Posts Tagged ‘Comedy’

Bigotry: The New Profanity

Posted: August 26, 2014 in Rant
Tags: , , ,

“What I’m saying might be profane, but it’s also profound.”
Richard Pryor

I am no stranger to cursing.  In fact, my command of the colloquial stops just short of iconic.  Sure, I can fuckin’ censor myself on the fly– but when it comes down to brass tacks…  Even I have a line.  There’s a line where my words will inevitably stop being weapons of psychological terrorism (like the time someone foolishly invited me to be on the dais for a roast) and become a means of social suicide.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to fucking figure out the point where the magnificent bastard would become the muttonfucking bigot.

… and no, fuck you, this isn’t going to be a plea to drop a gratuitous n-bomb.  Pay attention, I’m about to blow your fucking mind to the back of the auditorium without so much as a whisper.

Bob Dobbs didn't brace himself properly.

Oh yeah. Breaking out the Subgenius reference.

Back when our grandparents were kids, people were seriously up tight.  Trust me, that’s part of why their slang was so goddamn eclectically creative.   Sure, you could make like Prodigy and smack your bitch up (and still be considered an upstanding citizen), but the kinds of words termed “vulgar” by modern standards would turn you into a social pariah.  Yeah, back in the day, being able to swear like a sailor wasn’t a matter of vernacular nor comedy– it was a quick way to get everyone you know to disown you.

Wanna get some strange looks?  Don’t yell “fuck!” in a crowded store.  Try quoting SLC Punk! and yell “Union Jack is a fag!”  See how fast people start getting that uneasy look.  Actually, try that, I want to know how many people high-five you for the reference.  Anyway.

The very definitions of profanity and obscenity include the fact that such language will reflect poorly upon the user. Now tell me… which individual is going to be looked at in a harsher light: the guy in the middle of a crowded mall screaming, “Fuck off and die, you shit-eating cock waffle,” or the same guy dropping an n-bomb with the same imagined animation?

You see where I’m going with this.

Fuck yeah.

That’s right, I just 720 cockslapped it like a linguistics major would…. Take THAT, Eng 502!

“Classic” profanity has wormed its way into the common lexicon as pervasively and effectively as steroids in sports.  The acronym WTF is common on the news, and don’t try to claim that we all don’t know what it means.  I can say “fuck” pretty much anywhere, and nobody will bat a goddamn eye.  I can say “shit” with even more gusto.  Damn and ass?  Bitch, don’t make me laugh.  Sure, the language still serves the purpose of lalochesia—but if that’s it, does it still fit the classification?

I maintain not.

However, there’s a kind of language that is ill-defined and constantly growing—and that’s the vulgar tongue of the bigot.  I’m not going to skip around dropping N-bombs just to retain my shock factor, nor am I going to toss about any other slew of slurs—because fuck you, I have class.  Right here, ladies and gentlemen, is the very illustration of what I’ve been going for.  Am I going to argue about times where this type of language is appropriate?  Fuck no, I’m not completely retarded—that’s a pile of shit for someone else to shovel.

Not to mention, this nebulous stretch of vernacular varies from region to region—culture to culture—and is starting to include homophobic slurs as well.  If you think I’m wrong, ask fucking Jonah Hill—whose tirade (though pretty tame compared to the shit people say during fits of road rage) got him lit up like Times Square.  Not to mention, what language is most used behind the semi-anonymous veil of online gaming?  If you answered basic vulgarity, you’ve clearly not had the joy of hearing a tween rattle off ill-formulated barrages of bigotry.  I chose the term joy not entirely out of sarcasm—because it’s pretty fucking hilarious to hear.

Take note—the language, she’s a-changing.

And I still want to be the first seated President to say “fuck” on the Senate & House floors.

Unplug.

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Depressurizing the Noggin

Posted: August 24, 2014 in Rant
Tags: , , ,

Well, half of my skull has business as usual– no issues no nothing.  The other half feels like I got cracked upside the head with Mr. Chin-Up-Bar.  I’ve hit this bastard with sinus meds, migraine meds, and comfort food.  Unfortunately, I can’t shake that bullet loose that’s keeping the cracks open– so let’s depressurize the whole thing with my favorite past time: venting!

Buckle up, this might get brutal.

HERE WE GO, BITCHES!

… and you all know I’m a mean motherfucker when I’ve got a headache.

Should I do a bullet list?  Yeah, why not, it’s not like I can be paid to give a rat’s ass right about now.  I’d bite the face off the Incredible Hulk if he made this headache worse.  I’d probably get utterly Loki-ed afterward, but after getting my head smashed– at least the headache would be gone.

  • If people spent as much time improving themselves as they do bitching about [insert popular -ism complaint here], maybe they’d make some actual fucking headway with life instead of sounding like a crybaby asshole.  Seriously, fecklessly trumpeted rhetoric is as useless as a dick on an air conditioner– and everyone is tired of hearing it.
  • This is the 21st fucking century; there are free literacy programs everywhere.  If you can’t read, you aren’t trying to learn.  If you aren’t trying to learn, go buy a Robin Williams Necktie and quit wasting space for everyone else.
  • I don’t believe that human life has intrinsic value.  I have an unhealthy contempt for humanity until I actually meet them face to face, and they prove they aren’t like the rest.  This may only take an initial “hello,” but without that differentiating moment– you can go skydiving without a parachute for all I care.  The only attention you’ll get from me is watching the splat video– after all, there are billions left to replace you.
  • There’s no difference between extreme-left libtards and extreme-right teabaggers…. except teabagging is fucking hilarious, so their “derisive” nickname is better.
  • Acceptance of willing/deliberate stupidity is the downfall of society.  Hooray for “no child left behind,” huh?
  • We need to legalize sword dueling.  Think about how much of the douchebag population would be dead inside of a week.  Not to mention– I’d rack up an impressive body count, and my stress levels would go through the floor.
  • People will not develop ambition when failure is rewarded.  Anyone who says otherwise is either incredibly stupid or mentally ill.  Nobody will try when they don’t have to.
  • Dudes should shut the fuck up about women’s reproductive issues.  Unless you’ve got a vag– the only opinion you have is the flavor you like best.
  • If the US Government spent half as much time and money on the American people as it does swinging its collective dick around the globe, social problems would actually be dealt with.  They aren’t because social problems are what keep the system moving.
  • Animal testing is obsolete– we have a lot of pedos and other violent sex offenders who should be experimented on instead.  At least that way we can get shit to the open market faster since we will know what the shit does to people from moment one.
Yeah.  Yeah I did.

On the upside, my headache’s all but gone.

Now… I feel a little better.  Depressurization goes a long way, right?

Unplug.

Sweet Anonymity

Posted: August 20, 2014 in Self-Deprecation
Tags: , , , ,

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.

I know, people, I know, you wanna know what the fuck I'm on about...

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.

Or... is this a metaphor?

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.

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.

This isn't half as weird as my day.  I saw a legit MCI phone bill today in the mail.

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?

I am either too wasted for this.... or not wasted enough.

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.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, why in the Nine Levels of Dante’s Infernal Pit do I have to be everyone’s frigging neighbor?  Seriously, I understand the mechanics of how this happened— but it doesn’t mean I like it any the more.  I always valued my anonymity, my ability to meld into a crowd and vanish, but Jesus Hydrophobic Christ on a tugboat– I never realized how much I’d miss it once it’s gone.

Believe you me, it hasn’t just gone full Houdini–  it’s even worse.  I’ve seemed to go full-on Fred fucking Rogers.

Fuck off, neighbor!

Look at that crooked middle finger! It almost seems appropriate with that benevolent Jimmy Carter grin…

Yes indeedy, at first it was an insidious change…  once in awhile stumbling over one of my boxholders at Wegmans, or someone’d recognize me on the random happenstance that I went out for a drink…  but I quickly realized that it didn’t stop there.  I have learned quite quickly that I can’t go anywhere in this general area without someone recognizing me.

This is the point where I invoke the almighty holy-shit-time-out-4th-wall-breaking-power-of-Zack-Morris.

I no longer can be out in public shitfaced, because I have suddenly become the antithesis of the guy nobody saw sober.  Instead of being sober and surprising everyone– now people know sober me…. and worse off, sober and stressed to the point of bad puns at work me.  This will not fucking do.  What in the Lovecraftian concept of fuck is wrong with this picture besides… I don’t know… everything?!

No, today it all came to a head while I was walking home for lunch…  one of the local kids (and damned in Hell if I know what the little ginger’s name is) waved and called me by name.  Yeah, I know, real cute– right?  Oh no, the rest of the kids apparently now know me too.

Ladies 'n' Gentlemen, Mr. Jon Stewart.

Yeah, my reaction too.

So yeah, I guess that just cements the fact that I’ve been installed as a fixture in the community…  I can no longer get shitfaced where I live, nor near where I live, nor go out in public after the fact…  because hey— the last thing I want to deal with is someone who knows me from work trying to talk shop while I’m endeavoring to enjoy a proper buzz and mind my own goddamn business.

Son… of a bitch.
I miss being a ghost, one rarely if never recognized nor seen around my old home town.

Now?

Fuck all kinds of duck.
… and people wonder why I prefer to drink at home for more than just cost-effectiveness and lack of DUI’s.

Unplug.

When I first carved out this little corner of the intarwebs with but a left hand tossing painkillers and shots of Jameson down the hatch, I was writing purely for my own sanity.  I would mock my own crippled ass, and marvel at how difficult some tasks could be with only one usable hand.  All in all, more of you read that shit than my rants and running commentary.

It’s ok, I understand that I was a better writer while shitfaced.  It’s been a trait that I’ve been aware of for about a decade.  That, however, has positively jack dick to do with this edition.  I think I may have killed Jill 2.0.

That which hath gimped me, sans sling.

Remember this?  Yeah, very real fear.

That’s right, my precious repaired hand has given me reason to worry enough to call a physician.  What genius move did I do to cause this, you ask?  What could I have possibly done that would do more damage than a Tough Mudder (let alone two?)  I’m almost embarrassed to say, and it actually didn’t involve a foray into my boxers.

I played dodgeball…  for five freaking hours.

That’s right.  It wasn’t catching a fridge, it wasn’t doing dumb shit at the gym, and it surely wasn’t a marathon fap session in front of the tube.   I was playing a game that fellow 80’s children know and love.  I hadn’t played since maybe high school, and I was being called in as a ringer for my wife’s company team…  I figured, “Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?  We’ll play three or four games, get eliminated, and it’ll be fun!  I can’t wait to see what this body of mine can do compared to runt me.”

Yeah, I'm saying the same damn thing.

Shut up, Jean Luc.

So here I am, two full weeks later, and my wrist is snapping in ways it hasn’t since the doctor fixed the initial injury.  Was an astounding third place ranking in the tournament worth it?  Maybe.  Would I do it again?  Maybe–  it was pretty funny seeing what this body can do when I’m listening to Amon Amarth and playing a game based upon agility and relentless hostility.  There’s a certain delectable joy that can be derived when you’re playing against a team of high school varsity athletes, you’re the last one standing, and you gun down the three remaining members of their team with extreme prejudice.

Then again, that might also be how I threw my hand off my wrist.  That’s all I can figure happened.  The arm hasn’t thrown full power in years, it’s a lot stronger than it used to be, and Jill 2.0 isn’t as durable as she was in yesteryear.

Tomorrow I get to find out where I go from here, and if I’m going to be able to tackle Tough Mudder #3….  if my last workout is any indication, I’m seriously worried.

Unplug.

 

Pretty strong words from an insufferable wiseass like myself, right?  It’s true.  I despise April Fools Day with a hatred that is well beyond the vocabulary of the Westboro Baptist Church.  Kind of ironic when I used to love this holiday– almost as much as Halloween.  Well as the song goes–  I used to love her, but I had to kill her…. or in this case, me.

If you’re scratching your head with confusion, that’s perfectly ok.

There are also some of you pointing your fingers and screaming, “Serves you right, you bastard!”

That’s also ok– except I know my father and you should reconsider your insults accordingly.

But I do love Adam West...

Hold your shit, boy wonder, I think he’s about to explain…

You see, only I could destroy a holiday I love by doing it too well.  After all, I am that guy.  Some of you are still scratching your head trying to figure out what the penultimate prank would be… and those same people mistakenly insulting my parentage are further wishing that I’d be on the receiving end of sex with a cactus.

Figured it out yet?  How ’bout another riddle–  what has two thumbs and faked their own death?

If you answered, “You’re an asshole,” you’d be 100% correct– and you should reward yourself with a cookie.  That’s right, 12 years ago today– I became the hood ornament for a Mack Truck and died at ECMC in Buffalo.  The details of the story and execution are about as mundane as they are despicably brilliant– but needless to say, it worked.  When I say worked, I mean like using a napalm strike to light a cigarette.

Yeah yeah, I've already been rebuked over this 1000x.

I haven’t even got to the best part yet!

Now, see, if it had merely been a successful act of social engineering and misinformation– I might have continued with my fantastic fuckery.  However, here’s where it backfired–  I killed me off so well, I had people coming up to me three days later just astounded that I was alive.  Let’s put aside the fact that apparently nobody knew how to internet in 2002, and ignore all other logical debunking methods– I was still no-selling my own death all the way to April 4, well beyond the point where I could still be impressed with my act of gratuitous assholery.

In fact, it only served to drive the nail home that I will never be able to pull off something like that again.  Ever since, the joke’s been on me– not for every time I happen to get suckered by a savvy troll (or George Takei posting that he may host SNL)– but because I remember that on this day:  I killed something I loved because I decided it wouldn’t hurt to turn it to 11.  Not only that, but I can’t do it again.

So yeah…  Go on with your fake life events and deliberate misinformation.  Carry on like you’re being clever.
You, and this holiday, officially suck– and I have nobody to blame but myself.

Unplug.