Stupid is as stupid… what?!

Anyone who’s paid any attention to anything about me knows that although I’m a serious fan of doing dumb shit, I’m allergic to stupid.  I’m talking full-blown anaphylaxis– which is probably a good thing because my lack of breathing prevents me from breaking out in handcuffs.  This is especially true since I work with the general public six days a week, and believe you me– I should probably be lacing my coffee with antihistamines.

Dumbasses don’t seem to understand… Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised.

I am not a patient individual.  I can fake such qualities that might make me seem almost saintly.  Seriously, have I gone full Postal yet?  No.  Calling Pope Franny– next saint.  Over here.  My head hasn’t exploded yet– another miracle right there.

Example:  how many people can’t comprehend a simple task like addressing/stamping an envelope?  When did this become quantum mechanics?  A girl, probably 13 or 14, came into my office with a large envelope.  There was no address written on it, two random stamps slapped in the wrong corner, and wanted me to send it out.  At first I was confused– seriously, was this shit really happening?  While I’m too sober to appreciate it?  Mind filled with “no fuckin’ way” pity, I inquired what she wanted to do with this envelope– because people often figure that they can fill out the appropriate label at the counter.  No way could this be happening, right?

Wrong.  It was happening like a case of diarrhea on the first hill of a roller coaster– this fine example of what I deal with on a daily basis just fractured reality for me.  I told her to put the address on the front, I’d slap the postage on it– and away it’d go.  You know, give her the benefit of the doubt.  Now, if you’re the kind of asshole that just thought “I’ll bet she couldn’t even fill out the address,” I love you.  Guess what.  The little jiggling wad of fail before me couldn’t even write out the address right, but I won’t get to the icing on the cake yet.  I noticed that the address is for one of the boxes in my very office– but the envelope is clearly labeled as a Tim Horton’s camp submission.  As expected, the next day it’s delivered to the box she wrote down.

Just wait for it.

That moment when you realize that the person in front of you is the very personification of irreconcilable fail.

Well yesterday the box holder showed up with the envelope, with several pieces of opaque tape slapped over her writing, addressed to where a Timmy Ho Ho’s camp would be expected… Canada.  That’s right, not only did she have no idea how to send it in the first place– she sent it to herself.  Oh yeah, and according to this cloud of piss in the gene pool– she was sending this in because she was invited back to be a counselor.

Nice try, assjack, I think camp counselors have a basic understanding of how to send a letter.  Well.  You’d hope.  That bit of brain-melting ignorance aside, I saw that same porcine sack of genetic party favors screaming obscenities at one of my elderly neighbors last summer and the summer we moved in.

I am nothing short of astounded that these toxic levels of stupidity haven’t killed me.

I mean, what else can you do?

Ladies and gentlemen, do the world a service and cockblock/beaverdam your dumber friends.  You know the ones.  Otherwise, life’s gonna go full Idiocracy before I’m old enough to retire.

Fuck you, it’s not on the horizon!

Unplug.

Econ 101 for the kids who slept through that class…

Over the past couple months, I’ve seen a lot of posts giving attention to the picketers demanding over $15 an hour to work at McShitheads.  It’s either that or ridiculously raising the minimum wage.  Political posturing aside, let’s break this down for the dumb kids who think this is a good idea…

Truth to life– there are consequences to your actions, no matter what those asshole Baby Boomers tried to litigate out of reality. (Newsflash– they failed.)

First things first– supply and demand.  If suddenly everyone at Greasy’s was paid over $15 an hour, that would be justification for ridonculous inflation.  Meaning– that $15 bucks an hour is going to buy even less than the “minimum wage” you’re getting today.  Interesting sidebar– most of these jobs pay a buck over minimum wage, and you don’t even need to pee in a cup to get them.

You think that life’s too damn expensive now?  Just wait until there’s a sudden influx of money into the system.  Prices will skyrocket as the money will be devalued– and the corporate fat cats will justify raising them to “stay in business.”  We all know this is a blatant lie, but come on– if you truly don’t think this is going to happen, you’re even dumber than you look.  Case and point?  Just look at the asshole ways these employers have gotten around providing healthcare.  This situation is no different, and don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.

This disastrous desire would utterly screw each and every American by opening this flood gate, especially seniors who are on fixed incomes.  Not to mention, that increase would be across the board– rent, groceries, gas, healthcare, everything would go up faster than anyone has seen in this country… ever.

You probably think this is a solution to all our economic issues.

Was that clear enough to start with?  Let’s move on to another reason that fast food isn’t worth premium pay– do you honestly think that the people who did their time in the grease traps and worked their way into good jobs are going to get a commensurate raise to match yours?

Here’s another revelation– they won’t!  That’s right all my little sacks of soylent green, all that time you spent struggling, studying, working, and achieving will be negated.  In fact, if you have done your time in the grease traps (myself included), you might just find yourself making significantly less than the drive-thru operator that just fucked up your order.  Everything you’ve done with your life to better it has officially been for nothing.

Excuse me, I run a post office alone 6 days a week…  I’m responsible for everything that happens in that building, about $20,000 in inventory, and roughly 1,000 customers worth of delivery.  I have keys to a fucking federal building, and I don’t even make $13 an hour.  Do you mean to tell me that slapping processed ass on a bun is worth more than what I do?  Do you think I’ll get a raise too?

Go fuck yourself with a salt-crusted cactus.  Twice.

Take that spatula, polish it up real nice, turn that summbitch sideways and cram it straight up your ass!

Here are a few small revelations for you if you support this bastardized assholery.  Fast food joints were meant to be supplementary income, starter jobs, or meant to remove the unemployment curse.  It’s called a stepping stone– and almost everyone I know has been there and done that, myself included.  If you can’t step above that stone, I feel bad for you.  I’m not being facetious here, because it’s a thankless job.

Let’s be honest here, it’s not about the job.   The primary problem is people who are working can’t pay to live.  That’s wrong.  The discussion shouldn’t be about unrealistically raising the wages of Thomasina Taco, Franky Frenchfry, and Bobby Burger– because let’s face it: you shouldn’t get $15.00 an hour to fuck up my drive-thru order.  The discussion should be about how to realistically lower the cost of living.

Then again, welcome to America– where rationally assessing and fixing a problem is apparently a thing of the past.

Unplug.

A word of wisdom… maybe two…

Karma has a bizarre sense of humor.  You see, back in college, I had a litany of stereotypical “guy apartments.”  Yes, these bachelor pads were a vulgar display of foul– at least by my standards now.  Yeah, I’ve since discovered a rather hilarious side-effect of getting old.  You develop standards.

Either that, or you’re actually sober long enough to give a shit that you can’t find anything when you want it.

Cute little devil, wasn’t I? Behold a “clean” party pad.

So my living arrangements were less than what could be passed for as true grunge, but they definitely had their moments.  Naturally, my roomies and I became quite adept at a little game called trash can jenga.  In summer, few fucks were given over the game because who cares– but in winter?  That’s when shit got cut throat.

I, however, worked as a waiter… and as a bar tender… so on top of the inhuman skills developed as a TKE– I was also trained as a professional.  So I thought I was the best there was when it came to the game of games.  I actually thought I was in the top tier of all that played; all we dexterous slackers were on a previously unrealized level of skillful laziness.

Hackneyed and amateur by the standards of old.

Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that Cortana, hands down, pwns me at this game with extreme prejudice and authority.  Consider the brain-poking madness of such unfathomed fuckery and hysterical karmic irony.  Granted, it isn’t taken to Olympic levels anymore– this isn’t college.  That’s not to say that the game still isn’t played, even if with more subtlety and maddening grace.

The moral of the story: even if for your own sanity, determine whether or not your mate is better than you are at trash can jenga.  Then determine if you are the one on carry-out detail.  If they are better than you, and you take it out– for the love of all that is boozoholic and sane…  realize that there is madness in your future.

… then again, I didn’t have too far to go in the first place.

Unplug.

A note on bullying…

There’s a little trend that’s been on the rise for the past year or so—a cry to end bullying.  Although this is a noble sentiment, you’d have better luck trying to root the self-serving assholery out of the US Government.  Why?  Because kids are pricks, plain and simple.  We’re not just talking run-of-the-mill pricks, we’re talking Lex Steele sized dicks hopped up on Viagra.

This topic is one I hold contemptuously dear, because even though I’ve always been a legend in my own mind— I didn’t always have the reputation.  In fact, I can probably attribute a lot of who I am today to the fact that I was bullied like a bitch for the majority of my grade school years.

Pic related.

So boo-hoo, you’re gay and morons make fun of you for it?  Newsflash, there are many serious laws that protect you—which means there are very real consequences for assholes being shitty to you.  Hang on, that didn’t come out right.  Actually… yeah it did.  Anyway, try being the runt.  I walked into high school a towering 5’2” at a scale-smashing 90lbs.  That’s right, ladies and gents, I redefined the term “easy target” just by my laughable stature alone.  Now throw a geek complex on top of it, with a fat dash of sci-fi loving nerdery.

Maybe I should put my youth in perspective that you bleeding hearts can appreciate.  The only way I could get my ass kicked on that level now would be to walk into a feminist rally and scream, “Why don’t I see anyone making sandwiches?!”

Telling a teacher is more pointless than trying to report a jaywalker to the police.  Case and point: a teacher of mine in 8^th grade had the stones to tell me, “I’m tired of dealing with this.”  She later went on to have a career in county government as an elected official.  Yes, I kept this vague because she’s a socially-impressed bitch who was laughable at her job to begin with (which explains the election)—and I wouldn’t put it past her to seek legal counsel in the unlikely chance she read this.

By the way, if you are reading this, I hope whatever genetic party favors that pop out of your vag ironically end up treated like you did me.

Mind you, there are two distinct connotations for “a bitch.” Karma is the mean-spirited one and doesn’t care which one YOU are.

You see, teachers can only fill in so far where parenting falls short.  Bullies primarily come from two kinds of households.  Either they’re a flea’s nuts above pond scum, without any sort of parenting besides providing a roof over the head—or they’re the polar opposite and utterly spoiled brats.  The result is the same: the little shithead receives no consequences for being a maladjusted dickwaffle.  In the case of the latter, the parents will defend their little angel because—Newsflash!—there’s no way their kid would be held responsible.  That and kids are fucking devious little pricks and are pretty adept at hiding their douchebaggery.

Moral of the story:  kids are assholes, and sharing some fecklessly trite image on facebook (or a hashtag on twitter) does nothing.  There’s only so much a teacher can do without a parent reinforcing it—and that “so much” is limited to the four walls of a classroom, and in some cases not even that.

Case and point.

So, what can you do?  One, teach your kid to blend in—and no I’m not saying destroy their individuality.  It’s a learned skill, observing social interactions and perceived pecking order—and learn how to blend in and/or exploit behaviors observed.  Seriously, you don’t think I can seamlessly go from the opera to a metal show just because I’m a natural chameleon, do you?  No, I learned how to hide in plain sight because I had to.  This skill only mitigates the frequency/ferocity of the torment, and guarantees the kid can be whoever they want to be once they’re out of the system.

Also, don’t underestimate the impact of violence on a kid’s mind.  That’s right, I’m telling you to teach your kid to fight back—or manipulate a bigger bully to kick their tormentor’s ass (choosing your battles falls into the chameleon role, as you do not want them to start fights.)  Sometimes the promise of immediate retribution is an excellent deterrent to degenerates that don’t get the hint.  Example:  my sister was getting flak from some kids, and insulting my mother.  These kids, though younger than I, were a lot bigger.  Needless to say, I’d never been in a fight in my life—but after three epic minutes on the playground…  I got some relief from the bullies who were messing with me.  Why?  Because they saw me walk up a stream of punches (I have no idea how many, I just know I got hit a lot) and then put the little bastard on his ass with four shots to the mouth.  When his buddy (as bullies often have a subordinate, or a group) rushed to tackle me, I sidestepped him and stopped his skull with a right.  His body kept going, and he landed flat on the ground.  Moral of the story?  Three minutes of glory and two publicly weeping douches later, there was relief.  That’s right, fuck the common wisdom—sometimes violence is the answer.  This is especially true when dealing with immature minds that are bent on making your life miserable (therefore not caring about reason or words, I tried those.)

I haven’t been in a fight since, and considering my physical stature now—I almost pity anyone who releases that same bottomless pit of wrath 20 years later.

I wish I had those abs.

So, like parenting can quell a bully—parenting can also help the kid not self-destruct.  That’s right, not all bulling victims kill themselves or go find a gun and go for the high score.  It’s called growing up, which is apparently a lost art form.  Do I wish I didn’t go through years of bullshit?  Yup.  Did it suck?  Yup.  Did I survive?  Yup.  Does it matter to me now?  Nope.  In fact, I’m pretty fucking awesome.

That’s another thing—once you’re out of the situation, it’s over (also, learn how to use the fucking block button.  Seriously, people, learn to internet.)  If you carry their shit with you, that reflects on your lack of character—not the assjacks that caused you grief.   That’s the best part about the past: it’s over.

So, here’s the short, short version for you people with ADD.

1. Teach your kid to think like a spy.  Blend in, don’t draw attention to yourself, figure out how things work, and exploit it for your safety and advantage.  Awesome life skill here.
2. Teach your kid to fight back.  Seriously, if you have a runt—get them some fucking martial arts lessons.  At least teach them about small digit manipulation.  Don’t swing first—swing last.
3. Not all bullied kids kill people (themselves or otherwise).
4. All the hashtags and digital memorials in the world won’t do shit to stop bullying.  It’s called parental responsibility. This also means if your kid is a little predator– don’t have more kids because you are the fuckstick that’s behind the problem.
5. Kids are assholes, and they will always be assholes when they think nobody’s looking.

That about cover it?
Yeah.  It does.

 Unplug.

So sick of martyrs…

Oh woe is me, I’ve been hammering away at the keyboard at random intervals at random levels of sobriety for two years now.  Poor, abused, rebuilt, re-abused Jill 2.0 toils away at my labored one-liners, pandering puns, and solipsistic sarcasm.  Oh how she slaves at this keyboard oh so rarely, because…  oh fuck it, I can’t whine about this shit.  I can bench 200 again as a training weight because my second Tough Mudder is exactly 23 days away.  That’s right, ladies and laddies, as predicted– people will be following T.H.E.M. to the finish line again.

However, this isn’t about hubristic narcissism– because we all know I can’t go a day without that.

Fie on the base language of this blog, I give thee ART!

That’s right, the proud and self-loving aren’t prone to martyring themselves– and frankly this whole “boo hoo, look at me rise above when I’m really not doing shit” trend needs to die in a fire.  I would normally take a moment to put some kind of kitschy flaming death image here– but I ran into something today that filled my mind with fuck.

Not the good kind, either.

I’m talking the kind that causes normal people (and in this case, I qualify– which makes the upcoming argument that much more compelling) want to punt puppies.  Instead of going into further comedic description, how about I just link you to this amalgamated fuckpile of fail.  Was that new to you?  Maybe you’ve tripped over some permutation of this steaming pile of Sarah McLachlan.

Jesus Heisenberg Christ in Schrodinger’s Box!

Enough already, people!

This is still art.

Here’s a newsflash people, we’re stuck in a little thing called “life,” and the last time I checked– we all have another nice little thing called “choices.”  I know there’s one of those dickhead devil’s advocate types out there that is going to bring up the unlikely “what if there’s a gun to your head” scenario, and I have one thing to say to that.

If you find yourself in that very unlikely situation, you have clearly fucked up enough choices to end up there, so you may as well opt to go face to bullet and save the rest of us the aggravation of dealing with you.  Either that or you’re getting mugged, it sucks to be you, but you still have the option to go down swinging.  There’s a really dirty pun in there somewhere, but I’ll leave that one for you.

Anyway.

Point is– we all have choices in life.  Tonight, I chose to stay home and not go to the gym like a boss because I had the sniffles– and dribbling from the nose while at the gym just sucks.  I have chosen to act like a little bitch.  Otherwise, ladies and laddies, here’s a newsflash (and I’ll even italicize and center it for those of you skimming):

You are directly responsible for what happens to you in life.
Anything else is an excuse.

Go ahead, choose to be a victim, and trumpet how you are stronger for continuing to make the same choices that caused you to be in that situation in the first place.

I’m going to mock you for being a pathetic waste of life and continue to do things to better myself.  So step up your approach to life, or shut the fuck up.  I’m too busy being awesome to care about your struggle to perpetuate your own failure.

Unplug.

The Social Benefits of Mocking Stupid People

There’s a huge difference between knowing your shit, and knowing you’re shit.

If you still don’t know where this is about to go, please go find the nearest open fire and feel free to die in it.  We don’t need any more glorified neanderthals kicking around– further mucking up the place.  You’re the reason why we can’t have nice things– because everything needs to cater to the dumb.  With that said… today’s rant of love is dedicated to the Spelling Nazis, the Grammar Nazis, and similar forms of trolling.  Your ability to shame the stupid might succeed where education has apparently failed.

A picture’s worth a thousand words, right? Nothing sucks the potency out of an argument like abject stupidity. (In case you were wondering, yeah— I took this picture… and shopped it just for you.)

“No Child Left Behind” is a failure in every sense of the term.  In fact, let’s back up a second and really loose (not lose) a broadside at the decaying corpse of American education.  When “educators” started giving a damn about a kid’s self-esteem, instead of paying attention to whether the kid needed a diagram to find their own assholes (right over there), they stopped being teachers and became arrogant guidance counselors with inflated senses of importance.

Newsflash, jacktards, fail the kid who can’t read/write (Hell, pick any subject for that matter) until they can— because sometimes shame is an amazingly powerful motivator.  Don’t want to be the kid that got held back?  It’s called study, and don’t waste your time spuriously screaming racial and homophobic epithets into your game headset.  After all, it’s not like we can force the parents that forgot to wear a condom in the first place to take some responsibility for their breathing miscarriage.  I know– God forbid the parents‘ greatest mistake be pointed out for what they are.  It’s society’s problem, right Baby Boomers?  It takes a village, right, Baby Boomers?  Since I’m taking the time to point out the agonizingly obvious for those less fortunate– no, it doesn’t.  It takes a parent (works even better if there’s two) to raise a child, and empowered teachers to make them useful members of society.

Well we self-respecting Grammar/Spelling Nazis (and trolls of similar avocations who enjoy mocking the voluntarily ignorant) are also members of society, and reject all acts that enable the stupid to exist in peace and bliss.

There’s no excuse for this.

If you know someone who has an issue with word usage, and I’m sure at least 3/4 of the people reading this do, do them a favor and mock the stupid out of them.  If you aren’t forced to know how to speak fluent typo (or textspeak– whatever term tickles your brain), you’re either A:  an intellectual snob (which makes you lucky) or B: you just might be part of the problem.

So yeah, as a society, let’s keep focusing on swag— and not on worth.  We’ll see how long the USA can continue their classification as a “first world country.”

For those of us left who still have appreciation for mankind’s advancements, here’s a little tidbit that inexplicably escaped front page news:  Curiosity found evidence of water on Mars.

Anyone else feeling like moving?

Unplug.

Atrophy… My Arch-Nemesis…

On a positive note, my cast has finally had its proverbial cherry popped.  No, my mother didn’t do it, my girlfriend did.  I now have a heart with our initials, her name, a few doodles, and a shamrock on it.  I know I’m 100% Italian, so the Irish bit kind of doesn’t make much sense– but at least my mom didn’t do it!  Now stop laughing!  Yes, I know I’m saying it in vain, but I need to hold on to whatever prayer of self-respect I have left.

All of this false bravado, and innocuous exoskeletal tattooing aside– I’m facing a major issue.  This level of disturbance is on par with my growing ass and gut.  I’m talking about atrophy.  Gaining poundage isn’t fun, but shrinking muscles are no laughing matter.  Shit, throw some backne (yes, I just hybridized back and acne for those of you not swift enough to catch it) in the mix, and I’m sure I’ll have to keep this fetid cast after it’s removed– just to remember what it was like to have a girlfriend.

She would tell me I’m overreacting.  I am not so positive.  I look at the facts.

A blast from the past... before I lost a fight with a refrigerator...

I could preacher-curl my own body weight at one time.  Now I look at how far atrophy has kicked my widening ass over the past month or so.

My arm has shrunk so much, I can damn near fist my cast-- with the arm in it!!

It’s shameful!  At least when Jill inevitably goes full zombie on me, she’ll be at less than 50% power.  How can I look on the bright side of things, when the added inches on my waistline can be accounted for by lost inches from my arm?!

Oh yeah, best part?  Rosie’s still looking pretty damn good, so compared to this withered limb,  I’m gonna look like all I ever do is…  oh cruel irony.

Screw it, I’m going back to writing up my kamakaze diet– for when I finally get this damn cast removed, and I can finally work out again.  It’ll be a glorious day.

Unplug.

Reality Freaking Check > Cabin Fever

Before I start into tonight’s example of what it is to slowly go crazy, I want you to look at something for a bit.

Stop and behold that which was. Sarcasm and all. I won't post anything of this ilk again for some time.

 

Since Jill went on the IR, especially since the surgery, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I don’t look like this anymore.  Combine that with being just asininely irritated about not being able to do many things that I like, and that’s just a recipe to put this lunatic over the edge.  I am not saying that I’m not still on a collision course with crazy; it just won’t be from the aforementioned reasons.

My friend Kathy called me on my lack of vision.  Seriously, with all that I can’t do, why shouldn’t I milk the crap out of the situation until the cast comes off?   I worked for 8 months with torn cartilage in my wrist; I’ve earned some lazy time.  I went into the usual commentary about not being able to do what I like to do– but she responded with a resounding, and I quote, “You’re doing it wrong.”

I’ll let you all get the snide comments out of the way now.  Don’t worry, welcome to about an hour ago when this conversation went down– and my mind has already made the obligatory remarks.  They’re good, enjoy them.  I’ll wait.

Ok, time’s up.  I have all kinds of freaking time on my hand.  Great, here we go with the fap jokes.  Either way, I should milk the living crap out of my condition until September (when the cast comes off).  Who cares about effort, just enjoy being useless– and the fact that nobody expects anything out of me anyway.  She opened my eyes to the fact that, in spite of not being able to do much, this is one of those rare moments in life where I’m justified in utter laziness.  Granted, I may not take it to the extreme that she described, but she brought up some damn good points.  Speaking of time on my hand…

… anyway!  Creepy segway aside, tomorrow I shall take full drunken advantage of my condition.  After all, I’ve got all the rehab time to diet and exercise away the couch-effect.   I should enjoy the benefits of temporary crippledom while I can, to stave away the other things making me crazy.

Ok, crazier.  Line ’em up, it’s go time.

Unplug.