Which sucks worse? Furries or Jersey?

Alright so I’ve been out a while and have been too busy to blog. Well I’m back with a vengeance and ready to roll up my sleeves and pound out some hard fucking core blogery for you. Actually, I have nothing important enough to fill a whole post, so instead I’ll just jump around randomly.

First of all, apparently I’m the only guy who thinks muffin tops are sexy. I like curves, what can I say. I like my women squishy, and a muffin top is a flashing neon sign that lets everyone know just how squishy a chick is. I like thunder thighs too. And belly buttons, and boobies, and big fat asses. Especially belly buttons. In fact my women tend to get annoyed with me because I constantly poke their bellies and their love handles. I can’t help it, I just like my women fluffy. Tight clothing is hot, chubby chicks are hot, showing skin is hot, what’s not to love? We as a society need to embrace our chubby girls and not encourage them to become skinny bitches. Like we don’t already have enough of those. Has anyone seen Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen recently? Holy crap, eat a sandwich girls. That’s right, one for each of you. You would think with millions of dollars they could afford FOOD.

Gaaaaaaah! Thay’re hideous! Make it stop! I had such high hopes they would turn out to be incredibly hot twin adults, but instead they wasted away into some sort of Somalian famine victims. I’m sorry, but when did celebrity life in Hollywood turn into Auschwitz? Here’s what we do, we find some brave doctors, and fuse them together into one normal sized woman. House would do it, and he’d make us laugh with his gimpy, stoner antics.

Next topic: why does New Jersey suck so bad? Seriously,what the hell is wrong with people from New Jersey? I work with a yankee from Jersey, and he’s a cocky pain in the ass every day. I work with another guy from New York, and he’s the shit, so it’s not that I hate yankees in general. My biggest problem with Jersey folks is their union attitude. Like you got hired to do just your job, and you should never be expected to do anything else. Bull shit ass hole, you get paid more than anyone else here because of your fucking CDL. You do an easy fucking job compared to us, and you only do that marginally. If you’re sitting around the yard with no deliveries, grab a fucking drill and help fix some shit. “But that’s not what they hired me to do!” Fuck you, you’re getting paid aren’t you? Then whatever we need done is what you got hired to do. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of lazy people in the south, but you just don’t usually find this whole it’s-not-my-responsibility attitude as much as you do with union workers. I can’t stand unions. If you can’t pull your own weight, go the fuck back to Jersey. Damn!

In the spirit of hating New Jersey, check out this site dedicated to New Jersey douchebags. In fact, upon searching the internet, it would seem there are a ton of people who hate Jersey just as much as I do. Why is it New Jersey anyway? There’s no old Jersey. After a brief search I found this site, all about how much driving in Jersey blows chunks. And here’s a fellow who came up with five reasons why Tennessee is better than New Jersey. Way to represent for Dixie land buddy. Apparently, New Jersey is so evil that even their squirrels are toxic. In fact, apparently even other yankees hate New Jersey, as evidenced by this fine gentleman from Manhattan:

I would love to see Gigantic Pennsylvania deal with the Jersey blemish on Americas pimply face, except as a former Pennsylvanian yankee myself, and with dearly loved family members still living in PA, I kind of hate to see Jersey and Delaware taint the state. I think we should just turn Jersey into a huge garbage dump for the rest of the country, and all the people living in Jersey can form one giant trash workers union and sit around telling each other they won’t move that pile of shit cause that’s not what they were hired for. Also, what the fuck is up with their love for donuts? Seriously, put the Dunkin Donuts down and do some sit ups fat ass, cause down here we eat biscuits for breakfast.

Next topic: furries. What the hell is wrong with furries? Look, I like weird people, I really do, but dressing up like a stuffed animal, and scrogging other people in weirdo mascot outfits is fucking bizarre. And it’s creepy. Not to mention their unnatural love for anime. Dude, I hate anime, it’s the lamest possible thing a full grown person could possibly spend their time on. Not only that, but they are creepy as shit. They combine children’s toys and sex in a way that borders on pedophilia. And while we’re bordering on fucked up sexual preferences, how about bestiality. Say no to furries! Go play tummy sticks somewhere else freaks. And please everyone, remember to get your neighborhood furries spayed or neutered, so we don’t get any more.

Last but not least here’s a baby in a microwave, two dogs fucking, and a Hitler joke.

Love & Hugs & Kisses All Over

I’ve been trying to think of a good way to segue into my real topic here, and apparently when it comes to matters of significance I get writers block. I’ve thought and thought about how to say it in some cute, romantic, snarky, comical way, but I’ve come up with absolutely nothing. So like I always do when I can’t disguise my real feelings with a smoke cover of juvenile comedy and filler adjectives, I’ll just cut the bull shit and tell y’all what’s really going down in my life. I’ve fell in love.

Take a minute to think about how just a few wrong words can change the meaning of what I just said. I fell in love. I fell in love with a woman. I fell in love with a woman from another country. I fell in love with a woman from another country, that I’ve never even touched. (with my wang) See how quick that goes from romantic, to complicated, to perverted. When you limit your communication to written words you have to be careful to say exactly what you mean, cause it’s easy to read my words how you would say them, and not how I would say them. But it’s hard to misunderstand “I fell in love” when I cut out all the superlatives, cut out any catch, cut out any bull shit. The fact is that I fell in love, so come with me on my little journey through how this miracle came to be.

Y’all know the story of how I got here in the blogging world by now, at least the readers who’ve been with me for a while. If you haven’t, I’ll sum it up right now. My friends showed me Ask A Ninja, which linked me to YouTube, which got me interested in the internet for the first time. I then started my own YouTube channel. Then my friend Steph (can’t find your link Steph, hit me up and I’ll edit it in) showed me a post by Sundry, which somehow through a family and parenting content based blog got me interested in creative writing, which I’ve always loved. Then after a year or two of reading her blog, I decided to try my own luck at it.

So then through a series of links, which to this day I still can not retrace, I ended up at The Queen’s blog, which linked me to Talea’s blog, thanks to her hilarious title, and from there I linked over to Emerald’s blog. Now I realize this was a complicated route, but at this point I suddenly stopped and took notice. On October 23′rd I read her blog for the first time, and I was struck with this incredible attraction to her personality and the way she expressed herself through her words. This girl was obviously something I would have to check out a second time.

Here is Em in all her buxom beauty:

Here is an exact transcript of the first sentence I ever said to her: “Despite my general distaste for the Indie scene in general, I loved your account of the evening. I wish I could get this post drunk and seduce it into a one night stand that ends awkwardly but still leaves both parties gratified.” Clearly, I was on my way to seducing her, by insulting her taste in music, and forcing myself on her post. (a gratifying sort of force mind you) I followed up this comment with these quite romantic words, if I may say so myself: “And take pride in how many people you pissed off. They were probably the bald deuche bags that blocked traffic with their charitable buggery. And forget about the grammar. Grammar is for class work and science articles. This is teh facking interweb noobs. Mother fuckers don’t have to grammarize shit if they don’t feel like it!” Wow, I can see the cornerstones of a solid relationship falling into place even as we speak. What sort of pillow talk should I woo her with now that I tried to date rape her post and cussed in four fake languages? “I like chicks with balls. (not actual balls mind you, the metaphorical sort of balls that don’t clutter up the paradice city that is the ball-less vagina)” Sometimes I amaze even myself. If you are a woman, or a homo man, please try and abstain from telling me how incredibly hawt I am right now, cause I know, and redundancy is repetitive and shit, I don’t need that. I’ll gladly accept money, or a child named after me. Shrines work too. (photo evidence needed)

But anywho, I started some discreet messaging between Emerald and myself, or possibly she started it. I can’t remember now. But I got a Facebook account to talk to her, and the other lovely Toronto vixens of course, but mostly her. At the time, both of us were in no way looking for a relationship. In fact, at that point I don’t think I had even seen a picture of her beside those ugly ass Halloween pics she posted, with the whole botched abortion costume. (gross, check them out) So I came to be friends with her, after getting out of a very disappointing relationship, feeling like shit, while she was still in some rather complicated relationship activities of her own. And we just talked like friends, sharing what we had been through, and what we were going through. Slowly but surely this grew into an undeniable attraction and bond between the two of us.

We began sending not only comments, but also long letters back and forth every day. This turned into two long letters every day. And then she convinced me to get on her IM network, and we began chatting some in the evenings. And then it turned into one long ass (as in has to be split into two letters to send) letter every day, and I would come home during lunch to talk to her for half an hour, and then rush home afterwards to talk to her for another half an hour before she got off work. (no internet at home, just yet, soon darlin) Then it bacame the letter, the lunch chats, and links, and several hours in the evening, with her staying after work just to chat with little old me. And we talked like people.

We skipped that first awkward few months of dating, because we had no time or use for any of it. There was no weird dress codes or date locations or activities. We just talked like people. Like peers. There was no awkward first kiss. There was no awkward first sex. There was no awkward feeling out of the other person on every level. We just talked like humans. We were irresistibly attracted to each other and we both knew it and neither of us really was going to say it. Because as you may know, or may even be thinking right now, internet relationships aren’t as real as face to face relationships. Well I’m here to tell you they CAN be much more authentic and heart felt. I never had any reason to try and pretty up my looks for her, she accepted me just as she found me. I never had to dull myself down one bit, cause she jived well with the things I poured out of my heart, just for her. I shared things I’ve never shared with anyone else. And likewise, she opened up to me. And we both loved what we saw.

Now let me just say right now that we are not completely compatible. There are things in our lives that are in total opposition. Our views on politics are dangerously opposite. But we recognize that and try to allow each other the freedom of will to choose whatever we like, without letting it cause arguments. She swings left, I swing right, and as far as I see it, though I can’t speak for her, I think we’ve both influenced the others views a little bit by explaining why we believe what we do. We come from different countries, from different cultures, her from the city, me from the country. She’s a Canuck, I’m a rebel flag waving, Dixie Land red neck. But we get along not agreeing on these things. She’s a vegetarian, I worship meat. But she respects my love for the tastiest food on earth, and likewise, I respect her choice not to eat meat or harm any creature. I expect her to respect my free will and not (try to, as if anyone could break my stubborn streak) force me to conform to her standards and beliefs. I’m not her puppet or pet. And likewise, she expects me to respect her choices, her beliefs, and her views on life, and I do my very best to do just that. We love each other for who we are, and not for who we want the other person to be.

And not only do we respect each others differences, we celebrate them. She has this zest for life that is hard to explain if you haven’t experienced it. We just yesterday had this conversation about living. Not living as in existence, but living as in to the god damned fullest with every breath you have left and every fiber in your being. She told me that she doesn’t want to live with me, she want to LIVE with me. And I just about jumped for joy, because I had never told her this, but I feel the exact same way. I don’t want to grow boring with someone, I want to live the greatest adventure in history with someone. I want a woman who will constantly challenge my thinking, my behavior, my intellect. I want a challenge, and she does too. I don’t want to sit down and watch Everybody Loves Raymond for the rest of my life, I want to go jump out of a fucking airplane while having premarital sex in the sky and playing the lottery and starting my own business, and possibly before I hit the ground, I’d like to learn to knife fight bears. I want a partnership where we accept the differences we have, but never accept anything less than the most the other person has to offer. Maybe we’re naive, but I’m lovin’ it like McDonald’s never dreamed of. And I’m having it my way like BK never though possible. (not to imply that anyone working at BK is capable of thought, of course not)

But in all the important ways (because face it, politics and what kind of food you eat are not that important, so fuck that shit) we are a perfect match. We believe very similar things about spirituality, and the meaning of life, and major religions. We believe similar things on society, and culture, and status, and all the things that go along with human interaction. We believe similar things on having fun, and being yourself, and our future together. We both have this vision of what our tomorrow holds. We both see us visiting each other, and us figuring out a way to make our lives work together. I love this girl so fucking much, it makes me dizzy.

Before I finally worked up the balls to tell her I loved her, I was hardly sleeping. I was a total wreck. I was afraid she would do like the other women in my life, and leave me unexpectedly, and my heart would be broken. So I wrote this long ass, super poetic, retardedly romantic letter to her letting her know how I felt, and then promptly forgot to send it, and my sister in law closed the window. So I just fessed up like a real man and told her straight up how I felt about her. It was scary. It was almost the death of me, But it was also the moment I learned she loved me too, and as much as I wish I could have maybe said it a bit more eloquently, it just got blurted out in frustration and stress, and then a huge wave of joy and relief passed through both of us. We knew, this was not just some internet crush, like in my post. This was something we are both working towards every day.

She knows all about my legal problems. Much more than I’m willing to share with you, my kick ass blog readers. I love you guys too, but not the same. She knows all about my alcoholism. She knows all about my bad skin, and my low income, and that I will probably be locked up very soon. (tuesday maybe) She knows things that no other person had ever known about me. Sometimes she even knows things about me that I haven’t shared with her, or am even cognizant of. And likewise, I know her burdens. the fact that she is willing to look past these HUGE disqualifiers is heart wrenching for me. I am so in love with this woman, after all this time, that I’m actively looking into immigrating to canada and finding a job there, and hopefully making a new life for us as a family there. I am more than willing to leave my close knit family, my awesome friends, and everything I’ve ever known, even my country to just have a shot at making things work with this woman. She’s not my girl, she’s my woman, and there’s a difference, cause this isn’t fucking puppy love, this is the only time in my life I have ever been so happy, and the only time I’ve ever taken big risks to secure my future.

We have never met in real life. I have never held her. I have never kissed her. I’ve never smelled her. I’ve never got a look at her poon tang. This isn’t about sex. It isn’t even about looks, since we started talking before we even saw each other. This is about me and another soul falling deeply in love, and not giving a fuck about popular opinion. Speaking of which, it’s your turn to make this subject yours. I want to know what you feel about internet relationships and their validity. Don’t worry about insulting either of us, we’re absolutely cool with your views. Whether you think it’s good or bad or fucking retarded, tell us what you think. I’ve heard both sides a lot. My brother Nate is tired of hearing me talk about this girl all the time, even though I’ve never met her. My sister in law is already as in love with her as I am, possibly about to steal her. My work friends think I’m an idiot, since my last relationship was long distance, and I got burned on that one. I’ve had people tell me “if you haven’t done the dirty, she isn’t really your girl!” Not true, and we will, as soon as I get out of jail, ad save up some money to go visit. For now, there’s no chance. And on the other side, I have my two best friends Kenny and Rachel, who met online and are now happily married. And I waited a long fucking time to see Kenny meet a girl who was right for him, and I couldn’t be happier with his decision. So I have both the good and bad represented in my personal life. Now that the secret is out, and y’all know Em is my woman, let me know honestly how you feel about it.

I love you so much baby, and you mean the world to me. Just to make everyone gag a little bit more, love and hugs and kisses all over! <3

Jailhouse Rock: the Weekenders

As you may or may not know, I served a 24 hour sentence over the weekend. And much like I expected, every aspect of it was unpleasant. It honestly wasn’t as bad as I remember, partly due to the fact that I’m a little older and bigger, and partly due to some new rules that help keep general order, and partly due to the fact that I’m no longer some eighteen year old honky punk with a mohawk. Crowds of big angry black men tend to frown on mohawks and other such blatant displays of cracker-ness, so this time I spit a little ebonics at them and mostly just kept to myself, and everything went smoothish.

Let me just preface this story by saying that it is a very very unnatural feeling to purposely walk into jail and turn yourself in. It goes against every anarchistic, criminal bone in my body. All I wanted to do was jet the hell out of there and make them find me to lock me up. But I have things in my life I want to live for, so I chose not to flee to Mexico to work as a cabana boy for rich horny widows who live on the gulf. I’ve got a good job, and I want to go to college, and I have a new relationship with an amazing woman, and so I fought my natural urge to fuck the system, and turned myself in. Try and avoid this situation in your own life if at all possible, because I assure you, it’s no fun.

Anyway, I walk in the front of the jail, actually, before I even got there I saw a familiar face. Sitting between the two main doors to the jail was a homeless man I was locked up with in 2003. He was about as hammered as hammered can be, and briefly shouted something unintelligible about money or god blessing me or some such bull shit, and I walked on past him. It’s hard to look a homeless man in the eyes after you’ve seen him masturbate under a sheet, that’s all I’m saying. It changes your outlook on that person forever. I guess he was trying to be enough of a nuisance that they would lock him up over night, cause it was cold and rainy. I don’t know, that’s all I saw of him.

So there’s a line all the way across the lobby for the weekenders. These are mostly probation and parole violators, and they come in from Friday night to Sunday night. Well, there were a million of them, and so I got myself ready for processing as I waited. I removed my laces, turned my phone off, counted my money, (exactly zero, fuck those stealing ass guards) and generally tried to look vicious and scary, just in case any of the weekenders felt like starting some shit. I didn’t get in any fights though, so it must have worked. When I finally make it up to the front of the line, they can’t find my paperwork. As far as they know, I’m not supposed to be there at all. There was a brief moment of hope there where I thought I might not have to do my time, but then the womans supervisor found my information, so I got to go through processing extra fast. I always thought it was only supposed to be hard getting out of jail, but apparently getting in is just as much of a pain in the ass.

Processing extra fast simply meant I got to sit in a holding cell longer. It was funny how quick I started shifting back into my jail mentality. There’s behavior and a general mindset that would not be appropriate on the outside, that you have to adopt to fit in well on the inside. Like, I have to adjust my speech somewhat to communicate with all the blacks. It’s funny because if you have one black guy, you can usually talk to him just fine. But if you get a whole bunch together in one spot, their whole behavior changes, and all of a sudden you can’t speak in complete sentences or you’re a cracker, and you have to start slinging out all sorts of retarded slang and dumb up your accent or else you’re just another honky. It is actually pretty frustrating, because black men in jail are the most racist ass holes in the world, but you damn sure better not let anything racist slip out from a white guy, cause they easily outnumber all the whites and hispanics three to one. And little things like watching the girls getting arrested march past us all cuffed together. I had only been in for a few hours, and already it felt like I hadn’t seen a woman in a year. It’s kind of bizarre.

So after about five hours of sitting in that stuffy ass cell smelling like bad breath and cocoa butter, I finally got called out for the infamous strip search. If you’ve never had the pleasure of a strip search by a corrections officer, let me tell you, it’s pretty weird. There’s the whole arms straight out thing, and the ball lift, and the old squat and cough. Homeboy in the uniform got quite the show that evening. And after they dressed me out in my allegedly clean, orange and white striped uniform. Last time I stayed there they gave me sandals that were about ten sizes too big. This time I got leprechaun sandals. It was ridiculous. But I was on my way up to the sixth floor, yellow pod, and I was going to get some sleep at long last.

I went out on Thursday night to celebrate my last evening of freedom with my friends, and ended up getting maybe three hours of sleep, then working through a hang over. So by the time they actually got me into a pod, it was around midnight, and I was pooped. I was the first one into the jail, and the very last one to make it upstairs. The reason you would want to get upstairs faster is not so you can enjoy the company of the general population, but rather so you can get a good spot for your mat. I did not. There was one spot left against the wall, but this black fucker was taking up two spots, so I told him to move his shit. We argued for a minute, and eventually I let him keep his spot. Because I don’t need any time added on for fighting, and I was going home to eat real meat and potatoes, and he wasn’t, so let him keep his precious double spot for my 24 hours. It wasn’t worth it to me.

About four or five of the friendlier weekenders from the holding cell had been thrown in the same pod as me, so that was nice. And of course you have the first fifteen minutes or so of the long time prisoners shouting at the new guys. they want cigarettes, but I informed them that the guards were very thorough in their search. There was only one place they didn’t check, and nothing that came out of there was any good for smoking. It’s kind of loud in jail at night. Half of the inmates just stand at their doors and shout at each other. Some of them rap, some sing, some snore away. I learned how to sleep through noise a long time ago, when I came in the first time, and I had absolutely no problem tuning them out and sleeping like a baby.

Six o’clock rolled around, and I briefly got up for what they called a breakfast. More along the lines of an appetizer, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. And again, I slept right on through to lunch, when I briefly got up for what they called a bologna sandwich. Again, light on both the bologna and everything else. I will say this for them, Sheriff Harrison has enforced a new one hour lock down system every time the inmates get fed. This means that we are allowed to come get our plates in groups, instead of a free for all, like on my first visit. All the prisoners with cells have to eat in their cell, and all of us without cells have to remain on our mats for the entire hour. One person can go to the bathroom at a time. This eliminates all the food trading and stealing and fights that would break out over the food. They feed you so little, that everyone is always hungry, so it was a big problem before, but now it’s much safer.

After lunch, I got up and watched some TV. Wake Forest stomped NC State, because let’s face it, as much as I love state, they suck at everything. It’s ok wolfpack, I love you anyway. But I don’t particularly care about jungleball, so that was pretty boring. Really, everyone was just super excited about the Duke/Carolina game. Holy shit, now there’s a rivalry. I hate them both, and I hope the whole building collapses and kills both teams and State rises to victory, but I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen. (I didn’t actually watch the game that evening, I went home)

The jail time ended on a rather pleasant note. That dickless, double parking, cotton picking son of a bitch who wouldn’t scoot his punk ass over actually had the balls to ask me for my food at dinner, since I was getting out in a few hours. I told him to go fuck himself, and that I was giving all my food away to the two guys next to him, and they would let him know just how delicious and filling it all was. Ha! Sweet revenge! So that was pretty much it. After dinner I processed out and went home and showed my mother how to set up a flickr account and how to start a blog. Teaching my mom how to do things on a computer is a whole different kind of jail time. Sheesh, that woman is technology impaired. So that was my little jail experience, how did your weekend go?

Bad drivers and other things that grit my craw.

My mother is a wonderful woman in many ways. She carried me for nine months and brought me wrinkled and screaming into this world in a painful and disgusting process I would rather not think about. I owe her a debt of gratitude for that. And after the whole being born incident, she continued giving to me in many ways. She donated a significant amount of milk towards my continued existence. There was the whole ordeal with learning to use a toilet, which is a serious sacrifice by any stretch of the imagination. She taught me to read and write, and to count and add and subtract, and eventually even multiply and divide. She taught me how to cook. She taught me how to do laundry, an art I still haven’t perfected. (I’ve donated towards charity many of my belongings that mysteriously shrunk to the point I could no longer fit into them. I suspect magical foul play) All in all, she’s taught me a great deal of what I know today. She did not however teach me how to drive. I love her, but the woman can not safely handle a moving vehicle. Honestly I don’t really trust her behind the wheel of an immobile vehicle. She’s what I would consider a typical woman driver.

Now I would like to point out that I am a huge fan of women. You have many things to offer society such as intelligence, striking inner strength, a nurturing nature, and boobs. And there are women out there who are perfectly capable of driving in a controlled and non-maniacal manner, however, it has been my observation that 95% of women out there are horrible drivers. I’ll be the first to admit that women are not the only bad drivers on the road, but in all honesty, you scare me. When I see a woman driver I try and steer clear, knowing that at any time her gender handicap might take control of the wheel and send her careening on a path of carnage and destruction. You haven’t looked into the eyes of death until you’ve let a distracted woman drive you around. As suddenly as a Florida thunderstorm, the pleasant spring drive you thought you were on can transmogrify into a horror fest of shoddy lane changes and erratic stop and go mind fuckery.

I would ask that all women who drive vehicles please either stop doing so, or pay fucking attention to what you are doing. If the car you’ve been driving for five years still confuses you with it’s simple controls, that could be a sign to let a man drive. If you still have to stop and read the traffic signs in the neighborhood you’ve lived in for say, three weeks or more, don’t leave your driveway. Stay at home and try not to kill me. If you drive a school bus, this does not mean you are the king of the road, it means you are supposed to drive well enough to carry in your hands the lives of thirty or so children who may or may not have futures to look forward to if you can’t remember that the tires on the right side of your vehicle are farther out than the ones in the Camry you drive at home. Those lines painted on the street are there to help guide you, try and keep track of where you are in relation to them. If you miss your exit on the highway, please don’t stop on the side of the road and put your car in reverse. You are only begging to end your blood line. Continue on to the next exit and turn around like an intelligent, educated person. And lastly, put on your make up at home. I’m not even joking about that, don’t fucking do it in your car, or I will make it my life goal to donkey punch your dumb ass. Stop it.

You may be wondering why i feel it is my job to educate people on how not to be fucktards. Well the simple answer is that I drive a scooter, and the odds of me surviving on the roads with bad drivers are significantly less than they were when I was driving in one of those bigger thingymabobs. You know the ones with steering wheels and safety belts and airbags and the like. Cars I believe they are. At least in a car I had some metal to stop the crazies from crushing my fragile body into people paste. On a scooter I have exactly one helmet to cushion the impact. And after the initial car meets body scenario, I get to become reacquainted with asphalt. I realize scientists have conjured up with many amazing upgrades to the road ways of yesteryear, but I assure you the pavement is just as hard and abrasive now as it was when you were a child.

“But Josh,” you say, “you are so incredibly good looking, surely a few scars would only make you more rugged and handsome, a true sight to behold!” Yes, it’s true. I do look incredible, and scars only make me more irresistible to women, but actually getting them, especially in the face area, is a rather unpleasant process. I mean, Jesus took extra time chiseling this face out of granite, you wouldn’t want to deface his art would you? Would you want to piss off Jesus? No, I didn’t think so, so drive carefully. “But Josh,” you say, “you have the body of a Greek God, surely a little tumble wouldn’t phase your Herculean physique.” Yes, it’s true. As a matter of fact I have already lived through one such incident. Back in the day, I was driving myself home from my job as half mayor of kickassville, half male model, and some rednecks decided to have a little fun with me. They ran me off the road, and I promptly lost any and all traction in the gravel on the side of the highway. I was traveling at approximately forty miles per hour. For those of you who use the metric system that’s approximately fast-as-shit. It doesn’t really matter how fast you’re going, hitting the ground from a standing position hurts. I’ve got some wicked scars from that incident. So long story short, I know what it feels like to survive a wreck with no protection besides a helmet, and I’d like to leave my personal experience with using rocks to remove my face at it’s current status. No more road tumblin’ for me, Let’s leave the tumblin’ for the weeds and the bedroom shall we. Learn to drive people.

Several other things have pissed me off lately, and I will gladly inform you of what those things are right now. Look, I understand that if you are a high school drop out with a vague-at-best grasp on English (that means you, Ebonics speaking mother fuckers) I understand it may be hard to find a good job, and you may have to seek employment at the grocery store I’ve been going to for the last decade. I’ve seen many of you come and go in that time. However there is no excuse for not knowing how to use the register. You scan something, and then move on to the next item. For items like produce, someone who actually knows their head from their ass has programed the computer sitting in front of you to help you identify those objects using pictures, since clearly learning the actual names of food (in proper English) is far beyond your grasp. Just one time I’d like to make it through the express lane with my three items without waiting fifteen minutes while Shameka goes and gets her manager Lavonda to help her figure out what all those weird curvy lines mean. They’re letters idiot, and together they form words and sentences. Try and keep up, I don’t have all day. And please use protection next time you are sleeping with every guy you see, because clearly you shouldn’t be reproducing. Also learning how to count to one hundred might come in handy since making change is part of your job. It’s not hard, we’ve taught horses to count, even you can do it.

If your eyes point in different directions, I’m allowed to stare at you. If your ass squishes out eight inches past your hula hoop sized belt, and you take up more than two chairs, I’m allowed to stare at you. If you are severely scarred or deformed, I’m allowed to stare at you. If you kid is retarded, I’m allowed to imitate them. If you hair is fake, I’m allowed to point and laugh. If people can’t tell if you are a man or a woman, I’m allowed to say “it’s Pat” and laugh like I just came up with that myself. If you are more than forty years old, or two hundred pounds, and you leave your house without a bra, I’m allowed to grimace and make saggy boob movements. If you’re a man and you swish when you walk, have a salmon colored shirt on, or clearly do stuff to you eyebrows, I’m allowed to make gay jokes in public and throw my wrist forward in the universal homo-gesture. If you are too old to walk at normal speed, I’m allowed to cut in front of you at any time. If you don’t hit your children enough to shut them the hell up when they are in public, then I’m allowed to yell at both them and you. Hey, they can yell apparently, and so can I, but I do it better and louder, and I’ll teach them words you’ve never even heard of. If the office people get fancy coffee shit, and I have to start work an hour before them, then it’s my right to take their coffee shit and use it for the guys who do real work every morning. You can buy some star bucks with all that money I keep hearing about. If you dress like a slut, I can treat you like one. If you act like a bitch, I can call you one. If you talk about shit you don’t know anything about, I can call you out, I would expect you to do the same for me. If you approach me in a parking lot and talk to me about Jesus, I’m allowed to send you to meet him. and lastly, if you don’t know me, you don’t get a cigarette, or any change, (sorry Em, I know how you feel about bums, but I just can’t do it) you may however have the time, which is always “time to get a new watch”.