Sweet Anonymity

Saturday, I was gifted a ticket to see Young Frankenstein down at the Erie Playhouse.  First things first, the stage adaptation was a skull-popping homage to the Mel Brooks classic.  There was one part of the show that was completely out of place.  It wasn’t the song, nor the dance, nor the fact that it wasn’t the cast from the movie…  no…  it was in fucking color.  Otherwise, fantastic highlight to a fulfilling evening– but you’re right, I started my entry with a tangent.

I lamented recently how I have become a forced hermit due to both location and recognition.  Conditions since that post have not changed, in fact– I’ve actually leveraged my small-town “hey, that’s the mail man” flavor of notoriety (it’s as palatable as a bowl of chalk) to get out of a traffic ticket.  To clarify, when the cop asked me if I knew that my inspection was up two weeks ago, I nearly shit a brick and explained that I drive my car maybe once a week.  I didn’t even get a written warning– yet we’re on tangent/win number two.

You’ll have that shit when you write a post over the course of a couple days.

As everyone has already said: GET ON WITH IT!

So, I’m not sure how much of a faux pas this is– but my friends and I are the kind of people who pregame a stage performance.  Some people bring booze to the movies, some pre-game sporting events, and some others pre-game the bar–  oh wait, I’m all of those.  Anyway, I also happen to be one of those who will also pregame an off Broadway show.  I’m not talking dropping a few shots before stepping out the door– TeeJ and I got old-school shitty shitty tanked tanked.  That’s been our modus operandii since forever, but I digress a third time.

Yes, he drove, because I was– as I vaguely remember telling him– “incompetent at life.”  So what does he do?  He takes me to fucking Erie Days— a place crawling with body-armored bacon and the vulgar masses.  Mind you, when I lived in Erie– I avoided this spectacle of fail like a fat kid avoids celery.  Yet here I was, smack in the middle of a rather large clusterfuck of people.  I had not previously realized that he was taking me straight out of retirement– and throwing me back into the way we used to roll when it came time to go out.  He is still in practice, whereas I am not (which only added to my level of intoxication).  However, that was where it happened.  I rediscovered what it felt like to vanish into a crowd– a complete unknown.

Believe you me, there’s a certain joy that can be felt when you can be completely obliterated– and nobody has a fucking clue, because nobody cares to pay any damn attention to you.  It’s a beautiful thing to be able to effectively disappear.

Yeah, I had an idea for an image break…

I didn’t have to give a rat’s ass about who I stumbled into, literally or otherwise.  There wasn’t going to be some random neighborhood kid striking up a conversation– oh yeah, that shit happens sorta regularly since I walk to work.  There was no chance of some silver hair asking me work-related questions when it’s clearly inappropriate.  By the way: office hours, people, learn to fucking respect them.

Most importantly, there was no way some douche canoe was going to start the gossip chain because I wasn’t acting like me.  News flash, me at work is most definitely not me.  It’s in my best interest to maintain that inflexible distinction, and for one blessed evening– there was no chance of that facade being in danger because I decided to enjoy being unconscionably blitzed.

… and then the motherfucker took me to the theater– where it turns out he’s one of those theater-famous people.  Getting in the joint, grabbing the tickets, and getting to our seats took almost twenty minutes.  I made it thankfully to my chair, buzz solidly intact– still just another smirking face in the crowd waiting to laugh his ass off at Young Frankenstein.

…

I seriously need to get out of the public sector.

Unplug.

This. Means. War.

*ahem*  Let’s see how good my faux German accent is today.  Buckle up.  *snicker*

…before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a rumor floating around ze fleet.

Some of you have come to believe zhat I.  Like.  War.
I vish to dash these rumors.  I do not like war.
I.  Love.  War.

Through my life, I have discovered so many forms of war.  You get up in ze morning.  You get into your shitty car, und you see a rich CEO who works half as hard as you do drive down the street in his Porsche.

Class war!

…

Zen you try und post about it on your Facebook, but zen all your friends start arguing about vhat’s right und vhat’s wrong–

Flame war!”

— The Major, Hellsing Ultimate Abridged (Episode 4… definitely NSFW…  Check out Takahata101 on YouTube)

Ah, now that feels better.  The whole speech truly encompasses the goddamn euphoric feeling I get when I am gloriously justified in loosing my wrath.  I never once anticipated that my current Bitcoin obsession would eventually result in me picking a fight with the powers that be in Albany, NY.

Those of you that live in The Empire State are already facepalming, realizing that I am voluntarily preparing to stick my size 11 boot in the biggest pile of sycophants and fail found outside of The Federal Beltway.  Why would I take on such an implacable edifice of feckless bureaucracy?  Well, let me cut to the chase– they’re poised to shit in my Wheaties.  In short, fuck that noise.

Bet you were expecting Alucard to show up here. You were mistaken.

I will not sit idly by and let some six-figure-pulling jackass destroy my opportunity to make a decent living using my own ambitions and abilities.  Sooooo, here’s where things are about to get interesting.  Why, you ask?  Well, it comes back to war.  Waltzing into a fight without allies is more stupid than a bunch of technophobe Baby Boomers trying to regulate a global cryptocurrency.  It’s bad enough that Wall Street is under their jurisdiction– and wouldn’t you know?  They failed at regulating that so hard, it hatefucked the USA into another recession.

I’m not letting them screw my ambitions just because they’re idiots.  Luckily for me, there’s a state assemblyman who has his head screwed on straight…. and I happened to have met the man a few weeks ago in person.  The following is a verbatim copy of the letter that I’m sending to his office via certified mail tomorrow to fire my opening volley.

Have a read:

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have opted for such an informal salutation, however after meeting you while I was working at the [redacted]—you told me this is how you prefer to be addressed. I am writing you to express my concern and disdain for NYDFS’s proposed regulation/licensing of Bitcoin-based financial ventures. As you once said, NYS has a disturbing habit of squashing ambition and incentivizing failure—and I believe the proposed actions of NYDFS to be yet another sign of your observation. They claim that this is to strike a balance between protecting consumers and setting common sense rules—but the proposal is precisely the opposite in every way. No private individual or business entity can or will be affected by Bitcoin that does not choose to deal with it. Furthermore, virtual currencies like Bitcoin are of no danger to the public—contrary to this reactionary proposal. Truth be told, it’s plainly obvious they consider Bitcoin to be a criminal endeavor only—and they wish to destroy opportunities for residents who aren’t among the financial elite.

Firstly, as you plainly know—economic and employment opportunities in Western New York are pitiful if put politely. This proposed burdensome set of licensure and data-collecting measures reflects two things about NYDFS—and namely Superintendent Benjamin Laswky. One, they have no grasp of what they are trying to regulate. Two, they do not care if innovation and businesses continue to flee from New York State like first class passengers from the Titanic. Their myopic and alarmist set of measures betray their lack of understanding for what Bitcoin is (how it works, how it’s produced, and how it’s used)—and demonstrates deliberate ignorance of the IRS’s ruling that Bitcoin is a commodity and not a currency.

According to the IRS’s decision, virtual currencies like Bitcoin are to be treated in the same manner as birdhouses produced in one’s garage.  Similarly, individuals like myself who have the technical knowhow to set up a Bitcoin “mine” have the opportunity to lift themselves from the current economic climate—and potentially return more to our respective communities than if we were stuck in the traditional job market. With their current proposal, any small mines like mine (in my case uniquely benefitting from the inexpensive electric service by the Jamestown BPU) would be driven out of business– or out of New York State. This is an economic boon that NYDFS will deny enterprising individuals, and exclude from the state’s taxable revenue.

It is very obvious that this proposed direction is an alarmist and reactionary move in response to articles on MSN, Yahoo (et al) that demonstrate that Bitcoin may be used for money laundering purposes.  In the case of Bitcoin mines (the production side of the equation, where specialized computer hardware generates Bitcoin for sale/usage), that is impossible. I am not surprised by the myopic response by the NYDFS—it is on par with individuals who lack the technical abilities to handle the simplest of tasks like setting up their own email client. These cumbersomely stringent (and presumably expensive) licensing and documentation procedures reflect their erroneous understanding of virtual currency, from production to purchase/sale.   If Mr. Lawsky has his way and this proposal becomes law, the only individuals with the resources and capital capable of accommodating the regulations/licensing will be large businesses. There will be no room for forward-thinking individuals to better their circumstances through their own ability and ambition. So much for the American Dream of creating opportunities from your own hard work and ingenuity, right? I am not surprised by this disregard for the common citizen as the NYDFS members have little first-person experience with the current job market and economic climate. Their six-figure salaries and stock portfolios are already taken care of.

This brings me to my final, and probably most ireful, point. NYDFS has already failed pathetically at regulating Wall Street (which is already under their purview, and has harmed the lives of millions of Americans through their questionable practices.)   After reading their proposal—I have little doubt that these individuals are borderline computer-illiterate, Mr. Lawsky included. If you will pardon the phraseology, they have no business attempting to regulate a technology that they only understand through diluted third-party explanations. I am further disgusted by the fact that public funds were wasted on drawing up this reactionary policy, instead of focusing on aspects of public business and finance that do affect the majority of citizens in NYS and beyond. Instead of focusing on the spate of problems already on their desks that they have shirked and ignored, they have chosen to collect their salaries while demonstrating their clear lack of priorities—and understanding of the digital world.

Andy, my Bitcoin-generating hardware is at a stage where it pays my personal electric bill for my apartment—and part of a credit card payment. Currently, I can net roughly $120 per month, and while that is modest—it is a beginning of my business, one that Mr. Lawsky clearly seeks to squash through ill-conceived overregulation. I have a degree in English composition, and even I lack the words to properly express how much this effort by NYDFS must be publicly and permanently ceased.   I cannot stress enough the immediate need to generate a vocal and decisive opposition to his measures in Albany among the decision-making members of government.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope to speak with you in the near future about how to stamp out these measures before they permanently drive more ambitious, youthful, entrepreneurs from New York State.

You feeling that joyous quiver in your loins yet?

Next step, picking five or six other officials to receive similar letters… and then the media….  I don’t take prisoners.

Never piss off a guy with an English writing degree.

It’s showtime.

Unplug.

That’s. Unsettling.

I’m sitting here, minding my own damn business, and my brain decides to take a little walk down Random Thought Boulevard.  I know, this is fucked up territory, so check it out.  My brain knows full well that this street’s poorly paved, overrun with seriously weird shit, and ultimately tees off on an Escher kind of level.  If that whole train of thought derailed on you, welcome to how my randomized brain works.  Now, throw being a little loaded on top of that.

About to load your mind with fuck in three. two. one.

Back to being loaded, I’m sitting on my ass like a lazy pile of waste and surfing the same stupid pages I do every night.  I hop onto LinkedIn because I wasn’t kidding about that waste bit– and I hit this article.  I breezed through it until I happened to hit the last paragraph.  For those of you who aren’t going to waste your time on the unimportant sections of the article, here’s the part that blew my mind into the back of the fucking auditorium.

Remember that partitioning our lives and identities is a trap. When we segment and partition our lives into work life, home life, sporting life, community-service life, etc., we deny a truth that often our greatest strength comes from integrating all the different and diverse network interactions, and ideas into a unified and integrated whole. After all, the etymology of Integrity is from the Latin integer, meaning wholeness, or the unit of one.

Ready for the record scratch?  I deliberately taught myself to be very good at partitioning my life and personality, as well as tailoring the experience to the people I’m around.  It’s goddamn automatic for me.  If this assjack is right, I must be some kind of fucking sociopath.  Right?

Some of you shit your pants. Now see why I shat mine.

Let’s see, do I slip from situation to situation pretty seamlessly?  Yup.  Do I tend to curb parts of my personality depending on whose company I’m in?  That’s a big yup.  Is this precisely the kind of segmentation that Mr. Probably-not-PhD’d-in-This says is contrary to being a unified and integrated whole?  Damn skippy.  Does it change the fact that I have more integrity than most people?  Nope.  Guess that classifies me as more of a high-functioning sociopath… but still, I have to look at the facts.

Very little affects me.  I’m a shameless narcissist.  I have about as many “segments” to my personality as most chicks have shoes.  See where I started thinking too much?  I tend to relate to strangers more on a causality level than an empathetic one.  For example, I don’t punch stupid people because I’m too pretty for jail.  If something does somehow get to me, it’s like getting hit in the soul with a C-4 wrapped baseball bat.  I’m easily bored, yet easily obsessed.

Then I realized something else–
— I have no reason to trust a goddamn word that this goofy-looking motivational speaker has written.  It’s perfectly alright to compartmentalize, especially if you’re good at it.  Bottom line?  Always be yourself, but don’t fucking show your hand to everyone at the goddamn table.

… or I could just be a sociopath trying to justify himself.  (Which would actually defeat the clinical diagnosis, since justification is irrelevant to a true case.  Flawless victory for the powers of sarcasm!)

Unplug.

Go Big or Go Home

Anything I feel is worth doing should be worth going utterly overboard. Whether it’s Tough Mudders, Halloween Costumes, Homecoming Alcoholism, or college (I was an undergrad for only a decade)– if I’m going to do it, I’m taking it too far.  It’s just who I am.  Yes, I have lately shirked my passion for the written word to have an affair with my first love– tech.  Believe you me, it’s getting torrid and she’s offering to pay me to stay.

Let me pause to let the slow kids catch up with the metaphor.

There, now that we’re all on the same page (the part where my old laptop has a part time job), I decided to take a step outside my comfort zone.  I like to be solely responsible for all of my successes– and therefore my failures.  I realized my Bitcoin mining operation was not growing fast enough– or rather, I have learned all that I can at this stage.  My current hardware is earning for me, yes, but not at a rate where I can get ridiculous.  I don’t have the funds for that kind of hardware, either.  So I did something that I’m not comfortable doing– I asked for help.

Exactly why I bit the bullet… I wanna get back into the thick of life.

So I went ahead and looked at Kickstarter after hearing about the dude that cranked in over $50 grand for a $10 potato salad, and upon realizing that my “fund” is just to start a business (as opposed for public benefit)– I had to look elsewhere.  I ended up landing on GoFundMe.  I usually scoff at this sort of thing, and if I can’t do it myself– I don’t deserve it.  My pride can be a personality flaw at times.

Realizing that I will never have time to write, nor really do the things for Cortana that I want, I started off my own page.  If, by some amazingly unlikely galactic twist, this works– I’ll finally be able to put all of my talents to use.  My tech background will provide the funds to get me in a permanent writing mode–  and who knows, maybe Cortana will get her way sooner than later and I’ll bring about the apocalypse (by reproducing… it’s the 8th Sign, after all).

So, everyone, share the link wherever you may.  After all, it’s a starter for a business– and pretty much a totally revamped life.  I guess we’ll see what happens.

The mindset.

Seriously though.  Give it a click and give it a share if you can’t give it a buck.

Unplug.

 

Talk Nerdy to Me.

Holy crap, two in two days?  I know, I’m about as consistent as Lewis Black’s attitude.  It’s not a perfect metaphor, I know, but I don’t see you trying to do any better.  Speaking of consistency, one of the things I’ve been doing in lieu of writing (besides drinking and running my third Tough Mudder) is getting in touch with my tech-obsessed side.

That’s right, I went around in the graveyard in the back of my mind and robbed the grave of my nerdier past.  I have to admit, I forgot how fun it was to advance my computer skills.  It all started back in April when Cortana brought back an old IBM x346 series server from work– free.  At that point, I got a technoboner– because I thought I’d have the baddest-ass home media server ever.  After firing it up and realizing how loud the bastard was (later dubbed The Frankenbeast, but that’s a different story), I still taught myself how to set up a RAID array and install Windows 7 on a completely nuked fossil.  The more it pissed me off that I couldn’t do my usual work-arounds (cabling bullshit, jump drive loads, etc), the more I was provoked to bend this piece of decade-old tech to my will.

The fuck do you mean “no drive found”? There’s fucking TWO.

Seriously, it was a case of I-will-not-be-fucking-beat-by-obsolete-tech.  Needless to say, I won– and upon seeing the system specs, I realized that this overgrown calculator (as my sister’s boyfriend put it) was probably the most powerful computer in the fucking apartment.  Then again, this server had all the processor upgrades and 4 gigs of ram– the ram alone made the damn thing 2x as brainy as the laptops.  Don’t laugh– we’re saving for a house.

Anyway– I get the bright idea to start dicking off with altcoins.  One thing led to your mother, and here I am with a Bitcoin mining hobby that can pay our fucking electric bill.  Yeah.  That got your attention, didn’t it?  I gave my computer a fucking job.  Cue a record scratch here, since most of you only accredit me with chemical tolerance and verbal atrocities.

You see I grew up around computers– as in my dad had a Commodore 64 to do his office bookwork on.  I cut my teeth on goddamn BASIC.  I grew up with DOS, Usenet, AOHell, and all the archaic shit that nobody uses anymore.  I’ve had an almost intuitive ability with anything computer related since I was a kid, and making shit work is just… easy.  Yes, that says a too much about what kind of kid I was– now quit sidetracking.  After getting out of computer science like a frustrated little bitch (still another story entirely, if someone really gives a damn)– I slummed it.  My *ahem* security breaching skills went from slightly disturbing to completely laughable, and primarily whipped Winblows after Winblows operating system to a point of not giving me shit– and no further.  In short, I got lazy.

[insert “could have been a contender” reference here]

I ended up ripping the OS out of my old laptop from college, put Ubuntu on it– then taught myself how to use it while figuring out how to install the bastard legacy Broadcom wireless driver on it.  Again, I got that whole nerd rage thing going on– and then figured it out.  If you’re expecting a defenestration somewhere, you’re shit outta luck– because here I am after having spent another whole night in the “mine” setting up my newest upgrade.

Mind you, I’m also pretty loaded.  So there you have it, I was going to make a “that’s what’s ripping me away from the keyboard” kind of sign off– then I realized that I traded in using one keyboard at a time for two.

Unplug.

Overhauled.

No, I’m not fucking dead.  I’ve been otherwise occupied (read: lazy when I’m not busy).

That’s about as much of an apology that’s gonna come out of me this time, especially since there’s a title up there that suggests I’m up to something.  That title would be correct, since I spend more time here ranting than I do mocking the fact that I’m frequently gimpified.  Right about now, I’m betting that you just noticed the header title’s changed to match the URL.  Good job.

Most self-imported assjacks would probably write out their manifesto here, like their readership actually gives a fuck about that self-aggrandizing introspective bullshit.  Isn’t that right?  The sad part is, most reader-bases feel tritely entitled to that kind of pompous asshattery because it gives them the feels.  I’m a goddamn narcissist at heart, so I guess it’s safe to venture that I’m not the kind of guy who indulges such desires either.  Right?  Right.

But anyway.

 

Speaking of deal with it, am I surrounded by a culture that wants nothing more than to be a goddamn victim?  Seriously, when did it suddenly become the “it” thing?  Lemme wrap this into a nutshell, and it comes down to a single term that I loathe in ways that Erida couldn’t fathom: trigger.

I’m not talking about the decisive part of a gun.
Nor the decisive part of a boobytrap.
Nor the name of the Lone Ranger’s fucking horse.
Yeah, now you see where I’m going with this.

Some people are exposed to horrible situations that cause them to develop medically-diagnosed psychological conditions– and then there are self-diagnosed attention whores that use their Google-fu to justify not being able to handle life like a mature adult.  Oh yes, I’m talking about those triggers– and the fist raised SJW trash that enables them.

What the fuck is wrong with just outright admitting that someone pissed you off?  Oh, I know, because as a victim– you can never be responsible for what you say and do in retaliation.  If something, or someone, in life or online, pisses me off…  well I have this miraculous quality that helps me handle whatever comes my way.  What’s that quality, you say?  Self fucking respect.

Awwwwwwww, let’s all rally around.

If I make like a chimp and rip someone’s face off (verbally, obviously), I just might face a scary thing called consequences.  We can’t have those, can we?  Fuck no, we’re victims here, right?  Someone that plays that passive-aggressive “trigger” card, and they suddenly get carte blanche to be a carton of butthurt douche that must be catered to.  It’s not hard to see the allure, and I’m willing to bet the vast majority of people that play this card have a Google diagnosis– and haven’t set foot in a doctor’s office.  If they have, it’s leveraging an old diagnosis that they haven’t been treated for in years.  You know, because that’s how it just is.

Yeah.  I went there.

If you’re under medical care, hey– I’m truly sorry for the fucked up things that happened in your life.  I’m completely serious.
As for the rest of you?

You’re the worst kind of human being.  You hide behind a self-diagnosis (read: lie) so that others will blindly defend you for being a maladjusted attention whore.  Instead of creating a support network for legit victims– you’ve made it vogue to wave that flag (and spat in their faces in the process.)  Everyone has to have a trigger now, and everyone has to cater around yours.  What’s worse is that some of these delusional wastes are smart enough to exploit the right doctors into continually lending legitimacy to their failure at life.

Fuck you and admit the truth when it happens:  you get pissed off.  For once in your life, own your stance as yours and handle it– and whatever fallout you may cause later.  You just might find that living life like you want it is more satisfying than convincing yourself you regret it.

Offended? Good. Admit it and act on it, don’t just whine like a feckless douchenozzle.

That overhaul I was talking about?  Yeah.  It’s more than just a name and style change.  I’m just going to let my voice go where it will, and stop trying to maintain a modicum of decorum.  I was starting to feel too antiseptic to be genuine.

Unplug.

Since you asked…

Show of hands here, how many people cook without recipes because [reason]?  Doesn’t it make you want to slap the corpse of Julia Child every time some method cook asks for your recipes?  Well, wind up a flying 540 pimpslap of doom– I’m writing this one down right as I’m eating it (read: while I have any Goddamn recollection what I did).  I realize indulging such requests is like feeding a mogwai after midnight– but fuck it.

So first up, get shitfaced.  The rest of this will make more sense after your intoxicant of choice.

I give you–  Coconut Fried Rice.  So yeah, get back to step one then go get the following shit:

Coconut oil
2 tiny boiler onions
2 cooked chicken breasts (I’ll explain in a minute)
3 bell peppers (red, yellow, orange)
2 cups of rice (dry)
2/3 of a decent sized eggplant

Fuck you, the melanzana is perfect because I’ve been on this whole fusion kick lately.  Either that or I was just wasted–had it handy– and it seemed like a fucking great idea– which it totally is.  Now quit questioning the smashed savant and get the rice started.  Make sure you throw in a good heaping tablespoon of coconut oil with the now-cooking rice.  While that’s going, you get to play with sharp objects.  If you can’t figure out what to do at this point, especially seeing the picture below, I can’t help you.  Just make sure you keep the chicken separate from the rest of the stuff because this is a total throw-together meal and timing is possibly crucial.  I have no idea.

It’s creations like this that make it worth Cortana’s while to let me get loaded whenever the mood strikes.

Now, once you’ve got your prep work done– redo your shitface while another good scoop of coconut oil heats up on the stove.  Oh, by the way, if you didn’t already assume that you need a big-ass saucepan for this– well you’ve probably realized it by this stage.  Toss in onions.  Wait till translucent, toss in everything else besides the chicken.  Sizzle the Hell out of those for awhile.

Now, we get to the chicken.  Why is it cooked before?  Because I’m on a diet kick, trying to lose ~20lbs before my last Mudder.  Yeah, I said “last”– but that’s another rant entirely.  At this point, I dumped some Parrot Bay into the saucepan because…  I really have no damn clue, because it turned out not to do shit.  Skip that, or don’t, it’s your choice at this stage.  Stir in the cooked rice with another big blob of coconut oil.

Sizzle, some more then toss in a quick blupp (yes, that’s a technical term) of soy sauce.  That’s it.  Too easy to make, and holy shit… it turned out even better than I’d anticipated.  I didn’t do the math on this, but I believe this is pretty freaking healthy too.

If I were a hashtagging kinda guy, I’d probably throw in something like dontneednostinkinrecipes…. or couldbehealthy… or maybe smashedchef.  However, this is a blog, I’m too verbose for twitter, and I’m not a douchecanoe.

In other news, if you’re a fan of this whole quasi-healthy eating kick, check out my kid sister’s blog.

Unplug.

God’s Zombie was a Biblical Dick

Nothing quite catches attention with the intent to polarize like the systematic mentioning of a deity, the undead, or phalli.  Where is this going; what is he going to say?  How am I going to prove his presumably crackpot ideas wrong?

Yes, I’m gratuitously using the male third person pronoun in reference to myself– if you have a problem with it, you seriously need to step off.  You’re probably one of those thin-skinned twats that gets butthurt at the drop of a hat.  Comedy is not for you, especially not of the kind that floods your brain at a funeral.  Oh yeah, buckle up– the shuttle bus on the Highway to Hell just got a shot of nitrous.

So I’m sitting in the pew and naturally–  one of the readings was the John 11 passage where Jesus respawns Lazarus.  I could go into detail, but either you know the Bible story or not.  The following is exactly where my brain went… during the service.

You get the idea.

Short short version?  Jesus showed up four days after the dude died, and just brought him back from the dead.  We’ll temporarily ignore the passage and references to untying the body for a minute here.  If something’s dead as disco for four days, that’s not some ridiculously long cooldown period for going all Nosferatu or any other shit…

… that’s right.  That’s straight zombie territory.  We all know how I feel about that.  That isn’t even my problem with the whole scenario.

My problem’s here–  after the horror/miracle, pretty much all accounts of God’s pet zombie Lazarus end.  There are no stories about him, not if he lived a long time, not if he spent the rest of his mobile days munching brains, not even if he dropped dead the second Jesus did the same.  If this hasn’t just caused your colon to howitzer its contents straight through your pants, think about this for just a second…  Most people can’t handle some shambling Romero Special.  Fewer still could hack it with running, roided, rage-type zombies.  This one was made by a deity.  I don’t think a simple headshot is gonna stop this particular maggot popsicle.

Perhaps we haven’t read about him gorging on grey matter is because Lazarus devours all… the great omnivore not seen outside of the writings of H.P. Lovecraft…  the hunger unspeakable, unquenchable, insatiable, brought back from the clutches of Thanatos by Jesus himself– who just happened to be a close personal friend.  Any and all arguments concerning survival henceforth are indefinitely invalidated if this Patient Zero turns out to be the Patient Zero.

… and it ain’t a Sheenpile of coke and a Houston of painkillers.

Let’s put aside the pants-shitting horror for a second and appreciate how much of a dick this guy really is.  Sure, Jesus was too busy being Jesus to show up and heal him while he was alive because hey– when you’re pumped that full of deity dynamite, timing is for chumps.  Jesus still showed up to the funeral, seriously broken up about the situation, and then said, “hold my water… now wine… I just remembered I’m kind of omnipotent.”  Anyone who knows their shit here will know that this whole passage is littered with borderline boyfriend material with how often they repeat how close these guys were.  We’ll call ’em best buddies, homies, brothers, whatever— and Jesus up and yanked Lazarus from a dirt nap– and probably made him do work for the trouble.

… but we never heard of him again.  Before you get to the “get on with it!” chant, slow your mothafuckin’ roll.  You’d think that a guy who got a free green mushroom from his best friend would have the goddamn decency to show up at the Crucifixion.  Nope.  No mention.  Not even in the cheap seats.  How about afterwards, being a walking miracle for the rest of the posse to show off?  We’ve got a great big negative there too, Houston.  It’s almost like the zombie said, “Yeah, thanks for the extra guy and all– but I’m kinda done with this.”

I don’t know if I can quantify how much that makes him a fucking ingrate.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t get a cameo in Revelation where everything goes to shit…

Unplug.

Aw dammit…

Sometimes the only peace people can find in their lives comes at the end, whatever way that end may come.  I want you to think about that for a second; quickly tally up the people you know who struggle through what the world throws at them—and as a result of what their own hands have wrought.  Have you run out of fingers yet?

If you haven’t, you are either one privileged (read: sheltered) human being… or some world-class kind of anti-social loner.  I’m talking sociopath grade here.  For the majority of us, we’re one of those fingers being tallied—but hey, isn’t that part of life?  Damn right.

It took me 34 years, but I now personally know someone who lost an ongoing battle with addiction. Sad part is, most of us saw the writing on the wall long ago.  I’m not usually one to eulogize, but I sincerely hope he’s finally found peace.

I worked with Matty at the Olive Garden many years ago.  We’re talking 2005-6ish… He was in my training class, and yeah—back in those days I partied hard.  We all did; we were restaurant staff in a corporately-owned establishment.  It’s a job and a special kind of Hell.  The circle you land in merely depends on the day.  Getting wrecked is kind of the default way to cope with the endless parade of thankless assjacks that make up the brunt of the clientele.

This is actually not far from the truth, some nights.

Matty took it to a whole new level, and apparently it was only the beginning.  Mom always told me to be wary of people stranger than me… and my corollary to that rule is to keep some distance from people who can party in ways that make me look like I’m still playing pin the tail on the donkey.  Seeing how I don’t deal well with death in general, I guess I’m thankful that we did lose touch (outside of Facebook) over the past few years.

Matty was a nice guy.  He was funny.  He had an almost intuitive way of brightening your mood even if you didn’t tell anyone you were having a shitty day.  He had a mischievous wit, and a delightfully catty way of putting things.  When people think of an addict, Matty’s definitely not the kind of guy who comes to mind.  That’s not saying he didn’t have his faults, but I think those were more from what he was doing than who he was.  It’s sad, really, because we all knew he had problems.   In fact, when I got the first text message cluing me in— my response was (verbatim) “Suicide or overdose?”

It sounds like a callous response, but most of the people who knew him would find that to be a perfectly justifiable question.  That, right there, speaks volumes.  It’s sad situation all the way around, because Matty was a pretty nice guy—and not without friends.  He had friends who care about him, were willing and wanting to be there to help.  He knew it too.  Yet when it came down to it, my friend was alone at the end.  Addiction destroys everything.  It’s just too bad.  There’s really no other way to put it.

Ladies ‘n’ gents, seriously, if you truly have a problem, an addiction, a compulsion, whatever you want to call it…  don’t try to win at drugs all by yourself.  It’s not just a matter of “the more the merrier,” nor “more for me”– if you don’t have teammates to cart your ass off the field when something goes horribly wrong, you won’t be the one to suffer for it… everyone else will.  And if you can’t find teammates to join you— take the hint that something’s gotta change.  Everyone you know will appreciate it.

Matt, I hope you’ve finally found the peace that you couldn’t seem to find in life.

Unplug.

In Defense of Cynicism

“The power of accurate observation is commonly called cynicism by those who have not got it.” — George Bernard Shaw

A friend of mine recently posted a LifeHacker article entitled “How to Stop Being a Cynical Asshole.”  Naturally I took offense, because if the world had more “cynical assholes” like myself– well the world’s idiot population would still be checked by their own stupidity and probably exploited for our own amusement.  The article presupposes that members of my elite type of humanoid, the cynic, are the product of a defense mechanism gone wrong.

Plausible hypothesis.  But.  Well.  Wrong.

It’s a defense mechanism against stupid– and it’s what keeps us from utterly and completely losing our shit when faced with a sea of entitled fucktards that are breathing the air we share.  You’ll notice that most cynics have an astounding command of sarcasm.  That’s not a coincidence.

You don’t say.

Cynics aren’t fans of optimists– because fuck you, the world isn’t just kittens and rainbows.  You might fart glitter, but that’s probably because you deep-throated a twitard two  nights ago.  Cynics also aren’t a fan of pessimists– because fuck you.  No, seriously, fuck pessimists in general– they’re never any fun.  Nihilists on the other hand…  oh wait, I’m getting sidetracked.  Back to deriding an asshat who dubbed himself a cynic and then self-righteously claimed it to be a downer.

Pal, lemme tell you from the other side of shit creek, you need to learn how to properly appreciate the very essence of what we are.  Cynics aren’t downers, those are pessimists.  We don’t like those, remember?  They’re never happy, and the world is out to shit on their heads after a Taco Bell binge.  Cynics acknowledge that there is usually some variety of fecal matter falling from the sky, but therefore we can do our best to not get hit with it.  It’s kind of like demanding the best out of your fellow human, but knowing the odds favor them being more worthless than an iPod shuffle to a deaf guy.

See, that’s the biggest bonus to giving in to your cynical nature and spinning it to your advantage and entertainment.  It’s the best kind of poetry.  We are always right, but when we’re actually wrong– we’re pleasantly surprised.  Tell me what’s bad about that.  Hey look, there’s a silver lining without having to brainwash yourself into ignoring the agonizing fact that life’s full of fuckwits that won’t get a reservation at the bullet buffet.  You don’t need some rose-colored specs to grin at the absurdity of life.

Now turn the whole thing on its head– imagine someone with ADD who pays attention to all the things at random.

Face it, if there were more cynics calling “bullshit,” the world would be a better place.  If there were more of us around, there wouldn’t have ever been a mortgage bubble– because it wouldn’t have lived past the cacophony of laughter at the guy proposing to sell and trade mortgages held by people who don’t pay their bills in the first place.  NSA spying?  We know everyone’s a bunch of assholes, and giving a cagy bunch of megalomaniacal ones unspoken power is an idea so stupid– the English language lacks the proper adjectives.  Have I made a dent here?  Bueller?

Fuck sakes, I could go on for hours– but if you don’t get it by now, I’m wasting my keystrokes.

The world needs us more now than ever.
Celebrate what it is to be smarter than the rest, and quit being a dick.  You might actually enjoy it.

Unplug.