I think God prefers men to women. What I mean is he loves men more than he does women. If you look at it from all points of view, I'm right, partly because it's just so gosh darn obvious but mostly because I'm a man. I mean just look at all this evidence...
Men / Women
Men have penises / Women don't.
Men were created first / Women weren't
Men can be messiahs / Women can't.
Men can join all-mens clubs / Women can pout....outside!
Men can be Kings / Women can't (They have to settle for "queen" LMFAO)
Men can be tall / Women shouldn't
A man should be "a man" / A woman should know better
"All men are created equal." / *Not Applicable*
I really could go on but I think my point is well made.
BTW, for all you feminist pursuing "a womans right to choose", you've got it all wrong. What you should be advocating is "a man's right to choose for his woman". Now if you adopt that as a platform, I guarantee you, you'll all be taken a lot more seriously.
PS: Yes, this is how I spend Sunday evenings.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
My American Family
Aunty Reggie
My Aunt Reggie can't stand Africans...you know, "those Africans". It has to be "those Africans" because...well...she's African and I suppose she can stand herself.
Uncle G
My Uncle G. will pass off anyones story as his own, even yours, and he'll tell it right back to you:
Spook E: Hey Uncle G. Did you hear about the fire at my school?
Uncle G: No I didn't.
Spook E: It burned down our cafeteria. Turned out the fire was started by disgruntled students. They said they had had just about enough of the under cooked beef patties.
Uncle G: That's why they burned the place down?
Spook E: Yep.
Uncle G: What a bunch of idiots.
...3 days later...
Uncle G: Hey Spook E. Did you hear about the fire at your school?
Spook E: umm... I think I told...
Uncle G: Can you believe these students burnt down their own cafeteria?
Spooke E: Well...yes and I think I told...
Uncle G: These idiots complained about under cooked beef patties and guess what they do?
Spooke E: They burn the cafete....
Uncle G: They burn the cafeteria down. What a bunch of fools you call classmates. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it.
Spook E: Yea, me too.
My Aunt Reggie can't stand Africans...you know, "those Africans". It has to be "those Africans" because...well...she's African and I suppose she can stand herself.
Uncle G
My Uncle G. will pass off anyones story as his own, even yours, and he'll tell it right back to you:
Spook E: Hey Uncle G. Did you hear about the fire at my school?
Uncle G: No I didn't.
Spook E: It burned down our cafeteria. Turned out the fire was started by disgruntled students. They said they had had just about enough of the under cooked beef patties.
Uncle G: That's why they burned the place down?
Spook E: Yep.
Uncle G: What a bunch of idiots.
...3 days later...
Uncle G: Hey Spook E. Did you hear about the fire at your school?
Spook E: umm... I think I told...
Uncle G: Can you believe these students burnt down their own cafeteria?
Spooke E: Well...yes and I think I told...
Uncle G: These idiots complained about under cooked beef patties and guess what they do?
Spooke E: They burn the cafete....
Uncle G: They burn the cafeteria down. What a bunch of fools you call classmates. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it.
Spook E: Yea, me too.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Things That Bug Me: Post 1
I'm starting a new series of posts called "Things That Bug Me". Everyday when I walk out of the door of my living quarters, I find a host of little thing that just irk me. An example is Mr. K who lives right accross the street from me.
Mr. K is a good neighbor; He's friendly, helpful, considerate (a rarity where I live) and really an all-around good guy. But what gets me, what really bites about Mr. K is this: every morning, right when I'm in my PJ's eating my bowl of Honey-nut Cheerios, Mr. K is out in his little garden of eden, doing garden work. It's like a morning ritual. Today he's mulching, tomorrow he's got new shrubs linning his drive-way, the next day he's got a cute little hand-shovel digging away at roots and picking at dead leaves.
It's not the niose that annoys me, truth is, he hardly makes any. What really gets around to my scrotum and plucks the hairs off it is just the predictability of it. Every morning it's the same thing over and over and over. He's got the best front yard on the block, worthy of the gardens of Versailles... Heck forget the block, I'll bet my beat-up '96 Saturn that he's got the best looking yard in the entire community....and just so you know I'm not fucking around, I'll throw in 6 months insurance for that Saturn and this new squeegee-bucket combo I got at Home Depot the other day. Walmart had the same thing for twice the price but I'm smart, I shop around so you'll be getting good bang for your bet.
I know it's such a small thing to get pissed about and I know you probably think I'm jealous or something and maybe I am just a little bit jealous, but I mean come on. He's even got small twinkling lights all around the perfectly sculpted evergreen midget tree on his lawn. That's just the ultimate in douche-baggery. WTF! You know what I really think it is? He's just trying to make the rest of us look bad. The rest of block may not know what his plans are but I bet they're diabolical. He's like Martha Stewart, you just know she's a bitch behind the scenes, you just know it. It's a gut feeling and I'm all about gut feelings. I know one day he's going to call up some T.V. show that awards America's most perfect front yard and they're going to turn up with cameras and everything to show America our shoddy street. They'll say goddamit, this is a shit-hole but wait, over there, number 23, now that's a diamond amongst the fucking rough and he'll win a million dollars to buy more cute little shrubs and perfect gardenia's and snapdragons and fucking delphimiums. Ugh, I hate him.
Anyways, that's what I'm starting, a new series of posts about things like: Mr. K's perfect garden and his garden habits, that really sting my balls. If you have little things that annoy you, I'd like to know about them in the comments. You don't have to have a completely rational reason to explain why they annoy you, just the plain fact that such and such pisses you off, is good enough. If you want to blog about it instead, put a link to your blog in the comments. Could be fun ya know.
Word Of the Day: Misandrist (miss AND rist)
You've heard of mysogynist, well, here's the other side of the coin. A misandrist is a man-hater.
I know I'm not a misandrist because I love men in everyway love can be manifested. Yup!
Friday, December 21, 2007
My Uncle, the immigrant
Uncle G: Pulls up a chair and sits at the head of his dinning table, sets his old leather attache case down on the table and unlocks it, his face contorted in the kind of severe seriousness I notice only on immigrants. The folds I see now on his face, I see only when he reads the electric bill or the phone bill or any kind of bill as though the demand for immediate payment were something grave and tragic. He digs in that box for something important, dutifully setting aside documents and files, parting old pay-stubs from dated certificates; sometimes discovering, on his way down, lost nuggets of important or nostalgic things: an old picture of a deceased relative loosens his brow and he calls me over for show and tell. "Oh I am so happy I found this" he proclaims like he had never stopped looking for it. And after he has sworn to never lose it again, he nestles it right back in the spot from which he had just salvaged it.
On he goes, digging deeper, through old receipts from purchases long forgotten that have grown and settled in the shadows of that box like dust; and yet this man, who has never found a scrap of paper too small to be trashed, or a stain of something white, too faint, to be rubbed off, will inter these scraps of useless miscellanea right back in that box, after his search is complete. Some dirt are just worth saving.
He finds it, his phone-book. Tonight, like every other night, he will unwind from an honest-immigrants days struggle by enjoying the only work of literature he will ever write. Bound in weathered brown leather, this book no bigger than the span of his hands comforts him in ways his Americanized kids were doomed to fail from the start. Once upon a time my uncle tells me, "just after I came to this country at 23, I had my first son. My mother told me he'd be like a brother to me since I was such a young father. Now look at him, doo-rag and braided hair, hip-hop music and over-sized pants. This is not my brother; He is nothing like me."
He identifies with every immigrants struggle as though they were those of his own family; "look at what they do to my brother," he says of the Malaysian security guard at work, who is too sick to work but too poor to quit. "If they fire him, I will leave" he says, more a curse than a threat. For over 20 years he has worked for the state government as an accountant, and aquired for himself what many consider emblems of the American dream: A car, a house, health insurance, a retirement plan; and yet his alliance lies more with an immigrant stuck in the ghettos of Newark, New Jersey than with his suburbian middle class American neighbor.
The foundations of that alliance lie in the pages of that book and with each new name entered, it confirms for my uncle that the alliance is growing. Every call made, strenghtens it and comforts him.
He hits the speaker button on the phone and dials...
Uncle G: Hello
Ms. Ama: Hi, who is this?
Uncle G: Ama, it's me, G.
Ms. Ama: Oh hey, how are you doing.
Unce G: I'm ok. How are you?
Ms. Ama: could be better
Uncle G: How are the kids
Ms. Ama: Fine. Just fine.
Uncle G: Well just called to see how you were doing
Ms. Ama: Ok
Uncle G: Ok then, Bye.
He hangs up. Waits a minute and dials another number
Uncle G: Hey OC, its G
OC: Oh hey! How are you.
Uncle G: Staying strong man. You?
OC: I'm well, just the weather. Hows the weather there?
Uncle G: 35 and overcast... oh well I'll survive. Just called to say hello
OC: Thanks man.
Uncle G: Speak to you soon ok?
OC: Ok
Uncle G: Bye
He gets up to drink some water and settles right back in his chair. Flips the pages of the phone book and dials again
Uncle G: Hey Judith, its G
Judith: How are you, it's been so long
Uncle G: I know how are you doing?
Judith: Good. Good. What about you?
Uncle G: I'm ok, just called to see how you're hanging?
Judith: I'm ok, healthy thank God
Uncle G: That's good. That's Good to hear. Well thats really all I called about
Judith: Oh thank you. Talk to you soon
Uncle G: Bye
He flips some more pages when the phone rings. This time he opts for the reciever.
Uncle G: Hello?
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Oh KC. Whats up man? Its been so long
Friend: ......
Uncle G: I know, I know, its 35 and cloudy here. Thats America and their winter.
Friend: .....
Uncle G: Yeah, well its good to hear from you
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Thanks for calling
Friend: .......
Uncle G: Bye
He hangs up, smiles and declares more to himself than me, "thank God he called. Saves me the trouble of calling him" and continues to flip his book. He will call 7 more and recieve several calls before reading his bible and turning in for night.
Word of the day: Quotidian (kwo TID ee en)
This one means "occurring everyday" or something "commonly occurring" or "commonplace". I say: I wish this was a quotidian blog but I get so lazy about writing everytime I think of it. And even worse I have "completion-anxiety" which means, before I get started, I fear I won't finish so I opt out of starting altogether. Kinda kooky, I know but, thats me.
On he goes, digging deeper, through old receipts from purchases long forgotten that have grown and settled in the shadows of that box like dust; and yet this man, who has never found a scrap of paper too small to be trashed, or a stain of something white, too faint, to be rubbed off, will inter these scraps of useless miscellanea right back in that box, after his search is complete. Some dirt are just worth saving.
He finds it, his phone-book. Tonight, like every other night, he will unwind from an honest-immigrants days struggle by enjoying the only work of literature he will ever write. Bound in weathered brown leather, this book no bigger than the span of his hands comforts him in ways his Americanized kids were doomed to fail from the start. Once upon a time my uncle tells me, "just after I came to this country at 23, I had my first son. My mother told me he'd be like a brother to me since I was such a young father. Now look at him, doo-rag and braided hair, hip-hop music and over-sized pants. This is not my brother; He is nothing like me."
He identifies with every immigrants struggle as though they were those of his own family; "look at what they do to my brother," he says of the Malaysian security guard at work, who is too sick to work but too poor to quit. "If they fire him, I will leave" he says, more a curse than a threat. For over 20 years he has worked for the state government as an accountant, and aquired for himself what many consider emblems of the American dream: A car, a house, health insurance, a retirement plan; and yet his alliance lies more with an immigrant stuck in the ghettos of Newark, New Jersey than with his suburbian middle class American neighbor.
The foundations of that alliance lie in the pages of that book and with each new name entered, it confirms for my uncle that the alliance is growing. Every call made, strenghtens it and comforts him.
He hits the speaker button on the phone and dials...
Uncle G: Hello
Ms. Ama: Hi, who is this?
Uncle G: Ama, it's me, G.
Ms. Ama: Oh hey, how are you doing.
Unce G: I'm ok. How are you?
Ms. Ama: could be better
Uncle G: How are the kids
Ms. Ama: Fine. Just fine.
Uncle G: Well just called to see how you were doing
Ms. Ama: Ok
Uncle G: Ok then, Bye.
He hangs up. Waits a minute and dials another number
Uncle G: Hey OC, its G
OC: Oh hey! How are you.
Uncle G: Staying strong man. You?
OC: I'm well, just the weather. Hows the weather there?
Uncle G: 35 and overcast... oh well I'll survive. Just called to say hello
OC: Thanks man.
Uncle G: Speak to you soon ok?
OC: Ok
Uncle G: Bye
He gets up to drink some water and settles right back in his chair. Flips the pages of the phone book and dials again
Uncle G: Hey Judith, its G
Judith: How are you, it's been so long
Uncle G: I know how are you doing?
Judith: Good. Good. What about you?
Uncle G: I'm ok, just called to see how you're hanging?
Judith: I'm ok, healthy thank God
Uncle G: That's good. That's Good to hear. Well thats really all I called about
Judith: Oh thank you. Talk to you soon
Uncle G: Bye
He flips some more pages when the phone rings. This time he opts for the reciever.
Uncle G: Hello?
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Oh KC. Whats up man? Its been so long
Friend: ......
Uncle G: I know, I know, its 35 and cloudy here. Thats America and their winter.
Friend: .....
Uncle G: Yeah, well its good to hear from you
Friend: ......
Uncle G: Thanks for calling
Friend: .......
Uncle G: Bye
He hangs up, smiles and declares more to himself than me, "thank God he called. Saves me the trouble of calling him" and continues to flip his book. He will call 7 more and recieve several calls before reading his bible and turning in for night.
Word of the day: Quotidian (kwo TID ee en)
This one means "occurring everyday" or something "commonly occurring" or "commonplace". I say: I wish this was a quotidian blog but I get so lazy about writing everytime I think of it. And even worse I have "completion-anxiety" which means, before I get started, I fear I won't finish so I opt out of starting altogether. Kinda kooky, I know but, thats me.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
It's been 2, maybe 3 days since the last post and I'm still in a mad rage. Well maybe it's a little less than a rage, maybe I'm a little bugged, and I'm probably not mad at all. But before you go on thinking I'm a nut and all for still bitching about $54, some spittle and a courtdate...and restroom users, let me just say I'm well aware of the kids in Somalia with no water to drink, sipping thier own piss to soothe their parched throats and I remember this guy who had this (click after lunch, not before) happen to him. Poor thing. But you see, I can't suffer less because of them...it's like this:
Lets say you're walking to work, on payday, on a bright summer morning, just after you found out you won the lottery and after you've just had the best sex ever. You had stepped out of your million dollar metropolitan home that morning, kissed your "prefect 10" goodbye and seen your 2.3 kids off to school - everyone healthy, everyone happy. Yeah, you're having a really great all-american life when you turn the corner into the new street that was named after you, because you're such a great dude, stubbing your toe on the monument erected in your honor. You don't think of all those poor souls jumping off the 105th floor of the World Trade Center, and say to yourself, "life could be worse". NO! You say "FUCK fuckity fucking fuck" all the way to work and when you get there, the first thing you do before examining the old cancer-ridden hag who just suffered her 3rd coronary in a week is put your foot up, take your shoes off and examine that toe closely. And lets just say it's a little blue, whaddaya do? You curse some more and ask Mindy, your supermodel personal assistant to get some ice for your stubbed toe, thats what you do. Then you have Moe (PhD, Yale), your other personal assistant call up Dr. Diablo, averaging 6.9 botched operations since he started 6 weeks ago to look into the old cancer-ridden hag with the coronary streak. Maybe he'll have better luck ending her streak, maybe not, but "maybe" is a good enough chance for you because fuck it, you're taking the day off. Your toe hurts like crazy.
So yeah, I can't suffer less because of anyones tragedies, I can only suffer more.
Word of the day: Before I give the word of the day, a little on the last "word of the day" -soingee. Can you believe I heard someone use that word? I was watching a reality t.v. cooking show called "Top Chef" and one of the chefs used it. I was stunned at first and a little proud of myself for understanding what the **magniloquent** fucker was going on about. Then I wanted to head-butt his mouth. That is one annoying word. So, because I love you all so much and wouldn't want anyone to enter into any harm, wear a mouth-piece before using that word please.
OK, so todays word is: Pastiche (pah STEESH). (1) the word descibes an artistic work that openly imitates, often satirically, the works of other artists. (2) can also mean a hodgepodge or a collection of mismatched parts.
PS: **magniloquent**...found this one when I was looking for a word to replace 'pretentious'. It made more sense in the context in which I was speaking.
Lets say you're walking to work, on payday, on a bright summer morning, just after you found out you won the lottery and after you've just had the best sex ever. You had stepped out of your million dollar metropolitan home that morning, kissed your "prefect 10" goodbye and seen your 2.3 kids off to school - everyone healthy, everyone happy. Yeah, you're having a really great all-american life when you turn the corner into the new street that was named after you, because you're such a great dude, stubbing your toe on the monument erected in your honor. You don't think of all those poor souls jumping off the 105th floor of the World Trade Center, and say to yourself, "life could be worse". NO! You say "FUCK fuckity fucking fuck" all the way to work and when you get there, the first thing you do before examining the old cancer-ridden hag who just suffered her 3rd coronary in a week is put your foot up, take your shoes off and examine that toe closely. And lets just say it's a little blue, whaddaya do? You curse some more and ask Mindy, your supermodel personal assistant to get some ice for your stubbed toe, thats what you do. Then you have Moe (PhD, Yale), your other personal assistant call up Dr. Diablo, averaging 6.9 botched operations since he started 6 weeks ago to look into the old cancer-ridden hag with the coronary streak. Maybe he'll have better luck ending her streak, maybe not, but "maybe" is a good enough chance for you because fuck it, you're taking the day off. Your toe hurts like crazy.
So yeah, I can't suffer less because of anyones tragedies, I can only suffer more.
Word of the day: Before I give the word of the day, a little on the last "word of the day" -soingee. Can you believe I heard someone use that word? I was watching a reality t.v. cooking show called "Top Chef" and one of the chefs used it. I was stunned at first and a little proud of myself for understanding what the **magniloquent** fucker was going on about. Then I wanted to head-butt his mouth. That is one annoying word. So, because I love you all so much and wouldn't want anyone to enter into any harm, wear a mouth-piece before using that word please.
OK, so todays word is: Pastiche (pah STEESH). (1) the word descibes an artistic work that openly imitates, often satirically, the works of other artists. (2) can also mean a hodgepodge or a collection of mismatched parts.
PS: **magniloquent**...found this one when I was looking for a word to replace 'pretentious'. It made more sense in the context in which I was speaking.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
I'm in an irritable mood.
Reason?
A) 2 traffic tickets: one for a dead head-light ($54.00), the other for not having a valid insurance card (court appearance required).
B) The cop who stopped me showered my face in spit. It came like a fucking deluge with every sentence. I hate him. I hope he dies...in great pain...with green pus oozing out of his urethra...and I hope vultures pluck his testicles out...and feed it to their young...and I also wish him many other horrid things which I cannot name right now but will dream about, in glorious gory detail, tonight.
C) I'm coming down with a sore throat. I get these every year, always at the start of winter. Sore throats suck. They really suck...a lot.
D) Some woman just asked me for directions to the restroom. I knew where it was but I said I didn't.
Why?
Because I'm in an irritable mood and when I'm in an irritable mood, I hate giving out directions to people who want to take a leak in a "restroom".
What the fuck is it with people asking to use the "restroom" like they're going to take a nap in there. NO! You, my dear lady, will not be resting in the restroom. You will be using a toilet. So why don't you ask for the fucking TOILETS! And that goes for all you "bathroom" users too. There are no bathrooms in public places. You're not going in there to take a bath, you're going in to use the fucking TOILET. Ugh, I'm so irritated.
I know you'll say there's nothing wrong with using the word "restroom" because in so and so dictionary, "restrooms" are well defined, perfectly usable modern words. And you'll say, "well, even Noah fucking Webster said so". To bloody hell with Noah fucking Webster. I'm sick of people saying they're going to use the "restroom" or "bathrooms" as though if they said toilet, I may think they're going to take a shit and pass out in a laughing fit. What the fuck. We all shit. We piss first and then settle in for a nice shit. Thats what humans do; we fuck, eat and shit. Damn I'm SO IRRITATED.
And get this, the other day, some girl at work was telling me about some party she'd attended over the weekend. She got to the interesting part and this is how it began: "... and I walked into the bedroom and omigosh, there was a...oh dear, I don't know how to say this,...it was...you know...a... oh dear...how do I say this...ok, I'm going to spell it out for you...OK? OK, here it is...I walked into the bedroom and there was a....D-I-L-D-O".
What the hell! She spelled it out and turned pink afterwards. I wished I could've pulled out a giant phallus and smacked her silly with it for wasting my life like that. With all that build up, I thought there was something even grander in the damn bedroom, like a midget getting beat down by another midget with a gigantic dildo. Now that's a fitting crescendo.
I'm stopping. I'm damn irritated and I think it's starting to show.
PS: Today's word is "soignee" pronounced (swan YAY). It's ESOTERIC and sounds pretentious so I guess I'll have to use it. It means fashionable or elegantly sophisticated and well-groomed. I'm certainly not soignee, I need a haircut badly and Britney Spears is not soignee either, she needs hair badly. Hmm...Is Paris Hilton soignee? What about Hillary? She's got the "elegantly sophisticated" down but I'm not so sure about the "fashionable" bit.
PSS: see how I worked in "esoteric" in that last graph. Ain't I smart?
Reason?
A) 2 traffic tickets: one for a dead head-light ($54.00), the other for not having a valid insurance card (court appearance required).
B) The cop who stopped me showered my face in spit. It came like a fucking deluge with every sentence. I hate him. I hope he dies...in great pain...with green pus oozing out of his urethra...and I hope vultures pluck his testicles out...and feed it to their young...and I also wish him many other horrid things which I cannot name right now but will dream about, in glorious gory detail, tonight.
C) I'm coming down with a sore throat. I get these every year, always at the start of winter. Sore throats suck. They really suck...a lot.
D) Some woman just asked me for directions to the restroom. I knew where it was but I said I didn't.
Why?
Because I'm in an irritable mood and when I'm in an irritable mood, I hate giving out directions to people who want to take a leak in a "restroom".
What the fuck is it with people asking to use the "restroom" like they're going to take a nap in there. NO! You, my dear lady, will not be resting in the restroom. You will be using a toilet. So why don't you ask for the fucking TOILETS! And that goes for all you "bathroom" users too. There are no bathrooms in public places. You're not going in there to take a bath, you're going in to use the fucking TOILET. Ugh, I'm so irritated.
I know you'll say there's nothing wrong with using the word "restroom" because in so and so dictionary, "restrooms" are well defined, perfectly usable modern words. And you'll say, "well, even Noah fucking Webster said so". To bloody hell with Noah fucking Webster. I'm sick of people saying they're going to use the "restroom" or "bathrooms" as though if they said toilet, I may think they're going to take a shit and pass out in a laughing fit. What the fuck. We all shit. We piss first and then settle in for a nice shit. Thats what humans do; we fuck, eat and shit. Damn I'm SO IRRITATED.
And get this, the other day, some girl at work was telling me about some party she'd attended over the weekend. She got to the interesting part and this is how it began: "... and I walked into the bedroom and omigosh, there was a...oh dear, I don't know how to say this,...it was...you know...a... oh dear...how do I say this...ok, I'm going to spell it out for you...OK? OK, here it is...I walked into the bedroom and there was a....D-I-L-D-O".
What the hell! She spelled it out and turned pink afterwards. I wished I could've pulled out a giant phallus and smacked her silly with it for wasting my life like that. With all that build up, I thought there was something even grander in the damn bedroom, like a midget getting beat down by another midget with a gigantic dildo. Now that's a fitting crescendo.
I'm stopping. I'm damn irritated and I think it's starting to show.
PS: Today's word is "soignee" pronounced (swan YAY). It's ESOTERIC and sounds pretentious so I guess I'll have to use it. It means fashionable or elegantly sophisticated and well-groomed. I'm certainly not soignee, I need a haircut badly and Britney Spears is not soignee either, she needs hair badly. Hmm...Is Paris Hilton soignee? What about Hillary? She's got the "elegantly sophisticated" down but I'm not so sure about the "fashionable" bit.
PSS: see how I worked in "esoteric" in that last graph. Ain't I smart?
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