Fattys Must Pay

Put down your Egg McMuffin’s and tune in, this ones for you fattys. In America, we have a great system of freedom and punishment. You are free to do what you want as long as you are willing to take on the punishment of your actions. Smokers can smoke (At least for the next couple years), drinkers can drink (Irish unite), and fattys can stuff their piehole’s with, well, pies.

We have a severe problem in America with healthcare. You see if you don’t work, don’t make any money, and suckle on the tit of Uncle Sam (Dude has huge areolas by the way), you can’t get healthcare insurance. At least that’s my take on it. I notice that smokers pay higher premiums than non-smokers. This makes sense since they will be dying soon by slipping in a puddle of their own phlegm and choking on their own lung lymphoma. But why don’t we make fattys pay more for insurance. This is pretty easy. No tests to take, no mouth swabs, just use your peepers. If the patient has 3 chins, gets winded getting up on the exam table, or tries to eat the tongue depressors, then they are red stamped on their chart and maybe their forehead for good measure.

Why can’t we do this? Because we don’t want to offend the fattys of America. After all, they stimulate the economy with their insane insuppressible appetite for food and Lane Bryant sales.

Cracker Monkey

At what point did we become completely inept at discerning reality? I am writing this while eating one of my favorite snacks, Animal Crackers. So I look at the bag and notice numerous omissions and downright mis-truths. This is bothersome because I do not like to be lied to, especially by a monkey hanging from the “S” in “Crackers”. Let’s start right there, shall we? These are NOT “Crackers”. These are cookies. Anyone who thinks crackers have nonfat milk in them should be forced to eat Ritz crackers in a cereal bowl for breakfast. But “Cracker” sounds so much more healthy (If not a bit racist) than cookie.

Now the previously mentioned monkey is holding a balloon that says “Low Fat”. Really? So you’re telling me these “Crackers” are actually good for me? Sweet….err I mean salty, after all they are “Crackers”. Flip the bag over though and 1 serving gets you 10% of your daily carb count but no fat. Last and least are the warnings. When did Animal “Crackers” need a warning? Aren’t they about the most non-threatening snack ever made? Even the Lion looks like he parties with the kids. But since we have produced a mountain of mutant children (Thanks to our lack of Darwinism), we have to tell you that there are trace amounts of peanuts and tree nuts in these. I thought we established that these are “Crackers”? What “Crackers” have peanuts in them? I smell a conspiracy. I think Congress must subpoena the monkey and have him testify to the fact that these are not “Crackers” but in fact cookies.

Note – I consumed approximately 25 “Crackers” while writing this and have used up 25% of my daily carb intake. Fucking lying monkey!

Story For Today

Allow me to set the scene like a Shakespearian Maestro.....

Your humble narrator is walking down a downtown street in "Any City", USA and is approached by a fine, upstanding street citizen. Let's listen in.....

Citizen Dirt - "Do you have any change?"

{Narrator digs around in pocket and jingles numerous coins in his hand for effect}

Narrator - "Actually, yes I do"

{Narrator continues walking past Citizen Dirt}

The End

I Know How Lance Bass Feels

For once, the crazy butt cheek puckered liberals of America may be right. Hold your gasping breath gentle reader for I have said the ghastly simply to prove a point.

So here I am, finishing up the last leg of a truly great American pastime; Selling something on EBay. The process is so delectably simple. Post your ad, pay your fees, wait, wait, wait, sell item, print shipping label, box and mail the item. Ahh, that last one gets a little hairy. Since my box is just slightly heavier than 16oz drop weight, I have to take it to the local Post Office (I realize I could take it almost anywhere to drop it off but I am lucky enough to work across the street from the oldest Post Office in town. It’s quite quaint and charming, more on that in a second).

I stroll in to the light morning air and across the busy downtown street to the sight of many metaphorical killing jokes. Through the golden doors, which interestingly are automatic even though the doors must be 80 years old, and into the lobby where upon a metal detector has been installed. I am all for safety and hate terrorism just as much as the next patriot but this seems a little much. No bother, I empty my pockets and place my non-ticking box on the conveyor belt. Now gentle reader, I know you will be shocked to here that the detector went off, alerting everyone to my evil plot of mailing an inert package. After a brief wanding and a latex enema, I am on my way. America is safe. Of course I cannot just drop off my package. No, packages might contain 2 tons of manure and ammonium nitrate, so I get to wait in line for 10 minutes to tell the lady that I have removed all plastic explosives from the box before I taped it up.

Is this really necessary? Is a medium sized city’s Post Office really a target for anything other than nerdy stamp collectors? Do we really need this much protection? I for one emphatically say yes. Now excuse me while I pull that latex glove out of my ass.

Sorry About That

So that last post about a month ago not only wreaked of effort but it was also a month ago. I am working on a more consistent approach for my devout reader (Singular, please note that). So here goes.......

Metro Pimp Player

Rollin on four-four’s wit no tread
Up and down da block like Barney and Fred
Kidneys bouncing cuz I couldn’t afford
The shoes to go on my ’86 Ford

I spew rhymes like a cunning linguist
Vocabulary so limited
Nothing rhymes with Linguist
Dammit

My condo is blowin up from the heat
Of a hot day, A/C is nothing but an extra treat
500k doesn’t go a long way
Here in LA

I’m a Metro pimp player
Matching khakis with my I-Pod, Love that John Mayer
Head bouncing, like I’m in the groove
Real gangstas comin up the street so I better move
To the other side before they shank me
Headin to the clinic to test for the HIV

I’m a Metro pimp player

Buyin rounds of cosmos at the local pub
Braggin on my new double dubs
Ho’s think I’m harmless
Guys think my hairs a mess
They don’t understand it’s the new style
Of the metro pimp player

I’m a dying breed among the uninitiated
Maybe its time for a new look
Emo, Punk, and grunge are so played out
The metro pimp player is what I’m all about

Germaphobes

Bird Flu, AIDS, and Herpes of the mouth have nothing on this new disease of the mind. I have never seen so many intelligent people fall victim to something so utterly stupid in my life. Tulips and internet stocks had more legitimate reasoning than germaphobia. You see it everywhere, public places, restrooms, doting moms.

Of course my favorite is the public restroom. The germaphone goes into the bathroom without touching the handle on the door, does their business, washes up, uses the towel to open the door back up, but never thinks about all the bacteria in the air; the bacteria that is hundreds of times worse than bacteria on porcelain (Which has been proven to be minimal). Maybe a gas mask would be in order.

The other is the mom who is constantly cleaning their kids with anti-bacterial soap, wipes and acid baths. The kid needs to be exposed to germs or they will never develop an immune system. I say let the kid be Farmer Fred and go pick some nose goblins. Then swallow them down with the pride of a fat man at an all you can eat Crisco buffet.

Another I-Cubed Sighting

Today I saw an I-Cubed attempt to use a gas station water hose to fill his tires with air.

Idiotic-Idiosyncratic-Idioms

Every so often you get to see the not so rare and beautiful city dwelling species; the Idiotic-Idiosyncratic-Idioms (From her out referred to as the “I-Cubed”. I saw two such species on my way through the thickly overgrown streets of downtown. The first was in his most natural of habitats; the oversized truck. This particular fauna was an older male with the normal gray markings on its head and the usual white coffee cup in one hand. He was maneuvering his chariot looking for a place to leave it while he attended to his ritualistic daily patterns. However this particular parking lot has two entrances. One has a very obvious tollbooth and a sign saying “Public Entrance”. The second has no tollbooth, a card reader, a large gate, and an extremely large sign that says “Monthly Parking Only” with more verbage to the fact that daily public parking was down the road at the other entrance.

This I-Cubed pulled right up to the gate marked “Monthly Parking” and began to stare wildly at the card reader. He probably mistook it for a mate but one can not be sure. During this long break from his usual caffeinated induced drudgery, two cars pull up behind him waiting to get in. At this point the I-Cubed realizes he cannot get in by hitting the card reader with his dinosaur bone and attempts to back his chariot out. After nearly hitting the car behind him, he begins to use his distress call and puts his chariot in reverse. The two cars behind him realize they have an I-Cubed on their hands, attempted to back out of the driveway. Unfortunately for all, this particular street is quite busy and neither car can back up. At this point the I-Cubed begins to resemble a hominid in heat and begins to beat on his chariot’s steering wheel with ruthless abandon, sending blaring calls through the skies of the urban jungle.

Fearing for my life, I begin to pick up my pace. I know from experience that these episodes can get extremely dangerous. After a block I looked back as the I-Cubed shook its hairy paw and roared out it’s window.

Shit If I Know

Why does everyone tap their watch when the battery dies? Are they trying to wake up the watch fairy?

My Daily Walk

I always wonder what I am going to write about in this Blog. Today was no exception. Every day I try and get out of my office downtown and take a walk. It gives me a little exercise and I get to see some great fodder. First I head down the elevator. This is usually an experience but luckily there was only a co-worker with me. Of course this is someone I have never talked to in my life who figures its important to make idle chit-chat. I’m not a fan of talking for talking’s sake. It’s only 30 seconds of silence, would it kill you to keep your trap shut?

So I roll out of my daily abode and across the street to hit the bank. I have to pay for parking so I have to make this trip once a week. I walk by “Cesar Chavez Park”. Yes they named a park after this tyrant but I digress. Let the fun begin.

The first person I come across is a 200 lb girl who somehow wedged herself in what appears to be a teal, chiffon evening dress. Not a pretty sight. And of course I am behind her. Then I see her shoes. Picture a donkey hoof sitting on top of a popsicle stick with a 10 penny nail sticking out the bottom. The scariest part is I noticed some guys checking out this oompa loompa. Shudder to think.

Next comes the random old man sitting in a fold out chair on the corner of a busy street. Then the typical white garbage in his lovely sweat stained wife beater. Follow this up with another dreg of society coming out of a Subway telling everyone not to go in there “Cuz they a bunch of motherfucking faggots.” Of course he has his four year old girl in tow. Followed by the hundred’s of well dressed lobbyists around the Capitol. And last but not least, the two fully tattooed and pierced gentlemen talking about one of them trying to get a promotion; most likely at the local Carl’s Jr.

And some wonder why I go on these walks.

I Wonder

You ever notice that the handicapped bathroom stalls all flush with more force than the other stalls? Do Handis naturally have bigger droppings?

The Cost of Stupidity

At what point do we look at ourselves and say, “Wow, I am a dumb fuck”? Of course that will never happen to me due to my incredible level of intelligence, narcissism and general good looks. However it needs to happen to a lot of people. Let the diatribe light up.

I was watching one of the many “Reality” shows about rich and mildly retarded but fully siliconed girls. This one was called “Daddy’s Spoiled Little Girl”. I won’t even bore you with the mundane details of how they spent $19k on 3 snowmobiles that they will never ride or the 100k they gambled in Tahoe in a weekend. No these two 30 year old girls (I use the term girls more to describe their mental capacity then their age) live off of daddy and have nothing to show for it. Neither of them could construct a coherent thought with both their brains yet they have what many intelligent people want: money.

Which leads me to that annoying little saying; “It’s not the destination but the journey.” These two dunder-sluts will never know happiness outside of their tiaras. They will never know the joy of accomplishing or creating. Of course they will know the heartbreak of one night stands and STD’s, but that’s another story.

The New National Pastime

I never understood the reasoning behind why baseball is considered the “National Pastime”. Back in the 1920’s, when the only thing to do was watch baseball and bake pies, I could see its allure. However, in the present day, it is obvious that baseball ranks right down there with jumping rope and listening to Al Franken.

This is why I think we should no longer call baseball the national pastime. I am here forth, petitioning that the new national pastime be: Mowing down a Big Mac while driving your SUV and yapping on the cell phone. It can even be a sport. We could call it the Obnoxilon. Which is short for Obnoxious, annoying, selfish – athlon. We would rule the Olympics in this sport. Of course it would take 20 years for the athletes to be whittled down to only the top 10 in America but what a glorious moment it would be to see our finest big mouthed, obese, self-loathing Americans on the medal stand.

Society's Degradation

Offices are the crux of our society. They are where we all come together; people of differing backgrounds and cultures. It is the perfect microcosm of why America currently sucks.

To the guy who listens to the radio 2 notches too high: This isn’t a street corner and you’re not in your Impala with the 15’s bumping. Turn it down.

To the chick who thought the all you can eat fried platter would be a good lunch choice: You aren’t at your previous job at Long John Silver’s, I don’t want to smell like a Mexican Restaurant the rest of the day.

To the two jackholes who think it’s funny to shoot rubber bands at each other: This isn’t third grade. Grow up you freaking delinquents.

To the entire department I share a printer with: Either print your 250 page report somewhere else, or at least come and get it sometime in the next couple hours. This isn’t your kitchen sink piled high with dishes, others need to use it.

To the wandering guy who talks to everyone constantly: Get to work or go home, this isn’t a singles bar nor is it a poetry reading.

To the speakerphone girl: I know you don’t lift weights at home but is it so hard to pick up the receiver before dialing? I don’t want to hear the ringing or the yapping.

To the guys who are supposed to send out the same important email everyday but constantly forget: You send it every flipping day, how do you forget 3 days a week? Do you forget your kids in the car 3 days a week or to feed your dog 3 days a week?

We live in a society here people. It’s not all about you.

Barista Bashing

If the barista at Starbucks puts the opening of my lid over the seam of the cup again, I am going to rip the ring out of her nose and plant it in her forehead.

Tramp Stamps

Ahh, teenage rebellion, is there anything quite as cute and stupid? Our parents used to wear really tight jeans that you needed pliers to zip up. Then it was really hardcore to get something other than your ears pierced. And now that we find prison art to be so passé’, girls are going that extra mile to make themselves stand out from the adult crowd and fit right in with their peers. Yes, nothing says “I am different” than doing exactly what your friends are.

Of course I am talking about the phenomenon of girls getting tattoos above their ass-crack. Whether you call it “Fart Art”, “The Cum Target”, or my personal favorite, the “Tramp Stamp”, it’s still the same thing. Lame! Come on girls, how many of you are going to get a butterfly or a rose permanently planted above your brown-eye? It simply isn’t rebellious. In fact it’s pretty sad and pathetic. Our society cannot continue to try and one up itself every generation. What’s next, forking your tongue? Oh wait, that’s being done to. Why don’t teens just cut off their heads and let Darwinism take affect?

You! Yeah, you with the 63 tattoos, 24 piercings, and shallow sense of self worth, get your pin cushion face and your Crayola scribbled body out of the gene pool so there is more room for us.

Long Time, No Drivel

You could say I have been on vacation for a couple weeks. You would be dead wrong though. In all actuality, I got a new job and have had zero time to update this. Of course I have a little time at home but this is not an at-home blog. This is an “I am bored at work and feel like yapping about stuff that is completely unimportant to everyone but me” blog. Therefore, you can now welcome me back with the praise and fanfare I so duly deserve.

So I have this new job. It’s at one of those newer style financial places. Not a brokerage but more of an Institutional Investor. I’ll let that fly over your head and splatter on the wall for a second. Great! Now this place is filled with mostly mid to late twenties people. Of course along with that demographic goes a few types of people. There are the corporate wannabe’s, the happy-go-luckys and the fresh out of college kids. Then there is my least favorite……..

The “I am just smart enough to get a good job but I don’t want anyone to take me seriously so I will wear my shittiest clothes to work everyday and go undercover, incognito.” Jack-hole. You know the guy. Whenever a big fish client or upper management is in the office, the front reception sends out the “Make sure and dress nicely” email. Of course this douche still comes in his Saturday morning worst with his frayed jeans, oversized button up t-shirt, and his nicest pair of gym shoes. I want to just come up behind him and put my fist through his skull, dig around for the brain inside, find nothing and walk away.

It’s like they need a map through life to keep from falling of the planet.

MySpace or Pathetic Losers

What is the point of MySpace? I'm a 28 year old married man with a 4 year old son. I have about 10 close friends not including my wife's friends. I barely have time to see or talk to them. I am certainly not the busiest guy I know and I rarely spend as much time with friends and family that I would like. So why in the hell do people join MySpace? From what I understand, it is just a website that you list your interests and other things about yourself that no one particularly cares about. Then random people that know your friend's-sister's-dog's-long lost uncle post things on your page. Then, voila, you have a new friend that you may say one thought to, and will never actually see in person. What is the point of this? Is it to say that you have umpteen online non-existent friends? While you are building hundreds of superficial relationships, I am trying to cut back on my real life friends because I don't have enough time for them.

Why Stereotypes Exist

Stereotypes. Say it slowly, s-t-e-r-e-o-t-y-p-e-s. To the uneducated it sounds like a trip to the local Circuit City. To the over-educated it's a sign of ignorance. To me it's a useful tool. Let me explain.

Stereotypes are frowned upon by our society. Whether it is based on skin color, religion, or some sort of physical appearance, everyone in our politically correct world thinks that it is wrong. Unfortunately it is something we cannot control. The human brain and psyche is based upon repetition. The more we do something, the better we get at it. The better we get, the more efficient we become and free up our brains for other things. So if the first 5 times we ever meet a fast food employee and they are slow and gruff, we assume the next time that we see one, they will be the same. It keeps us from having to go through the process of forming an opinion about them, which takes time and brain power. Thus freeing up our thoughts to think about the upcoming weekend or the inner workings of quantum physics.

So you can see that stereotypes are innate in the human psyche. However, are stereotypes true? Well to some degree they are. There is a statistical theory that involves a minimum number of participants in order to obtain accurate results. This theory goes hand in hand with stereotypes. If enough people of a certain group do a certain thing, it is statistically accurate to assume that they will possess these characteristics. Maybe we are looking at things wrong. Maybe the stereotype of white trash men beating their wives is true. But instead of one white trash guy not beating his wife, and thusly breaking the stereotype, maybe he simply isn't white trash. Maybe, just maybe the stereotypes are true but we incorrectly pigeon hole people into a cultural group that they don't belong in.

After all, stereotypes exist for a reason.