Posts Tagged ‘rant’


Posted: July 15, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

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.

You know you missed me.

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.

Get a forklift and shut the fuck up.

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.

See all the fucks I give?  They're in the background.

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.


“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.

I got it from my parents.

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.

... ironically, I am a bit envious of idealists and their eyewear.

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.


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.


That introduction can go in so many directions…  Sure, friends don’t let friends drive drunk.  Friends don’t let friends drink cheap scotch.  Friends don’t let friends drink and dial.  Et cetera… et cetera… ad nauseum.  As true as these adages may be, there’s one thing– first and foremost– that friends most certainly don’t let friends do: stay in abusive relationships.

And now you just laughed again.

That’s right, you just laughed at a domestic violence joke.

Oh shit yes, here comes the soap box– because you know what?  I’ve been there, and I’m not talking “damn near” either.  That’s right, before I hit the jackpot with Cortana– yeah I’ve been in some pretty dark places, and for once I’m ignoring the clearly hilarious sex joke.  It’s just too easy.  Then again, apparently so was I.  Point number one: if the vast majority of your friends do not like your significant other– it’s usually for a fucking fantastic reason.  Yes, this is a warning sign– one that you’ve already seen, but you’re also deluding yourself to believe, “it’s just because they don’t know what’s really going on.”

This is true… they probably don’t… but they know enough.

The tactics are the same, said douchebucket starts off by making things hunky-fucking-dory like Barney shit sprinkles all the fuck over it.  This part is key later on, so stay tuned, because our little victim won’t (notice I didn’t say can’t) let the sprinkles go and realize that they’ve got a pile of shit on their hands.

Yeah, that’s because it really isn’t all bad.  That’s the commonality for all fucked up relationships in this category.  Whether it’s someone throwing haymakers, or things of the more verbal/psychological/emotional slant– it’s never 100% bad.  Why?  Because hope is a dragnet, one that gives that one glimmering thought that it could get better– like it was before.

Guess what:  it doesn’t.


’nuff said.

Take it from a fucking writer who has a degree in this shit– when you say, “it’s not that bad,” you are still saying, “it’s bad.”

This is the mentality friends get to deal with.  There’s that mental image of glorious bygone days where things were magical.

Remember that when you see the telltale signs– social isolation, consequences for hanging out with certain friends, knock-down drag-out fights, constant complaining about the beta excuse for a human they’re involved with…  These things may be obvious, but you’re not on easy street: your friend still knows best in their fucked up little head.  Say what you need to, do what you have to, because they won’t cooperate when they know full well you are right.  Whether it’s Stockholm Syndrome, or Munchausen Syndrome, or deliberate stupidity– it won’t matter.  They may even agree with the arguments you’re making.  Remember, it’s not that badIt’s just bad enough for them to bitch to you about it via phone/text/etc.  This also means they’re only telling you, at best, 65% of what’s really going on.

That’s why, when you notice shit going down in the first place, you need to put the hammer of proper standards and practices down– when you still may wield said banhammer.  You have a very small window of time to swing it before your words mean something between jack and shit– and Jack left town.

I, unfortunately, am in this very situation– as feckless as a eunuch in a harem…  I know what’s going to happen, I see the writing on the wall, shit– I’ve been there in ways I can’t even admit to myself…  So I have to do something that’s insanely hard for me to do, especially to the person who called me “loyal to a fault”–  I have to turn my back…

… It’s not that I’ve any reason to invoke the infamous “dead to me” list.   In fact, bowing my head in shame (because I didn’t convey enough impact in the first place) and sticking my head wayyyyyyyy up my ass is the only thing I have left in my arsenal.

Why?  I don’t have the stomach to watch a suicide.


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.

Been there.  Outlasted that.

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 8th 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.

Admit it.  You're laughing at the cruel irony.

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.

Get the extended metaphor?

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.

Step right up and get some.

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 nowNope.  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.


So as I was on the road to Edinboro today, I closed in on a Honda Fit hybrid with an obnoxious amount of stereotype-predicted bumper stickers affixed to it.  After noticing the faculty tag on the bumper, I immediately knew the driver– and then had a realization dawn on me like a Mack truck without brakes.  This guy, in spite of being a walking caricature of gratuitous activism gone abominably wrong, actually has nothing to do with the revelation– save to illustrate a point.

Hybrids, save some of the newest models that look like “normal” vehicles, look like hybrids.  You know what I’m talking about, so don’t try and claim otherwise.  The lines on these glorified shoeboxes give the illusion of some semblance of performance, and that’s where the performance dies of feckless shame.

Would you like to add the front seat mounted dildo for another smug $3000?

Sure, it looks sleek. I can beat this car off the mark ON FOOT.

Now Greenniks– hold your outrage.  There’s a point to this, because I know you’re not all simpering sacks of douche thinking your car will save the planet.  To be accurate, most greenniks are the wonderful types of people who’d teach you the best way to make/fertilize a garden with of your own sphyncter-deposited shit– while also letting you know what a wretchedly disgusting idea that is.  However this ditty isn’t about enviro-nauts, this is about hybrids.

Yes, we get it, hybrids are good on gas.  I’m betting one of the big reasons that most people aren’t popping the extra cash out to give Big Oil the finger is… well…  besides the gas mileage (which usually isn’t that spectacular) is the only major perk.  Let’s face it, “hybrid” is a sticker slapped on a car that otherwise sucks at being a car.  Calling your wind up toy a “hybrid” might make you feel better about driving a car that makes you look like a joke… but no matter what, it lacks the guts to help you escape after flipping the bird.  Handling?  Please.  Don’t make me laugh.

Lies and slander.

It’s such a well-known fact, even car makers acknowledge it.

Here’s another tidbit– your driving affects your mileage almost as dramatically as the vehicle beneath your ass.  There’s also a novel concept known as hike it once in awhile.  Not to mention– have you looked at the smog that gets pumped outta China these days?  Sure, save the world with your smug little shitbox that can’t outrun an arthritic hamster– because China has three cities with air so chewy you need to cut it with a knife before taking a breath.  For those of you keeping score, there’s way more of them than there are of us… so the miraculous enviro-dent you’re making is akin to taking a gulp of the Atlantic and claiming to have drank the sea like Thor.

Keep your hybrids, I’ll just limit my driving– and enjoy every fuckin’ minute of it when I’m behind the wheel.
Well.  There’s one alternate fuel car that I find attractive to the point of utter arousal:

There we go!

That’s more my speed.


After several months and one successful article, the infamous unemployment curse was broken.  I would have said “mercifully,” however that’d violate the pacing of this little tale.  Protip: one thing that writing and banging have in common– you don’t want to get to the finish prematurely.

Back to the curse breaking– I was stunned to find out that not only had I picked up a part time merchandising job, I had even got my foot in the door at UPS.  Scuttlebutt had it that UPS treated their employees right, and I figured that this could be a potential career move since the company appears to be as healthy as a strain of AIDS at a Kenyan orgy.  All arrows pointed at Brown, and I should have know that shit was about to splatter in my direction.


In other news: Murphy’s an assjack.

The first indicator that this might have been an imminent case of surprise buttsex was the pay rate: $8.50 per hour.  If you’re going to work for a company as large and successful as UPS, and you’re going to make as much as a McJob, start worrying.  I, being ecstatic that I had doubly become a taxpayer again (after having been treated like a leper with dysentery), didn’t think that worrying mattered– they took care of their employees, right?

Hell, they’re all Teamsters, so there had to be a silver lining of benefits and job security– right?


You were expecting a

Falling for that shit was about as naive as falling for this.

Even including Jill 2.0’s handi-capable situation, I’m in pretty damn good shape.  I’m a Tough Mudder, for crying out loud, so I didn’t think about what the hiring lady was saying when she said that this job burns out 20 year olds.  What she didn’t say was that they treat unloading cargo semis like a good, ol’ fashioned, Egyptian pyramid raising.  I’m not sure how universal this is, but at this particular location–  they want a single person to empty an entire semi in under an hour.  The quoted rate by my (former) supervisor was 1000 packages per hour…  mostly solo.

Let’s do the math here:

1000 packages ÷ 60 minutes = 16.67 packages/minute

…for 3 freaking trailers.  Did I mention that the job starts before 5am?  Or that there’s only one 10 minute break between trailers two and three?

Now, let’s add in the fun part that these trailers are packed floor to ceiling– poorly– and the walls of cargo like to fall.  Let’s also add in that you can find anything from hot water heaters, to tires, to 50lb cases of copy paper, to electronics, to mail, to motor oil, to 45lb farming cases of onions… well shit, you get the point….  this kind of whip-cracking bullshit for the same pay rate as flipping a ¼ lb burger, potentially stoned.

Thanks to the way their benefits are figured– and the laughable total hours– I wasn’t going to qualify for even a bottle of ibuprofen for at least 5 months.  Something tells me that Jill 2.0 isn’t about to demonstrate some kind of bionic durability– and with that slave wage, there’s no way I’d be able to afford another surgery.

Who do you think you're talking to?

You were probably expecting the Double Deuce, but my grandma wanted me to be more like Jesus…  He used a thumb and index finger…. Come to think of it… so did I, when I called HR!  Grandma would be proud!

So, covered in contusions, minor cuts, and feeling like I had a run in with the Bear Jew–  I took my old man’s advice and cut my losses.  They’re looking for slave labor, and they got two back-breaking days out of me.  They’re not getting another moment, and I flat out told the girl on the phone about my concern for the inevitable injury.  It’s not like me to just cut out without a two week notice– but this is an at will state, and that shit is a two way street.

Guess who’s not waking up at 3AM to go get his ass beat for a slave wage– just to be told to work faster?

Thank all that is holy and/or alcohol-bearing that my other job, although part-time, at least has a decent pay rate… and can be made to look sexy on a resume.  As for Brown– you know what they can do for me?

They can get flushed along with the curse.