A friend told me last night she and her father browse Yahoo! Personals for a good laugh. It seemed cruel enough to meet my sense of humor, but when I got around to it I found myself laughing a whole lot less. It wasn't like that 'Ha! You'll never get married manbeast!" laugh. No, it was more like "Man, how many girls do I know?" pity chuckle. Like the same chuckle you make when you fart by accident, but really you're just embarrassed as hell.
The women all seemed to fail with men at Elon. Actually, I'll make the blanket statement that they've failed with men anywhere else on this globe as well. Going to the internet pretty much means they've exhausted our physical realm for quality males, depleted their hook up reserves, and have now resorted to googling their future ex-husbands in attempt to find that special man-panion. Funny how alot of them seem to be teachers.
So why did Elon fail them? What does Yahoo! Personals have that our school didn't? I'll tell you what. A plentiful source of REAL MEN. That's right. There's a list. And they are all real. I haven't seen this list, but it's got to be their. Everyone woman notes in her profile she is looking for a 'Real Man'. Not 'Hitler Clone' or 'Monogamously Challenged Individual'. It's a good thing these girls specify, since a qualifier like 'Real Man' will stop the average white-trash, internet freak from replying.
Anybody remember their Kurt Vonneghut? Allow me to refresh. 'Here's the lesson: Women are psychotic. Men are jerks.' I can no more ask for all the crazy women in my life to leave me alone more then they could ask for a man to live up to the qualifier of 'Real' (which is really a poor choice of words). Real could mean so many things. Am I real man? Sure, my penis was there at birth. Am I a real man? Sure, I can pee while standing up. Am I real man? Sure, I'd rather beat my wife and kids than miss Sunday football. See? I'm Rational and Real. Goddamnit if I'm not the whole package.
I guess Yahoo! Personals is kind of funny, in that tragic, helpless person falling into an open manhole kind of way. If that's your bag, I guess. My advice? Lose weight or change your hairstyle. If that doesn't work, there's always eharmony.com
Reminders for class: I missed you guys. I'll be back again soon.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Sunday, December 25, 2005
How To View The World Like Me
I have taken considerable time off in between finishing the story to make sure I won't just write down certain thing as happening certain ways just because I was pissed. That would be bad. The story is finished, in fact has been for two weeks. I reserve the right to amend sections of it because honesty usually doesn't win you friends.
So instead, I'll now teach you how to view the world like me. This started as a post on my facebook.com account, but turned into this long, nonsensical mess. So here are step by step instructions to seeing the world like me.
How To View The World Like Me:
1.) Turn your TV to MTV.
2.) Watch it until Room Raiders comes on.
3.) See if you can count how many times one of the people locked inside the van respond with a sound, not a sentence. Also, count for each time you want to call someone stupid.
4.) Write down the total number.
5.) Turn off your TV.
6.) Read this or this or this or this. (The more you read, the better)
7.) Read it again. Struggle to understand six or more lines.
8.) Write down the number of lines you understood.
9.) Compare your two sets of numbers. Be upset you can pick out more stupid things your culture does rather than smart.
10.) Go outside and look at the sky.
11.) Put MTV back on.
If you can sit through until commercial break after you've finished this list, do it again time later. You're in no way supposed to be able to function. Your mind should start to feel numb like someone pushed a spoon inside your ear. If the list works and MTV stays on long enough, you'll eventually have to break the neck of a kitten or a small child because MTV is so stupid. If there are no children or kittens in proximity, you will seek them out.
Reminders for class: I'll start posting again. Stop complaining. Voice Mails do not make me go faster. Plus it 'Holiday' time. Gosh Golly.
So instead, I'll now teach you how to view the world like me. This started as a post on my facebook.com account, but turned into this long, nonsensical mess. So here are step by step instructions to seeing the world like me.
How To View The World Like Me:
1.) Turn your TV to MTV.
2.) Watch it until Room Raiders comes on.
3.) See if you can count how many times one of the people locked inside the van respond with a sound, not a sentence. Also, count for each time you want to call someone stupid.
4.) Write down the total number.
5.) Turn off your TV.
6.) Read this or this or this or this. (The more you read, the better)
7.) Read it again. Struggle to understand six or more lines.
8.) Write down the number of lines you understood.
9.) Compare your two sets of numbers. Be upset you can pick out more stupid things your culture does rather than smart.
10.) Go outside and look at the sky.
11.) Put MTV back on.
If you can sit through until commercial break after you've finished this list, do it again time later. You're in no way supposed to be able to function. Your mind should start to feel numb like someone pushed a spoon inside your ear. If the list works and MTV stays on long enough, you'll eventually have to break the neck of a kitten or a small child because MTV is so stupid. If there are no children or kittens in proximity, you will seek them out.
Reminders for class: I'll start posting again. Stop complaining. Voice Mails do not make me go faster. Plus it 'Holiday' time. Gosh Golly.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Making The Bail - Pt. 2
Side note: While Jeff was being given the sobriety test, this kid, a freshman, stepped outside the party. I will digress from my own story to talk about this kid. This kid is a winner. Winner. He's in his first semester at Elon and had already received two citations prior to the evening. Tonight would make his third.
I will preface his tail by saying that my sympathy for people usually runs as deep as being socially polite can. Unless the situation is drastic or I know you, I'm not going to do more then I need to escape the situation unscathed. Say you were on fire - I would tell a fire man. Say you were in need of money - I would point you to an ATM. More importantly, there are some situation where you should never expect help. These are the times when you have to man up. This is reality.
Flashback: Jeff is being given his sobriety test. My ass is still dropped on the couch. Outside, where Buff's party is happening, the back door opens up. A freshman steps outside onto the porch and kindly waves to Jeff and the police, despite the awkwardness of the situation. He shuts the door behind him and steps off the porch. I'm sure he chuckled to himself or swore under his breath, because that's always something I have done before I start to urinate in public.
No, really. The kid started to piss in public. One hand on his dick, the other scribbling MENSA meeting notes on the brick wall with a piece of chalk. The female officer looked to Jeff, then to her partner. 'Seriously, is this happening?' I don't know how they handled it as well as they did.
"Sir! What do you think you're doing?" she yelled to the freshman. Pulling away from photon equations, the kid looks over. This is where he noticed something - like the cops, Jeff about to be handcuffed, or maybe the flashing fucking lights. There was a whole slew of subtle clues only Sherlock Holmes would have picked up on. But the kid, obviously drunk and not in the puzzle solving mood, did pick up one of the factors. And so he realized what he was doing. And so he began to cry.
Allow me to check my watch: "1:24 am". Yes, I'll say for the record he began to cry around 1:24 in the morning. For forty minutes they had him outside in the cold, and he cried the whole time. Jeff, six feet to the right, is in handcuffs in a cop car. He got stopped by police. He failed a sobriety check. He blew a point nine. But Jeff does not cry. Why? Because he is a man. Don't confuse being a man with some overblown machismo, testosterone packed fuel ride. He didn't break the cuffs off his wrists and throw the car over his head like the Incredible Hulk. He didn't destroy half a city block with his junk. No. He sat there and took it because that's all you can do.
Crybaby McCryAndWetMyPants couldn't. He somehow got into the apartment I was in. They brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Not next to me, partially on me. Now when this happened, I had no idea why he was crying. For a moment, I felt sorry. But I noticed his weeping was that of an old lady who lost her porcelain doll collection.
That self-pitying kind, not the 'I've been hurt because a boulder fell on my arm' kind. Not the 'I just lost my whole family in a SeaWorld freak accident' kind either. It was like a girl who drinks too much and thinks everyone hates her. People know that kind of crying. You can pick it out when its that pathetic. Call me wrong, but the people around me picked up on it too. Because we began to laugh at him. Uncontrollably.
So I moved across the room to sit next to Aric, and we had to hold our hands over our mouths we were laughing so hard. Which really didn't matter because the kid was so black out drunk and bawling so loud he wouldn't have heard us. I left it got so bad.
Note Time: 2:30. Dude's been leaking for an hour. A friend of his comes by and tries to help. He starts to read the citation outloud while we're in the kitchen being mean. Yeah, I know. Whatever. His friend (who is actually pictured in that facebook picture as well) snaps at us to shutup. Now I am all for volume control. I hate loud music and I hate it when these young kids think they can turn it up for the whoopity doo of it all. But don't try to exercise power where you have none. We totally disregarded the comment to be quiet.
But we shouldn't have. Why? Because we missed out on this gem. The friend comes in to talk to crybaby, but crybaby can't respond because he's dropping buckets. So the friend reads his citation, where Jeff's charges have been underlined. The kid was cited for peeing in public, but the citation stated he has been drunk while operating a moving vehicle. When Sir CryPants hears that, he loses it. Loses mental control, muscle control, and sphincter control. And he has to be escorted from the building. (Time? Somewhere before 3)
One of the hens has some very nice words to say on the way out about how it wasn't their fucking house and good riddance. Note: Not hen's house either.
Anywho, sorry I took so much up with this one but the guy was a major vag.
Reminders for class: Part 3 is us trying to leave the goddamned house before Jeff gets banged in prison. Part 4 will be when we go to bail him out. Look for it soon. I'm done with classes.
I will preface his tail by saying that my sympathy for people usually runs as deep as being socially polite can. Unless the situation is drastic or I know you, I'm not going to do more then I need to escape the situation unscathed. Say you were on fire - I would tell a fire man. Say you were in need of money - I would point you to an ATM. More importantly, there are some situation where you should never expect help. These are the times when you have to man up. This is reality.
Flashback: Jeff is being given his sobriety test. My ass is still dropped on the couch. Outside, where Buff's party is happening, the back door opens up. A freshman steps outside onto the porch and kindly waves to Jeff and the police, despite the awkwardness of the situation. He shuts the door behind him and steps off the porch. I'm sure he chuckled to himself or swore under his breath, because that's always something I have done before I start to urinate in public.
No, really. The kid started to piss in public. One hand on his dick, the other scribbling MENSA meeting notes on the brick wall with a piece of chalk. The female officer looked to Jeff, then to her partner. 'Seriously, is this happening?' I don't know how they handled it as well as they did.
"Sir! What do you think you're doing?" she yelled to the freshman. Pulling away from photon equations, the kid looks over. This is where he noticed something - like the cops, Jeff about to be handcuffed, or maybe the flashing fucking lights. There was a whole slew of subtle clues only Sherlock Holmes would have picked up on. But the kid, obviously drunk and not in the puzzle solving mood, did pick up one of the factors. And so he realized what he was doing. And so he began to cry.
Allow me to check my watch: "1:24 am". Yes, I'll say for the record he began to cry around 1:24 in the morning. For forty minutes they had him outside in the cold, and he cried the whole time. Jeff, six feet to the right, is in handcuffs in a cop car. He got stopped by police. He failed a sobriety check. He blew a point nine. But Jeff does not cry. Why? Because he is a man. Don't confuse being a man with some overblown machismo, testosterone packed fuel ride. He didn't break the cuffs off his wrists and throw the car over his head like the Incredible Hulk. He didn't destroy half a city block with his junk. No. He sat there and took it because that's all you can do.
Crybaby McCryAndWetMyPants couldn't. He somehow got into the apartment I was in. They brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Not next to me, partially on me. Now when this happened, I had no idea why he was crying. For a moment, I felt sorry. But I noticed his weeping was that of an old lady who lost her porcelain doll collection.
That self-pitying kind, not the 'I've been hurt because a boulder fell on my arm' kind. Not the 'I just lost my whole family in a SeaWorld freak accident' kind either. It was like a girl who drinks too much and thinks everyone hates her. People know that kind of crying. You can pick it out when its that pathetic. Call me wrong, but the people around me picked up on it too. Because we began to laugh at him. Uncontrollably.
So I moved across the room to sit next to Aric, and we had to hold our hands over our mouths we were laughing so hard. Which really didn't matter because the kid was so black out drunk and bawling so loud he wouldn't have heard us. I left it got so bad.
Note Time: 2:30. Dude's been leaking for an hour. A friend of his comes by and tries to help. He starts to read the citation outloud while we're in the kitchen being mean. Yeah, I know. Whatever. His friend (who is actually pictured in that facebook picture as well) snaps at us to shutup. Now I am all for volume control. I hate loud music and I hate it when these young kids think they can turn it up for the whoopity doo of it all. But don't try to exercise power where you have none. We totally disregarded the comment to be quiet.
But we shouldn't have. Why? Because we missed out on this gem. The friend comes in to talk to crybaby, but crybaby can't respond because he's dropping buckets. So the friend reads his citation, where Jeff's charges have been underlined. The kid was cited for peeing in public, but the citation stated he has been drunk while operating a moving vehicle. When Sir CryPants hears that, he loses it. Loses mental control, muscle control, and sphincter control. And he has to be escorted from the building. (Time? Somewhere before 3)
One of the hens has some very nice words to say on the way out about how it wasn't their fucking house and good riddance. Note: Not hen's house either.
Anywho, sorry I took so much up with this one but the guy was a major vag.
Reminders for class: Part 3 is us trying to leave the goddamned house before Jeff gets banged in prison. Part 4 will be when we go to bail him out. Look for it soon. I'm done with classes.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
Making The Bail - Pt. 1
I owe you this. I finally have a good story worth talking about. I usually shy away from stories that don't extend to some larger meaning, but this stuff stands on its on. I finally accomplished one of my college goals with the help of the Elon Police Department. I was able to bail a friend out of jail.
This all happened on a magical eve called Saturday night. I had come home from work after 10, and spent the better part of an hour scrubbing away the sweet Chilian scent of failure in the shower. Afterwards, I decided that I needed to get out. I looked for a quiet place to go, but the only option was Buff's.
Now, to those who don't know Buff, his wall are covered in painted handprints from all his friends. They put both hands in a selected color and sign their name. It's adorable, especially since women have the added mandate of dipping their breasts in paint and 'putting them on the glass' if you will.
I nixed the idea of going out and stayed in to watch SNL. Boring stuff, but a suitable alternative. When it finished around one, I was still up, so I decided to go anyway and say goodbye. It would beyond that point where everyone commands 'Drink' with biblical authority, but not late enough that all the good people wouldn't still be there. This is a magical time when drowsy meets caffeinated, and the best of the skeezeballs enter in to make their move on the most intoxicated women.
So I take off with my roommate and get their around one. We cut through the party with too many unattractive, drunk people hanging off each other. Note: I am overly awesomely dressed. People stare because they know they can't have this. Amidst this, I speculate on whether I should let them live. I walk to the back and out the door without passing judgment. They all are spared.
Opposite Buff's is another place, where two of my friends live. I go in and sit on the couch to watch them play video games. They are catatonic and do not move. At some point, somebody farts. I find it infinitely more satisfying then the ugly farm next door.
Then a pile of womanly women come through the door and start clucking like hens. B A H! You ruin my games. But what's this? A manly man among them? I embrace the manly man like a brother, then go back to the couch.
As I lay on the couch, the women start clucking more. Between laying eggs and totally talking over the video game, they mention something about a sobriety test and my friend Jeff.
I'm not even going to lie to you. Even when they said it was Jeff, I didn't get up. Notice how I got up to hug the man and not to watch police? I'm stoic like that. I'm like a rock in the river. God Almighty could be at the back door passing out condoms, answers, and beer and I still wouldn't get up.
Plus the hens were giving a play by play. It was like color commentary on shuffleboard. Drunken commentary. "Shit, he slid the... the.... shuffle." "Ohmigawd, he suffled it across... suffled... ha...ha... I said suffled." "Bitch, oh my God, you did. Suffled." "I know. I'm so wasted... fuck."
Reasons like that are why I didn't get up. But then one of the gamers got up to check on the police. This man's name was Chad, and one of the clucks was coming from his chick. She said something about something. In a minute, he had left his heated apartment to go talk to the cops. He came back about seven minutes later with a phone number. And directions. Our friend was in handcuffs in the front seat of the car and being taken to processing.
NA NA NA.
Reminders for class: Show up tomorrow and hear the rest. Or just wait a few days and recap it all at once. Whatever. Fine. Don't show up.
This all happened on a magical eve called Saturday night. I had come home from work after 10, and spent the better part of an hour scrubbing away the sweet Chilian scent of failure in the shower. Afterwards, I decided that I needed to get out. I looked for a quiet place to go, but the only option was Buff's.
Now, to those who don't know Buff, his wall are covered in painted handprints from all his friends. They put both hands in a selected color and sign their name. It's adorable, especially since women have the added mandate of dipping their breasts in paint and 'putting them on the glass' if you will.
I nixed the idea of going out and stayed in to watch SNL. Boring stuff, but a suitable alternative. When it finished around one, I was still up, so I decided to go anyway and say goodbye. It would beyond that point where everyone commands 'Drink' with biblical authority, but not late enough that all the good people wouldn't still be there. This is a magical time when drowsy meets caffeinated, and the best of the skeezeballs enter in to make their move on the most intoxicated women.
So I take off with my roommate and get their around one. We cut through the party with too many unattractive, drunk people hanging off each other. Note: I am overly awesomely dressed. People stare because they know they can't have this. Amidst this, I speculate on whether I should let them live. I walk to the back and out the door without passing judgment. They all are spared.
Opposite Buff's is another place, where two of my friends live. I go in and sit on the couch to watch them play video games. They are catatonic and do not move. At some point, somebody farts. I find it infinitely more satisfying then the ugly farm next door.
Then a pile of womanly women come through the door and start clucking like hens. B A H! You ruin my games. But what's this? A manly man among them? I embrace the manly man like a brother, then go back to the couch.
As I lay on the couch, the women start clucking more. Between laying eggs and totally talking over the video game, they mention something about a sobriety test and my friend Jeff.
I'm not even going to lie to you. Even when they said it was Jeff, I didn't get up. Notice how I got up to hug the man and not to watch police? I'm stoic like that. I'm like a rock in the river. God Almighty could be at the back door passing out condoms, answers, and beer and I still wouldn't get up.
Plus the hens were giving a play by play. It was like color commentary on shuffleboard. Drunken commentary. "Shit, he slid the... the.... shuffle." "Ohmigawd, he suffled it across... suffled... ha...ha... I said suffled." "Bitch, oh my God, you did. Suffled." "I know. I'm so wasted... fuck."
Reasons like that are why I didn't get up. But then one of the gamers got up to check on the police. This man's name was Chad, and one of the clucks was coming from his chick. She said something about something. In a minute, he had left his heated apartment to go talk to the cops. He came back about seven minutes later with a phone number. And directions. Our friend was in handcuffs in the front seat of the car and being taken to processing.
NA NA NA.
Reminders for class: Show up tomorrow and hear the rest. Or just wait a few days and recap it all at once. Whatever. Fine. Don't show up.
More To Come
At 3:30 this morning, I helped post bail for a friend. It is a long story that I am too tired to tell now, but I'll give you a tease. A Freshman crying his eyes out, the fear of prison rape, a pissy magistrate, an overly problematic drunk girl who might still be punched, and more.
Sure, you could ask Aric or Chad what happened, but wait for the blog. That's why you read it, anyway. I'll render the whole thing comedic. Or tragic. Depends on what music I'm listening to.
Sure, you could ask Aric or Chad what happened, but wait for the blog. That's why you read it, anyway. I'll render the whole thing comedic. Or tragic. Depends on what music I'm listening to.
Friday, December 09, 2005
I Need A Cape
It's become clear that the real super heroes won't be emerging anytime soon to save this planet. So give me a cape. I will do it. I will fight crime and make right where others have done wrong. I will punch in the name of injustice and knee groins for the sake of righteousness. I will teabag evil. Straight teapot dome scandal style.
As I will now be fighting crime, I need certain things. An outfit for one. I'm thinking about setting myself on fire and fighting crime for twenty seconds at a time. Or maybe assless chaps. Also, I need a sidekick. Jesus has been calling, asking for the gig. LOL, he can't have it. I need a man, not someone who loses a fight to Romans. The guy didn't even kick back. Weak. Weak.
I think my sidekick should just have extreme enthusiasm, but nothing else. I wouldn't want him getting uppity and asking for shit or trying to get it his way. He should back me up, like a good mother. No matter what I do, he should be there with a baked apple pie and bucket full of chilled IBC rootbeer.
As for villains, I think I'll be fine. I could fight all the assholes at Elon and win over everyone. My twenty second fights would become such spectacles that webcams would be placed every ten feet in hopes of capturing them. But guess what? Can't do that shit. I block all the feeds. You have to go through my website and become a member for 39.32 a month. It's a deal. (plus you get a cool wallpaper of me with my foot on a log)
Reminders for class: Though everything comes to an end, not everything has to stop. Example? Happy Days, Season 8.
As I will now be fighting crime, I need certain things. An outfit for one. I'm thinking about setting myself on fire and fighting crime for twenty seconds at a time. Or maybe assless chaps. Also, I need a sidekick. Jesus has been calling, asking for the gig. LOL, he can't have it. I need a man, not someone who loses a fight to Romans. The guy didn't even kick back. Weak. Weak.
I think my sidekick should just have extreme enthusiasm, but nothing else. I wouldn't want him getting uppity and asking for shit or trying to get it his way. He should back me up, like a good mother. No matter what I do, he should be there with a baked apple pie and bucket full of chilled IBC rootbeer.
As for villains, I think I'll be fine. I could fight all the assholes at Elon and win over everyone. My twenty second fights would become such spectacles that webcams would be placed every ten feet in hopes of capturing them. But guess what? Can't do that shit. I block all the feeds. You have to go through my website and become a member for 39.32 a month. It's a deal. (plus you get a cool wallpaper of me with my foot on a log)
Reminders for class: Though everything comes to an end, not everything has to stop. Example? Happy Days, Season 8.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Pogo-Stick Mounted Eagles
I dated this girl once. Really, honest to God dates. She and I had a nice enough thing, but she had so many skeletons in her closet that they kept spilling elsewhere. Her last boyfriend had been abusive and it was something she wasn't going to get over, regardless if I was around or not. So rather then tell everyone her secret and that the weight of it was causing a rift between us, I just became an asshole.
I still debate over why I made that choice, all it did was save her face. She was able to break up with me because I appeared worthless, but it wasn't going to get her any better. She was temporarily embodied with power, not given an entire brand new line of Transformers (Autobots only). Nobody was the better for it.
So here's my boggle. If good guys should stick around, at what point can they jump ship? They've been claiming the whole time they can't do anything, but when can they soar off like an eagle on a pogo stick? After a week? A month?
Pishposh. I wouldn't have been the better for sticking around with a troubled young lady, but still wish I would've tried. Some things are inherently doomed, but we shoulder them anyway. Tiny Tim was screwed, but Dad still took him out.
Reminders for class: Appeared. Not actually worthless.
I still debate over why I made that choice, all it did was save her face. She was able to break up with me because I appeared worthless, but it wasn't going to get her any better. She was temporarily embodied with power, not given an entire brand new line of Transformers (Autobots only). Nobody was the better for it.
So here's my boggle. If good guys should stick around, at what point can they jump ship? They've been claiming the whole time they can't do anything, but when can they soar off like an eagle on a pogo stick? After a week? A month?
Pishposh. I wouldn't have been the better for sticking around with a troubled young lady, but still wish I would've tried. Some things are inherently doomed, but we shoulder them anyway. Tiny Tim was screwed, but Dad still took him out.
Reminders for class: Appeared. Not actually worthless.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Kenji [Desirable]
Two women at my work were around the corner, unaware I checking the schedule. They were both older, the younger one married in her late twenties/early thirties. I heard my name, so my ears perked up. There were talking about me.
Sexually.
Ew.
I'm not one to think of myself in any other terms then awesome. It's an all encompassing word that probably includes sexy, but never needs to be said - like how the Total Gym is a total gym. Total is right in the title, but people sometimes forget it includes everything, even the uncomfortable man-on-man shower time. Chuck Norris had enough foresight to put that in.
I sometimes forget that I am probably one of the best looking men alive. I'm like the best kept secrets held up in every city. Sometimes you're caught up in all the hoopla; you forget there is stuff ten feet off the beaten path.
Hey! As long as we're producing thoughts from awkward experience, want to know the first time I ever felt like a sexy? Of course you do. I was dating this girl and I found out that she was cheating on me with another guy. Is that my sexy moment? Ha. Hell, no. That was my totally upset moment so I ripped off my shirt and confronted her with laser beam eye blasts.
After I tortured her with the lack of ever touching my man flesh again, she admitted she already had a man, and that I was the one who she was cheating with. There's just something sexy about that moment. I mean - yes, it's lousy - but at the same time that's so freaking awesome. She had a man friend who was already there, but she wanted Kenji to boot. She needed this? She needed this. C'mon. Who doesn't?
Don't get me wrong, I hope she felt dirty afterwards. Dirty dirty dirty. But after the swelling went down, I'll admit I felt good. I attracted someone who was taken. She already had what she needed, but I was what she wanted. That's a cool feeling. This may not be applicable all the time, but some of the time its better being wanted then needed.
Reminders for class: Take the lie out of oblivious and you're left with the obvious. On an unrelated note, I don't ever have a clue what I'm doing.
Sexually.
Ew.
I'm not one to think of myself in any other terms then awesome. It's an all encompassing word that probably includes sexy, but never needs to be said - like how the Total Gym is a total gym. Total is right in the title, but people sometimes forget it includes everything, even the uncomfortable man-on-man shower time. Chuck Norris had enough foresight to put that in.
I sometimes forget that I am probably one of the best looking men alive. I'm like the best kept secrets held up in every city. Sometimes you're caught up in all the hoopla; you forget there is stuff ten feet off the beaten path.
Hey! As long as we're producing thoughts from awkward experience, want to know the first time I ever felt like a sexy? Of course you do. I was dating this girl and I found out that she was cheating on me with another guy. Is that my sexy moment? Ha. Hell, no. That was my totally upset moment so I ripped off my shirt and confronted her with laser beam eye blasts.
After I tortured her with the lack of ever touching my man flesh again, she admitted she already had a man, and that I was the one who she was cheating with. There's just something sexy about that moment. I mean - yes, it's lousy - but at the same time that's so freaking awesome. She had a man friend who was already there, but she wanted Kenji to boot. She needed this? She needed this. C'mon. Who doesn't?
Don't get me wrong, I hope she felt dirty afterwards. Dirty dirty dirty. But after the swelling went down, I'll admit I felt good. I attracted someone who was taken. She already had what she needed, but I was what she wanted. That's a cool feeling. This may not be applicable all the time, but some of the time its better being wanted then needed.
Reminders for class: Take the lie out of oblivious and you're left with the obvious. On an unrelated note, I don't ever have a clue what I'm doing.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Guest List
Ok. My funeral is having a guest list. And a bouncer. My hearse will be pimping and will have a rocket launcher and a chain gun. A bit much? I think not. I have legions of fans who would try and fight their way to me and cast voodoo spells to bring me back. It's a pain, because I actually died in August '99 saving a sunken ship full or paraplegic orphans with incurable diseases. And again in '03 drinking Holiday Spice Pepsi. That was the worst.
So my hearse will be modified to mow down the fields of people who come and try to bring me back. I want my end to be peaceful, for me and family. Plus, I was told by the Indian Shaman that there is a prophecy that if I were to be buried in the ground it would start a new dark age for all mankind. The Shaman guy said I needed to be cremated and spread to the four winds in order to bring peace. I told him he could have the dust where my right nut lay, and that he could spread that to western winds because it always hung to the left. That Shaman dude gave me a pack of peanuts and told me to go gamble in his casino. I won $8. Point? I stop the apocalypse if you let me have it my way.
I'm going to start handing out the invitations now, so if you don't get one don't be surprised. It's exclusive, and I know a lot of you would give up your life to see mine extended. I'm inviting the people that I know would come to terms with my death like a hero. I know you'd like that to be you, but you're more likely to curl up into a tiny bawl of sad and not get off the shower floor for days. Let's face it, my death will probably be the hardest withdraw a human being could go through. I once worked in a rehab center and cured a guy as soon as I walked into the room, but when I left he became manic and used the bedsheets to imitate a giant womb and he stayed in there until he died. The guy just reverted. I don't want that for you. I love you. That's why you can't make the guest list.
Reminders for class: When everything ends, get drunk and remember how it began. I'm sorry, class, I'm Irish. It's the only advice we give.
So my hearse will be modified to mow down the fields of people who come and try to bring me back. I want my end to be peaceful, for me and family. Plus, I was told by the Indian Shaman that there is a prophecy that if I were to be buried in the ground it would start a new dark age for all mankind. The Shaman guy said I needed to be cremated and spread to the four winds in order to bring peace. I told him he could have the dust where my right nut lay, and that he could spread that to western winds because it always hung to the left. That Shaman dude gave me a pack of peanuts and told me to go gamble in his casino. I won $8. Point? I stop the apocalypse if you let me have it my way.
I'm going to start handing out the invitations now, so if you don't get one don't be surprised. It's exclusive, and I know a lot of you would give up your life to see mine extended. I'm inviting the people that I know would come to terms with my death like a hero. I know you'd like that to be you, but you're more likely to curl up into a tiny bawl of sad and not get off the shower floor for days. Let's face it, my death will probably be the hardest withdraw a human being could go through. I once worked in a rehab center and cured a guy as soon as I walked into the room, but when I left he became manic and used the bedsheets to imitate a giant womb and he stayed in there until he died. The guy just reverted. I don't want that for you. I love you. That's why you can't make the guest list.
Reminders for class: When everything ends, get drunk and remember how it began. I'm sorry, class, I'm Irish. It's the only advice we give.
Desperate Last Thoughts
I write to you trapped in a building, while hundreds - possibly thousands - of adoring women try to fight their way in. This is a genuine problem I face, but as of recently it has started becoming a daily problem. How am I supposed to function with so many people trying to get on this? I can't help that God made me with every ounce of perfect he had left.
Ok. That wasn't my point. My point is going to be that chivalry will be dead in a matter of moments and women killed it. There are few of us out there, scant few, who would generally try and be a white knight. But we're finding gainful employment an impossibility at the moment. It's an industry that relies heavy on tips and word of mouth. I try to be nice when it comes down to it, (Just not around you guys. You've already accepted me, I don't have to impress you. That's why I'll never act like that in front of you) so why doesn't it work? Oh, that's right. MTV ruined my generation and the self obsessed women that emerged from the commercial ooze suck.
I once did an experiment in college and held the door open for one hundred girls. Five of them said thank you. Oh, I'm sorry. What's that whiney female? Fluke you say? Ok. I did it again recently. Busted. You are so busted! Your gender totally sucks donkey ass through a flexy straw. It's not just random, even my female friends don't say thank you.
So what I'm going to do is recant a proclamation that I made where I create a division of women at Elon, saying that they were either whorish or crazy. I apologize. That was way off base. What I institute is that they're just manipulative. That's it. Manipulative. One word. One category.
Oh, I'm not angry while I'm writing this. In fact, the opposite. It's just that you ladies need to be aware of these little ticks you have. You can't be crawling over the last one to get to the next. It doesn't work that way. Maybe in Sluttville, PA it does, but not here.
Which brings me to another behavior. When the H-E-L-L did it become acceptable to answer a phone call in the middle of something important? If I'm telling you that your parents are dying of cancer and you flip your cell phone open to talk to Flounder down at the frat house, I'm going to take the phone from you and use it to call the Ghostbusters. Why? Because there must be something crazy going on here!
Oh, women of Elon. You wonder why I enjoy being single. *cough*
Ok. They don't wonder. But whatever. I rock.
Reminder to class: Say thank you and pay attention to who you are talking to. We're not all just marks along your drunken bar crawl for you to pass time with and look like you know.
Ok. That wasn't my point. My point is going to be that chivalry will be dead in a matter of moments and women killed it. There are few of us out there, scant few, who would generally try and be a white knight. But we're finding gainful employment an impossibility at the moment. It's an industry that relies heavy on tips and word of mouth. I try to be nice when it comes down to it, (Just not around you guys. You've already accepted me, I don't have to impress you. That's why I'll never act like that in front of you) so why doesn't it work? Oh, that's right. MTV ruined my generation and the self obsessed women that emerged from the commercial ooze suck.
I once did an experiment in college and held the door open for one hundred girls. Five of them said thank you. Oh, I'm sorry. What's that whiney female? Fluke you say? Ok. I did it again recently. Busted. You are so busted! Your gender totally sucks donkey ass through a flexy straw. It's not just random, even my female friends don't say thank you.
So what I'm going to do is recant a proclamation that I made where I create a division of women at Elon, saying that they were either whorish or crazy. I apologize. That was way off base. What I institute is that they're just manipulative. That's it. Manipulative. One word. One category.
Oh, I'm not angry while I'm writing this. In fact, the opposite. It's just that you ladies need to be aware of these little ticks you have. You can't be crawling over the last one to get to the next. It doesn't work that way. Maybe in Sluttville, PA it does, but not here.
Which brings me to another behavior. When the H-E-L-L did it become acceptable to answer a phone call in the middle of something important? If I'm telling you that your parents are dying of cancer and you flip your cell phone open to talk to Flounder down at the frat house, I'm going to take the phone from you and use it to call the Ghostbusters. Why? Because there must be something crazy going on here!
Oh, women of Elon. You wonder why I enjoy being single. *cough*
Ok. They don't wonder. But whatever. I rock.
Reminder to class: Say thank you and pay attention to who you are talking to. We're not all just marks along your drunken bar crawl for you to pass time with and look like you know.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
L-O-V-E is strange to me
I was asked by a friend last night what my feelings on love were. I explained the rug called hope, but that's not actually a genuine feeling. I think that's my stock answer, like when people say 'You look good' and I launch back with 'Goddamnit, I already knew that. Why don't you go flip a truck off the freeway and come judge me again when you look a little less pretty?'
I don't know what my feelings would be. I'll have to cut the blog short today because I don't think I have feelings that wouldn't favor a heavy rant. I'll just explain my one thoughts on work in correlation to love.
If you wake up in the morning next to the right woman, do whatever it takes to get back to her at night.
Reminders for class: I hate when I can't bullshit an answer. I hate it!
I don't know what my feelings would be. I'll have to cut the blog short today because I don't think I have feelings that wouldn't favor a heavy rant. I'll just explain my one thoughts on work in correlation to love.
If you wake up in the morning next to the right woman, do whatever it takes to get back to her at night.
Reminders for class: I hate when I can't bullshit an answer. I hate it!