I want a higher standard of criminal. I want more efficient and clean criminal activity. No unintended casualties, no stray bullets, no botched jobs and no errors. I don't even want there to be arrests. I want the guy who murders me one day to do it flawlessly. Why would I want that? Well presently I do not want to be murdered at all. But if I have to go, I want it to be at the hands of an assassin that has the industry equivalent of a PhD in murder.
My murderer will know everything that there is to know about the subject of murder and will have synthesized it into something meaningful for the rest of his colleagues. Now in the twilight of his career he is even conducting his own personal investigations into how he can further improve his craft. Or maybe it's a she assassin. Her hands will be so practiced and so careful that I will hardly feel a thing. She will have studied whatever patterns I have, so as to perfectly predict when I'll be leaving the burger joint where I have my mushroom and swiss burger cooked medium rare with jalapenos and jalapeno aoli. She will close my eyes and whisper rest in peace as I die from the untraceable poison she has stealthily administered to me while pretending to be my server. She'll catch me as I'm collapsing on the pavement and lower me down easily, now in her perfect disguise. She'll cover her nostrils so as not to smell the jalapeno fumes mixed in with my dying breaths. Then she'll slip from the scene without leaving a single clue or piece of evidence.
Like all women that come to know me, she'll lament that she never got to experience being with me in bed. These are the steep prices that all professionals must pay alas. Or perhaps she'd make an oil painting of my final moments from memory and then sell it on the black market to some guy that collects images of recently dead people. He'll buy it and stare at it in his art gallery with his big bug eyes. Always muttering gently to himself about the unrivaled beauty of expiration. The perfection of the image amazes the creepy collector. For him the idealized dead body portrait should have a gaping mouth and a confused while slightly aroused facial expression. Everybody is in to something after all.
I want to be done in the way I've described, by the master assassin or alternatively I'll accept being stabbed by a homeless maniac wielding a nasty shard of glass that he pilfered from the sewers. Sure it will hurt, but hopefully I'll have enough time and mental capacity to convert it into a very ironic bit before I die. Because you know that a homeless man stabbing a random stranger with a doodoo covered piece of glass while ranting about an alien invasion is a bit that you want to experience. If for no other reason than to experience humanity at its finest. If I happen to be famous at that point, all the better! Maybe the public will actually care about homeless people afterwards, though I doubt it.
But why do I want for criminals to be more skilled and to make less mistakes? Won't that make the world more dangerous? No it will not, it will make the world safer. It is way too easy to become a criminal. What if becoming a surgeon only required a community college certificate? Having surgery would become a terrible choice unless you had done extensive background checking on your surgeon. In the same way, the standards of what it takes to be a criminal are not high enough. It's a terribly hard life to be a criminal, but far too easy to become one. The only thing that is easier than becoming a criminal is becoming a restaurant worker. Which is why reformed criminals work in your favorite restaurants alongside the mentally ill and sadomasochists. When all you have to do is reach the mindset of whatever I have is much less than what I want and I have no legitimate means to lessen that difference, yeah you're going to have a lot of criminals in that society. Isn't there a way to prevent such thinking? Yes, there are two ways: education and eugenics.
Eugenics is the method that our psychopathic leaders and environmentalists secretly jerk off to. I jerk off to that earlier paragraph that I wrote about my death because like I said, everyone is into something. Less people equals less pollution for the for the environment so yay we get to feel heroic as we curtail the population. Politicians secretly love it because it will give them the ultimate power trip boner of killing whoever they want without any repercussions. In the old days they just started a war and amped everybody up on patriotism when they wanted to clean out the over crowded streets of our major cities. Oh wait, they still do that. In fact America is never not looking to start some shit. America is the giant post puberty kid that doesn't have any friends to play with on the playground so he just waits around for the four square ball to bounce his way so that he can punt it over a fence. The other kids tell on him and he laughs all the way to detention while the teacher, God, goes to retrieve the ball. Except in real life the four square ball is a full scale invasion that yields control of a smaller countries' natural resources.
I do love America with all my heart, its just that shes not always as perfect as I would like her to be. So I have to admit that the invasion happy USA is really in to doing some criminal shit. If our government is able to get away with atrocities, then why can't the common criminal? Well there are plenty of reasons, but the most important one to me is that the lowly criminal doesn't spend enough time planning and working out the finer details of his/her operation. Criminals should commit crimes the way that our government does. Quietly and with an incredibly detailed plan. They should study law enforcement religiously and never partake in ventures where they do not already have a prepared legal defense. You know, like our government.
Just why does the criminal mind have to result in such terribly unsubtle outcomes? Because the wrong criminals are on the job. Amateurish criminals never finish a job without causing some catastrophic news fallout. Isn't the point of turning to criminality to earn lots of money in a short amount of time by doing illegitimate things while not getting caught? Well yes that's the point and the criminal type that I'm advocating would do just that. They would also be inclined to eliminate their competition for contracts. This means killing off all the low level goons that practically advertise their criminality. To bring in to focus just how useless the average criminals are that get caught, answer this question for me: If your best friend came to you with the idea that you two could make a ton of money by doing a few simple things, but that you would never be able to make a single life decision for yourself again, would you still get married? Bet you didn't see that swerve coming aye? That's the choice that the amateur criminal makes when they enter the criminal services industry. That's the name that I've assigned to it and I really hope that it sticks.
Let's re-frame this discussion with a confession that should come as no surprise to anyone. I have absolutely no clue as to how to commit any serious crimes. I would not have the nerve or desire to rob someone and I certainly could not kill anybody. But even I could figure out that the dinosaurs weren't killed off by a gluten allergy and too many waffles. “Come again?” You say and lean forward. What I'm saying is that someone out there does know how to kill and not get caught and could train you, aspiring criminal to do the same thing. Apprenticeships are a brilliant way to start any career. You get all the knowledge of the trade and the practical experience the whole way through your training. What is better than that?
So why don't murderers, thieves and pimps apply the same system to their chosen practices? The world is ready for the stress free hiring of a hooker. She gets her money and takes every precaution to not contract an STD. You get your willie or cooter worked and take every precaution to not contract an STD. You enjoy the experience so much that you begin to think of her and her pimp as service providers and respectable members of a thriving industry. Wouldn't that be much better than the actual world of rotting privates on drug addict broads forced to work everyday until death by exhaustion, overdose or serial killer slashing? All of that could become reality by having the best of the best criminals self govern themselves and only allow high level masters of the criminal trades into common practice.
Now I've already mentioned that the criminal life is hard and the circumstances that lead to criminal behavior are even harder. So I think that when criticizing this group of people you need to have some sensitivity. I've never been desperate. Period. I have put forth great efforts to keep myself afloat and I've tightened my finances to get by plenty of times. But I've never known the kind of grinding poverty that leads to a life a crime. I've never really known poverty. So I'm not judging criminals.
I'm only saying that if you are desperate and you need money fast and in large amounts, well the grinding poverty that is inspiring you to act quickly should inspire you to plan in great detail. In a sense, criminal behavior is a slow suicide. What sort of things make people take swan dives out of 8 story buildings? Frightening financial developments, a broken heart, hopelessness and an inability to overcome whatever circumstances that are making you hopeless. So what sort of things make people turn to crime? Well in my mind, all of those same things. A very simplified version of the solutions for people who want to commit suicide are the long term planning, goal making and treatment. None of which are fast solutions. But there really isn't a fast solution to either problem. So where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the really elite criminals should form secret corporations and should buy out or exterminate the lesser criminals. It's the American way!
To be honest, sometimes there are very criminal things that the world could use. There is a galaxy sized market out there for the untraceable crime and the uncatcheable criminal. The illegitimate money could be laundered into legitimate businesses and bada bing bada boom now you're no longer a desperate criminal in grinding poverty but a respectable business man. That being said, unless you just prefer a life of danger and destruction, why not just master something legitimate? They both take the same time to really get good at, and one you can do all your life even somewhat carelessly and the other has the highest stakes in the game, your life and your freedom. But maybe your favorite food is waffles and you just recently developed a gluten allergy so life doesn't seem like its worth living anymore. Who knows what you'll do now you poor wayward soul.
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Comedy Story: Terrible Business Owners
In life it's always good to be certain of what you are thankful for. Equally important is to realize what you don't much care for. This post is devoted to something that I would hate with all the unbridled rage of Hell's finest Cerberus dogs, if I could really hate something/someone. I'm talking about the useless, ego-maniacal owners of failing businesses. Not all failing businesses have ego-maniacal owners, but a lot of them do.
Now the position of ownership is mandatory. This I know. I also appreciate the gravity of having the livelihood of so many people rest in your very sweaty, trembling palms. The only problem is that too many business owners do not understand that gravity. While the rest of us are firmly grounded on the soil, they float around like a lackadaisical Superman in the clouds. If you know the type, then you also know that they do in fact think of themselves as super heroes. In these comics the super hero has all the power in the world to make things right but always decides to blame shift and do nothing. Too many owners are bumbling chuckle fucks who go around destroying lives with the fully liberated willy nilliness of the relapsed alcoholic at a two dollar shots night at the bar. Without the inevitable crushing depression and near death experiences.
Dear fuck face, Sole Proprietor of failing business. Why can't you just pick a direction and go with it? If you want an uppity snooty booty club then don't have a fucking taco night. If you want a taco night, then buy a taco bell. That's not prestigious enough for you? Well hire a fine dining chef and tell her to do what she does best but with Mexican food. Will your chef be able to pull this immense creative task off? Doesn't matter either way because you'll fire the gal for a typo in a hastily sent email anyway.
Don't take over a private club and introduce kids night if you don't have any kids in the membership. Oh you have a kids of your own and you'd like to build that into the business model? Well carry on then you selfish unmitigated asshole. Who cares about all the members who don't want to share space with a bunch of screaming brats? Sure they pay the membership fees that keep your doors open but don't worry too much about that. Just do you baby.
Don't try to convert your snobby club into a high volume public restaurant with mass appeal. Don't lower your membership fees. If your members wanted to hang with the icky grimy scoundrels from the lower classes then they would not have been paying exorbitant amounts of money to dine and drink separate from them in the first place. Proportional to the rest of the population only a few wrinkly old rich people really like golf, Eggs Benedict, and Transfusion cocktails that much. Although, from personal experience the transfusion is just so delicious. It should really be a cocktail with more mass appeal than it does. Vodka, grape juice and ginger ale as the only ingredients how could it not be good? But that's neither here nor there.
What is your first instinct when you decide to improve your business? If you're the kind of owners that I'm thinking of, it's to fire everyone that kept the business going in the first place. I realize it makes you feel like a super powerful badass to fling loyal employees into financial hardship but what about your actual profit margin? Have you somehow made so much money that you don't even need the business to make a profit anymore? So now you hang on to the business as your personal torture device for random people that come to work for you. I guess that makes sense if you've never heard of bdsm. You'd save money and get to actually fuck someone instead of just fucking careers.
Dear dumbass, why do you fire people as your moods dictate? To some extent, I can see how that could happen to any of us. We're only human and if we're honest, nothing is more important than saving face. For some people that is. For terrible owners, saving face is the only important thing. Terrible owners already consistently do not pay attention to what is going on in their business. So they have no clue which employees are important and which ones they would be heavily burdened by the axing thereof. So they face no dilemma whatsoever when deciding on a whim to fire long term, committed employees who have built their life around keeping the terrible owner's incompetence from destroying the business as a whole.
Best believe, if you are one of these employees that does the best that you can and never takes a day off and yada yada yada. It will not mean a thing to your terrible owner. When they run out of people to blame and eventually they will, you will go on the chopping block. Will the business fold without you? Most likely. Will you care a whole lot more about that than the well dressed knuckle dragger that fired you? Certainly. Your former boss will just declare that they did everything that could be done to avoid the most obvious impending collapse of the year and will find more people to blame. If anything, they'll say that they just never found a staff that was passionate enough to carry out their heavenly ambitions. Cocaine addled, alcoholic maniac owner, you deserve all of the failures that you get. For every one of you that loses everything to your own idiocy, there are fifteen more who just look on with arrogance and never change anything that they do.
I could say that I pity the owner that self destructs like a nuclear reactor that just had a nuke dropped on it. You mistake yourself for being the elite in society when really you are the great butts of every joke that your employees and friends tell. Most of you just inherited your wealth or earned it at a time in your life when you had a shred of humility. Nowadays humility and responsibility are as far from your mind as I am from having the money that you currently have left. I do mean to say have left, because you will blow it all. If you don't then your rotten kids will. Unlike you, your kids did not spoil themselves. Imagine that, “I've finally made it to the highest tax bracket. I'm worth more than most anyone. What will I do now? How about I systematically destroy my health and the businesses that helped me to get here. Seems like a fun way to celebrate.”
Or for the ones that just inherited the wealth, “Now I've sat in on a few of these boring ass company meetings that my dad used to go to all the time. The only thing that I've learned from them is that the gibberish of the common worker is completely incomprehensible to someone like me. I am not concerned about this state of affairs as I am fairly certain that leadership is hereditary. Never mind that there is none of what my staff call “evidence” to support my beliefs about leadership. Effective ownership is more about the thoughts that you have. My thoughts are that I am the superior to everyone and pretty much everything. So I have nothing to worry about, I'm sure I'll catch on in no time.”
All in all, keep doing what you're doing incompetent owners. The ones that are actually cut out for ownership will work their way to the top and will buy out your ruined business in order to turn it into to something amazing. Or at the very least, to put it out of it's misery. In the meantime, all of us expendable common folk will laugh our asses off at your never ending lists of unattainable goals, your ridiculous mandates that read like the ten commandments, and your sad little state of self immolation. Will we throw gasoline on your one person bonfire of hubris? Yes. A resounding yes that should be trumpeted from every majestic mountain top on Earth.
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Comedy Story: My Junky Second Hand Car
You know, we've been together for a long time my little blue rocket. Ironically enough this is how my ex girlfriend addressed my dick. Here however, I am referring to my car, which is merely an extension of the donger at least according to how bitter your ex really is. Little blue rocket, why do you rattle constantly? You have no moving parts aside from the wheels and steering mechanism. I don't know anything about cars, but I do remember that when you and I first met, you never rattled.
So what is this? Your impersonation of somebody's grandparents? So you are doing your version of prattling on and on about how things were much better in 1955? Well here is the answer that you and many prattling elderly people need to hear: “Please, shut the fuck up. I not have a time machine to take you back to 1955. Please remember that back then your grandparents thought that those days sucked ass too. So do us all a favor and stow it.”
To continue this metaphor of the sagely old car that lectures me about my cornering by rattling constantly like a bucket of bolts in an earthquake, you very recently leaked water into the trunk earlier this week. What gives? I know and accept that an elderly person needs assistance in order to manage their bladder. But you are a fucking car. And they do not make diapers for fucking cars. You are an inanimate object. I looked for a hole or crack in your exterior that could have allowed the rain into the trunk. I could find no such issue. So are you sentient now? Did you open your own trunk? Did I do wrong by you in some way and now you sometimes just allow rain to flood my stuff? Well if that's the case then you are a petty, sentient car and a jackass.
I always have you serviced on time. I've had some parts of you replaced entirely at my own expense. I was the one who smashed those parts off of you by driving like a fevered house cat high on acid but that is all water under a very big, colorful bridge. Sometimes your brakes squeak and sometimes they don't. I took you in to have them checked out and they said that your brakes are working fine and the reason for the noise could not be discerned. Is this your funny little way of telling me that you want to spend more time together? We hang out on the way to work every damn day!
Now I certainly would be a terrible owner, that is if you aren't sentient, to not give you credit for the many years of service you've given me. And if you are sentient, feel free to drive wherever you want to go when I'm just chilling in my apartment. Go out and find yourself a nice lady car uptown. Or maybe you pick up women the way I do. In that case head for the nearest junkyard. Your speakers still work really well and for that I am eternally grateful. My hearing would be much better if those speakers would have busted years ago, but I'm happy to make that trade off.
You have me worried little blue car. You keep giving me mixed signals. If mixed signals are good for anything, it's destroying trust. What do you have in store for me, gonna catch on fire while I'm cruising down the highway at a perfectly moderate pace? You're acting like a girlfriend that won't say what the deal is. You won't even acknowledge that there is some sort of deal. Which is to say, you are acting like any girl.
You just keep pretending like I'm safe with you when really you could be fully prepared to do some crazy shit that will end us both. You in the scrapyard and me in the dirt. But like the crazy broad that you are,(if you are a broad) you would still think it was worth it, because ruining me was all you wanted and any price is the price you were willing to pay. If you could, I would prefer you just keep hammering home the petty stuff until I can arrange an acceptable trade for you.
I haven't done everything that I want to do so far in life so please don't kill us both. Feel free to make the windshield wipers stop working as I'm pulling into my road during a torrential downpour. Make it so that I have to roll the window down and stick my head out of the car to see where I'm going while the furious rain pelts me in the face. If that's what it takes for you to be able to tolerate me, then do as you must. Just don't pull that stunt when we're in four lanes of traffic.
Honestly, who am I kidding? I cannot afford anything better than a jalopy and you are much better than that. I don't know what to look for when trading cars, so trading you would dumb as I would most likely get burned. We've been together through thick and thin. I actually have totaled you, fingered dates in the back of you, jacked it to Kelly Rowland music at a camp site in you, slept in you. You've been there for me and I love you for it. I just get a little frustrated when you make me fear for my life. But you get me to work everyday and allow me to make a living, you're the best.
You know I've heard stories about millionaires that keep their rusted old bucket of bolts car when they make all their money. They still keep on driving that same old baby blue pickup truck because it shows that they are still the same person and no material objects could ever change any of that. If I ever get rich like that, my person will be inside of a Mazaratti and I won't much care what happens to you.
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So what is this? Your impersonation of somebody's grandparents? So you are doing your version of prattling on and on about how things were much better in 1955? Well here is the answer that you and many prattling elderly people need to hear: “Please, shut the fuck up. I not have a time machine to take you back to 1955. Please remember that back then your grandparents thought that those days sucked ass too. So do us all a favor and stow it.”
To continue this metaphor of the sagely old car that lectures me about my cornering by rattling constantly like a bucket of bolts in an earthquake, you very recently leaked water into the trunk earlier this week. What gives? I know and accept that an elderly person needs assistance in order to manage their bladder. But you are a fucking car. And they do not make diapers for fucking cars. You are an inanimate object. I looked for a hole or crack in your exterior that could have allowed the rain into the trunk. I could find no such issue. So are you sentient now? Did you open your own trunk? Did I do wrong by you in some way and now you sometimes just allow rain to flood my stuff? Well if that's the case then you are a petty, sentient car and a jackass.
I always have you serviced on time. I've had some parts of you replaced entirely at my own expense. I was the one who smashed those parts off of you by driving like a fevered house cat high on acid but that is all water under a very big, colorful bridge. Sometimes your brakes squeak and sometimes they don't. I took you in to have them checked out and they said that your brakes are working fine and the reason for the noise could not be discerned. Is this your funny little way of telling me that you want to spend more time together? We hang out on the way to work every damn day!
Now I certainly would be a terrible owner, that is if you aren't sentient, to not give you credit for the many years of service you've given me. And if you are sentient, feel free to drive wherever you want to go when I'm just chilling in my apartment. Go out and find yourself a nice lady car uptown. Or maybe you pick up women the way I do. In that case head for the nearest junkyard. Your speakers still work really well and for that I am eternally grateful. My hearing would be much better if those speakers would have busted years ago, but I'm happy to make that trade off.
You have me worried little blue car. You keep giving me mixed signals. If mixed signals are good for anything, it's destroying trust. What do you have in store for me, gonna catch on fire while I'm cruising down the highway at a perfectly moderate pace? You're acting like a girlfriend that won't say what the deal is. You won't even acknowledge that there is some sort of deal. Which is to say, you are acting like any girl.
You just keep pretending like I'm safe with you when really you could be fully prepared to do some crazy shit that will end us both. You in the scrapyard and me in the dirt. But like the crazy broad that you are,(if you are a broad) you would still think it was worth it, because ruining me was all you wanted and any price is the price you were willing to pay. If you could, I would prefer you just keep hammering home the petty stuff until I can arrange an acceptable trade for you.
I haven't done everything that I want to do so far in life so please don't kill us both. Feel free to make the windshield wipers stop working as I'm pulling into my road during a torrential downpour. Make it so that I have to roll the window down and stick my head out of the car to see where I'm going while the furious rain pelts me in the face. If that's what it takes for you to be able to tolerate me, then do as you must. Just don't pull that stunt when we're in four lanes of traffic.
Honestly, who am I kidding? I cannot afford anything better than a jalopy and you are much better than that. I don't know what to look for when trading cars, so trading you would dumb as I would most likely get burned. We've been together through thick and thin. I actually have totaled you, fingered dates in the back of you, jacked it to Kelly Rowland music at a camp site in you, slept in you. You've been there for me and I love you for it. I just get a little frustrated when you make me fear for my life. But you get me to work everyday and allow me to make a living, you're the best.
You know I've heard stories about millionaires that keep their rusted old bucket of bolts car when they make all their money. They still keep on driving that same old baby blue pickup truck because it shows that they are still the same person and no material objects could ever change any of that. If I ever get rich like that, my person will be inside of a Mazaratti and I won't much care what happens to you.
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Comedy Story: Sometimes Marketing Wins
Most people want to do something with their life that is important and useful. Like becoming a brain surgeon. There are no brain surgeons that we don't need. We need them all. But not every profession is like that. The least important thing is Marketing. We don't need any marketing at all. It's such a stupid thing to do that it doesn't even have a name for the profession besides “marketing professional” or “marketing expert” Do you want to be called a fucking marketer? That's stupid. Say it out loud “I'm a marketer. Could have been a welder, accountant or a bartender but I decided to be useless, professionally.”
You see Capitalism is a system where people want stuff and then other people make and sell all the stuff at a price that covers the cost of producing said stuff. It works really well because people know what they want and are willing to pay for it. If you don't like Capitalism, well try out the world's most effective government mandated weight loss plan, Communism. By weight loss plan, I mean nationwide starvation plan. Maybe America should be Communist for like 4 months since we are all a bunch of waddling fat fucks.
Marketing is for the knuckle draggers who just say "business is for making money. I need to make money but I'm too dumb for management, accounting and finance. Everybody is too dumb for economics. What's left? oh marketing.” Studying marketing is so dumb that it's pretty much the only way that a college athlete can graduate on time.
Marketers celebrate and chest bump as wildly as a pack of silver back gorillas snorting coke when they run ads and see a 2% increase in revenue. Woopity fucking doo. People already wanted shit, you just convinced them to want your shit. But not even that many people. Only a few. Your job is to influence what people buy. Only thing is, everybody would go about buying shit even if you didn't exist marketing! Marketing guys are also the first to claim that they are mixing the best of two worlds, creativity and business. Let me just say, no you are fucking not. The mixing of business and art would be something like a professional sculptor who does all of her own bookkeeping. That's a fair statement because the person does something creative and does something in business. Is having a super model sexually assault a burger over the course of 22 seconds while sleazy strip club music thumps in the background what the world thinks of as creative these days? Looking at You Hardees.
But maybe marketing does something related to business. What would that be? Do they prepare the incredibly valuable financial reports that keep the company going? Nope. Do they provide valuable insight about the current state of the economy. Big Nope. Do they have a way with people and make good managers of the lower level employees? Nope Nope Nope. They debate whether or not the next useless piece of junk that is sent to their office actually has someone out there waiting to buy it. What do you call that again? Somebody who is trying to sell you something that doesn't do anything and it also happens to be something that you don't want? Well in the old days they called them con artists but today we use the dumb ass term marketers.
But you know what marketing, I have to give you your due. Sometimes you beat me. I looked for forever to find the right green tea in the grocery isle. Because I am really indecisive, what can I say? I read the fronts and backs of all the available options and then thought about how much time I was wasting because I really don't give a fuck about which green tea I have in my apartment, so long as there is some green tea in my apartment. Green tea is green tea to me. I love it, never had a cup that I didn't like. There is a destination that you can end up at when you spend too much time thinking about pointless shit. It's called Existential Crisis Land. Personally, I visit once per week whether I have a reason to be there or not.
So how did I solve my first world problem of which green tea to go with? I went with the one that had a panda bear on it. This fucking box has got to sit somewhere in my apartment and I'll definitely be visiting said box pretty frequently, so why not have a big fluffy panda bear there to greet me? The jerk offs who deliberated for 3 whole work days about what should go on the box finally went with the panda. Even though there were plenty of hurt feelings and a war of a debate took place to decide if it should be a tastefully stacked pile of bamboo or kimono Asian lady number 7. Both of which had their own merits to be sure. Ultimately the Panda prevailed. Which brings me to my conclusion. Even though Marketing sucks and is a useless waste of a life, sometimes, marketing wins.
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Comedy Story: A Witch Doing God's Work
I was a child once. Back then I played with my dog. Shot hoops in the yard. Ate pizza at birthday parties and occasionally skint my knees or had to deal with the passing of a family member that I really never knew. My family all expected me to be more sad than I actually was at a lot of those events. I was afraid to seem mean by not being really broken up about the loss, so what did I do? I got in some valuable acting practice. When I get my academy award for best actor, I'll extend my warmest gratitude to my great aunt Beatrice. Most kids, myself included, enjoyed participating in the holiday known as Halloween. In my home town we all gathered on the square for Halloween. There were a bunch of people in costumes giving candy to kids and having a merry old time.
So you take kids, who are dumb anyway, and you put them in a massive crowd filled with people in disguises. You have the kids interact with the strangers in disguises and that interaction involves accepting sugary treats that are sometimes home made. This was before the news reported the out of control rates of child poisoning that went on during Halloween. How does one arrive at that impulse? “Been a slow year at the factory. Wife left me, dumb bitch. They even promoted that young fella over me. I've been assembling battery powered drills for 12 whole years now! What does he have over me besides a bachelors degree? Well Halloween is coming up......guess I'll make brownies for the kids like me and Marlene always used to do. Little shits. This year I'll make them brownies with some anti-freeze! Yea that'll show this whole county......that I'm a total piece of shit. Hmmm, I wonder if there's a football game gonna be on tonight.”
Anyway, I was with my mom, who was dressed like a clown. Just one more drop in the “I want to traumatize my children bucket.” She also had very elaborately painted her face. So that's a drop in the “I want to lose my child today and thus rid myself of the burden of raising him” bucket. I was known to stick close to my mother because she conditioned all of us kids to do that. She had a simple but effective method for insuring our conformity. Rewards of an action figure, or an extra snack or a hug could be won for staying by my mother's side. What was her reward for the occasional straying? An old world butt blistering with a wooden paddle. Followed by continuous threats for more ass blasting if the inevitable crying wasn't quickly silenced. And in short, that's why I never explore.
Let's cut to the chase, the crowd was too big and too pushy and I wasn't really paying attention so I lost track of my family. Thanks to it being a crowd full of people in disguises, I didn't recognize a single person. So what did I do then, evade despair by planning a harrowing search through the crowd of devils, ghouls and goblins? No, I began to cry uncontrollably. I'm not Kevin McCallister guys. I don't have a back up plan at 7 years old or any plan really. To be honest, not much has changed since then. I didn't even try to get some help. I just knew my life was over and if my mom did find me, my ability to sit down was over.
I remember thinking that I had seen a guy dressed as Jesus when I arrived on the square. So why not try to find Jesus? That is what our preacher was always trying to get us to do after all. But no dice, I could only find people portraying the only things that actually scare kids. Devils, monsters and all around creepy folks.
It was around this time that the most kind heart-ed witch that I've ever know walked up to me and said “We will find your family, don't worry.” The other witches that I've met prefer the color black on everything, are vegans and pretty much just look the way that Evanescence sounds. I realize now that that lady was the kind of woman that I love the most. She was somebody's boss, and she was the kind of boss that put up with absolutely no bullshit. So she held my hand and sternly but calmly walked us around the square tapping on shoulders and asking them if they knew my family, as I'd given her their names.
At long last, my dear friend and probable future employer led me to my family. There was some hugging and some emotion. Of course my family was happy to see me and I them. The witch was thanked and said goodbye. The reunion was perfect, except that my dad made me blow my nose into his handkerchief. I would have really appreciated that if he had not already used the damn thing. I was thanking God for sending me a witch, for my family reunion and for my unspanked bottom.
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Comedy Story: A Bowl of Convenience
For some people, what they eat and how they eat it makes up the majority of their time. Preparing the food, having the right groceries in the first place, completing and fancying the dish before eating it, etc. I on the other hand, have a preferred method of handling food that cuts out all the time and quality of consumption in exchange for good old lazy ass convenience.
I live alone, so already that's enough reason for me to not spend very much time on food. Why do guys get good at cooking? Why do guys do anything? To impress someone that they want to have sex with. We are all acquainted with this most universal of truths concerning the male creature. But I, contrary to the societal expectations of the young male, never, ever have sex. I have had sex on plenty of occasions before. And to be honest, it's just not worth it. What do my partners get out of hooking up with me? 3 glasses of Cabernet to the face and a proper drilling before a nice sound sleep in the comfy and clean bed of a stranger. What do I get out of it? Potentially herpes.
Back to my food though, I cook all of the chicken that I buy from the grocery on the first day that I have it. Seasoned, pan cooked to perfection in some delicious olive oil. Then I lock the chicken away in the freezer in a meat tub prison where the only escapees are going to be nuked in the microwave. 2 minutes and 30 seconds of the most anxiety inducing popping that food can ever make leads to a nice steamy bowl of convenience. How does the chicken taste? It doesn't. Dropping the chicken into the equivalent of a nuclear reactor core for a couple minutes takes all of the flavor out of the equation. But worry not, because honey mustard exists. No matter how disgusting the chicken is or where you got it, there is no case too far gone for honey mustard. Honey mustard is the fictional brain surgeon on TV with godlike healing abilities that transcend medical science. This guy can save a decapitated victim with a naturally raised and preserved watermelon, some circuitry and a wig.
How does one begin such an appalling method of protein delivery? Well first you are going to need to get over the concept of loving yourself. Then it won't be long before your more natural and necessary survival instinct will kick in. Hating yourself. There is nothing that you cannot survive if you can't stand who you are. You will persevere through any catastrophe just to go on inflicting yourself with suffering. If a massive dam busts with you in the danger zone, you'll fashion a surf board out of rotten bark and cruise your way out of there with a scowl on your face and your childhood on your mind.
Now keep in mind, you are saving a lot of time and money by employing my technique. Time and money that you can spend on something that you really care about like.......prostitutes. Another rousing good reason for cooking like me is to avoid cookbooks. Why do the writers of cookbooks insist on creating recipes with the rarest, most exotic, high end restaurant style ingredients? Because they are paid to do so by the people who produce those ingredients? Most likely, but I'm definitely not doing any research to confirm it. If I wanted to waste all my money I would not be eating at my house! I would just go out and hand my money to someone else and save myself all the work. Should I buy a chef hat and a set of aprons and non slip shoes? Yell like a maniac at the staff that I don't have? Prepare all my food with plastic gloves on? Which are more like cheap condoms for your hands in that they cost you money and are pretty much mandatory, but do not afford you any real protection.
But it's important to develop life skills, it's what your grandparents and your parents would want for you, to be a well rounded person. Don't you want to be a well rounded person? Definitely not. Being well rounded, as most fat people will tell you, takes a lot of effort. To your first point, both my grandfathers would only wonder why the fuck a woman isn't doing the cooking at my place. My parents just wanted an engineer but I suck at math so nobody gets what they want. All except me anyway, because I get to have my nice, pipping hot bowl of convenience.
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