My Two Tuppence
This and a bucket of spit will buy you a pile of dead hair.
If you invest your suckance
Slyly with a skank
Like a ship run aground
More rewarding than invested in a bank
It will fail to astound
A wallet violently oppressed
And you’ll feel it each time they molest
As your effluence stickily expands
Deftly in the hands
Of the directors
Who invest your liquidity per their horny little glans
So yeah, there was that time I put thousands of dollars in a savings account with that “American” multinational bank. You know the one. Their logo is a red, white and blue flag credit card. Because nothing is more quintessentially American than, “I want it now. I’ll pay for it with credit.” Hey, let’s make our logo a credit card. That’ll show ’em what we’re really about.
And we fall for it.
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Today Is Your Dearthday!
When I hear Christian music I often ask myself a question.
Jesus Christ across the galaxy
Bringing toys and goodies for you and me
Are you singing for His glory? Or your own? You have to dig deep for the true answer.
That might be an awkward opening, but here’s the point of this post:
Today is a new day. It’s my friend’s birthday. So I decided to go on Facebook and send him some cheese-ball greetings. “Congratulations for being alive on a day that signifies the number of rotations of this planetoid around its star being a whole number. Jolly good, chum!”
I expected to see Facebook jam the birthday in my face. But it didn’t. There was no mention of my friend on the birthday dailies. Hmm. What to make of this?
Using logic and deduction, I theorized that my friend didn’t share his birthday with Facebook. Wise move. Extrapolating further, I reasoned that my friend probably didn’t wish his birthday to be generally known. That seemed to me to be a reasonable hypothesis that fit all the known facts.
What to do? What to do?
I had a choice. Post publicly on his wall, thus announcing the occasion to all of his friends, or respect what I assumed were his wishes and keep it private?
Since it was his special day, and not my own, I decided to recognize that he’s an individual who exists in the universe and has feelings. I decided to show respect for that.
I sent my greetings in private.
Feeling warm and fuzzy about being a considerate friend, I went back to my homepage to see what other flotsam Facebook had washed up on my beach. I do this daily to remind me about the true nature of humanity and such.
Bazinga!
There it was, on the very top of the news feed. Someone else just wished my friend a happy birthday. In public. For all to see. Bastard! Quickly his Facebook was overrun with the bloody things. They say it’s the thought that counts. So how do you take a good thing and convert it into the equivalent of peeing in your so-called friend’s Wheaties?
There it sits.
Happy birthday to you? Or me? Who exactly are we celebrating here?
“Psst! Hey, everybody! Look at me! Look at how wonderful I am remembering my friend’s birthday and shit. Aren’t I good? Don’t you love me? You love me, don’t you? Why hasn’t everyone liked this? Click like or you’ll be unfriended! Somebody call the whambulance!”
Again, to this birthday interloper, I ask: Whose glory is motivating your behavior, you narcissistic creepazoid?
A note from the Chore Whore
We could live on an 8′ by 8′ piece of dirt and I’d still be in the doghouse for not sweeping and dusting enough.
The Universe, however, likes to toss me a bone every once and again. When it comes to chores, the Universe likes to say, “Hey, little buddy. How about you and me get together and make this fun?”
Apparently we don’t have enough in common to form a language translation matrix. The linguistic database chokes on this mysterious word “fun.” I guess that’ll have to remain one of the great mysteries of life.
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The Motorbike Sonic Boom
Click for Source: Vishweshwar Saran Singh Deo (Flickr)
It was a hot day and I was out for a ride in the car. It was the kind of hot that made people wish they could die and hurry on to Hell so they could cool off a bit. Since my A/C was broken (like always) I had all of my windows rolled down. Suddenly an infant rolled by with a binky in his mouth.
Um. Wait one. Scratch that. Let me try that again.
Suddenly a grown man rode by on his motorcycle. And when I say “rode by” I mean that he whizzed by (illegally) so close that the cute little pink tassels hanging from his “ape hanger” handlebars literally dug ruts in my paint.
Ape hangers. Has there ever been another vehicle part in the history of time so aptly named? Methinks not. I love it when products describe their owners so accurately.
Meanwhile, since my windows were rolled down, my ears were in for a real treat.
BRAAAAOWN, BRRAAOOOM, RROOAAARR!!! BLAT BLAT BLAT!!! VROOM!!!
Nice onomatopoeia, eh?
A Boeing 747 taking off from inside my pants wouldn’t have been as loud. (But a lot more fun.) The sound waves from this dude’s audio wake slapped me in the face, driving my head back and into my car. With blood leaking from my ears and my ears ringing from a mild concussion, I paused a moment to ponder the psychology involved in this sort of event.
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Allow me to be your social valet
Fraud. Deceitful intent. Narcissism. Caring way too much about what other people think. Either it’s time for another blog post from your favorite Guru or I have a business idea.
If you’re lucky maybe it’ll be a little bit of both.
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Real class and warfare that go together
The end of Scott Patrick Wilson's life
Do you remember what you were doing on Feb. 12, 2010? Me either. The only record I have of that date is a lame post about Valentine’s Day and chocolate. While the biggest worry in my life was some inane holiday, a 23-year-old young man was having his life terminated by an asshole of gratuitous evil.
On Feb. 12, 2010, it is reported that a man named John Goodman (no relation to the actor) was driving in his Bentley convertible. He ran a stop sign, smashed into a car being driven by 23-year-old Scott Patrick Wilson, and fled the scene. Wilson was left for dead, in his overturned car and at the bottom of a canal. The accident ended Wilson’s life.
Goodman was found later and had a blood alcohol level that was twice the legal limit.
The catch? Goodman is rich. Filthy rich. He inherited his wealth from his daddy. I checked prices on Bentley convertibles and they can cost a couple of big ones. The hundred-thousand variety of big ones.
The douchebag plead “not guilty” to a charge of vehicular homicide and currently awaits a criminal trial.
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Whorege Stores
Unit Dreams
I think I wanna die
And come back as four-digit code
My life would have purpose
Gatekeeper to the mother lode
So there I was trying to explain a few simple concepts to my friend who lived in the dirt and owned* only a bush. (By owned I mean that his family had lived there for generations longer than anyone could remember, but any day now the government would show up and confiscate the land for sale to a multinational corporation of which my friend would see zero compensation.)
I was telling him about what was new in my life. “After dinner I’m going to have to swing by the storage unit to drop off some more of my stuff.”
He looked confused. “What is this dinner of which you speak? That is a strange word to me.”
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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