I can't figure out people's fascination with pro athletes. I've been to several Braves games, and it's amazing to watch people nut themselves over the fact that someone can hit a small, circular object a long way. Don't people realize that these people have been doing this non-stop for 20 years and that they're getting paid billions to do it?
I mean, seriously, I'd get a bigger kick out of sports if every ninth batter was someone selected from the stands. "Now batting, Delores Goodwine of Norcross, Georgia...Skip, Delores is apparently a lefty and comes in at five foot even, 167, and was born in 1938. She plays softball with her church league on Sundays and has a good, strong arm for a 69 year old".
If they gave her a shot of steroids like they do for Barry Bonds, she might get it out to the left-center gap.
What's worse is the way women swoon over these guys, too. There's hardly a good looking guy among them, but they just love those young guys (he's got a good butt...well, shit, they all do because they do nothing but work out and wear tight pants). Maybe I should wear knee-high socks and tight pants to school, too, and I'd have more luck with the ladies.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Immigration
Apparently, Ted Kennedy was behind the Immigration legislation that was booed down by the American public (what a novelty...people complained, and people in Washington listened...how scary).
This isn't good news for immigrants. If Kennedy hasn't changed much, I'm sure there was some rider in that legislation that involved a car ride across a bridge with him behind the wheel and a fifth of scotch. I hope they smuggled oxygen across the border...yikes.
This isn't good news for immigrants. If Kennedy hasn't changed much, I'm sure there was some rider in that legislation that involved a car ride across a bridge with him behind the wheel and a fifth of scotch. I hope they smuggled oxygen across the border...yikes.
Kids and Test Scores...A Solution
We have these big tests at the end of the year in education, tests that are supposed to tell us if our kids are smart and if we've been doing our job throughout the year. Never mind the fact that there are few, if any, middle school aged kids who are in their right mind long enough to learn anything, but these tests are, apparently, the indicator of our efforts.
Lately, kids have been doing poorly on their tests. Latest polls show that the majority of American elementary school students can't locate Mexico on a map. Perhaps this is because Mexico is in the United States now, and these poor whipper-snappers are all confused or some shit. I know I am, most of the time. Where the hell is Canada? Why should I CARE?
Anyway, I think I have a solution. All these tests are taken on multiple choice forms, what we commonly call "Scan-trons," the lost brotherhood of Transformers that disappeared millions of years ago but have been resurrected for testing purposes in the 21st century. We're telling these kids that they can't fill in the bubbles with anything less than a number 2 pencil...number 2? Hell, no wonder they suck at this test, they can't even use their #1 pencil! Would you start an NFL season by telling the coach to scrap his starting QB and pu in his #2 man? We're telling our kids to go to their backup pencil on the most important test of the year! Shit, man!
Lately, kids have been doing poorly on their tests. Latest polls show that the majority of American elementary school students can't locate Mexico on a map. Perhaps this is because Mexico is in the United States now, and these poor whipper-snappers are all confused or some shit. I know I am, most of the time. Where the hell is Canada? Why should I CARE?
Anyway, I think I have a solution. All these tests are taken on multiple choice forms, what we commonly call "Scan-trons," the lost brotherhood of Transformers that disappeared millions of years ago but have been resurrected for testing purposes in the 21st century. We're telling these kids that they can't fill in the bubbles with anything less than a number 2 pencil...number 2? Hell, no wonder they suck at this test, they can't even use their #1 pencil! Would you start an NFL season by telling the coach to scrap his starting QB and pu in his #2 man? We're telling our kids to go to their backup pencil on the most important test of the year! Shit, man!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Cussing
I like to cuss. Since I teach all day, I basically have to turn the valve off for eight hours, which leads to a build-up of swearing that gushes out at the end of the day. Problem is, if you do an after-school activity, you're more prone to let one slip since you've grown accustomed to letting loose around 4 pm everyday.
The other day, I'm helping my seventh grade team get their defense set, so I'm playing quarterback and there's eleven kids on the other side who want to absolutely destroy me for the multitude of parent phone calls, homework, and tests I had given them the year before. Time after time, the ball would be snapped and these kids played like the Lawrence Taylor All-Star team, just to get a lick in on me. On the last play that I dared to run, I took the ball off towards the sidelines, running for dear life. Three guys got to me, one little one that wrapped my ankles and drove my knees into the ground. As I landed on my 32-year-old (and surgically repaired) patellas, the only thing I could thing to utter was "SHIT".
Thankfully, they thought I said, "nice hit". Thank God for the mouthpiece.
The other day, I'm helping my seventh grade team get their defense set, so I'm playing quarterback and there's eleven kids on the other side who want to absolutely destroy me for the multitude of parent phone calls, homework, and tests I had given them the year before. Time after time, the ball would be snapped and these kids played like the Lawrence Taylor All-Star team, just to get a lick in on me. On the last play that I dared to run, I took the ball off towards the sidelines, running for dear life. Three guys got to me, one little one that wrapped my ankles and drove my knees into the ground. As I landed on my 32-year-old (and surgically repaired) patellas, the only thing I could thing to utter was "SHIT".
Thankfully, they thought I said, "nice hit". Thank God for the mouthpiece.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Honesty
My life is like an open book that noone wants to read. It's mostly fiction, but it's still not interesting enough to pick up and keep on the shelf. Most people buy the Cliff Notes, because they're a lot less painful.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Baseball and Sex
Here's one for guys...and for the benefit of girls.
Do you remember how baseball bases were used as a metaphor for getting "lucky" with a woman? It was the way you once referenced how far you got with your girlfriend, back when you were in middle school, in high school, you know, back when you were a juvenile, like, say around the ages of 12 to 62.
Well, it's a good lesson for everyone in figuring out how to have good sex. For instance, even if you're not a big baseball fan, it's common knowledge that there are three bases and one plate...the natural progression is to hit first, go to second, then to third, then finally come to home plate.
When you were referencing your love luck, first base was a kiss, second base involved the breasts, third involved the vagina, and a trip around all four to home plate was a homerun, or going all the way, or intercourse, or a prelude to a life of misery because you forgot your batter's glove and just had to swing away.....way ahead of the pitch, an early swing, and now you sit in the dugout as a manager, never playing or having fun anymore.
Well, when you hit a homerun, for it to be official, you have to touch all the bases, going from first through home plate. This is the natural order and shouldn't be reversed. You don't want to hit a homerun, then go to third, because that's gonna be messy and God knows you don't want to go head first into the bag after that mess. Going to second after a homerun makes you seem like a boob freak with "mother" issues, and if you've hit a homerun, dug into third and hit second again, you damn sure don't want to get anywhere near first because someone's most likely gonna hit you when you get there.
Instead, you've gotta savor the moment, you know, like Barry Bonds when he hits one he knows is going out. You KNOW when you're about to hit a homerun, so don't rush it. No one is going to try to throw you out, so you need to really take some time to take it all in, to gingerly round those bases to the sounds of appreciation and cheers (and if you do it with style, you might be asked to come back out for a bow). First, you gotta look up and watch it happen. Stare deeply into the darkness, those eyes, and really give it a look and smile a little. You slowly head towards first, and that's where the best finesse can be used. Lean into it a little, keep your head down and angled a bit, but up enough to keep the connection with the fans. Hit the first base bag right, and you can bob on over to second. For some, this is the best part, because you're closest to the outfield, far away from the concrete stands and closer to the grass, so it's a little cooler here. There's two people on either side of second, so pay close attention to both of them as you go around, not just one. You'll know they've responded to your efforts if there standing straight up and staring at you, not happy that you've scored but they damn sure respect the fact that you're the man. They may even give you a little slap as you go by in appreciation. Now you're coming to third...literally. Sometimes you're closer to her dugout at this point, though it's perfectly fine if your dugout is getting equal attention at this time. This is perhaps the least appreciated portion of rounding the bases, because the cameras on TV make a cut to a different angle at this point. Because of this, the proper method of rounding third is largely unknown to most amateurs, but is greatly skilled practice of professionals. Some people like to hit the outside edge of the bag, some like to go right down the middle, some just tip the top edge of the bag because that's the best spot, the one that responds the best off of the tap. Now, you're on your way home. It's a useless effort if you don't make it all the way to the bag. If you turn towards your dugout too early, you don't score and that makes the dugout mad and depressed, all in one. No, appreciate this part. Come into it slow, trot a little, maybe go in with a skip, perhaps hop into it, maybe you can speed your pace a little faster as you approach, some just hit it hard with an emphasis and a smile. No matter how you hit it, be sure it's the way that works for you, because no one really gets as much out of it as you do, while some get their kicks just seeing the man come into the plate.
Soemetimes, though, it's permissible to not even come all the way around. There are times when the game has gone on too long, no one has scored for so very long, and the tension is mounting. It's the bottom of the 18th, the bases are loaded, and it's all up to you. You get the perfect pitch, because it's so late and has been so long that the defenses are down and you get a hanging curveball dropping down into the zone as you start to take that swing. In this case, you just swing away as hard as you can, give it all you can, and let it go. Here, no one cares about style. You've emptied the bags, the opponent is drained, and the crowd goes wild. You still have to touch first, out of respect, but you can collapse right there because it's all over, and it's time to go to bed.
Enjoy.
Do you remember how baseball bases were used as a metaphor for getting "lucky" with a woman? It was the way you once referenced how far you got with your girlfriend, back when you were in middle school, in high school, you know, back when you were a juvenile, like, say around the ages of 12 to 62.
Well, it's a good lesson for everyone in figuring out how to have good sex. For instance, even if you're not a big baseball fan, it's common knowledge that there are three bases and one plate...the natural progression is to hit first, go to second, then to third, then finally come to home plate.
When you were referencing your love luck, first base was a kiss, second base involved the breasts, third involved the vagina, and a trip around all four to home plate was a homerun, or going all the way, or intercourse, or a prelude to a life of misery because you forgot your batter's glove and just had to swing away.....way ahead of the pitch, an early swing, and now you sit in the dugout as a manager, never playing or having fun anymore.
Well, when you hit a homerun, for it to be official, you have to touch all the bases, going from first through home plate. This is the natural order and shouldn't be reversed. You don't want to hit a homerun, then go to third, because that's gonna be messy and God knows you don't want to go head first into the bag after that mess. Going to second after a homerun makes you seem like a boob freak with "mother" issues, and if you've hit a homerun, dug into third and hit second again, you damn sure don't want to get anywhere near first because someone's most likely gonna hit you when you get there.
Instead, you've gotta savor the moment, you know, like Barry Bonds when he hits one he knows is going out. You KNOW when you're about to hit a homerun, so don't rush it. No one is going to try to throw you out, so you need to really take some time to take it all in, to gingerly round those bases to the sounds of appreciation and cheers (and if you do it with style, you might be asked to come back out for a bow). First, you gotta look up and watch it happen. Stare deeply into the darkness, those eyes, and really give it a look and smile a little. You slowly head towards first, and that's where the best finesse can be used. Lean into it a little, keep your head down and angled a bit, but up enough to keep the connection with the fans. Hit the first base bag right, and you can bob on over to second. For some, this is the best part, because you're closest to the outfield, far away from the concrete stands and closer to the grass, so it's a little cooler here. There's two people on either side of second, so pay close attention to both of them as you go around, not just one. You'll know they've responded to your efforts if there standing straight up and staring at you, not happy that you've scored but they damn sure respect the fact that you're the man. They may even give you a little slap as you go by in appreciation. Now you're coming to third...literally. Sometimes you're closer to her dugout at this point, though it's perfectly fine if your dugout is getting equal attention at this time. This is perhaps the least appreciated portion of rounding the bases, because the cameras on TV make a cut to a different angle at this point. Because of this, the proper method of rounding third is largely unknown to most amateurs, but is greatly skilled practice of professionals. Some people like to hit the outside edge of the bag, some like to go right down the middle, some just tip the top edge of the bag because that's the best spot, the one that responds the best off of the tap. Now, you're on your way home. It's a useless effort if you don't make it all the way to the bag. If you turn towards your dugout too early, you don't score and that makes the dugout mad and depressed, all in one. No, appreciate this part. Come into it slow, trot a little, maybe go in with a skip, perhaps hop into it, maybe you can speed your pace a little faster as you approach, some just hit it hard with an emphasis and a smile. No matter how you hit it, be sure it's the way that works for you, because no one really gets as much out of it as you do, while some get their kicks just seeing the man come into the plate.
Soemetimes, though, it's permissible to not even come all the way around. There are times when the game has gone on too long, no one has scored for so very long, and the tension is mounting. It's the bottom of the 18th, the bases are loaded, and it's all up to you. You get the perfect pitch, because it's so late and has been so long that the defenses are down and you get a hanging curveball dropping down into the zone as you start to take that swing. In this case, you just swing away as hard as you can, give it all you can, and let it go. Here, no one cares about style. You've emptied the bags, the opponent is drained, and the crowd goes wild. You still have to touch first, out of respect, but you can collapse right there because it's all over, and it's time to go to bed.
Enjoy.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Women
You can't live with them, and you can't get them to wear skimpy outfits and beat you with a warm squash. - Emo Phillips
Thanks to my decade of failed relationships with women, I've developed a working knowledge of how they work. It's not that I'm really good; rather, I've learned pretty much every way possible to piss off women. I'm so good that I've earned a PhD in "Eloquence and Subtlety of Speech Communications" also more informally known as "knowing when the fuck to shut up". My dissertation was supposed to be about all of things men have ever said to women that was technically and ethically acceptable to women. Sadly, though, the requirement was for sixty pages, and I couldn't get more than one sentence...the only thing ever said to a woman that was correct was "I agree with you". That's about it. Conversely, I changed the topic to "things men have said that are incorrect". After working for months, I abandoned the project in fear that I'd rob the planet of much needed trees.
I'm proud of the fact that I've never had an affair or left a girlfriend when she was in a time of need. My girlfriends seem to be much prouder of something else.
They say men and women are like cats and dogs. It's true. One group is made up of a pack of bitches, forcing the other to turn into a bunch of pussies.
Thanks to my decade of failed relationships with women, I've developed a working knowledge of how they work. It's not that I'm really good; rather, I've learned pretty much every way possible to piss off women. I'm so good that I've earned a PhD in "Eloquence and Subtlety of Speech Communications" also more informally known as "knowing when the fuck to shut up". My dissertation was supposed to be about all of things men have ever said to women that was technically and ethically acceptable to women. Sadly, though, the requirement was for sixty pages, and I couldn't get more than one sentence...the only thing ever said to a woman that was correct was "I agree with you". That's about it. Conversely, I changed the topic to "things men have said that are incorrect". After working for months, I abandoned the project in fear that I'd rob the planet of much needed trees.
I'm proud of the fact that I've never had an affair or left a girlfriend when she was in a time of need. My girlfriends seem to be much prouder of something else.
They say men and women are like cats and dogs. It's true. One group is made up of a pack of bitches, forcing the other to turn into a bunch of pussies.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Dating
I finally summoned up the courage to ask a girl out on a date today. She looked at me and said, "now's not really a good time".
So, I came back five minutes later and asked again. Apparently, that wasn't a good time, either, because she just slammed the door on me.
I like this girl a lot, but to say I'm thinking about her all the time is incorrect. There are huge pockets of time while I'm sleeping that I don't think about her at all.
So, I came back five minutes later and asked again. Apparently, that wasn't a good time, either, because she just slammed the door on me.
I like this girl a lot, but to say I'm thinking about her all the time is incorrect. There are huge pockets of time while I'm sleeping that I don't think about her at all.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Roommates
Another reason I'm pissed off is because of my roommates, man. I mean, these people just get on your last goddamned nerve. It's bad enough I'm a teacher and can't afford the basic necessities of life, like a car, gasoline, food, and water, but I've gotta live with these nosy fucks who rummage through my shit all day long while I'm at work.
Do you have one of those types of roommates? One of those that goes through your stuff? Sometimes you just wanna be like, "goddamnit, Dad, quit doing my fucking laundry! I'm almost 33 and I don't need someone to do it for me anymore! Tell Mom I'm going out for a while! Fuck!"
Do you have one of those types of roommates? One of those that goes through your stuff? Sometimes you just wanna be like, "goddamnit, Dad, quit doing my fucking laundry! I'm almost 33 and I don't need someone to do it for me anymore! Tell Mom I'm going out for a while! Fuck!"
Blogs
I'm honestly aspiring to be a writer. To practice, I keep a blog, or journal, whatever you want to call it. Some people call it a manifesto, and I call those people the Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms.
Seriously, though, I find blog to be a funny name. Do you know where the word blog comes from? It's short for "I don't have a fucking life". The less of a life I have, the more I find myself posting on this thing.
Seriously, though, I find blog to be a funny name. Do you know where the word blog comes from? It's short for "I don't have a fucking life". The less of a life I have, the more I find myself posting on this thing.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Cold
I gotta admit, women are good sports about pretty much everything. I'm not saying they have a sense of humor about it all, I'm just saying that they take everything so well, in stride.
I'll give you an example. The other day, I'm in the Dekalb Farmer's Market getting some tuna for dinner. You know, Yellowfin, not chicken of the sea of some shit, good stuff. Anyway, because of their fish section, they keep the place a nice, warm, 50 degrees.
As I'm looking around, I notice this girl who's probably six foot two, tall and lean. However, I immediately noticed that she was COLD. You know what I mean...things begin to dimple and point out? Yeah, she had goose bumps on her skin...come on. Her nipples were pointing out and were hard to ignore.
But she carried herself with such dignity, you know? She knew it, I knew it, but she refused to let her saluting zeppelins ruin her aire of refined grace. I began to notice this on more and more women, but they all, again, were stilll graceful in their ignorance of their visible chilliness.
Guys, what if we had the same problem. Not with nipples, but what if everytime we got cold we got a hard on? Could you imagine walking down the freezer aisle of your local supermarket with a raging hard on? Even if you did, would you just nonchalantly stride through the aisle with a giant ten pitched in you pants? As if no one could see it?
"Excuse me, 'scuse me, coming through. Sorry about that. No, nothing cold here, not cold a bit, if anything it's hot...HEY don't slam the freezer door shut like that? Can't you see I'm cold, lady? Dammit all!"
I'll give you an example. The other day, I'm in the Dekalb Farmer's Market getting some tuna for dinner. You know, Yellowfin, not chicken of the sea of some shit, good stuff. Anyway, because of their fish section, they keep the place a nice, warm, 50 degrees.
As I'm looking around, I notice this girl who's probably six foot two, tall and lean. However, I immediately noticed that she was COLD. You know what I mean...things begin to dimple and point out? Yeah, she had goose bumps on her skin...come on. Her nipples were pointing out and were hard to ignore.
But she carried herself with such dignity, you know? She knew it, I knew it, but she refused to let her saluting zeppelins ruin her aire of refined grace. I began to notice this on more and more women, but they all, again, were stilll graceful in their ignorance of their visible chilliness.
Guys, what if we had the same problem. Not with nipples, but what if everytime we got cold we got a hard on? Could you imagine walking down the freezer aisle of your local supermarket with a raging hard on? Even if you did, would you just nonchalantly stride through the aisle with a giant ten pitched in you pants? As if no one could see it?
"Excuse me, 'scuse me, coming through. Sorry about that. No, nothing cold here, not cold a bit, if anything it's hot...HEY don't slam the freezer door shut like that? Can't you see I'm cold, lady? Dammit all!"
Drug Tests and Corporal Punishment
I bet you didn't know this one: they don't administer drug tests to teachers...ever. Not during the hiring process nor any random time during the year. I think it's high time that that changed, you know? Seriously, these are people shaping the future and we're allowing to live an unmitigated private life? Come on!
Doctor: Mr. McDonough, you test came back clean. I've got a couple of questions, though.
Me: Sure thing.
Doctor: What's your profession, again?
Me: I'm a teacher?
Doctor: Okay, I though so. My second question is, why aren't you taking your drugs?
I mean, if you're teaching and NOT on drugs, you need to see a doctor immediately for a prescription to SOMETHING. Those folks who do it and simply love it scare the SHIT out of me.
I think the reason I'm so on edge is because it's too late to turn back and do something else. It's either this, or I can continue living in my parent's basement for the rest of my life. My only fear, though, is that they bring back corporal punishment (not my parents but the school board). I don't want to spank anybody. Not because I don't think they deserve it, but in this day and age, you never know if they're going to like it, too. It be just my luck to have to administer something like that to a future bondage fanatic who starts screaming for joy with every brutal shot. "Yay! Yay! More!"
How do you explain that to a Board of Education?
Doctor: Mr. McDonough, you test came back clean. I've got a couple of questions, though.
Me: Sure thing.
Doctor: What's your profession, again?
Me: I'm a teacher?
Doctor: Okay, I though so. My second question is, why aren't you taking your drugs?
I mean, if you're teaching and NOT on drugs, you need to see a doctor immediately for a prescription to SOMETHING. Those folks who do it and simply love it scare the SHIT out of me.
I think the reason I'm so on edge is because it's too late to turn back and do something else. It's either this, or I can continue living in my parent's basement for the rest of my life. My only fear, though, is that they bring back corporal punishment (not my parents but the school board). I don't want to spank anybody. Not because I don't think they deserve it, but in this day and age, you never know if they're going to like it, too. It be just my luck to have to administer something like that to a future bondage fanatic who starts screaming for joy with every brutal shot. "Yay! Yay! More!"
How do you explain that to a Board of Education?
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Bush
I'm tired of the new comedian routine where people come out real early in their set and tell the audience that "Bush is such an idiot" or "God, I hate Bush".
It's not that I disagree, it's just that it's tired, used, and everyone already knows it. Hell, there's Republicans in the audience, arms crossed, that hear that and say, "yeah, you're right. So what?"
Hell, it's not even edgy. The big misconception is that you're "on the edge" if you come out against Bush. Hell, if anything, you're just conforming. People believe that there was such a backlash against the Dixie Chicks because of what Maines said. Hell, it wasn't that. People were just pissed off because they were thinking, "what the fuck is country music doing in England?" Goddamnit, if the British star listening to country music, where are we going to get all of our good music from?
They're good sports, though, the British. They gave us the Beatles, Abbey Road and the White Album; Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon and the Wall; Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. They got the Dixie Chicks and Madonna. The fact that the British haven't sent nuclear bombs our way is a surprise to me right now.
It's not that I disagree, it's just that it's tired, used, and everyone already knows it. Hell, there's Republicans in the audience, arms crossed, that hear that and say, "yeah, you're right. So what?"
Hell, it's not even edgy. The big misconception is that you're "on the edge" if you come out against Bush. Hell, if anything, you're just conforming. People believe that there was such a backlash against the Dixie Chicks because of what Maines said. Hell, it wasn't that. People were just pissed off because they were thinking, "what the fuck is country music doing in England?" Goddamnit, if the British star listening to country music, where are we going to get all of our good music from?
They're good sports, though, the British. They gave us the Beatles, Abbey Road and the White Album; Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon and the Wall; Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. They got the Dixie Chicks and Madonna. The fact that the British haven't sent nuclear bombs our way is a surprise to me right now.
Changes
Seriously, though, I made a pact with myself to start changin my life around. After all, I don't want to be remembered as J.P. McDonough: chain smoker, problem drinker, and chronic masturbator. No, I want people to remember me as J.P. McDonough, marathon runner, life of the party, and chronic masturbator.
I'm not kidding, either, I need a good girlfriend or several bad ones, I don't know which. I beat it so frequently that I'm developing carpal-tunnel syndrome.
And the drinking, I'm no Ted Kennedy or nothing, but, God, when you know you have problems when you were the subject of an ABC after-school special, starred in it, received an Academy Award for your performance, only to wake up months later and not even realize you did any of those things. And, damn it, which one of the Olsen Twins did I sleep with? If only I could remember!
I was never a mean drunk, to be sure. I simply became very loud and very talkative, very sociable. In fact, you may have seen me before...on Cops.
So I stopped drinking...a lot. Just like I quit doing drugs...outside of home.
Funny thing is, anytime a celebrity or a member or the Royal Family or a pope appears in public, there's tons of people about to preserve the moment in pictures. God, thank you, that no one was around to snap pictures of me during my moments of extreme drunkeness. I could see it now...EXCLUSIVE: Local doc snapped on top of coffee table licking candles while singing the score to Team America. Pics on page 5. Yeesh.
I'm not kidding, either, I need a good girlfriend or several bad ones, I don't know which. I beat it so frequently that I'm developing carpal-tunnel syndrome.
And the drinking, I'm no Ted Kennedy or nothing, but, God, when you know you have problems when you were the subject of an ABC after-school special, starred in it, received an Academy Award for your performance, only to wake up months later and not even realize you did any of those things. And, damn it, which one of the Olsen Twins did I sleep with? If only I could remember!
I was never a mean drunk, to be sure. I simply became very loud and very talkative, very sociable. In fact, you may have seen me before...on Cops.
So I stopped drinking...a lot. Just like I quit doing drugs...outside of home.
Funny thing is, anytime a celebrity or a member or the Royal Family or a pope appears in public, there's tons of people about to preserve the moment in pictures. God, thank you, that no one was around to snap pictures of me during my moments of extreme drunkeness. I could see it now...EXCLUSIVE: Local doc snapped on top of coffee table licking candles while singing the score to Team America. Pics on page 5. Yeesh.
So many memories...
You know, ten years ago, I had my own little summer of love. I think that in about a three month period, I might have "dated" about a dozen girls. I was working out everyday, I had a six pack of abs, and was frequently naked with someone or another. God, so many memories, so much penicilin.
I had one girl that I dated for about a year after that summer, and we use to sit around and daydream about the silliest shit. We found a place to build a house, in a little town called Strawberry, California. Hey...quit giggling, it was our fucking dream, not yours, and when you're laying around with no clothes on and getting your cock stroked, you'd agree to about anything, too.
Anyway, we dreamed about a house on the western side of the cliff, with floor-to-celing windows so we could watch the sun go down every night (I guess we'd have to get another house on the eastern side if we ever dared to see it come up). We'd be married on an island off the coast of Georgia, all outdoors without formal attire, you know, just natural stuff. Yes, I under the influence of way, way too many stimulants back than. Anyway, we'd have three or four kids, all blonde (you know, cause it makes sense, right? We're in California, after all).
We'd name the kids real beautiful names, too. You know, like Persephone...Hunter...Athena...Frank.
I had one girl that I dated for about a year after that summer, and we use to sit around and daydream about the silliest shit. We found a place to build a house, in a little town called Strawberry, California. Hey...quit giggling, it was our fucking dream, not yours, and when you're laying around with no clothes on and getting your cock stroked, you'd agree to about anything, too.
Anyway, we dreamed about a house on the western side of the cliff, with floor-to-celing windows so we could watch the sun go down every night (I guess we'd have to get another house on the eastern side if we ever dared to see it come up). We'd be married on an island off the coast of Georgia, all outdoors without formal attire, you know, just natural stuff. Yes, I under the influence of way, way too many stimulants back than. Anyway, we'd have three or four kids, all blonde (you know, cause it makes sense, right? We're in California, after all).
We'd name the kids real beautiful names, too. You know, like Persephone...Hunter...Athena...Frank.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Addiction
Somewhere I heard that smoking was more addictive (addicting?) than crack and heroin combined. I quit smoking, a task that isn't too easy, but it got me wondering...if I can kick the smoking thing, what's keeping me from trying heroin? I mean, if smoking is so bad and I stopped that, hell, let the good times roll! Maybe they have a heroin gum or patch for when I choose to quit that one, too.
Seriously, I'm not going to do heroin. I wouldn't even know where to get any. Don't take any of this too seriously.
Now, I can get my hands on some crack, though. Whoopee!
Seriously, I'm not going to do heroin. I wouldn't even know where to get any. Don't take any of this too seriously.
Now, I can get my hands on some crack, though. Whoopee!
Magic Little Pill
There's a new pill called varenicline that can help prevent smokers from relapsing and smoking again. Now, scientists claim it can help alcoholics quit drinking, too. Supposedly, this pill can curtail your urge to smoke, to drink, to do drugs, and to gamble, too.
Fuck, if ever there was a drug that made you wish for death, varenicline sounds like the one.
I can hear the ads now: "Are you tired of having fun? Are all your rowdy friends bringing too much joy into your life? Does that thrill of doubling down on an 11 make you too excited? Are you sick of tripping the light fantastic? Now there's hope...it's called varenicline...for those who simply wish to take all the fun out of life."
Shut up and drink already and pass the fucking cards! Geez!
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Comedy
I was talking to a guy the other day about all my problems, and he suggested a way I could find an appropriate manner for getting it all out of me.
He said, "you ought to do stand up comedy, because comedy is about pain, you know? And man, I mean, you're fucked up and you've got a shitload of pain, so you oughtta be good at it".
I though about it and said, "you know, Pastor, I think you're right".
Saturday, June 9, 2007
And there she went
To say the least, we'd all taken in a little too much of the potent nectar (we were bombed), but too much about the night was undeniably sweet. The Braves had dropped another game that few of us even bothered to watch, in the midst of tossing peanuts around the section and drinking too much of the $7 stadium beer. Somehow, an agreement was made to meet back up at the bar that we had left prior to the game, an idea not too bright given the number of us who badly just needed to go home and sleep it off, or at least spend a couple of woesome hours in recovery at any of the nearest illuminated, school-bus-yellow Waffle Houses.
So we went. As I was trying to get back into the car, I slammed my leg into the door, jamming my keys into my thigh. "Oh...my Uterus!" I exclaimed, grotesquely. Laughter erupted, though I hardly noticed it or the sharp leg pain that would result in a five-inch purple bruise on my left thigh the next day. I just wanted to get to our destination, one last chance to see her, maybe to even express something to her, I didn't know. Nothing was premeditated, it was just starting to happen and I couldn't correctly explain why.
Somewhere in the midst of the game, perhaps during the seventh inning stretch (God, was there one? Where was I? Oh, yes, getting more beer...last call, you know), events that I could no longer supress or control were beginning to weigh down upon my shoulders like the world's heft on Atlas, heavy and overbearing, but somehow filled with purpose and infinite possibilities. What if I just let it go? What if I affirm it? What then? What now? Fuck, if only my old self were there, I'd know...instead, that twisted fucker called Hunter had come out for the party and there was no sense in trying to regain my former ego. It was a night for the weird to go pro, and the weird were out in force in the upper deck of Turner Field.
She had been prodding my back throughout the game with her feet, always yelling out "sorry" but with a impish giggle that suggested that the pokes were no mistake. Indeed, they were not. Fuck, no...this was serious now, man. This was the culminating event of all those mornings talking about school, about frustrations and fun, all from nearly ten months ago when I saw her for the first time, that first opportunity where I saw the raven-haired girl for the first time. She had signalled that she was dating, so I assumed all bets were off...not that I'd be betting the farm on it, anyway, given the events of the spring of 2006 and my emotional state of being at this first meeting opportunity.
The bitter taste of rejection still lingering on my tongue at the time, I couldn't find the means to express passion or emotion to a female anymore. Indeed, I had made up my mind that there was no place for a woman in my future life, that an existence of solitude and isolation was the only route to go. Hell, it couldn't be all that bad...I'd simply become more devoted to my job and become a better shaper of young people's minds. I had, to be sure, improved in my focus and dedication throughout the year, and my performance had reached an apex that I longed to build higher. Despite the success, though, a hole was torn into my conscience that had been allowing too much of my joy and love for my craft to seep out. The hole had been opened by a woman who cared more about the material and less about the emotional, a state of being that I can find no common ground upon.
I have never been able to associate with those without passion. If I were to somehow lose my wildly altering state of being, I'd find no point in continuing an existence in my mortal shell. I must maintain a heightened sense of professionalism at my job, or else my classroom would become a haven for song and dance and swinging from the ceilings. To maintain this stature for 180 days of every year, one must find outlets to become a beast, a mindless human devoid of care or worry. When the bite of reality bares down to hard, the only escape from its clutches is to become fluid, to become loose. If this is the case, it's best to surround yourself with like-minded individuals who know you in both the man and beast state of mind. Should you become far too fluid, only those with a deeper understanding of your psyche can properly roll with the current and come crashing back on the shores of reality when the time has come. On that cool, breezy June night, I was a particle of water rolling in the Gulf of Mexico, and I had plenty of amigos along for the ride.
Note to self: teachers are the best group to do this with. Only they seem to understand the brutish reality of life and how humans cope with these realizations.
+++++++
It's rare when beauty turns its eye towards me. I see it so infrequently that when it does appear, my heart can't manage to control itself. I feel it leaping in my chest, throbbing through the thick arteries that run the laterals of my neck, sending a pounding, visible message that I'm no man to handle something so rare as this. Christ, how could I maintain this night, were it not for the booze? The more she prodded, the more I poked back, and it seemed that she even began to enjoy it...some sick, sophomoric game of cat-and-mouse between two people who may, dare I think, be interested in each other. At one point, her foot rested on my shoulder and I grabbed her shoe...in putting it back on, I noticed that she had perfect, tanned little toes. Smooth skin, bronze, moisturized by some oil or butter, who knew. God, the feel and sight of a woman, after nothing but your own coarse, unrefined flesh that you've abused since the days of backyard baseball and tree-climbing...to feel that softness, smoothness, sweet pampering, comfort, love, tenderness. Those differences between man and woman, providing truth to the sceintific law that opposite particles attract. Something primitive and long lost stirred inside me. The ball had started rolling, but where was it to land?
By the time we got back to the bar it must have been around 11:30 pm. The rain in the earlier part of the day had cooled the whole town and a sweet night breeze swept through the open patio. Nothing but candles and lanterns lit the area...it's in the sweet hues of an evening skyline and tangerine light that those curious emotions can rise from out of your throat, your heart. I could only see one side of her face as we spoke, but that was all I needed to see. Her chestnut eyes were darker and more sensuous in the night haze...her soft, thin lips formed words and laughed and expressed contentment. It was in these moments where you lose track of your physical self...there's no more size, shape or pain, there's no color or age, simply two shining beams of light and energy and soul sharing a tiny corner of the world together...glowing in the night, warm in the comfort of each other's smiles.
There were soft tones of music in the background, but I knew of no discernable melody or lyric. People clamored near the bar and spoke and drank and smoked, but none of the conversations entered my ears nor did the smoke offend my nostrils. The wind simply swept through and caused her hair to dance, sweetly and softly...the movement did not distract, but served more as a frame for a canvas, tiny strands illuminated by the light and outlining a masterpiece. Conversation went in and out, and many things and many topics were bantered about. For a moment, though, the combination of the atmopshere and the spirit combined in such a way that all worry, pain, and destruction were muted, all else surrounding the two of us had been dampened, of little importance in light of what was before me. The sight of her, the moment, all there in but a brief few seconds, woke a dormant emotion that many others before her had attempted to put to rest.
A woman and a man...my imperceptible ideal of beauty in both life and person was being made visible. Were I to die, God, I cannot imagine a better way to go.
Somehow that evil bastard Hunter began to enter the conversation, and was on the verge of ruining it for everyone, but a touch of clarity broke through and prevented him from saying what maybe should have been said, but never will be spoken. The thoughts and emotions that had been building for months were swelling up inside and were desperately wanting to break through, but I kept them down, at least for one night. It wasn't the right place or time, but there will be...and she may not be the right one, either, but there will be one of those, too.
Until then, I had but a moment where I felt like a man again, where I felt maybe a twinge of that old elixir of newfound love and passion that I hadn't felt in so many moons. It felt good, and she felt right, and the time felt wonderful...and there she went.
And here I am. Alone.
So we went. As I was trying to get back into the car, I slammed my leg into the door, jamming my keys into my thigh. "Oh...my Uterus!" I exclaimed, grotesquely. Laughter erupted, though I hardly noticed it or the sharp leg pain that would result in a five-inch purple bruise on my left thigh the next day. I just wanted to get to our destination, one last chance to see her, maybe to even express something to her, I didn't know. Nothing was premeditated, it was just starting to happen and I couldn't correctly explain why.
Somewhere in the midst of the game, perhaps during the seventh inning stretch (God, was there one? Where was I? Oh, yes, getting more beer...last call, you know), events that I could no longer supress or control were beginning to weigh down upon my shoulders like the world's heft on Atlas, heavy and overbearing, but somehow filled with purpose and infinite possibilities. What if I just let it go? What if I affirm it? What then? What now? Fuck, if only my old self were there, I'd know...instead, that twisted fucker called Hunter had come out for the party and there was no sense in trying to regain my former ego. It was a night for the weird to go pro, and the weird were out in force in the upper deck of Turner Field.
She had been prodding my back throughout the game with her feet, always yelling out "sorry" but with a impish giggle that suggested that the pokes were no mistake. Indeed, they were not. Fuck, no...this was serious now, man. This was the culminating event of all those mornings talking about school, about frustrations and fun, all from nearly ten months ago when I saw her for the first time, that first opportunity where I saw the raven-haired girl for the first time. She had signalled that she was dating, so I assumed all bets were off...not that I'd be betting the farm on it, anyway, given the events of the spring of 2006 and my emotional state of being at this first meeting opportunity.
The bitter taste of rejection still lingering on my tongue at the time, I couldn't find the means to express passion or emotion to a female anymore. Indeed, I had made up my mind that there was no place for a woman in my future life, that an existence of solitude and isolation was the only route to go. Hell, it couldn't be all that bad...I'd simply become more devoted to my job and become a better shaper of young people's minds. I had, to be sure, improved in my focus and dedication throughout the year, and my performance had reached an apex that I longed to build higher. Despite the success, though, a hole was torn into my conscience that had been allowing too much of my joy and love for my craft to seep out. The hole had been opened by a woman who cared more about the material and less about the emotional, a state of being that I can find no common ground upon.
I have never been able to associate with those without passion. If I were to somehow lose my wildly altering state of being, I'd find no point in continuing an existence in my mortal shell. I must maintain a heightened sense of professionalism at my job, or else my classroom would become a haven for song and dance and swinging from the ceilings. To maintain this stature for 180 days of every year, one must find outlets to become a beast, a mindless human devoid of care or worry. When the bite of reality bares down to hard, the only escape from its clutches is to become fluid, to become loose. If this is the case, it's best to surround yourself with like-minded individuals who know you in both the man and beast state of mind. Should you become far too fluid, only those with a deeper understanding of your psyche can properly roll with the current and come crashing back on the shores of reality when the time has come. On that cool, breezy June night, I was a particle of water rolling in the Gulf of Mexico, and I had plenty of amigos along for the ride.
Note to self: teachers are the best group to do this with. Only they seem to understand the brutish reality of life and how humans cope with these realizations.
+++++++
It's rare when beauty turns its eye towards me. I see it so infrequently that when it does appear, my heart can't manage to control itself. I feel it leaping in my chest, throbbing through the thick arteries that run the laterals of my neck, sending a pounding, visible message that I'm no man to handle something so rare as this. Christ, how could I maintain this night, were it not for the booze? The more she prodded, the more I poked back, and it seemed that she even began to enjoy it...some sick, sophomoric game of cat-and-mouse between two people who may, dare I think, be interested in each other. At one point, her foot rested on my shoulder and I grabbed her shoe...in putting it back on, I noticed that she had perfect, tanned little toes. Smooth skin, bronze, moisturized by some oil or butter, who knew. God, the feel and sight of a woman, after nothing but your own coarse, unrefined flesh that you've abused since the days of backyard baseball and tree-climbing...to feel that softness, smoothness, sweet pampering, comfort, love, tenderness. Those differences between man and woman, providing truth to the sceintific law that opposite particles attract. Something primitive and long lost stirred inside me. The ball had started rolling, but where was it to land?
By the time we got back to the bar it must have been around 11:30 pm. The rain in the earlier part of the day had cooled the whole town and a sweet night breeze swept through the open patio. Nothing but candles and lanterns lit the area...it's in the sweet hues of an evening skyline and tangerine light that those curious emotions can rise from out of your throat, your heart. I could only see one side of her face as we spoke, but that was all I needed to see. Her chestnut eyes were darker and more sensuous in the night haze...her soft, thin lips formed words and laughed and expressed contentment. It was in these moments where you lose track of your physical self...there's no more size, shape or pain, there's no color or age, simply two shining beams of light and energy and soul sharing a tiny corner of the world together...glowing in the night, warm in the comfort of each other's smiles.
There were soft tones of music in the background, but I knew of no discernable melody or lyric. People clamored near the bar and spoke and drank and smoked, but none of the conversations entered my ears nor did the smoke offend my nostrils. The wind simply swept through and caused her hair to dance, sweetly and softly...the movement did not distract, but served more as a frame for a canvas, tiny strands illuminated by the light and outlining a masterpiece. Conversation went in and out, and many things and many topics were bantered about. For a moment, though, the combination of the atmopshere and the spirit combined in such a way that all worry, pain, and destruction were muted, all else surrounding the two of us had been dampened, of little importance in light of what was before me. The sight of her, the moment, all there in but a brief few seconds, woke a dormant emotion that many others before her had attempted to put to rest.
A woman and a man...my imperceptible ideal of beauty in both life and person was being made visible. Were I to die, God, I cannot imagine a better way to go.
Somehow that evil bastard Hunter began to enter the conversation, and was on the verge of ruining it for everyone, but a touch of clarity broke through and prevented him from saying what maybe should have been said, but never will be spoken. The thoughts and emotions that had been building for months were swelling up inside and were desperately wanting to break through, but I kept them down, at least for one night. It wasn't the right place or time, but there will be...and she may not be the right one, either, but there will be one of those, too.
Until then, I had but a moment where I felt like a man again, where I felt maybe a twinge of that old elixir of newfound love and passion that I hadn't felt in so many moons. It felt good, and she felt right, and the time felt wonderful...and there she went.
And here I am. Alone.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Good evening, ladies and gentleman
it's good to be here, wherever I am, I always love it when I'm here.
I figured I'd give stand-up comedy try...I guess that if I get up in front of a group of 30 or so people, speak for ten to fifteen minutes to unreceptive, non-responsive individuals who stare back at me like a dog that's just been shown a card trick, well, I'm pretty much use to it...after all, I'm a public school teacher.
I'd do it, because, like most every other teacher, I realized from day one of my educational career that, as soon as possible, I needed to do something...anything...to get the fuck out of educaiton as fast as humanly possible. I'm not picky...accountant, programmer, pharmacist, male prostitute, pornographic movie set custodian.
No, I kid.
I couldn't possibly be a pharmacist.
Seriously, though, I love my job. Every day is magical. I get to work, teach, lead...by the end of the day, money has "magically" disappeared from my desk, someone magically stuck gum in the pencil sharpener, someone magically flooded the bathrooms, my iPod is magically missing from my car which has also magically been keyed to read "asshole of the month". I swear to God, I teach a bunch of little Copperfields.
A lot of teachers, you know, seem to have a chip on their shoulders about their professions. There's no doubt that we don't get paid very much, but some of these folks have really got the impression that teachers are looked down upon by everyone in the country. There's this urban-legend-internet-hallmark-moment e-mail that goes around about a fictional party where a snooty hostess asks what a teacher makes. Long story short, its some passionate bullshit about how we make a fucking difference, or some shit like that, yadda yadda.
Whatever. I play poker with a wide range of people, so one night I'm sitting there with a proctologist, a funeral director, a coroner, and a guy who works with the criminally insane. When they asked me what I did for a living, and I said "teacher", swear to God, these guys looked like you just waved shit under their noses. It's like, "fuck! Why the hell would you do that?"
We've got some serious problems in education, though, folks, and I think you know what I'm talking about. Yeah, there's way too many female teachers having sex with students. I can barely stand to be in the same room with these fuckers for more than ten minutes, and some of these folks are actually want to get intimate with them. Fuck! Why the hell is this happening? And why am I always the last one on staff to find out that there's some chick who's so sexually frustrated that she'll turn to some shit like that? Trust me, if it's inexperience and immaturity that you crave, I'm your guy. Hell, the average middle schooler has more sex than me, so please, post a bulletin in the teacher's lounge or something. I could save you the trip to jail, for fuck's sake.
Yeah, as you probably guessed, I'm a moderately frustrated human being. I can remember being in college and talking with my friends about what I thought my dream house would be like, you know? You remember doing things like that? Yeah, you know, wishful bullshit. I can still remember thinking I'd have this awesome, round, modern house, floor to ceiling windows around the perimeter, sitting on the side of a mountain where I could watch the sun come up on one side and go down on the other. I'd be there with some beautiful brunette and two healthy little kids, and I'd grow old there with my happy little wife, have friends over until the end of time, get high and just let the happy days roll by...sounds nice right?
Yeah, bullshit. Nowadays I'd be happy for a studio apartment, a pack of cigarettes, and girlfriend who doesn't wholly believe that "it wasn't cheating if it was anal". Christ, I could really use a break!
An Ode on the Stupidity of Americans
Here's a picture from a distance. Notice that MONSTERPIG doesn't look quite the monster in this picture as in the next few.
Here, they're pictured behind the pig. Notice that in this picture, the pig doesn't look as big as in the next two pictures.
Notice that dad and pig are both BEHIND the pig. See how monster pig has suddenly gotten a lot longer now? It's also not as thick as in the next photo. If you turned the kid sideways, his shoulders would be even with the shoulders of the pig (in other words, when the pig stood up, his shoulders would be just as high as the kid's shoulders. You can try it for yourself with a ruler). Also, how can you track hunt a pig in shorts and a polo shirt? Christ, there's too much wrong with that
Alright...notice a couple of things. This is the photo that's being circulated the most on the internet. Look how much thicker the pig is here than in the preceding photo. Also, if you took the pig as it appears and stood him up on his four legs, then this pig would actually be taller than the kid. I know that the kid is kneeling, but if you consider the height of the kid as he appears in this photo compared to the hog in this photo, a standing pig of this size would be taller than the kid. Since the hog in the preceding picture is an estimated 10'7" and we know that his shoulder height is approximately 4.5', that gives us a ratio of height to length of 1:2.5. The hog pictured in the bottom photo would have stood at 5'5" and would have been nearly 13 feet long.If you look at the picture of the animal being hoisted by the tractor at the top, the animal is nowhere near being 13 feet long, or 10'7" long. The guy in the tractor has to be close to 6', and he's in the BACKGROUND of the picture, making him smaller in appearance, and if you do a little measurement with a ruler you can figure out the pig is nowhere close to 10' in length.
Ah, how often we demonstrate our abject stupidity as Americans. Far too many people believe in this Hogshit legend. No doubt it's big, but it ain't a half ton animal and it's not the size of Shaquille O'Neil. Here's a critical thinking exercise for you to try.
Look at the pictures again. If this is, indeed, a world record and these people were such little shutterbugs, what picture is mysteriously missing?
How did they know it was 1,050? Apparently, they weighed it somewhere.
Have you come up with the missing link yet? Well, if you're a complete dullard, here's the final question (and an answer, of sorts) to our exercise:
WHERE THE FUCK ARE THE PICTURES OF THE SCALE? WHERE'S THE SCALE? WHERE'S THE NUMBER 1,050 POUNDS FOUND AT, WHO DID IT, WHERE WAS IT RECORDED, AND WHY WASN'T THIS "TROPHY" PARADED AROUND DULL-AS-DOGSHIT ALABAMA TO SPREAD THE LEGEND AND HAVE PLENTY OF WITNESSES TO CONFIRM THE MAGNIFICENT SIZE OF THIS BEAST?
Thanks for playing. We have a lovely home version of our show for you to take back with you.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Former Smokers Proud of New Healthy Lifestyle, Secretly Wish for Death
Raleigh, North CarolinaGlobal warming.
Nuclear War.
Lightning and meteors.
As sure as the sun rises and sets, we all shall die.
Thanks to constant warnings from leading medical scientists and the Surgeon General of the United States, deaths by smoking are decreasing in the United States and across the world.
For those who have ever had a cigarette before, the bottom line is easy to figure out: you can either do without it, or you're hooked for life. For the latter, quitting smoking becomes a lifelong struggle that few can do with ease. It takes years of patience, alternative cessation methods, and millions of dollars domestically for patches, gums, therapy, and mood-altering drugs like Wellbutrin.
Even after all of that, many still return to their old habits.
"Quitting smoking is easy, I've done it thousands of times" - Mark Twain
For some smokers, the attempts to quit have been numerous and everlasting. Mark Simpson, a 45-year-old marketing manager for a local agriculture concern, is currently trying to quit smoking for what he describes as the "millionth time".
"Yeah, it ain't easy," says Simpson as he smacks on some citrus flavored nicotine gum. "Hell, I've tried the patch, that Wellbutrin stuff, even dipping and snuff and chew, but I always end up a couple weeks later going back to the old Pall Malls".
Simpson is not alone. Nicotine is a more addicting substance than heroine and PlayStation combined, yet is still legal throughout the United States. Many have tried cigarettes in their lifetime, and some have never been able to put the lighter and smoke away.
"The first time I ever took a drag off of a cigarette, I didn't cough or nothing," admits Simpson as he rocks rapidly back and forth in his office chair. "It was awesome. It's the one thing I can do that's just as good each time as it was the first time. There ain't nothing that's like that. Sex, drink, food...it's never as good as the first time, but cigarettes are. Christ, I wish I had one now".
Simpson was later seen next to a gas station lighting up a cigarette.
"If I don't smoke, there's gonna be second hand bullets you have to worry about" - Bill Hicks
The cessation craze has been a recent phenomenon, in light of recent (and incredibly unconstitutional) smoking bans in private and public places. People have known for many years that smoking was bad, but nothing has had quite the effect on smokers as the bans.
"It's like we're subhuman, like scum" admits smoker Steven Grabowski. "Before long, they'll take us out back and shoot us in the (expletive) head".
"Basically, if I want to go anywhere nowadays, I gotta wear a patch or sit there all pissed off throughout dinner. I mean, they've proved that the studies on second-hand smoking were bogus and manipulated, but they're still running with it! My smoke hurts me, not you, so let me kill myself if I want to...it's my (expletive) choice!" said an enraged Grabowski as he lit another Camel.
In a recent study, Americans felt that the air quality they enjoy had become better for them since the smoking bans, despite the fact that the majority of Americans feel that air is worse when it comes to global warming and emissions. An equally perplexing study revealed that most Americans believe that the seasons are caused by the Earth moving closer to the sun and farther away from the sun, despite the fact that seasonal tempearture changes are created by the tilt of the Earth's axis and it's revolution around the sun. Despite the public's misunderstanding of basic, sixth-grade science, the American public overwhelmingly believes that the Earth is headed towards global destructions due to greenhouse emissions and global warming.
"You see why I smoke?" asked a maddened Grabowski.
Some have quit in the name of health
Some, however, have successfully attained the label of "former smoker".
"It's all mental, you basically have to tell yourself that you're done and that's it" Thomas Shaun should know. He kicked the habit two years ago during a summer break as a teacher. "The trick is, you have to avoid those things that caused your cravings and stay away as long as possible. You go back tell your friends that you have to avoid the temptation, all your smoker friends need to do ti somehere else, you know...basically annoying the crap out of everyone".
Success doesn't come without temptation, however.
"You know how you can smell some really good barbecue or steak or chicken somewhere, and your mouth waters and you just can't resist it or wait...you've gotta have one. Same with smokers...I can still smell a cigarette today and want one so damned bad. There's times I'd kill a minister to get a drag off of a cigarette, but, after a couple of days, it passes. Until it passes, you're one pissed off human being" admits Shaun.
Despite the pressures and temptations, the improved health conditions are a bonus for ex-smokers. "Yeah, I can walk a flight of stairs nowadays without losing my breath. I can run some, too. Is it worth it? F(expletive) no. I'm waiting for the Surgeon General to annouce that it's all untrue, that people died from exposure to asbestos or something rather than the smoking. If he did, swear to God I'd smoke from sunup to sundown, 24/7 everyday for the rest of my goddamned life. Christ, I miss smoking so damned much, and anyone who has quit will tell you the same. F(expletive) the Surgeon General. If this is what quitting smoking is good for, I'd rather be dead".
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
That Last Post was Probably Too Deep
And dark for this side of my posts, but it's worth hearing anyway. If you think it's dark, too bad. It's absolutely positive. There's a way we can all live happily ever after, and it's not a hard accomplishment if you concentrated on it!
When the Tigers Broke Free
Vonnegut once protested against Veteran's Day. I understood immediately why he did, but I also understood immediately why no one else did.
I tried explaining this to the kids today, and they looked at me with bewildering expressions. They seemed to think that I hated Veterans.
You see, the First World War ended with the Treaty of Versailles. This signing of the Treaty was supposed to mark the end of all wars (you know, the war to end all wars). The day of the Treaty was forever to be remembered as Armistice Day on November 11th. You've probably heard the grade school mnemonic, "on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month". It was signed on November 11, 1918 at 11 am. Many parts of the world still observed two minutes of silence on 11/11 at 11 am of each year, in memory of the 8 million who died in WWI.
After WWII, the day was changed to Veteran's Day. This is a major change, if you can read and detect the difference. Rather than a day where we recognize the end of wars (the technology in warfare, such as the machine gun and mustard gas, were supposed to prove the futility of warfare, thus ending wars...amazingly enough, no one learned even after Hiroshima and Nagasaki!) we now recognize a day that confirms that mankind will never cease killing each other. We couldn't have a Veteran's Day unless we have Veterans, and no veteran can exist without war. Rather than saying we'll see an end to all war, we're admitting that we'll probably be in war until the end of time.
Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt. Right, Kurt?
We should, in all honesty, observe Politician Day. Lawyer Day. Until those two participants in the circle of life come to an end, we'll never see an end to war.
At the very least, it would be a step in the right direction towards creating Armistice Day again.
Imagine all the people, John.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
And now, from Woody Allen...
From Annie Hall...
Singer: I'm so tired spending evenings making fake insights with people who work for "Dysentery".
Robin: That's "Commentary".
Singer: Oh really? I had heard that "Commentary" and "Dissent" had merged and formed "Dysentery".
Monday, April 30, 2007
Like Sands Through an Hourglass
I pour through beer!
To me, there are few sensory impulses that conjure up lost memories quite like that of the sense of smell. There are those occasions where I detect an odor, a scent, a perfume...something long lost in the confusion of the years, repressed and packed far away into the darkest, web-adorned recesses of my mind. When I see a picture, it reminds me. When I feel a certain touch or tickle, I've most likely felt it recently anyway, so the novelty is gone. When I taste a food, I've tasted something, again, that I've had recently, chiefly due to my obsessive-compulsive nature and my ratcheted routine of following a consistent (-ly bland) diet. When I hear a sound, a song...admittedly, those can take me back, too, but I routinely listen to the repetitive auditory fodder that I've kept spinning in the same, inevitable rotation since 1992.
To smell, though, something I haven't sensed in a long time...oh, Christ, that can take me back. When I walked into one of my comrade's rooms today, I instantly picked up a sweet, strong smell that grabbed me at my soul and jerked my being back to 1982, to a spring day in 2nd grade with Mrs. Smith at Lake Harbin Elementary. I suddenly was reminded of fresh crayons, construction paper, that crumbling paste that we so often tasted (if not devoured...hello, low test scores), and of the happy days of songs and play that so filled our little 7-year-old hearts with glee.
Those were good times, to be sure. To paraphrase Steinbeck, "no care then, I knew not sin. And we have not been happy since".
+++++++
I would be a complete pessimist if I agreed with that last statement. Life has been good, though not overly easy, but it has been rewarding and, so far, healthy. Honestly, it hasn't been that hard. I've plenty of sin, but I remain happy and will continue to be happy regardless of any transgressions of past, present, or future. We all learn much, and our education is never ending.
Thank God school does, though.
I'm no saint, but I'm no horrible sinner. What "sins" I've committed are relatively self-inflicted, not harming others. My scroll is relatively sparse with charged punishments, thank you very much. Thanks to Mrs. Steiner, too, I remain the master of my fate and the captain of my soul.
Memories.
I digressed a bit, but back to the subject of the olfactory. Since my grade school days and my era lacking sin (which was probably more brief than I'd like to admit), I've experienced a great deal and much of that experience has been quite nice, indeed. Of all the scents that my nostrils take in, there's one that always hits the spot, regardless of how much I may have worn that odor through my nasal passages:
Beer.
Yes, it sounds sick and depraved, and, perhaps, it is. To me, though, the hops and that crisp, alive smell just rips me back in time, to a time when things are good, great, wonderful...sublime and supreme.
Last week was rough. The kids were testing, and, as any school teacher can tell you, adjusted schedules outside of the daily grind makes the child go wild. The afternoons were bitter and my passion for the job dissipated rapidly throughout the week. By week's end, I was finding myself sipping out of a beer bottle in the afternoons. The late afternoon hours are wonderful for this...the sun is setting, the contrast of the light and shadows on the trees brings out the depth and texture of the landscape, the little creatures are scurrying about eating the vegetation on the ground and playing in the cooler hours of the late day. I grilled these afternoons, because the only thing that nearly rivals the scent of a beer is the wafting smell of searing meat. This can swipe me back to many a tailgate in Athens, a Greek festival as a kid, a south Georgia Jazz Festival, a pep rally pig roast in the middle of a country field.
Beer, though, invokes the spirit of the muse of utter bliss. I don't know if there's a muse for that, maybe a god or a cherub, but there's someone watching over that one, and everyone loves it when this guy pays us a visit. I took a good, deep drag off of the bottle and let my lips pop off the end of the bottle like a suction cup releasing from a window. The scent drifted up, and my head grew light, my body rose and travelled northeast to Athens and plopped me right down in a chair outside of Rocky's Pizza during another late afternoon, a Saturday, during the Twilight Criterium. Being surrounded by people, by friends, by music and beer, all during daylight hours...drinking wasn't being done in the shameful and hidden corners of bars. This was out in the open, celebrated. Beer was great. The day and time were better.
Another time I often drift back to was the free outdoor concert that Widespread Panic held in the late 90's. Another comes only with Corona, putting me on a beach during Spring Break, not drunk or stoned or womanizing, just sitting there drinking a beer as the skies turned red and the sun went down. Someone was playing a guitar, someone smoking a cigarette, someone was laughing and we were all pink as slamon with cheeks of bright red and hair bleached blonde by the coastal sun. We were out of our trunks and into khakis, t-shirts and light cotton shirts. Nothing could be better in the world, no matter how fantastic you may have described it to all of us. You couldn't beat it.
I drink Guinness I think of my friend Marc, I drink Michelob Ultra and I think of my friend Keith. I drink scotch (not beer, but you get the idea) I think of Vegas. I drink a wine cooler I think about the Redcoat Band and Jacksonville, Florida (who knew Jacksonville would've been considered a good place?). If I drink a good import, I generally think of New York or Alexandria, Virginia and watching the Kentucky Derby at an Irish Pub that had a little corner for Ronald Reagan reserved.
It's not the taste, though...it's always the smell. Somehow, the taste doesn't matter all that much, but the bouquet makes it complete. The drink will lighten your head, but the scent will lighten your soul.
Next time you have a beer, try it for yourself. Take a drink, then take a whiff. If you don't go back to something good, you just haven't been living.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Recent Poll Shows 70% of Americans Believe the War is Lost
Subsequent polls also showed that most Americans:
- Can't find Iraq on a map.
- Don't know what happened in India in 1947 after the British pulled out.
- Read headlines on papers but not the information contained within most of the time.
- Only express concern about the middle east when gas prices rise.
- Don't understand what effects the price of gasoline, but damn sure feel that the president has something to do with it.
- Believe in exorcisms.
- Believe in ghosts.
- Believe in bigfoot.
- Think the summer season is caused because the Earth has moved closer to the sun (believe it or not, the Earth is actually slightly closer on it's elliptical orbit during our winter months).
- Think that your digestive system can be cleansed with mystical liquids and through colonics, and that old foods are still lodged in the colon.
God, I love this country! The one great thing about teaching is that you know you'll always be needed...ignorance and stupidity are fast becoming our largest national commodity, and it ain't going away.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
So, a guy goes to the doctor...
To get an annual checkup. After the doctor runs his tests, he tells the patient that he's "pretty healthy".
Worried about the "pretty" part, the patient asked the doctor, "Doc, will I live to be 80?"
"Let me ask you a few questions first," posed the doctor. "Do you drink alcoholic beverages or smoke cigars or cigarettes?"
"No," replied the health-conscious patient. "Those things are all very bad for you".
"Okay, so do you eat fatty foods, lots of red meat, french fries, fast food," asked the doctor.
"My last doctor told me those things were bad, and that movie about fast food...ugh, I avoid all that stuff".
"Do you spend a lot of time outdoors, in the sun, sailing and fishing or hunting or boating..."
"Nope," replied the patient.
"Alright, then," stated the med. "Do you gamble, drive too fast, have lots of sex?"
"No, I avoid those even more than the fast food," stated the proud patient. "So, doc...will I live to be 80?"
Replied the doctor, "why would you give a shit?"
Monday, April 23, 2007
Teacher Request Results in Student Protest, Parent Demonstrations
Dateline: Knoxville, Tennessee
Apparently, the three "R"s aren't getting it done in school anymore, or so says one local middle school teacher.
Students at Bill Clifford, Jr. Middle School staged a protest in light of comments made by 6th grade science teacher Johnathon Longfellow, and community reaction that has followed has been equally heated.
"This is the most heinous things I've ever heard out of a teacher in my life," claims Martha Newberry, mother of 6th grade student Newt Newberry. "Mr. Longfellow needs to be removed from the classroom immediately!"
"I mean, we were just sittin' there talkin' and stuff, and all of the sudden, Mr. Longfellow goes off and says that horrible stuff," added Newt, in tears. "I mean, we're doin' nothin' wrong. He thinks school is all serious and stuff".
A group of about 40 parents and 80 students gathered near the flagpole of Clifford Middle School Monday to demonstrate their disdain for Longfellow and the methodology he applies to his classroom. Some parents plan to attend the Wednesday evening School Board Meeting to demand his dismissal.
"Honestly, you'd think I hit one of the kids by the way they're acting. Apparently, it's much worse to try to challenge them than to beat them," said a calm Longfellow as he was placing his personal effects into the trunk of his car. "In all my years of teaching, I've seen some bizarre things, but this event rests firmly upon the apex above them all".
Longfellow, a 24 year teaching veteran of the small southern school district, has seen the days of classroom education change in many ways, but the events of Monday morning, according to the educator, is indicative of the direction in which education is slowly sliding.
"I was attempting to lead the class in a critical thinking activity about global warming, based on information we had - strike that, I mean, I had - gathered off of the internet for them. As we were arriving at some conclusions, I challenged them to look at the information and to try to arrive at a decision on the causes of global warming, you know, whether it was being accelerated by man or if it were caused by inevitable forces of nature," claims Longfellow.
"After taking another 20 minutes to explain what 'inevitable' and 'accelerated' and 'nature' and 'man' all meant, I realized that most were not paying attention to the information and were simply repeating things they'd heard on TV, which are largely based on misinformation or, what's worse, politicians".
"Yeah, he was talkin all faggoty and stuff, usin' big words like 'indivisible' and stuff," said Raine Porter, a student of Longfellow's. "I mean, who he think he is, Dr. Doolittle or somethin? He just a teacher."
Continues Longfellow, "so, I told them to actually read the information for a change, working in groups (Longfellow claims that half of his students cannot read on a second grade level), and to come back to me in 20 minutes with a scientifically rational answer. Of course, I spent the next ten minutes explaining 'rational' to the group".
It was then that this little school turned heads across the nation. With one bold statement, Longfellow may have brought his teaching career to an end.
"So, ten minutes go by and we get back together. When asked for better responses, they simply stated the same thing they had twenty minutes before, except this time they claimed that they had the facts to back it up. When I asked them for the facts, they could not find any, and cited the television again. I pointed out that two of the articles - one about the "Little Ice Age" that ended in the mid 1800s and the fall line across Georgia that indicated that half of the state was once underwater - provided evidence that icecaps have melted once before and that it was more a force of nature than of man. I told them - and this is the apparent source of grievance - that 'if they took a minute to actually think for a minute, much of this would not be so hard'".
The powderkeg lit, students exploded into a frenzy.
"I started textin my friend, like "lol, he so crzy" and she texted me back with "nfw, o no he dint, he tel us 2 think?" Yeah, we were callin' our mommas right then and there," stated Porter.
"Apparently, they all had cell phones and they had all been very active during class with them. A parent actually showed up to my classroom door five minutes later. It's funny, I've tried to get that parent in here at least three dozen times throughout the school year, and she finally showed up today" said Longfellow, obviously disturbed. "I never knew that asking so mundane a thing would result in such fervor".
It's no surprise that a call for intelligent action in the classroom has created such a disruption at the Middle School. For example:
- In the Fall of 1999, parents directed a rally on school grounds against an administrative decision to implement a 30-minute-per-weeknight math homework policy to try to boost the school's math scores by practicing basic addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. Parents complained on the basis that they couldn't help their children with the homework, despite its simplicity. When the former principal retorted by telling the parents that "if your kids paid attention in school, there'd be no need to help them". The comment resulted in the immediate dismissal of the principal and an abandonment of the policy.
- In 2002, the literacy program at Clifford Middle attempted to implement a writing policy program that encouraged thirty minutes of creative writing skills in class per day. After two months of the program, students rejected the efforts, claiming it intruded on valuable "talkin' time". Parents argued in favor of the student.
- In 2004, a Resource Office for the school was fired after giving an anti-drug speech called "Drugs are Bad - Pushers Are Worse". Parents of the students attending the speech successfully sued the School Board in a class action defamation suit, claiming that the R.O. was telling kids that their own parents were, indeed, worse than drugs.
Since 1992, tests scores at Clifford Middle have dropped from a one-time high of 98% success rates to an abyssmal 5% "barely meets" rate on CRCT testing. In the same span of time, free and reduded lunch applications rose from 2% in 1992 to 100% for the 2006-2007 school year. These numbers are surprising given that the communities that attend Clifford Middle have the highest per capita cell phone usage in the state and contain fifteen Mercedes Benz and Hummer businesses that enjoy the highest lease percentages amongst nationwide dealers.
"I guess it's a sign of the times," sighed Longfellow as he placed his articles in the trunk of his 1983 Honda Accord. "I shouldn't have said it in such simple English. If I had said something like 'provided that you fired off neurons that ran the course of your medulla oblongata and generated electricity in the gray matter of your cranium, you'd find it all elementary'. They wouldn't have understood three words of that...fact of the matter is, 99% of your readers wouldn't either".
When asked what he might do next for a profession, Longfellow remained pensive. "Perhaps I'll choose something more rewarding, working with things of greater intelligence and common sense".
Where and with whom that will be?
"Maybe in Antarctica, working with jellyfish" replied Longfellow.
Welcome to the Lighter Side...
Well, there are at least three of you who read my screeds, so I figured I'd offer a slightly lighter side to my rants and ravings.
This would be the calming ying that accompanies my raging (and often dominant) yang.
Thanks for reading, enjoy...
This would be the calming ying that accompanies my raging (and often dominant) yang.
Thanks for reading, enjoy...
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