As an adult firmly in my twilight years, it has been many, many years since I've had anyone attempt to tell me what I will wear. While I admittedly don't make the most sound fashion decisions, I really don't require assistance in this department. Really. I don't. Like most other trends, fashion isn't even a blip on my radar and I really couldn't care less what is in this season or what other people are wearing. That's how bell bottoms happened, not once but twice. No, thank you.
Perhaps this is why I find the concept of a co-worker (and non-boss) making the decision for everyone that we will wear a designated shirt and the dreaded khaki pants on a specific day to be absolutely ludicrous. Khaki...bland, boring color for bland, boring people. This whole turn of events reeks of conspiracy. However, most conspiracies have some element that teeters on the cusp of making sense. It might not actually sling itself over that hump, but damned if it doesn't give it the old school try.
This kind of fashion synchronicity might make sense for a special event, where our group intermingles and infiltrates the unwashed masses with unwashed asses. However, it just seems to border on cult activity any other time, unless french fries are being served as a side order. Trust me, I have worked here since the beginning of time and we've served nary a french fry in all of that time. Otherwise, it seems like one step away from mutual castration and wrapping ourselves in a purple shroud before trying to thumb a ride on a UFO behind a comet. I guess I should at least be happy that it's a purple shroud and not khaki in nature. If this is how it has to be, then just give me my cup of tainted Kool-Aid (Flavor-Aid, to be historically correct) and leave me the hell alone. Please.
The purpose of this synchronized dressing, like some kind of neo-Diana Ross & The Supremes? A new television commercial to pimp the workplace to specific unwashed masses with television-viewing asses.
First of all, it's not like any of us was going to be featured in the advert in the first place. We had already chosen our on-air talent (or victims, depending upon your perspective). Secondly, it would look completely stupid for everyone to be wearing the same t-shirt and the same color of pants in a shot.
Even though I do my best to perpetually stray from the herd and it's lame-brained ideas, conformity seems to be happening entirely too often for my tastes these days, especially because it always seems to involve some form of khaki clothing. Those people that actually pull the strings of the powers-that-be seem to really get off on their khaki and they must work themselves into a froth over making everyone else follow their lead to bland and boring. It's an undiagnosed khaki fetish or something. Believe me, there are a lot better fetishes and fixations out there, folks.
All I know is that if I wanted this crap, I'd work in a fast food joint, join a gang, or follow the trends like every other jackass that needs someone else to think for them. This is how and why amazingly hollow trends become phenomenons. It's herd mentality in all of its glory. There is no safety in these numbers, because those in the crowd are often as dumb as a sack of hammers.
Besides, the herd often gets loaded on a truck and taken off to be slaughtered. If that is going to happen to me, I want to go it alone because I don't want to spend my closing moments with a bunch of dumb shits. I'd also prefer that it not involve mutual castration and without some clueless nitwit telling me what to wear.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Even more honky, even more extreme
They found me drunk and wearing someone else’s clothes
How I got there no one knows
Drunken, crazed out of my mind
Chasing shadows through the holes of time
What does it take to get out of this place? At this particular moment, I am willing to chew through the concrete block and shit gravel for a week. Anything for the cause. The only other exit is the window and that would no doubt lead to some broken bones. That’s not really an attractive option. Not that gut gravel is a lot better. Sometimes, I think some folks just enjoy hearing themselves talk and they probably lead a much fuller life than bitter people like me. Maybe I should be remotely interested, but I am unapologetically not. I really just don’t give a shit. Call me shallow or small-minded, but it’s silly shit any way you slice the lump.
Today is one of those days when I feel like I’ve passed through someone’s colon. Chewed up and shit out right into the toilet. Rather than take the trip through modern sewage systems, I am plucked, dressed, and ready to roll with my day. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my origins. I blame any lingering funk on the dog. Any dog. For all I know, I could have even emerged from the sphincter of the funky dog to begin with. It might even have resulted from one of those scoot sessions across the carpet. I have pretty much ruled that one out since I didn’t wake up caked into the carpet fibers. I would consider this to be a good thing, but it hasn’t made the sun shine any brighter on my day. Shit is shit, no matter the source.
T-shirt slogan: “Heaven doesn’t want us and Hell is afraid we’re gonna take over.”
Both places probably have a strict dress code that prohibits lame ass t-shirt slogans.
If you want to see the monkey dance, you’ve got to pay the monkey.
Stop in the Name of the Fashion Police
What some people do in the name of fashion really amazes me sometimes. I’m sitting here pimping the workplace and a crowd of 3-4 people crowd around my table. From my Kodak instant photo of the moment, I’d say the two-ish chicks were a part of the dude’s posse. Now, whether or not he wanted a posse is anyone’s guess. But from my seated position, I look up to see one of the posse chicks wearing a half-shirt type of deal with a white belly spilling out from the shirt. To add insult to injury, the cloud-like belly had a big black ring. I don’t know what she was thinking, but damn, cover that shit up…now. I shouldn’t made snide remarks, because if she’s cool with it, I should just deal with it or preferably just look away. But she had it all out there for mass visual consumption and that’s not good for anyone. It scared me. It really did. I felt slight twinges of guilt when she left and told me to have a nice day. I know that I’m all soft and pillowy, but my shit’s covered.
Did you blow a goat to get cab fare home? Did he treat you like a lady and wine you and dine you? Just the thought makes me feel like a man. So much, that I crave beef jerky and ESPN—the very essence of the manly existence. Let me scratch myself. Ah, much better.
Is it enough to watch me die or do you want to see me bleed? Bleeding in a cinematic way like on the silver screen. Will I whisper something dramatic with my final breath or die like an outdated machine? The choice is mine and the choice is yours. How do you want it?
I’m a part-time superhero.
From a flyer swiped from the college door:
“If your interested in Young Children Come
join us for Pizza and Drinks as we
elect officers/plan activities/and have fun.”
Far be it for me to poke fun at the grammar, but you know that if I spot errors, then it must drive the English instructors completely nuts to see such errors. I won’t go there, because that’s not really funny. The English instructors going completely ballistic is kind of funny, though.
I’m sure that this is a wonderful club to join, but to me, it sounds like an invite for pedophiles. They’re “interested” in young children, so to speak, and who could resist the temptation of pizza and drinks? The desire to “have fun” is just an added perk. It sort of goes hand in hand with all of the other components.
Obviously, there is nothing funny about pedophiles, but the flyer itself seems very ironic as far as the wording. It’s just not right. The cute little clip art just makes it even creepier.
Hopefully, I’m the only oddball that would be amused by it all. I wish I could have attended the meeting to see how many trench coats were present. Now that is funny. Go ahead. Laugh. It’s okay.
How I got there no one knows
Drunken, crazed out of my mind
Chasing shadows through the holes of time
What does it take to get out of this place? At this particular moment, I am willing to chew through the concrete block and shit gravel for a week. Anything for the cause. The only other exit is the window and that would no doubt lead to some broken bones. That’s not really an attractive option. Not that gut gravel is a lot better. Sometimes, I think some folks just enjoy hearing themselves talk and they probably lead a much fuller life than bitter people like me. Maybe I should be remotely interested, but I am unapologetically not. I really just don’t give a shit. Call me shallow or small-minded, but it’s silly shit any way you slice the lump.
Today is one of those days when I feel like I’ve passed through someone’s colon. Chewed up and shit out right into the toilet. Rather than take the trip through modern sewage systems, I am plucked, dressed, and ready to roll with my day. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice my origins. I blame any lingering funk on the dog. Any dog. For all I know, I could have even emerged from the sphincter of the funky dog to begin with. It might even have resulted from one of those scoot sessions across the carpet. I have pretty much ruled that one out since I didn’t wake up caked into the carpet fibers. I would consider this to be a good thing, but it hasn’t made the sun shine any brighter on my day. Shit is shit, no matter the source.
T-shirt slogan: “Heaven doesn’t want us and Hell is afraid we’re gonna take over.”
Both places probably have a strict dress code that prohibits lame ass t-shirt slogans.
If you want to see the monkey dance, you’ve got to pay the monkey.
Stop in the Name of the Fashion Police
What some people do in the name of fashion really amazes me sometimes. I’m sitting here pimping the workplace and a crowd of 3-4 people crowd around my table. From my Kodak instant photo of the moment, I’d say the two-ish chicks were a part of the dude’s posse. Now, whether or not he wanted a posse is anyone’s guess. But from my seated position, I look up to see one of the posse chicks wearing a half-shirt type of deal with a white belly spilling out from the shirt. To add insult to injury, the cloud-like belly had a big black ring. I don’t know what she was thinking, but damn, cover that shit up…now. I shouldn’t made snide remarks, because if she’s cool with it, I should just deal with it or preferably just look away. But she had it all out there for mass visual consumption and that’s not good for anyone. It scared me. It really did. I felt slight twinges of guilt when she left and told me to have a nice day. I know that I’m all soft and pillowy, but my shit’s covered.
Did you blow a goat to get cab fare home? Did he treat you like a lady and wine you and dine you? Just the thought makes me feel like a man. So much, that I crave beef jerky and ESPN—the very essence of the manly existence. Let me scratch myself. Ah, much better.
Is it enough to watch me die or do you want to see me bleed? Bleeding in a cinematic way like on the silver screen. Will I whisper something dramatic with my final breath or die like an outdated machine? The choice is mine and the choice is yours. How do you want it?
I’m a part-time superhero.
From a flyer swiped from the college door:
“If your interested in Young Children Come
join us for Pizza and Drinks as we
elect officers/plan activities/and have fun.”
Far be it for me to poke fun at the grammar, but you know that if I spot errors, then it must drive the English instructors completely nuts to see such errors. I won’t go there, because that’s not really funny. The English instructors going completely ballistic is kind of funny, though.
I’m sure that this is a wonderful club to join, but to me, it sounds like an invite for pedophiles. They’re “interested” in young children, so to speak, and who could resist the temptation of pizza and drinks? The desire to “have fun” is just an added perk. It sort of goes hand in hand with all of the other components.
Obviously, there is nothing funny about pedophiles, but the flyer itself seems very ironic as far as the wording. It’s just not right. The cute little clip art just makes it even creepier.
Hopefully, I’m the only oddball that would be amused by it all. I wish I could have attended the meeting to see how many trench coats were present. Now that is funny. Go ahead. Laugh. It’s okay.
Crazy Scheme #5
I had this idea after a moderately heavy dose of snow and not being a fan of winter, I had an idea of how to get rid of it a little at a time.
Find someone that lives somewhere where there is a warmer climate—Miami, Jamaica, the surface of the sun, or wherever. Then box up a bit of snow, tape it up really well, and then visit your local post office. These folks are trained to sniff out smart asses, so you have to keep a straight face in their presence. At this point, you will mail the box to said warm location. The most important part of this scheme is insuring the box for at least $200-300. When the box arrives at its designated location, the snow will most likely have melted and thus, damaged in shipping. There could possibly be some jail time involved with this scheme. This would be considered a downside.
Find someone that lives somewhere where there is a warmer climate—Miami, Jamaica, the surface of the sun, or wherever. Then box up a bit of snow, tape it up really well, and then visit your local post office. These folks are trained to sniff out smart asses, so you have to keep a straight face in their presence. At this point, you will mail the box to said warm location. The most important part of this scheme is insuring the box for at least $200-300. When the box arrives at its designated location, the snow will most likely have melted and thus, damaged in shipping. There could possibly be some jail time involved with this scheme. This would be considered a downside.
Shoes On The Highway
(another old one and originally posted on Your Packaging Sucks!!)
On many occasions, I’ve been minding my own business and driving down a highway. Out of the blue, there is a shoe lying on the roadway. This has happened enough times that I’ve made mental notes about it.
The last time this happened, I questioned the origin of these shoes. Where do they come from and why is it always only one lone shoe? There are the questions that I would like answered and with no reasonable answers provided, I’ve come up with a few of my own.
Perhaps someone is tooling down the highway and scanning the wonderful selection of tunes provided on the radio dial. They settle on a station playing some crappy Elton John song, which segue ways into an incredibly nifty song that literally blows a shoe off and out the back window. Since most radio tunes clock in at about four minutes and most cars are traveling at the allotted speed limit (work with me here), we’re talking several miles. Is it really worth the time to backtrack that many miles for a tattered Nike with much road wear and a lace that is hanging together with one thread and a prayer? Probably not.
Personally, I will swerve across many lanes of traffic just to run over an abandoned flip-flop. If ever there was a footwear faux pas, it would be the flip-flop. Time permitting, I will even get out of my vehicle and club these shoes with a tire-tool or any available blunt object. Hopefully, this senseless act of violence would forever silence the hellaciously annoying sound that these shoes make. Excessive? Perhaps, but I tend to be an extremist.
Another theory involves someone hitchhiking a little too close to the traffic and in particular, one of those gas guzzling bastards from Hell, yes, a SUV. One SUV going at a good clip would hit a body so hard that it would only leave a shoe. The rest of the person would look like an incredibly life-like hood ornament. Grizzly, but life-like and also missing a shoe.
On many occasions, I’ve been minding my own business and driving down a highway. Out of the blue, there is a shoe lying on the roadway. This has happened enough times that I’ve made mental notes about it.
The last time this happened, I questioned the origin of these shoes. Where do they come from and why is it always only one lone shoe? There are the questions that I would like answered and with no reasonable answers provided, I’ve come up with a few of my own.
Perhaps someone is tooling down the highway and scanning the wonderful selection of tunes provided on the radio dial. They settle on a station playing some crappy Elton John song, which segue ways into an incredibly nifty song that literally blows a shoe off and out the back window. Since most radio tunes clock in at about four minutes and most cars are traveling at the allotted speed limit (work with me here), we’re talking several miles. Is it really worth the time to backtrack that many miles for a tattered Nike with much road wear and a lace that is hanging together with one thread and a prayer? Probably not.
Personally, I will swerve across many lanes of traffic just to run over an abandoned flip-flop. If ever there was a footwear faux pas, it would be the flip-flop. Time permitting, I will even get out of my vehicle and club these shoes with a tire-tool or any available blunt object. Hopefully, this senseless act of violence would forever silence the hellaciously annoying sound that these shoes make. Excessive? Perhaps, but I tend to be an extremist.
Another theory involves someone hitchhiking a little too close to the traffic and in particular, one of those gas guzzling bastards from Hell, yes, a SUV. One SUV going at a good clip would hit a body so hard that it would only leave a shoe. The rest of the person would look like an incredibly life-like hood ornament. Grizzly, but life-like and also missing a shoe.
The Solution
(Spring 1993)
In a world ravaged by famine, racism, pollution, and increasing governmental corruption, we are constantly trying to find a solution to these problems. The sooner we realize that there is no solution, the better off we will be. As long as there are different races, sexes, and species, there will always be environmental, political, and social turmoil. We should accept it, because unless every single inhabitant of this world participates in the solution, then the efforts of those who try will be completely useless. Since this will never happen, I have developed an alternate solution to the problem at hand. The military organizations throughout the world have built up a stockpile of weapons, which at the drop of a hat can destroy the planet many times over. Perhaps the ultimate solution would be to select a day, publicize the blessed event, and on this day, each country, state, or any social outcast with nuclear capabilities would launch their arsenal at a designated time. The resulting activity would be much more spectacular than any Super Bowl half time show, have much more impact than any Fourth Of July celebration, and more eagerly anticipated than the next Steven Spielberg blockbuster. This solution would justify the billions and billions of dollars spent on the weapons, and in addition to this, it would solve the problems. Admittedly, my solution is a bit extreme, but would the results really be that bad?
In a world ravaged by famine, racism, pollution, and increasing governmental corruption, we are constantly trying to find a solution to these problems. The sooner we realize that there is no solution, the better off we will be. As long as there are different races, sexes, and species, there will always be environmental, political, and social turmoil. We should accept it, because unless every single inhabitant of this world participates in the solution, then the efforts of those who try will be completely useless. Since this will never happen, I have developed an alternate solution to the problem at hand. The military organizations throughout the world have built up a stockpile of weapons, which at the drop of a hat can destroy the planet many times over. Perhaps the ultimate solution would be to select a day, publicize the blessed event, and on this day, each country, state, or any social outcast with nuclear capabilities would launch their arsenal at a designated time. The resulting activity would be much more spectacular than any Super Bowl half time show, have much more impact than any Fourth Of July celebration, and more eagerly anticipated than the next Steven Spielberg blockbuster. This solution would justify the billions and billions of dollars spent on the weapons, and in addition to this, it would solve the problems. Admittedly, my solution is a bit extreme, but would the results really be that bad?
Saturday, July 25, 2009
exerpts from Honky Extreme
At some point in the early '00s, I began writing down various ideas in notebooks. It typically happened when I was pissed off or something was bothering me in a big way. I had a million displaced emotions and it had to be channeled into something rather than let it fully shred myself into pieces. When the material began stacking up and the title "Honky Extreme" came to me, I decided to compile it into something that I refused to call a "book." Books are for literary types and I don't think I fit into that group. To borrow a quote from Henry Rollins, I just "talk shit." I'm a shit-talker.
Here are a few bits from Honky Extreme that I will sprinkle throughout this blog until the new material begins to flow more regularly.
permanent ink on a temporary page
the irony is just amazing
watch me walk through obscurity
watch me fall into infinity
what means nothing to everyone
means everything to no one
my misery doesn’t need company
my misery is a one-man band
We talk about anything. We talk about everything, except the things that tear us apart. We don’t want to feel the knife that cuts us free. It’s much easier to close our eyes and open them to reveal the bleeding flesh. Neither of us wants the blood on our hands.
I didn’t ask for anything and I guess I got what I asked for.
On the side of a Pepsi can:
“Please recycle. Store in a cool place.”
Hmmmm, like a refrigerator? Cooler? I guess that makes much, much too much sense. Perhaps those zany Europeans drink their caffeine-laced carbonated beverages at room temperature. Then it all depends on the climate of the room itself. Intense pressure to conform? You bet. If you shake it up, you will be wearing pressure and conformity all over your Levi’s Dockers and cardigan sweater. Of course, you could always store your Pepsi can in a cool place like embedding it in the skull of an enemy.
With the lights out, I don’t see the pain in my eyes
I don’t see the ravages of time upon me
I don’t see the fact that I am alone
I don’t see life tearing me apart
I see nothing but what is inside of me
My brain feels like an AM radio station that is slightly out of range. The message is slightly fuzzy and it gets really annoying. I’m simply looking for the power switch to turn the shit off.
Unbridled Irony Story #235
I find it amusing when I see a car with a Pro-Life sticker slapped on it driving like a bat out of Hell itself. I guess it’s all a matter of timing and just whose life are they protecting? I consider my life pretty precious, but apparently this jackass feels differently.
And another thing that pisses me off. After I’ve survived my encounter with the Pro-Life maniac, I get to work and realize that some idiot has taken about half of my parking spot. If you can’t fit your vehicle in a parking spot, then you’re not fit to drive. If you’re having difficulty parking, then have the common decency to straighten your vehicle so that others don’t have to deal with your incompetence.
alone by the window looking into the night
nothing but darkness and the faintest of stars
autumn’s wind blows a gentle breeze
across the page of some silly poetic crap
I feel like a brown, crusty rainbow.
I never thought I’d let you kill me.
I was wrong.
Your aim was perfect.
I hate the way you make me hurt
I hate myself for my feelings
The very things I cannot control will destroy me
If either of us is going to ache
I want to be the one
I want you to swim in happiness
While I drown in my own sorrow
And they say chivalry is dead
Here are a few bits from Honky Extreme that I will sprinkle throughout this blog until the new material begins to flow more regularly.
permanent ink on a temporary page
the irony is just amazing
watch me walk through obscurity
watch me fall into infinity
what means nothing to everyone
means everything to no one
my misery doesn’t need company
my misery is a one-man band
We talk about anything. We talk about everything, except the things that tear us apart. We don’t want to feel the knife that cuts us free. It’s much easier to close our eyes and open them to reveal the bleeding flesh. Neither of us wants the blood on our hands.
I didn’t ask for anything and I guess I got what I asked for.
On the side of a Pepsi can:
“Please recycle. Store in a cool place.”
Hmmmm, like a refrigerator? Cooler? I guess that makes much, much too much sense. Perhaps those zany Europeans drink their caffeine-laced carbonated beverages at room temperature. Then it all depends on the climate of the room itself. Intense pressure to conform? You bet. If you shake it up, you will be wearing pressure and conformity all over your Levi’s Dockers and cardigan sweater. Of course, you could always store your Pepsi can in a cool place like embedding it in the skull of an enemy.
With the lights out, I don’t see the pain in my eyes
I don’t see the ravages of time upon me
I don’t see the fact that I am alone
I don’t see life tearing me apart
I see nothing but what is inside of me
My brain feels like an AM radio station that is slightly out of range. The message is slightly fuzzy and it gets really annoying. I’m simply looking for the power switch to turn the shit off.
Unbridled Irony Story #235
I find it amusing when I see a car with a Pro-Life sticker slapped on it driving like a bat out of Hell itself. I guess it’s all a matter of timing and just whose life are they protecting? I consider my life pretty precious, but apparently this jackass feels differently.
And another thing that pisses me off. After I’ve survived my encounter with the Pro-Life maniac, I get to work and realize that some idiot has taken about half of my parking spot. If you can’t fit your vehicle in a parking spot, then you’re not fit to drive. If you’re having difficulty parking, then have the common decency to straighten your vehicle so that others don’t have to deal with your incompetence.
alone by the window looking into the night
nothing but darkness and the faintest of stars
autumn’s wind blows a gentle breeze
across the page of some silly poetic crap
I feel like a brown, crusty rainbow.
I never thought I’d let you kill me.
I was wrong.
Your aim was perfect.
I hate the way you make me hurt
I hate myself for my feelings
The very things I cannot control will destroy me
If either of us is going to ache
I want to be the one
I want you to swim in happiness
While I drown in my own sorrow
And they say chivalry is dead
long shadows
casting long shadows across the desolate land
the horizon seems endless with miles of nothing but nothing in sight
the path of the past has eroded with time
leaving no clear indication of the ideal route
every direction has its own set of treasures
every direction has its own set of perils
aim yourself at a hazy destination with determined footsteps
before death finds you in stagnant isolation
the horizon seems endless with miles of nothing but nothing in sight
the path of the past has eroded with time
leaving no clear indication of the ideal route
every direction has its own set of treasures
every direction has its own set of perils
aim yourself at a hazy destination with determined footsteps
before death finds you in stagnant isolation
About the fodder...
For those people that mistake humor for happiness, this ongoing collection of crap may possibly be something of a shock in places. Those people that truly know me see past the outer veneer of humor and know that I am not always a very happy person. Humor is simply a defense mechanism that gets me through the day without hurting myself or hurting those around me. Some of the material in this thing that you are currently reading will likely seem rather dark and might not be what most would consider a “happy read.” However, these pages will be about as real and honest as it gets in the moment. When I write, I do my best to vent the spleen and exorcise demons. As I put this thing together, I decided to do it without pulling any punches or offering any explanations or apologies. While I prefer writing things that will potentially make people laugh, it’s not always where my head is located at the particular moment. Both are very real facets to my lump of coal as I strive to become a diamond. When all is said and done, I’m perfectly okay with remaining coal.
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