As the New Years looms just around the corner, a time where the general population is getting pants shittingly drunk, I would like to take a second to talk of teh positives of doing just that. Now don't get all uppity cunt about how its an affliction and a bad thing. I know that it can be bad for you, I know that you are a dumb fuck if you get behind the wheel of a car, I know that people who use it as an excuse for hitting people and being a shit hole of a person are fucked, and I know damn sure that you shouldn't drink your way into a situation that finds kick fucking an amputee hooker while using a car battery to shock your testicles into cooperation.
That said, it can certainly make things interesting. I am a drunk, not an alcoholic. I am young and don't give a shit for most things offered by the single most boring generation America has ever had to offer. I am not interested in living a pure and giving lifestyle. Not one bit. Do you know why? Because it is fucking boring. How many shits do I have when I hear about you helping that old lady across the street and then going home to eat a wonderful vegan dinner whilst shoving the atrocities of the meat industry up your roommate's ass until his soul beats itself to death with a dildo? None. Not a single shit. I will call you a boring shitless cunt, right to your face. Now tell me a story about following up on a dare to run to your neighbor's window in a ski mask and showing them your balls while they are eating dinner and that is a whole different thing. Morally responsible and good? Fuck no. However, it is certainly entertaining.
You can tell me all that you want that I am brash, mean, depressing, an out right asshole. I don't care. Mainly because it is true. But you know why I am those things? Not because I get drunk. No, not at fucking all. In fact, being drunk helps me repress those things and actually make jokes that actually make people laugh. In many ways, drinking levels out my anti-social feelings and outright hatred of modern America.
Also, don't you dare come at me and tell me I am ungrateful shit and tell me how awesome this country is. I am uneducated but I am certainly not ungrateful. Not by a long shot. I know that we live in (by a lot of standards) in a good country and that we celebrate a lot of freedoms that many countries may never get to appreciate. I am not talking about that. I am talking about this generation. The one I grew and am continuing to grow on. The irony of me writing this on an online blog aside, I fucking hate what the internet has made us. Kids growing up with zero social skills because everything is fucking online. Don't call! Don't call! Just text him! It is utter horse shit. I miss talking to people; yes I have fallen victim as well, I get suckered into the Facebook and texting existence we are cornered into. You can't help it, its contagious. It is also disturbing and sickening.
Lastly, don't get me started on the music (mostly because that isn't fair because everyone is entitled to their own opinion), I hate it. I hate it so much. Yes, there is some really good bands coming up out of the underground. Clawing through the muck and the mire to do good things and play good music. But their isn't any activism to support this. So many bands are left to die because people won't even fucking pay them. Band's have offered to let you choose how much to pay for your digital copy and it is still downloaded. You could pay a penny for their CD and yet people still pirate it. Over Christmas I got to see a really awesome band in Wisconsin called Purgatory Hill (if you like old White Stripes, check them right the fuck out) and I bought their CD. It felt great. I was helping (even if in just a small part) an up and coming band.
Yes, I am a hypocrite. Everyone who writes against piracy and has more than a thousand songs in their I-tunes is a hypocrite. However, everything I have downloaded is from bands that have made it. Bands that have enough money to quit their day jobs and make it a career. Does this truly justify it? Fuck no, but it makes me feel better. Also, I have heard a handful of such bands openly invite you to download their albums because their shitty record label was getting all of the money any way.
Well fuck me with a fish did this rant go every which way. I guess what I am trying to say is this, have some fun this New Year's Eve and throught 2011. Don't drive drunk, beat your significant others, don't be a cunt to your friends, remember you family and all that other bullshit. Avoiding the retarded things, have fun. Smoke a cigar, smoke a pack of cigarettes for shits and giggles, drink a case of beer and see if it makes your dick feel funny when you try to masturbate to midget porn, or just sit around with your friends and kill a bottle of decent Scotch.
Oh and incase I get called into work tonight, drink one or thirteen for me. Cheers my few readers, I will see you in the new year.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
What The Hell Am I Good At? (Super powers)
While watching the morning news at work today, I learned that a Dutchman planst to break his own Ice Bath record. In case you are one of those adorable people that just can't put two and two together (well, what does Anti-Freeze do, now?), an Ice Bath is simply sitting your ass down in ice.
Ok, I can do that! I can fucking sit down, man up and take the cold! You may find yourself saying this, I mean who hasn't gotten stuck out in the cold as some point. However, the fifty-one year old Wim Hof's previous Ice Bath record is one hour and forty-six minutes. And it looked like this:
Ok, I can do that! I can fucking sit down, man up and take the cold! You may find yourself saying this, I mean who hasn't gotten stuck out in the cold as some point. However, the fifty-one year old Wim Hof's previous Ice Bath record is one hour and forty-six minutes. And it looked like this:
I taunt you with my tan coat
He is planning on adding an extra six minutes to his record on New Year's Eve. That is nearly two fucking hours of just, you know, hanging out in the fucking ice. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not making of fun of this guy. Far from it, I too wish that I could rock that steely gaze and Iceman as an official nickname (Do you know what you have to do for that kind of nickname? Do you? Just look up the kind of people with that nickname, I will wait...)
...continuing with our man here (now that you know how awesome of a nickname that is), he not only excels at hanging out with the ice, he is also incredible at running the fuck on and in it. Seeing as he is included in the Guinness World Records for the fastest half marathon in the snow or ice whilst barefoot (That's a fuck all of a record to think up, isn't it?). Not content with that, Hof decided to run a full marathon above the Polar Circle in Finland. He ran twenty-six miles and some change in five hours and twenty-five minutes, wearing nothing but shorts and sandals.
For the sake of all that screws and shits, the man seriously attempted to climb Mt. I Kill A Lot Of People Everest wearing nothing but shorts. However, due to an injured foot, he wasn't able to finish this trek. Seeing as Everest just didn't want him fucking her like a prom date, he went to her sluttier sister; he climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in his shorts in just two days! I believe that we can safely deduce that Wim Hof is conquerer of ice and snow.
En route to fuck your mother
So, as I have said, I am not making fun of this dude. I think he is an ultimate bad ass and would never slander him (especially coming from someone who hasn't competed in any athletic competition in five years, starts whining about the cold in just a few minutes, and will probably be a rapidly fading duck of a man at his age). However, it got me thinking. How?
Who wakes up one morning and says, "Well fuck me loving Jesus! I love being cold. I love it so much, that I bet stupid people would pay me to subject myself to it!" How does one suddenly discover this super human like tolerance? I mean no offense to Mr. Hof, but why not...normal stuff? I know the obvious answer, 'Well if you were fucking invincible to cold, would you work a 9-5?" And fuck no, I wouldn't. I am not asking about now. I am asking about way the fuck back when the Iceman was just a wee lad. How did he think, 'I might be a fucking super hero...?'
Did our Wim Hof have to go through a series of tests. I see it now, Wim Hoff running around engulfed entireley in flames, "I AM NOT IMMUNE TO FIRE! I AM NOT IMMUNE TO FIRE!" Wim Hoff having to get skin grafts after dissolving the palm of his right hand in acid, 'ACID REALLY HURTS! ACID REALLY HURTS!" Wim Hoff wrapped in a full body cast after throwing himself from a cliff, "MY BONES DEFINITELY BREAK! MY BONES DEFINITELY BREAK!" Wim Hoff getting a bunch of stitches and blood transfusions after being mauled by a cougar, "I CAN'T TALK TO ANIMALS! I CAN'T TALK TO ANIMALS!" Then, finally, after years of pain and heart ache, a desperate Wim Hoff plunges himself into his father's ice fishing hole, "I AM VERY CO-ld. But..but it isn't that bad. In fact, this is awesome! THIS FUCKING ROCKS!"
A hero is born.
A hero grows.
A hero sets records.
What the hell can I do? What the hell can you do? Do we all have the capacity to do something amazing? Is it possible that the real record is simply given to those that have the cajones to discover their secret power? Maybe it isn't just a lucky handful of people that can tell the cold to fuck off, ignore nearly any amount of pain, calculate shit faster than a calculator (google that one), lift an impossible amount of weight in proportion to the size of the person.
Or maybe I have just found something else to blame for my lack of fuck anything.
Then again, not all powers are created equally
Monday, December 13, 2010
Roommate vs. Pie (an experiment)*
There is an unavoidable fact in this world, you will at some point live with a messy roommate. It is as unavoidable as seeking to discover just how much Ten High whiskey one can consume before you fight the couch because it said something about your mother, oh wait...
Anyways, there are a few things you can do about your situation. One, you can ask politely and hope to Your God that they might actually clean up their pile of dishes or maybe poke at the floor listlessly with a broom, at least. However, they are fuck all lazy and human beings are allergic to change. Two, you can jump on the table and start punching the ceiling and start ninja kicking the the air as if it is your estranged grandfather who you hate for doing that one stupid thing at that one restaurant oh so long ago. This, while entertaining, just simply won't do. Also, you may not have anyone to split rent with any longer. Third, you can get all passive aggressive and leave sticky notes everywhere and eventually maybe a dead squirrel under his bed (don't do this if you own cats! they really fucking hate squirrels ((especially if they are dead))). If you do this, fuck you. Buy some Vagisil and cry over some Thomas Grey (LITERARY BURN OHHHH).
As you can see, living with a messy roommate is not something you can deal with; living with a messy roommate, however, can be entertaining. (I always use semi-colons wrong. Seriously, fuck semi-colons. They are dicks with even bigger dicks). I decided that instead of trying to find a way to get him to clean up his shit, I would just start doing little experiments.
Here is the first: Roommate vs. Pie
Background: my roommate was kind enough to bring back some pies when he got back from Thanksgiving. I was entirely too excited to receive free pie but knew that a dark tide was just around the corner. How and who the fuck was going to gobble up all that pie?! It will go to waste?! It might turn rotten and cry to be put down like a dog!!?? WHAT. WILL. BECOME. OF. THE. PIE!
I knew that pie will turn on you after just four or five days and that is entirely too short of a time for my roommate to deal with things. That meant that I would have to be the one to lay the delicious pies to rest. This was just too much to bare. So, it dawned on me. The simplest of tests! How long does it actually take my roommate to follow through on the simplest of cleaning tasks: pick up food, carry to trash, deposit said food in said trash, pat oneself on back for days hard work. Also, I decided to leave them unrefrigerated to make it even easier to notice their decaying state.
Day one through seven (11/25 - 12/02):
The pies were nibbled on and, as expected, were not even close to being finished off by the time the crust started to get mushy and the pumpkin pie started to look sad.
Day nine (12/04):
The pumpkin pie has a couple spots of visible mold. If you are starving to death, you could almost give the apple pie a passing grade (almost). Roommate cooks bagel. Considers pie (it is right next to the toaster). My heart is a flutter to think that, alas, I may have discovered his threshold! Roommate returns to bagel. Fuck.
Day eleven (12/06):
The apple pie has fallen victim to the cold, cold heart of the darkest of dames: mold. The pumpkin pie is heartbreaking and possibly vomit inducing. Roommate scrounges around for a plate (hint: they are all in his room or piled in the sink). Roommate passes on the idea of plate and uses paper towel (right next to the toaster, which is right next to the pie) for his bagel (note to self: if roommate decides to throw furniture at me for publishing my journal, I may be able to counter his rage with his love of bagels.) (not to self: grab a few bagels from work). Pushes pie further back on the counter. Your God! He has made a deal with the mold! It is the only explanation! He saw! He must have saw! What are they paying him to look away? How does mold acquire currency?
Day thirteen (12/08):
The mold has spoken to me in my dreams. It knows that I am on to it. My cat seems on edge, is she in on it too? How did this happen?! What have I done?! It was such an innocent experiment! How was I supposed to know that I was tinkering with the very threads of reality? It must be destroyed. But, alas, my scientific brain holds strong. The experiment...must continue.
Day fifteen (12/10):
The mold. It is growing stronger. However, as I now fear sleep and have simply kept going with experimentation and countless tests. I have learned what I have unleashed. Apparently, there is a delicate balance in the relationship of humans and mold. It turns out, mold isn't just disgusting and occasionally life saving. It is the very essence of evil. It must be kept in check by the humans. Whether it be by throwing it away and burying it forever or in the close scrutiny of a lab. It must be kept in check. My poor roommate, he knows not of what is controlling him. It is no longer that he doesn't want to walk the two and a half feet from pie to trash can, it is that he simply cannot.
Day sixteen (12/11):
I have spoken with the mold through my dreams and have learned that the very reason I started this experiment was controlled by the mold. It knew I was very strong willed and would only ever not throw away food if it were in the name of science and an excuse to drink whiskey and laugh about moldy pie. There must be a way.
Day seventeen (12/12)
I have learned that the mold holds no power to those outside of the apartment. I must plot its devise somewhere else. But how to leave? How? Every time I attempt to leave this ghastly place the mold convinces me I have more science to do and I just can't leave if I have science to do! I know! I know what I must do! In a burst of youthful vigor I leap on to the table and begin to punch the ceiling with enough vigor to cause an potty incident in the puppy that lives upstairs. I kick with such gusto that even the homeless man that tries to sell me dead rats and rocks for $13.95 every Thursday would call me insane. I yelled the most garbled and broken phrases I could, "Hyundai...is a company that...WATCHES YOU FUCK GERBILS!" "My ass...HUNGERS FOR...CHEERIOS!" "Your mother...once...APPLEBEES! "BEEEEEESSSSS!" Just as my upstairs' neighbors started to furiously dial 911, a voice thundered from the pie.
"HE NO LONGER IS A MAN OF SCIENCE. HE IS A MAN OF DEBAUCHERY, RAMPANT ALCOHOLISM, AND...MAYBE BEES. SERIOUSLY, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS UP WITH THE BEES. HE IS USELESS."
The bond was broken. The curse, shattered. The gypsy tears, dried. The imaginary bees, hibernating.
I pulled up my pants (they ran away from my waist for fear of catching the crazy), flung myself from the table, and wrenched the pies from the counter top, "YOUR VILLAINY AND DICKISH NATURE IS OVER! I...I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU WANTED FROM US. BUT...fuck. I...hold on, pie. I need a one liner. FUCK YOU JACK HANDY AND YOUR FUCKING PIE HEAVEN (second literary burn!)."
I threw the pie into the trash and with bright flash and one of those classic movie, "NOOOOOOOO" things that the villain always does, it was gone. The deed...was done.
Finally, my roommate emerged from his room. Shaking his head, the broken curse leaving him cold and strangely flatulent, "What...what the fuck?"
I looked at him, my glare could have cut down Samuel Jackson in his coldest of days, "BEEEEEEEESSSSS!"
*I love you roommate
Anyways, there are a few things you can do about your situation. One, you can ask politely and hope to Your God that they might actually clean up their pile of dishes or maybe poke at the floor listlessly with a broom, at least. However, they are fuck all lazy and human beings are allergic to change. Two, you can jump on the table and start punching the ceiling and start ninja kicking the the air as if it is your estranged grandfather who you hate for doing that one stupid thing at that one restaurant oh so long ago. This, while entertaining, just simply won't do. Also, you may not have anyone to split rent with any longer. Third, you can get all passive aggressive and leave sticky notes everywhere and eventually maybe a dead squirrel under his bed (don't do this if you own cats! they really fucking hate squirrels ((especially if they are dead))). If you do this, fuck you. Buy some Vagisil and cry over some Thomas Grey (LITERARY BURN OHHHH).
As you can see, living with a messy roommate is not something you can deal with; living with a messy roommate, however, can be entertaining. (I always use semi-colons wrong. Seriously, fuck semi-colons. They are dicks with even bigger dicks). I decided that instead of trying to find a way to get him to clean up his shit, I would just start doing little experiments.
Here is the first: Roommate vs. Pie
Background: my roommate was kind enough to bring back some pies when he got back from Thanksgiving. I was entirely too excited to receive free pie but knew that a dark tide was just around the corner. How and who the fuck was going to gobble up all that pie?! It will go to waste?! It might turn rotten and cry to be put down like a dog!!?? WHAT. WILL. BECOME. OF. THE. PIE!
I knew that pie will turn on you after just four or five days and that is entirely too short of a time for my roommate to deal with things. That meant that I would have to be the one to lay the delicious pies to rest. This was just too much to bare. So, it dawned on me. The simplest of tests! How long does it actually take my roommate to follow through on the simplest of cleaning tasks: pick up food, carry to trash, deposit said food in said trash, pat oneself on back for days hard work. Also, I decided to leave them unrefrigerated to make it even easier to notice their decaying state.
Day one through seven (11/25 - 12/02):
The pies were nibbled on and, as expected, were not even close to being finished off by the time the crust started to get mushy and the pumpkin pie started to look sad.
Day nine (12/04):
The pumpkin pie has a couple spots of visible mold. If you are starving to death, you could almost give the apple pie a passing grade (almost). Roommate cooks bagel. Considers pie (it is right next to the toaster). My heart is a flutter to think that, alas, I may have discovered his threshold! Roommate returns to bagel. Fuck.
Day eleven (12/06):
The apple pie has fallen victim to the cold, cold heart of the darkest of dames: mold. The pumpkin pie is heartbreaking and possibly vomit inducing. Roommate scrounges around for a plate (hint: they are all in his room or piled in the sink). Roommate passes on the idea of plate and uses paper towel (right next to the toaster, which is right next to the pie) for his bagel (note to self: if roommate decides to throw furniture at me for publishing my journal, I may be able to counter his rage with his love of bagels.) (not to self: grab a few bagels from work). Pushes pie further back on the counter. Your God! He has made a deal with the mold! It is the only explanation! He saw! He must have saw! What are they paying him to look away? How does mold acquire currency?
Day thirteen (12/08):
The mold has spoken to me in my dreams. It knows that I am on to it. My cat seems on edge, is she in on it too? How did this happen?! What have I done?! It was such an innocent experiment! How was I supposed to know that I was tinkering with the very threads of reality? It must be destroyed. But, alas, my scientific brain holds strong. The experiment...must continue.
Day fifteen (12/10):
The mold. It is growing stronger. However, as I now fear sleep and have simply kept going with experimentation and countless tests. I have learned what I have unleashed. Apparently, there is a delicate balance in the relationship of humans and mold. It turns out, mold isn't just disgusting and occasionally life saving. It is the very essence of evil. It must be kept in check by the humans. Whether it be by throwing it away and burying it forever or in the close scrutiny of a lab. It must be kept in check. My poor roommate, he knows not of what is controlling him. It is no longer that he doesn't want to walk the two and a half feet from pie to trash can, it is that he simply cannot.
Day sixteen (12/11):
I have spoken with the mold through my dreams and have learned that the very reason I started this experiment was controlled by the mold. It knew I was very strong willed and would only ever not throw away food if it were in the name of science and an excuse to drink whiskey and laugh about moldy pie. There must be a way.
Day seventeen (12/12)
I have learned that the mold holds no power to those outside of the apartment. I must plot its devise somewhere else. But how to leave? How? Every time I attempt to leave this ghastly place the mold convinces me I have more science to do and I just can't leave if I have science to do! I know! I know what I must do! In a burst of youthful vigor I leap on to the table and begin to punch the ceiling with enough vigor to cause an potty incident in the puppy that lives upstairs. I kick with such gusto that even the homeless man that tries to sell me dead rats and rocks for $13.95 every Thursday would call me insane. I yelled the most garbled and broken phrases I could, "Hyundai...is a company that...WATCHES YOU FUCK GERBILS!" "My ass...HUNGERS FOR...CHEERIOS!" "Your mother...once...APPLEBEES! "BEEEEEESSSSS!" Just as my upstairs' neighbors started to furiously dial 911, a voice thundered from the pie.
"HE NO LONGER IS A MAN OF SCIENCE. HE IS A MAN OF DEBAUCHERY, RAMPANT ALCOHOLISM, AND...MAYBE BEES. SERIOUSLY, I DON'T KNOW WHAT IS UP WITH THE BEES. HE IS USELESS."
The bond was broken. The curse, shattered. The gypsy tears, dried. The imaginary bees, hibernating.
I pulled up my pants (they ran away from my waist for fear of catching the crazy), flung myself from the table, and wrenched the pies from the counter top, "YOUR VILLAINY AND DICKISH NATURE IS OVER! I...I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU WANTED FROM US. BUT...fuck. I...hold on, pie. I need a one liner. FUCK YOU JACK HANDY AND YOUR FUCKING PIE HEAVEN (second literary burn!)."
I threw the pie into the trash and with bright flash and one of those classic movie, "NOOOOOOOO" things that the villain always does, it was gone. The deed...was done.
Finally, my roommate emerged from his room. Shaking his head, the broken curse leaving him cold and strangely flatulent, "What...what the fuck?"
I looked at him, my glare could have cut down Samuel Jackson in his coldest of days, "BEEEEEEEESSSSS!"
*I love you roommate
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