My Attention Span vs. Time

Today was lousy.

I woke up, looked at the minutes on the clock, and freaked out. I dressed in under a minute, and ran out of the house.

I hopped in my car, drove three feet, and smashed the right side-mirror off of my car (once again). I was reminded that it was garbage day by the simple sound that a mirror makes when cracking off of the side of a garbage bin placed on the curb.

Take note of the green bastard next to the curb in the background.

After driving like James Bond to campus, I rushed to get to my class that I thought I was late for. It turns out I was actually 55 minutes early. It’s not necessarily a bad thing to be that early, but it definitely makes you question your intelligence.

Class ended, I had a quick lunch, and I walked back to my car in the cold rain.

Content on salvaging the day, I decided that peanut butter cookies would save me from misery.

But the peanut butter cookies did more to reveal my issues than they did to comfort me.

And so I present the inversely exponential relationship of my attention span versus time, in an easy to understand flow of pictures:

Batch 1: “Holy fucking cock-monkeys, I really want to eat a delicious peanut butter cookie, so I’ll be damned if I fuck them up.”

Perfection comes with a soft, succulent center.

Batch 2: “The peanut butter cookies from Batch 1 tasted pretty good, so I guess more cookies would be nice to eat in the future.”

Crunchy, but I'm not getting my panties in a bunch.

Batch 3: “What? Peanut butter cookies? What are you talking about?”

Umm...

This is why I usually stick to raw cookie dough- more salmonella, less smoke detector, and much more suited for my attention span.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Know I am Gay

I recently came out of the closet to my family. It went something like this:

Mmm... gay demons.

After all of the drama, anxiety, and excitement, I have decided to explain my sexuality in a way that makes more sense. Feelings of natural love for the same sex, an inability to be even remotely attracted to women, and an innate need to screw guys just isn't enough justification for some people.


Here are the real reasons why I know I'm gay:

Top Ten Reasons 

Why I Know I am Gay

So many 'staches, so little time.

10. I once blew out a speaker while blasting Journey alone in my house. And then I continued to play Journey with only the treble speaker working. I am not ashamed.

I love how Calvin Klein likes to pretend that straight guys actually buy their underwear. You're not fooling anyone, Calvin Klein, these guys can't wait to get their hands off of these ladies and onto each other.

9. Every time I pass a male underwear aisle, I get distracted and forget everything I was supposed to do that day. Sometimes I even forget what year it is, and how long I’ve been standing there with a pair of Calvin Klein briefs hanging out of my mouth.

Check out InfoMania, they do a really GreAYt segment. This is that segment's logo.

8. I have the uncanny ability to detect when “gay” is being used as an insult, from up to three miles away. “Did that guy four classrooms down the hall and two floors above us seriously just call The Office ‘gay?’ What the fuck!?”

7. I subconsciously replace feminine pronouns in songs with masculine ones. “He loves you, yea, yea, yea- He loves you yea, yea, yea.”

This is the gayest coffee mug I could find.

6. I drink coffee, and I talk about how much I drink coffee. Sometimes I even talk about how much I talk about drinking coffee. So yeah, that’s pretty gay.

5. I organize things into detailed lists.

Calvin and Hobbes made me gay.

4. I kissed a girl and I didn’t like it, but the taste of her cherry chapstick was “okay.”

3. I just referenced Katy Perry.

2. I’m attracted to my own body wash, deodorant, and man-scents.

1. This Haiku I wrote pleases me:

Oh, Jake Gyllenhaal.

Oh, Robert Downey Junior.

Oh, Taylor Lautner.

Irondequoit Bay & Tips to Save the Day!

It’s no shock to most of my readers that I care about the environment. I love baby seals, pandas, and -most of all- adorable amphibians. There’s nothing that turns me on more than the feeling of an Allegheny Mountain dusky salamander, as its four slimy legs move up and down my naked back.

Well today, ladies and gentlemen, I partook in a small cleanup effort on Irondequoit bay here in NY, and it gave me plenty of personal time to reconsider how genuine my love for the environment is. As we walked around, we picked up over 450 cigarette butts (not even 2% of the total),  plastic bags, Styrofoam cups, beer bottles, hair clips, combs, and even a pink flamingo.

What an eye-opening event. It made me sad- so sad. All of that garbage, tucked in between rocks and branches, buried beneath the sand. Plastic six-pack rings that come around sodas and beer. Paper bags, ladies "hygiene" pads (Hygiene is not having periods in the first place, ladies. Seriously, it's disgusting. You just do it for the attention, and I won't give it to you.), fast food bags, candy wrappers...

I was heartbroken, because I was picking up all of this garbage and throwing it into a landfill, where it would go to little use if any. This was not garbage anymore, it was habitat for animals, a food source, and a vital part of their ecosystem. I was an unwelcome visitor, tearing animals from their life and home.

You see, when we throw garbage into a landfill, we can't enjoy the new array of colors it brings to the world. Who doesn't love going to the beach and watching the sunlight reflect off of the blues, the reds, the greens and yellows in the sand. Some may be from broken glass, and some from plastic shards, but both are equal in their beauty. But so called environmentalists want to segregate them- put them in numbered bins- with "labels"- all to perpetuate the negative stereotypes about litter.

The animals are distraught, unable to live without our empty beer bottles- a vital home for the once plenteous North Atlantic Butter-squash beetle, which depended on the specific brand of Budweiser beer bottles to survive. Lovers of the beetle came to it's rescue, pouring ever more bottles into their ecosystems, with desperate hope of saving them. Unfortunately, despite these restoration and conservation efforts, the beetle has become extinct. Stories like the one of the North Atlantic Butter-squash beetle are not scarce- more and more examples are being shared around the world.

 After the big recycling boom of the late 90's we see an even sharper decline in ecosystem health. Biodiversity dies while environmentalists propagate their agenda, going out on raids and pulling tires from lakes and taking used motor oil to "recycling" centers. The irony is perfect, a man made attempt to "recycle" continues to wreak havoc on the Earth, because the environmentalists ignore Mother Nature's beautiful cycling capabilities. Humans are tampering with what should be left alone- the natural cycle of garbage.

I have since decided to take matters into my own hands, because it has become increasingly apparent that the environmentalists have poisoned the media- pumping liberal messages into their biased "news" segments when they should be pumping oil directly into rivers.

For example, I hate smoking, but I love seagulls. (I don't hate it for health reasons, I hate it because it causes me to spend less money on pornography and chewing gum.) Naturally, my love for the seagulls which populate Rochester's great lake region has caused me to take up smoking once again. I'm up to two packs a day- that's a total of 40 cigarette butts, which my seagull friends feast on in delight. As novelties like "nicotine gum," "nicotine patches," and even smokless cigarettes make their way into our lives, the Seagulls suffer. There were less Seagulls documented this year than any other, at a time when smoking popularity has reached an all-time low. I plead for these so-called "doctors" and "Federal Departments of Lies" to return to a pro-smoking view- if they care about the health of my Seagulls.

Other things I started doing are using bleach when I do laundry, and switching to all phosphate detergents (I have to import these from other countries, which have more environmentally friendly laws- Remember, when it comes to environmental legislation- use the easy to remember philosophy: "Loose as a goose will save your geese!"). This also seems to have the secondary benefit of whitening my whites. Who would have guessed that helping the environment could help you, too!

The main thing I do is throw garbage directly from my windows- at home, in the car, at school, in church. There is a whole "window" full of opportunities. Ha ha. I also pee in the shower. I'm not sure if this will help the environment, but it can't hurt to try.

If you care about the environment, please take heed to this call. Environmentalism isn't what they teach you in school, with books, education, and "science." Environmentalism isn't something you can find from a poster on a wall telling you to "recycle"- it is something you can find on a whole box of posters strewn about an estuary. It is something you can find everyday in your life. All you have to do is absolutely nothing- don't use trash receptacles, don't turn your lights off, don't close windows when the AC is on full-blast. If you love Mother Nature, give her the gift every child should give to his or her mother- something crappy that you made all by yourself- a mess that she can hang on her fridge in pride.

Selections from a Trip to Walmart in Western MD

            Upon entering one of the classiest novelty stores in the small town of LaVale, Maryland, I was drowned in the culture of the beautiful, mountainous area. The Walmarket in the local Country Club mall is nearly the mall itself, though I am promised that there is also an Auntie Anne’s and at least one Radio Shack elsewhere in the behemoth. Starbucks, you ask? No, that is for arrogant city-folk.

I believe the last mall I went to had at least two Starbucks right next to each other, unless I am confusing them for one big Starbucks. Oh yeah, the last mall I went to also had a Merry-Go-Round. And a child was enjoying it. She probably giggled, but I was walking away. I’m going to just assume she giggled at least once. And I’ll go ahead and lie and say she had a balloon. It was red. But that was another mall, in another part of Maryland, in a completely different century.

            

            This was indeed a “Country” Club, entirely to itself. Casually walking in from the summer heat with brown plaid shorts complete with aviators hanging from a non-white T never felt so un-casual. The fancy boy I am, I got a return sticker for my coffee maker. It stopped working a few weeks ago, and despite persistent cursing on my part, it still decided be my slave no more. But, before pitching out the most expensive nugget of General Electric’s shit that I ever held in my hands, my Mother overheard a recall of my exact model on the radio.

We listen to the radio in Western Maryland. The Public radio. If it counts I think it was FM. Is that better? Okay, I’m lying. It was AM. Apparently my model had been burning down other people’s homes, or at least trying to do so. Why do I always pick the boring ones?

So I returned it. But not before waiting in the least productive return line I’ve ever waited in. I was second in line. Yippie-skippy-doo. I almost considered doing a cartwheel, but that is generally difficult to do while holding a 12-cup coffee (refuse-to-work-rather-burn-the-kitchen-cabinets)-maker in your hands. Two women behind the counters who were possibly pregnant but more likely to have instead eaten babies apparently realized that they have job security regardless of how poorly they do their jobs. One talked on the phone in a language unknown to both God and civilized man. The other was, well, she was… doing nothing. Practicing standing, is all I can assume. She was alright at that I guess, but even if standing were a job, I’d hire someone else.

An elderly woman behind me attempts to coyly pass me in line, as does every person older than 34, because at age 34 every adult goes to a special once-weekly night class where they get trained to believe in their heart that I am a poor lost child searching for my mother in the large stores, and I’m never in a line to buy or return anything because I am but a meager little child lost in life. This is where facial hair comes in handy. At 20, I’m not going to hold my breath. It is at this point that I notice the line behind me growing very, very long.  I am now first in line, *Happy Days and Sunshine.*

The Stander, as she shall be called from this point in time, opened a roll of coins for the register slower than a dead bee regains consciousness when you freeze it for too long. Why won’t it fly? I have it all tied to this string and everything. Damn it.

Then, the Stander spoke to me in a language I can only assume was some dialect of English that had long branched from the modern dialect long ago.

“I have a recall,” said I as clearly and plainly as possible.

Just as I feared, she could not understand me. A confused look on her face, like a dumbfounded dog watching a car from the safety of the dotted yellow center line. I was hoping whatever vehicle was headed straight for her in her mind would take her out of her misery, but then she walked away without saying anything to me. She walked to a bulletin board which contained a picture of my model. Thing in real life match thing in picture. Very good.

The Stander got the attention of the Talker. “I dun’t hav a code fer this one. Waat du aye du?” “Well lemme seehere, u jusgatta do thus her. Her it is”

“Syx, syx, fahyve, foor, tu, thray…”

The Talker talked, while the Stander typed.

After a very long time, I got a Walmarket card that they promised had something of value on it, so I left as quickly as possible.

Next time, I’m going to return a coffee maker with a pipe bomb in it. Haha. I’m just kidding of course, that’s crazy. Only crazy people say those things on the internet. I’ll just plug the GE death-maker into the wall and let it burn the store to the ground. If all else fails, I might get a freshly brewed cup of Joe out of it.

To Catch A Predator: Back in the UV Spotlight

It’s no surprise that the hit television show, “To Catch a Predator” has drawn criticism from many people in the media over the past few years. Countless journalists within MSNBC, have even labeled it as “a poor attempt at journalism, which feeds off of the sensationalism of reality television and destroys the value of both our legal system and news programming.” Hansen discredited that sentiment with a statement of his own, which he posted on fliers around the office: “stop being such whiney little bitches and get over the fact that they asked me to host it, assfucks.” When asked to clarify further, Hanson explained, “I have no idea who taped those in every stall in all the bathrooms.”

Despite increasing support for the show, MSNBC decided to take a one-year break from the traditional format in both a political and economic decision to gain support from a wider audience. Last year, MSNBC teamed up with Animal Planet to bring audiences what animal rights activists have been demanding for years- justice in the animal kingdom.

“To Catch a Predator” kept its original title, and promised to keep all of its momentum for viewers. Initially, the high-budget show was very successful, catching countless predators such as the Inland Taipan, the most venomous snake on earth, and the Saltwater Crocodile, which grabs its “prey” and rolls powerfully while murdering it.

These animals have been living their unrelinquished lifestyles of rape and murder in the animal kingdom for as long as Kurt Kensworth, research biologist, can remember. Said Kensworth, “this show doesn’t make any sense to me, but I can’t stop watching. It’s probably because it makes me forget that I’m being evicted and I can’t afford groceries.” Kensworth later added, “Can I crash at your place? I can’t pay you. I only did research biology because I liked puppies. Now, I fucking hate all animals.”

However, the momentum did not last. Both television networks were stunned and financially burdened when Chris Hansen was mauled to death during one of the filmings, in which he interrupted the raping of a lioness. The male lion refused to comment, but clearly had no remorse for forcing sexual favors from a 4 year old female, which was evident by his continued attempts to escape police officers despite countless tazorings.

James Dunwood, a chief representative from MSNBC, eased shareholders’ minds with a statement released shortly after everyone pretended to be too busy to go to Hansen’s funeral. “When people hear the name, ‘Chris Hansen,’ they think ‘pedophilia’ and ‘drama,’” assured Dunwood, “even death will not stop us from cashing in on that.”

MSNBC recently signed a contract with MTV, in which Hansen is expected to be reconstructed through digital media archives to host the new MTV2 show, “To Catch a Parish.” The show features Hansen as an undercover alter boy, with an attitude and a gun, on a quest for remittances and justice.

The Pope is expected to receive a portion of the profits, which he will use to host the worlds largest petting zoo, which will be located in the basement of a lone Catholic church in Meadsville, PA. In a direct statement from Pope Benedict XVI, the benefit is expected to “bring countless children to their knees in front of the lord.”

My Personal Health Time Capsule

Through all of the senseless beatings of my youth inspired by my red hair and dauntingly asinine sarcasm, a few good memories still find their way through the repressed electrochemical signals of my brain and out of my mouth for all of the world to hear.

One of these memories comes from my elementary school’s ceremonial opening of a time capsule. It was fifty years since the opening of my school, and we gathered around in awe of all of the terrible ideas that could be brought to us straight from the past. I just got this stupid sheet of paper with numbers all over it, so I immediately burned it. My alcoholic father subsequently admitted himself to a mental institution where he spent his free time eating paint chips off of his cell walls and cursing Jesus for being so damn smug. Later, a group of aliens were caught profiting off of the sale of child pornography just before the entire earth was destroyed by a solar flare.

Good times.

But before my abusive father, Nicolas Cage, admitted himself to that hospital, he told me something I will never forget. “I killed your mother, but I couldn’t kill you because they put cameras inside my head so that I wouldn’t kill again. Also, aunt Jemima was adopted. She’s black, son, it should have been obvious.”

Those few words were the most inspirational words that my father ever told me. Before this, the longest conversation we had was “Son, I killed the cat. I shoveled it into the bag, but I’m not going to do all the work here. When you’re finished digging a hole, he’s behind Ben and Jerry in the deep freeze. By the way, you’re not allowed to register to vote.”

It was the former conversation that made me realize the importance of remembering your past, and telling your therapist everything even if it doesn’t seem relevant at the time. Nicolas Cage’s words have thus inspired me to make a personal time capsule- a time capsule of a very, very personal nature. I am going to document my current health, and then include a brief description of how I think my health will be when I am 40 years old in 2030. (This is assuming that Star Wars doesn’t come out with a movie worse than the Clone Wars, thereby causing myself to unavoidably commit suicide)

The Personal Health Time Capsule:

Now (Year 2010, Age: 2 years until I can legally get shitfaced)

1. General Body Type: Skinny as a mother fucker

2. Metabolic Rate: Faster than a hamster on methamphetamines

3. Anomalies:

• Anti-Semitism
• Actin' a Fool
• More white than CSPAN

Then (Year 2030, Age: 2 years before I will get laid, and one year after I adopted one thousand kittens and let them form a general democratic assembly to dictate my movements)

1. General Body Type: Skinny as a mother fucker

2. Metabolic Rate: Slower than a sloth on barbiturates

3. Anomalies:

• Anorexia
• Nihilism
• Kidney Stones
• The Cancer
• Seizures onset by the GOP
• Wet Dreams

This concludes my personal health time capsule, and I hope I, like Nicolas Cage, have inspired millions to look deep within their own souls and find out the true meaning of life. Oh Nicolas Cage: life, like your acting career, is one big mystery. How did we get here? What does it all mean? How does one man with the personal characteristics of a lively corpse with Down syndrome still get asked to make movies, and why can I not look away from the backstreet abortion that is his acting career?

Free Writing

The purpose of free writing is to get all the shit out of your head so you can actually start writing. I wrote the following list without the intention of anyone finding it, but after reading it, it was clearly some deeply fucked up shit.

Look deeply into this for any sort of meaning, and you will probably find it. Because you find what you are looking for. Which is why English is a fuck-job, and no one should tell anyone how to interpret something. So fuck you, Writing teacher, for giving me an 85% on my last essay.

That essay gave birth to your mother, you asshole. It was more pure than the virgin mary, who clearly fucked someone or something. But that's enough blasphemy for one day. I can already see it now, Jesus waiting at the pearly gates with an essay about why I am going to Hell.

And I'll say the same thing to him that my english teacher just said to me: You didn't use MLA formatting. Who the fuck cares if it's MLA formatting or not? Who even knows what that fucking stands for. Go to hell if you even try to tell me.

Anyway, the point I'm getting at is that the only meaning that came from any of this shit is the last three lines. When I finally pushed all the crap out, the truth came as freely as immigrants across the Mexican border.

And here it is; THE FREE WRITING:

Addiction killed my puppy.

Religion kills babies.

Animals are people too.

Sharks stole my bike.

The Lakers gang raped an ostrich.

Fourteen carrots wiped my ass.

I ran out of newspaper so I read the floor.

Eating is the new sleeping.

The brain was made to scream.

My eye is bulging from the cocaine.

I tried to smile but I swallowed the hook.

Crying burns calories.

Pasta shaped into O’s shanked my mother.

I broke out of prison in time for my party.

I took the city for a walk.

Words are useful when describing stories.

Fried peas drove me to work.

I liked the sample platter.

Hacking is my face.

Why is this so god damned wrong.

Fuck the po lice.

Eat at Bruno’s bakery.

Size is as important as uranium.

Planets are my sex toy.

The man was off of work.

I don’t want to go to school.

Let me sleep in.

Fuck this shit.

Genocide or Something

The definition of “genocide” is strictly, in all forms, the Holocaust. Genocide refers only to those people who are exterminated while being fair-skinned, wealthy, and finding new ways to charge you for having a bank account. Fortunately, seeing as the Holocaust is over and Hitler is now in a South American nursing home, there is no longer any such thing as genocide.

The phenomenon occurring in Africa has been described by one major news station to be genocide, but this comment was officially withdrawn after finding out that the report was written by someone who uses biodegradable soaps and cleaning products. Fortunately, all other news stations have reported that Africa does not exist unless something cool like a pirate attack happens. And in the event that said pirate attack happens, all that needs to be reported about is the American hero who prevails. “I was there man, it’s like, they were pirates.” For eighty nine hours of broadcasting time. Given a one hour news program, the event lasted at least 89 days. This is almost one trimester, 33% of women pregnant at the time of the pirate attack had already given birth to their children, who’s first comments out of the womb were “Thank God I’m an American, because now I know I can beat a pirate any day.”

The ethic cleansing (lather, rinse, repeat) happening in Africa couldn’t be further from genocide. Sure, people are dying in large quantities, but is that enough to call something genocide? When I clean out my refrigerator, only good things can come from it. It prevents mold from accumulating on my baby seal fillets. I don’t eat them, of course- I’m a vegetarian. But Frisky got used to being spoiled, and you can’t fight the look she gets in her eyes when she’s not eating an adorable endangered species. Ah, I remember when I named my daughter Frisky, all the nurses spat on me for some reason, but I think it’s because I work more convenient hours than them.

Anyway, I was talking about something. Oh, right, people that none of us will ever see, nor will we have the chance to see them because of their removal from life. I’m motivated already. I think I’ll write a blog to help them or something. Anyway, these African people are being senselessly slaughtered, raped, and forced into combat against other people. And they don’t get very good cell phone reception, so it’s hard to call for help. Every day is like a living he—

Oh shit, something happened to the economy while I was writing this. I think someone’s points went up, which is good because yesterday they were down, which was bad because they were up further than that the day before, which was before they really went down. Which was bad.

Anyway, for your enjoyment, I will now list various sports teams: The Philadelphia Eagles. The Seattle Seahawks. The Pittsburg Penguins. The Dallas Cowboys. The LA Lakers. The Cleveland Globetrotters. The Red Socks. My Sixth Grade Pre-Olympic Curling Team. The Unusual Brown Spot On my Sheets That Interests Me More Than This.

I have to go now. My excuse Rolodex is empty, so I’m going to have to come up with one on my own. Going to zoo to eat an ice cream cone and make Frisky stop asking me why I ignore her when I drink juice alone in my room.