Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Things That Make Me Pee In My Pants

What do spiders, clowns, squirrels, open closet doors, dinosaurs and deer have in common?  Nothing.  Unless you're me.


Fuck you.  Meet my shoe.

Know what I learned today?  People are assholes.  Like, if you're writing a blog about your completely frigging effed-up phobias, and one of those phobias is spiders, and you go to Google Images and do a search for 'cute spider' so you can illustrate your phobia to others without seeing something that makes you pee pure liquid fear, more than half the pictures that come up are not cute spiders.  The Worldwide Douche Contingent apparently thinks it's funny to save a picture with the name 'cute spider,' when in reality, it's a picture of something that just crawled out of Satan's dick.

Lots of people are afraid of spiders, so I won't have you judge me for it.  Yes, I know they are smaller than me.  As I have told people many times, so are grenades, bullets and Mila Kunis -- but I'm pretty sure they could all fucking kill me.  Don't believe me?  Watch "American Psycho 2" and see what she does to William Shatner.

Nothing good happens after a hot chick rubs William Shatner's shoulders.  Ever.

Spiders: The Mila Kunises of bugs -- tiny, spindly legs, and hanging from a web outside my front door.


This is my mother's fault.

The Stephen King miniseries "It" aired on television in 1990.  I was 11.  My mom let me watch it.  She shouldn't have done that.  Now I can't walk by fairs, costume shops, or John Wayne Gacy without going into high-alert.  "It" also triggered a series of what I call Sub-Phobias: bathroom sink drains, showers at the gym, red balloons, those weird culvert-y things in fields, and that big mole on John Boy Walton's face.


This is what most people see when they see a squirrel:

Awww!  He's eating a wittle peanut!

 This is what I see:


I have no explanation for why this is.

Open Closet Doors

 Why?  Because I'm pretty sure this is in there:

If the door's closed, it can't get out and crawl inside me while I sleep.


I don't like that this ever existed.

After I saw "Jurassic Park," I slept with a blanket pulled over and wrapped around my head except for my nose so I could breathe.  FOR SEVERAL WEEKS.  Because Jeff Goldblum says they can't see you if you don't move, and I didn't want the flickering back-and-forth of my eyeballs under my eyelids when I was dreaming to tip one off.


Know what's real?

This fucking thing.

I didn't know this existed until recently.  I didn't have an opinion on deer until then.  Then i started to wonder.....why would a deer need fangs?  I'm not asking that in a funny way.  I really want to know,  You should want to know, too.


Thursday, August 26, 2010

I Can Work My Hatred for Nickelback Into Anything

Dear PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, aka Punkass Effers That AreJerksAndDon'tWantMeToHaveAnyBurgersEver),

I don't like you.  

I'm sure there are people in your group who aren't complete jizz-wads, but I never hear about them because I only ever see this:

If it's ground up in burger-form, I don't care what it looked like when it was alive.  I will eat it.

or this:
I won't eat that.  Or the food it's holding.
I don't know which one grosses me out more: a naked chick covered in fake blood and wrapped in plastic, or a usually-naked chick made of plastic parts and full of dirty blood.  Seriously -- do NOT let her bleed on you.

Oh -- and there's also comparing killing animals for food to the Holocaust  (really, assholes?  REALLY?) ... this lovely book they hand out to children  ... and using someone's CANCER DIAGNOSIS to spread the message that milk is bad.

AND, if your puppy gets lost and they find it and then they can't find a home for it, they'll kill it.

Just.  Like.  This.

I like meat.  I just ate dead pig pieces jammed on a stick with a bunch of vegetables.  Vegetable are good when they're jammed on a stick with meat, because then they taste like meat, too.  If PETA had their way, not only would I not have dead pig to eat, I wouldn't even have red peppers that TASTE like dead pig.  Seems unfair you'd expect me to live like that.

Do you know why, PETA, it is NOT bad to kill animals?  Because eating them while they were still alive would be mean.  Because it's kinder to put Mr. Horsie down than it is for me to sneak up behind him and shove my foot up his ass so I can have leather boots.  Because if we don't kill them, they will kill us.

Okay, maybe that last part is kind of bullshit, but you can't tell me you've never looked a cat in the eye and thought "Yep - that fucker would shoot me if he could hold a gun."  It leads to my next point, though -- and unlike the points about leather boots (which I guess technically I don't really need) or walking around gnawing hunks of meat off live cows, this point is actually valid.

People are animals, too, PETA.

Humans are part of the Animalia Kingdom -- same as chickens and baby seals and werewolves.

You're supposed to shoot her with something.  A silver bullet?  Whatever.

I assume, PETA, that if I kill a lamb so I can have some yummy muttony goodness, I am THE FUCKING DEVIL according to you, but if Lambchop kills the hell out of me, that's perfectly acceptable.  

"That's perfectly acceptable." -PETA

The point I'm trying to make (actually, I'm not really sure I'm even trying to make a point anymore, PETA.  I'm just bitching randomly now because of how intently I hate you) is that if you want me to not think you're a bunch of dick salads as you fight for animal rights, you really should fight for the rights of ALL animals -- including humans.  Where are you when mosquitos bite me?  (See -- this is where my earlier comment about killing things before you eat them comes into play.  It's much more humane.)  Where are the protests when a shark chomps a swimmer in half, or when a monkey eats a lady's face off, or when this happens?  What -- animals can't protect themselves while humans can?

Then explain THIS.

Just, fuck off PETA.  It's not my fault Homo Sapiens learned how to use guns first.  But I'm sure you're just going to tell me it's not fair to use guns against other poor, defenseless animals.....

Not defenseless.

Also not defenseless.

An entire week is devoted to how defenseless it isn't.

Drunk off the blood of its victims.

I'm just looking for any excuse, really.


Friday, August 20, 2010

'CSI: New York' is Not a Good TV Show, 'Jeopardy' is a Lie, and Rogers Eats Bum-Squirt

On 10th September, 2010, someone who makes a fuckload more money than me while sporting a clearly visible ass crack (my ass crack is hardly every visible) will unplug something or flip a switch or shoot a hamster running in a wheel or whatever it is that makes my cable go, and my cable won't go no more.  This will happen because I called Rogers last week and told them that I hate their guts and I don't want to give them money anymore and I hope they get oozing cysts on their eyeballs.  I did not use those words exactly, but trust me -- it was implied.  That gave me 30 days before they cut off my cable and Internet, leaving me - as they implied - isolated off from the world as I await my inevitable tv-less, World Wide Web-less death.  To prepare myself for life without cable, I have already disconnected everything that was attached to my TV, save for my DVD player, VCR (shut up) and a pair of $20.00 bunny ears (yes, I know they're called rabbit ears but I think bunny ears sounds cuter) that I bought at Best Buy.  With these bunny ears, I get four or five English-language channels (depending on the weather) and 473 French-language channels (all of them clear as day, even in the midst of toad-raining Armaggedeon.)  If I want to go from watching CTV (comprised mainly of the news, Dancing with Something or Sue Thomas: FBI) to watching something on Global (comprised mainly of shitty shows because CTV has most the good ones but they're never on when I want to watch them) then I have to get up, walk ALL THE WAY to my TV, and move the bunny ears around until the wiggly lines go mostly away.  There's no more time-shifting so I can watch 'Big Bang Theory' at the same time that people in British Columbia do.  I cannot "pause and rewind!" live TV.  My DVR is a VCR and the one VHS tape I could find in a box in my basement that wasn't warped beyond recognition or full of bug skin.  If a thunderstorm breaks out at 9:45, I will not see Jack McCoy win the big case despite the illegal search warrant those damn cops carried out. (WE might know that the police who investigate crime and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders are separate yet equally important groups, but that crusty yet lovable bastard McCoy doesn't always seem to get it.)  If I need to pee, I have to wait for the commercials or turn the volume all the way up and pee with the bathroom door open so I can hear bullets blasting through spines on 'CSI.'  If (when) the stupid bus is late after work, I'm not going to see the beginning of 'Jeopardy,' which sucks because the answers at the beginning are usually the only ones I know the questions to.

(Sidebar: that whole "we give you the answer, you give us the question" thing on 'Jeopardy' is bullshit.  If it actually worked that way, you'd say "I'll take 'Oz' for $500, Alex," and Alex would say "Silver," and you would say "What the fuck?  There are EIGHT MILLION QUESTIONS that could be answered with the word 'silver.'  This game is retarded, Alex, and you're an uppity bitch." When that so-called answer was given on 'Jeopardy,' the wording was this: 'In the original Wizard of Oz  book and in the musical 'Wicked,' the slippers aren't ruby, but this metallic color.'  The so-called question was 'silver.'  No, 'Jeopardy.'  You cannot say something is an 'answer' just because you word it oddly and don't put a question mark at the end of it.  "How you are today."  "Fine."  "Oh -- I wasn't asking.  You can tell, because I mixed the words around and didn't say 'question mark' at the end."  The whole premise of 'Jeopardy' is a LIE.)

Right.  So, I don't have cable.  Well, I have a bunch of cables, but they don't do anything but trip me because I've apparently decided to leave them on the living room floor for pretty much ever.  I don't have cable, and as of the 10th of September, I also won't have an Internet connection.  That, I will be getting eventually, but not right away, and not from Rot-gers.  They can eat bum-squirt for all I care, but they won't be sucking it up with straws bought using my money.

Me -- the queen of watching TV, the person who can remember obscure guest-starring roles on an episode of Cheers that I saw once when I was drunk and half-asleep, the girl who has actually turned down invitations to go out with friends because ARE YOU HIGH???  I CAN'T MISS 'HOUSE'!!!  WHAT IF THIS TIME IT IS LUPUS????? (It's never lupus.)  Me.  ME.  I get five TV channels broadcast in a language I actually understand.  Five.  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD -- I WATCHED THE SIMPSONS IN FRENCH THIS WEEK.  I only knew what they were saying because I've seen that episode more times than years I've been toilet-trained.

And you know what's happened?  I haven't fucking died.  I have lived five days now without cable, and I'm not dead.  I'm not even really all that unhappy about it.  Yesterday was Thursday and I missed a re-run of 'Supernatural' and it didn't cause me to vomit up my spleen. I took my dog for a walk Tuesday night and missed 'Family Guy' and my head didn't fall off on the sidewalk.  Today I came home from work and it was almost three hours before I realized I hadn't turned my TV on at all since I got home.  (I immediately turned it on and found 'CSI: New York' even though not even Gary Sinise can make that monstrosity watchable, but, hey -- I'm not going cold-turkey here.  I need a little bit of basking in the light of the Blessed Box before bed.)

One time, I came home from work in a wicked-sad mood, switched on the TV, and watched for many many MANY hours before I realized that my stomach didn't hurt from crying -- it hurt because I was watching TV while I cried and had FORGOTTEN to EAT.  When I came home feeling bad after work this past Monday, I cried for a few minutes, felt better, and made a sandwich.  All these years I thought TV was making me happy.  No.  TV was letting me ignore real life.  I had become better friends with the characters on 'Desperate Housewives' than I was with my actual friends.  I had turned TV into my friend, psychiatrist, and in one hilarious instance, my doctor (tip: you know how sometimes on medical dramas they pull knives or tree branches or stuff out REALLY FAST and then quickly stop the blood and everything's fine and then if the patient is a hot chick she boinks Dr. George Clooney?  Yeah, that doesn't work so well on ingrown toenails while sitting on the bathroom floor with no George Clooneys anywhere.)

I'm not giving up TV.  I like shows.  I will watch them with my bunny ears when I can, and online when I can't.  But I'm not scheduling my life around the next episode of 'Law & Order: Criminals Are Bad So Let's Catch Them But Now We'll Catch Them in L.A. Because It's SEXY and Screw You, Dick Wolf - We at NBC Don't CARE That You Were on Your Way to Breaking TV Records with Your Awesome Show."  I'm not going to be pissed off if I don't get home from dinner with friends in time to see Dr. McBoner remove a puppy from a guy's stomach cavity and save them both heroically and without regard for his own well-being while still being hot on 'Grey's Anatomy.'  It makes me feel silly and weak to realize I've spent all this time caring so much about TV characters because they can't hurt me or make me mad, because they're always there for me each week at the same time, right on schedule.  Real people don't do that.  But I've realized I like the real people I know better than the tiny people who live in my TV.  For one thing, they are bigger and don't sometimes cut out if stupid construction guys dig in the wrong spot.  Mostly, I think I would rather miss a TV show than miss my life.

But not if it's 'True Blood.'  I don't give a shit about ANY OF YOU if 'True Blood' is on.  This might be the episode where I finally get to see Eric's wiener.


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

"Ass-Blasted Ink Blots: Using The Gas From Your Ass to Peer Into the Mind of a Killer"

Today I told a friend he should write a coffee table book about his farts (his farts are epically awesome) complete with big, glossy pictures.  The exact words I texted to him were "You should fart into wet ink and blow it around so it looks like those Rorschach Tests."  I didn't think twice about typing those words to him or hitting send, even though it's one of the grosser ideas I've ever had.  Really -- try to picture it: a grown man hovering his bare ass over a puddle of ink on a sheet of white paper, then farting so hard it blasts the ink around into a random image which would then be shown to a murderer to find out what he sees in the ink blots to explain why he did that thing he did with the kittens, hookers and box-cutters.  No one should think of that, and if they do, they certainly shouldn't tell anyone about it.  Except that's how I talk to this friend sometimes, and sometimes it's how he talks to me.  He's the same friend who talks me down from the metaphorical edge quite often -- explaining things to me in a way that I would never think of on my own, or reminding me that no matter how badly someone tries to treat me, I'm strong enough and important enough to fight back when they try to beat me down.  He and I can have the single most ridiculous conversation you've ever heard one minute (the kind you walk into halfway through, shake your head like maybe you're stoned and don't know it, then walk away fairly confident the two people you just heard talking have spent the last three years licking cheap toys from China) and later that same day, he's smiling kindly and not judging me when I have a laugh/cry fit over something completely pointless.  I can only hope I make him laugh just as hard as he makes me laugh, and that I can offer him even a fraction of the peace of mind he offers me when my mind gets lost.

To have just one friend like that is a miracle (is what I would say, if I believed in miracles) but to have as many as I do is a fucking statistical anomaly.  No one should be as lucky as I am when it comes to the people I choose to be around, and the people who choose to be around me.  I marvel at the chance and circumstance that collided to bring together a group of people who all meld together so perfectly -- not despite of, but because of how wonderfully different they are.  Some of them don't know each other, some of them know each other as though they were the same person, but all of them combine to create the greatest group of people I've ever known.  Even the ones that act like retards 75% of the time, and the ones that frustrate me with their infuriating but perfect logic, and the ones who can make me feel like a blistering idiot one moment and the smartest most-bestest person that's ever lived the next.

Some of them I see too much, some I could never see enough.  Some don't super-duper adore each other, some live with each other.  Some are people I loved the moment I met them, and some are people whose friendship (after years of knowing them in a few cases) is something I still can't explain. 

It all makes me wonder: in this giant world where this weird-ass group of people can come together and get along so well, why does anyone anywhere ever need to hurt another person or hate another person?  If a relatively tiny number of people -- all different in so many ways -- can care about each other this much, then how can entire chunks of the globe hateeach other so much?  Why is it so hard to love people, but so easy to hate them? 

I wish I could take my group of friends -- the funny ones and the serious ones ... the smart ones and the dumb ones (I'm sorry, but some of you are very dumb.  You won't know that I'm directing that description toward you, though, because of how dumb you are, so that's ok.  And I love you even though -- and sometimes because -- you're dumb) ... the ones with strong faith and the atheists ... the nerds and the jocks ... the hard workers and the slackers ... the kind ones and the harsh ones ... the crazy ones and the calm ones ... I'd like to take them all and put them on a stage for the whole world to see and say "Look!  Look at these people who are so very different in so many ways ... who shouldn't like each other at all by your way of thinking yet care about each other so much ... who are so very different yet spend their time together, taking and laughing and getting drunk and playing bongos and dancing and eating skeezy french fries at even skeezier all-night diners and laughing and screwing around and working together and playing together and crying together and taking care of each other and sometimes suggesting the odd fart into a puddle of ink for the sake of art.  We can do all this, and you -- YOU are hating each other.  You are killing each other. 

It's silly and it's naive and it will never, ever happen in a million-billion-gazillion years, but just try to imagine it.  Try to imagine that the whole world is just like you and your amazing group of frigged-up, ridiculous, shouldn't-be-friends-in-some-cases friends.  They won't always get along, but that's ok.  They'll get mad at each other sometimes, and they might swat at each other sometimes, they'll make each other cry sometimes and wish they'll wish each other would die sometimes.....until they sit down and chill out with a cold beer on a patio or a back deck, and all is forgotten and forgiven.  That sounds like such a stupid thing to say, even now as I read over it again (checking for spelling mistakes because every misspelled word kills a puppy somewhere in the world.)  In fact, I kind of want to delete it because it's so lame and cliched and dorky -- but I like the idea.  I like to think maybe one day before I die (apparently in a drunken lawnmower accident that features no fewer than three midgets, a gas can filled with ethanol and a woman with a mullet -- don't ask, I just know) people will at the very least stop blasting the ever-loving FUCK out of each other for no better reason than 'because I don't like you and I don't want you around me.'

This is not a perfect world.  It never will be, and that's just too goddamn depressing for me to think about anymore.  If I can't fix the whole wide world and make everyone smarten the hell up, then I'll just focus my attention on my friend's soon-to-be-released fart-based coffee table book, tentatively titled "Ass-Blasted Ink Blots: Using The Gas From Your Ass to Peer Into the Mind of a Killer."  In stores this Christmas.


Friday, August 6, 2010

In Heaven, I Would Barf on Your Cat

When I was a kid, I had to go to Sunday School.  In a church.  A church filled with old ladies wearing ugly hats and old men who coughed weirdly.  I had to go to church NOT JUST on holidays, but every Sunday.  (Side note: I don't think people who only have to go to church on holidays are lucky.  Holidays are the worst times to go to church.  Holidays are when you wake up and there are presents under a tree or chocolate hidden around your house.  Church does not have that.)

So I went to church and I went to Sunday School because.....I don't actually know why.  Because I was told I had to. I'm going to ask my mom next time I'm talking to her why she made me do that.  My family should just consider themselves lucky that I hadn't discovered and started making my way through the Seven Deadly Sins back then, or the fire department would still be putting out the flames that would have broken out the second I walked through the church doors all those years ago.

I don't remember much from Sunday School beyond the words to every song they made us sing about sunbeams and mangers and how Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, and that's why they don't mind when land mines blow them into smithereens, because even though they are in 137 individual pieces, they are precious pieces.

(I'm going to stop here and make it clear that I am NOT picking on religious people or people who go to church.  I respect your beliefs just as much as I assume you respect my lack of them.  You're cool with me not believing the same things that you do, right?)

I think most of the people I know who have faith do respect that I'm not a religious person.  It's not like I prance around all "lah-de--dah, I don't believe nuthin'!" but it's not really a secret that I'm a non-believer.  I do not believe in god.  Any god.  I'm not just ambivalent about it, either -- I.  Do.  Not.  Think.  Any.  God.  Exists.  Not being a dick about it, it's just how I feel.  We can have differing opinions and not hate each other.  Oh, wait -- I forgot that people live on this planet.  I meant to say "we can have differing opinions on things, and should try to convince people who don't believe what we believe that they should believe it, and if they refuse, they should be hit with sticks and called bad names and shunned and you know what, just set the fuckers on fire."  Not ALL people are like that, but way too many are.  (One person qualifies as "way too many," by the way.)  

And finally, we come to the point of today's little story: Why the hell is it so bloody important that I believe what YOU believe?  Do you get a prize if you change my mind?  Is it like a country fair, where god gives you a shitty little pencil-topper in the shape of Generic Big Bird if you recruit one person, and a giant stuffed ape wearing a cowboy hat if you get 50 of us to switch sides?  Is heaven like Amway?  Are your profit margins bigger if you can get me to sell cheap hair conditioner, dietary supplements made out of wet cardboard and your message of Peace and Love? (Peace and Love not available in the Middle East or Africa.  Offer void in California unless they fix this whole Prop 8 thing and keep those darn gays from getting married.)

Here's the thing, folks:  You don't want me in heaven with you.  I'm not saying that just because I don't believe in heaven -- I'm saying it because I don't want you to make a horrible mistake.  Have you ever had a party at your house, and invited your neighbour just so you wouldn't seem rude, even though you really don't like that neighbour because he doesn't have a job and he walks out to get his mail in his bathrobe without bothering to tie it closed and you're pretty sure you've seen him piss off his balcony on more than one occasion?  But you invite him to your party to be nice, and he lurks by the chips and dip double-dipping and drinking really cheap beer while leering at your wife and scratching his nuts and then throws up on your cat?  Well, in heaven, I would be that neighbour.  It doesn't matter where or how I end up, if I'm anything more than bug-food, you're not going to want me there.  I don't feel like behaving myself while I'm on this planet, and if it turns out I'm wrong about the whole after-you-die thing and I don't end up just rotting in a box, I'm not going to feel like behaving myself when I get to wherever I end up.  

I say this not to the people I know who have faith and leave me be to not have mine -- I say this to people who will never read this anyway.  I just want the words out there:  Leave the rest of us alone.  Stop trying to convince us we are wrong because you are right.  Stop trying to save us sinners so we can go to heaven with you when we croak (hopefully while doing something hilarious and naked that will give the emergency responders a wicked-awesome story to tell for the rest of their lives.)  Stop knocking on our doors to talk to us for a minute, or putting signs in our faces and lobbying for bills and laws that are mean and hurtful to the people you hate. (Yes, you hate them.  Don't feed us your bullshit about how you love everyone, and you're just trying to save them. You are trying to keep them from being happy, and that's something you do to people you hate.)  Mostly, I want you to ask yourself why you need to change our minds.  Why isn't it enough for you to have your faith and love your god?  It doesn't make it any less real to you that I don't believe it, and it won't make it any more real if I do.

Also, I was in the middle of watching some totally awesome porn when you knocked on my door, and you've totally harshed my mellow, so fuck right off.


Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Wanna Get Killed With a Swiffer Wet Jet?

On vacation again this week -- which means I've consistently failed at sleeping in, I'm up $5000+ in computer solitaire while playing by the Vegas rules, and my house is so clean that the only thing that would happen if you licked the floor is that you'd dirty it up with your disgusting spit and I'd have to beat you to pieces with my Swiffer Wet Jet.  Which I would then use to promptly soak up your blood.  My DVDs are completely alphabetized, the food in my fridge is lined up according to height, my clothes are arranged by colour in the closet, and if you move any of it, I.  Will.  Kill.  You.  I will kill you neatly.  I will kill you the way Dexter kills other serial killers -- everything covered in plastic, your individual body parts wrapped up carefully and dropped in the river because to me, fucking with my stuff puts you in the same category as a serial killer.

Yes, I know that's crazy.  I.  Don't.  Care.  I don't like people moving my stuff or messing with my stuff or changing how I've set up my stuff or questioning why I've done stuff with my stuff the way I've done it.  It's my stuff, and I get to do with it what I want.  And for the love of all things good, please don't ask me to explain why all the spines of my books have to be facing the same way, or why the slats on the blinds have to be completely even up both sides, why I can't function properly if someone writes in my notebook at work, or why I start having seizures when closet doors are left open.  I really don't know.  I just like it to be that way.  I need it to be that way.  Stuff is easy.  I can make stuff do what I want it to do, because it is just stuff.  It can't move itself around or change where it goes or get bigger or smaller or go away.  If I put something somewhere, I know where it will be when I need it.  And if it does get messed up, I can fix it.  I can put it back the way it's supposed to be.

Yep - stuff is awesome.  Easy, inanimate, dumb stuff.  It's people that suck.  They suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks, then leave him unsupervised at a ranch for a few hours.

People don't actually suck.  I take that back.  I could delete it and just type something different, but then you would miss out on the experience of reading the words "suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks," and quite frankly, I'm pretty impressed with myself for coming up with that one.  People don't suck.  They just do things you don't want them to do and say things you don't want them to say.  Sometimes they move around or change where they go or get bigger or smaller or go away.

For someone like me -- someone who somehow JUST KNOWS that something in my house has been moved an infinitesimal bit and I have to find out what and put it back where it's supposed to be or I will not be sleeping tonight and I'm going to lynch the jerk that did this to me -- this poses a particular problem.  It's not that I want to control what everyone does or says or whatevers, I just don't know what to do after they do or say or whatever it.  It's not something I can put back, like a salt shaker that someone set down on the table in the wrong place or a Pirates of the Caribbean 2 DVD that OBVIOUSLY shouldn't be on the shelf before the Pirate of the Caribbean 1 DVD.  Cripes.  Who does that???  And why does that person hate me so much???

I don't like change, and I'm going to speak for each one of you when I say none of you do. Not basic, everyday changes -- the big ones.  The ones that NO ONE can stop.  The changes that come hurtling at us like Bret Michaels running toward a Greasy Blonde Wigs For Scuzzy Hair Metal Losers Who Are Obviously Bald and Also Probably Have ALL of the STDs Sale.  The changes that walk up to you, say "Hi!  How's it going?  You look like you're having a super duper day!" and then hit you in the stomach with a fucking electrified crowbar with glass super-glued to it.  Those changes are never ever good, never make anything better, and can hardly ever be fixed.  They always hurt, they always break you and they always leave a scar.  You can get all the help and all the support and all the hugs, and it's still going to blow.  I have no words of wisdom or magical solution.  I'm just an idiot who comes home after a bad day and lines up all her furniture so it runs parallel to the lines in the hardwood floor.

My way of dealing is a bit insane.  I'm ok with that.  It makes me feel better to put my stuff where it's supposed to be, so I'm going to keep doing it.  You should, too.  Find your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be.  Maybe your stuff is your husband or your wife or your kids or boyfriend or girlfriend or dog or cat (even though cats suck) or a teddy bear or a sweater that still smells like your best friend or your gramma or whatever.  Take your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be -- tight in your arms and as close to you as you can get it, as often as possible.  It won't stop the bad changes that have come or will come, but you'll always know your stuff is where it's supposed to be, and that always makes me feel better :)


Monday, August 2, 2010

Don't Worry -- I Didn't Actually Get a Rusty Nail in My Ass

There's a scene in 'Forrest Gump' where Forrest helps create the saying 'Shit Happens.'  It involves a t-shirt and some shit, and I'm not describing it beyond that because you've seen the movie and you already know.  I'm just reminding you of it, in case you don't have an over-active brain with a frigging giant vault for remembering crap ALL THE TIME that you don't actually need to remember, like I do.  This is the same brain that can't remember what the stupid password is on my cable box so I can watch Pay-Per-View, yet for some reason remembers the licence plate for my first car, which was four cars ago.  YTF 848.  Why the snotty hell does my brain think I need to know that???

So, yes.  Shit does, in fact, happen.  What I'm dwelling on today is why.  Or is there no why?  And if there IS a why, then why does the whatever that decides why it should happen decide it should happen?  As far as I can gather, there are three common schools of thought.  Let's examine them, with a little help from my sweet ass and an imaginary rusty nail:

God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something has a plan, and everything that happens is part of it.

I am on a bike ride.  I fall off my bike and land on my ass.  My ass lands on a nail, the nail is covered in rust, the nail gets stuck in my ass, I get tetanus and the left side of my body falls off.  If there is a God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something, and that God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something's plan involves me falling off my bike onto a rusty nail so the left side of my body falls off, then that God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something is a dick and I can't imagine why anyone would worship him/her/it.  If some giant bully named Sven decided to punch me off my bike onto a rusty nail because it was part of his plan, I wouldn't start building buildings in his name and hanging out in them one morning a week.  I'd punch him in the nuts.  Comedian's Consensus:  If there's a higher power, he/she/it is not very nice, since there is no good reason for someone to get a rusty nail in the ass.

Everything happens for a reason.

Similar to the God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something school of thought, but without the God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something.  This one just figures that if I fall off my bike and land on my ass, and my ass lands on a nail, and the nail is covered in rust, and the nail gets stuck in my ass, and I get tetanus and the left side of my body falls off, then all those things happened so that something else will happen later.  Something 'better,' apparently.  Well, yes.  I assume that if half my body were to fall off, whatever happened to me after that -- short of the OTHER half of my body falling off -- would be 'better.'  It's like those dopes that say a bird shitting on you is good luck.  Yes, because for the rest of the day just about anything that happens to you that doesn't involve shit plummeting out of the sky from a bird's dirty ass onto your face will seem like a shot of good luck.  Comedian's Consensus: Shut up.  I can't hear you very well anyway, because my left ear fell off with the rest of the left side of my body........but for a reason!

Things.  Happen.

Every time something happens, a thing happens.  Sometimes it is a good thing.  Or a bad thing.  Or a thing that is just a thing and doesn't affect anything.  There is probably a reason that LED to it happening, but there is not a reason FOR it to happen.  Maybe I fell off my bike onto a rusty ass-nail because I got distracted by a memory of a naked dude, since that's apparently what my brain thinks I need to think about 75.9% of the time (SCIENCE FACT.)  Therefore, there is a reason I don't have the left side of my body anymore: because I am a pervert.  There is not, however, a reason for me not to have the left side of my body.  It will not lead to anything better.  Nothing awesome or wonderful or good will happen because half of me fell off.  It sucks hard, it's lame, and I can't fix it.  Comedian's Consensus: Yeah, you all knew already this is the one I believe in, so there's no real need to go into it any further than that.

But here's the thing:  Sometimes, I wish very very hard that I believed one of the first two.  It would be so much easier to know there was a reason for something, as opposed to knowing that sometimes the worst things you can think of will happen, and you can't stop them and you can't fix them.  I don't look down on anyone who does believe (even though I made that snarky comment about building buildings and Sunday mornings earlier - sorry) but it just doesn't work for me.  I'd probably be happier if it did.  Then I wouldn't have to spend all this time trying to think of ways to fix everything, and I could concentrate more on naked dudes.