character had arms (and I am speaking here specifically of forearms) that were excessively old for this age. Like forearms that were 40 or 45 years to old on a 34 year old.
Creepy old fucking arms, dude! My arms look 10 years younger at 5 years older!
Here's my problem:
Imagine you are my friend and we are at a Chinese buffet for lunch. This has nothing to do with how Chuck loves Chinese Buffets. (Really, just a weird coincidence.)
I don't want to be at lunch with you, because the last time we talked you mentioned how "I am not such a great friend" and then you mentioned "how much of a loser I am" and how you never "asked much from me as friend" but whenever you did ask for small favors from me "I never seemed to be able to answer the call."
I won't dignify that with a response.
But I will tell you how last night I mentioned that if I ran into "one of the cats that ran the fucking world" I would break "one of the marble statues they own over their fucking heads."
I think I repeated that several times. Each time I said it louder, because the easiest way to create drama is too fucking repeat shit slowly, and louder.
"Look." I tell you.
"I don't think you want to fucking fuck with me today."
"I went head to fucking toe with a 5 tour Vietnam Veteran about how I deserved to be a fucking American more than he did."
Like I told that Vietnam Vet, Vietnam was never a threat to America. If you can't get you head around that and you want to offer me the "we won it so bug off bitch" defense then I guess you can get down with genocide you Hitler, racist, sonuvabitch.
You can see how this idea might be correct from a certain point of view. That the killing of innocent brown men is what started this country and kept it going. And they might be right. I mean I am pretty sure white people killed a lot of innocent colored people, or kept them in chains, and that was pretty much how we got this country, and how after we got this country we spent something like 750 million dollars on developing super close 5 razor blade system shavers that get closer than any single razor blade ever got in the 17th century without much of the risk that once associates with single blade shaves that one thinks about when one thinks about early American barbers and their barbaric practices like hot towel shaves.
But maybe I digress because maybe after all white people are not defending genocide but simply defending the technological advances of 5 blade systems over the the pathetic, technologically inferior shaves of our ancestors. And if this is all they are trying to do then I am taken aback with my stupidity.
But on the other hand if what they are defending is the brutal system of exploration and destruction that controls the world as we know it, then I think I am on firm ground with the WIKI of the basic causes of the Vietnam war which goes something like "we don't like democracy if the votes go against us and in favor of economic systems that 'in theory try to benefit' the masses over the ruling classes."
Instead we break down the salt of the earth in our hometowns and convince them that killing strangers with different colored skins is a good idea for democracy.
A long time ago this blog lost its edge. The blog lost its edge because it stopped being about you so much, and started being more about me. That's when you got bored of this blog, and that's when I got bored of writing for it.
Now I just write in this blog for the hell of it. I don't write for the chance to get an unpaid internship at a cell phone review site. No, I write for the chance to get pimped by some Pharmacy Tech School (via a linked key word in a buried article written some two years ago) just so I can score the hundred bucks I need for some random electronic device I want.
Shit. I'll take their money. And I'll take yours too. If you got a hundred or more dollars I can link your to your ass, and you can get the benefit of literally dozens of hits a year.
But it's your money, go ahead and waste it for all I care. You probably will. Just like the girl who wastes her time bending at the knee in full length body shots because she read how that, "elongates the body and makes you appear thin and model like."
Whatever. You still have thick, chunky thighs like the kind that Tom Landry would salivate over when he drafted middle linebackers.
You can try and hide that shit with those big ass boots and short shorts ala Miley Cyrus, but at your age no one is buying it anymore, or at the very least no one could look past your huge thighs knowing that at least the secret treasure of undisturbed, underage pussy awaited.
Or maybe those are just my hang ups written large.
All I know is that we are doomed. And no matter what we do... We are Doomed!
If we make the world a better place that just provides time for the robot takeover. The human soul is dead, and if it is not dead yet it soon will be if we let the computational man take over. Robots (and computational men) have no need for the soul they just need computation statistics and mobile phones.*
The above link is 7 pages of required reading. Here is the teaser:
Could you live your life like this? Do you know anyone who does? A report on what it’s like to live your life based on what your life’s data you’ve recorded on your computer say you should do, in theNew York Times: (link from Disinfo.com)
*If you can't read it go away. I don't need you clogging up the internet pathways (or tubes for that matter) that lead to this blog and from this blog to the truth!
In case you did not know let me tell you as loudly as I can that "we are living in a time of transition from human to the robot." We have been living in that time since Nietzsche pronounced the death of God though we did not know it then.
Back then Freddy felt it was okay to live in a decadent age like ours, because he thought that the future was at least semi-open. How sanguine. Freddy even thought we could even become masters of our fate. Who knew the father of the Holocaust could be such an optimist?
But he was wrong. The future is not open. The future is dead. And all we have to become is the humanless. All too humanless.
Miley Cyrus has a sexy new video out and I think you should check it out. And by check it out I mean masturbate to it. Unless masturbating to minors is illegal in your state. In which case I would never suggest doing things that are illegal, because from what my attorney has told me, "even suggesting to someone that they should do something illegal, can itself be illegal."
Well, isn't that a bitch?
All I can say about "that" whole idea is "that only a lawyer would come up with an idea like that." I mean just telling someone to jump off a roof when you're six shouldn't get you in trouble- even if you are the older brother.
I thought the little fucker could fly, or in any case at his weight I figured the fall would do him no harm. Like a lady bug that gets dropped from a tall plant and falls harmlessly to the ground.
I mean it's not like I had a degree in physics in the sixth grade, and I am sure my brother was old enough not to have to listen to me.
He had free will!
(According to my Pastor who spoke in my defense-god love him!)
Either way, now I have to walk around with a felony on my record. The only thing worse is that I am made to suffer from the constant watch of the authorities (all because I am the number Google search for FUCK THE FBI BY BUYING AN SVU ON CRAIGSLIST.)
Is it me or do things not seem fair in the universe?
On to less fair shit...
I'm gonna be losing my phone and internet service, because I have a lazy and incompetent roommate who avoids work like I would avoid you on the street.
In addition to the LRS (Lazy Roommate Syndrome) I have no money because I have 2 garnishments on my wages. Which is just another way of saying that if I was a naturalized Pakistani you might not want to cell me any fireworks or alarm clocks if I drive up next to you in a tinted Land Rover.
I prefer Land Rovers.
What can I say?
How about I promise that if you give me money I will buy a Land Rover, but even if I get it the windows tinted (I live in Arizona) I will not go out of my way to blow shit up.
So if in the next few weeks or months you notice I am not blogging it all has to do with the fact that I can no longer afford basic cable, phones, or even the internet.
Send me your cheap laptop!
I will need something WiFi because I plan on sleeping at the local 24hr WhataBurger, because at least they have air conditioning, and I don't because I don't have an extra 300 dollars a month to buy electricity anymore.
Are we happy Capital One?
I bet you are you fuckers!
Did I read that the SVU terrorist wanted to blow up the financial center of NY just like in Fight Club?
Maybe we should have given that guy a tutorial on ignition switches.
Like a middling rock band past their hey day you sit and type into your computer. Like those rockers you have no expectations, and nothing to prove. You know no success will come of it.
But you are not worried about the future. You never have been. The future is not real. You are Zen Buddha, motherfucker. You live only here... in the now.
But somewhere in the 21st century "living in the moment" got mixed up. You don't feel authentic even with the freedom to do nothing.
If you had any passion you'd get really angry about the second wage garnishment they just slapped on your wages. You'd go after those fuckers, or at the very least you should have put up a fight and gone to the hearing.
You could have put on a show at that court house. You could have wasted hours of the court's time talking about the shady practices of loan companies like credit card companies and student loan providers.
You. The victim of scuttle bucket efforts. Vain attempts to remain solvent in these decadent times.
But what is that sliver of truth that cuts at your mind just as you get the righteous anger of the indignant? Is it that you owe the money? That the markets and justice system are right? That society has sanctioned you, and you should accept its judgement?
Don't we live in the best of possible worlds? Who are you to cry white man? Don't the silent just whimper and die? Don't the starving masses wish for your life.
Have you not yourself asked others to get mad about something important and not the naked self interest that sits behind the mask of self pity?
"That's not a call for impotence." Some part of your mind reminds you. Funny. Some part of you mind demanding reason from you. But you are used to ignoring that part of your mind. Even the neurons that clamor for your attention in some Minskiesque show down realize how futile such a request is for you.
No. You are way past learning from your mistakes. You are just a wagon on the road. The wagon goes where the road does. Newton works his magic here.
Karma is a lot like undisturbed momentum. Maybe that's why you hate Karma so much.
I've been away from you even though I did not go to the Rave this weekend like I planned to. The rave was across town and was not easy to get to since the recession has caused public transportation on the weekends to be drastically reduced.
But back to blogging.
I will take an unusual route in our discussion today I'm going to start off by asking you a series of questions.
Have you ever sat around your house in sweat soaked socks with the full known knowledge that taking your socks off could make your less uncomfortable?
Maybe you haven't. Then maybe you have no idea what Kevin Smith is talking about in Clerks when he writes that, "I'm not the kind of person that disrupts things in order to shit comfortably."
Do you wake up with an emptiness in your heart that you can't fill? A lot of people do. Do most of those people become drug addicts?
Can you survive a double drop of E without a freakout? After you discover the vigor that double dropping e can provide, do you then chase the e with a couple of Vicodin? Just to calm shit down, you know, not because you are some kind of crazy drug addict.
Do you need answers now?
Maybe your synapses are stinging from all my questioning. Maybe I should let you go, and we should stop with all this suspicion, and maybe...just maybe the buzzing in your head... (what you have rightfully diagnosed as:) "Serotonin Syndrome" won't be fatal after all.
I say push forward.
I'm sure your good friend Fredrick would think that your "suspicious" are good for you. Of course we should ask if he knows "The Genealogy of Psychology" any better than the Scientologists do. He could be mistaken, and all this questioning may not be good for you. The truth is your brain really may be frying.
First We Should Just Face The Facts.
Some of you should not try to be drug addicts.
Just because I can get away with something, doesn't me that you can. I know you wish to follow me as I slide down the ivory tower of anomie into the pit of absurdity. But you can't. Unlike you, I am a nihilist, and so I can't encourage my (non?) beliefs on anyone.
I have left the rebellion of my 20's and entered the lost era (nihilism) of my 30's.
What's that you say?
In your twenties nihilism can be a a profound rebellion. You can discover Nietzsche and Kierkegaard and get lost in all the negative critiques of our modern age.
But your 30's require something more from you. You are supposed to be able to build from your new found existential freedom "the new man" you read about in the Genealogy of Morals. You are supposed to be a positive force for creation.
But what if there is no superman? What if our time is adrift in the nihilism like so many have posited?
What do you DO?
Maybe you take three days off from work and get loaded on E. Not even good E. And even though it was not "good" E it will be expensive. You will empty your bank accounts. And you will talk about how if you, "had saved all the money you have been spending on drugs you could have bought a car."
You will stand around a deserted apartment building quietly mocking the the nice looking couple holding hands with their toddler as he points at the dilapidated swimming pool.
You mock the couple, but later you realize that you share something in common with the little boy and his parents. Like his parents you are tired. You want to drag the little boy back into his room. And like the boy you have an urge to see wonder. To be filled with awe and worship.
And E provides the only religion you have ever known. The only spark of spirituality you have ever embraced. The only sense of wonderment you have had since you were a tiny boy yourself. E allows you to be memorized with awe. And you count yourself lucky to be human again. To be among the mortals of a lesser age. To be swept up under the tidal imagination of superstition.
"Anything must be better than being one of the automatons of today." You mutter to yourself as the little boy walks past you. A giant smile is plastered to his face. He looks up at you. And you give him a knowing wink and smile. You glance back over at the pool and he shares your glance. Then his gaze returns to his parents with a hopeful beg.
The scene is interrupted by a girl wearing colorful bracelets. She holds a package full of glittery colored pills. And you look up at her like the child of three that you are.
Don't like dialing? Then you need Google Voice. With Google Voice you just click on a telephone number from within a Google search and The Google Voice Service will call your cell phone number and connect you to the phone number on your computer screen for free.
It's a kind of cool service, and it is just one more way for me to be lazy. Also, it allows the peoplewho never do evil another opportunity to inculcate themselves into my world.
I don't know about you, but I feel all warm and cozy whenever I give a giant multinational corporation free access to my personal information.
After reading about such a wonderful service I had to have Google Voice make a call for me. So I had Google Voice call me a liquor store. I'm sure Google feels dirty, but I really wanted some beer. To be specific I wanted a 12 pack of Schlitz. And I needed peanuts. Whenever I drink Schlitz I have to have peanuts.
I bet you are shocked that I don't know the local liquor store's number by heart, or have it on my speed dial. Well... I would..., but I don't need people looking in my cell phone and finding a liquor store number and be like, "fucking liquor store in your cell phone contacts...what the fuck man?"
When you have taken as much PCP as I have you might just have a reaction to said comment and have to "decapitate a bitch" if you know what I mean.
What I am saying is that you can't really "know" how the girl you let move in with you just two weeks after meeting her at a rave will react to the fact that you "might" have a problem with alcohol.
I'm sure her Daddy was a drunk and probably let himself into her room on the weekends (when mom went to get her haircut or something) and now she feeds that need to overcompensate by fucking men twice her age- hopped up on pills and coke, but god forbid she gets a whiff of beer on your breath... because then its all over.
None of this has anything to do with the imaginary conversations I had with myself on the way to the liquor store.
The liquor store owner normally closes up at 1am on weekdays, but after I called him and explained the whole Google "thing" he was intrigued, and said something like, "if you can make it down to the store before I close up then you can get some beer," and "maybe I can make sure I will stay open if you give me one of them Google Voice invites."
I told the owner that I had only one invite left and let it be known that I was holding out for pussy (or at least pictures of pussy) before handing out my last GV invite and he said something like "whatever" which I think is Arabic for "douche bag."
But he soothed his smart ass remark over by saying, "Either way I am making 10 bucks on two six packs of Schlitz, so I'm cool."
At the store I bought 2 six packs of Schlitz and two bags of 50 cent peanuts and paid with my debit card.
I walked back to my apartment where the whole time I was having a conversation with the starting QB of the flag football team that I backup in my day dreams.
(If you are wondering why I can't even be the STARTING quarterback on a FLAG FOOTBALL TEAM in my daydreams that would require a lot of back-story as they say.)*
*I keep a Excel spread sheet of my stats from my day dream seasons. E-mail me if you want them.
The conversation was about a play where I had to take over and throw a pass on 4th down and ten.
I took the ball from under center and drifted back behind my line. A defensive man ran towards me and I shook a fake at him and hid behind the well timed block of a teammate. As I ran toward daylight I spotted my first option just past the first down marker.
My receiver threw up his arms at me, but out of the corner of my eye I say my second option streaking towards the goal line with nary an opponent in sight.
I faked a pass towards my fist option and let a long throw go towards the player deep down the field. I angled the ball slightly to the left to avoid worries about the out of bounds sidelines, and gave the ball some loft allowing it to be securely captured by my number 2 receiver. My teammate's flag was pulled down quickly just as he caught the ball.
We had the ball at the opponents 10 yard line and the starting QB comes racing back onto the field shacking his head at me.
"You've got some STONES to make that throw." He yells at me and smacks me on the helmet with both hands.
"Not really." I confess to him. "I gave it some air.. (took something off the pass to make sure the pass would be caught.)
Starting QB just laughs at me. His blond hair just visible under his helmet. 'Your a trip, old timer. A trip."
[This post is dedicated to me i-pod which has everything from music videos by Lindsay Lohan to iconoclastic you-tube lectures on Heidegger.]
If I read how one more person likes to watch movies and enjoys listening to music I am going to puke on myself. Then I am going to make you eat it off my stomach, because that's how I roll.
I roll with a giant plastic tarp attached to my truck that I lie out before you, all the while forcing down your throat the puked out residue of my intestines, all because I get sick of reading the same banal shit about how you enjoy "doing the things that are awesome," but hate "doing things that suck."
Other things that make me want to decapitate you? When you talk about how you are interested in being challenged, and how you need a man with goals. I don't have any goals. I think goals are stupid. What happens if you get all your goals before you are dead? Do you just sit there for the rest of your life wishing you had sucked at the lower levels of life more?
Life is not a video game. You are not a character from Mario Bros. You don't have to collect all the red dots before you die.
If I have to read one more personal ad about how you want a man to help you to "grow" I will be forced to grind your decapitated head into hamburger meat and feed you to your orphaned children.
Grow what? The only thing I have noticed growing on you is your ass. And now it has gotten way too big for either of us to know what to do about it.
The only thing I can think of for you is to for you to continue your junior college study of Oprah on the Lifetime Network and for me to start dating your teenage daughter. At least she puts out on the first date.
I've been going around telling people that I am on PCP.
You don't hear a lot about PCP anymore. Just a few years ago PCP was all the rage. Black men took the drug and wandered aimlessly in the streets looking for white cops to attack.
The cops would try and subdue the crazed drug addicts peacefully, but it never worked, and inevitably the poor black man on PCP would be gunned down in a hailstorm of bullets.
All this gave PCP a bad name.
But the drug is not that different from robotripping (a very popular way of getting high on cough syrup that your teenage daughter has probably tried with me.)
If you tell your friends in the Loli chat room that you "robotrip" with teen girls they don't get upset, but whenever you bring up your use of PCP they get "scared of you." In addition all your friends stop inviting you to attend their 3 year old's birthday parties.
"I make a fucking funny clown on PCP" does not get you very far with soccer moms in these days of bicycle helmets and cell phoned preteens.
You might wonder why PCP?
I like it because I don't take shit from you after I take PCP. And normally I am the kinda guy who just sits there and lets you berate him. I never yell back at you so you think what you do is okay. It's only a few hours later when I think back to what you did that I get really angry about the situation.
Whenever I see someone getting really angry it confuses me. The world goes all surreal and I can never understand why people are so upset about the things they are getting upset about.
Let me take that back.
Because that sounds like I don't get upset about stupid stuff too. I don't want you thinking that I am superhuman and above getting frustrated about the little things that bother us all.
What I don't understand is why you people explode and let loose all your emotions into my world. Like somehow getting mad at me or the world does something.
I never yell at people in public because I feel like if I get mad at a person I am making a kind of universal claim in the manner of Kant's Categorical Imperative. "It should be the case that you being out of bubble gum always allows me to yell at the clerk," or "whenever I am late to work I get to scream at the old man slowly crossing the street."
My mind can never make the jump to universalizing my emotional response, so I figure I should just keep that shit to myself.
I'm guessing none of you have a filter, a universalizing aspect to you morality, and that's why you tend to just hop around like some kind of pre 1980's PCP drug taker whenever you don't get your way about something completely unimportant.
I mean you never see people shouting in the streets about genocide or healthcare (except at tea bagging parties).
I guess that's why I'm going around telling people I'm on PCP. I want you to worry that I might go crazy over nothing. I want you to understand what it feels like (as the only moral human left) when I encounter you fucking savages at the gas station.
I'm want you to understand that you need to adopt the Categorical Imperative as a moral filter before we all lose it and I start punching you in the face all because I'm now on PCP (which ironically is quite a calm drug in a relaxing atmosphere of internal soul questing and reality testing.)
The other day I was lying on my side trying to figure out how I could keep this sensation going forever. The sensation of being inside you. Of being as close to you as humanly possible.
I remember you asking me if what I had told you "about always wanting to be with you" was true, or just something I came up with after you told me how you wanted me "to be inside you forever" and that you wished that "time could stop" and that the moment we were in "could be heaven" and how you hoped "that this feeling would go on forever."
I think you became convinced that I was not telling you the truth because my response went something like, "Uh, huh."
I guess I was a little stunned my your admission. Maybe I was even a little frightened by it. What can I say?
Though I should tell you that you have nothing to be worried about. That in fact I was saying the very same thoughts in my brain that you were confessing out loud.
Only there were a lot of other things that were happening to me at the moment that you were confessing to me that your idea of heaven was my penis inside your vagina.
Our two naked bodies were rubbing against each other on E.
I was thinking, "My god, how true that is."
But I was also thinking, "That's kinda strange, I barely know you."
I was also experiencing something very close to an orgasm without release. It's a very strange state to be in for 1 1/2 hours. A non-vocal state if you think about it. So don't be concerned about a response that in your opinion, "was nothing more than a grunt."
I may have told you that you were overreacting. You did not overreact to my response.
I am only saying (hopefully a little better than before) that the thing about women is that your heart, your emotional centers, and your sex drive are all language based.
This make communicating with your gender very difficult. Even for those men that have acquired some language skills.
So I wrote this to remind you that we are not all wired the same. And that fact shouldn't worry you. You should just accept my answer as honest now that you know my true heart feelings.
I'm going to quit my job and move in with you if you want. We can just make love all day in your commune's bathroom. If you want I will start wearing the kind of clothing you wear.
You love wearing those long, flowing tie dye skirts. You enjoy looking like you were cast in a movie from 1969. And if you feel more comfortable that way, then so do I.
I am not the kind of person who rolls over you after sex just to question your "after sex smoke" all because you eat vegan, and look skinny, and talk about being healthy like it is some kind of new religion.
Maybe you don't know this, but we are all going to die.
I think that life is like a video game. That even if you beat the Donkey Kong arcade game and get a million points and finish the 39th level- some one unplugs your machine.
I guess what I am trying to say is that at some point all of our high scores get deleted.
I'm no more okay with that idea than you are. But I am not going to fool myself into believing that I know why people die. I don't think for a second that the flat bellied kids running around at 3 am to get their workouts will out live me.
They might. But I have not seen the science behind the idea. Maybe you should just accept the idea that we can't know for sure and then you can stop texting me to grill fresh salmon & zucchini "n have a Sam Adams" when you know all I have to eat is 3 day old broiled catfish that wrinkled up in the toaster oven, canned vegetables, and 3 bottles of Zima that are no longer cold because you left them out on the patio.
I decide to have a beer before anyone gets here. To keep my beer cold I wrap it tightly in a blue and white Dallas Cowboy's beer cozy.
I decided to have a beer so that way I would seem chipper. I like for my guests to be at ease around me, and the best way for me to create that sense of well being for others is for me to be intoxicated.
2 hours before I wrote that.
"You should write something funny on your blog." Leif says to me while we strummed through the women's section of Target looking for bikinis with the birthday girl.
Leif is wearing a size 7 womens jean.
"Is it because Men's "skinny" jeans aren't tight enough on you?" I ask.
"Exactly." He giggles as he wanders off.
I find the perfect sun dress while searching in the brightly lit aisles. The dress is faded orange. Something about the color suggests a meth addicts "lounging" wear to me. Its terry cloth material would be high class white trash living.
"I want to get a meth addiction just so I can lounge around in this." I tell to no one, but loud enough so that Leif can hear me over in the next aisle.
My find brings Leif back to me.
"I love it." He tells me. "I want to get a meth addition with you and wear terry cloth sun dresses and hang out at the pool with a pipe and a giant can of Raid getting baked in the sun.
I tell Leif that the sun will dehydrate him and that dehydration will only exacerbate the bug problem he is bound to get as a meth addict.
"Fuck it." I say.
"We'll get two cans of Raid."
"Miss." I hear Leif yelling at the girl with a generic Target red t-shirt on. "Where can I get a big ass giant can of Raid. I've got bugs."
The girl just shrugs at him, "That's not my department." She says. "This is the woman's department." She adds. I guess she adds that comment to emphasize that 2 men shouldn't be in the Women's department at Target fingering the bikinis.
I put my fingers through a pair of bottoms and I tell Krystal that this is the closest I have gotten to pussy in 7 years.
"Your funny, Pops." She quips. "You should try to be funny on your blog."
I refuse to give in to all the happy people of the world and their demand that I be happy and keep them happy. "I don't want to be funny on my blog." I tell Krystal. "There are already too many happy people out there already."
"There are?" Kristal's voice raises two octaves higher. A couple of pregnant women walk between us.
After the women pass Leif says, "Have you noticed how many pregnant women go to Target?"
I say, "When I think pregnant women, I think Target."
That's why I buy as much stuff as I can from Target. Also, in case you wondered about the strange guy who followed you around at Target staring at your belly. Don't worry. I was following you around. I had half a boner when I looked at you too. 'Semi-erect' is the phrase I think.
You preggo women should get pissed at your husband when he tells you that it "is just your imagination,"... "that men are not looking at you in that way."
He's known all along that it's true, but he thinks that telling you it's all in you head is doing you some kind of favor. That your not strong enough to handle the truth. That you will miscarry over the fact that some men find you erotic. I know better than that. Meet me over in the changing room and we can find out how much.
But I digress.
There is a birthday party tonight and I made cupcakes. The frosting has melted and the cupcakes look kind of sad.
I chose to use strawberry cake mix and I topped the cupcakes with vanilla frosting because only the vanilla frosting had candy sprinkles.
I have not finished my first beer. My roommate has drunk 10 of the 24 pack I bought. I think he is going to want to hang out in the living room because when he gets drunk he gets social. I am fearful what reaction that will cause from the rest of the party goers.
Though now that I think about it almost all the party goers cancelled. I guess they had plans and those plans don't include birthday wishes for a friend.
That kind of thing makes me sick. I think birthdays are a big deal. It's the one day that is supposed to be about you.
Thought in the end birthdays end up with you being alone in the bathtub lighting candles that grandma sent you for Easter, forgetting that you are Jewish and that you don't celebrate Christ, and that even though your birthday is the same day as Easter you would like something other than Jesus candles.
For some reason you get excited every birthday when you open the box only to quickly deflate back to feeling like shit, a feeling only compounded by all the pregnant women walking around who's protruding bellies only remind you that at least one guy wanted to fuck them without a condom at least once which is more than the three of us could say (a comment best summed up by Leif when he said that) "How come everyone else has found love, but not me and you?"
After hearing Leif moan about my loves troubles and his, Kristal complained that she had not found love either. I reminded her that I had asked her out a "dozen or more times" and that the only reason she has no one "was that I am not good enough for her."
Awkward silence.
My reply to that was that no one wanted to hang out with me on my birthday, and that I was not even invited to the pre-birthday dinner that he attended with Krystal, "Which makes me the saddest and loneliest person here."
I must have been right because there was more silence. What followed as an opportunity for me to remind everyone that I have not been laid in 8 years.
I expected more silence, but instead Leif turned up the sound system. "Can you feel my sub-woofers?" He asked. "I love sub-woofers!"
