Seem Like You Could Just Use Your Own

So this guy steals a bag of poop from a woman. I'm not sure what to think about that. That's kind of like stealing phlegm, or toenails. Supposedly, he didn't know it was poop, but I have my doubts, so I wrote the thief a little note.

Confidential to Poop Thief in San Diego: I bet you thought that would be funny, to steal poop. Maybe you were planning to build miniature poop castles or poop forts or something? I don't think that's funny, and I think you can find something else to build forts out of. You could at least wait a few hours for your own stuff. Anyway, this is gross, so I'm going to stop typing now. Please don't steal any more poop, this country is already extremely weird, if you haven't noticed. Also, please seek help, you're disgusting. Thanks for your attention to this matter.

I don't know if my letter will have any effect, but the only way to deal with the poop thieves is one at a time. One at a time...

Maybe you're curious as to why I haven't hacked out any semi-coherent thoughts for a few days now. Or maybe you were hoping I'd finally given up, I don't know. I can't speak to your every last twisted motivation, nor do I know for certain that you don't have a debilitating mental condition which prevents you from even sounding out the words you're looking at right now, much less making any sense of them. From what I've seen so far, I'm inclined to believe the latter, but I could be way off base. Okay, that was over the line, you didn't deserve that. But news flash, people: I have feelings too, or maybe you forgot about the concept of people having feelings? And then other people disregarding those same feelings, which the first person originally had? It's as if you're a futuristic cyborg, but the emotional kind, where the cyborg just marches coldly over the person's emotions. Let me explain:

Most of the time, you'll come here (taking for granted that there is even a site as cool as this one), and you'll find I've once again provided illuminating and insightful commentary on current events that shape our world. Or maybe you'll come here, remember how badly it sucks, and then possibly go onto a different site for the current events thing. Whatever, I'm basically fine with that. Ok, I'm not. That's actually the problem here. At any given time, I may have as many as 4 to 6 pieces of insightful commentary going on in my head, but all you care about is if I have a joke to tell.

I also know a lot about superheroes and I've been wanting to discuss my comic book collection for some time, but I get the feeling you're not interested in that, either. Specifically, I've wanted to share my thoughts on Amazing Spiderman #223, but I guess you wouldn't have time to learn about it, since life is apparently one big joke. You've seen both Spiderman movies, and that's suddenly enough for you. I guess a vague understanding of the basic hollywood storyline is sufficient, and you're comfortable with an almost infantile understanding of Peter Parker's character. Being aware of a laughably tiny fraction of the adventures which have shaped Peter's life is somehow ok in your mind. Try as I might, I just can't understand apathy on that level, and I don't think I want to. I suspect yours to be a sickness for which there is no cure, but since I have this little thing I like to call "compassion", I'm going to give you a basic idea of what's going on in this issue.

In the opening panels, Peter is shown toiling away in a seemingly innocuous setting, the Midtown High School laboratory. Dr. Connors (no, not Dr. Octavius, or "Doctor Octupus". If you were more diligent in your readings, you might've known that Otto Octavius was locked in a psychiatric ward from issues #200 through #232) then enters the lab, to discuss an experiment on which the two scientists have been collaborating. If you weren't already aware, Peter Parker knows a thing or two about science, ok? But you will never understand this, or his inner demons--what drives him to be a hero every day, what it costs to wear the uniform. You have no concept. So I'm just going to summarize the rest of it, because this isn't fun for me anymore. Dr. Connors turns into a human lizard and kills some people, and then Peter feels guilty and beats up the lizard. There, I'm done.

Now can you see how maybe there's more to life than joking around? Sure, everything's real funny until you have lizards killing people. And stabbing them with claws, IN THEIR EYES. Yeah, that's really hilarious, isn't it? Well what if I said this entire post was about paying proper respect to the heroes in our own lives? I agree, it seems like a stretch. But it's really all I've got. So if you could just roll with it, that'd be cool...

Career Talk

One of my main principles in this life, is that if I have something to say, everyone should listen with earnest ears and ready minds, until I'm done. Now you may disagree with what I have to say--to which I reply, I may disagree with what YOU have to say, as you are extremely ignorant. But I'll defend to the death your right to say it, as well as any laws that would make it permissible for me to beat you for your contrary attitude. Said another way, "I eventually will have you stoned for your insolence". *

With that in mind, let's move forward. Yesterday I saw one of those guys who gets paid to stand on the side of the road with a sign that shows where to go if you want to buy 50 pizzas for 38 cents or whatever. Sometimes it's couches, sometimes it's housewares, the nature of the product being advertised is only a sub-theme here. Ok, you know I don't do sub-themes, but this paragraph wasn't flowing right, and it needed some filler. What I'm saying is, you have to be dangerously short on life skills to take that job. Here's the thought process leading up to that career move, as I see it.

What would someone be dumb enough to pay me for...Sign maker? Good, but that may require knowing the whole alphabet. I know, sign holder. By coincidence, I have held various things in the past, and a sign is also a thing.

Please understand, I believe that any honest work is good work, except for the following, which are not generally recognized as legitimate occupations: Masonry, concrete workers, lawn-mower people (whatever you call that), steel workers, or the people who build things, like houses. Basically, any of the manual labor jobs are out. Aside from those, I say go for it. Sign-holding is totally base, though. It seems like I wouldn't even say hi to a sign holder if I saw him. Nevertheless, I have attempted to reproduce the possible thought chronology of a sign holder's first day on the job.

1st minute: This is not too bad. Not too bad at all. I've got my Journey Best Ballads in the discman, and oddly enough, I don't even feel that stupid holding this sign. Maybe two hot girls in a red convertible Boxster will pull over and give me their phone numbers. Nah, that probably won't happen. But this is still cool. The wheel in the sky keeps on tuurrrnin'...yeah!

Minute 5: Is that rain? That's kind of...interesting. I can see that making this less fun over the course of the next 7 hours and 55 minutes. This is still awesome, though.

15 minutes in: That's definitely rain. And I'm not sure how it's possible, but it felt like that last drop went directly into my underwear.

35 minutes: This better not be acid rain. I'm serious. If this is acid rain, I will have some choice words for that shrew of a woman at the temp agency.

41 minutes: Oh c'mon! Don't quit on me now! Would a water-resistant discman be too much to ask for? They can land robot tanks on Mars, and then drive them around collecting little mineral samples that are then probably converted into gold bullion or something. But they can't make a water-resistant discman. I have no words for that.

48 minutes: What? That kid just flipped me off, not cool. "Hey! Yeah, you with the tricycle! I will beat you with this sign until all of your intestines are outside your body. Ooh, now you're gonna run to mommy??" Typical. I hate 5 year-olds.

1 hour: Ok, This is becoming totally unmanageable. I want to know how it can be raining 1 minute, and as hot as the surface of the sun the next. Good thing I took off all my clothes.

2 hours: Yep, I would definitely rather contract leprosy than do this any longer. In fact, I think being all the way dead would beat this. Maybe if I just lie down on the road really quick here...There we go, that's better. Death, draw me now into your sweet embrace.

2 hours 12 seconds: "Okay, Okay, I'll get up! Geez, enough with the yelling!". Not exactly the most friendly drivers around here. Mentally unstable, to say the least. Hey, I wonder if I could turn this sign upside down and then impale myself on the wood part...that seems feasible.

For the next 6 or so hours, I imagine the sign holder would just weigh the relative merits of falling on his sign vs. lying down in the road. I don't often see the same sign holders, so I'm guessing they eventually just choose one.

Those are my basic thoughts on sign holders. If you disagree with any of my scenarios, or think you want to be a sign holder someday, that's really sad. But if you're going to be stubborn about it, at least wrap the discman in a plastic bag. Take it from me. I mean...I would never do that job, not even on the weekends when I was a sophomore in college, for Pizza Hut. For $6 per hour. There's no way.


*if you want to read a quote from someone who qualifies as a real person and/or you actually want to learn something, click here. Seriously. This time I'm not messing around.

So I was in san francisco last weekend--and you can stop right there, because I already know what you're thinking. Swarming with gays, right? Well, this is not really a problem for me, because all I do is close my eyes very tightly and stay calm if one walks by. If you do this, you probably will not turn gay. Very simple, very effective. Remember, eye contact only encourages them in their ways.

Anyway, the homosexuals were not the focus of my trip to the big city. No, I was doing a little networking, making a few deals here and there. Not a huge issue. I turn deals faster than most people probably turn open a jar of peanut butter, but big deal. I'm not here to talk about my savvy business acumen, so I'll just allude to it in a passive-agressive tone. For example, I think the fact that I often will choose Target over Walmart tells you all you need to know about my yearly earnings. I can afford the top brands such as Cherokee and Arizona, so why not spoil myself? I play to win. Let's make our judgements from that information, shall we? Because I'm not comfortable discussing the specifics of my wealth, though I have nearly 50 thou in savings alone. Not to mention the $20,035.47 I'm holding in company stock, which I didn't intend to go into--but since you've forced my hand, there you go. And now you're asking me about the several acres of commercial property I own? That's pretty nervy, but I'll play your game. I own 10.5 acres, and you can write that down.

All I ask is that you not judge me solely on how much money I have, but rather on how my possession of that money is indicative of my inherent superiority over all others--others who would possess only a savings account of say, 35 to 40K. If this were Roman times, or even in the era of the Knights of Camelot, that 40K is not going to cut it. It would be off to the dungeons with that person, and without delay.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I paid my car off last month, and I think I'm starting to get a little more respect as a result. If this is not actually the case, I am not too proud to beg for this respect. Basically, if I could get even a sliver of recognition here, that would be nice for a change. What do I have to do, for crap's sake?? For once, I've done something good by paying off my car, and if you people could acknowledge that in some small way, I wouldn't have to make up all this stuff about having an actual balance in my savings account. Ok, I'm actually on food-stamps, are you happy now? I sure hope so.

But seriously, would a quick email be too much to ask? Something simple like, Hey Erik, I hear you paid your car off, good job. P.S. you're looking good in those jeans, have you been doing supersets on the squat machine? I can't help that I'm attracted to you.

There, just copy and paste that into an email, it won't take long. Thanks you guys.

Superior Lawn Care Tips (are not found in this post)

Ok, a new low in home-ownership has been achieved, and it has been achieved by me alone. This is my victory and you are merely a hanger-on, a witness to my descension. If you thought the bacteria I was breeding in the kitchen sink last month was impressive, you are more naive than I thought. No my friends, this milestone is on an entirely different level--and if you're patient, we will go behind the scenes and take an inside look.

Like all my stories, this one has a beginning, then I get distracted, and pretty soon, it's hard to even tell what I'm talking about. Nevertheless, I will start from the beginning. Not the beginning of the xbox era (circa 2001), but the beginning of my time in this house. I've never kept my yard in top-notch condition, but that's okay, because I don't care about it. To me, more important things must be accomplished in this life than raking up some leaves, then watching them fall, then raking them up, and if you are even marginally competent at pattern recognition, you would understand that the leaves are very incessant, and I hate them. Anyway, if you think it's tedious to read this post, which is apparently about leaves, think about how I feel when I don't ever rake them, but society wants me to. Luckily, there is a larger and more compelling issue at hand here, my lawn.

My lawn, which isn't exactly what you'd call "alive", has been on the wrong track for some time now. The shame of the neighborhood? Sure. Repugnant to look upon? That seems about right. Yet, in remission for the winter months, it is now attempting a comeback, in its sad little way. The distasteful thing, is that it somehow expects sympathy from me in its struggle for survival. Doing this whole martyrdom thing, like poor me, poor me, but in reality, I just wish it would die. I already know my neighbors hate me because of my lawn, I don't need to hear the individual blades of grass talking out loud in that weird voice. You know the one? No? I take it back, then. My point is, even though my lawn is still an ugly brown color, it's all tall again, and has taken on something of an arrogant tone with me. If lawns could be cocky, mine would be Tom Cruise.

So last night I return home, (Sidenote to the Ladies: I was increasing the size of my various muscle structures at the gym. My body is now very much reminiscent of a hard steel slab. Of steel. With pheromones emanating from it. Call me.), and can you guess what I saw? A totally mowed lawn. One of my neighbors had evidently seen enough, and took matters into his own hands. You might think I'd be pleased, but mostly, I was ashamed. I mean, that's kind of like having to drive your wife to some other guy's house when it's time for the lovemaking, because you can't get the job done. How humiliating would that be? I don't know. To this point I've only had to do that with girlfriends. But when I have a wife, I'm sure it will happen with her, too, because I can't even keep a lawn satisfied. And if you've been around a girl for more than 1 second, you know that girls are like 10 simultaneous lawns. With those jumping bean mines in the soil that hop up to waist level and then blow your intestines out.

But let's get back on track. Or rather, let me lay down ON the track, so the train can run me over and end this already. My lawn was mowed by another, and now I must take sleeping pills and submit to the eternal slumber. Good-bye.

Ah, my young and oft-unfaithful minions. What have you been doing that was so important you couldn't be bothered to check this page up until now? Your behavior repulses me. But let's move past that, and concentrate on the task at hand: Namely, the fact that I have in-depth philosophical conversations with leprechauns. That's right. The thing is, I'm not sure if they're really leprechauns or simply irish dwarves. Is the distinction imortant? I think it is. Or maybe in your mind, a Spaniard is the same as a Mexican? Nice try, Hitler. In fact, I was lying about the leprechaun/dwarf scenario just to test you, and now your blatant xenophobia has made an ugly cameo. Welcome the nazi to the stage, everyone. Sickening.

Anyway, since it's painfully obvious you could use some sensitivity training, I'm here to remind you that St. Patrick's Day is just around the corner. So let's bear a few things in mind as this zany little holiday approaches: a) This is a time when our Irish-American friends consume alcohol in impossible quantities, and b) All Irish people are drunks. I think the statistics back me on this, but if you are skeptical, then I suggest you check this little website I came across: www.imdumbanderikrules.com. Did that work for you? Oh my fault! Maybe you should try this one, www.arockissmarterthanme.net and then after that try this one!!: www.ilust4erikbutheis2hot4me.org!

Whew, that was awesome, thanks for riding that one out. Back to St. (cow)Paddy's Day. While you mull over my various tips on race relations, I'd like to share a few final thoughts. Number one, this holiday was practically invented for the sole purpose of punishing your liver. Take advantage of that, and enough with the moral grandstanding. Number 2, many claim that Thanksgiving, Office Parties, and Groundhog Day should be used as an excuse for knocking back ridiculous amounts of the good sauce; while that is definitely true, these holidays are pretenders at best. St. Patrick's Day is the undisputed champion of drinking holidays, and no one is going to pat you on the back for staying at home and mailing donations to Red Cross. This is a time for making jokes about personal responsibility and limits, and then totally obliterating them until you are dangerously intoxicated. Let me say it another way: Poor decision making and respect (loss of it, for you, by your family and peers) are the watchwords of the day. Death to all neurons and may the devil take the hindmost. For the youngsters out there not familiar with that last saying, you should probably look it up. And then tell me, because I never really got that. (actually, disregard, i just googled it)

In closing, I do more than talk the talk. If history is any indication, I will be lying facedown in my own vomit come the morning of the 18th. So...I won't be taking calls at that time, forward them on to my hot secretary. You lose, I win. Case closed.

Remember When We Were Kids? Well That Sucked

Go back for a moment. Back to the beginning. Do you remember when you were but a little child, and the possibilities were endless? When the only real concerns in this life were an almost obsessive need for acceptance, the daily floggings administered by your step-dad, and the uncertainty of where your next meal would come from? Oh to be transported across time and memory, to bask in the blood-red glow of just one more thrashing. Let the sweet smell of my stepfather's studded leather belt permeate my senses and quicken my soul once more. Allow me but one more look into his wild, unforgiving eyes as the belt opens my flesh like a new flower in spring, my mangled epidermis flooded by crimson waves of retribution.

Wow, that was way more dreary than I thought it was going to be, I apologize. I'm not sure what the deal was there, I remember my childhood being significantly less nightmarish than that. Ok, I'm going to come clean here. I'm pumped full of enough Zoloft right now to sedate a small rhinocerous, which could be having an adverse effect on my current world view. But as long as we're on the subject, guess what amigos? Life is one long and miserable series of soul-rending disappointments, and then it's time to pack it in.

Disappointment #1, Spiderman Problem: Like many of my kindergarten classmates, I owned spiderman under-roos, and I had no problems running around fighting various crimes in them. However, I knew one thing was missing, and that was the ability to shoot webs at robbers and people in my grade who I didn't like. Well, the toy store in the mall had spiderman webs for sale, so you can bet I had this one woman who took care of me (let's call her "mom") make that purchase pretty quick. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered these weren't projectile webs, but merely a hair-thin glue-like substance you could string from one side of the door jam to the other. I don't think I need to tell you that this was a bit of a letdown.

Disappointment #2, The Puzzle of The Parrot: I knew that parrots could say words like people did. So obviously, if they had a patient and diligent trainer, a parrot would be able to hold entire conversations.

Yeah, that was a bummer. I think I was midway through 8th grade by the time I got that one straightened out. Actually, I'm still somewhat bitter. C'mon! How hard would it be to just have birds that talk to you? Not that hard!!

Soul-crushing realization #3, The Bird Conundrum: You know how adults are always asking little kids what they want to be when they grow up? After about the 75th time I was asked, I started to think there might be more to this question than I had originally surmised. I guess I figured the sky was the limit, as far as stuff you could be when you were older. So I decided I wanted to be a bird. Admittedly, that's exceptionally stupid. I mean, who thinks they will actually be able to transform themselves into a bird? There are several key synapses missing from that thought chain, there's no going around it.

As you can see, I didn't exactly get off to a running start in the hopes and dreams department, and I've basically been behind the 8 ball ever since. Don't try and cheer me up, either, because I'm not having any of it. If you can turn me into a bird, we might have something to talk about, but somehow, no wait, let me guess: You can't do that for me, can you? What a shock.

By The Looks Of It, Living To 125 Not All It's Cracked Up To Be

"This is getting ridiculous, how am I not dead yet?"

Warning, Idea-Tsunami!! I'm fairly confident my most recent musings will rock your socks off. However, before my latest revelations are unveiled, you should know that the quality control they've been subjected to is frivolous at best. Mainly, if a retarded squirrel could think of it, then that's the quality level we're talking about. But onward. I have assembled some of my more innovative ideas together, like a metaphorical idea squadron, or idea jet-fighter. No, not a jet-fighter. More like the squadron, I guess.

Have you heard of that Fear Factor reality show on NBC? Well don't worry if you haven't, because I thought of a new version which is about 50 times better than the original one. Easily 50 times. Perhaps more, but please don't press me on the exact number. I've clearly said 50, so when you say, "is it 51 maybe?", then that makes me frustrated, because I've already said what the number is.

The first part of the new show would be all of the contestants huddled around a video monitor, watching footage of gruesome freak accidents involving safety cable and harnesses. Then the video would show quadriplegics scooting around in motorized wheel chairs, with tongue-operated steering devices. This is a key component missing from the original show, because how high can the fear factor really be, if you don't even have to worry about being paralyzed afterwards? Maybe NBC should just rename their show "Slightly Disconcerting Factor" if they're going to sidestep the paralyzation thing. So that's my first and most basic improvement.

My next version is to allow only individuals with serious psychological disorders on the show. I'm talking total dysfunction here. Obsessive compulsives, manic depressives, multiple personality disorder, the full gambit. I bet the host doesn't even get past the first set of instructions before total chaos reigns. As far as the stunts, I guess the contestants would just eat each other’s faces off. I’m not saying that’s what all crazy people want to do, ok? But for the vast majority, this is what they like. Saying it's not true is not going to change things.

My final, and perhaps most ingenious brainstorm, is to have the entire show based on brain-altering childhood traumas. The host would bring out your third-grade crush, have her laugh in your face, and then spit on you. Then they'd find the guy who used to beat you up at recess everyday, and bring him out (Damien Rich). He would shove you to the ground and then stand on your head for the whole episode. Then the host says, "Get tough or die, suckers!" Then everyone leaves, and the challenge is to not hate yourself and want to die. I think this would appeal to American viewers, because at some point you have to stand on your own two feet and also support our troops. And I’m not fooling around about the troop support, so no hate mail please.

Those are my latest ideas. If you like them, fine. If not, you probably have some genetic deficiency, which is sad. But there's no free lunch in this life, so don't cry about it.
(see previous paragraph about self-sufficiency)