Rant-N-Roll

The Skinny Pant is Back. Bring Back the Dove Girls!

2006-10-06T07:20:00.000-07:00

The late, as in dead, ~~Kate~~* Audrey Hepburn is starring in a new Gap commercial. She wants to dance in her skinny black pants, and Gap, Inc. is telling you that these ARE in fashion and you MUST go out and buy them if you are to remain fashionable.

Fine. The creepiness of the dancing dead Hepburn aside (shame on you, Hepburn estate), I'm already sick of the Skinny Black Pant ads on television and the print ads that are popping up all over every damn bus stop all over Chicago. I'm really missing the Dove Girl ads from last year. Any why is the word "pant" singular? Why isn't it "pants?" Is this a marketing thing, a fashion thing or a bad grammar thing in the name of marketing and fashion? Regardless, I am truly thankful that Gap, Inc. makes a great deal of their print ads available for download on their site.

Here's a typical urban scene. Can you spot the Gap advertisement?

Yes, there it is. And this is but one piece of eye-litter in the Gap's latest advertising campaign. Here it is a little closer:

And here's the ad featuring a woman who is (thank god for her!) completely on the fashion-ball:

But, like I said, I am thankful that Gap makes their photos available for download. Here's my take on their campaign:

(click for larger image)

* (When I originally published this post, I made mixed up my Hepburns. Pardon me for my dumbassery, and thank you to the anonymous commenter for informing me.)

Hello. I'm back. Or am I?

2006-10-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

Like thousands--probably millions--of other bloggers out there, I've gone against the cardinal promise I made to myself some time ago: "I will not just let this blog die off! I WILL keep it updated!" Yeah. And I'm also not going to let my desk become littered with papers while the ashtray overflows with carcinogenic vomit.

Well, to those of you who know me: Hi, how have you been? To those who don't, namely those who wandered here from an interesting Google search phrase: Welcome. And speaking of those of you who still stumble onto this blog occasionally even though up until this moment it hasn't been updated since April of 2006, some of you find me in very interesting ways.

Since I haven't even touched this blog since last April, today I spent a little time seeing how many people still wander in. Some of the key words that bring people here are both funny and disturbing (which is not to say that disturbing can't be funny). For example, the number one search phrase that brings people to my blog is "Monster Cock." It's gratifying though that this is not because this is a homoerotic blog in any way, but because the term "monster cock" is directly related to a previous post on Jesse Jackson. It's even more satisfying that if one types in the term "monster cock" into Alta Vista's image search, a photoshopped picture from this blog of Jesse Jackson gobbling on a big, fat cock is on the first page of search results. Thank you, search engine spider gods! Try this here if you like.

Well, I have some saved up fodder I'm going to post immediately after this one, but I can't guarantee any kind of commitment. Not that this matters to most of you, unless you're my girlfriend of course, which is another life matter entirely. Take care, it's good to be back, and I hope to be back for a while before I disappear again. . .which will most likely happen.

Angry People In Pictures

2006-04-19T12:43:00.000-07:00

I have a backlog of photos I've only recently started classifying (shit to delete, decent shit, good shit). I'm discovering more and more that what's going on in the background of the picture is often more interesting than the intended subject. In the post People in The Background, I showed the interesting faces of people reacting to acrobatic street performers. The photo below illustrates something else: Hatred of the photographer. Me.

September 11, and the Patriot Act has had a chilling effect on street photography. If I'm not getting angry looks from people in the crowd, I'm being questioned by a cop. . .

Congratulations Marchers for Immigrant Rights!

2006-03-13T07:14:00.000-08:00

On the rally that occurred in downtown Chicago on 3.10.2006, where thousands of patriotic Americans met to oppose HR 4437 Legislation.

Yes, today you marched and protested a bill that would further restrict illegal immigration. I know you oppose this bill because you love America! Don't listen to those jingoistic dickheads who are telling you that coming to this country "illegally" is wrong. (What does the word "illegal" even mean anyway when one is dealing with an important social issue like this?) I mean, you came to this country with the same wide-eyed idealistic vision of America as a land of opportunity just like the Krauts, Pollacks, Dagos and Micks of yore. You came to this country because in your heart you love the hell out of it! You have the American dream, and just like the immigrants of Ellis Island Past, you wanted to come here to find a better job, a better way of life, to learn the English language and become part of this melting pot! Heck, we know melting pots are good, that melting pots make a people and culture stronger, just like a steel alloy!

Okay, so unlike past immigrants, like my Dago Grandparents and great Grandparents, you are bit slow on the uptake in learning English. I'm optimistic though.

True, there are many in your community who have lived here for fifty or more years who still only know how to say, "No Hablo Ingles," but that's okay. You're just not used to all this opportunity and freedom.

Okay, so what if your American-Xenophobia makes you only stay in your communities, where you can get by forever without learning a lick of English. Those of you who go wait at Home Depot for your shitty paying day laborer jobs know enough English to survive: When the contractor shows up and says "Drywall," you raise your hand.

It really is okay because you love America so much. Well, actually, you seem to love your home country even more than America, which puzzles me because that's the place you wanted to escape. Hell, some of you climbed fences and paddled on rafts no bigger than a sardine cans to get here. Which is why I don't understand all the nationalistic pride for the lands you escaped from. Is it because the only thing America is to you is a paycheck? Nah. Couldn’t be. . . However, at the Illegal Immigrant Rights march today, I saw a multitude of Mexican flags and banners (one was even sewed onto ass of this hot chick's jeans) than American flags.

I'm third generation Greaseball myself. I do have a special place for Italy in my heart, but it's way deep down. Some of you are fifth generation, but you act like Mexico is the motherland of all motherlands. I don't want to live in Italy. Their electricity and infrastructure (the real "not for tourists" Italy mind you) sucks. Mexico? A glass of water with cholera will cost you extra pesos! Oh well. I'm probably just a naive Anglo who doesn't understand sensitive cultural issues like this. I wish I could, but that language barrier is hard to cross to build anything like "islands of understanding" across this great cultural gulf. I try so hard to take my blinders off and not be a pig-headed, crass American--my unearned guilt tells me that I should learn Spanish damn it!—but it’s just funny how I worry. I truly worry that America is becoming more and more Balkanized by the day, but this is probably just my paranoia.

Gosh. These worries are stupid. You go Mexicans and randomly tribal Eastern Europeans, etc., etc. (oh shit, the Balkans!). I know that we'll all get along right fine with time!

Oh, I almost forgot: FREE TIBET!

Shannon, I Miss Fucking You Doggie Style

2006-03-06T13:40:00.000-08:00

I couldn't help myself. On Monday, March 6, 2006 someone posted the following Missed Connections ad on Chicago's Craigslist:

Shannon-I miss fucking you doggie style. - m4w - 32

Reply to: pers-139519743@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:00PM CST

You were always so eager for the fun.

I loved it when you told mme [sic] to pull your hair.

It's too bad it didn't work out.

Well, something about this ad really struck my funny bone. Maybe it was the brashness of the title juxtaposed with the haiku-like simplicity of the actual post. In a mirth-making-marathon, I began typing in frenzy and posted multiple spoofs of this ad, like this one:

Shannon-I miss shitting on you doggie style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139526423@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:18PM CST

You were always so eager for the turd drop.

I loved it when you told me to squat above you and arch my back.

It's too bad it didn't work out. Whenever I eat steak, I think of you.

This was the first spoof ad. I posted twelve more ads in record time. Then others began joining in with their versions. Posts that are not mine are highlighted in blue. The following day, I posted even more ads. So did others. Some people were very creative. Some people got very pissed off (in addition to the hate mail people sent me, most of the "Shannon" posts were flagged off the Missed Connections board). I especially like the "Krom" and "Dungeons and Dragons" ads posted by the others. Some of the posts are very in-jokey, dealing Craigslist and Chicago, so if you're not from around these parts, feel free to ask any questions. Or, if you're one of the alternative Shannon writers, feel free to drop me a line if you want a byline. All I know is I haven't had this much fun on Craigslist since the great Poopidence incident. Enjoy.

Shannon-I miss fucking you zui quan style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139527602@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:21PM CST

You were always so eager for the waddle.

I loved it when you told me to wushu your pussy.

It's too bad the thrusting didn't work out.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Hemingway style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139529719@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:27PM CST

You were always so eager for the sensory detail.

I loved it when you told me to "fight the bull-flaps."

It's too bad it didn't work out. Now I'm drinking more than ever.

Shannon-I miss fucking you limerick style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139530891@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:32PM CST

You were always so eager for the pun,

I loved it when you told me to have fun,

It's too bad it didn't work out,

Now my cock's in a drought,

And my masturbatory skills can't be outdone.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Subway® style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139531574@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:32PM CST

You were always so eager for the mayonaise.

I loved it when you told me to double stuff your bun.

It's too bad I'm allergic to vinegar.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Chicago style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139532355@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:35PM CST

You were always so eager for the funds.

I loved it when you told me tax your ass and claim eminent domain of your body.

It's too bad we didn't greast the right palms.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Bill Gates style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139532979@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:36PM CST

You were always so eager for the bugs.

I loved it when you told me to reboot.

It's too bad we couldn't download a patch to make it work out.

Shannon-I miss fucking you fire house style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139534309@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:40PM CST

You were always so eager for the fire.

I loved it when you told me to hose you down.

It's too bad you didn't work out more 'cause my body is so much nicer than yours.

Shannon-I miss fucking you hipster style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139537992@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:50PM CST

You were always so eager for the filter.

I loved it when you told me that deconstructionism is another relative human construct that defeats itself by its very definition while gobbling my cock.

It's too bad it didn't work out. Or did it?

Shannon-I miss fucking you Ohio transplant style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139539088@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:53PM CST

You were always so eager me to Jaegerbomb your puss.

I loved it when you told me to pretend your clit was the Golden Tee trackball.

It's too bad it didn't work ou--GO BUCKEYES!

Shannon-I miss fucking you CTA style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139539697@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:55PM CST

You were always so eager to wait for signals.

I loved it when you told me to board your from the rear, which is clearly against the rules.

It's too bad you raised your fares without giving better oral.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Starbucks style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139540969@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 2:59PM CST

You were always so eager for the cream.

I loved it when you told me you wanted it extra hot and foamy.

It's too bad you cost too fucking much.

Shannon-I miss fucking you tourist style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139542252@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 3:04PM CST

You were always so eager to take pictures of my thumb.

I loved it when you told me, "I'm trying to find your Sears Tower."

It's too bad we were afraid to stray from Michigan Avenue.

Shannon -I miss fucking you doggie style. - m4w - 21

Reply to: pers-139542518@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 3:04PM CST

You were always so eager to get hair all over my stuff and shit on my floor.

I loved it when you told me by barking and barking that you had to pee.

It's too bad you dodn't have these kickass thumbs and fast wireless internet connection.

From SHANNON

Reply to: pers-139545398@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 3:11PM CST

I miss you too!

SHANNON - i miss fucking you peach pit style... - 29

Reply to: pers-139552140@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 3:30PM CST

You were always so eager to let me hang out in you, even after dark.

I loved it when you told me david silver was managing your back half.

Too bad you never got to be in this sadwich.

He didn't mean that Shannon, he meant me

Reply to: pers-139560713@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 3:55PM CST

Miss you too!

SHANNON - i miss fucking toad stool style... - m4w - 28

Reply to: pers-139563165@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 4:01PM CST

You were always so eager for me to keep you in the dark.

I loved it when you told me feed you manure.

It's too bad it didn't work out. I'm growing something that looks like a mushroom on my dick.

From Shannon

Reply to: pers-139564128@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 4:04PM CST

Yeah, I am going to miss it too

SHannon...what about Ashley

Reply to: pers-139566517@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 4:10PM CST

What about me, I like it Starbucks style...

Shannon wants you to shut the fuck up!

Reply to: pers-139644927@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 8:45PM CST

You're fucking annoying!

Re: Shannon wants you to shut the fuck up!

Reply to: pers-139649815@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 9:03PM CST

Does Shannon often refer to herself in the third person?

SHANNON - i miss fucking you Dungeons & Dragons style - w4w

Reply to: pers-139682035@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-06, 11:28PM CST

You were always so eager for Bigby's Clenched Fist.

I loved it when you blew my Iron Strap-on Horn of Balagorn (Components: Oral, Range: Personal, Area of Effect/ Target: Colossal, Duration: Instant) and spellcast my Flesh to Stone.

Too bad it didn't work out...

Re: Re: Shannon wants you to shut the fuck up! (OP_

Reply to: pers-139701904@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 1:43AM CST

Did I say I was Shannon?

"Does Shannon often refer to herself in the third person?"

Re: Re: Shannon wants you to shut the fuck up! (OP_

Reply to: pers-139741683@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 9:01AM CST

Hey pal, why don't you let Shannon speak for herself. Jackass.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Craigslist flagger style. - m4w - 32 - m4w

Reply to: pers-139752359@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 9:39AM CST

You were always so eager for the flag.
I loved it when you told me to please flag with care : [miscategorized] [prohibited] [spam] [discussion] [best of]

It's too bad we flagged more than we shagged.

SHANNON - i miss fucking you KROM style.

Reply to: pers-139771911@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 10:39AM CST

You were always so eager for me to crush my enemies.

I loved it when they were driven before me.

It's too bad i never got to hear the lamentations of their women.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Patriot Act style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139778122@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 10:55AM CST

You were always so eager for the surveillance.

I loved it when you told me to circumvent the Constitution of your vagina.

It's too bad it didn't work out. I'm still watching you though.

Shannon-I miss fucking you "uff da" style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139779473@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 10:59AM CST

You were always so eager for the relish tray.

I loved it when you told me "you betcha!" to poking your polka puss.

It's too bad it didn't work out. Now Prairie Home Companion is my bitch.

Shannon-I miss fucking you trixie style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139780381@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 11:01AM CST

Like, you were always, like so, like, eager for like, the fun. Ya' know?

I loved it like when you like told me to pull your hair.

It's too bad it like didn't work out.

Shannon-I miss fucking you Homeless (or 'Walking') Yanni style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139781645@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 11:05AM CST

You were always so eager for the walking.

I loved it when you told me to pull your feathered and skunk-stripe streaked hair.

It's too bad it didn't work out. Wanna buy a watch?

Shannon-I miss fucking you Humboldt Park style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139786307@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 11:16AM CST

You were always so eager for the gangbanger gangbang.

I loved it when you told me that crazy shit about child support.

It's too bad I don't speak better Spanish.

Shannon-I miss fucking you church sign generator style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139795182@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 11:40AM CST

Oh Shannon!

Reply to: pers-139813607@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 12:31PM CST

the shannon postings are the freakin' best I've seen here in a long time....

thank you, to whomever is writing them and providing someone with meaning and a much needed laugh--even if they aren't intended for me personally, I still enjoy them.

try one about the domestic abuse charges Yanni now faces...

or better yet, P.L.O. style

Shannon-I miss fucking you existentialist style. - m4w

Reply to: pers-139820434@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 12:46PM CST

You were always so eager for existence preceding essence.

I loved it when you told me to transcend my ideas, the essence, of making love to you into actually slamming you full-on with my Sartre-stick (existence).

It's too bad you became a Structuralist. It didn't work out by my choice, however, and not because of your dumbass "deterministic forces."

I love Shannon posts

Reply to: pers-139985282@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 10:07PM CST

Cause my name's Shannon. I think half of these are about me. Especially the one about Dungeons and Dragons.

SHANNON - i miss fuckn'ya RENDITION-STYLE!

Reply to: pers-139958049@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-03-07, 8:13PM CST

Ya were always so eager for the Astroglide©.

I loved when ya tol' me "Γεοργε, ικετεύω ότι βιδώνετε τον πρωκτό μου!" as I peremptorily pounded yer perky hershey-hole.

's too bad things didn't work out. Now the Bill of Rights is my bitch.

I don't quite get the last one. But who cares? Part of the fun of these posts was how once you picked a particular style of fucking, the ads wrote themselves.

Ayn Rand on Jesse Jackson

2006-03-01T07:04:00.000-08:00

Though not mentioned explicitly in any of my posts, any Ayn Rand admirer can see her implicit influence in who I am through my writing. This morning I was reading a lecture of hers entitled Global Balkanization. This lecture was delivered to the Ford Hall Forum in April, 1977 available in the anthology "The Voice of Reason, Essays in Objectivist Thought" by Ayn Rand. The lecture begins with a question:

"Have you ever wondered about the process of the collapse of a civilization? Not the cause of the collapse--the ultimate cause is always philosophical--but the process, the specific means by which the accumulated knowledge and achievements of centuries vanish from the earth?"

Rand then answers the question and eloquently and concretely supports her answer. The short answer to her "have you ever wondered" question is "modern tribalism."

"If reason is not valid, what is to guide [people] and how are they to live? Obviously, they will seek to join some group--any group--which claims the ability to lead them and to provide some sort of knowledge acquired by some sort of unspecified means. The group people join is an unchosen group, the group into which you were born, the group to which you were predestined to belong by the sovereign omnipotent, omniscient power of your body chemistry."

And god bless Rand, because in the next sentence she clearly defines exactly what modern tribalism is:

"This, of course, is racism. But if your group is small enough, it will not be called "racism": it will be called "ethnicity.""

Paging Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jesse Jackson!

Now I could go on quoting almost the entire lecture, as it has numerous insights focusing issues usually left murky and defining things in thought that others would prefer to be left to "feeling." But let me try to focus my point by applying her ideas on modern tribalism and ethnicity with today's most visible, modern and repulsive example of a subhuman being. Yes ladies and gents, he's an old friend of mine, a subject I've tried to understand and define, it's Reverend Jesse Jackson.

I've dealt with Jesse in previous posts, specifically: "Jesse Jackson: What's He Qualified to Do?", "Jobs for Jesse", and the mock news story "Jesse Jackson Protests Lack of Diversity in One-Man, Home-Based Business." I dealt with Jesse in my usual and most favorite of ways, by lampooning him and using humor to make my points as razor sharp as possible, while smiling the entire time. But while reading Ayn Rand's Global Balkanization, a paragraph jumped out at me as the most accurate description of Jesse Jackson and all the other profiteers of the ethnicity business:

"The government of a mixed economy manufacturers pressure groups--and, specifically, manufactures "ethnicity." The profiteers are those group leaders who discover suddenly that they can exploit the helplessness, the fear, the frustration of their "ethnic" brothers, organize them into a group, present demands to the government--and deliver the vote. The result is political jobs, subsidies, influence and prestige for the leaders of the ethnic groups."

I have never read an author who can focus and define issues so well. Reason is her tool. I've never heard a more accurate description of Jesse Jackson--as a person, an institution and logical result of what happens when illogic is the means to illogical ends.

Guest Column: Hire A Freelance Freelancer!

2006-02-23T07:04:00.000-08:00

Freelance Freelance Services

I am a freelancer. I’m the best damn freelancer you’ll ever hire. I offer freelance freelance services. I offer much more and than providing you with a specific service; I offer you the glory of hiring a cool, corporate hipster.

For example, yesterday afternoon I was protesting against George Bush and his imperialist regime. Later that day I became entrenched in a heated debate about technology where I argued that people’s souls were being replaced by a post-industrial revolution techno-god and that a full return to nature was mankind’s—excuse me—human kind’s only hope for salvation. Well, this was yesterday, but guess what I did today? Today I rode the El Train downtown to my office, but stopped by CompUSA on the way to pick up a new compact flash card for my digital camera. Once I got to my office, I started working on a new logo for a modest company that’s trying to sell semiconductors to midsize markets. Isn’t that fucking cool? Because contradictions are just so fuck-ing cool and not to be questioned or reconciled, it is imperative that you hire me.

Come on. Stop by my office and hire me. This week my office will vary between multiple Starbucks locations during the day and Filter Coffeehouse in Wicker Park in the evening (I just might get wacky and go to Caribou Coffee once or twice as well). In my "office," I’ll be the guy taking up a decent amount of physical space at a table and an even greater amount of emotional and mental space around me to make my presence known while pretending that I don’t care if my presence is known or not. I will arrive at the coffeehouse way before most people arrive and remain long after they’ve left. I will look so fucking cool staring into my laptop’s screen, the LCD glow reflecting brilliantly off my expensive but cheap looking glasses, which may or may not contain actual prescription lenses. While staring, if I'm not in "zombie mode," I’ll be alternating my facial expressions between a look of deep concentration to deep introspective reflection to a raised eyebrow and hint of a smile to indicate that I’ve just uncovered and understood some ironic mystery and/or insight (probably about how all the sleeping “sheep” a.k.a. “American public” are narcotized into their zombie-like state by the corporate elite and corporate teat-sucking obsequious bastards that compromise the “government.”

If all of this doesn’t help you find me, look closer: I’m the one who is fully entrenched in his space. The crusty paper coffee cup with dry, brown stains running down the side indicates I’ve been here for awhile nursing this cup of coffee for at least two hours; I’m the one with the notebooks and/or books stacked in front of my laptop, to the side and on the floor around me; I’m the one you’ll know by the way I can stare straight ahead at my laptop’s screen and not move a muscle or twitch for so long that you’ll have the impulse to install a heat lamp above me like I was your pet lizard. All of this will be happening while I’m most likely listening to my iPod. When I snap out of my lizard-like seeming (seeming I tell you!) catatonia, I will then most likely make a phone call on my cell, using the headset of course. Above all, you will notice the super-cool contrast between my manner of dress juxtaposed with all this high-technology that surrounds and is plugged into me. I will look (and perhaps even smell a bit) like a “man of the people,” one ready to engage in some chanting protest (NO BLOOD FOR OIL! DOWN WITH THE BUSH REGIME!) to overthrow this capitalistic system that oppresses the hell out of me.

If after all this you still can’t find me, my favorite drink at Starbucks is a grande, half soy, half skim, extra hot, white chocolate mocha. Mingle. Ask people what they’re drinking. You’ll find me sipping this most yummy of drinks!

National Shut The Fuck Up Day

2006-01-10T09:20:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a cause. I now have mine: National Shut The Fuck Up Day, or NSTFU Day (If you're going to market a cause well, it should be able to be advertised in pithy acronym form).

As the originator and greatest supporter of National Shut the Fuck Up day (NSTFU), I have a lot to say on the subject of people who talk too much. Many people like to hear themselves talk. This, unfortunately, does not mean that people who like to talk have anything interesting to say. In preparation for lobbying Washington NSTFU Day, to educate others and hopefully gather support for my cause, let us address some common situations that more economical speakers must endure everyday. Some situations are individual, such as listening to a politician spew passionless bromides, and others are social-situational, such as listening to two women talk in a coffeehouse, which is today’s topic, namely: Girlfriend Chatter.

I’d rather listen to a hyena mating with a squirrel or even a year’s worth of Jay Leno’s opening monologues than be subjected to “girlfriend chatter.” Personally, I usually encounter girlfriend chatter on outdoor patios or in coffee shops. Once I am comfortably settled and usually very much into a good book, this is when two or more women sit down right next to me. Two chattering “girlfriends” sitting next to a person can get pretty annoying; more than two chattering girlfriends is cruel torture, as their conversations quickly become a tribute to the Sex in the City script writers. If you've ever sat next to women who unconsciously role play Carrie, Smantha, Charolette and Amanda, you know what I'm talking about. The problem of Girlfriend Chatter does not begin when the women sit down; it begins when they open their mouths to speak, which is always the moment before their buttocks hit their chairs.

Girlfriend Chatter Example 1:

“No! Oh my god, tell me!”
“Welllll, she went on a date with that Brad guy, and Becca was, like, so infatuated that she went home with him.”
“Wasn’t this like their first date?”
“Yeah, but like, they’ve worked out together at the gym a lot.”
“Isn’t that where they met?”
“Like, yeah!”
"What a slut!"
(Giggles all around. . .)

What they are saying is bad. What is worse is how they say it. How do I describe the cadence and rhythm of their speech? I live in Chicago, so the majority of the dialects I hear during girlfriend chatter have a Midwestern base. This base is then somehow bastardized and injected with a “Valley Girl” nasality and inflection with a dash of “Snooty Bitch” ala Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island. The words fly out of their mouths in a clipped, machine gun-like fashion. I actually become short of breath when I listen to them speak because it seems as if they never pause to take a breath. I want to breathe for them.

In this situation I soon find myself not even hearing or being annoyed by the content of their conversation. It’s not the words but the rhythm of their speech. It’s like a high-speed version of Chinese water torture. It's water-torture with a high-powered car-battery operated supersoaker machine gun. It’s annoying as someone repeatedly poking you in the chest. Though the content of their conversation fades to the background, there is still one intelligible word that always rises above the blather. No matter how tuned out I become to what they are saying, however, this word rises above the rhythm and rapes my eardrums every time it is spoken. It is spoken a lot. It is the word “like.” The effect is best illustrated with the following example.

Girlfriend Chatter Example 2:

WOMAN 1

Blah, blah, blah, blah LIKE he’s so, Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah. And she’s LIKE Blah-Blah!”

WOMAN 2

LIKE, why does blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, Ba-Blah, Blah, Blah-Blah?

WOMAN 1

It’s LIKE so blahblahblah, blah-ba-ba, blah, LIKE, you know?

***

During NSTFU Day, we hope to reduce the number of blathering, soulless conversations between girlfriends. The best advice I can give on how to not have one of these conversations is to tell all the “girlfriends” what topics to avoid:

1) Dating

2) Shoes

3) Purses

More specific than these conversation topics or even the word "like," there are certain phrases and words that should be avoided altogether:

1) “It’s like so. . .” (or any variation of this phrase, i.e., "I am like so not that into. . .")

2) “I just saw/bought the cutest __________.”

3) “Like, oh my god!”

4) “Does this color, like, look good on me?”

5) “___________ is cute and nice, but I don’t think he’s ready to commit.”

6) The "Like/you know" combination.

Even worse than annoying conversation topics and key phrases, the organizer of NSTFU Day also hopes to reduce annoying speech patterns. We offer a few tools to help certain women reduce the Midwestern pseudo Valley-Girl-Snobby-Bitch machine-gun pattern of speech:

1) Watch the movie My Fair Lady. Practice all of Eliza Dolittle’s lessons for an hour and speak like this in public if you must speak (I’ll endure a bad English accent over what these women ejaculate out of your mouth any day).

2) Hook electrodes up to your nipples. Have a friend converse with you. Have same friend shock you every time you utter the word “like.” It’s best to start with a very low voltage, as this speech habit is so ingrained that a higher voltage would result in permanent loss of nipple sensitivity or perhaps even crispy nippies.

3) Rent and watch the movie Valley Girl. Yes, that is how dumb you sound.

Until National Shut the Fuck Up Day becomes offical, I am optimistic that everyone out there will help do their part to curb unnecessary speech until the day that there will not only be a blessed silence around the country, but also the words that are spoken are well-chosen and meaningful.

POSTSCRIPT

I want to state for the record that I know that there are countless women out there who do not behave or speak as the women in my examples do. To the women whose personal gods are not Carrie and Amanda, I applaud you and ask you to join in the cause to make NSTFU Day a reality.

People in The Background

2005-12-22T08:32:00.000-08:00

I've been sorting through a backlog of pictures this morning. A pattern I'm starting to see is that the people in the background of the picture are often a hundred times more interesting than whatever the main picture subject was supposed to be. These are background people watching a street performer in the middle of a running, flying leap over six crouched-down people. These are crops from a much larger photo, so pardon the grain:

There is so much that could be said about this phenomenon, from learning how to change one's focus, to opening our eyes a little bit wider. This is more Mona's territory though. Not that I don't have my own thoughts on this. They just don't fit the general tone of this publication. More poop humor to come. . .

My Real Work Cubicle

2005-12-16T07:56:00.000-08:00

With some minor modifications (to more accurately reflect how it actually feels to sit here):

Any other bloggers out there have any get-rich-quick schemes that will actually work?

If You Liked "Brokeback Mountain,"

2005-12-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

And you're into politics, then you'll LOVE:

I hear Barack Obama is stunning in his majesty. . .

Otto Pilot Possibly Responsible For Midway Airport Accident

2005-12-12T13:58:00.000-08:00

On Thurday, December 8, 2005 a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 skidded off the end of snowy runway. I know I'm going to catch all kinds of hell for this, but a reliable source has coughed up the following incredible photograph showing a possible reason as to why the plane overshot its mark and crashed through a perimeter fence onto the street which left one child dead:

At this time details are sketchy as to how Otto came to be aboard the flight, let alone allowed into the cockpit. Otto Pilot, famous for his wacky role in the movie Airplane!, is clearly visible in the above photograph.

All other media outlets are now focusing on a possible malfunction in the plane's reverse thrusters and are using this accident as an impetus to spark national discussion on airports with shorter runways. Do you smell a coverup?

Regardless, Chicago's own Mayor Richard M. Daley, (or Richielu M. Daley based on how he runs his administration), a guy with a penchant for ripping up airports he doesn't like, is of course now going to use this accident as an excuse to push his O'Hare Airport expansion plans. Like any good politician (which means "bad human being") he is going to try to please everyone he can. With this in mind, instead of addressing the problem of shorter runways at Midway Airport, I think he should just change the airport name. With a simple name change involving the removal of one letter and addition of two others, the airport could be more accurately described and also contain an implied "caveat emptor" warning to those who decide to fly in or out of it:

The Sphincter of Time Puckers Around My Neck

2005-11-05T09:00:00.000-08:00

Fuck you, time. I wish you would show yourself to me so I could punch you right in the face. Nope, that's never going to happen. I'll never see your face, yet I'm still going to fight you every day.

I didn't always hate you, you know. In the past you were okay to me. Back when I attended grade school, summer vacations lasted forever, and then not so long ago, before my domestic situation changed, I had a lot more of you. Now I'm literally stealing a moment of you to directly address you:

What the fuck?

I know you're an abstract construct, yet regardless of what name and definition we thoughtful apes gave you, I know you exist independently of our definitions. What's that cliched quote? Time exists to keep everything from happening all at once? I know you're just doing your job. If you didn't then nothing, not one ounce of matter, would have any place to do anything . However, because I now have so little of you in my life let me now add a footnote to your definition: You're an asshole. Yes, you're an asshole because it just isn't right that there isn't enough of you in my life.

I have never been so possessive of anything, not money, my own safety, or even a woman as I am of you. You're killing me. I want you, and I protect the times I get you all to myself like a mother bear does her cubs. I savor you more than a smoker's last cigarette before quitting. In fairness, I will concede that it's not completely your fault. Technically, you're still doling out the same amount of temporal opportunities today as you did two, five and ten years ago. The big problem is that just like my paycheck is already spent before I even receive it, every second you give me is already nearly completely used up by "have to's." The face I don't show to the world is staring in wide-eyed shock with mouth agape at this. I'm stymied. How did this happen? Still, this doesn't get you off the hook completely, oh no!

Listen dickhead, why not throw some cosmic luck my way and help me figure out how to take time back, to devote more of you to doing things I want to do. You've got contacts. You're a big honcho in the cosmos. Can you help a brother out?

Even the snippets of you where I am free to use you are not pleasurable at all. If I get a free hour of you, there's always something else hanging over my head, a schedule to keep, a place to be, a thing to do, a drama to deal with. If these free snippets of you were farm-fresh deli meat, then the bread surrounding you is made from manure, making the entire affair unpalatable and difficult to digest. Because the unrestricted version of you only comes to me in snippets, I'm thinking of just not trying to do anything with these snippets anymore. Can a seamstress make a beautiful, unified dress out of snippets and scraps of cloth? No. Dresses made from snippets look like the things that I am able to produce with the "free time" in my life, disheveled and ugly things that are never completed nor unified. I can't relax and enjoy the small amounts of you that I dedicate to me. Could Tolstoy have written War and Peace on a gum wrapper? Hell no! Can I accomplish anything with the same sized temporal equivalent? Hell. No.

Take right now for example. I'm sitting in a coffeeshop furiously scribbling down this little note to you. I have just enough time between getting off of work and having (having I tell you!) to do something else to sit down with a cup of coffee and relax. This is not relaxation. I used to treasure these moments, probably because used to be longer than a "moment." Maybe people like me just function better with a schedule that allows meandering to a goal rather than needing laser-beam precision. Maybe I am a Meandrethal. I used to think I was focused. This still sucks. Instead of enjoying this moment I'm inking words to you on this page in the same manner and with the same precision that a caffeinated monkey flings shit (see Neal Pollak's art for a human example of this phenomenon).

And guess what? Two assholes just sat down next to me. They are dousing the last spark of fire in me to even continue with this ranting plea. These assholes are the ones who go out with the goal of being seen and heard. They talk from the diaphragm and perform a conversation, rather than "talk," like they are auditioning for the next big, short-lived reality television show. Not only did I just pull out my headphones and plug myself into them to block these guys out, but I also shoved the buds into my ear canals to a depth that may require medical assistance for removal. The volume is loud enough to justify the hearing loss warnings that came on the headphone package, but I still hear these fuckers!

This is where I give up, time. I've lost my grip on the topic of chewing you out. All I really know now is something has to change, and the change will most likely have to come from me because you are, still, an asshole. I'm tired of fighting with you. I know someday you will ultimately kick my ass, but in the meantime I'd prefer that we danced with each other instead, with me leading.

Awareness Awareness Month Begins!

2005-11-03T14:50:00.000-08:00

After Mayor Daley launched Awareness Awareness Month in Daley Plaza on Tuesday, November 1, an idealistic horde of marchers swarmed downtown Chicago yesterday to raise awareness about Awareness Awareness Month.

Manic progressives of all affiliations, colors, biases and interesting forms of employment began the awareness march with glorious sign making activities at Columbia College and then marched through the city streets to the final awareness rally in Federal Plaza.

In a rare and encouraging show of solidarity, a mass of Chicago Police officers marched alongside Awareness Awareness marchers as brothers and sisters in the cause, providing camaraderie and protection from many jealous people who have jobs who would also have liked to get outside and walk around for a bit on such a pleasant fall day.

The marchers showed their in-depth awarness by waving flashlights and chanting "I AM AWARE, I AM AWARE!", which also had the effect of making bystanders along the parade route immediately aware of awareness.

Along with raising awareness about awareness, the march and subsequent rally in Federal Plaza had the antecedent benefits of giving socially active yet frustrated individuals and groups a forum and stage to rant about all of the injustice in the world, as is always the heightened case with these groups whenever a Republican is in the White House.

Once in Federal Plaza, the emcee of the event performed an unintentionally gut-wrenching song from his new album, not for self promotion, but in the the interests of all things grass-roots-like. With each idealistic note sung from his raspy throat and with each tossle of his undreadful dreadlocks, the Awareness level escalated until it reached a fever pitch (which means a lot more chanting).

Just when it seemed the event could not be any more successful, a rousing speech calling for oppenents of awareness to be shouted down caused the excitement and happiness levels of the crowd to soar to new levels. (Even louder, more spirited chanting.)With "Awareness" being the main topic and purpose, all the specific pet frustrations and causes of the marchers began to froth and bubble forth for the usual causes trumpeted by this community:

The World Can't Wait organization called for the Bush regime to step down.

The Socialist Party campaigned for a charismatic candidate of the people.

A petition was circulated for the support of gay and lesbian marriage.

Members of the Earth on Empty organization dressed as the planet earth staged a mock rape of a sport utility vehicle while proclaiming, "There, how do you like it!"

A crowd of three people screamed "Save the Rainforest."

An angry black man called any nearby police officer "boy."

"Meat is muder" was displayed prominently on at least two t-shirts.

Only one marcher seemed a bit behind the social-times, because on the back of his awareness sign was the slogan "Save the Double Door!" In only its second day, Awareness Awareness month is achieving record levels of awareness in Chicago! If you're not aware yet, you will be by the end of the month, as the light levels in the city will reach "Hiroshima blast" levels (see press release below). Be on the lookout for Awareness, because it is going to find you.

*Reality Note: This march actually happened. It was staged by World Can't Wait at the most perfect time for my comedic purposes. Sorry for the gap between posts, especially to you Mona :) An entry about "time" and my life is forthcoming. . .

Hate Mail From A Sick Man

2005-10-17T07:16:00.000-07:00

I received an amazing piece of hate mail yesterday. The man who e-mailed me, Mr. "Sluggo" (part of his e-mail address), didn't like my recent post entitled, "Ku-Klux Coffee." Mr. Sluggo's e-mail said:

You white, racist motherfucker. You don't know what it's like to be a blakc person in society. How do you know that the lady WASN'T discriminated against because she was black? This is something that black men and women have to deal with and wonder about every day. You are a racist a coward and you don't know nothing about a black woman being a strong woman. You're the bitch, bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well Mr. Sluggo, I can see that my post made you very angry. You were so angry in fact that I know that presenting a point-by-point and rational response to your e-mail won't do either of us any good. Instead, my rebuttal will simply be the key words that brought you to my blog in the first place. While these key words do appear scattered through my entries, exactly what you were trying to find reveals much more about you than any response from me ever could. You happened upon my blog through a search for:

"freak black girl shitng [sic] corn"

Checkmate, bitch.

Awareness Awareness Month*

2005-10-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
For more information: AAF, Chicago Chapter
rantnroll@gmail.com

"DOWNTOWN CHICAGO TO BE FLOODED WITH BLINDING LIGHT TO CELEBRATE "AWARENESS AWARENESS MONTH"

CHICAGO, IL --October 5, 2005 -- Beginning this November, downtown Chicago will be lit up by mind-bogglingly bright lights to celebrate and symbolically participate in National Awareness Awareness Month.

In a coordinated effort between the Awareness Awareness Foundation (AAF), the US Army Corps of Engineers and a coalition of nine-hundred twenty six other "awareness groups," floodlights will be affixed onto specially built towers that literally tower above Chicago's skyline. Additionally, floodlight-outfitted helicopters will also be used at the apex of the awareness raising campaign at the end of the month.

Mr. Rant-N-Roll, president of the Chicago chapter of the AAF said, "Raising awareness about awareness is the bestest thing we can do to help other groups raise awareness about their specific causes." After extensive research, many awareness groups discovered that getting the word out about their pet causes was difficult in an age of short attention spans and ever increasing competition from commercial and public sources for "inclusion in individual thought schemas."

Rant-N-Roll explained that "Though 'awareness' sometimes comes to an individual in a blinding flash, it is more often discovered in gradual stages. It is a process of becoming, often evoloutionary and is often like a slowly budding flower or a once preppie, Polo-shirt-loving kid wearing ironic clothing, smoking Parliaments and hanging out a Filter coffeehouse in Wicker Park."

As the Awareness Awareness campaign reaches its peak toward the end of November, AAF organizers expect Chicago's brightness to outshine the 1945 Hiroshima blast (which, incidentally, coincides with the awareness raising concerns of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, an AAF participant).

Beginning on November 1, Mayor Richard M. Daley will kick off the awareness awareness campaign in a ceremony in Daley Plaza by turning the master un-dimmer switch to "level 1." Over the course of the month, the illumination factor of the city will be increased day-by-day, until it reaches "level 30" on the 30th day of the month:

"I dare you to not be aware by day thirty!" Said Mayor Daley. Daley also added that an alternative awareness awareness program involving heat lamps is also in the works so that blind people can more actively participate in being aware of awareness. For more information on awareness or the Awareness Awareness Foundation, please e-mail rantnroll@gmail.com.

*This press release was originally posted by me last week on Chicago's Rants and Raves board. Someone asked why buildings downtown were lit up with purple and pink lights. Someone responded "breast cancer awareness month idiots." This person felt so good about him or herself with his or her level of awareness, I thought everyone should be able to share in being aware.

Mr. "Wishful Thinking," 2005

2005-10-10T13:44:00.000-07:00

A companion piece to the previous post, ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you the winner of the Wishful Thinking award for 2005:

To quote a friend, and I hope she doesn't mind:

Where was this guy? We need to find him, buy him a beer. Ask him about the damage to his car after he ran over the skunk. That this freakin guy exists makes my day.

Ah, his existence makes my day as well. . .

Mr. "He Wishes," 2005

2005-10-08T12:51:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you the winner of the "He Wishes" award for 2005:

I like to wander with my camera. When I'm in a rut or having a rut kind of day, just when I'm about to pack it in, pack away my camera and call it a day, this type of photo opportunity seems to arise. Thank you for making my day, Mr. He Wishes, 2005. I'm not your only fan, by the way. The woman below seems to admire your fountain of virility as well.

-RnR

Arriving When the Party Is Over

2005-09-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

Post will be restored at a later date. Details as to why will follow. . .

Golf Umbrellas In The City

2005-09-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

There's a reason why them call them "golf umbrellas." They are intended for use on a golf course. I know this sounds like oversimplification, but many of you out there just don't get it. This type of umbrella's purpose is described explicitly in its title, "golf umbrella." Perhaps you, the person who uses golf umbrellas in the city, do get the concept, but you just don't care that you are a walking hazard and annoyance.

While the purpose of all umbrellas is to shield a person from rain, behemoth golf umbrellas serve no purpose at all on a crowded city street except to block all pedestrian traffic, piss people off and show what a pussy you are that you need to hide under a tent out of fear of getting a drop of water on your Dockers and/or cheap-ass (yet oh-so-stylish) shirt you bought at H&M.

POP QUIZ: Look at the two pictures below. Name at least one similarity and two differences between the two.

Picture 1 Picture 2

ANSWERS:

Similarity

Both Picture 1 and Picture 2 are places located on the planet earth.

Differences

Picture 1 is a wide open and spacious golf course, whereas Picture 2 is a city street.
Picture 1 shows a rational person using the proper tool in an appropriate place, whereas Picture 2 shows a cluster of fucks who do not know how to exist in a helpful manner in an urban setting, nor do they seem to care.

According to the 2000 US Census, the population density of the City of Chicago is 12,747 people per square mile. In large cities like Chicago, and I'm only stating the obvious for those who can't seem to grasp obvious things, a whole bunch more people live and work in a much smaller space than in most other cities and towns. The city of Kankakee for example is a town only about sixty miles South of Chicago, and its population density is 153.4 people per square mile. Big difference. Combine these sheer population density facts with an ever increasing lack of civility and common courtesy in society, then a living and working in a situation that is often tense under the best conditions becomes exponentially worse. Blocking pedestrian traffic and poking people in the eye with golf umbrellas is but one small example of the thoughtlessness exacerbating the day to day urban existence. The frustration is urban blight for the mind.

I do however give the benefit of the doubt to the city folk in that I'm willing to bet that the majority of people who use golf umbrellas in the city are clueless commuters from the suburbs. A winding, tree-lined suburban street or wide-open strip mall is a hell of a lot better place to use a golf umbrella than Michigan Avenue during rush hour. Many suburban subdivisions already look like golf courses or are actually located adjacent to one.

CASE STUDY: HOW BIG ARE GOLF UMBRELLAS REALLY?

In the photo below, note the gentleman heading into the Tribune Tower:

Look at the width of the stairs relative to the size of the the umbrella. Look at the picture again, but this time imagine it without the umbrella. There's a hell of a lot more space to maneuver on the stairs, isn't there! (Also, when I snapped this picture, it was barely even drizzling out, which makes this man a super puss.)

If the previous example doesn't show just how ginormous that golf umbrellas are in the concrete jungle, then look at the next picture:

This is a patio umbrella. Patio umbrellas are large, and are excellent for keeping one dry when one is on a patio. Now let's superimpose Mr. Tribune Tower in front of this huge patio umbrella:

Okay, I admit that I cheated a bit with the size and perspective of the original picture, but Mr. Tribune's golf umbrella really isn't that much smaller than the patio umbrella which is intended to keep four (FOUR!) people dry.

What's worse, is these huge umbrellas aren't an occasional annoyance anymore; for some reason, their numbers are increasing. They have become a trend. They are the SUVs of the sidewalk:

A completely blocked sidewalk.

While I respect that this guy has his hand on his wife's ass, people couldn't walk up or down the stairs.

Dumbass

The Über- Pussy

Okay, maybe I'm obsessed. I mean, running around the city streets while it's raining (with a normal sized umbrella, thank you) so that I could take pictures of golf umbrella people isn't exactly healthy. Am I the only one who has noticed this trend? Am I the only one who gets annoyed and pissed-off whenever I have to duck out of the way or plod behind these people?

Ku Klux Koffee

2005-09-12T14:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Oppressed Black Woman at Starbucks,

I just wanted to let you know that the baristas passed you over by mistake. I was right behind you in line, and it happened to me also. At least two people who ordered after me were served before me. We both got screwed over a bit. I wasn’t too angry though, because I knew I wasn’t skipped on purpose. You, unfortunately, thought you were discriminated against because you are black.

It was a little after 8:00 a.m. The Starbucks was packed. You, me and a gaggle of other caffeine junkies were there to get our legal fix. With a line stretching out of the coffee shop doors, coupled with people ordering three-sentence-long coffee concoctions, it was a chaotic scene. Eventually you ordered your drink and moved over to the on deck area to wait to be served, then I ordered and moved next to you in the same area. After a few minutes, like you I noticed that people who ordered after us began to get their drinks, and this was when I began to feel your anger before I even looked at your face. We waited. And waited.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see you fidgeting and rocking on your legs like a kid who has to pee. You sighed, exasperated, at least a dozen times in the space of a minute. Finally, I had to look at you. I grabbed a newspaper from a stand behind us as an excuse to turn around and look your face directly. After seeing your face, I quickly threw the newspaper back down like it was on fire and turned around. You see, I was afraid that if I looked directly at you any longer I would turn to stone. I doubt your face is normally that ugly, but your palpable anger twisted your features into something so hideous that your visage made Medusa look like a chick I'd like to soul-kiss. Hell, I'd even like to fellate all the snakes on Medusa’s head before I’d consider looking at your anger induced ugliness. I’m just glad that your glare wasn’t trained on me, but I did feel sorry for the barista who was the object of your hate. I remember thinking, “She can’t be this mad because we got passed over. . .maybe the barista is fucking her husband.” Then, because I'm still naive sometimes in my desire to live in an ideal world, it dawned on me what your problem could be. Is this a "black thing?" I wondered. I glanced at you again. Your upper lip was now curled like a rabid dog's. You sighed. You fidgeted. You furrowed your brow up and down, up and down like you were exercising it. Yup. It was a black thing.

My heart actually skipped a beat when the barista called out your order, a caramel something or other. You walked up to the bar, slowly and deliberately, like a gunslinger taking his ten paces at a high noon duel. I thought the coffee was going to hit the fan. You reached the counter and to my surprise you didn’t freak out all over the place, but maintained control of your anger and focused it with laser-beam precision on the barista girl. As she was drizzling the final touches of caramel goop on top of your frothy "friend of diabetes" drink, the barista cheerfully asked, "Hi! How's you're morning going so far?"

“Ha!” Was your first reply, a bit loud, but quickly followed with a quiet and focused diatribe. You didn't want anyone else to hear what you were about to say. (why is that?) I strained to hear and caught most of your words. Through clenched teeth you said (and I'm paraphrasing a bit), "My day was going well. . .until you forgot about me and served three other people who ordered after me." The baristas smile dropped. Her face showed complete surprise. Then, oh oppressed black woman, you leaned in closer and whispered something else to her. I simultaneously wish I had heard everything you said, and am glad I didn't. Regardless, I did hear the word "discriminate." You also said something about “white people not liking serving black people.” Whatever else you said really shook up that poor barista girl, some idealistic, nineteen year old college kid who knows the landscape of racism as well as she knows the landscape of the planet Pluto. This kid was racist to the same degree that you, oh oppressed black woman, are a rational thinker.

While you quietly went off on the girl, her face turned to dread, and she was almost crying when she handed you your drink. You even had the bitchy-gall to add a sarcastic "have a nice day," to her as you walked out of the Starbucks like you just made a wonderful advance in the fight for equality.

I am not denying that racism exists or that you've been discriminated against in the past. I just had to let you know though that this did not happen today. You probably have been discriminated against in the past, perhaps simply for being black, but based on how you acted this morning over a situation that clearly had nothing to do with the color of your skin, I'm willing to bet that you're discriminated against a hell of a lot more for being a huge asshole than for being a black woman. Perhaps your past life experiences are now the filter through which you judge everything, and therefore many if not all unfair and bad things that happen to you are of course "racist."

You're no Rosa Parks. You're just a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.

I hope you enjoyed your coffee.

You're no Rosa Parks. You are a common bitch. In fact, you are the type of person who confuses being a "strong woman" with being an asshole and a bitch. The only lesson that the barista learned that day is that people's own prejudices and fears can blind them from reality, and huge gaping assholes exist in the world.

Heartburn and Fuzzy Monkeys.

2005-09-02T10:49:00.000-07:00

My right hand is shoved up a monkey's ass. My left hand is holding a nacho chip, saturated with salsa that is now running down my wrist, forearm and ultimately dripping from my elbow onto the table.

The monkey is a stuffed animal, a puppet. There's a two year old boy to my left, and a woman otherwise known as my girlfriend, sitting across from me. The boy is hyper. The girlfriend is hyper because of the hyperactive boy. The boy is writing his own Seinfeld script that goes beyond "double dipping"; his chip is now floppy-wet from his quadruple, quintiple, sextuple dippings into the salsa bowl (It's looks like a Mexican version of Dippin' Sticks candy, if you remember those). Inbetween his dippings and drippings, he barks an occasional two-year old tourettism, like "WIGGLES!" The girlfriend sitting across from me reminds him to use his indoor voice. She then threatens him with--ooooh!--a "Time Out." I'm trying to entertain the boy with the monkey puppet while simultaneously trying to eat salsa and chips. The girlfriend is trying to get him to be quiet and eat without looking like Jackson Pollack at work on a new canvass. The boy is hyper. The girlfriend is hyper. I'm in hell.

You see, I took the day off from work today for two reasons: 1) To clean up our cracked-out apartment. 2) To have some "me" time away from situations as described above. My girlfriend didn't originally know I had today off, but as is ultimately the case in any situation where I try to take back some control of my life, things for me became one big fuck-a-roo: In a last minute scheduling change, she didn't have to be at work today until 10:00 a.m. She's a nanny, by the way. The little boy is her job.

I was going to surprise her tonight by having her come home to a clean apartment. Things were to be cleaned. Things were to be dusted. Clothes were to be washed, with April-fresh fabric softener mind you, pressed and neatly folded away into drawers. Furniture was to be moved because of the new flooring that is going into our place. It was going to be a nice place to enter when she got home. I envisioned her opening the door, preparing to avert her eyes, as usual, to the white elephant not in the room but the white elephant that has become our entire living situation. And then--Nirvana! Before her would be the urban vision of the Elysian Fields. A place one could open his or her eyes to and bask in the glory as if it was a warming sun from a friendly god. This may or may not still happen. But now that I'm back from lunch with her and the boy what am I doing? I'm Ranting-n-Rolling. From the time I woke up to now, over five hours of productive time has been lost. This apartment needs more than a good cleaning. It needs a blessing from God or a pact with the Devil to get it back up to habitable standards. With a lot of time, I could work some magic here. But now? Well, take a look:

Part of the living room

The dingy dining area

My desk. . . Looking pretty normal, actually

I will not show the kitchen, bedroom or bathroom. Some states still have strict anti-obscenity and decency laws. I'm not angry at my girlfriend per se. I really enjoy spending time with her. Her employer gave her the car today, so she called me up to invite me out to lunch with her. This was nice. I did warn her that I still had a lot to do (the cleaning "surprise" was basically fucked when I found out she was going into work later). No problem. It would be a "quick" lunch. When we arrived at a Mexican restaurant, from time to time I could separate myself from the table chaos and just stare into her eyes and enjoy the company of this human being that I love. On the other hand, when the little boy was really beginning to dig into the salsa, I ripped it away from him and made the following funny comment, "That's enough for you kid. You've got two selfish adults sitting at the table with you, and we won't stand for this!" Ha-ha.

Ha-ha? Yes. What's not so "ha-ha" though is I realize there was a lot of truth in this comment. The girlfriend, the soulmate, the one I have actually pictured having kids with. . . Now, I wonder. I wonder and worry that for it to be possible with her if I wouldn't have to give up everything that is important to me. I mean, just to make this relationship work at all, sometimes I feel I have given up a lot that I would never have compromised on previously. Things like "time." Married people: Is it always like this? I'm starting to think there is a "Time Monster" that finds you once you're involved (or entrenched) in a serious relationship. I picture this monster to look like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and Woody Allen. Its ears are much larger and very sensitive. It can hear you say things like "I'm free for the day" from miles away. It's eyes are larger as well. I don't keep anything written down in a datebook anymore for fear that the Time Monster's large, bespectacled eyes will be able to see what my plans are so that it can fuck them up. I worry that it can also hear your thoughts and see into your heart. Another reason, incidentally, why I don't write anything down in a datebook anymore is because I would need to write everything in pencil and have ten extra erasers on hand because of how quickly unexpected plans and changes pop up. Honestly folks, I'm more frustrated than a hemorroidal Richard Gere on a gerbil farm. To mutate a John Lenninism, Life is what is "happening" to me while I try, and have just about given up on, making other plans.

Finally, I have horrible heartburn right now. I don't think it's from the Mexican food I ate for lunch.

Something's gotta give. Thanks for letting me vent here, and I apologize for posting such a self-indulgent entry.

And honey, if by chance you read this entry, please don't freak out about me posting the pictures of our crack-den living conditions.

The CEO and the Fungus Farm

2005-08-30T10:44:00.000-07:00

It is a sad day here at The Corporation. I just heard that (sniff!) my company's CEO has lost a major fight. The fight was to keep the ants in his ant farm alive. The farm remains, but the tunnels are empty.

The Ant Farm: Then

The Ant Farm: Now

Last June, I posted a tongue-in-cheek piece entitled, "The CEO and the Ant Farm," where I compared the running of the ant farm, perhaps, to the running of the corporation. I'm not a big believer in omens, but word just filtered down from those that have long meetings and take even longer lunches that bonuses will not be very good this year. The company is not performing as expected. (Dum-Da-Dum!)

We'll see what happens. I do believe in the circle of life though, and maintain my optimism that life and rebirth can spring from death. Why, just take a closer look at the ant farm for example:

The Fungus Farm. Yuck.

Sick and inspirational, just the way I like it. But for Christ's sake: Dear CEO, take that see-through ant-coffin off of your desk already. It was once an interesting conversation piece. Now, it's a white, oozing, syphilitic elephant in the room.

Advertisement for New Chris Rock Show

2005-08-28T13:44:00.000-07:00

UPN's new show, "Everybody Hates Chris" is inspired by "Chris Rock's life as a kid." I do love Chris Rock, especially the wonderful things he produced after escaping from SNL Hell. The advertisements for this new show are popping up everywhere around town: Billboards, bus stops and. . .homeless people.

I know that this poor guy must have acquired this shirt in some roundabout manner; however, the cynic and slightly paranoid guy in me thought, "What a great way to advertise a new show." I first saw this guy at about 10:00 a.m. I then reencountered him two hours later about a mile away from the original sighting, walking down the busiest street in Chicago:

I hope that there wasn't any marketing mind behind how this guy got the shirt. I am almost postive there wasn't any maketing madness to the method in which this guy got the shirt. But, I wouldn't be surprised if there was.

Excremental Enlightenment

2005-08-25T12:26:00.000-07:00

The shit I just took cleansed my soul. I was happy that I got downtown about an hour early today, so I could put-put around with my coffee and read a book before I started my daily drudgery, but about halfway through my Grande Mocha, the coffee's diuretic effects hit.

So, about forty-five minutes before my 9:00 a.m. start time, I exit the elevator to my office floor, scuttling along with clenched butt cheeks. The Big Boss saw me signing in early, and gave me a spirited "Good morning."He was actually very chipper, which is the complete flip-side of his normal demeanor. I returned his "good morning," finished signing in at the empty reception desk, and gave him a polite but determined, "I'll talk to you later. I've got a project deadline I'm trying to head off."

"All right! You have a good one!" He said like a Zig Zigler disciple of a high-school football coach. At this point my stomach was gurgling, and I didn't know how much longer I could delay the coming fecal explosion. With butt-cheeks clenched tight enough to iron a crease in your favorite pair of pants, I turned to rush off to the bathroom. I tried to not walk like a penguin with hemmoroids.

The Big Boss gave me a parting head nod that suggested, “Now that’s what I like to see!”

With an internal “phew” that I didn’t get sucked into a long conversation with the him, I started power walking towards the shitter. The closer I got to the bathroom, the greater the pains in my stomach increased. Then, steps away from the door to relief, a great pain in my stomach made me double over. I’m a guy, therefore I don’t know, nor will I ever know, what labor pains feel like, yet my imagination and uncanny ability at probable comparison tells me that this was close. Bent over and breathing heavy, the pain punched me in the gut repeatedly. I thought I was going to spray a volcano hole through my pants at that moment.

Somehow, I didn’t shit myself. I reached up for the door handle, and entered the bathroom.

Well, I made it to the stall. What ensued in that poor, poor toilet bowl was more like spraying fiberglass onto a wall than a normal and healthy bowel movement. The relief? Immediate. The extent of the relief? Blissville, baby. I felt myself grow lighter emotionally, spiritually and, well, literally (I felt like I could glide on air currents, like a feather, forever).

I emerged from the bathroom feeling like a new man. You see, I have been going through quite a few personal and relationship problems lately, but at this one perfect moment, in the calm of the aftermath and subsequent relief from the fecal explosion, I felt connected to the divine. My girlfriend troubles didn’t matter. My other personal problems were just minor speedbumps in my life-road.
It is now an hour after my relief, and the good energy hasn’t dissipated. The gloom and doom that had been surrounding my life hasn’t returned. To top it all off, I just got a call from the Big Boss. Apparently, he has a special project for me to work on. This project could lead to "bigger and better things."

Consequently, I have found myself in a better place spiritually and perhaps financially, all because of a massive and rejuvenating dump. I feel like I'm on the verge of discovering something new, of reaching a new level of enlightenment. Though mentioned in jest in Truly You Are The Corn, perhaps there is something to this philosophy I have called Excrementilism. I'm only seeing the tip of the iceburg right now (not unlike the "iceburg" shits that we have all taken, where a tiny turd-tip juts out of the toilet bowl water). Is this a process of becoming through better BM's? That remains to be seen, but I must enjoy this moment of happiness and release while it lasts. . .

Dear Plagiarist,

2005-08-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

While doing some routine web searches and vanity searches for this blog, I came across your site. I have heard that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; however, simply posting my writing on your site without any acknowledgement or link back to this blog smells like plagiarism to me.

I am flattered that you found my writing interesting enough to post, and I have sent you an e-mail containing a link to this posting. This is my attempt to give you the benefit of the doubt. Acknowledge this blog with copious and blatant links, or please remove my material from your site.

Thank you!

Fat Kids With Tubas: An Intervention

2005-07-31T12:19:00.000-07:00

Don't do it kid. I'm begging you: Put down the tuba. Look, you're already fat. Why did you have to add "tuba player" to your image as well?

I'm not trying to be mean, really. Being a former child-fatty whose nickname was--well, never mind about that. I had a lot of nick names that related to my former girth, most of them being fat-related explatives that rhymed with my last name. I've been there. I'm speaking with enormous amounts of sympathy and empathy for your situation.

I know how mean kids can be. I know how mean kids are. Unfortunately, because you are a fat boy who has chosen to play the tuba, you are inviting an even greater amount of caustic ridicule with open arms (meaty, flabby and sweaty open arms). Normally, I would say, "Play that tuba, kid! Who gives a fuck what other people think." The tuba itself, however, is a stupid musical instrument. I submit that it really isn't an instrument at all, but a large, shinier and gayer than C-3PO equivalent of a "KICK ME" sign on your back.

Did I mention that the tuba was large? Let me repeat that: It's large. When you finally get that brass corset around your tubby belly and add it's hefty weight to your already copious cargo, then wrap your meaty arms around this corpulent instrument, then place your bloated lips on the mouthpiece, puffing up your Twinkie induced Charlie Parker cheeks to blow out a foghorn of a tone, it looks like one of two things: 1) You are trying to have sex with the instrument. 2) You are trying to eat the instrument. What's worse, is that a person observing this knows that you really aren't trying to have sex with or eat the tuba, but there's a nagging little voice in the back of one's brain saying, "Well, maybe he is."

Again, I don't want to appear unsympathetic or come off like every other dumb, jock asshole who makes fun of you. If by chance you happen to be an individual who absolutely loves the tuba, then proclaim this fact loudly, tell me to go to hell and stop reading now. If the tuba is your passion, I'll end my criticism and advice right here, and I'll completely support your choice to play that brass-blubber-boy instrument.

You really have to love the tuba though.

I mean, to get my respect and for you to be a strong enough individual to deflect enourmous amounts of ridcule from society, you need to love the tuba like Einstein loved quadratic equations, like Monet loved painting fuzzy pictures and like Jay Leno loves to tell unfunny and intelligence insulting jokes. Your passion for the tuba should be as great as Ed Wood's for angora. I'll even submit that your passion for the tuba, and I know this may seem too extreme, should be greater than your passion for Twinkies. If the word "tuba" equals your passion, I'll shut my pie-hole now. However, before you truly decide if the tuba really is for you, let me give you some further insight as to why the tuba really isn't a good instrument choice for a fat-ass like you.

The tuba is an instrument that embodies a number of inherent negative conotations. As more than alluded to earlier, it is a large and clumsy instrument. Can you think of anyone else who is large and clumsy? Um, you? Exactly. You already huff and puff and sweat and chafe when walking at a sub-leisurly pace. Now add a large, awkward instrument to your payload. It's not a pleasing picture, is it? Adding an awkward instrument to your body is like adding a stick of butter to a lard sandwich. It's just too much. It's way over the top.

The Tuba is not a solo instrument. I've never seen a VH-1 "Behind the Music" special about a tuba player who lived a passionate life, spending his nights snorting cocaine off supermodel ass between concerts. Even in the tuba's golden age of John Phillip Sousa marches, it's primary role was and is to provide a deep base line, a foundation for the music, if you will. Yes, foundations are needed in all aspects of life, literally and metaphorically, to be able to build great things. Unfortunately, your body mass is already as large as a foundation for a meat processing plant.

Futher supporting my claim that the tuba has negative connotations attached to it, this instrument is used to make rude and annoying sounds in the cinema and cartoons. It sounds like one of your sonorous farts after you gorge yourself in a chili eating competition. It's also used to make elephant noises. The best example of this is a song from Disney's The Jungle Book called "Colonel Hathi's March," subtitled "The Elephant Song." The controlled, thick noise that the tuba produces simply sounds like a fat instrument. The onomatopoeia word I've heard to describe the sound of the tuba is "Oompa." "Oompa" is a fat sounding word also (when crazy Greeks aren't exclaiming the word when setting cheese on fire for your dining enjoyment).

Even the damn word "tuba" itself has negative connotation attached to it. The word "tub" is a part of the word "tuba." This just isn't good for a fatty at all. Aside from being a shortened version of the word "tubby," "tub" also rhymes with "chub." (Interestingly enough, have any of you ever thought about the word "tubby" and why it denotes a fat person? Picture a large, round tub. . .) One further breakdown of the the connotation of this word goes something like this in my mind: Tuba>Tube>Tub>Tub A>Tub O' Lard.

So now you see, my fat tuba-playing friend, why the tuba is a bad instrument choice for you on so many different levels. To break down my breakdown,

Visual: You're large, and the tuba is large. You're clumsy and even clumsier when you don the instrument.

Auditory: The tuba sounds like a fart and a slow moving elephant. Perhaps even a slow moving, farting elephant.

Societal: Unless you are going to become a Tuba Master, playing the tuba doesn't earn you any cool points.

Connotative & Psychological: The word itself sounds fat and invokes fat images.

One last time, my intention was and is not to make fun of you or add to your misery. I'm here to help. If you have read my thoughts and decided to that you are only even more gung-ho about becoming a tuba master, I applaud you. If, on the other hand, you have decided that the tuba is not for you, I only have one last piece of advice. Don't choose the French Horn as a replacement.

Jessie Jackson Protests Lack of Diversity in One Man, Home Operated Business

2005-07-27T11:10:00.000-07:00

Jessie Jackson and other Rainbow-Push coalition supporters are protesting the lack of diversity represented by a small business run out of a suburban Chicago home. The business, “Ed’s Editorial Services," which is independently run and operated by Edward Dolph out of his Mokena, Illinois home, has been besieged by marching and chanting protestors for over a week.

“I’m just a one person at-home business,” said Mr. Dolph. “I provide proofreading and editorial services on a small scale, and I have no need for another employee.” Jessie Jackson, in his latest grassroots campaign to root out unfair racial hiring practices in all workplaces has vowed to protest outside of Dolph’s home until reparations to the “home-based diversity disparity” are made. Jackson said, “It matters not that this is an at-home business. It is still a business that is severely lacking in proper racial balance. African Americans comprise eleven percent of the population in America, and his company falls way below even that figure in it’s hiring of minorities.”

“You want to talk about unfair? I quit my job with a big publishing company to pursue my dream of starting my own business. Now, my wife is shouldering the work load because no one wants the services of ‘a racist’ like me. She [Dolph’s Wife] can’t even pull out of the driveway to go to her job without going through a gauntlet of protestors."

Dove Ads and Ideals of Beauty: Highbrow and Lowbrow

2005-07-14T11:00:00.000-07:00

Highbrow:
The "magazine cover" standards of beauty are atrocious. I have never, ever found the stick-figure, heroin-thin ideal attractive. I've always been attracted to women who looked like women: Curvy. Give me Kate Winslet or Renee Zellweger as Bridgid Jones anyday over the Skeletor ideals that are constantly being paraded before our eyes and imposed on every level, every day of our lives.

The new Dove ads feature real women. (New in our country--the ads have already run in England.) In fact, these beautiful examples of feminine beauty are featured prominently on billboards all over Chicago, and it is such a welcome change from the usual billboard board of fare. A few extra pounds on a woman is most welcome by me; as I told my girlfriend, who is worried about her weight, "As long as you're healthy, I don't care what size you are."

Lowbrow:
The Dove women are hot. Thanks Dove. Thanks to your billboards, I'm now starting to sport an uncomfortable tree trunk in my pants on the way to work. Your ads coupled with the normal vibrations from the trains and busses I ride are a recipe for embarrasment, groin discomfort and/or enseamed underwear.

Combination:
It's affirming that popular culture finally reflects an ideal of my philosophy, thus slightly reducing the usually ever-increasing gas flame that heats the cauldron of cognitive dissonance in my soul. Those ads are also freakin' affirming to the blood flow into my cock:

Download My Take on the "Dove Curves" Ad Here

(PDF format, 144 KB)

Truly You Are The Corn

2005-07-12T19:22:00.000-07:00

Um Hapi Qa’Öniwti^{^[1]}

Truly You Are The Corn

Everybody gets them from time to time. Mayan Priests got them in the distant past, and Oprah Winfrey gets them today. From the most paltry of peasants to the most bombastic of kings, they all had them in the past and continue to get them today. Throughout the centuries of recorded history, we have realized the uniqueness of each individual human being. Seemingly contradictory, there has also been much philosophizing over the past few millenniums as to what all human beings might have in common despite “uniqueness.” Many answers have been proposed. Unfortunately, over the course of civilization after civilization, trying to define what human beings “have in common,” i.e. that which makes us humanity, has usually been a set of principals proposed and imposed by a tyrannical few thereby subordinating the minority to the majority, or vice versa. And we are now in the “respect my culture” era whereby bridges between each island of ethnicity are hard to find, if at all.

Yes cultures change, yes cultural values fluctuate and that which makes us human today will make us animals one million tomorrows from now. But, since I won’t physically be around one million tomorrows from now, where can we find some common ground today? Compounding this dilemma is the way my current generation thinks, or should I say, isn’t allowed to think: there is nothing much to believe in anymore. Points of view are argued, daily, from oxymoronic perspectives to solve the same problems. Should we trust the news report on channel 87, or the conflicting report on the radio? The fact is that with no agreed upon standards of any kind, our minds cope by wandering like bobbers in the wake of a battleship. We cannot grasp fundamental tools (such as philosophy) to come to our own conclusions of what truth is. Day after day, I hear and read armchair pundits espousing philosophies that mimic the mass media: No one listens to each other, and everyone waits for their turn to talk without processing what the other person just said. Their minds are mazes that never lead to anything resembling a center. So, in this one small example let me try to open a doorway directly to the off-center of our mazed-minds by presenting an example of commonality that humanity experiences today, that humanity experienced millions of yesterdays ago and will experience well into millions of future days.

I mentioned that Mayan Priests had them, and so does Oprah Winfrey--Kings and peasants had and do have them, or in our cultural vernacular, I should say, “took them.” Of course I am talking about the ubiquitous corn-shit.

While this observation of mine may have furrowed a few brows out there, it is a truth that cannot be denied. In no way am I trying to imply that this fact of human excremental existence can solve humanity’s problems (while the pun had occurred to me, by no means have I built a new foundation of philosophical thought called Excremantalism, nor have I become an Excrementalist). However, it would be ironic justice if society reached a Utopian state via the bond that the human species has in passing undigested kernels of corn along with their fecal matter. No matter, really, for I see this observation as it is: An unfortunate exercise in pedantry, fastidiousness, pomposity--take your pick. Regardless, furrowed brows or not, we have all taken a corn shit.

Actually, I remember the first corn-crapola of my life. I must have been six, maybe seven years old. I even remember what mother cooked for dinner the previous evening that brought on my wondrous toilet discovery. It was years ago, yet I remember the entire dinner, and the events surrounding it, which is not unlike how my mother remembers that she ate a plate of Mostaccioli right before she heard that president Kennedy was assassinated. But my meal remembrance before a major life event was more special than some old Mister “leader-of-the-free-world” being shot. It was the meal itself that enabled me to discover the event.

We had Roast beef, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob. Simple, average dinner conversation circulated: Did I behave in school that day; what did I learn; have I been saying “no” to the drug dealers. And it was during that simple meal with simple conversation where I consumed about four ears of plump, juicy, farm-stand fresh corn.

What followed brought new light to the inner workings of my body. The next day I sat down on the toilet. I did my thing. It felt different. Instead of just sliding out nice-n-easy in a sleek and aerodynamic fashion, it felt like a bumpy-calloused missile coming out of my buttocks. It just wasn’t right. So I stood up and investigated.

“Oh my god!” my six-year-old mind screamed. To a six year old boy, seeing last night’s dinner emerge from a place that something brown and unidentifiable in use usually hails, felt like an invasion. What were these interlopers doing in my bum?!? The underdeveloped and underutilized logic cells started to burn into use. The electrochemical chaos whizzing through my brain began to become more focused, like sunlight through a dirty, cracked magnifying glass. You see, this was my first experience in discovering what digestion is. Up until this specific point, food was food, and shit was shit. They were two separate entities existing in separate vacuums. I ate, and I shit, but now my realm of understanding expanded. A major paradigm shift was upon me; I shat because I ate! Newton and his apple, Columbus and America, and now, the corn in my shit. This was an amazing discovery, so I took the next logical step by imparting this knowledge unto a higher authority.

After my mother was able to stop laughing, she explained to me the more technical aspects of the human digestive system, and that this milestone was not limited to my experience. She was very good at explaining it all to me; my mother was a registered nurse, and because she has an excellent bedside manner I never once thought about suing her for breaking the nurse/patient code of confidentiality when she told all of her friends and coworkers about my discovery.

So what does this signify aside from some childhood mental scars that I’ve never quite gotten over? Besides learning about how the human body works, I discovered something that all human beings have in common. Whether your corn is served with black eyed peas or as a buffalo dinner side-dish, you are going to pass undigested corn!

Again, I have no illusions that full societal realization of this can bring the entire human race together, so now it is time to ask the question, why in the hell am I going on about it? Well, the more we think we are different, we can take a look at ourselves on a biological level. Our biological functions do not cause great schisms between different sects of people. You’ve never seen a bloody holy war between two groups of people due to the fact group one thinks they are superior because they breathe out of their eyeballs, and group two, the “inferior” ones, breathe out of their left big toe when it’s sunny.^{^[2]} That would be silly. No, instead our races, cultures and religious groups fight over much more serious issues such as skin color, food preferences and which compass direction to face when to god. I myself tend to annoy many because in the tradition of the best Americans, I am a rugged individualist; However, if your life views differ from mine I really do not care as long as you do not put any obligations on me (i.e. steal my car, violate my body, enact a law that allows you to steal from me legally). If our bodies can agree, why cannot our minds to an end such as this?

If I knew the answer, I suspect I would not be writing this. Heck, I suspect if I knew the answer, then I would also have been smart enough to construct a wondrous spacecraft to whisk me away from this mostly irresolute planet a long time ago. Then is this composition in vain? Well, I know that the corn has ears, and so do people. At one time it was socially acceptable to stone someone to death for uttering the word Jehovah in public.^{^[3]} But at some point some rather smart people began saying: “you know, that stoning bit just doesn’t seem right,” and the stoning stopped. Granted it took a couple thousand years, but societies are changed with ideas. Consequently, I suppose my presupposition to this essay is that I’ve used a very unnatural analogy between corn infested feces and the coming together of the human race to add a sliver of my point of view to the monolithic web of “truth” out there.

So, corn eaters of the world, let us not fight, especially on the topic of how to achieve peace. Let us just live our lives for ourselves, whatever may “tickle our pickles,” without obligating others to our demands, and all that is “good” and “right” will emerge.

^{^[1]} An ancient Hopi corn metaphor.

^{^[2]} In the interests of always thinking ahead and always trying to see the “big picture,” I publicly state that this argument will most likely be refuted on, near and/or during the time that we (the human race) discover with undeniable proof that there is other, biologically dissimilar , intelligent life in the universe (the human race not necessarily being the best model of intelligence).

^{^[3]} See movie: “Monty Python and the Life of Brian” for wonderful pop-culture illustration of this concept.

Corporate Love Letter

2005-07-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Interpersonal Love Colleague,

We met each other while networking. How could I have known that our mutually exclusive interfacing would lead to a paradigm shift in my four chambered organ?

The truth is, I love you. . .but I am ashamed of you at the same time. When I walk down the street in my jogging suit with my dog (which is fully pedigreed and pedicured), I find myself attracted and repelled by you. The fact is, we come from different market segments. My four chambered organ says one thing, but my key result action steps tell me that I need to maintain quality control in all aspects of my life. The future isn’t future-proof, no matter how well I multitask all proprietary aspects of my life.

I’d like to believe we are in a win-win situation, and we have in the past taken proactive initiative steps which provided us with increasing returns of love. Unfortunately, I think I have over-leveraged my investment. Unfortunately, as well, I know you’re not the straw man I had hoped for to make this break-up easier.

I tried to be proactive and think outside of the box, but I will admit, the box has me trapped, and I like it here. I tried giving 110% to the idea of us. . . There will be no merger. I am the customer and I need to be fully satisfied.

Aside from us being from different market segments, aside from your rather gosh taste in shoes, there was one thing you said on our last date that sealed the break-up deal: We were walking hand in hand by the lake, and you looked out at the water and suddenly interrupted my assessment of the curent market and its influence on no-load mutual funds by saying, “isn’t the sky beautiful today?” That display of lack of career focus was a window into what lay behind the real you. I could see us years down the road, me reading the Wall Street Journal and you smelling a flower—a real flower mind you—on the kitchen table. I won’t have it!

Please don’t make me change my phone numbers, fax number, e-mail addresses and registry listing under the A.A.B.C.D.E.E.F. Please accept this as a declination of the original proposals of future love and commitment we communicated non-verbally to each other, and thus, all explicit and implicit ties that were and may have been. Since we will, however, inevitably run into each other again, I do consent to whomever makes the first eye contact to nod their head towards the other and say their name, and the other respond with the other’s name in turn, as is very fashionable these days with important people who really have nothing interesting or intelligent to say.

With remorse for what could have been,

Jennifer

P.S.—I want my Celine C.D. back.

Computer Relic #1: Jedi Cigarette War

2005-06-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

The phrase "organize or agonize" was repeated so often by my dad while growing up that it echoes through my brain to this day. This phrase is a truism. I agree with it. Unfortunately, for some reason, I've chosen to agonize throughout my entire life.

Diving into the digital jungle that is my computer's hard drive to attempt organization was tedious. While exploring stray files so eloquently named, "file_01" and "stuff," I repeated over and over that I should have just named and filed this shit correctly in the first place. I did, however, discover some interesting relics. When I double clicked one of these relics entitled "untitled.avi" (God, I can be such a dumb ass), I almost spit out my coffee in surprise at the video that started playing.

How could I have forgotten about this video? I thought. I now warn you that this video has an über-geek rating of +10. It was created at a time in my life when I truly had too much free time. . .and damn it, I miss that. I've renamed the file from "untitled" to Jedi Cigarette War.

Download "Jedi Cigarette War" Here

(Windows Media, 1.9 MB)

Ticket A Dirty Hippie

2005-06-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

The Earth on Empty organization has taken it upon their lofty and idealistic shoulders to start ticketing Sport Utility Vehicles because they "have a huge impact on all of us, whether we're trying to cross the street, cycle safely to work, or make effective environmental policy." A PDF version of this ticket is available online for all to download, print and distribute. Looking very much like a typical parking ticket, these tickets certainly get the vehicle owner's attention. The difference between Earth On Empty's ticket and a real ticket is of course the actual infractions listed, the major one being that you're driving a gas-guzzling SUV. The front of the faux ticket has a long, preachy message to the "offender," and the back is chock-full of negative SUV statistics.

Aside from touching someone else's personal property, I really have no major complaints or qualms with a group expressing their opinions. Sure they're a bit nutty and ideologically backwards, but in many ways I say, "go for it, hippie!" On the other hand, even though I do not own an SUV, I have to admit that I'm not too sure of how calmly I would react if I saw these people papering my vehicle with violation tickets.

Regardless, in the spirit of "free expression," and equal time which so many of these groups claim to support, I've recreated their SUV ticket. Instead of ticketing SUV's this ticket can and should be used to ticket Dirty Hippies.

Download my Dirty Hippie Violation Ticket here.

Ideally, this ticket should be given to someone while they are in the act of ticketing someone's SUV. Another useful use is when your pedestrian route takes you past a protest rally, and you just can't stand that putrid, dirty hippie smell. My Dirty Hippie Violation Tickets are available in PDF form for all to download, print and distribute. These might just be good for a laugh around the office too. (For even more laughs, I highly encourage you to compare my Dirty Hippie Ticket to Earth On Empty's.)

Have fun, but don't be an ass. And please note: I accept no liability of any kind for anything good or bad that might result from your use of these tickets.

The Vagina Dialogues

2005-06-16T11:07:00.000-07:00

(Andrea and Patti, two vaginas, are enjoying the benefits of the nice cups of herbal tea that their female hosts are drinking on a Starbucks patio.)

ANREA: Isn't it just great to be a vagina!

PATTI: Oh my, yes. It's just super-swell to be a vagina.

ANDREA: I mean, like, if I weren't a vagina, I just don't, like, know what I would do with myself.

PATTI: Yes, yes, I whole-clitedly agree that I too wouldn't know what do with myself If I wasn't a vagina.

ANDREA: Well let me tell you sister that you are one beautiful vagina.

PATTI: As are you. We may have different individual styles and tastes, but we are united through the collective folds and ripples of vaginahood. There is no life like the vag life.

ANDREA: Agreed. Can I ask you one question though?

PATTI: Sure.

ANDREA: Do my lips look too big? Be honest now.

PATTI: Not at all!

ANDREA: Are you sure?

PATTI: You're beautiful sister! I'm no anarcho-vaginist, but I do believe that you shouldn't let the phallocentric standards of vaginal beauty negatively affect your self image. You are a BBV with BBPL's.

ANDREA: BBV? BBPL'S? Sorry, but I was really never that political.

PATTI: (Sighing playfully) Honey, you are a "Big Beautiful Vagina" with "Big Beautiful Pussy Lips!"

ANDREA & PATTI: Tee-hee!

ANDREA: Thank you Patti. Oh, would you just look at me, you've made me cry. Now I'm getting all moist.

PATTI: Let it out sugar. You are beautiful. But to be perfectly honest, you could use a trim. . .but that's just one vagina's opinion.

ANDREA: It's okay. I like my 'fro. And I like your baldness, even though it's not my style.

PATTI: Yeah, back in the 90's my gyno-host called me Sinead O'Cunty.

ANDREA: Well, regardless, you are a good friend--and you're beautiful! I only wish I had a tongue to lick you with.

PATTI: Oh stop. You're going to make me all moist too.

ANDREA: Oh. Do you still have that problem?

PATTI: Well, I've almost licked it.

ANDREA: No more 'Wonder Bread'?

PATTI: No. Just a few tiny baguettes.

ANDREA & PATTI: Tee-hee!

ANDREA: Well that's good.

PATTI: Yeah, I just wish that my host would stop writing poems about me.

ANDREA: Ugggh! Does she still glob on the pathouli oil and not wash her feet as well?

PATTI: More than ever. She keeps me pretty squeaky, but at the rate she's going and what she's going on about, I wouldn't be suprised if GAIA herself popped out of me one day.

ANDREA: Uggh. It's ironic, isn't it, how she waxes you bald but is a sasquatch everywhere else.

PATTI: Horrid. Absolutely horrid. Speaking of "hair issues," I noticed when my host leaned back in her chair that your host now has, well, a "femullet."

ANDREA: Why did you remind me!

PATTI: Unfortunate. . .

ANDREA: I thought that her hair was bad enough when she was sporting the 'Karate Kid' do, but this Femullet? It's just wrong.

PATTI: I know, I know. What can you do though? I'd weep for you personally, but I don't want the bread factory to go into full production though.

ANDREA: It would be a lot easier if she just got a tasteful haircut and wore a t-shirt that said, "I LICK PUSSY."

PATTI: You're preaching to an echoy-choir here, sister.

ANDREA: Sigh.

PATTI: Sigh. Well, anyway, you are looking great.

ANDREA: You too!

PATTI: Talk to you soon. Kisses!

ANDREA & PATTI: Mmmmmph!!!

For ChicagoBloggers.com

2005-06-10T22:32:00.000-07:00

I just submitted my blog to Chicagobloggers.com. They say on their submission form,

"We'll visit your site to make sure there's a connection to the Chicago area, and then add it in. If your Chicago connection isn't apparent from your blog, we'll just send you an email asking you to clarify."

Though I've mentioned Chicago in some form in many of my entries, I thought I'd save the person checking for a Chicago connection some time with this entry. I don't want to risk alienating the worldwide audience that this blog has achieved. So for just this one time, for you, the administrative guy or gal over there at Chicagobloggers.com, I now make my Chicago connection readily apparent:

The beautiful skyline with a Chicago twist

An honest portrayal of our Mayor

Local and national treasure Jesse Jackson gobbling on a big fat cock.

There. I think that should satisfy my Chicago connection. If these pictures weren't enough, let me be even more in-jokey to the chargrin of my non-Chicago readers:

"Trixies" and "Chads" live in Lincoln Park
I once wanderd into (onto?) Lower Wacker Drive while smashed out of my gourd and tripped over a bum trying to find my way out. He called me "Honkey Imperialist Shit Stain."
Chicago earned its "Windy City" moniker from our loudmouthed, corrupt politicians and not from our geographical location along the jet stream as is popularly believed.
I know the stop on the Red Line where all the white people get off and the black people get on and vice-versa.
Nothing beats that wonderful Chocolate smell that wafts through downtown from the Blommers chocolate factory.

I know this post is narrow in scope compared to the universal truths that this Chicago native consistently tackles. The person checking this blog to ensure it's Chicagoworthiness is probably a transplant from Michigan who has three years or less of "Chicago" under his or her belt. If not, then I humbly apologize to this person and give him or her a big kudo for bucking the trend that I see in this town. If this person also doesn't hang out at Filter Coffeehouse in Wicker Park and didn't write a "Save the Double Door!" blog entry of their own in the past week, then I'm fucking impresed and actually a bit misty-eyed.

I do apologize to my regular readers for this temporary neglect. To Zaghawa from Nigeria: I am still working on your problem, and I'll have my bank account information e-mailed to you shortly. To the Dick List Administrator: Mayor Daley is Chicago's George Soros. To Mikko from Finland, the answer is a resounding "Yes," I still think your country should be destroyed because it would just make me happy for personal reasons that I cannot disclose openly.

The CEO and the Ant Farm

2005-06-10T01:30:00.000-07:00

The title of this post sounds like a parable, doesn't it? Or maybe a fable, along the lines of Aesop's The Fox and The Grapes. Well, this tale isn't a parable and it isn't a fable, but it is most certainly about a metaphor. A huge, unsubtle, in-your-face metaphor that makes me simultaneously laugh and shake my head in mild exasperation. Unlike the Fox and The Grapes fable, the moral of which is "It is easy to despise what you can not get," the moral of the story of the CEO and The Ant Farm is simply, "What the fuck?"

Even more simply, the Chief Executive Officer of my company bought an ant farm, this ant farm:

It sits in his office right now. Truth be told, I don't know the C.E.O. guy in question, except for the occassional hello or head nod when leaving or on my way to the office kitchen for a cup of coffee. The longest conversation we ever had lasted about two minutes and was about old soft drinks that you don't see anymore, like Shasta. There's nothing wrong with liking ants, but I wonder if the symbolism of this ant farm purchase escapes the C.E.O. This is what I see when I look at the Ant Farm in the C.E.O.'s office:

Where is the C.E.O. in this annotated picture? Why, outside of the ant farm, running things of course. I just hope he gives the ants enough food and water, and I also hope that there is no need to thin the herd, so to speak.

My Gay T-Mobile

2005-06-07T07:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, maybe I'm starting some kind of crusade here, but just like I'm sick of the Yahoo Bitch whenever I log into my e-mail, I am now completely sick of seeing certain people's faces every time I log into my T-Mobile account. The Yahoo e-mail login lady has been up there forever, but at least she was a bit easy on the eyes for the first few thousand logins. The unattractive people displayed at the top of my T-Mobile account--
--are driving me batty. They've annoyed me from day one, but after months of seeing their faces, I'm now beyond annoyance. Look at how much fun they're having on their phones! Look at how they stay in touch! Perhaps they're just sharing gossip. Perhaps the spiky metro and/or homo sexual male on the left is sharing news of a colossal party they've been invited to where everyone who's anyone is going to be. Or, perhaps they're planning a gangbang featuring the Yahoo Mail girl. Or just maybe their conversation is going something like this:

What can I say except that whenever I'm just trying to pay my bill, check my minute usage or check to see if my girlfriend is cheating on me, these "not-in-my-market-segment" people hovering above my account data while gushing with frozen happiness over their cell-phones finally got to me. It got to the point that every time I click button to login to my account, I stare at the space their faces normally occupy while the page loads, hoping they will not appear. Unfortunately, they appear every time. Bottom Line: It's time for new pictures, T-Mobile.

Crosswalk and Train Door Jumpers (With a Hidden Contest!)

2005-06-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

The honking taxis speed through the intersection. You're waiting at the crosswalk. You were one of the first people there when the sign changed to "DON'T WALK." In a flash, people begin filling in around you, waiting to cross the street. After a moment, the cross traffic speeds up, and a few people in the now overflowing crosswalk begin edging forward, closer and closer to the speeding cars. The cab drivers become even more reckless than usual, flooring their gas pedals to make it through the intersection, and the people who are the subject of this article, the Crosswalk Jumpers, separate themselves from the crowd waiting to cross the street by tiptoeing even closer to the deadly traffic racing by.

Both the drivers and Jumpers are hypersensitive about what everyone knows will eventually happen, that the traffic light will change and the "DON'T WALK" sign will change to "WALK." It's an anxious situation. People edging in front of the mass of people waiting to cross the street in a big city during the lunch hour is technically no big deal. I mean, so what if in addition to physically separating themselves from the waiting crowd, some people also separate themselves from rational thought by getting close enough to the traffic that their hair blows and clothes flap in the mechanical, traffic-created breeze?

The tension builds. The cross traffic's light turns yellow. And then, the "WALK" sign lights up.

Like bulls out of the gate, the Crosswalk Jumpers literally leap ahead from their already advanced positions, propelled by their expelled nervous energy, released in the goal of getting ahead of everyone.

A real life crosswalk jumper.

And then, in my experience, the inevitable happens. One or all of the crosswalk jumpers (who always happen to jump directly in front of me) lose their steam. They jump off the line, get ahead of you, me, and then. . .they. . .slow. . .dowwwwwwwn-n-n-n-n.

What is the fucking point, Crosswalk Jumpers? Seriously, if you people are in such a desperate need to get ahead of everyone, why in the hell do you jump like rabbits then walk like turtles? Why work so hard to get ahead and then get in everyone else's way? Wanting to get ahead of people in the crosswalk is not a bad thing in itself, but once you made that choice it is your responsibility to keep-on-trucking. You guys are so full of energy off the line, but you shoot your wad quicker than a pre-cum dripping teenage boy about to poke his first pie.

By nature, I am a fast city walker; however, I also practice good sidewalk etiquette. I am courteous while weaving in and out of the commuter and lunchtime crowds that populate the sidewalks like angry ants that just had their hive stepped on. I don't get annoyed when trapped behind a crowd of nose-picking, map-reading tourists. I give the right of way to cross traffic I'm trying to enter. If I'm walking slow, I try to walk on the right. But what gives Crosswalk Jumpers the right to jump off the line like Baryshnikov with Parkinson's Disease, and then decide to walk like old people fuck: Slow and sloppy.

Even worse are the Train Door Jumpers. On the subway or even the suburban commuter trains, many of us have seen these people. They're the ones who often stand by the train doors for the entire length of the commute. Or, they start moving toward the train doors about five to ten stops before theirs is due. Even if the train doors are already occupied, they try their best to worm their way as close as possible to the other standees. (they also often smell like garlic to the stinkiest extreme, the kind of garlic smell that is oozing out of their pores in clumps. This is just an observation without much relevance other than the smell just ads to their annoyance factor.)

I can always spot (even before I smell) a Train Door Jumper by how they have no concept of the basic laws of physics, namely that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. They nudge, nudge, nudge! up to the door, hitting people with their big backpacks and/or parcels and accidentally, I hope, rub everyone in the crotch with said backpack and/or parcels.

Then the tension in this situation becomes thick. The train is approaching a Train Jumper's stop. The Train Jumper stares at the train doors with the same wide-eyed and somewhat pained look that tiny dogs display when taking a huge dump. The train slows down, the computerized train announcer announces the station, and the Train Jumper begins revving his engine. There is always one nerve-racking pregnant pause right after the train comes to a complete stop and just before the train doors open. The train is stopped, and you can actually see the Train Jumper swaying forward and back, like he is winding up to try to break down a door. He is trying to time his exit perfectly, and the slight swaying is him building up momentum. Then, in the longest three seconds of this person's life, he bolts out of the train like he's trying to escape a Whoopie Goldberg movie festival.*

Fine. No problem. But just like the Crosswalk Jumpers, the Train Door Jumpers tend to shoot ahead with lightning speed and then putter out. On a normal day, just trying to exit the subway is maddening enough without these people inflicting their physical and psychological terror. Because riding the subway to work is a good enough reason to take your vitamins, the added stress in the disparity between my perception of "Wow, they're moving real fast!" to "What the fuck? Did that person's mad dash just turn into a teetering, glacial hobble?" is just not right.

And don't even get me started on the corpulent Train Door Jumpers who not only dash ahead only to walk slow, but take up a seemingly impossible amount of space by caring ten plastic bags in their left hand and sway their right hand in wide, arcing loops as if they're trying to balance on a tight rope. . .

Life is about choices. To expand the vision of this small "jumper" annoyance into the larger picture, when you choose to jump off the crosswalk or run out of the train, there are inherent responsibilities in these choices. Don't take the leap if you can't accept the responsibility of continuing to walk fast. Why set yourself up for this? Why leap ahead of people you know walk faster than you? It isn't logical, and you piss me off. Daily.
* [EXTRA! Semi-Hidden Mini-Contest! Come up with a better simile than me to complete the sentence, ". . he bolts out of the train like he's trying to escape ___________________________." My wit was lacking for this sentence, being that my first choice was a hackneyed "a Michael Bolton concert." Submit your mini-contest entries to rantnroll@gmail.com. Thank you. ]

OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: Jobs for Jesse

2005-05-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

Jobs for Jesse! After last Monday's post, "Jesse Jackson: What's He Qualified to Do," I have already received many e-mails full of Jesse Jackson employment suggestions. I now want everyone who regularly reads this blog or anyone just passing through to take a moment to reflect on possible jobs for Jesse.

The premise: We live in a world where race is no longer an issue, and therefore a world where Jesse Jackson can no longer earn a living in, well, what it is he currently does.

The jobs: In this harmonious world, what employment could Jesse find? What would he be qualified to do?

E-mail your job ideas to rantnroll@gmail.com. All of your suggestions will be posted in a future blog posting. Please indicate if you wish your name and/or handle to be attached to your entry. Again, as I outlined at the end of the last blog entry on this topic, I also welcome any Photoshopped pictures that illustrate your Jesse job suggestion.

Jesse Jackson: What's He Qualified To Do?

2005-05-23T08:24:00.000-07:00

Jesse Jackson, as an individual, is a lot like the herpes disease. Just when one forgets about him, he breaks out of hibernation and causes ugliness and discomfort. I'm not going to go into all of the reasons why I dislike Jesse. Instead, let me simply summarize my views by calling him a fraudulous huckster. Now, if you want to just skip the rest of my long-winded summary and get right to the -->wacky pictures<--, click here.
Jesse was a leader who once showed great promise; today he is a racial ambulance chaser who appears like a magician wherever a story exists that he can exploit. The Terri Schiavo fiasco didn't have enough media leeches sucking on the tragedy teat and inflaming a family's private issue: POOF!--JESSE'S there. A bunch of students, who happened to be black, get into a fight at a Decautur, Illinois football game and are expelled for two years--KAZAAM!--JESSE appears and leads a 5,000 person protest march.

To unsummarize my summary just a bit, I believe Jesse does more harm than good in his efforts to "empower" the black community, namely by promoting a reperations and quota based form of equality. His actions and philosophical premises do no unite the races either. Instead, what he preaches further divides blacks and whites. In fact, it is my belief that Jesse Jackson uses the black community as a shill to empower and "welathify" who is really most in Jesse's activism scope: Jesse Jackson. Anything good achieved for the black community is just an antecedent accident, fallout if you will, of his efforts to achieve more personal riches and power. [See the following Wickipedia article that provides a fair and balanced view of Jesse's successes and controversies, including how he shook down (my opinion) Anheuser Busch. At least two of Jesse's kids got their own brewery out of the deal.] I was discussing this recently with a black woman who agreed to a certain extent with my point of view, but she added that "Jesse Jackson may not be honorable all the time, but he serves a purpose for the black community." I told her that I agree with this statement, but unfortunately Jesse's main purpose is to serve Jesse.

Recently, while watching a news report yesterday detaling the controversy that occurred recently between Jesse and Mexican President Vicente Fox, I started zoning out. Jesse's orations, gesticulations and oral-ejaculatons faded into the background, then thankfully disapearred completely. My mind then went to a wonderful but unfortunately imaginary place, a country and world where racial harmony was no longer an issue because race itself was no longer an issue.

I imagined a world where political parties and government propagandists no longer used race issues to keep blacks and whites at each other's throats; I imagined a world where standards were more objective, where skill and merit were valued and social democrats were no longer playing "social engineer" to keep people dependent on government and mistrustful of "whitey" thereby ensuring a constituent base that continues to vote for social Democrats. Yes, I imagined a world where race still existed but was as divisive as choosing between vanilla or chocolate ice cream; I imagined a world where race was unnoticable on the same level that Jay Leno is annoying. This fantasy land was a nice place to visit, but staying firmly planted in this land of hazy reverie was difficult. My mental focus slowly returned to the solid realities of reality.

And then it hit me.

What could Jesse Jackson do in a world like this? Then, turning this situation over in my mind a few times, I thought what could Jesse Jackson do in world chock-full of equality and free of racial derision? What exactly would he be qualified to do? With the racial disenfranchisment franchise gone and the gravy-train derailed, what kind of gainful employment could Jesse undertake?

My answer: Not much. But of course I mused further on the subject and now present to you the following examples of Jobs that I believe the Honorable Jesse Jackson would be qualified for:

JESSE'S JOBS

1. Wal-Mart Greeter

I concede that Jesse does have some mad people skills. His interpersonal communication style will make every person who enters the store feel like an honored guest, not to mention give them the feeling that Jackson knows each customer personally.

2. Construction Flagger

Stop. Go. Slow down. Definately an adequate form of employment for someone of his skill set.

3. Dunk Tank Worker

Finally, Jesse will bring smiles to the faces of anyone with balls. To throw, that is.

4. Blood Donor

Jesse can help his fellow man, and get a couple of bucks in the process.

5. Mannequin

This is a role where Jesse could do the most good: Standing still and shutting the hell up.

6. Scarecrow

He could scare all the crows away easily by reciting his 1996 speech to the Democratic National Convention

7. Fellator

Finally, Jesse can return the same favor that he asked of so many corporations and organizations.

This is only a sampling of the many ideas that popped into my head as to what jobs Jesse Jackson would be qualifed for if he could no longer work in his currently lucrative "community leader/activist" role (just how much does a community leader/activist get paid these days? Hello! IRS!). I actually had to cross many jobs off my original list. Many of them simply required too many specialized skills and specialized knowledge, like "Starbucks Barista" and "Meter Maid."

Because weeding through vocations that Jesse would be skilled enough to perform was tough, I don't feel like I'm done with this project. This is where you come in: I now put out an official OPEN CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS of job ideas that you believe Jesse Jackson would be qualified for in a racially harmonious world. E-mail me at rantnroll@gmail.com with the subject heading "Jesse's Jobs." E-mail me a job suggestion for Jesse with or without further elaboration and/or justification. Or if you're feeling particularly ambitious, feel free to e-mail your own Photoshop creation of Jesse working at your job suggestion. All entries will be posted right here in a future blog entry. Please note that when thinking of jobs for Jesse, the scenerio assumes that Jesse is powerless to create new racial issues and problems. Just assume that society has advanced beyond Jesse Jackson's ability to fuck it up. Help me beat this dead horse a little more. E-mail me your submissions!

Young Richard Gere

2005-05-14T14:04:00.000-07:00

Guest Column: A "My Pet Monster" Doll Speaks

2005-05-14T11:37:00.000-07:00

I ran into a sad figure in a trashy bar last night. I was hesitant about approaching him for an interview. After offering a couple of shots of whiskey, he finally opened up to me. I thought it would be best to let him tell his story in his own words. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a guest colum from a My Pet Monster doll.

I know many of you remember me. I'm a "My Pet Monster." Some of you had me when you were kids. You loved me, hugged me and said you would never let me go.

Hah! Now look at me--boozing it up in a bar, reliving my glory days through tired old stories with other 1980's fad-doll has-beens. Oh yeah, there's more of us. You're lucky you're not in the bar on a night when Strawberry Shortcake shows up. That once cutesy, loveable doll is now one bitchy, boozing broad. Strawberry Shortcake. . . more
like double Strawberry Dacqueri now.

Remember the "My Buddy" doll? Heh. Playskool thought they could market a doll to boys. They thought My Buddy would catch on like those ugly Cabbage Patch Kids. Well I regret to inform you that My Buddy is now shacking up with Rainbow Brite. That once cute as a button doll now has long stringy hair, perpetual ten day old stubble and more track-marks running up and down his arms than freckles on his formerly cute face. Worst of all, he always smells like White Castle hamburgers. The police are called to his and Rainbow's place at least twice a month to break up their fights. The only thing keeping those two winners together these days is their horrible, cute little coke habit. All that remains of My Buddy's legacy is that fucking annoying jingle that still gets stuck in the heads of many children of the eighties. You know the song from the commercial, 'My Buddy, My Buddy, wherever he goes, I go. . ."

And then you got me. I was never a cutesy doll. I was made ugly on purpose, and that was my charm. I was so fricken ugly that I was loveable. My time in the spotlight lasted less than fifteen mintues. One day riding high, the next day I'm marked fifty cents in a suburban garage sale.

At that garage sale I was bought by a sick fuck stoner. I became a trip toy for him and all his hippie friends. You know what they named me? One night while they were all high in my new owner's bedroom (the little shit was twenty-two years old and still lived with his parents) a rank patchouli oil laden bimbo called me "Señior Scrotum Balls." Do you believe that shit? Do I look Mexican to you? Well, the name stuck, and I only wish that was the worst of it. After many bong hits and chugs from cheap beer, they made me dance to Pink Floyd songs, sodomized me and made me engage in sexual activity with an unwilling house cat.

As you can see, I got away from the stoners. I'm my own man now. Being "my own man" consists of sitting on this stool and trying to fill the bottomless pit inside me with as much whiskey I can get my stubby hands on. I'm trying to fill the pit that used to house my soul.

Well, it's about time I shuffled on home, the alley behind this bar. Before I go, let me leave you one bit of advice: Never get involved with someone whose main attraction to you is your cuteness. Even if your beauty doesn't fade, your appeal eventually will. The only thing that hasn't faded for me as I grow older and more bitter is my love for Jack Daniels, goddammit. I see life as tolerable, sometimes even beautiful, only throgh the haze from the whiskey fumes wafting out of my mouth and nose.

And don't any of you give me the "Oh look, it's a My Pet Monster!" and "How cute!" when you see me walking down the street. Unless of course you want to buy me a shot or ten of whiskey. It's the least you can do for a washed-up, disenfranchised victim of the 1980's like me. And Tina Yothers too.

Thank you.

Scooter Cops Kick Ass!

2005-05-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

Don't you just love it when a cop piloting one of those three of four wheel "scooter" type ATV's pulls someone over? Especially funny was a scene I witnessed yesterday.

A mongo SUV speeds down State Street. Its engine growls a warrior's cry, as it slices through the air and ejaculates fumes in its wake.

The SUV blurs past Lake Street. But wait! Sipping a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee and looking as swarthy and immobile as an old-school union worker is: SCOOTER COP! Pissed that he has to move, he hops onto his parked three-wheeler without spilling a drop of his precious coffee. Bam! He punches the button that starts the scooter engine.

Vrooooom! Goes the SUV. Chug-Chug-Meep-Meep! goes the scooter. How can this tiny scooter possibly capture the SUV? It's simple really. This scooter also has flashing lights, a siren and a loudspeaker.

"YOU, IN THE SUV. PULL OVER, NOW!" says scooter cop over his loudspeaker.

The scene now: A huge SUV sits next to the curb; A tiny scooter is right behind the SUV, it's front wheel almost touching the SUV's back bumper. The driver of the SUV looks dejected. The Scooter Cop struts up to the SUV like a proud lion lording over its fresh kill. It's humiliating, really, to see this. Seeing this scooter wrangle this SUV into submission was akin to seeing a Chiuaua rape a Saint Bernard.

But then this got me to thinking about power in general. Power is a lot like money. Sure, a great deal of power is derived from money, but currency is like power in that for it to have meaning, enough people have to agree that it's true. How else can I hand over a green piece of paper to a complete stranger and get a cup of coffee in return? How else can a fat man on a scooter force a powerful SUV over to the side of the road? Enough people agree that the green piece of paper has value and enough people agree that the man on the scooter has the power to pull over the SUV. I know this is simplistic, and I'm certainly not arguing that Scooter Cop shouldn't have had the power to pull over the SUV.

Though this isn't a perfect society, I'm thankful everyday we do not live in a tribal society where "right" is determined simply by who has the biggest club. Or largest SUV. Most dictatorships derive their power by threat of or through actual physical force, and I am thankful that this is not the ideal in this country. I say "thank you" for doing your job, Scooter Cop. I am also very thankful that "power" (ideally) in this country has its checks and balances and is often derived from the consensus of individuals.

The Epic Attack on Providence

2005-05-05T07:07:00.000-07:00

This is an epic story about poop that I strongly encourage you to read. On August 27, 2004, an anonymous person posted the following message on the Rants and Raves board of Chicago's Craigslist:

People of CHICAGO, please HELP me ???!!!

>Reply to: anon-40651219@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 8:38AM CDT

Look, the Providence Rants and Raves board has some issues. They are a bunch of cry babies. Please do me a favor and go to that board and post some nonsense. Post about poop, dildos, butt plugs, etc.

Seriously, Help me out here. These people are so clueless and thin-skinned. Please go post about diarrhea and tampons. Seriously, help me out. These assholes also hate the midwest.

Thanks.

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

While it may be true that the "won't you please help a starving child" ads on TV barely inspire a single sympathetic emotion in me anymore, there was something about this post--its tone, its innocence, its simple plea for help from fellow human beings--that made me want to help. Yes, all this made me want to help, along with the fact that I'm a sucker for potty humor. Sure, I can read a New Yorker cartoon and chuckle, but my comedy tastes range from knuckle-dragging low brow to chicanery so high on the brow that Dennis Miller would be scrambling to look up the obscure references. But I'm not here to defend my love for poop. I'm here to tell the story of how anonymous people banded together around the cause of poop humor. By the time we were finished, Providence's Rants & Raves Board became known as "Poopidence" around Craigslist. It was glorious.

From this first clarion call, a wonderfully juvenile post on Chicago's Rants and Raves board, the frenzy of poop humor that followed was absolutely amazing. I will let the story speak for itself, with minimal interruption by your narrator. One caution though: Those who may be easily offended, I warn you to stop reading now. Some of the posts shocked even me, and I'm the guy who Photoshopped a penis onto the Yahoo e-mail login woman's head. What follows are actual posts that began appearing on Providence's Rants and Raves board. The first reply is mine, highlighted in red (I contributed more posts than this one, and kudos go out to you if you cna guess which ones). After rereading these messages, I was almost crying with laughter, and I thank God that I was there to record it. Grab your favorite drink. Get comfortable. Make sure you're not wearing restrictive clothing. I now present to you the historic and epic event of how Providence became Poopidence.

I was the first to reply to the call for help. I informed the original poster of my actions,

Re: People of Chicago, Please help me!

Reply to: anon-40654917@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 9:18AM CDT

Mission accomplished: http://providence.craigslist.org/rnr/40654428.html

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where I provided the link to the following (I tried to test Providence's sensitivity level with the following sexual post):

The Love of My Life and A Birthday Present

Reply to: anon-40654428@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 10:14AM EDT

I have a real problem. I am completely in love with this woman, so head over heels that sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. I seriously can not remember every being in this love before. Normally I am a confident person with a good sense of self esteem, but now I constantly feel lacking, that I'm "falling short" in being able to make this woman happy.

I know this is probably just insecurity based on finally feeling like I have a great deal to lose this time. And now, I'm trying to think of the perfect birthday gift to buy her.

Her tastes are eclectic, but she is a woman who does own practically everything. I started thinking about her likes, dislikes and hobbies, and I've *finally* narrowed the gift down to one area: Sex Toys.

This girl can take dildos like a pincushion takes pins. In fact, in the first week we dated, we played actually played a game called "pincushion." That's where she crawls on all fours over to me with a dildo jutting out of her ass, pussy and mouth. For good measure, she even had a strap on fastened to the back of her head. Battery operated, ones that run on DC current, things called "butterflies," "The Anal Intruder"--this girl has EVERYTHING. So, I guess I'm asking if anyone out there knows of a unique, interesting sex toy that will blow her mind (not to mention her wide, gaping utereus).

If it will help, just scanning her sex toy collection, I notice that she already has a large assortment of double pronged dildos for simultaneous vaginal/anal stimulation. I want to take her to a whole new level. I want to make that chewed-up piece of bubblegum she calls a clitoris feel pleasure she didn't know existed. Does anyone have any ideas?

Thanks!

re: The Love of My Life and A Birthday Present

Reply to: anon-40930527@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-30, 11:33AM EDT

You want a sex toy unlike another?

Are you really this simple?

I didn't hear you mention she had a sybian. Get her one of those. If you never want her to leave you, just buy one for yourself and let her use it. Not a CHANCE she'll bail on your ass. Tell her as long as she keeps you happy she can use it. Heh.

this is in or around Clueville
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re: The Love of My Life and A Birthday Present

Reply to: anon-40930933@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-30, 11:40AM EDT

> If it will help, just scanning her sex toy collection, I notice that she already has a large assortment of double pronged dildos for simultaneous
> vaginal/anal stimulation. I want to take her to a whole new level. I want to make that chewed-up piece of bubblegum she calls a clitoris feel pleasure she
> didn't know existed. Does anyone have any ideas?

She sounds like a fun gal.

If she doesn't have one already, get her a glass toy. It's a whole different experience from the rubber/plastic stuff.

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40930933

This came from the Chicago Board:

Re: People of Chicago, please help...

Reply to: anon-40662100@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 10:21AM CDT

This is awesome:

http://providence.craigslist.org/rnr/40654428.html

"I want to make that chewed-up piece of bubblegum she calls a clitoris feel pleasure she didn't know existed"

That coupled with the visual of a woman on all fours with a strap on fastened to the back of her head gave me a great laugh. Keep'em comin!

Providence CL a bunch of pussies!!!

Reply to: anon-40649387@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 9:13AM EDT

You guys and gals are a bunch of pussies. You're crying about some guy posting about shit and dicks?

Get real. This crap happens on CL boards of real cities all the time, every day.

Maybe if you all weren't a bunch of babies this board would actually be some fun.

Grow some skin and grow up.

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woo hoo

Reply to: anon-40570869@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 1:48PM EDT

lots of action on this board today! my fingers hurt from hitting the refresh button.

this is in or around ur anus
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40570869

re: Woo Hoo

Reply to: anon-40597319@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 5:35PM EDT

Your fingers hurt from shoving them up your hairy, smelly, diarrhea stained dirt-star.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
lots of action on this board today! my fingers hurt from hitting the refresh button.

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re: re: Woo Hoo

Reply to: anon-40600954@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 5:53PM EDT

Which one of you idiot is more immature? Why don't you have a contest to see who is the biggest wanker. But do us all a favor and do it on Craig's list Cranston.

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40600954

re: re: re: Woo Hoo

Reply to: anon-40603748@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 6:24PM EDT

I'd like to jerk my wanker off and spray my jizz all over your face!

Then I'd ask you to hold a piece of plastic wrap about a foot over your face while your laying down. I'd push out a big, brown, smelly log of shit on the plastic wrap so you could watch it steam!!! LOL

Suck on my asshole and eat my diarrhea!!!! LOL

I want to fuck your asshole!!! I don't care if you're a woman or man!!! I don't care if it's hairy or bald!!! I'll stick my cock in it and then pull it out and look at your stinky poop all over my hard dick!!! Then I'll slap it off your face and make penis-shaped shit prints on your face!!!!

Woooo Hoooo!!!!!!!

LOL

Yikes!!

Reply to: anon-40683943@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 12:58PM CDT

I just checked out Providence RnR. 'Oly Wah! That's some crazy stuff. That board is definately lacking some feminine influence. If you know ladies in RI, tell them to get on that board and whip those boys into shape. They're de-humanizing themselves.

A guy's perspective. Can you imagine what kind of nasty, violent, indescribable hell this world would be without women in it. And I mean if the women were suddenly all taken away, not what it would be like if they had never existed. The final generation of men, the death rattle of the human race would implode mentally and tear itself to shreds. It's a scary thought.

I don't think I got enough sleep last night.

The poopfest now in full swing, this poor lady tries to go off topic and ask for boyfriend advice:

My Inexperienced BF

Reply to: anon-40582978@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 3:22PM EDT

I am by no means and idiot. You are not in my situation, but I guess we all judge. If you want to offer advice, please do. And I never mentioned "Life experiences". I actually wrote "experiences". Maybe I should have been more specific and said "sexual experinces". We are both aware that life is full of many experience- must I get ino this?

I have considered all possibilities. We do have a kinky relationship when we want. I've met him in hotels, I've dressed slutty, do the thigh-highs & heels thing, the school girl thing. I get into it too. We are very open in that sense. He doesn’t want a threesome.

The issue still goes back to him never being with another women before me. He wants to get married, I believe him. I am also understanding of his circumstances and the feelings he is having. Though everyone else may not. He also understands my feelings and the possible outcomes. He knows that if he decides to do this, that I will not sit back and only twiddle my fingers (literally). We "took a break" a year ago, he didn't date, I did. The break was for him...

Thank you for everyone's advice!

this is in or around Here on Earth
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Re: Inexperienced Boyfriend

Reply to: anon-40625288@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-26, 10:52PM EDT

You stupid, filthy, smelly whore!!!! Lick my asshole!!! Suck my fuzzy scrotum!!

You want my mother to spray diarrhea on your boyfriend's chest? Maybe my mommy can pinch a loaf on your boyfriend's face? How's that for experience.

My mother's shit really stinks too, so it will be a good experience for him. Then you can poop on his face for the rest of your pathetic life and he won't mind the stench of your hairy asshole or sloppy pussy because my mommy's ass and cunt smell like the Long Island Sound at low tide.

Or, maybe my daddy can take one of his Sunday morning dumps on your boyfriend,s ugly face. Man, the old man can really stink a place up. He'd bring the freakin' Sunday paper into the shitter with him. The paper would smell like my dad's asshole for the rest of the day. I'd open the sports page and it was like changing the diaper of a baby after it ate it's first steak.

Seriously, tell me. Is your boyfriend an experienced shitter? Does the bathroom stink after he drops the kids off at the pool on Sunday morning? Does the stench of his Finless Brown Trout turn you on? Does it make your pussy wet and smelly? You little tramp, admit it!!!! Your stinky box gets wet when your boyfriend takes a big shit!!!

I hope your boyfriend bangs some slut and then dumps your pathetic ass!!

Then you can go back to visiting public bathrooms and hittin' the old speedbag while you sniff the feces aroma in the air!!!! Yeah, you do hit the speedbag while you sniff ass odor don't you??? You diddle that fat clit??? You fucking swine!! I'll shit down your throat!!!!!!

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re: re: Woo Hoo

Reply to: anon-40645178@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 7:13AM EDT

It shouldn't be hard to figure out. There are only three people posting here. Two with brains and one with shit for brains. Guess which one he is?

Just took a GREEN shit.

Reply to: anon-40658606@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 10:51AM EDT

Im on this new kind of medicine for blood pressure. I started taking it days ago and now Im taking GREEN poops. Is this normal? They still smell normal.

this is in or around what the hell?
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re: the greenies

Reply to: anon-40662615@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 11:25AM EDT

the only way to tell if the fecal matter is not contaminated is to do a "manual excavation" through it. look for leafy matter, excess mucus, etc. unaffected doo-doo should have a pleasent, doo-doo odor.

this is in or around chi-town
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40662615

re: WHOO HOO

Reply to: anon-40667723@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 12:02PM EDT

If the person posting WHOO HOO is Christine, PLEASE EMAIL ME

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40667723

Re: WHOO HOO

Reply to: anon-40674379@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 12:48PM EDT

If the person posting WHOO HOO is Christine, PLEASE EMAIL ME

If the person asking if the person posting WHOO HOO is Christine, PLEASE LICK MY BALLS.

pretty please?

re: re: re: WHOO HOO

Reply to: anon-40677904@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 1:14PM EDT

Yes, it's me, Christine.

Why do you want me to email you?

Because Christine, you were my most favorite car--EVER! I don't care if you slowly possessed me, turning me into a mad man. I don't even care that you tried to kill my girfriend. I know you were just jealous. The way you handled those punks who were screwing with me (running them over, etc.) really showed me how much you cared.

Please roll your wheels on home. I'll give you a good polish, we'll go cruising down the highway, and I promise nothing will ever come between us again.

--Arnie.

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40677904

Re:re;re;re;re;re;re;re;re;re: re: re: WHOO HOO

Reply to: anon-40686043@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 2:15PM EDT

Sweet Mother Of God. You two get a fucking room or something.

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40686043

Re: Just took a GREEN Shit

Reply to: anon-40695718@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 3:33PM EDT

um, you're getting your salad tossed by someone who drinks red wine with too many tannins in it? or, you have mercury poisoning from all that shit ass east coast fish you eat.

cheers

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EXPLOSIVE!

Reply to: anon-40859330@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-29, 3:22PM EDT

Wow. I drank about 10 beers on Friday night. Saturday I ate a huge, great dinner.

Well, this morning, after my coffee and a cigarrette, I had a massive diarrhea attack. One of the more explosive episodes of recent memory.

The second I sat down on the bowl it just blew out of my asshole. The water, and pieces of feces, splattered all over my ass cheeks. It felt so damn good.

The underside of the toilet seat looked like it had been through a war. It was covered with spattered poop.

Unreal.

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40859330

695718

Re: EXPLOSIVE!

Reply to: anon-40872627@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-29, 6:02PM EDT

Do you feel better? Usually that type strikes again. Watch out!

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40872627

POLL for the day!

Reply to: anon-40951879@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-30, 2:01PM EDT

Did you take a shit today?

Was it rock solid, medium or runny?

Approximately how may wipes did it take to clean your asshole?

(Please reference age and sex).

RE: Poll

Reply to: anon-40962477@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-30, 3:18PM EDT

Whats with you? All you talk about is shit, the act of shitting and pretty much anything that involves shit. Are you 11? do you work for sanitation management? you need help. I can shit on you if you'd like.

this is in or around uranus
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40962477

Fish Species of Narragansett Bay

Reply to: anon-40971327@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-30, 4:26PM EDT

Finless Brown Trout

Yellow Speckled Corn Pout

Wrinkle Backed Brown Trout

Coney Island White Fish

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40971327

The board took a turn for the better here---Posts about moving to providence, the homeless teacher’s strikes, teacher’s healthcare. . .then)

re: LEARN SOMETHING MORE THAN HOW TO TAKE A DUMP

Reply to: anon-41203452@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-01, 5:58PM EDT

Yeahhhhhhhhhhh,

More poop talk!

This poor bastard tries to talk about service cuts in public transit:
41203452

RIPTA Service Cuts

Reply to: anon-41353611@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-03, 9:03AM EDT

Today and on Tuesday we have a chance to speak out against the RIPTA service cuts. Today in Narragansett and on Tuesday in Providence. Let them know what a bad idea it is. RIPTA should be expanding not getting smaller! Federal Highway money and other sources needs to be tapped. RIPTA management needs more creative and progressive thinking. Rhode Island has an opportunity that so many other place don't. We are a small area with a dense population. We could serve as a model for Mass Transit!

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Re: RIPTA Service Cuts

Reply to: anon-41842677@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 4:17PM EDT

What we really need in Rhode Island is a better mass-transit system for poop. Do you know how many times I have to flush the toilet to send one of the Marines out to sea?

Yes, we need a new RIPTA: Rhode Island Poop Transit Authority. Small area with large population density = my shitter overflows. Don't even let me talk about what happens after I eat a McGriddle breakfast at McDonald's.

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41842677

Anyone take a shit today?

Reply to: anon-41397326@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-03, 3:51PM EDT

I have not.

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41397326

Re: Anyone take a shit today?

Reply to: anon-41415607@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-03, 7:04PM EDT

Yeah, I had a nice steak last night with mashed potatoes and a salad.
I had myself a real loose explosive dump this morning. It was very refreshing!

this is in or around Crapworld
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Question:

Reply to: anon-41674135@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 9:16AM EDT

Why does some poop float and some poop sink?

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41674135

Floating stools

Reply to: anon-41675346@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 9:32AM EDT

Dude, if your stools be floatin', you better get to da doctor!

My shit today was smooth and red, thanks to the eggplant parm I ate last night. There were lots of little crumbs, too. Now it's kind of burning. My asshole feels very itchy. I have rectal itch.

this is in or around Providence
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41675346

RE: Question

Reply to: anon-41690566@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 11:47AM EDT

I think it has something to do with the force/speed that it comes out of your ass.

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41690566

Question: Answer

Reply to: anon-41693316@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 1:35PM EDT

Some poops float and some don't based on the chemical composition of your poop; i.e foods you eat. I'm not sure on which vitamens and minerals make a poop float vs. sink but I think meat eaters tend to have more poops that float. It has nothing to do with how fast they come out of your ass.

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Another poor bastard tried to get honest help in using AIM at work. The response?

re: AIM blocked at work, need a proxy server

Reply to: anon-41680260@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 10:25AM EDT

Shove a tampon up your ass.

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41680260

Cucumber Seeds!

Reply to: anon-41769536@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 11:03PM EDT

I took a shit today. When I was wiping my bunghole I looked at the toilet paper and there were cucumber seeds stuck to it!!! I had cucumbers the night before. I saw the seens mixed in with my shit on the toilet paper!!!

And no, I did not shove a cucumber up my ass!!!

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41769536

re: fecal matter in general

Reply to: anon-41770677@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-07, 11:21PM EDT

What is wrong with you humpbacked fucks that keep bringing up shit? You're tossing monkey-crap around as if it was going out of style. This is an outrage; I came to providence.craiglist.org to read about the beached whale in the erotic section of this website, and what do I get? You people should be asshamed! I want to read about big giant asses in the greater Providence area, not about the supposed bigass dumps swirling about the bottom of your toilet bowl after your fifth trip to the Cactus Grille!

I'm not reading this shit no more!

this is in or around providence.craiglist.org
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41770677

My shit today

Reply to: anon-41790039@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 8:40AM EDT

I had an interesting shit today. It was somewhat black with tons of corn in it. Last night I ate chili. What was even more beautiful is that I shit on top of a bunch of bloody toilet paper left by my menstrating gf! It was a work of ART!

this is in or around RI
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41790039

shit on top of a bunch of bloody toilet paper

Reply to: anon-41792319@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 9:22AM EDT

LOL!

I'm going to puke!!!!

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41792319

Scat and Providence

Reply to: anon-41805083@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 11:38AM EDT

What is up with all the scat posts? Is everyone in Providence that juvenile? Or is this board populated by fourth graders.

this is in or around study hall
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41805083

The Poop on Depetro

Reply to: anon-41818098@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 1:09PM EDT

I just had a diarrhea attack and has to flush 5 times to get rid of all that nasty "john depetro" which was clinging to the bowl! I'll never eat at Conti's again!

And is that Mario Haliaro on NewsChannel 10 gay or what?

this is in or around Local AM Radio Commode
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Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Reply to: anon-41832518@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 2:54PM EDT

That felt good! I just took a massive shit. It actually came out in a bunch of mini-poops! It felt good though!

The only downer was that the last guy who dropped the kids off at the pool in my office skidded up the bowl. It looked like the Jersey Turnpike in my toilet!!! Damn, can't you flush twice?

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41832518

I made a log cabin

Reply to: anon-41841432@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 4:09PM EDT

out of my shit! Seriously, I think I just recreated an original set of Lincoln Logs in the toilet, because I shat two successive long turds that connected to each other at an angle--just like my much loved Lincoln Log set of yore.

I took pictures if anyone wants to see. I hav get back in there and play "hurricane Francis," and flush that cabin off the Florida coastline.

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Condom Wrappers

Reply to: anon-41843313@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 4:22PM EDT

I know I got very drunk last night. . .and I have a vague memory of the sex with with this woman I barely knew being very freaky and intense--porno style sex that I thought only happens in pornos. . .but what's with the condom wrappers in my shit?

No, they weren't just floating in the toilet. They're embedded in my shit, like a fossil in a rock.

Wow. It must have been an even better night than I thought. I just wish I could remember all of it.

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Log Cabin

Reply to: anon-41844063@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 4:28PM EDT

That is great! I'd love to see a photo of your feces!! Can you email it to me?

You should submit it to the following website:

http://www.ratemypoo.com

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41844063

Shit guy

Reply to: anon-41878312@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 10:28PM EDT

Shut the fuck up! Who cares about you let alone your bodily functions. You aren't funny or interesting. You're infantile and undeveloped. Sad you have nothing better to do than post such drivel. Maybe you could try thinking?

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41878312

Re: Shit guy

Reply to: anon-41900058@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 8:04AM EDT

Thanks for giving him the attention he so badly craves. Now we're guaranteed another day of this 'shit'.

Fucking asshat.

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41900058

My shit today

Reply to: anon-41900686@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 8:28AM EDT

Today my shit was a yellowish brown and it broke into little pieces mid-flight. It sort of looked like the space shuttle that burned up, but imagine a brown, very long space shuttle. After my first big log, the rest came out in spurts, like a hail of watery gunfire. I watched it spin in the john for a little while, in awe of its brown beauty.

Maybe tomorrow I'll take a digital pic and post it. I'll need instructions on how to do that. Everyone! Post your shit pics!!!

this is in or around RI
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

4190068632

[Howard Dean, Moving back in the bus]

Shit GuyS

Reply to: anon-41906814@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 10:14AM EDT

Trust me people, there is more than one shit guy on this site.

Yes, I post about my watery diarrhea once in a while, but I did not make the Log Cabin shit post or the Space Shuttle shit post.

I have to tip my hat to the person who submitted the above referenced shit posts. This guy is creative. He sees art in shit, which is amazing. I generally just post about the pungent odor and texture of the brown stuff that I blast out of my balloon-knot. However, this person has taught me to look beyond the smell and texture. He has taught me that a chunk of poop can represent many things: Space Shuttles, Log Cabins, etc.

So, last night I had a blast of runny poop and I looked in the toilet and studied it. It took me a while, but I finally figured out what it represented: My mother's Ratatouille. I could visualize the zucchinni, eggplant, and onions floating in the pot. Apparently I didn't completely digest the salad I had for lunch. The small chunks of salad floating on top of the water reminded me of the basil, oregano and bay leaves floating on top of this excellent summer dish.

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41906814

re: Shit Guy

Reply to: anon-41903279@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 9:25AM EDT

> Thanks for giving him the attention he so badly craves. Now we're guaranteed another day of this 'shit

O NO MAN1!!1!!! OMG I HAET R3ADNG ABOUT THIS GUY POPNG HIS PANTS AND SHITNG AL OVER DA PLAEC!!1! WTF I CUDNT AGRE MORE W3 HAEV 2 PRAVANT THIS TYPE OF THNG FROM HAPENNG AND MUSTNT ENCOURAEG TEH DUMBFUKS TAHT LIEV H3R3
!1!1!1 OMG WTF LOL

this is in or around Oh No-sville
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alaska R&R

Reply to: anon-41916609@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 11:40AM EDT

ok people, when your CL site was new there were plenty of people from other cities posting on it to help you out, just till you got the hang of what rants&raves was about.

now its your turn to help.

the Anchorage CL is up and running and DAMN it sucks. they had two posts yesterday. no im serious, two fucking posts. all day.

go help those poor bastards get the party started.

this is in or around craigslist in anchorage
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41916609

re: Alaska R&R

Reply to: anon-41919920@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 12:06PM EDT

We can barely get two posts here without a shit reference. Maybe we could get some help from Alaskans. Do they really want the drivel that passes for R&R in Providence in Alaska? Do we want Alaska to know how stupid we are?

this is in or around Providence
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41919920

Help from Alaska

Reply to: anon-41937549@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 2:15PM EDT

Hello Providence!

Although the Alaska board isn't hopping all that much, I'm very happy we are finally a Craigslist city. I used to live in the coastal U.S., and I've been missing having this great forum at my fingertips.

I see things have been fairly active around here, and no, I don't think people in your city are "stupid" based on the fecal posts. Since I am an engineer currently working on retooling and refurbishing sections of the Trans Alaska Pipeline System, I actually think I can help in the discussions that have been flung around your board.

What is the human colon but the end of a long pipeline? The Alaskan Pipeline gets clogged and sometimes it's full of muck, just like the human intestines. The Alaskan Pipeline is 800 miles long. The length of the entire human intestine is 6 to 8.5 meters long. Relatively speaking, that's a long way for gunk to travel in either the pipeline or the intestine! I also like to think of the computer term, GIGO: Garbage In, Garbage Out. If we put crap in the pipeline, the oil would turn to shit. If you put crap in your body, then your shit gets shitter. Then, you run the risk of clogging up the pipelines in your home.

Take my Alaskan friend Pakak for example ("Pakak" is Inupiat for 'one that gets into everything'). One drunken night at the lodge, he bet me that he could eat an entire moose head, antlers and all. Well, I'm not proud, but bets were made, odds were drawn up, and let's just say that I don't know who I felt more sorry for the next day: Pakak or his toilet bowl.

I treat the pipeline good, and it flows good. Treat yourself good, and your poopy will slide out easier than a prostitute's tampon. This I guarantee.

Thanks for the welcome to Craigslist everybody. I'm going to go sit on the pot now, read a book and think about the good people of Providence.

Best Regards,

Captain Stillman (Ret.)

It's finally revealed to the Providence Rants and Raves board users exactly what is going on and why:

Re: Shit Guy (The TRUTH about the shit posts at the end)

Reply to: anon-41932894@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 1:42PM EDT

Shut the fuck up!
No.

Who cares about you let alone your bodily functions.
Lots of people care about me, and because of this they also care about my bodily functions. Aside from my proctologist (that's an ass doctor, by the way), I have many fond memories discussing various shits with my loved ones. Why just the other night, my fiancee and I were sitting on the patio, drinking wine and discussing that time I sprayed the entire bowl with a thin layer of watery poop after eating some bad gumbo.

You aren't funny or interesting.
I'll agree with this statement--from your perspective, that is.

You're infantile and undeveloped.
There's a paradox here, because I've spent years and a lot of time rigorously devoloping my infantile mind.

Sad you have nothing better to do than post such drivel. Maybe you could try thinking?
Oh, but I do think. True, a lot of my thinking has been focused on shit, poopie, diarrhea, hershey squirts, butt burritos, pinching the loaf, spackling the crack, downloading some brownware, drilling for mudbunnies, putting fruit in the bowl, releasing my payload, sinking the Bismark--oh, you get the picture. I really am thinking; however, I probably do not think about the same things as you (Poop, Philosophy and where to get a great bran muffin have occupied my thoughts as of late). Just because I like to think and talk about all things shitty, that does not mean I don't think, nor does it mean I am not intelligent, which is what I think you were trying to say.

And for the first words of your reply to begin with, "Shut the fuck up," well, that shows you certainly do a lot of thinking, unlike me, because you are so adept at expressing yourself.

And now, I'll let all the Providence RnR's in on what's behind the string of shit postings (ewww, that was a neat visual: String of Shit! Like sausage links, only turdy). Truthfully, someone was going around to the other CL boards and asking people to post disgusting things on the Providence board. The original call for help I came across is here: http://chicago.craigslist.org/rnr/40651219.html. Well, I and others it seems, checked out the Providence RnR board, and started having some fun. I think a lot of people out there "got the joke," but to see so many people band together with poop postings, etc. has made me almost literally shit myself many times in laughter.

So lets bring the shit and poop out into the light. I swear by the corn in my shit, that let's not be afraid of this "drivel" (you like to use that word, don't you?).

I want to hear all about the best and worst shits of your life! Take Care!

Hey Providence!

Reply to: anon-41951552@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 4:07PM EDT

Welcome to CL!

Anyone else want to post the details of their daily anal explosion?

We want to hear about it!

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41951552

What's the strangest thing you've ever seen in your poop?

Reply to: anon-41953100@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 4:20PM EDT

Corn?

Peanuts?

Those are obvious.

What other strange things have you seen in your crap or on your toilet paper after you wipe your anus?

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what a waste

Reply to: anon-41955017@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 4:36PM EDT

just a vacant waste land

this is in or around nowhere
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41955017

re: just a vacant waste land

Reply to: anon-41956647@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 4:50PM EDT

Yeah, just like my intestines and asshole after I take a massive shit! A vacant waste land!!!!

LOL

CUM ON MY FACE!

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41956647

LOL POOP LOL DIARRHEA LOL BLOODY TAMPON LOL

Reply to: anon-41958909@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 5:08PM EDT

http://boston.craigslist.org/rnr/41955312.html

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41958909

Providence R&R

Reply to: anon-41955312@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 4:38PM EDT

What a waste of time the Providence R&R is all shit posts. More proof that it is a true toilet down there.

this is in or around Lametown
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

RE: What's the strangest thing you've ever seen in your poop?

Reply to: anon-41960304@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 5:19PM EDT

I saw the face of baby Jesus in my shit once. When I wiped, His face appeared to me in a brown outline.

this is in or around RI
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41960304

re: What's the strangest thing you've ever seen in your poop?

Reply to: anon-41982818@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 9:20PM EDT

after a long night of debauchery involving 2 17yr old prostitutes, 1/8 of coke, 2 bottles of Remy and an italian beef, there she was. staring right back at me from the bottom of the bowl, it was the Virgin Mother, Mary.

that was 15 years ago, and i have lived a clean, godd-fearing life since,

Oral Roberts

this is in or around Chicago - sodom by the lake
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41982818

re: italian beef

Reply to: anon-41988329@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 10:42PM EDT

Italian Beef! Now I know you're from Chicago. I grew up in an Italian family in an Italian neighborhood, and I never heard the term "Italian Beef" until I lived in Chicago for 2 years.

Did the poop smell?

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41988329

re: re: italian beef

Reply to: anon-41992593@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 11:36PM EDT

the faint scent of lilacs, the scent of angels dancing in the air!

Oral Roberts

this is in or around Chicago - sodom by the lake
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41992593

Poopidence

Reply to: anon-41988513@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 10:42PM EDT

Seriously, EVERYONE post details about their feces!

This board is gaining popularity on all the other boards! We are known as "Poopidence" on craigslist!

Keep it up! More shit talk! Let's get noticed!

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41988513

I'm clenching my sphincter right now!!!

Reply to: anon-41991468@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 11:20PM EDT

I've had to shit for the past 5 hours. I've been holding it and holding it. Squeezing my asshole shut!

I'm freaking turtling right now! I'm prairie dogging right now!!!

I'm going to give birth to it soon. I have been waiting so it really builds up because I want to give you all good details.

Have a nice night!

I hope you don't shit your bed tonight!!! LOL

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41991468

RE: Condom Wrappers

Reply to: anon-41991872@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-09, 11:25PM EDT

If you were that drunk, how do you know it was a woman?

If you could remember his name, maybe he could tell you how the condom wrapper ended up in your shit. Did you ever think he could pack it in your ass that badly???

LOfuckingL

Condom Wrappers

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-41843313@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 4:22PM EDT

I know I got very drunk last night. . .and I have a vague memory of the sex with with this woman I barely knew being very freaky and intense--porno style sex that I thought only happens in pornos. . .but what's with the condom wrappers in my shit?

No, they weren't just floating in the toilet. They're embedded in my shit, like a fossil in a rock.

Wow. It must have been an even better night than I thought. I just wish I could remember all of it.

this is in or around hmmm...
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

41991872

poetry from the toilet

Reply to: anon-42004253@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-10, 3:11AM EDT

It's the crinkles in your craphole,
it's your pussy juice that flows.
When I cum all over your monster tits,
it reminds me of when it snows.

Christmas is a celebration,
I'd like to give you my big fat cock.

Happy sweet sixteen,
your days of jump rope are surely in the past.
Today you are not a girl,
but a woman with a nice round ass.
Your tits sticking out so far,
your nipples hard like rocks.
I'd like to jam my fucking prick between them myself,
but that's wrong because I'm your pop.

this is in or around providence sewer
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

My shit today

Reply to: anon-42014842@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-10, 9:48AM EDT

This morning was difficult because I'm somewhat constipated. I think it might be from the banana I ate the day before...I've heard bananas make your shit hard. Anyway, as I sat on the bowl sweating to death, I squeezed out two very black turds. I'm talking Darth Vader dumplings. These babies didn't float. They sank straight to the bottom, probably overloaded with worms and parasites.

So I had a situation: Do I push more and try to unload the rest of my fecal matter, or just give up and get going? When I was young, I heard a story about a little boy who spent so much time on the john once, that his colon fell out. He had to be rushed to the hospital with his colon in a bag and a long cord of intestine that travelled into his fanny. Ever since I heard that, even though the truth of the story is dubious at best, I've been reluctant to spend too much time on the can. After a short time of reflection, I decided to "wrap it up," so to speak, and wipe my ass.

Now it gets even more complicated. The tp that the gf bought is only one ply. It's thinner than a head of hair. It's also very rough. Imagine wiping your ass with a paper bag. She bought a fuckin 30-pack of this stuff. We're talking hardcore Job Lot tp. So now I have to look forward to a month or more of bone dry, starchy asshole. My prostate was twitching by the time I got up.

this is in or around RI
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

42014842

Wow, what a wonderful morning!

Reply to: anon-40668318@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-27, 12:05PM EDT

I just grew a tail the size of a rhesus monkeys'!

It was long, and brown, and it curled around the bottom of the bowl.
The best part was, it was a lucky ducky! No wiping necessary.

this is in or around the bowl
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

40668318

Pranksters on the Providence R&R Board

Reply to: anon-41841773@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-08, 3:09PM CDT

My god. Check it out, please. Someone a while back was asking people on other boards to post things about "poop" and the like to annoy the uptight people of Providence. . .and it's just snowballed.

It's not just the posts, but the situation that has been making me do spit-takes at the computer. All these people, united, to annoy the hell out of this city. It's priceless!

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

portland poop

Reply to: anon-39297459@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-13, 5:58PM EDT

So I'm from RI and when I read the a post on the Portland RnR asking people to come to the Providence site and post "poop" I was curious..

so..

poop.. anal.. butt-plug..

does that fill your CL poop fetish..??

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

39297459

Poop Haiku

Reply to: anon-39315786@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-08-13, 9:43PM EDT

Mud Butt. <> 08/13 15:35:31

Loud and squirty farts
Spray painting your underwear
Many shades of brown.

http://forums.providence.craigslist.org/?act=Q&ID=18013729

this is in or around CL Forums: Haiku
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

re:My prostate was twitching by the time I got up.

Reply to: anon-42018409@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-10, 10:29AM EDT

LOL!

I always end up with blood on the toilet paper when I wipe my ass.

You think I over do it?

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Epilogue

This, believe it or not, is where the posts began to die down, like all historical events or fads. I checked Providence's Rants & Raves board less and less, and it soon returned to a normal Craigslist Rants and Raves board (i.e., postings about Racism, Fat Girls, and the occassional truly good rant or rave). There was one person though who seemed to hang in there longer than the rest. For a while this guy (it must be a guy) kept posting every day or so, asking people about their daily poop. He would always sign his posts with his cheerful, "Take a shit!" moniker. In fact, I think he's still around. For old time's sake, this morning I searched Providence's Rants & Raves board. I found this post dated April 6, 2005:

I just shit my pants!!!!!!!!!!!!

Reply to: anon-67171492@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-06, 11:12AM EDT

OMG, I am sitting here at work and thought I had to fart, next thing you know I am sitting in a pile of shit!!!!

What do I do???

no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

And these replies:

Re: I just shit my pants

Reply to: anon-67175648@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-06, 11:34AM EDT

OMG that is fucking funny, have had it happen in bed once. I would run to the bathroom take off my underwear and clean, throw out the underwear. Then don't return to the bathroom.

Thanks for making my day.

Re: I just shit my pants

Reply to: anon-67179427@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-06, 11:51AM EDT

Alright...here's what you do.

Quick as a fucking bunny you need to run out to the coffee machine, get a cup and go back to your desk. Soon as you get there dump the coffee on your lap.

That's the perfect excuse to go home and change. The burnt genital area will be worth it.

RE: re: I Just shit my pants

Reply to: anon-67188850@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-06, 12:37PM EDT

So do you think I should put elastic bands around the cuffs of my pants to keep the shit from falling out when i run to the coffee machine?? I haven't moved because i dont want the shit running down my leg and out onto the carpet.

I think people are catching on, because the smell is spreading throughout the office...

Re:(10x) I just shit my pants

Reply to: anon-67195160@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-04-06, 1:09PM EDT

You poor thing you! HAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Just start laughing in hysterics and run as fast as you can out of the off and home. And all I have to say is DAMN.

Was this you, "Take a shit!" guy? Are you still posting? Are you still keeping the shit-dream alive, still carrying your methane torch, watching the shit-house for the rest of us? I admire your persistance and courage to keep the poop flowing in Rhode Island. You were/are funny as shit. And for everyone who participated or witnessed the hilarity, or carnage depending on your point of view, may you all be regular for all your living days!

Roads & Bridges Magazine is Perverted

2005-05-04T14:08:00.000-07:00

Every industry and social group, no matter how obscure, has its trade publications. With the continued segmenting of the American populace, I'm sure we're not that far away from finding a "Left Handed Vegan Christian Scientist" publication being published somewhere.

Recently, and don't ask me how, I found myself reading a copy of Roads and Bridges Magazine. This trade publication actually caters to an enormous industry that is practically invisible to the general public. Seriously, how many of you have thumbed through a copy of Roads and Bridges Magazine? It was interesting though to peruse Roads and Bridges' 2005 Asphalt issue--it opened my eyes to many things about asphalt production and highway safety I take for granted on a daily basis. Of course this magazine could only hold my interest for so long. I was about to discard it, when an advertisement on page seventy caught my eye. It said:

STOP TAILGATE BANGING
NO MORE BRAKE SLAMMING

My eyes quickly focused on the relavant parts of this ad, namely the words "banging" and "slamming." I chuckled. With renewed interest and focus in this magazine, my chuckle became an all-out laugh at the ad that read:

BIG BERTHA--DUMPBODY VIBRATORS BY VIBCO

With images of hot BBW porn in my head, I noticed another ad on this page that read, "VIBRATORY ROLLER, THE AFFORDABLE SOLUTION," also by Vibco. I also learned that this vibrator weighed just 500 pounds, was powered by a Honda engine and produced 3000 pounds of force.

Wow.

I now had a deliciously perverted focus and filter through which I perused the rest of the magazine. I'm happy to share my findings below.

Perverted Observations of Roads & Bridges, February 2005:

Everpads, Grinding the Difference

Tuffnut

Dickson Industries

Tough. . .Reliable. . .Experienced

The V140 is the most reliable vibratory around

Jacking Systems

Underbridge Inspection Units

Manhole riser (the most efficient, powerful expanding riser on the market)

Manhole Adjustment Problems

Great Curves in Half The Time

Rubberized Crack Filling

We Know Jacks!

Ground Penetrating

Hot Dipped

Put it Anywhere, Watch it Everywhere

Asphalt Smoothness

Chew it Up, Spit it Out, Smooth it Out

Now That's What We call Firm Support

And finally my personal favorite:

Sleep Better With Concrete Pipe

Though some of these slogans are displayed out of context, one has to admit that Roads and Bridges is a very horny magazine. Or perhaps it's just the sensibilities of this magazine reader that made it so. Regardless, I can't wait to get my hands on the next issue, or perhaps check out some of the publisher's other magazines like Water and Wastes Digest. Now that's h-o-t, hot!

The Fat Signal

2005-05-03T10:38:00.000-07:00

Achtung: Shut The Hell Up.

2005-05-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

I can handle loud, annoying people disturbing me in public places. But you crazy German bitches, with your guttural and phlemgy ejaculations that I could never define as "conversation," pushed me over the edge.

I've learned to accept and can handle and can now block out the nasal-bitch tones of the girl who sounds like a morbid version of a Valley Girl by uttering "like. . ." in every other word of her sentences. I've learned not to let my blood pressure spike whenever that guy sitting next to me on the train doesn't realize he doesn't have to scream into his cell phone to be heard. I've even learned to accept and even love the crazies that I bump into, daily, in this city. But you German bitches—your screeching blathering affected me on a level so primal, I don't know if I'll ever be able to plug the hole in my psyche.

I was in a coffeehouse. It wasn't crowded. The lights were low. There was no dissonant music playing to justify the indie-existence of the hipster latte-jockeys working behind the counter. There wasn't, for a refreshing change, a gaggle of students chattering about everything but their studies (like oh my gaaaaawd! She, like, slept with him on the first date? What a sluuuuuuuuut!). I sat down and unpacked my stuff and with the seldom felt but oh so relished zen-like reverie of tranquility. The cherry on top of the entire scenario was that I was there to fuck off. I wasn't doing any work for anyone or anything but myself, another rarity.

I sipped my coffee, grabbed a book, opened my notebook and began enjoying engaging in "want to's" instead of the tsunami of "have to's" that have washed over my life as of late. Just as I sighed with pleasure and began reading the best book I've come across in years, your German friend entered. You were already there in the coffeehouse with me, but I wasn't aware of your existence, sitting directly behind me and to my left. I did, however, become immediately and acutely aware of your presence behind me upon the entry of your friend. As your friend entered the coffeehouse, you greeted her with, well, a noise that sounded like you were trying to snort a three-inch diameter sized phlegm ball up your nose.

I actually jumped in my chair at your "greeting," which simultaneously slashed through and demolished the peaceful atmosphere. And then, my god, your friend who was toting two young children with her, began talking to you. She sat down and the most hellish, guttural foreign conversation (punctuated by occasional higher-pitched gutteralisms from the Kraut children) began. I've heard many unpleasant noises over the course of my life, but your conversation was the worst. It affected me on an irrational and emotional level. The cacophony of tones elicited a flight or fight response from me. Adrenaline shot through my body, and my mouth was saturated with the coppery taste of batteries. Your words actually made my stomach upset. My teeth watered. My eardrums hurt. I tried—I really tried—to block out the sounds of your conversation, but the phlegm balls lodged in both your throats filtered every guttural word and phrase, piercing every defense shield I could throw up like needles through wax paper. Still, at first, I continued to fight. I thought I could eventually block out the noise or at least get used to it. Humans adapt well to stressful situations. I, like most people, am desensitized to persistent bad smells and grating noises. When I hop on the train and I wind up next to a guy who smells like onions and armpit, by the time I get to to my destination the smell isn't so bad anymore. When I'm driving through rural country, after a while, the manure doesn't smell so bad anymore. Elwood blues, who lived right next to the El tracks, told his brother Jake, "So often you won't even notice it after a while," in response to Jake's question, "How often does the train go by?" I thought this seemingly universal principle of human adaptability would apply to you two über bitches. It didn't. The opposite was true in this situation. I couldn't get used to your noise. My irritation didn't lessen, but increased. The manner in which you would both be silent for a moment—a moment when I would let my mental guard down, relish the brief moment of silence and collect myself—and then suddenly burst forth with a barrage of Accch! Chhhhhhh! and Fghthhhhhh! noises was a battering ram on my eardrums and skull. A tension headache came on quickly and with the force of a Panzer tank division. I couldn't stand it anymore. At the height of one of your most skull penetrating rants (but for all I know you were conversing about a new stove one of you picked up at Sears), I raised the book I was attempting to read above the table, and let it drop. The loud thud of my book stopped your conversation. Briefly. It was the moment that set me free. I took this moment of relief to quickly pack up and run out of the coffeehouse as quickly as possible. Just as my hand touched the doorway turned escape hatch, one of you got one last shot in, a noise that sounded like a train wreck in a mucus factory, but its effect was dissipated by the distance. I pushed my way out to freedom.

I know its wrong to hate, but in this situation I don't care. I'm allowed to judge. I have tastes. I now judge that your language is less pleasing to the ear than wailing, stray cats in heat trying to fuck one another, nails dug in, across a chalkboard. Your phlegmy linguistics were bad, but I will at least concede that the previous idyllic atmosphere juxtaposed with your noises probably amplified my annoyance. The German speaking children, thankfully, were happy children who laughed a lot. I thank God that laughter sounds the same in both German and English. The only potential positive I can see in your language is if the American government hired the two of you. Hostage situations and modern sieges could be virtually eliminated if the government were to record your normal conversations and then play them through enormous speakers pointed at the buildings and houses where people are holed-up. If the government had this as an available resource back in 1993, the Branch Davidians would have scurried out of their compound like rats in a sinking ship, thus saving many lives.

If language is tied to culture, then it is no wonder to me anymore why Germany started two world wars. Listening to your speech made me angry and feel like fighting, and if "rape" can be loosely defined as unwanted penetration, then I was aurally skull-fucked, repeatedly, by the both of you.

Anal Pounding Averted

2005-04-30T09:15:00.000-07:00

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was the first movie I had to go see on its opening night since the original Batman came out. That tells you, generally, how important movie premieres are to me and thus how important this movie was to me as well.

I have good news to report about the movie: It wasn't an anal pounding (see "Hitchhiker's Fear" for an explanation of my fearful rating scale.) It wasn't a valedictorian speech either, but closer to this scenario than the mediocre, predictable life.

The movie was Hollywoodized a bit. I didn't particularly care for the expansion of Trillian as a full-blown love interest for Arthur, and the somewhat boring trip to the planet Vogsphere to save her, but overall I was more than happy with this movie.

I don't think Douglas Adams is spinning in his grave, but only rocking back and forth a bit.

Hitchhiker's Fear

2005-04-22T16:18:00.000-07:00

I've never been so nervous about a movie's release. The official movie, after "almost" being made for the past twenty or so years, is finally going to be released in the U.S. on April 29, 2005. This movie had better be good. In my estimation, this book and the other four books in the Hitchhiker's "trilogy" are works of art; the movie makers better not fuck this one up.

I first read Douglas Adam's The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy at the age of ten. Twenty-two years later (holy shit), this is one of the few books I've reread every year or two since first cracking its paperback spine as a prepubescent. I have good reason to be nervous about this movie's release, as Hollywood, in its never ending quest of giving people the detriment of the doubt by dumbing everything down to some mythical money making "lowest common denominator," generally fucks things up.

This book is truly a part of me. Like millions of other readers, I love the story's characters, the laugh-out-loud wit, its absurdity and its brilliance. Fans of this series and its deceased creator Douglas Adams have the highest expectations and the highest hopes that not one ounce of the book's brillance be compromised. Exactly how high are my expectations? To illustrate both my worries and hopes, let's pretend that I have a daughter.

Parents, so I've been told, have unconditional love and the highest of hopes and exectations for their children. With this in mind, let's compare this familial bond with my hopes and expectations for the movie:

If the movie is great, it will be like watching my daughter, the light of my life, walk up to the podium to deliver her valedictorian speech. She gives me and the wife a wink as she passes us in the aisle. As she delivers her speech, I swell up with so much pride and love that I feel like I'm going to burst. Soon, the audience loves her as well. The audience laughs, weeps and when the ceremony concludes everyone leaves with hope in their hearts and the overall feeling that there is "good" and "right" in the world and that perhaps everything will be all right after all.
If the movie is mediocre, it will be like watching my daughter go to college to become a teacher. She graduates, teaches for a couple of years, decides she's not cut out for the pedagogical world, goes back to school for a communications degree, moves to a trendy neighborhood in the city, meets a guy who makes a lot of money, gets married, quits working, moves to a nondescript middle to upper class suburb to squirt out a couple of babies, becomes a room mother at the school, puts her kids on ritalin, sees a therapist because her husband might be cheating on her. . .
You get the picture?
If the movie is horrible, it will be like talking to my daughter on the phone about her acting career. Since she moved to LA, she's been to a lot of great auditions, and the "prospects look pretty good." I wish her luck and mutter a silent prayer as I chug a bottle of Pepto to combat the grapefruit-sized ulcer this kid has given me. Later that night, the wife (let's assume I have one of these too) and I decide to relieve some stress with a "romance night." I pop the rented porno into the DVD player, and during the movie's opening montage, I see my daughter, aka 'Desssire' sucking off a transvestite. This scene quickly fades into one showing her getting anally pounded by a large (in all respects) black actor named Thundercock. I dive for the remote through my wife's vocal chord ripping shrieks. I fumble for the remote, which goes flying far away from my hands, but not before I inadvertantly pause the movie right at the moment where Thundercock's jizz is frozen in mid-air above my daughter's waiting face.

Yes. I definately have strong feelings concerning this movie.

I've seen a few previews, and I'm both encouraged and discouraged. It looks like there are too many explosions, but the lead character looks promising. On April 29 I'll know for sure whether it's a valedictorian speech, a mediocre predictable life or an anal pounding.

Proof of Society's Impending Doom

2005-04-20T07:11:00.000-07:00

I Don't Write Shitty Poetry

2005-04-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

I was sitting outside a Loop café,
just reading a book, enjoying the day.
I heard you sit down, you rattled your chair,
I was struck by perfume, sweet in the air.

Not looking up, I imbibed your smell sweet,
and wondered “who’s this?” that smells like a treat.
Intoxicating smell, but I was shy,
and hoped you were as lovely to the eye.

I stayed in my book, eyes not wavering.
Shy before beauty, the life I’m living.
I read, reread the same boring line thrice,
Distracted by your Mmmmm!—sweet, fragrant spice.

I turned a dull page, pretending to read,
but decided to sate my probing need:
To see if your face, compared to your smell,
for if it did, wouldn’t things be so swell!

(A face half-beautiful as your sweet scent,
meant an angel was nearby, heaven-sent!)

So I closed my book, and prepared to look
to confirm or deny my hopes.
And what I saw,--my God, let me withdraw--
flung me against the wiry ropes.

Turning my head, I was so filled with dread—
Can I be as blunt as I can?
Someone like you smelling beautiful too
should not—I repeat, not—have been a man!

Why Stop at The Cookie Monster?

2005-04-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

Sesame Street, or "The SS Muppet Gestapo" as I'm starting to refer to them, has emasculated the Cookie Monster (see "Goodbye Cookie Monster: You Are Now A Pussy").

Believe it or not, Sesame Street has done this in the past. The secondary character on the show known as Telly, or The Telly Monster, used to be called the Television Monster. Producers thought that a monster addicted to television was a bad influence on children.

I understand that many organizations like Sesame Street (henceforeth known as "The SS") like to practice incrementalism, which involves implementing new policies slowly so as to not make sweeping reforms that may upset society (the old "How to Boil A Frog" analogy). But with the Cookie Monster's recent emasculation, I think it's time for Sesame Street to let go of the handbrake and yank back hard on the cultural responsibility throttle.

I now present modest examples of respectfully submitted suggestions to help the producers of Sesame Street in determining more correct traits for their lovable Muppet characters:

OSCAR THE GROUCH
In addition to suffering from a general anger disorder, he lives in a garbage can. A dirty, disease spreading, rat-infested New York City garbage can. Shouldn't this character, henceforth to be known as Oscar the general Anger Disorder Sufferer, display better hygiene? Is living in a garbage can good behavior for children to model? I know that judging lifestyle choices (or just about anything else) is typically a big no-no as preached by The SS to our children, yet the lifestyle choice of living in refuse clearly isn't a healthy choice. Furthermore, along with relocation to suitable housing, Oscar needs to begin seeing a therapist and taking medication for his anger issues. He could move into a condo, perhaps?

BIG BIRD
Though the yellow and long-beaked bird in question definitely is "big" in comparison to other birds and even humans, isn't the word "big" itself derogatory? I submit that calling him "Big Bird" is as bad as calling him "Fat Ass Bird." Even worse, where is Big Bird's identity? All the other strange creatures and monsters on Sesame Street have real names. What's Big Bird's name? "Bird?" I don't think so. This form of nick-name nameism cannot be allowed to continue.

THE COUNT aka COUNT VAN COUNT
First of all, he's a vampire for Christ's sake. While this seemingly friendly creature's only vice seems to be the love of counting things, he is still a blood sucking vampire. We never see what goes on behind the scenes. We never see The Count stalking the large bosomed, milky white skinned maidens when he finishes counting something and the cameras turn off. Portraying a vampire so lovable will ill-equip a child who encounters real vampires (Goth or otherwise) in the real world.

More important, and much, much worse: The Count is royalty. Nothing flies in the face of the egalitarian values The SS tries to promote than the elevation of titled nobility. Consequently, The Count should be stripped of both his vampirism and title and should henceforth be known as "Cal, The Really Nice Ordinary Guy Who Really Enjoys Counting, Sometimes a Bit Too Much." Making the Count a simple human who can't help counting things also opens the doorway for The SS producers to address obsessive-compulsive disorders. Maybe autism as well.

ELMO
Sesame street was bold when it introduced Elmo: The steamy subtext. The inherent implications of a furry, creature with a high-pitched voice that loves everybody. Kudos should be given to The SS for this bold addition, but I believe society has advanced far enough to remove Elmo's veneer. With this in mind, the SS producers should simply change his name from "Elmo" to "Homo."

GROVER
How I loved this Muppet. I remember drunken nights from years ago where I was called upon to perform my own version of Grover's classic "Near!" [Grover runs far away from the camera, panting all the while, turns around, then squarely faces the camera] Far!" [Repeat. Many times.]

Can anyone say Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder? I knew that you could.

Unfortunately, with the wisdom of my years, I see that Grover is the poster Muppet for Ritalin. Sometimes he's low-key, even thoughtful, and is able to have normal conversations with the other inhabitants of Sesame Street. Other times, he is a frothing at the mouth rampaging maniac.

Because I used to be a teacher (strange and sad, I know), I am more than familiar with the extent and frequency that children are prescribed Ritalin today (whether or not this is right, whether or not parents are just lazy fuckers who instead of wanting to parent correctly decide to drug their kids for acting like kids is another issue altogether). With the introduction of Ritalin to Grover's repretoire, these children will have a lovable monster to identify with which will help reduce the stigma attached to their ADHD diagnoses.

Things invevitably change in society. While it will be sad to see the "Near. . .Far!" segment defunked, it can be replaced with the more socially responsible segment entitled, "Well Behaved!" and "Even More Well Behaved!" The "Near. . .Far!" segment can be brought back periodically, but only to illustrate what happens to Grover when he fails to take his medication.

Finally, to increase awareness (the popular pastime of many organizations), perhaps Grover's name should be amended from "Grover" to "Grover 314.01." "314.01" is the DSM IV code for Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder for "predominantly hyperactive-impulse" types.

ERNIE & BERT
Okay, we all know these two are a gay couple. Reams (no pun intended) of articles and parodies of their relationship exist all over the web. Been there, done that.

Major, major kudos are in order for The SS in portraying these characters much more favorably and in your face than Elmo. They're roommates. The camera is often in their bedroom. We've even seen their beds, which are separated by a nightstand reminiscent of a 1950's "Lucy and Ricky" connubial bedroom arrangement.

You've done good--real good--with these characters so far Sesame Street, but now it's time to let these characters evolve! Push those beds together. Replace the "E" and "B" monograms above their respective beds with "T" for "top" and "B" for "bottom" to more accurately represent Ernie and Berts roles in the relationship. I want to see rainbows and assholes in that bedroom, and I want to see them today.

IN CONCLUSION
This, I'm sure, is only a good beginning. But I've just about shot my wad on the subject. It takes a village to raise a Muppet, and it takes a village of WWW freaks like me to come up with more and better suggestions. I invite you to submit your suggestions for more ways to improve and reeducate all Sesame Street characters, even the human ones. (How does the idea of making Luis a wife-beater sound?)

Please forward all your suggestions, which will be posted in this blog, to: rantnroll@gmail.com

Pear-to-Pear File Sharing

2005-04-13T13:32:00.000-07:00

Other stupidity added 4.14.05

Fun With Yahoo! Bitch

2005-04-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

I've been using the same Yahoo e-mail account for years. I've been happy with Yahoo mail, though I've been tempted by and am currently tinkering with a couple of Gmail accounts. Yahoo's service, however, has always been good. They're constantly making improvements to the system, and there isn't anything I can really complain about. . . except for the Yahoo! Bitch:

She's starting to drive me crazy. I thought she was kind of pretty the first thousand times I saw her when the Yahoo Mail page loaded. Now, she's evil like a wax dummy from a Twilight Zone episode. Everytime I hit the Yahoo Mail homepage, she's there, smiling at me like the fiendish marketing model money shot of an imp that she is. One would think that over time I would become desensitized to her presence.

One would think.

Unfortunately, she's like a toothache. With the passage of time, with every login, I become even more acutely aware of her. She never goes away. I think she eats her children.

She says:

Well, I say back to hell with you, Yahoo! Bitch. I don't have silver bullets or holy water or the eminently more powerful direct contacts with Yahoo's production staff to send you back to the unholy marketing hell from whence you sprang. I do have Photoshop, however. I had fun defiling the Yahoo! Bitch with my Adobe cross. Yes, I had way too much free time, but I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labors. The fruits begin somewhat benign and then get downright sick. Either way, again, I hope you enjoy:

Starting Simple: The child in me.

A little more advanced, but still juvenile (I loved doing this shit to magazines when I was a kid).

Ooh la-la!

Then I see the possibilities in her cropped head.

The Flowerpot.

Taking a break from the implicit hole in her head, we now have The Joker.

Then (I can't help myself), The Toilethead.

Pandora's Head-Box, Releasing Plagues and Sorrows on the World.

Finally, The Klingon.

Now when I say, "finally," I don't mean that I'm done. "Finally" signifies where good taste departs and the lizard brain in me started going wild. This is your final warning, but believe me, she deserved it.

Now we know why she's smiling.

What's on your mind? And face?

Floppy and Lactating.

In conclusion, I really think it's time for Yahoo! to update its e-mail login page.

Goodbye Cookie Monster: You Are Now A Pussy

2005-04-09T23:42:00.000-07:00

My heart is racing right now. My girlfriend and I just concluded a long debate that turned into a full-blown argument over the Cookie Monster.

I was perusing Google News, while she read a book on the couch. "Oh no!" I whined when I read that the Cookie Monster, a Sesame Street character I've admired for years, is not going to be munching as many cookies. In fact, he is now going to be emphasizing healthier eating habits, along with the ultimate insult of his song, "'C' is for Cookie" being changed to "A Cookie Is A Sometimes Food." (italics mine)

Cookie Monster has gone from this:

To this:

My girlfriend, who works as a nanny for a 1.5 year old boy, opined on the benefits of the new and improved (in her narrow minded opinion) Cookie Monster, arguing that the child she watches often models the Cookie monster's behavior; he screams "COOKIE!" and tries to tear open the bag of Chips Ahoy.

Well, "no shit," I say. I did the same damn thing. Luckily, I had parents who taught me about eating healthier and even went as far as controlling what I ate and *gasp* what I watched on television. The Cookie Monster is a fun, hyper, crazy and I suppose non-PC creature. Or was this way, at least. "But there are so many more educational messages in cartoons these days, and I think it's an improvement," my girlfriend said (before the screaming commenced).

What's next? Oscar the Grouch living in a clean garbage can? Big Bird getting a beak reduction? I'm sorry, but a little danger, even in a Muppet, is appreciated. Vanilla is a tasty flavor, but not every damn day of the week, month, year and life. I'm sorry Mr. Cookie Monster, but they may as well put you on Ritalin next, just like so many parents do to medicate their kids for, well, acting like kids.

Things I didn't do because of un-politically correct children's programs and cartoons:

I never thought I was a mechanical lion that could become a giant robot by joining with other mechanical lions.
I never wore tight spandex to school.
I never tried to make myself so angry that I turned into a rampaging green monster.
I never tried to hunt down and kill small blue creatures, who often annoyingly used a single word as a noun, exclamation, adjective, adverb and all-around sentence level modifier.

Behavior I was guilty of due to the influence of cartoons and children's programs:

Screaming, "BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!" at the top of my lungs at inopportune moments.

Saying, Th-th-th-th-th-th-That's all folks!" to my parents when it was time to go to bed (obviously, a horrible cartoon that makes fun of people who stutter).

Making a cool device called a "Come Back Here" out of a coffee can, rubber bands and washers. (Who remembers this thing? Anyone?)

Diving out of the way of the pretend slime I thought was going to hit me whenever I said the phrase, "I don't know."

Sigh.

I can handle a culture war, but the battle that just finished in my apartment with my girlfriend over this issue has left me drained and pained. Based on her reasoning, I should count myself lucky that I didn't wind up a fat-ass, cookie addicted kid who also liked to drop anvils on people's heads because of my affinity for the Looney-Toons cartoons.

Goodbye Cookie Monster. You are now a pussy.

Are You Rastafarian? No? Then Lose the Fucking Dreadlocks.

2005-04-09T10:33:00.000-07:00

I understand counterculture. Without getting too much into tired cliches about "how nonconforming is just conforming to something else," and blah, blah, blah, blah, I just want to say that pseudo-artistes who sport dreadlocks just fucking annoying.

According to the all-knowing oracle known as the Wikipedia,

"There are many reasons for wearing dreadlocks. For some, specifically the Rastafarians, the dreadlocks are sacred, and their formation is a religious ritual. The dreadlock has also been linked with unstraightened hairstyles for peoples of African descent as a statement of racial pride. For many others, the dreadlocks are a fashion."

So Mr. and Ms. Politically Correct, "I love and respect diversity" artist types, guess what? Your dreadlocks are an insult to the religous beliefs and rituals of a rich culture. You are not thougtful, intellectual or artistic because you have dreadlocks; you are a fashion victim.

These are examples of the more annoying dreadlock archetypes I see:

The White Suburban Hippie

I am almost overcome by the smell of B.O.and patchouli oil just looking at this picture.

The Phish™ Fucker

You, are an asshole.

The Black Poet / Angry Black Man / Poet / Marxist-Intellectual Poet / Musician (skilled at bongos) Manic Progressive

Let's be honest: It's all about the poontang, right?

The Confused European

You are a putz (literal Hebrew translation, thank you)

The Rob Zombie

Metal & dreads. You rule dude.

The "I Don't Know What The Fuck I Am"

Enough said.

There are many other examples, such as the "Kravitz" and the "Borders/Starbucks Worker," but this is enough to make my point. Bottom Line:

Unless you're this: , then do not--I repeat,
do NOT--do this:

POSTSCRIPT: The true counterculture types are those who are virtually undetectable in normal, every-day life. More is done to effect change in society from people who actually stop to think before they decide to not bathe and go walk down the street with a placard that reads "no blood for oil." You are all indocrinated, unoriginal tools (both in the traditional and male genetalia sense) of someone else's agenda. Dreadlocks do not the iconoclast make.

Note for future blog. . . HIPSTERS: YOU ARE NOT DAVID CROSS.

Welcome Back Boobies!

2005-04-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

Every winter, I reach a breaking point. I don't think I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder ("SAD," which is really a clever ruse by a pharmaceutical company to create a need and peddle drugs), but there comes a time every year, just before the days start getting longer, where I finally become completely fed up with winter.

The dead trees. The dead grass. The dead sky. The time comes where no amount of bundling up can warm the constant chill that has finally seeped into my bones and chilled my soul. Last week I woke up, opened the blinds in my apartment to another cold, grey sky and screamed, "I'm sick of this!" Then I showered, got dressed, bundled up and went dutifully to work, as a chicken-shit iconoclast is wont to do. But then--thank all the gods and everything good--the weather finally began to warm up. And then, crossing a distinct barrier, I finally woke up to a day like today: The first truly beautiful, sunny and warm day of the year. Today is the first Spring day that actually feels like Spring.

Just when I truly began to forget how warmth and sunshine feel, like a person who forgets the face of a parent who dies in his childhood, it finally gets warmer. My emotional decline is halted. Then it begins to reverse. Today I can feel the heat rise both in my heart and bones. It's warm, and the long winter disease begins to go into a slow remission.

Yes, the trees are still bare, no flowers line the city streets, but today I am blissfully reminded that the world is not dead after all; it was only hibernating. The trees haven't sprouted leaves, but today the boobies have bloomed.

For months the women in this city have covered their beautiful orbs under layers and layers of protection. Today, hallelujah, the layers are coming off, and the boobies are starting to peek out from their winter hiding places. More than birds singing or the smell of roses in the air, when the boobie parade finally begins marching down the city sidewalks, then I finally know that spring has arrived.

This is only the first crop of boobies of the year, the early bloomers. But I know that by mid-July conditions will be ripe for even the most nocturnal and shy pairs to succumb to the heat and expose themselves in a variety of ways. Today I've already seen an assortment of tank tops, halter tops and low cut (and blissfully tight) v-neck t-shirts. Sigh.

These are the first seedlings, poking up like wildflowers in a vast country landscape. Life begets life, however, and the barren landscape will bloom anew with the trees and flowers. Birds will be singing again, and as god as my witness I will soon get eye strain from trying to take in every beautiful example of exposed femininity.

Welcome back boobies. Happy spring.

POSTSCRIPT: I would also like to say "welcome back" to the gorgeous female asses as well. To the lady I saw today wearing the thin, white, diaphanous and cheek-hugging pants clearly showing she prefers wearing g-strings: Thank you.

Why We Miss It

2005-04-02T11:05:00.000-08:00

"Why can't you make it in the toilet?" is one of those recurring questions often asked by women of their men, be they boyfriend and girlfriend, husband and wife and even mother and son. Sometimes the question is asked in just this form or in the form of long, drawn-out bits by wacky stand-up comedians who haven’t changed their acts since the 1980’s. Heck, this question can even become the entire plot of a modern sitcom which often shows the husband figure acting and being treated like a bumbling fool, existing only to take the brunt of the collective psychological anger of women. But I digress.

I want to put an end to this question once and for all. I want my answer to render this question a non-issue, to the dismay of bad stand-up comics and sitcom writers everywhere. So here it is ladies. Here is the definitive explanation once and for all as to why our urine stream doesn't always, or never in most of your minds, make it directly into the toilet.

Height
Unlike women who sit directly on the toilet or hover only a few inches above the seat in nasty bar bathrooms and public places, we aim for the bull’s-eye from much higher up. Some guys are taller and some are shorter, just like some penises are longer and shorter than others, but regardless of height and penis length, we're always aiming from a greater height than you. This includes the men who boast by claiming they don’t like to pee because the water in the bowl is always too cold. Only a freakish few are blessed/cursed with anatomy of this astronomically improbable length. I’m not saying that the few feet of extra height we normally urinate from is akin to trying to pee blindfolded into a thimble from atop the Sears Tower, but it is a factor. Because men are aiming from higher up, the probability of a man missing the bowl will always be slightly higher than a woman missing from a seated position. This is but a small variable in the “why do men miss the toilet?” equation, however. This variable by itself is seemingly benign, but when coupled with the next important factor, you will clearly understand, possibly to your dismay, why we sometimes miss the toilet. More important, you will see that the reason is not because all men are careless slobs.

Misfires
We can aim the gun, but we can't always control where the bullets go. Without being too graphic here, let me explain with an example. The movie “Me, Myself and Irene” has a hilarious scene that well illustrates this point. Jim Carey plays Officer Charlie Baileygates opposite Rene Zellweger who plays Irene Waters. In the educational scene, Baileygates wakes up in a hotel room bed next to Irene. Groggy eyed, he gets out of bed to go to the bathroom. Standing above the toilet, he whips it out and begins urinating. Though an extreme comical example, instead of the stream going where he's aiming, into the toilet, the stream shoots upward, downward, left, right—everywhere. In shock, Baileygates screams to Irene in the bedroom, "Why am I peeing like I just had sex all night?" I think just about everyone out there understands what post-sex phenomenon caused this to happen. Well ladies, sometimes this happens even if we haven't had sex or we have the best hygiene. Though it seems simple for us to whip it out, take aim and fire away, sometimes it’s not so simple because unfortunately the end of our cannon can get a little clogged up. Or, to be very direct, the skin flaps around our pee-pee hole can be a bit dry or just stuck together. This of course will redirect the flow. If you don’t believe me, try this: Don’t clean the gunk off the tip of a plastic mustard squeeze bottle between uses. Sooner or later, when you squeeze that puppy while aiming for the bulls-eye center of a slice of bologna, some mustard is going to shoot out to the side and miss your original target. Sometimes this male phenomenon reminds me of those trick water guns where one can swivel the nozzle tip to the left or the right. The net effect is the person one points and shoots the gun at remains dry, and the person standing to the left or right gets wet. Similarly, when I'm standing and dangling above the toilet I always aim for the center, but often the rim of the toilet bowl gets the first squeak of a shot. Or the floor. Or the wall. Or, if I'm in the Officer Baileygates situation, the roll of toilet paper, the mirror, the sink or the ceiling may get a squirt (I’ve only hit the ceiling once in my life. Well, I’ve only hit the ceiling once by accident. On purpose? That’s a whole ‘nother interesting story about how all the boys in my third grade class received detentions). Thankfully, after the initial stray shot, it doesn't take long to get back on target. The stray streams usually don’t last long; once the flow is going, it only takes a moment to clear the blockage or unstick the end, and the flow quickly corrects itself.

Enlightenment
I hope I've been educational, ladies. The height at which men pee coupled with the biological-fun-house of a nozzle that often exists at the end of our hoses is why we don't always make it directly into the toilet. Because women sit directly on the seat, I don’t see how they can ever miss, though I have heard horror stories from women about disgusting toilet seats in their bathrooms. I further realize though that regardless of why men pee on the rim of the toilet bowl, it doesn’t excuse men not cleaning up after themselves. This is the main issue of agitation, I believe. In the interest of reaching detente in this single battle within greater, never-ending war between the sexes, I want to state that whenever I miss the bowl, I always clean up the mess. Guys: when you miss your target, just wipe that shit--I mean piss--up. It's more sanitary and more importantly it keeps the "why can't men make it in the toilet" question at bay. Think about it: If we just cleaned up after ourselves in the first place, we would never have heard the bleating question, “why can’t you make it in the toilet?” ad nauseum.

Okay ladies and gentlemen, I actually have to pee now, so it’s time to bring this explanation to an end. I hope that these words of insight for women and advice for men finally end this issue once and for all. And, for what it’s worth, I’m going out to a bar later tonight. While there, not only will I not clean up any stray streams, but I just may purposely squirt the wall a bit.

Hey, I'm still a guy.

Maybe it’s in our genes to mark our territory. Don’t fault me for that ladies, and I promise to never ask you why you need so many damn pairs of shoes.