Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Dick jokes and stripping cupcakes



This past weekend, I had the opportunity to see Tim Dimond perform. The guy was funny as all hell and mostly saved the night for me (the headliner of the night made me laugh more than sandpaper on my scrotum, but only slightly). His style is a bit educated with a slight lilt of smarm, but not so into his own brain as to be off putting. He’s one of those comedians that can tell smart dick jokes, without constantly reminding you that they are SMART dick jokes. I got the sense that, to him, they were just dick jokes. I liked that fine.

Tim, in the cupcake strip club.


Also, I had the opportunity of speaking with him after the show (don’t worry, no interview here) and got to see that he is also fairly good at being a human being. I enjoyed the chat and picked up his two CDs, which I will likely review at some near point.



But right now, just go to his website. Keep an eye out for any time he may be near your town. See the fucker. Have fun. Thank me later.

In the mean time, you can watch this.  Or this. Or perhaps this.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Letters of Go Fuck Yourself



or, Why I Learned  to Stop Loving and Went Back to My Misanthropy.

Just when I begin to think that maybe, just maybe, these damn people may not be complete douche-nozzles… Well, let’s back up a bit before I start foaming.

Those who know me, know that I work a shitty secondary job answering customer service calls for a variety of different companies. One of the companies I pretend to work for is a prominent international aid organization. No, I won’t say the name of either company, because I’m not an idiot.

Whenever a major disaster befalls some country, like the recent Typhoon that has hit the Philippines, we get a huge influx of calls from people wanting to help out in any way they can. Sometimes, they’re crying as they do it. It is wonderful and humbling and breathtaking to talk to someone who is donating their last $10 to help feed someone they have never met. It makes me think that there may be some hope for some of them.

But then I get calls about this.

Apparently, there are people who look at a tragedy like this and think the best thing they can do is send a Letter of Hope to those affected. That’s right, a fucking letter. Telling them all about Jesus.

I can imagine what it must be like. Your home has been destroyed and you have nothing. Friends, family and neighbors are dead. The local food sources are just as decimated. You can’t even get clean water to drink. Then, you see a truck bounding over the refuse and devastation. Help is here. Finally. You and the other desperate, damaged people holding onto what remains of their lives gather around the truck as the back door opens on the beaming smile of a man who pours light and grace into the air around him. Then he hands you an envelope.

Doug Stanhope has ranted about the arrogance and self-centered nature of using races to raise money, but this trumps it. You could not possibly do less for someone than this. Even if you kept your ass lodged into your couch cushions, you aren’t rubbing their nose in your unwillingness to provide actual assistance. You are just being a self important piece of human shit.

And you want a people who are actually doing something to help take care of delivering your mail for you? Fuck off. At least the Mormons have the decency to show up to someone’s door when they want to proselytize.
Admittedly, this whole thing has given me an idea.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

I'm not good at drawing maps



You may have noticed a bit of anger in my last post. Even my wife, whose virtue and wonder I was diving in to defend so triumphantly, asked me why I was so angry. It’s something I’ve needed to think about. Let’s digress inward and make the whole thing about me, shall we.



I don’t understand what it is that she goes through every day. It’s just something I watch from the outside. Of course, like most people faced with such a situation, I want to help. I want to fix it, dammit! To make the bad go away. To make this woman I adore smile and laugh again. She’s fucking gorgeous when she does that. I mean, she’s gorgeous pretty much any time, but that smile… holy shit.



But I can’t.



Neither can she. We both have about as much agency as someone caught in the loving embrace of a hurricane. I hate that and I hate never knowing what to do about it.



I try to help. To board up the windows if we see it coming. To huddle with her in the basement if we’re caught off guard. To tie a rope to both of us and pray for the not-so-worst, if all else fails. Metaphorically speaking, when not literally so.



I fuck up sometimes. Either doing the wrong thing when trying to help or shutting down completely because I’ve had too much. There’ve been times when I’ve treated her as if it is all her fault and she could do better if she only tried. I have a tough time excusing being an asshole under the premise that I have no clue what the hell I’m doing. But I try to, at the very least, do no harm. Usually.



In my capacity as a substitute teacher, I work with a large number of both teens and adults who suffer under conditions they cannot control. I see these same people suffer the usual slings and arrows of both fate and their fellow man. Most of them are good enough people. Maybe not always great, certainly never perfect, but as good as we have any reason to expect from anyone.



You can talk about spoon theory until your face turns blue. Same goes with the Will to Power. Either way, you’re just pushing hot air at the end of the day. Either way, it all boils down to a choice we’re all making, every day:



To accept people for who and what they are. To help them with the things they cannot change. To hold them accountable to the things they can. To do our best to figure out the difference. Or to simply tell everyone else to be like us. Of course, by laying it out this way, in such a simple binary fashion, I’m…



Fuck.



Hope it all makes more sense.

Monday, October 21, 2013

When Empathy Breaks Down, Shut Your Mouth



Hello friends, neighbors and poor, poor individuals who stumbled their way here. It’s good to see you again, if it has been awhile. It is good to meet you, if it is your first time here. Either way, I’m going to fume for a bit. Sorry about that.

Here’s the skinny: I recently found out that someone I once considered a friend took it upon himself to berate my wife. Now, she’s a human being and, as such, occasionally fucks up, which may well merit a berating. Possibly even a scolding or rare what-for. I would never stand in the way of such a thing.

I don’t consider basic biological and genetic concerns to be among those things, however.

You see, she has social anxiety disorder. Even in small crowds of ten or so strangers, she gets anxious and continually checks the exits until she can get away. Remember that time you got called into the boss’s office and the head of every department in the company was there and they were all staring at you like you punched their favorite cat in the face, then spent all day playing Candy Crush instead of working? To the best of my understanding, that is what most social situations feel like to her.

It bears mentioning that this person was not only aware of this, but that this had been a matter of discussion on several occasions.

So, he decided to invite her to the local goth/industrial club’s foam party, in a manner that seemed awfully like a demand. Even ignoring the fact that she has never, in any way, shown interest in either night clubs or goth/industrial music, this seems like a profoundly stupid invite. Please look up two paragraphs if you are confused.

However, she contacted him to let him know that she would not be attending what would be an evening of abject horror for her. She cited the previously mentioned reason. This is when the berating started. It ended with him stating that she doesn’t have any friends. Because that’s an effective thing to say to someone who views social situations with wild-eyed terror. And this is someone who likes to talk about how much more accepting and open he is towards people whose square pegs do not fit in most of society’s round holes.

I want to make something clear to you. Yes, I am definitely talking to you, individually, now. Not those other people. You. Even mom (Hi, mommy. I love you.).

Clinical Depression, ADHD, Anxiety Disorders, Phobias, Bipolar, OCD, Autism, Asperger and a host of other issues related to the vagaries of cranial chemistry are incredibly hard to comprehend for anyone who has not experienced them personally. Feeling sad is not the same as Depression. Getting bored is not the same as ADHD. Being nervous is not the same as suffering under an Anxiety disorder. Being afraid is not a Phobia. Being concerned or even worried about details is not the same as OCD. Asberger’s is not just assholes saying whatever they want and not caring. Hell, the experience tends to differ pretty heavily from person to person.

Unless you are there, you don’t get it. That means you don’t get to comment on it. Period. Shut your mouth. Try to help, if you can. Or walk away. Those are the only choices you get.

Also, fuck that guy.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

If only there had been some sort of warning...



This is, by far, my favorite review of D.O.A. II:



With all due respect to those of you who loved this book, and these types of stories, I have to be honest: this book was appalling to me. I love horror, am mad about a great ghost story, can't get enough of monsters, and things that go bump in the night. DOA II is not that type of collection. It's brutal rapes, and horribly bloody, gruesome sex. It's demented characters who commit disgusting and revolting crimes. The first story in the book is a horrid peek into snuff films, and it just gets worse from there. I'm no prude, but I certainly wish I had been informed about the vulgar and gory content in this selection. I would not have purchased it. I read a few more stories, and that was all I could handle. This book is full of extreme and explicit sex and/or violence, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. I paid six bucks for this, but I didn't blink an eye when I removed it from my Kindle. It was a relief. I think Amazon needs to warn us about books that contain this type of content, as it is not for everybody.




While Melanie does not specifically mention my own contribution to the book, ”Under the Pretext of Propensity,” I desperately want to assume that I played some part in her response.  Few things can make one feel as giddy as that possibility. If I didn’t already have a copy, I’d buy it just because of her opinion. Thank you, dear lady, from the bottom of my black, cold and rotting heart.



You’re a dear.