Why I Hate Bill Clinton

I got inside her oval office

I know this may seem as relevant as it is timely, but you can't time when the mysteries of the universe are revealed to you through a drug-induced stupor after an opium bender in Hong Kong with a body building ex-cabinet minister from Croatia with one testicle.  It happens when it's meant to happen.  I'm not sure why, but the other day I was having grunge flashbacks of the 90's and all of the sudden an image of the Clint-meister popped into my head followed swiftly by waves of anger then rage.  It took me a couple minutes to figure out what the hell was happening to me, then I realized it was some kind of repressed emotions brought on by some acute trauma.  I also realized it was in some way tied to an intense hatred directed at the former US president.

I don't know what exactly triggered memories of everybody's favourite (living) ex-president/ladies man, but the more I thought about it the more the pieces started falling into place.  I didn't hate Clinton for his policies.  I didn't hate Clinton because of his affair with Monica Lewinski (but seriously, you have your choice of ANY woman in the free world, and that's the pick of the litter in your eyes?).  I didn't even hate him because he lied about his presidential indiscretions.  In fact, I hated him for the exact opposite reason.  I hated him because he stopped lying.

The problem with Bill Clinton is that he betrayed the Brotherhood of Liars and made it harder for liars the world over -your truly included- to ply their trade.  If Bill Clinton -a world leader and one of the most powerful and influential men in the world- could be broken and admit to lying, then what chance did the rest of us had?  That fucker brought down so much heat on the rest of us that even thinking about him now I can feel my balls sweating profusely.

For those of you uninitiated in the art form of lying -and, used properly, it can be elevated to an art form- allow me this brief (if somewhat distasteful) moment of honesty to explain to you the fundamentals of truly effective lying.  Most people are amateur liars.  Everybody lies.  It's a simple fact.  We lie to each other and to ourselves for all kinds of different reasons ("Does this dress make me look gay?"  "Of course not, Adam."), but most people do it as a habit and not as a rule.  There are socially acceptable forms of lying that we engage in all the time (i.e. Santa Clause, telling your kid she's good at everything, tipping etc.), but most people don't really go above and beyond the call of duty or when really pressed stupidly blurt out the truth, or just can't lie for shit when the pressure is on.

But the really great liars will lie consciously, and sometimes for no good reason.  Well, no good reason to the untrained observer.  One reason for continual lying is to keep in practice.  The other reason to pepper everyday life with pointless lies is wear people down always keeping them on their toes until they're so confused they don't which way is up and will be open to believing almost anything.  (If you think it doesn't work, just take a look at the success Republicans have had with subverting Obama's universal health care initiative with lies of such ridiculous magnitude that it seems like a great deal of Americans seem to be actively trying to be fooled.)  The point is that in order to lie effectively people can't tell the difference whether you're lying or not.

The tricky part then becomes be able to successfully fake sincerity and exude the aura of honesty.  This is not as hard as it sounds, though it does require a great deal of practice and dedication.  And that leads us to one of the fundamental aspects of truly effective lying.  The best liars are the best because they aren't lying.  The key to effective lying is not to lie at all; you simply have to believe everything you say as you're saying it (or for as long as you need to until whatever situation you got yourself into blows over).  That's the thing that people don't understand.  The greatest lies aren't really lies at all.  Because truth is relative to the perception of the individual, then as long as one person believes the lie (including the liar himself) then it is not really a lie at all.

Bill Clinton had the first fundamental down cold.  That's not why I hate him.  The reason I hate Clinton is that he failed to adhere to the second fundamental of lying.  The second fundamental has to do with people challenging your lie, or providing incontrovertible "proof" that you are, in fact, lying (i.e. the words you are saying contradict the hard evidence).  This is often referred to by people in the business as "being in the hot seat."  Yet even in the face of (key word here) seemingly incontrovertible proof, all hope is not lost thanks to the second fundamental of lying which has three very simple rules:
1) Deny.
2) Deny.
3) Deny.    

That's what Clinton never understood and what separates the truly exceptional from the amateurs.  Truly effective lying requires complete and total dedication.  That's where Clinton fucked it up for the rest of us.  The moment he admitted that he had lied, that he lost faith in his own lie -his own reality that he had created- was the moment he lost all power.  If you ever admit that you were lying, you destroy the power of the lie.  You destroy the appearance of credibility and integrity that you have built up with your audience that is necessary to manipulate and control them, which is, of course, the ultimate purpose of lying.  When you backpedal or try to recant or re-clarify your original story, then the whole damn thing falls apart.  You simply cannot maintain even the slightest shred of integrity if you vary from your original lie in the least bit.  Even if people believe they have you dead to rights they can still muster up a grudging kind of respect for the iron will of a man or woman who will stick to their original story even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.  The moment you give up any ground you look like a fucking little kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  Pathetic.

When Clinton admitted he had been lying when he denied the affair with Lewinski he opened the floodgates.  If a bunch of hacks from FOX News could break the will of the President of the United States of America (no affiliation with the (questionably) popular band from the 90s) then what the hell kind of chance did the rest of us have?  All of the sudden ball busters came out of the woodwork and started beating liars into submission, questioning everything, applying their reason and logic unrelentingly.  Cynicism is the natural enemy of the liar.  Cynics question everything and take nothing at face value.  Do you realize how difficult it is to try and get people to believe anything in a social climate like that?  In the wake of Clinton's bullshit, people began actively seeking out lies and the liars they belonged to, hunting us down almost to extinction just like the Jedi.  And like the Jedi liars had to use their own brand of mind tricks to wear people back down, whittle away all the cynicism, and suspicion, and self-righteousness to get to that delicious, creamy middle of apathy and confusion that's like pay dirt for the liar.  

And that's why I hate Bill Clinton.  He was a fucking amateur and made the rest of us look bad.  He was the worst kind of liar; the kind without the backbone enough to endure the hot seat.  If you're going to lie, do it with integrity.  Do it with respect.  If you're going to lie, then lie honestly.  When Clinton admitted to the lie, what he ultimately admitted to was the only unconscionable form of lying: self-deception.  The cardinal rule of lying, in order to lie to others effectively, you must be completely, brutally honest with yourself.  Also, as per the first fundamental of lying, you have to believe what you're saying is absolutely true.  When Bill Clinton admitted he was lying to us, he admitted he was lying to himself as well.  The reality he had created in his own mind he exposed as bogus.  It's a house of cards.  If you expose one part of your reality as a lie, then where does it stop?  How many of your personal truths can be revealed as lies before your whole goddamn world collapses around you (metaphysically speaking)?  Bill Clinton's shitty lying revealed the very real danger and hidden fear of amateur and expert liars alike, that when you stop believing your own story you stop believing in yourself.  I hate Bill Clinton because he represents the possibility that my own house of cards might one day be brought toppling down.  I hate Bill Clinton for reminding me of my own nagging self-doubt and for exposing my own vulnerability.  I hate Bill Clinton not because he exposed the error of our ways, but for the implication that our way was error-filled at all.  If I can't even choose the lies I believe in, then what the hell can I do?      

In the Ring: Warrior VS The Fighter

What the hell is a "Rocky?"

ROCKY has undoubtedly come to be perceived in popular culture as the archetypal boxing movie.  In fact whenever anybody mentions the words "boxing" and "movie" in the same sentence he is usually directly or indirectly conjuring up associations with ROCKY in his audience, unless of course the sentence is something like "I was pounding her pussy like a one-legged Argentinian and a shaved gorilla in three foot boxing ring and filming the whole thing so I could post the movie on YouTube in time for her birthday."  But otherwise, you're probably in some way referencing ROCKY and/or comparing another boxing film to ROCKY.

This is complicated and confusing and unhelpful for several reasons.  First, while ROCKY was a great film and a film that I thoroughly enjoy, it was not strictly speaking the best boxing film ever made.  While that title is fairly arbitrary, I think that it could be reasonably argued in a court of law that RAGING BULL was a superior movie in almost every conceivable way.  RAGING BULL is a more complexly layered, better acted, better filmed character study than ROCKY could ever hope to be.  Unlike RAGING BULL, ROCKY also contains some of the most ridiculously choreographed fights ever to appear on film (except, of course, for its five totally unnecessary yet completely entertaining sequels).  Anybody who a) watches boxing or MMA or any martial art that contains striking b) who has ever been in a fight themselves or c) knows the slightest about basic concepts of physics will immediately recognize that the fighting style employed by both Rocky Balboa and Apollo Creed is completely ridiculous (people in the fighting world would refer to it as "stupid") and in the real world would lead to one of the quickest and least interesting fights in all of history.

I'm talking of course about the tendency of boxers in the ROCKYverse not to defend themselves or block any shots at all, especially to their heads.  I know part of the whole mythology of Rocky is that he has an iron jaw and can take all kinds of punishment, yadda, yadda, yadda, but every once in a while the total absurdity of simply letting another full-grown, testosterone-filled human being hit you in the head without trying to defend yourself or dodge in the slightest kind of slaps you upside the head.  I don't care how tough you are, there is not a man or woman alive on the planet, no matter how tough his or her jaw was, would not either go down or start to feel his/her legs buckle after five or six completely unguarded shots to the old cranium.  This kind of illogical approach to fighting is even more apparent in the even more absurd fight at the end of ROCKY V when Rocky and Tommy Gunn when they have a bare knuckle brawl employing the exact same strategy of pure offence with absolutely no sign of even thinking about defence.  OK, even if I conceded that in the ring with boxing gloves employing Rocky's No-Block school of fighting the toughest fighter in the history of the world might last at the most one round, maybe two or three if he was one tough motherfucker, but in a back alley pounding each other bare handed this style will get you knocked out in seconds.  You can't just keep moving forward with your chin stuck out.  Being hit with a bare fist packs a lot more wallop than getting pounded with a set of gloves.  Believe me, I know, I've experienced both and bare hands inflict a lot more damage per blow. (That's what she said.)  Especially if you come up on somebody's chin, at the very least his legs are going to start to give way.

Even with all that said, I still love watching ROCKY and get pumped every single time I see it and all that shit that I just went on about doesn't really matter at all or really take anything away from the movie or its sequels.

This kind of (in a very roundabout way) leads me to the second reason why comparisons to ROCKY as the archetypal boxing movie are generally confusing and unhelpful.  As an example I will use my example of comparing ROCKY to RAGING BULL.  While I did this to emphasize a point, the comparison is fairly useless because ROCKY and RAGING BULL are two very different types of movies.  While both employ the boxing world as a backdrop to explore the lives of the protagonists, I think the similarities really end there.  RAGING BULL is an intense, some might say brooding, film about a very flawed protagonist with a great gift who squandered his personal relationships fucked up his life and hit rock bottom.  ROCKY is naively hopeful tale of a nobody given a shot at greatness, succeeding only in winning a personal, moral victory.  ROCKY is less about boxing and more about the narrative of the perseverent underdog.  And that's where the problem comes when comparing all boxing movies to ROCKY.

All boxing movies are not all boxing movies.  People wrongly compare them in the simplest of terms ie. that the protagonist is somehow engaged in the sport of boxing.  This is a very weak comparison.  You can't reasonably compare on any fundamental level movies like ROCKY and THE BOXER or ROCKY and MILLION DOLLAR BABY.  Or at least you can't try to evaluate them within the archetypal framework of ROCKY.  ROCKY is not a narrative about boxing, it's a narrative about the underdog.  Now for fairly obvious narrative reasons the rhetoric of the underdog lends itself especially well to the boxing movie genre, but really the main archetype that Rocky Balboa represents is not The Ultimate Warrior but The Unlikely, Well-Deserved Victor.  In this way ROCKY has more in common genetically with narratives about  any person or group who was not favoured to win a particular competition but who overcomes the odds and is able to transcend what everybody thought was important, always by proving some form of superior character (ie. courage, perseverence, etc.) and earning respect from the people who had previously scorned him, and only sometimes is this accomplished by actually succeeding in the given field.  In this way ROCKY has more in common with COOL RUNNINGS or A FEW GOOD MEN or even GATTACA than with RAGING BULL.

This brings me to something I've been wanting to get off my chest for a while.  I need to explain one of the core piss-offs of the underdog narratives, one of its central tropes, the conceptualization that at the same time as it almost completely destroys the willing suspension of disbelief and the enjoyability of the narrative is also at least in some small way necessary to its function.  What I'm referring to is the characterization of the champion in the underdog narrative.

You see, in order for there to be a narrative that centers around the Underdog as the protagonist this by necessity means that there needs to be a Champion established as the antagonist.  The Champion is of utmost importance in the underdog narrative because this antagonist represents the ultimate obstacle that stands between the underdog and his victory.  In order for this to work on an emotional level, the Champion must be everything the Underdog is not.  The Champion has to be the absolute best at whatever it is he does, and not just the best but he has to be considered as virtually unbeatable by everybody else in the world of that particular narrative.  If the Underdog must be portrayed as down on his luck, depressed, and full of potential then the Champion is shown to be on top of the world, self-fulfilled and fully realized in his potential, so much so that he borders on becoming deified; the Underdog is a mere mortal but the Champion is virtually a god.  Part of what makes the underdog narrative so compelling is the fact that the apparently invincible can still be defeated by the vincible.  The longer the shot for the Underdog to become successful the greater the emotional payoff for the audience when he triumphs over the Champion (or so conventional wisdom holds).  

The most important characteristic that divides the Underdog and the Champion, and where the whole thing really falls apart for me is humility.  The Underdog is almost always portrayed as the humble, hard-working everyman in contrast to the Champion who almost always comes across as a pompous, arrogant, proud asshole who has come to believe in his own press and his own invincibility.  The Champion is almost universally demonized and turned into some inhuman creature to be slain by the tragic Greek hero.  In contrast to the Underdog, the defining characteristic that defines the Champion is hubris, again the theory goes something like the more of an arrogant dickhead the Champion is the greater the emotional payoff for the audience when he is beaten by the Underdog (or so conventional wisdom holds).

But to me this seems like a very ineffective narrative device.  Not only does it turn (what should be) a central character in the narrative into a one-dimensional archetypal cardboard cutout, it almost completely negates the victory of the Underdog himself.  Following the logic of the underdog narrative it goes something like this:

1) The Champion must be a total asshat
2) The Underdog triumphs over the Champion
3) The Underdog becomes the new Champion and since the Champion is always a douchebag,
4) The Underdog becomes the new Asshole and you -the audience- have just spent the last two hours cheering for an asshole.

When the realization hits you that by emotionally siding with the Underdog what you were really cheering for wasn't the Underdog becoming a Champion, but for his (eventual) transformation into a totally despicable, reprehensible human being who bites the ears off his opponents, rapes random women or runs an illegal dog-fighting ring.  You were silently cheering for evil to ultimately triumph.  And that's always why secretly you always wanted Luke to turn to the dark side at the end of RETURN OF THE JEDI.  It's also the fundamental flaw with the underdog narrative.

But why?  Why does the Champion have to be an arrogant, undefeatable prick and an unconscionable bastard?  Why can't filmmakers (or writers) tell a story that fleshes out the characters on both sides of a competition?  Why can't I feel sympathy for "the villain"?  It worked in STAR WARS.  Is it supposed to be some kind of ironic reversal?  Is the Champion supposed to learn humility and then become a better person?  Is his fall supposed to be some kind of philosophical, humanizing triumph?  Is he really the character, then, that we should have been cheering for all along?

I don't know, it's just bugs me that we're intrinsically supposed to agree with the whole Fuck the Guy on Top paradigm.  Apparently, if you're successful you are by necessity an asshole?  Have all champions since the beginning of time all really been assholes?  Yeah, fuck you Abraham Lincoln.

So what the hell was the point of all this again?  Oh yeah, THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR.  You have to think of these two movies out of the context of ROCKY.  Or at least, partially.  The common thread amongst these movies isn't the boxing (or MMA fighting -which is increasingly supplanting boxing in the modern Hollywood fighting narrative-  in the case of WARRIOR); it's the narrative of the underdog.  But that's about where the similarity between these movies ends.

Let's go through a brief blow by blow of THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR, and then I'll tell you why they're both fucking awesome.  The big thing to keep in mind is that, ultimately, these are stories about the relationships between brothers.  In both movies the fighting is a storytelling device to explore the relationship between two grown men who couldn't legally fuck each other even if they wanted to (Not saying that they would want to, I was just making a statement about the authority of the government to decide who you can and cannot fuck or even marry.  Think about it.).  They're both giant sausage/love fests, except instead of sitting around talking about their emotions, and crying on each other's shoulders, and having naked pillow fights, and eating ice cream, and crying some more, and maybe even making out a little... Sorry, where was I  Oh yeah, the pairs of brothers portrayed in THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR work out their problems like real men: by pummeling something with their bare fists.  Preferably something living, and preferably something with a face.

Fighting is a great metaphor for the tumultuous storm of emotions raging inside a testosterone-packed man because it's not really a metaphor at all; physical violence is the default and only mode men have of dealing with their emotions.  See, the way men deal with emotions (read: the right way) is to bottle them all way down inside, drown them in alcohol, until you get to that comfortably numb rut known as Day to Day Life.  Then when some shit disturbs the balance, all of those emotions come flooding out like if somebody released an emotional dam, and then those manly emotions manifest themselves in violence.  If nobody is around then that violence will be wasted on inanimate objects like TVs, dishwashers, priceless Ming vases, family heirlooms of various varieties, and/or the family car.  While it certainly is satisfying to watch your TV explode into a thousand, sparkling shards in the middle of your driveway, it's still not as good as it gets.  No, the ultimate satisfaction comes if there is another red-blooded male around, especially if he is the one who caused you to lose your shit in the first place, or just some asshole you don't like (read: 90% of the population).  It's infinitely more satisfying watching the face of your opponent explode as you ram your bruised and broken knuckles repeatedly into his skull and having to wring out your blood-stained clothes afterwards.  It's a lot more satisfying asserting your dominance over something that can fight back (but also who is preferably slightly more out of shape than you).  If you're a chick this may sound horrible, but this is the proper way for normally adjusted human males to settle disputes with each other.  Anything else would be uncivilized (10 bonus points for anybody who can tell me what the hell that's from.).

THE FIGHTER, starring Christian Bale, follows the "true" story of world famous boxer Micky Ward (Mark Wahlberg) and his older brother Dicky Eklund (Bale) as Micky overcomes adversity and becomes the world middle weight (or light heavy, I can't fucking remember) boxing champion and fucks Amy Adams along the way.  Micky has to contend not only with getting out from under his older brother's shadow (whose boxing claim to fame consisted of once knocking down (but not out) Sugar Ray Leonard), but also his white trash family, especially his domineering mother/manager who keeps making disastrous, short-sighted decisions.  On top of that is Dicky's crack problem, which winds both he and Micky in trouble with the law.  When watching THE FIGHTER I suddenly realized how much I hate white people.  Micky's family is depicted as about as white trash as you can get, and one of the main complaints I had about the movie were that Micky's six or seven sisters were so white trash that they became caricatures as opposed to characters and derailed the tone of the movie.

WARRIOR stars Tom "Bane" Hardy and Joel "Uncle Owen" Edgerton as two estranged brothers with a penchant for mixed martial arts.  Hardy plays Tommy, the badass younger ex-marine with anger management issues and Edgerton portrays Brendan the ex-MMA fighter turned high school math teacher struggling to pay the medical bills for his rarely-seen yet critically-ill daughter and occasionally fucking Jennifer Morrison.  Nick Nolte gives perhaps the performance of his lifetime as the father of these two brothers, a reformed alcoholic trying desperately to make up for the sins of his past and reconcile with his estranged sons whose only common ground is their dislike of him.  Once again, another example of how fucked up white folks are.  Basically the premise of the movie that causes shit to come to a head is the Spartan MMA tournament funded by some rich white guy to "find out who the toughest guy in the world is."  Even if all you've seen is the movie posters, you're almost certain that the finale will involve the two brothers, each fighting for his own noble cause.

So how great are these movies?  Pretty fucking.  Both THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR deliver on so many levels:

1) Talent: THE FIGHTER brings us Christian Bale, Mark Wahlberg, Amy Adams, Melissa Leo (for which she one an Oscar, for whatever that's worth these days) while WARRIOR shares with the world Joel Edgerton, Tom Hardy, Nick Nolte and Jennifer Morrison.  Everybody wins.

2) THE FIGHTER has the hotness of Amy Adams and the see through bra and WARRIOR has the hotness of Jennifer Morrison and her great ass in a pair of perfectly fit underwear (you know the scene I mean).  Everybody wins (but especially straight men and lesbians).  (I had no idea when she was on House how hot Morrison actually was.)

3) THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR both had a great story with a lot of touching and/or emotional moments that really engaged the audience.

4) THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR both bring on the action when necessary and even though you're pretty sure what the outcomes of the big fights in both films are going to be, you're still emotionally invested enough to give a shit.

5)  THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR both really nail the emotionally poignant take on brother-brother relationship, and the key demographic for both movies is made pretty clear from the get-go.  If you're a dude with a brother these movies will probably be more emotionally accessible to you, but they're well written enough that the themes will be engaging enough for viewers of all ages and persuasions.  As both sets of brothers exercise their demons it's pretty hard not to be moved (especially in WARRIOR when Tommy finally taps out to love.  You just been SPOILED!)

6)  Most importantly to our previous discussion of all the underdog narrative from before is that not only can THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR not be effectively compared directly to other boxing/fighting movies, but they also resist the underdog trope that is at the heart of ROCKY and all of his thrilling sequels.  Both movies are ostensibly about underdog characters in some way, but that's not really the focus.  Neither THE FIGHTER or WARRIOR is a "new ROCKY", and that's not necessarily a good thing or a bad thing.  It's just  a thing.

As I've already pointed out (and will continue to point out) both of these movies are really about reconciling familial relationships, especially those of the brotherly persuasion.  THE FIGHTER is not really an underdog story because the main character Micky Ward doesn't really fit the criteria.  As outlined above the underdog cannot start off as an asshole, but Ward is definitely portrayed as kind of a dickhead.  He's this white trash boxer with a kid he barely sees (or references after the first twenty minutes of the movie) who consistently gets drawn into his family's shit.  Ward is portrayed fairly sympathetically, but in the movie he consistently makes bad decisions, and the final fight between Micky and Shea Neary is less about the face off between the fighters in the ring and more about Ward unleashing all of his pent up emotional shit between him and his brother on the opponent.  The significant thing isn't the win; it's the fact that the two brothers were able to reconcile and work together.

WARRIOR came the closest I've ever seen to solving my Underdog/Champion conundrum by getting the audience emotionally invested in both fighters in the final showdown.  (Plus there's the visceral enjoyment of watching grown men beating the shit out of each other on film.)  Because you get to follow both of the characters who make it to the final showdown you become emotionally invested in both of them, even though there's a slight imbalance and you're kind of given clues as to who to cheer for.  Still, I think the film wouldn't have been emotionally any less poignant or significant had the fight gone the other way.  The point is WARRIOR is not really an underdog narrative because the final fight is a fight between two supposed underdogs, which means that there were no sub-canine proclivities whatsoever.

One way they do compare to ROCKY is that they are both awesome.  I don't know if it's just because I'm getting older and set in my ways, but ROCKY still edges them out slightly, but only slightly.  There's a certain tendency in movies these days to wink at the audience, but not expertly like Kevin Smith did in JAY AND SILENT BOB STRIKE BACK.  Either way, both THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR quickly found a place in my heart and my collection and I'd highly recommend watching either of them over and over again for a week straight, just because.  I give THE FIGHTER and WARRIOR both a 9/10 = Two Highly Trained Athletes Beating Each Other Senseless For The Amusement of Lesser Men

Past the Brink... Arbitrary Milestones, Body Modification and Soft Core Paranoia in the Time of Chicken Wing. Chances of Redemption Thoroughly Squandered

It was raining like a bastard.

I'm not sure exactly how it is a bastard would manifest himself meteorologically, but if he could he would most definitely have been the rain that was coming down around me on the evening of December 30th, 2011.  It wasn't a particularly heavy downpour, but it was doing its best to bring down the curtain early.  The problem wasn't really the rain.  The problem was that the rain was mixing with the snow to fill the streets with a sloppy, slushy, frozen mixture that seemed somehow able to completely ignore the waterproof label that was clearly visible on my boots.

Son of a bitch.

The alcohol flowing freely through my veins helped with the frozen wet sensation seeping into my feet and a vague sense of impotence.  Trudging through that sludge in the street it felt as though the universe had prematurely ejaculated all over our little blue planet and I was just one of a couple billion helpless sperm that were not going on to fertilize anything or create anything.  I was just part of some wasted biological matter left over after a (short but) good time and then swiftly deposited on a wet blue tissue then rolled up and tossed away into the vastness of space.

December 30th, 2011.  It was the date of my 30th birthday and it was shaping up to be as satisfyingly disappointing as I'd secretly hoped it would be all along.  We love to feel like shit.  I wasn't at the big birthday party I had been planning to throw for myself, my Big 30th On the 30th, a mystical intersection of numbers that I had tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to imbue with some sense of meaning or significance.  Due to circumstances not entirely beyond my control I had moved to another city far away from most family and friends to go back to school thereby effectively putting the kibosh on any type of party mobilization.  I had managed to round up a couple familiar faces to help me over the brink.  Ryebone and my brother Matthew had made their way down  to whatever city in the Western hemisphere that I may currently be living in.  Instead of partying and drinking all day I had to watch my two kids because my wife had started a new job and was at the bottom of the shitheap and really she couldn't afford to turn down any shifts.  Instead of ordering my traditional birthday wings from The Moose I was dragging my feet through four inches of semi-frozen slush in the street going over to Montana's for some generic (yet surprisingly satisfying) chain restaurant stock staples.  At least I was on my way to getting genuinely and dangerously shitfaced.

I reached up to scratch my left arm then quickly stopped mindful of the potential implications.

Rewind two days.  The 28th of December.  I was standing nervously in the entrance of a local tattoo parlour trying to figure out if the artists had figured out that I was a phony and were secretly plotting to take me out back and beat me with socks full of quarters and bags of Valencia oranges.  There was one particularly large tattooist who obviously worked out ate a lot of protein and had a fairly high pain threshold evidenced by the sheer volume of tattoos running down his arms and and circling his skull.

I was following through on a year-long plan to commemorate my thirty years on this strange planet with a permanent mark on my dermal layer.  I'm not sure exactly when or where I had hatched this plan, or why I felt it was a particularly effective monument to the three decades I had wasted loitering around this foggy blue sphere to have some stranger use a needle to force ink deep under my skin into some kind of personally significant image.  Especially when my wife's impulse was to buy me the Kinect, which would have fed my video game obsession and probably (read: definitely) cost considerably less.  There had always been talk about "What would you get if you got a tattoo?" followed by girlish manly giggling as my friends and I threw out increasingly ridiculous ideas and sizes for tattoos (though nothing we could imagine could ever match the glory that is Dragon Dick).  I had always shied away from the idea because it seemed that so many people around me -the hip and the square alike- had tattoos that the originality that I had always associated with having a tattoo seemed diluted somehow like the sitcom or a soft drink from McDonalds left out overnight so all the ice melts but you drink it anyway because you're hung over.  Even though I was a consumer whore who wholly embraced brand loyalty, lived for the high (and inevitable guilt) that invariably came from making a purchase, and embraced Wal-Mart with open arms and erect dick, my first instinct was still to embrace and value counter-culture, some ubiquitous force working against "the man."  What counter-culture represented wasn't wholly rebellious, but really a type of elitism where you could count yourself a member of a community (if only in the barest sense) through the knowledge of a certain set of cultural parameters to which a large majority of the population was oblivious.  In conversations with friends and strangers you could identify fellow cult members through certain key words or phrases, like a secret verbal  handshake, a cipher of Masonic proportions and implications, unlock the door and enter a secret clubhouse whose access was restricted to those "in the know."

I was wrong on two counts.  First, those truly involved in the "tattoo culture" differed a great deal from the band of yuppies, aging hipsters, university students looking to get the obligatory tramp stamp, fat balding men in mid-mid-life-crisis, and bored house wives looking for a taste of "the wild side" on which they had previously failed to walk.  Culture -and sub-culture- was not some monolithic construction, but rather a spectrum that ranged from the hard-core to the tourist.  Unfortunately, in this instance I was closer to the tourist end of the spectrum, and I felt it acutely as I tend to.  Even though it seemed that there was a wave of people branded with various bullshit like the now-cliched Chinese characters that seemed ready to crash down upon me, simply "having a tattoo" in no way, shape or form automatically qualified one for entrance into tattoo culture.  It was the same reason that owning a motorcycle and wearing a leather jacket branded with the Hell's Angels logo didn't automatically qualify one for entry into the Hell's Angels.  Even though my mission parameters involved getting a tattoo and everybody who worked there was really friendly I could tell that I was in no danger of becoming one of the Elite in this particular circle.

Second, while I wasn't exactly being offered the keys to a certain cultural kingdom, neither was I being completely excluded.  One of the factors that had previously kept me from considering a tattoo was the fact that so many people I knew had them.  I was somehow worried about being "unoriginal" whatever that meant.   It was impossible to be truly original in the sense that we tend to think about it.  Most people aren't original.  Most people don't create new things.  But getting a tattoo wouldn't make me unoriginal.  What weapon we did have was innovation.  I was only "unoriginal" in the conventional sense if I was somehow defined by a single character trait or personal attribute.  We don't "invent" ourselves, we "innovate" an identity by collecting a unique combination of traits and attributes.  If I waited around to do something unique that nobody else in the world had ever conceived of before I would be waiting for a very long fucking time.  I couldn't deprive myself of something I wanted just because somebody else wanted it too.  It's fucking ridiculous.  The creed of the hipster was no way to lead a self-fulfilling life.

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm, uh, looking to get a tattoo."

"Well, you came to the right place."

The dude in front of me with the baseball cap, glasses and neatly trimmed beard greeted me with a smile.  My first instinct when deciding on a tattoo parlour was to follow word of mouth from people I knew.  I figured it would be the safest way to go.  But since I had moved to a new city and didn't know anybody who had been inked locally I had had to go the nerdy route and look up establishments online.  My second instinct was to go with the biggest place I could find.  I figured any institution that could sustain a staff of seven or eight artists indefinitely must have a descent health record.  I figured safety in numbers.  If I didn't know anybody's reputation personally then I'd go with the biggest.  Trust the beast.  Wal-Mart syndrome.  Somehow I was able to muddle my way through, showing him a picture of what I wanted, getting a quote on the price, going over health and safety questions and setting up an appointment for the next day.

Fast forward.

December 29, 2011.  I was lying in a comfortable chair in a muscle shirt fighting the urge to fall asleep while some dude I barely knew branded me permanently with an image of my choosing which you can check out right here:

For those of you uneducated swine who don't know what this means you can do your own fucking research on wikipedia all about gonzo (no, not the muppet).  The tattoo is cool, and is kind of annoying having to explain it to (almost) everybody I've shown it to so far, but in this way I have engaged with a very particular sort of elitism in a very particular sub-culture, and so have that particular satisfaction to enrich my life.  The reason for this having this particular symbol immortalized on my body is complex, but basically boils down to the fact that it was the calling card of Hunter S. Thompson who was the best of the best at what he did, which, incidentally, is also what I hope to do.

The procedure itself was actually much less painful than I had imagined and was done in about half of the originally estimated four hours (based upon a rough idea of the size I had tried to explain the day before).  The real bitch of it came in the days and weeks that followed when, sure enough, just as the dude at the tattoo place had predicted the area of skin that had been tattooified would feel like a really bad sunburn.  It was sensitive as hell, and two weeks have flown by, but during the first half of that fortnight my left arm hurt like a son of a bitch.

"Alright, boys, let's drink our balls off!"

It was Matthew's voice ringing around in my head.  Somewhere through the tense music and terrible sounds of virtual bodies being ripped apart by thousands of rounds of virtual ammunition that punctuated every game of Left 4 Dead I registered my brother's voice as I took another swig of the cold beer I cradled in my hand.

"Let's get stupid!"

He punctuated this by going right up to a witch and bitch slapping her resulting in his own swift demise.  Despite 48 hours of tutoring, Matthew still refused to sneak by any of the witches in Left 4 Dead, instead choosing the baffling strategy of voluntary massacre at the hands of that genetically modified she-bitch.  I'm not sure exactly why Matthew seemed intent to keep banging his head against the proverbial wall, but I'm sure it had something to do with the contrary nature we had both inherited: the more I advised against startling the witch, the more he seemed bound and determined to do just that.

"Eat shit and die you zombie bastards!"

Waiting for my wife to come home from work on the evening of my birthday Matthew, Ryebone and myself had taken to killing some zombies on Ye Olde Xbox and drinking heavily.  Luckily for us liquor and zombies don't mix, and as usual alcohol seemed to improve our skill at everything, although I had to physically restrain Ryebone when in a fit of drunken insanity he almost succeeded in lighting an improvised Molotov cocktail in my living room as he frantically screamed "I'm calling zombie bullshit!" and trying unsuccessfully to bite my nose off, his go to defence after recently watching the last half of SILENCE OF THE LAMBS over and over again every night for three months for no apparent reason.  In true (My Family Name Here) fashion, Matthew never missed a beat and was able to completely tune out the rest of the world and zone in completely on the TV screen totally oblivious to everyone and everything around him.

At last my wife got home just in time for us to abandon her and go out for a few more drinks and some sustenance.  Because my wife didn't get off work until 9 o'clock and because all three of us had already started drinking the plan was to walk over to Montana's Steakhouse which was literally a well-heaved stone's throw away.  I had also received some gift cards for Montana's for Christmas so it seemed like a sign.  A sign of what, I'm not exactly sure, but a sign nonetheless.

My 30th birthday dinner was OK, I guess.  We had appetizers which I can't recall.  My brother ordered the half chicken dinner, I got ribs and wings and Ryebone ordered what turned out to be one of the smallest pulled pork sandwiches I had ever seen this side of the children's menu which he still couldn't finish earning him the nickname "Kid's Meal" which I intend to remind him of every waking minute from now until the day he dies.  For dessert we tried the deep fried cheese cake which was fucking delicious but it filled me up past the brim and made the rest of my night fairly uncomfortable.  I was totally on the brink of puking the rest of the night thanks in large part to that cheesecake which kind of put a damper on the whole drinking thing when we got back to my place.

Through my drunken, sugar-induced haze I have vague recollections of Matthew playing chicken with a transport truck, Ryebone waving his genitals at passing traffic, and an effeminate Asian man dressed head to toe in leather offering to "make our night."  After racing home through the rain and slush we turned on the TV fully intent on picking up where we left off killing hordes of zombies.

Instead I fell asleep in the recliner in the living room while Ryebone and my brother debating the various practical applications of morning wood (I drifted off completely after Ryebone's suggestion of using it as a citrus juicer and a montage in my head of all the times I'd partaken of orange juice at his apartment and making a mental note to strangle him and his penis with barbed wire when I woke up).  All in all it was by all accounts -to use the parlance of our times- an epic fail.

I was turning 30 on the 30th.  It was supposed to mean something.  Right?  It had to.  There was supposed to be a light shining down from the heavens and strippers on raised platforms dancing to White Snake.  There was supposed to be a celebration.  It wasn't until afterwards that I realized that there was no significance.  Everything was arbitrary.  I didn't feel fundamentally any different at 30 than I did at 20 or 23 or 27.  All the goals I had set for myself to have accomplished by the age of 30 were equally as arbitrary.  Why the feeling of disappointment?  There was no accountability because who was there to be accountable to?  There was no greater Power, no order, no plan.

For a while I did feel disappointed.  There's something masochistically satisfying about an overwhelming sense of total failure.  For a while my 30th birthday threw into sharp relief all I had not accomplished.  Even the tattoo I had gotten was a reminder of (as yet) unrealized dreams, a standard of excellence that I was in no way near approaching.  Then gradually it came to me.  This thought that had been drifting around in the bottom of my subconscious and slowly made its way to the surface:

My Epiphany

There's something vaguely satisfying about the smell of shit.

I don't know why I hadn't seen it before.  In a sense I suppose I had.  It was the culmination of 30 years of experiences finally being unified with an overarching theme.  A unifying thread.  A nexus whereupon all points of time and space in the universe merged together for an instant to reveal some hidden truth.

Shit was life.

Even as I thought it I knew that it had occurred to me before, but never in a way tangible enough to be put into words.  Somehow, I had always known it.  There's something life-affirming about the smell of shit.  We don't want to admit it, but even as we're repulsed by it we are simultaneously intoxicated and drawn to it.  Shit is the great equalizer.  It is a constant, daily reminder of our mortal, animal nature.  It's a reminder of how close we are to the bottom no matter how far ahead we get, and conversely how things can always get worse.  

The smell of shit was real.  It was tangible.  It was the essence of Humanity.  We took in, we consumed, and we produced nothing of lasting value or worth.  But unlike humanity shit was unpretentious; it was, simply, what it was.  It didn't try to make more of itself.  We kept trying to elevate our selves, our lives, to some higher meaning or plateau, to make everything as Un-shit-like as possible all the time.  The problem is when we try to elevate everything in essence we lower everything.  By trying to make nothing shit we had made everything shit.

We need the shit.  Without embracing that feeling of the mundane, the ordinary, the depressingly routine, without really feeling those lows we had, in effect, numbed ourselves to the highs.  And just like any junkie, we needed larger and larger highs.  I needed a large birthday party for my 30th because it had to mean something.

But for what?  I was trying to insert significance where deep down I truly understood that none existed.  I wanted my 30th birthday to mean something, to have some sort of relative significance that I could fathom and construct for it, and for a while my reach ran the very real risk of exceeding my grasp.  There was a failure that day.  The failure was mine.  And the failure was this: I had tried to be inspired by an arbitrary, constructed psychological artifact, the construction of which I felt no ownership of and hence placed no significance on while desperately wishing to believe in that very same significance.  In total disrespect to the Bard, I had not been true to myself.  I had wanted something that I only thought I wanted, and the depression came from not reaching goals that didn't even really exist in the first place.

I was the bastard son of a bastard son.  I was a castaway from the twin broken vessels Civilization and Culture, the construction of a construction.  I had lost what little sense of agency I had.  I looked back at my 20's and saw Unrealized Potential and failed dreams, but then the question suddenly popped into my head: By whose standard?  Who was this imaginary Bastard Father I was so desperate to impress?  And for what reason?  What was this Great Thing I was supposed to have accomplished by the age of 30?  And so what if I hadn't accomplished it?  Or if I had accomplished it and just didn't know?

It wasn't wrong to love misery; it was wrong to love misery for the wrong reasons.  I had let my lows become my highs instead of letting my lows accentuate my highs.  We need misery.  We need shit.  Not to wallow in, but to remind us of our condition in the universe.  The best moment of your life seems infinitely better when contrasted with the worst.  The smell of shit was an affirmation of life.

By my own standards my 30th birthday had been a disappointment.  Yet I still had fun.  Ryebone, my brother and I got drunk, had a few laughs, and nobody's organs were stolen and sold on the black market.  Just like the shuttle mission in APOLLO 13 my birthday had been a "successful failure."  There's something oddly compelling about failing on a scale more massive than most people would ever succeed on.  And if that was to be my legacy in the years to come, I could think of far worse and little better.  If the goal was failure on an epic level then the potential for success was nearly infinite.  Failure was the new immortality.

The king is dead.

Long live the king.

      


   

Holy Fucking 100 Posts Batman!

I have nothing applicable to say about the current situation, guy

Well this is it.  The official 100th post here at Feed the Voices in Your Head.  I guess that means... something.  100 is a significant number in our culture.  100 is basically the benchmark by which we measure success.  100 percent is the best you can do.  Plus if you physically rearrange the numbers you can make them look like a cock and balls.

My first instinct to mark this momentous occasion was to compile a list of my Top 100 Blog Posts and then list all of the my blog posts up to and including this one, which seemed self-serving narcissistic and just plain lazy which I suppose kind of encapsulates the general spirit of this blog.  Then I thought about doing something cute like reviewing the movie CENTURION which I recently watched and sort of fit into the 100 theme and the movie theme.  Then I thought about just posting various shots of almost nude Spartan warriors from 300 because what's better than 100 than 300, right?  Then I thought about jerking off.  So I did.

Then in that zen moment that always comes after choking one's own chicken I realized that mine was just another self-obsessed relatively ineffectual blog in a sea of self-obsessed ineffectual blogs in that amorphous, nearly undecipherable realm known only as the Blogosphere which was only slightly more annoying than that other amorphous, nearly undecipherable realm known as the Twilight Zone.  Unfortunately because of a whole slew of dipshits who use blogs to complain and/or obsess about celebrities who have completely destroyed what little credibility the rest of us who have at least a modicum of intelligence had left.  Blogs have become synonymous with whiny, lactose intolerant, overweight losers living off of Doritos and Mountain Dew in their parent's basement wasting what little time they have left due to the early onset of diabetes and malnutrition by complaining about Christian Bale's Batman voice (which was perfect, you dickheads, just like everything else he does).

In the grand scheme of things perhaps most blogs aren't all that significant outside of a very small circle of influence.  Back in the day when blogs were more of a novelty and there was still a remnant of elitism the Shit to Awesome ratio was a lot lower and people were probably more likely to keep searching and reading because there was a higher probability of reading something (relatively) significant, or entertaining, or -god forbid- artistic.  There was apparently a Golden Era of Blogging when it was even possible to Rise Above, get noticed, and become a commercially viable celebrity, probably the most famous example of which is Julie & Julia.  Now that everybody and his transgendered grandmother has a blog the genre itself has become watered down and lost a great deal of credibility.  Because you have to wade through so much shit to get even a nugget of awesomeness it deters all but the most stalwart of adventurers from donning their snorkels and flippers and diving into that great ocean of feces to find something that makes enduring the general stink worthwhile.

For the most part all you end up with is snorkel full of diarrhea, a limp dick, and balls that smell like shit.

But every once in a while you find something worthwhile.  Something entertaining.  Something significant.  Something artistic.  Something with copious references to male genitalia.  In writing this blog I've attempted to fill all of these roles in varying capacities, and whether or not I've succeeded is a matter of personal opinion and whether or not you are a bona fide douchebag.  Now I'm not going to sit here and try to argue the merits of my fucking blog in the grand scheme of the universe, because quite frankly any such argument wouldn't hold up for very long.  However, while I may not be at the top of the cosmic heap neither am I circling the metaphysical drain.  And so, in honour of my 100th post I am going to provide a list of 100 things in the universe that you could experience that are worse than reading this blog to help put things in perspective for all of us.

100 Things in the Universe (In No Particular Order) Worse than Feed the Voices in Your Head


100) Two and a Half Men.
99) Charlie Sheen's comedic pursuits (except for Hot Shots)
98) Turducken
97) Cancer
96) Paper Cuts
95) Adolf Hitler
94) Adolf Hitler's ghost
93) Botched circumcisions
92) Being blinded by staring at a solar eclipse
91) Being blinded by staring at a solar eclipse while being stabbed with a rusty railroad spike
90) People who wear cardigans unironically
89) Disco
88) Ugly babies
87) Having to lie to the parents of ugly babies about how cute you think they are due to social constraints
86) The Snuggie
85) The cancellation and subsequent (and baffling) erasure from the public consciousness of Junkyard Wars
84) Ditto for Robot Wars
83) Taxation without representation
82) Taxation in general
81) Spontaneous combustion
80) Premeditated combustion
79) The presidency of anybody with the first name "George" and the last name "Bush"
78) Any nickname that uses the word "dog" (except Mad Dog)
77) Leprosy
76) Getting a toothpick lodged in your nasal cavity
75) Fucking a stranger without having the common courtesy to give him a reacharound
74) Idiots texting other idiots who are in the same room as them
73) The need for constant validation through texting
72) Being beaten to death by a naked mob of STD-stricken lunatics who club you to death with their penises and dying with the knowledge that you have contracted all known STDs known to man in the space of about twelve seconds (setting a new world record) through bodily orifices (ie. ocular (a second world record, by the way)) that no one should contract STDs through
71) Eating a bowl full of shit
70) Eating a bowl full of shit and discovering that you actually enjoyed it
69) Waking up one morning to discover that the high point of your day is eating a bowl of shit
68) Waking up one morning to discover that the high point of your day is bashing your head against the wall of your office in a futile, half-assed attempt to either A) kill yourself or B) go on workman's comp because eating a bowl of shit has become so routine for you that it is no longer the high point of your day
67) AIDS
66) A giant meteor NOT killing all the dinosaurs and having them run amok in downtown New York
65) A fork in the eye
64) Being the last man alive in the entire world and having to live out your days with Natalie Portman who it turns out is the last woman alive in the world (after some horrible apocalypse, potentially viral in nature) and it also turns out that she is willing to have sex with you as frequently as you want and in increasingly depraved scenarios involving farm animals and biological waste, but discovering that the two of you aren't actually sexually compatible and the spark "just isn't there"
63) Those really, really, tight jeans that emo kids wear
62) Crucifiction
61) Eating your own words
60) Eating somebody else's boot with a side of your own teeth
59) Nicholas Cage's inexplicably changing and increasingly bizarre hair styles
58) Being stuck on a desert island with Rosie O'Donnell
57) AIDS
56) Top 100 lists
55) Getting my pubes caught in your mom's teeth
54) Waiting in a line
53) Making a heap of all your winnings and betting on on a game of pitch and toss then losing and subsequently starting again at your beginnings and never breathing a word about your loss
52) Obscure poetry references
51) Watching golf
50) Playing golf
49) Hearing about golf
48) Ditto for 51-49 about baseball
47) Having a rabid wolverine in your underwear
46) The secret death of George Lucas and his subsequent replacement with a robot programmed by a jealous Steven Spielberg to completely destroy Lucas's legacy
45) Blue balls
44) Green balls
43) Snorting a pile of sewing needles into your nasal cavity
42) The Cleveland Show
41) People with a sense of entitlement.  Like people who (slowly) cross the street whenever and wherever they want without looking for traffic, simply expecting vehicles to magically stop for them despite icy conditions, Toyotas with malfunctioning brakes, distracted drivers, or larger vehicles that can't stop on a fucking dime you self-absorbed morons!  I know cars are supposed to stop, but there are myriad reasons why they might not be able to stop.  It's not the fact that I don't want them to get hit by ten tons of transport trailer carrying biohazardous waste (because I kind of do) but just the fact that they feel so entitled that they literally expect the world to stop for them
40) Dehydration
39) Kissing a corpse
38) Getting rusty fish hooks caught in your ball sack
37) Being raped by a silverback gorilla
36) Having regular sex with a silverback gorilla (they don't like to cuddle afterwards)
35) A botched suicide attempt.  There's really nothing more depressing than being so inept you can't even commit suicide properly
34) Meet The Parents, Meet the Fockers, and The Third Retarded Meet The Parents Movie
33) Improperly fitting underwear
32) Cum stains on your clothes.  I always thought it was some kind of urban myth, but I'm slowly discovering that they really are very difficult to get out if you allow them to set, even after multiple runs through the wash
31) Your mom in a three way with me and my lubed up fist
30) Waaaazzzzzzzuuuuuuppppp!!!  (need I say more?)
29) Vegetables on a pizza
28) Vegetables lodged in your rectum
27) The letter Q.  What a fucking useless letter.  It's so unversatile.  It's used in only about 1% of the words in the English language (in fact I'm pretty sure this is the first and only time it appeared in this entire post, although I'm too lazy to actually go back and check), is so codependent it always has to be paired with the letter U and could easily be replaced by other letters (ie. C, K, and W).  In fact, while we're cleaning up our alphabet, can we please get rid of either the C or the K seeing as they represent THE EXACT SAME FUCKING SOUND!  I don't care which one.  Put them both in the ring of death and let them duke it out.  (And no, we don't need the C to make the same sound the S already makes as well).  What, was Jesus on crack when he invented English?
26) Podcasts with less hits per month (or all time on Jellycast) than Cylon Bingo
25) Frostbite
24) Nuclear holocaust
23) Zombie apocalypse
22) Having to shoot a family member who has become a zombie
21) Chocolate without peanut butter
20) A lifetime devoid of orgasms
19) Puncturing your ear drum with shards of broken glass
18) Walking in on your parents having sex
17) Your parents walking in on you having sex (with your hand or a real human being)
16) Going to an orgy and finding out the next day that the guy in the pink flamingo mask who you gave a blow job to (the first and last time- for real this time, I swear) was actually your own father
15) 80 year old breasts
14) Losing a race to a turtle.  Stupid fucking rabbit.  The only moral to that story was never trust a rabbit to complete even the simplest of tasks
13) Third degree burns
12) Home movies
11) Shitty Halloween costumes
10) Dollar store condoms.  Just imagine a warehouse in China full of children crafting your prophylactic then put it back on the shelf
9) Organized religion
8) Getting shot in Reno by some fuck who just wanted to watch you die
7) Arrogant raccoons
6) 90% of Saturday Night Live
5) Vampires that sparkle in the day light
4) David Letterman Top Ten Lists
3) A football in the groin
2) That awkwardness after you make a really cool reference that nobody else in the conversation gets and the subsequent frustration when you realize that all those lamos think you're lame even though your reference was totally awesome and applicable to the situation and they're the ones who are out of the loop and who are uneducated swine with no culture or sophistication.  It couldn't be you.  Your reference was bang on and you have your finger on the pulse and not far from the pulse and up your ass
1) Any time in your life when you're not fucking

There you go, another 100 reasons to stay home and read this blog than go out in the real world and put up with a bunch of bullshit.  Just in case you were so insecure that you needed some kind of validation for what you do in your own free time.

Because I know I sure don't.

Nectar of the Gods or a Big Barrel Full of Greasy Death? Can't It Be Both?

Recently I have been receiving oral pleasure from a source other than my wife.

And it's fucking great.

It started a couple of weeks ago and I'm pretty sure it's more than a fling.  It was intense the first time.

Heat beating wildly.

Fingernails tearing at flesh.

Bodily fluids staining clothes.

Eyeballs rolling back in ecstasy.

Don't get me wrong.  I still dig my wife's "home cooking."  She has some great recipes.  But they just can't compare to my new obsession.  The real bitch of it is, it was my wife who introduced us.  It's not going to be pretty, I can already tell.  These things never end well.  But life is too fucking short to be bound by self-imposed moral constraints.  Consequences be damned.  If romantic love was a real thing like it's portrayed in the movies I'd say I was in love, but as it stands this is just lust, pure and simple.  I don't want to love; I want to mouth fuck.  All day and all night long, even though I'm pretty sure that prolonged exposure to my new lust will probably only lead to a broken heart and an early grave.  Right now there is only one thing on my mind:

Popeyes Chicken.

If there was a god and he had a heaven then in between all the orgies with beautiful famous people and their pets he would serve buckets of chicken from Popeyes.  With a side of biscuits.  And iced tea.  And occasionally root beer (A&W, not of this Barq's crap).  I mean, goddamn it's good eating.  I can't believe my mouth has been lied to all these years by Colonel Sanders.  I realized some time ago that KFC was fucking balls.  I mean, growing up I really didn't know any better because I came from a small town where there was no alternative.  If you wanted fast food and chicken then you got KFC.  Well, there was Dixie Lee Chicken, but they weren't any better.  For some reason whenever I try to conjure up specific memories of Dixie Lee the only sensation I get is a dry throat.  Weird, right?

KFC was just pure shit though.  But like most people, I kept coming back for more because it tasted so damn good.  I used to love biting into that greasy, disgusting mess of chemically-enhanced muscle and sinew and the Colonel's special herbs and spices.  And I always remember whenever I ate KFC that despite some unspoken, nagging voice in the back of my head I could not overcome my desire for immediate gratification.  I would scarf down as much of that shit as I could and then sit back and relax.  I would usually manage to maintain this strange sense of calm for about half an hour before the inevitable stomach cramps sent me running to the nearest bathroom/sink/closet/my brother Matthew's pillow case to void my bowels of all their contents of the last twelve hours.

Say goodbye to your assholes, kids

And it wasn't like a normal shit.  It was more like violent, explosive evacuation.  It was a wet, sloppy, brown/green mess of slop that shot out into the toilet so violently that I'd invariably get the dreaded "toilet splash back" on my ass.  Besides the fact that they were usually accompanied by very painful cramps, these sorry excuses for bowel movements weren't even satisfying in the conventional sense.  Not like the kind of satisfaction you get from pushing out a solid log of shit.  You know, the kind your sphincter has to expand in order to squeeze around and so solid that it can be touching the water in your toilet bowl and the inside of your large intestine at the same time.  The kind that can clog up your toilet and cause hundreds of dollars in damage to your plumbing if you don't break it up with a crowbar first.  With the KFC shits, you get no sense of accomplishment.  Just an overwhelming sensation of defeat and a wet, burning asshole.

And it would happen every fucking time too.  Every time I would somehow trick myself into thinking that maybe this time it would be OK.  This time my System could handle it and bend it to my will.  But it never worked out like that.  Every time I ate KFC it just brought me more pain and misery and a terrible sweaty night of frequent, uncomfortable trips to the bathroom.

It wasn't until a couple of weeks ago that I discovered there was a way I could eat fried chicken from a fast food restaurant and have it both taste good and not tear my asshole to shreds.  As soon as I moved to go back to school my wife started bugging me about Popeyes.  Naturally I ignored her as I usually ignore most women who aren't talking about giving me a blowjob or how far they can get a banana inserted into various bodily orifices, but then I started getting hungry as we were driving around exploring our new habitat and my survival instincts kicked in and through the haze I could make out a few words:

"Popeyes... chicken.... fantastic... Korea."

I had little to no idea what the hell was going on by that point so I simply veered as hard as I could to the right.  By sheer fate (aided slightly by our GPS) we ended up in the parking lot of Popeyes chicken.  It was like you hear about, with the lights shining down from the heavens and bare-breasted angels singing hymns of praise.  I hurried inside, then remembered the kids were still in the back seat so I ran back to get them before some snoopy cop came along and called Children's Services again (I left the window open a crack for air to get in.  I'm not stupid.  I know kids need air.  And oil changes every 50,000 km).

Now the thing about Popeyes that makes it better than KFC isn't just because the chicken is less greasy.  It isn't just because they have a crispier coating that comes in both normal and spicy.  It isn't just because their servings are bigger.  It isn't just because their combos come not only with fries but also with a biscuit.  I tisn't just because you can order all of their various sides separately and in three different sizes and that every day of the week they have a $3.99 special on one of their mouth watering meal deals.  It's a combination of all of these things and the fact that it didn't make me shit buckets of watery goop for the next four hours after eating it.

Of course the name threw me off at first.  If you're from my generation when you hear "Popeye" the first recollection that pops up in your traumatized brain is images of Robin Williams prancing around for two hours with grossly deformed forearms you can only hope are prosthetics and not the result of years of chronic heroine use.  The cold sweat usually stops when you realize that it was just Williams "acting" in the live action adaptation of the beloved Popeye the Sailor Man cartoons and comics.  I don't think Popeyes Chicken is named after the sailor as I kept looking around to see his squinty-ass mug staring at me and could find no sign of any lame-ass mascots of any kind.  I don't know if Popeye is allowed to sponsor any other products as his last endorsement of candy cigarettes helped inspire an entire generation of kids to take up smoking from the tender age of five.  But the association is somewhat fitting.  Popeye was a (thinly) veiled reference to drug addiction and Popeyes Chicken is as addictive as crack (while only being half as deadly).

Phallic symbol?  No, no, it's just an inanimate object whose shape reminds me  of the human penis

(I don't want to get wildly off track here, but as the hooker said to her John I need to get this shit off my chest.  The connection has probably been made before, but I have to point out how Popeye was a positive spin on substance abuse.  First of all the whole thing about eating spinach and then getting "super powers" was obviously meant to represent whatever drug was popular at the time (I'm guessing LSD).  Without his spinach Popeye felt weak, but as soon as he got his fix, the motherfucker could practically fly.  He would bounce Bruno around like baby even though the asshole was twice his size (so maybe PCPs).  Then there's the pipe he constantly has in his mouth, uhhhhh, crack pipe much?  Then there's his squinty eyes like he's been in an opium den for days on end and can't stand the natural sunlight.  His hideously deformed forearms are obviously meant to draw attention to that part of the anatomy which is often used by heroin users as a place to shoot up (thank you REQUIEM FOR A DREAM).  And then there's his strange speech where he'll constantly be talking and mumbling to himself under his breath and making these weird inarticulate sounds.  You tell me he's not fucking tweaking.)

Fortunately for me there was no sign of that naval jackass around to stare at me while I enjoyed some of the best eats of my life.  And unfortunately for my wife, her "home cooking" (sounds so dirty in quotation marks) just can't stand up by comparison.  I'll still let her cook for me, but from now until the day I die every one of her meals that I eat I will secretly be yearning for Popeyes.  And she makes some good shit.  She made this honey mustard pork tenderloin one time that fucking blew me... away.  It's a good thing she made it before, because now everything she makes I'll enjoy just a little less because deep down inside I know that I could be eating at Popeyes instead.  Every part of my digestive system from my esophagus down -that is to say, all of it- now belongs heart and soul to that too-much-orange-in-their-decor fast food chain and their fucking delicious, crispy chicken.

The problem with experiencing even a taste of nirvana is that everything else seems to get that much duller and insignificant.  The best day of your life just makes the rest of it seem that much shittier.

Some would say that's a fair trade off.


           

Fuck a Duck

What the fuck are you lookin' at, pal?

The other day I was standing outside on my back deck grilling some kind of meat on the Bar-B-Q.  It was a beautiful evening.  Blue skies.  Nice breeze.  I love Bar-B-Qing.  I’m not sure what it is.  Maybe the mystical power of fire, some primal instinct left over from my Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon ancestors as they gathered around the campfire at night in silent awe of this strange beast dancing in the night.  Crackling.  Hypnotizing.  A caged beast.  The Bar-B-Q is the closest most of us get to that primordial weakness to the hypnotizing effects of fire.  There’s something that still holds some magic for us in those flames.  Even the staunchest literalist and hardened stoic will soften as they sit around a campfire and turn into a philosopher. 

As I stood outside brandishing my tongs I noticed two shapes in the sky at twelve o’clock.  They were far away, but closing in fast.  Two bogeys backdropped by a transparent, blue sky.  I breathed in deeply getting a lungful of Bar-B-Q smoke and smiled slightly as a cool breeze swept over my skin.   As the two birds got closer I could feel the power of The Fire.  I thought about my own secret desires to be able to fly and what it represented.  Freedom.  Adventure.  I thought wistfully about some of my favourite dreams where I was imbued with the power of flight, though upon waking I could never remember the exact combination of elements that were required for flight nor their precise measurements.  My most vivid flying dream was me in my old schoolyard able to sort of float up into the air.  In the dream it didn’t feel crazy that I could fly this way.  Concentrate.  Wait for a certain current of air.  Lean to just the right angle.  Let your feet leave the ground like they wanted.  It as always so precarious, though.  In my dreams.  As soon as I tried too hard, or thought about the mechanics of it or started to dream lucidly, I would start to fall back to the ground.  Not hard.  Just float down, like a hot air balloon with a hole in the side.  Gently. 

The birds were close enough now that I could tell that they were in fact ducks.  I opened the lid of the Bar-B-Q to check on the chicken or sausage or hamburgers or whatever I was cooking.  It didn’t matter.  It was all good.  Close the lid.  The ducks were closer now and it looked like they were circling around to make a landing in my yard.  My daughter would love that shit.  She loved looking at the ducks.  Any animals, really.  As this pair of ducks prepared for their final decent, however, something was amiss.  Their trajectories were all wrong for a backyard touchdown.  All of the sudden they swerved back in an S pattern over my backyard and drastically dropped altitude.  Jesus!  Before I knew what was happening I had a fucking duck flying straight toward my head, dive bombing me like some kamikaze pilot from WWII.  I barely had time to duck (now I know where the expression comes from, though) before they were both past me.  While dodging for my life all I caught was a glimpse but I saw one duck land on my roof and the one who had tried to take my head off touched down briefly on the roof of my neighbour’s deck and then flapped down to the lawn.  And then it occurred to me.

Ducks are  bunch of assholes.

As I thought back on all I knew about ducks the more I was sure of it.  Think about it.  Not only are ducks assholes, but they also rub our faces in it.  They flaunt it.  Think about it.  Ducks somehow get away with all kinds of things that ordinary citizens like you and me would get locked away for.  First of all, they walk around completely nude.  All the time.  In public.  An even when they do wear clothes -like, say, Donald for example- they’re always revealing.  All Donald Duck wears is a sailor hat and vest.  No fucking pants.  Like he’s flaunting that shit in our faces.  Now if I felt like walking around naked -even in my own backyard- I could actually face criminal charges.

And then they just go around eating shit off the ground.  Like it’s no big deal.  My daughter throws little pieces of bread in our front yard and watches the ducks come and eat it and then laughs hysterically.  But when I accidentally dropped my sucker on the floor of the men’s room at Wendy’s and picked it up before the Five Second Rule came into effect and put it back in my mouth after brushing some errant pubes off of it, this other guy totally gave me this disgusted look like I just bit the head off of a baby Panda or something.  How come it’s OK for ducks, huh buddy?  Would it be so funny if I ate scraps of bread off of your front yard because -damn it!- I get hungry too sometimes when I’m out and about and just a few nibbles of whole wheat would really keep me going.  When a duck does it it’s cute, but when I do it I’m suddenly some kind of social pariah?  Bullshit.  That’s discrimination pal.

And to top it all off, ducks don’t even get sick from eating disgusting shit from the ground.  I mean think about the last time you were in the ER. Were there any ducks there getting treatment for food poisoning, or bacterial infections or salmonella?  It makes me angry just thinking about it.

Pucker up, big boy.

And then there’s my two friends.  That was really just too fucking much.  I mean, imagine you’re a duck and you have the ability to fly anywhere you want.  Anywhere.  Soar with the eagles.  Head down to a nude beach to check out some (of the nice) titties.  Stop by the dumpster behind McDonald’s and score some free fries and Big Macs and shit.  Check out an Our Lady Peace concert without paying.  Or even if they wanted to stop by my place, my back yard isn’t small.  There’s lots of room back there to land and easily avoid me, who even as a full-grown human being probably takes up about one percent of the available surface area in my backyard that could be used as a viable landing strip.  And they come right at my fucking head.  That’s not just luck.  That’s intentional.  That’s premeditated.  Like Hey we could go down to the YMCA and check out the hotties in their skin-tight, black work out pants that climb right up their asses and show every nook and cranny, walk around all cute-like with our duck dicks hanging out with no repercussions whatsoever, but oh, look: let’s go dive bomb that dickhead who’s innocently Bar-B-Qing on his back deck just to fuck with him.  Shmuck.

What a piss off.  Those ducks scared the crap out of me and ruined an otherwise pleasant grilling experience.  And as much as I hated them, I was also jealous.  Ducks are like your asshole friend, the one who gets a free social pass and gets away with saying and doing shit that would get you slapped or arrested.  Ducks are like that one loud, drunken, foul-mouthed uncle who likewise gets away with murder and whose behaviour only earns him a chuckle and a shake of the head from fellow family members who brush his shit off with a knowing “Oh, that uncle So-And-So,” like he’s incorrigible, but if you were to comment on the fact that cousin Kyle is getting so fat he has to shop at maternity stores for his clothes (it’s not a moo-moo, it’s a fucking dress) or point out that Aunt Judy’s moustache is getting so thick you could swing from it like Tarzan you’d get a smack upside the head and threatened with disownment.  Ducks are like old people who can get away with anything because they’re old and their offensive/off-colour/slightly racist ramblings can be blamed on “that’s the way they were raised” plus it’s still socially unacceptable (for some reason) to beat up little old ladies, even when they’re totally asking for a shot to the kidneys.  That’s right, granny, I just put you on notice.

For whatever reason these groups get a social impunity that most of us can only dream of.  And while it might be nice to fantasize about being a duck, the truth is it’s probably not going to happen (unless that whole reincarnation thing is true).  But there is something we can do before this duck problem gets totally out of hand.  The next time you see some ducks in your yard or down by the old watering hole just stop for a second.  Get some bread.  Toss some over towards them.  Lure them in nice and close.  And then kick them in the fucking head.  And if it looks like they still haven’t learned their lesson get them in a headlock and then suplex those assholes.  Then bite their heads off.  If we don’t nip this shit in the bud soon we’ll have a full-fledged uprising on our hands.  And we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves because all the warning signs are there.  We mastered fire for god’s sake.  Certainly we can put these arrogant water fowl back in their place in the food chain.  Fucking ducks.