Life is a game. And as the title suggests, I suck big ol' donkey schlong. I may occasionally do things that are good, but I don't necessarily do them for the right reasons. Here's why:
I recycle. And yes, I've heard it is good for the environment. It saves on landfill and saves resources and yadda yadda yadda. And I'm okay with that. In fact, I like that. But when it comes down to it, at the end of the day I'm really just trying to save a little room in the trash can. And don't get me started on those who classify themselves as recyclers with that air of superiority they dedicated recyclers seem to tout. You know the people, when they come over to your house, have a drink and ask, "Oh, I don't see a recycling bin. You do recycle, don't you?" They look at you condescendingly, and you, you just want to stab them in the face with a soldering iron.
Oh, crap! What do I say? "Yeah, of course I recycle. Just set it on the counter and I'll take care of it later." But they stand there glaring at you. They know what you're up to. Oh yeah, they know. But screw 'em. At least you aren't a pompous prick.
I'm sitting in the office of a public building. Downstairs, where I am, is an art gallery. Upstairs is a performing room where ballet and ballroom dancing classes, poetry recitals, yoga and many other classes are held. Right now, though, there is a hand drum class. And it echoes. I don't even have to go up there to tell you that there is one talented person and another who is not so talented. I'm glad I'm not hungover. That would be the pits.
Since I have been here three hours already and have another hour to look forward to, I did the only respectable thing I could think of. I started at the sand colored door and daydreamed. I thought, pensive as I am, about things and fads of times past, and what happened to them. It was kind of like the VH1 cult classic "I Love the 90s," or "Where Are They Now?" but with things I actually care about.* But here are a few of the culprits:
Micro Machines. Remember those zany commercials with the fast-talking John Moschitta? Sure you do. As soon as they let him go from the commercials it seems like there was nothing left the the Micro Machine legacy. My brief internet powerhouse search, which utilized only Google and Wikipedia, provided me that Moschitta is one of the fastest talking persons in history (try that for a pick-up line) and that he still occassionally appears on TV shows. Which is good, mostly because I thougt he was dead.
The Original Trapper Keepr. Remember these bad boys? There used to be all types of sweet designs. The first week of school we used to compare them. "Oh, man. You have a jet!" "No way, ROBOTS!!!" Trapper Keepers were to 6th graders what the adult bookstore is to 17-year-olds...really freaking exciting. Then Mead sold out, like so many good companies do, and started with the Mead 5 Star series. Which, I admit, is handy for a professional adult. But here's my thought: You line up a Trapper Keeper against and 5 Star series organizer and I'll take the former. Hands down. It's like the tin cartoon lunchboxes that have made a cult comeback, it's time for the Trapper Keeper revolution.
Lastly, before my aimless train of thought was disrupted by a poser art-enthusiast, I thought about Marc Summers. He was the icon, the face of Nickelodeon through its glory years. I mean, Double Dare, What Would You Do? and Wild and Crazy Kids. For the record, I found a Wikipedia entry on Mr. Summers and learned a few things you may find interesting. For example, this video of Summers' appearance on the Tonght Show with Jay Leno when he and Burt Reynolds got into it. Summers is also a rehearsed stage magician and now hosts Unwrapped on Food Network.
* Let it be known I love those shows. But what kind of fashionable, respectable person of society would openly admit to such insolence? Honestly.**
** The Josh or his blog, Spoonful of Shut Up, in no way discriminate against nor stand party for the cultural decentralization these shows promote. They are mentioned in strictly humorous, referential terms to an era of radical clothing, whacky hairstyles, unprotected sex and a lot of cocaine.
1. Walnuts in my baked goods. Seriously. Walnuts are acceptable in three forms only. Eating them raw. Eating them toasted. Eating them on a salad with a balsamic vinaigrette and dried cranberries. That's it. NEVER in cookies. And NEVER in brownies. I've had enough of this unholiness. Not only do they taste terrible, there is a mindset... a stereotypical attitude of the people that make them. When you politely decline and say, "No thank you. I don't really like walnuts," you can bet your lucky stars that EVERY single one of them has the same response. "Oh, no. You have to try these..." and here it comes... "I have a really good recipe."
Oh, really? That's funny because I have a really good I WANNA PUT MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS! Do not brag about your nut-baking skills. Nobody wants to taste your culinary abortions. Please leave.
2. Sweet pickles. Here's a little secret...there's nothing sweet about them. They smell terrible and taste like a big load of goop shot straight out of Satan's tallywhacker. But perhaps the thing I like least of these little hate sticks are the people that eat them. Not all people, but the ones who say stupid things. For example, "Oh, no. I don't really like sweet pickles." ...ok, we're starting off alright... "But I absolutely loooove relish." WTF? Why don't you do yourself a solid and stop lying to yourself. We're talking about pickles here, not abortions. It's okay if you like them, though I don't know how you could. I hope the next time you stick one of those disgusting little Martian penises in your mouth you choke.
Not really, I just wanted to refer to sweet pickles as Martian penises. Because Martians are green. And penises are little. But really, Martian boners are funny. Trust me.
3. Silk boxers. When women talk about wearing silk underwear, it's sexy. Because that s sound is so naughty. Sexy seductive silk stockings ssssswimming ssssslowly, ssssscintillating statues in sssslippery splendor. All these things and all these things. Plus, girls in underwear is just a hot picture. But for us penis-toting males, silk isn't so smooth. Especially in Redding temperatures where it's like 115 degrees. Any form of moisture and that shit sticks right to your leg. You sit down, and it gets all matted, creeping up your stomach. You get the worst wedgie of your life and you try to pull them down, but it's still sticky so the boxers sit slightly to the left. Not a lot, but just enough to make you uncomfortable throughout the rest of the day. And they're structurally unsound. I'm reminded of the Friends episode where Ross wears the leather pants...
In that fragile state any sudden movement is grounds for tearing. So by the end of the day with sitting and standing and twisting and adjusting you are left with nothing more than a tangled, crumpled, ripped and off-centered pair of useless underwear. Damned be the manufacturers. I've fallen prey to your tricks one too many times.
