Monthly Archives: October 2011

Fart Etiquette

As many of you can imagine, when I came from the wild, I had to relearn how to live as a human being.  The most difficult thing that I had to learn – something that I still struggle with today – was basic etiquette.  Humans have some of the most absurd rules and regulations of how to behave in front of other people that I have ever seen.  In the panda world, it was as simple as look at each other, allow others to smell you to make sure you aren’t a threat, don’t steal their bamboo, and respect the mating rules (which is basically a combination of first come, first served, and a type of “seat-check” rule for genitals).   But with humans, there seems to be a different set of rules for each and every different person and situation.  Now, I won’t bore you with talking about all of them, but I will focus on one that affects literally every single person in the world: farting.

That’s right people, farting.  You have some of the most absurd rules I’ve ever heard when it comes to farting.  For pandas, we just simply fart.  No special ceremony, no special behavior.  We just let our asses flap in the wind.  But ever since I’ve broken into the human world, I’ve been told, “You know, if you’re going to fart, you should really be going into the other room to do it.  It’s only polite.”  Every single time.

Now, there are a couple of different issues that I have with this sentiment.  Number one, why should I leave the room to do something that everybody does?  I fart, you fart, Obama farts, Glenn Beck farts.  I’m fairly certain Sarah Palin does, but I’m not guaranteeing anything.  Now, certainly I don’t mean to be saying that just because there is something everyone does that they should be able to do it wherever they want, but I’m just saying if it’s something everybody does and it doesn’t hurt anyone, why not?  I mean, yeah, it will smell bad for a couple minutes, and that one person (depending on what they ate earlier) may have to go to the restroom just to double-check moisture levels, but on the other hand, everyone will have benefited from having giggled at least once that day.

Not only that, but imagine the time lost during the day from leaving one room to go fart in another.  Imagine you are at a meeting at work, and you feel a poot slowly creeping it’s way down your colon, weaving in and out of clumped up fecal matter, and you have to get up to leave the room just so you can fart.  Imagine if you missed something incredibly important, like which loopholes your company uses to not pay taxes, or the proper way to cook McDonald’s French fries, or the proper way to perform CPR on an infant (Seriously, do you have any idea how quickly your day can be ruined when your child dies, and you try to eat away the pain but they give fucking soggy fries?).

Not only that, but my main issue is where the hell are we supposed to go?  The other room?  Where the hell is this “other room?”  The kitchen?  The bathroom?  The study or the billiards room?  I don’t know about you, but what happens when you get to that other room?  Obviously, yes, you fart, but then what?  Do you just leave?  Do you have any idea how horrifying it is to walk into a room where there isn’t a living soul and yet it smells like rancid ass?  Sure, if it’s the bathroom, then whatever, it’s not a big deal.  But when I walk into the kitchen, I don’t want to be met by a mysterious invisibly butt-cloud.  And not only that, but what happens when you walk in on somebody farting?  What’s the proper way to deal with that situation?  Do you just act like it’s completely normal, like handwashing, and just start a conversation?  Or is it like being at the urinal; no eye contact, no talking, period?  Or is it like being walked in on during sex and you just kind of stare at the person trying to figure out something to say to them but at the same time you’re trying not to burst out laughing because that would offend the woman that is currently playing host to you, and thus you are just sitting there, speechless, until the other person leaves the room shaking his or her head.  And what about when multiple people need to fart?  Do you go one at a time, or if you’re good enough friends can you just hotbox that bitch?

Or maybe I have been duped this whole time?  Perhaps it is just one of those secrets of the rich, that the phrase began because there is actually a room solely dedicated to farting in, but the rich are simply too snooty to actually say, “the farting room,” so they just say, “the other room.”  And how convenient would that be?  You could deck it out to be perfect for farting.  You could have a super-high-powered ventilation system that whisks away all the irritating fumes, an oxygen bar in case you know it’s going to be a string of farts, a couple of lighters to light them on fire if you must, and a TV that has nothing on it except for a news crawl.  It would also have it’s very own toilet because hey, you never know when a really clean fart will turn into something else.

Well, that’s all the hot air I’ve got for now.

Take it easy,



Illness: An exposition on gas stations, lawn care, and cute babysitters

I don’t know about you guys, but I hate being sick.  Not because I sit around and wonder if and when I’m just going to die of this plague-like illness.  Not because I contemplate whether or not I should take a nap instead of a shower.  Not even because I’m forced to come to the realization that I might have to curb my nicotine consumption in order to make a speedy recovery.  No, none of those are the reason I hate being sick.  Rather, it’s because you become an asshole, even if you don’t mean to be.

You see, every time you get sick, everything becomes a hassle.  Everything becomes annoying.  Even the slightest inconvenience becomes the harshest tragedy (I need an appointment for you to tell me to hold down the fucking option button when I restart my computer in order to fix it? (Your boss is dead, start thinking for yourself, you pretentious ass)).

Have you ever driven somewhere when you were sick?  It’s probably the worst possible thing you could do.  God forbid that the lights don’t change just because you are the only one at the intersection. And that son-of-a-bitch at the gas station who took the pump that you normally take (not to mention that he’s facing the wrong way), and all but one of the other pumps there are taken so you have to go to the one right in front of the one you normally use, but it’s on the inside part of the pump stations, and the idiot across the center area between the pumps parked really far away from his pump, and there is a car waiting immediately behind the car that took your pump, so there is absolutely no way in hell that guy can possibly even get out of the gas station until you or the person who parked really far away from the pump gets done, but that lady who parked really far away from the pump has three kids that she needs to make sure don’t pee themselves, or accidentally blow up the gas station, or ask why that huge man washing the windshield of his car has such big lady breasts, and you need cigarettes and you’re sick, so tough shit for that guy.  Maybe he shouldn’t have taken my spot.  And don’t even get me started on those fucking do-gooders who give up their right of way so that I can go in front of them, making me look like the asshole as I end up doing the whole kind-of idle my way up through the intersection, but also slamming on the brakes a couple of times because I can’t figure out if they are going or not because whenever I go, they go type of things.  I don’t think you understand how much Robitussin I’ve taken today, so I’m pretty sure you don’t want me making difficult decisions with a hurtling, two-ton rolling chunk of metal.  Just take your goddamn right of way.

Or have you ever had a conversation with someone while sick?  It’s like every single conversation you have with everyone is the same.  It’s like every time someone talks to a person who is sick they just get dumb.  Take, for example, this excerpt of a conversation I had with my mom when I was sick, as I was laying on the couch, covered in a couple of blankets and a box of tissues within arms reach.  My mom walks in and asks, “How are you feeling?”  To which I reply, “Like shit,” as if my general appearance were not enough for her to realize that I was not quite at 100%.  Almost every question anyone asks you when you’re sick seems completely absurd, and is always met with the same bitterness and ugly rhetoric.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”  “Sure, you can go die in a hole.”  “I’m heading out, are you going to be OK here by yourself?”  “No, of course not, I’m fucking 22 years old and can’t handle a cold without someone holding my hand all the way through.”  “Are you going to do anything today?”  “Besides being worthless and dying alone on this uncomfortable couch covered in cat hair?  No.”

But perhaps the worst thing that anyone can do when you are sick is lawn care.  Not necessarily all lawn care, but the kind my neighbor Chad does (I have no problem with the old ladies with hand-held sheers snipping away at elongated stems and branches of their favorite shrubs).  You see, Chad is the kind of guy who has a tool for every occasion.  He’s also the kind of guy who spares no expense.  He does the normal mowing of his lawn, but he does it with what has got to be this, like, 65 horsepower beast that has no business doing nothing but cutting grass.  And then he trims all the edges of the lawn with some massive gas-powered not-so-much-trimmer-as-it-is-chain-saw.  And of course he can’t just leave all the grass and leaves on his lawn, but he gets out his leaf blower and will not stop until every possible loose remnant of organic material is halfway across the street.  And what for?  So his son Landon can run around on it until his older sister pushes him down and he starts to cry like the little five-year-old boy that he is?  So he can fulfill his earthly duty to do manly things?  No.  It’s so he can say, “Look at my beautiful house and property.  Look at what I’ve gotten for my family.”  Please, Chad.  Look at what you’re doing to me.  You are destroying the few precious hours of consciousness today by revving up your motherfucking lawn toys.  You are single-handedly overcoming 4 Advil to give me a headache.  You are making me regret taking Mucinex because now my nose isn’t fully clogged and I can smell the fresh scent of your gasoline fumes and sweat-covered, doughy body.

But I would gladly put my foot in my mouth if what he was doing was for something greater.  If what he was doing wasn’t going to be all for naught in a week.  Because, you see, all lawn care is like what glass ultimately is:  temporary.  He’s just going to have to break out the mower, the chain-saw-like trimmer, and the leaf blower again in a week.  And on top of that, winter will come around.  All the grass is going to die.  And next spring it will start to grow back and he will do all of this shit all over again.  And I will eventually get sick again and get pissed off at him again.  But maybe I won’t.  Maybe I’ll get a real job and move out of this shit-hole city I grew up it.  Maybe someone famous will read my blog and realize that I have talents that need to be brought up to the big leagues.  Maybe Chad will bring back that really cute babysitter from this last summer and maybe I’ll just happen to be doing yard work myself when she is outside playing with the kids.  But then again, screw doing yard work.  And screw being sick.

Take it easy and stay healthy,


I Hate Lettuce

Did you ever notice how people think we’re stupid?  Not the kind of stupid like “I failed all my schooling so I had to join the army” stupid, I’m talking the “Oh, I like shiny things” stupid.  I mean, everyone is always telling you the obvious things but making them seem profound.  Everyone is trying to the most insignificant things seem important.  I’m talking about nutritional-facts-on-bottled-water level of bullshit here.  There are examples of this garbage everywhere you look.

Take for example whenever you are looking to get a new or used car.  The salesperson usually goes on and talks about this and that and specifications of exactly how many liters the engine is and how many horsepower it is as if I’m about to haul around an entire Amish village but don’t have enough reins to use actual horses.  But then they also bring up something I find interesting: power windows and power steering.  Really?  Now, I remember in the old car we had when I was growing up there being the hand-crank variety of windows, but I never remember being all that upset that I had to take five seconds out of my day to do so.  And with power steering (for those of you who don’t know what power steering is, it’s the reason for the difference in effort that you have to exert between turning the wheel with the car on and off (This means that you can eat your Big Mac even while turning, as long as your good at the whole palming the wheel things (But speaking of eating in the car, have you seen the size of cupholders in new cars?  They are fucking insane.  And they even have those flip down things with the soft-ish rubber/plastic things that hold smaller drink cups in place, but even those are way too big for normal people containers likes cans and 20-ounce bottles.  It’s as if the car companies are telling us that the smallest soda we should ever drink while driving a car is 68 ounces (It’s a Toyota, you know they were probably like, “I know it’s too big, but Americans will just get bigger cups to fill them anyways, so don’t sweat it.”))).  But really, they literally don’t even make cars without power steering anymore.  It’s ancient technology.  It’s like a rotary phone or a television dial or children’s toys that you actually had to push around by hand before the kids these days just got fucking lazy and can sit on the couch while they dick around with the remote for their fire truck trying to find a way to get it to drive over their sister.

And it’s not just the used car salespeople either, but even our teachers.  I’ve taken a couple fiction writing classes at Marquette, and I did fairly well in those classes.  But one thing that irks me is what my teachers have told me about my writing.  They say overall it was pretty good, and with a little bit of revision it might be called excellent.  However, every fucking time I use the word, “gunna,” they tell me that I’ve spelled it wrong.  Apparently, it’s spelled, “gonna.”  Gunna/gonna is a contraction of the phrase, “going to.”  That being said, it’s not actually a fucking word.  It doesn’t exist.  It’s a colloquial contraction used by people to get rid of an extra syllable that we clearly don’t have time to enunciate because we have yet to finish our fucking 68-ounce diet Coke (it’s not that I drink diet soda because I think it’s healthier, or better for my teeth, but it’s because when I drink 68 ounces of regular soda I get a stomach ache, and if I get a stomach ache, I can’t digest the bamboo properly) (And of course by, “68 ounces,” I really mean 27 ounces, because you need to put a shit ton of ice into it, as if the soda doesn’t already come out of the tap cold (Why does soda taste better from the tap than from cans or bottles?)).

But all of that really isn’t all that bad.  I could deal with it, but only if there was just one teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy concession from the world:  Stop making lettuce out to be this magical wonderfood that should be looked at as if it makes any meal so much more delicious and nutritious.  Yeah, I’m sure that club sandwich with a pound various cured meat product and three types of cheese is going to help you slim down that FUPA.   And everyone has eaten at Subway, so you all know that you have to tell them, “just a little bit of lettuce,” just so you can actually have good shit on it.  My issue with lettuce is two-fold really.  Number one is that it sucks. The shit doesn’t hold a candle to bamboo.   It’s just a crispy, green, leafy thing that doesn’t taste like anything, let alone anything good.  (I mean, yeah, we all put it on our sandwiches and burgers and whatnot, but when was the last time that you were actually like, “You know what, I really could go for some lettuce?”  (It’s not like you’re making dinner and you realize you don’t have lettuce and you run to the store because there is just no way that you could eat dinner without it (Even when you’re having BLTs, how many of you would just be like, “Fuck it, I’ll just have the bacon and tomato sandwich?”)))  And number two is that people call food that is really nothing more than lettuce by all these pseudonyms in order to make it out to be something that isn’t lettuce and doesn’t suck.  Cabbage?  I don’t like gross, waxy lettuce.  Cole Slaw?  I don’t like gross, waxy lettuce with a bunch of mayo.  “The dish is served on a bed of crisp romaine.”  That’s cool, I still don’t like lettuce.  “Sir, we’ve got a wonderful baby arugula salad today.”  Goddamnit, I don’t like baby lettuce either.  “And our house salad is carrots, cucumber and mixed greens/spring greens/summer greens/fall greens.”  Fuck you, I said I don’t like lettuce/lettuce/lettuce/lettuce.

And to think that these are only three different examples of the dishonesty and deception that are so rampant in this world today.  I mean, yeah, maybe they are just trying to earn an honest dollar, but then again, fuck ‘em.  They don’t need to lie to me.  So, Panda Cubs, as you go through the world today/tomorrow/forever, don’t let yourself get lied to.  Man up.  Woman up.  And most importantly, get yourself some.

Take it easy,


The Course of Life

Keeping with the introspective theme of my last post, I started to think about how and why people are the way that they are.  How did they become the person that we see before them today?  What in their past made them such a nice, genuine, and caring person?  What in their past made them such a tremendous jackass?  Then, like any good intellectual, I went back to the things that I’ve learned in my education, primarily in my psychology classes.  Every person is the type of person that they are because of what happened to them when they were a child.

Think about it.  When we were kids, there were ten million decisions our parents made in order to attempt to raise us the correct way.  Looking at the books, nearly every parent made roughly five million wrong decisions that completely fucked us up.  And that’s not to say that mistakes aren’t normal.  I mean, there a lot of people who don’t circumcise their sons, something that, if you ask any guy, is a terrible, terrible mistake.

When I was a kid, I never liked it when my parents were super affectionate.  Mostly because, unbeknownst to them, I wasn’t actually their child, but rather a crafty panda that managed to pull the ultimate switcheroo when their true child and I were infants.  So since I always was like, “Mommmmm, stop that,” she did.  And because of the less and less affection throughout my life, apparently (according to my textbooks) I’m a selfish, arrogant, bitter, jackass.  Apparently.  I disagree.  I think those books just aren’t giving me my due.

But it’s not just the parents, it’s our teachers and social group too.  Anyone who has ever had a class in school with me knows that I don’t talk a lot during class whenever the teacher asks questions.  It’s not because I don’t know the answer, nor is it because I’m not confident of the answer.  I generally am very confident that I know the answers to most of the questions my teachers asked in class, because I am one smart motherfucker.  It’s rather because I always feel uncomfortable with raising my hand and talking in front of the entire class.  I’ve tried to come up with every possible explanation to this, but then one day it hit me:  It was because of Mrs. B in first grade.

You see, we were in the middle of the “life education” part of the curriculum when we “learned” what a penis and vagina and buttocks and breasts were.  Not because they wanted us to know about what these were, but because it was part of the whole, “Hey, nobody should touch you here, or here, or here.  And if they do, tell someone.”  Well, it came to the point where Mrs. B asked us if we knew what this part of the boy’s anatomy was (as she pointed to the crotch area of a doll that, of course, had no cock).  I’m sitting there, thinking, “I know what it is!  I’ve got one of those areas!  I’m gonna raise my hand and let everyone know how smart I am!”  So I raised my hand.  Mrs. B called on me and I said in my the confident and proud voice I could produce and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Those are your Private Parts!”

Little did I realize that this was wrong.  Snickers seemed to come from left and right, front and back, and, somehow, up and down.   Mrs. B had this little shit-eating grin on her face that seemed to say, “Aw, how cute.  He’s so silly and dumb.”  But she soon wiped that grin away and simply said, “No, John.  This is called your penis.”

So there I sit, head buried in my hands as my entire class was laughing at me as I was told by a woman that the thing between my legs was a penis.  I had known that the thing was called a penis, but I had always known to call it my private parts, and I had just never really put two and two together that maybe “private parts” was just a codeword for penis, because apparently the word penis is offensive.  But ever since then I always worry that the answers that seem so obvious to me are ones that are completely absurd to everyone else.  And thus I never raise my hands in class, or speak up at all for that matter.

Then, I started to think about other events in my life that have grown into these huge, seemingly negative, aspects of my personality.  I remember this one time, in third grade, it was my week to wash the chalkboards.  Every day for that week, my board washing partner, Maggie, and I would have to get up about five minutes before school ended and erase the chalkboard, and then wipe it down with dampened sponges.  Normally, the teacher would either remind the people who washed the boards it was time to do so, or we would simply not be doing anything at that particular point.  Well, on one of my days, it was different.  Mrs. R was reading to us from a book and it was getting dangerously close to the end of the day.  Now, I didn’t really care for being read to, so I was watching the clock.  Not only that, but I really didn’t want to stick around school any longer than I had to in order to wash the boards when I could just as easily get it done during the reading.  But the teacher didn’t remind us, and Maggie was just sitting there listening like I was probably supposed to.  I tried to get her attention, but I couldn’t.  So I looked at Mrs. R and made the universal ‘watch the time” signal by pointing to my imaginary wristwatch and tapping.  Mrs. R didn’t like that.  She thought I was telling her to “wrap it up, bitch,” when really, I was simply asking her, “Hey, I’m the center of the universe, and it’s close to the time I’m supposed to wash the boards, so should I get up or wait for a little longer, bitch?”  So she went off on a little tangent about how she, “knows what time it is and doesn’t need people being rude just so they can get out of school on time.  And it’s about time for you to wash the boards, so why don’t you get up and do that since you’re so anxious.”  I was devastated.  Again, I embarrassed myself in front of the whole class, pissed off a teacher, and all because I simply was trying to be a good student and be vocal about a possible issue that might arise.  And this, my panda fans, is why yours truly is usually so non-confrontational, and has taken to the safe-haven of the Internet to do my dirty work.

Finally, I remember a couple of times when I was one of those really awkward, middle-school aged, puberty stricken little boy.  Now, this particular event is just one of many of extremely similar events in my life, but this will serve sufficiently as an example. It was at the time when I liked this girl named Theresa.  I was, like, thirteen, I think?  So this girl was everything.  She was perfect.  She was going to be my wife.  She was going to be my baby-mama.  And like every new teenage boy swooning over a girl, I decided to get a whole group of people together, where we just so happened to both be there.  It was me, my friend Charlie, Theresa, and some of her friends.  Now, we went to go see one of those funny movies.  You know, one of those non-threatening, low-key kind of pseudo  dates that guys think that they’re on but the girl, when she finds out about the guys intentions, is just like, “um, no.  I just wanted to see a movie with my friends.  I didn’t even know you were coming.”

But either way, at the end of the movie, Charlie and I went off to go be picked up by his parents, and Theresa and her friends went to do the same at the other end of the mall.  Now, Charlie was always smooth with the ladies, even at the young, tender age of thirteen.  So he went up and gave all the girls hugs, paying special attention to hold the hug with Theresa a second or two longer (he also had a crush on Theresa at the time).  So I (feeling insulted since, again, I was one of those dumbass boys who thought that if you talked to a girl it was the same as a date) started to walk up to give a hug to the girls, too.  But then I got the worst possible reaction from her and her friends: They started to walk away.  So, not to be one to be ignored, I was like, “Can I get hugs, too?”  They all stopped and stared as if I had just called them a bitch to their face, or something horrible like that.  And they begrudgingly were like, “OK,” and all gave me one of those kind-of half-hugs like you do to someone you don’t really know all that well but is going through a tough time but you really aren’t the biggest fan of them and the situation they are going through really isn’t that bad or whatever.  So, needless to say, I felt dejected.

And this still is one of those things that I struggle with to this day.  How do I show affection to women?  Am I allowed to hug them?  Or should I just kind of give them a high-five or something?  How do I let a woman know, without having to actually come out and speak my true feelings like an adult, that I like her?  Or, on the flip side, how do I let a woman know that I care about them as a person and a friend without giving the implication that I want to stick my private parts inside of them?

But whichever way you look at it, there are truly millions of instances that could ruin your life and change you as a person that you don’t even realize.  Every decision your parents have made, every interaction with every one of your friends, every thing a teacher taught you make you who you are.  Most of these things seemingly fuck you up, but whatever.  I guess it makes us cool.  All we can really do is be happy that our parents at least tried.  God help whichever unfortunate sperm will end up being my child.  Realizing you were born because of interspecies relations is probably going to fuck that thing up more that I ever will be able to.

Take it easy,


Nostalgia and Getting Old

I’m telling you, I’m getting old.  Not just endangered mammal old, but human old (technically, for a panda, I’m practically a senior citizen).  But this past weekend, I went back to the same campus bar that I would frequent three or four times a week not more than 6 months ago.   I used to be able to walk in, not have to show my ID to any of the bouncers that worked there, not have to give my name when I closed my tab because they knew my name, and the only thing I told the bartender when I went to get a drink was how many whiskey and Sprite’s I wanted at that particular point.  But not anymore.  Now, there was only one employee that knew me by name.  I had actually grab my ID out of my wallet.  Who the heck do these fools think they are?  I have given way too much of my money to that bar to be treated like some Sophomore looking motherfucker trying to sneak into one of the upperclassmen bar.  And the strangest thing is that I didn’t know a single person there.  Not, “I didn’t see a single person that I talk to there,” nor, “I didn’t see a single person I give a shit about.”  I mean I didn’t know anyone.  I didn’t even know which of the girls would be getting too drunk and going home with the ugly guy with a speech impediment.  I didn’t know which of the guys would be kicked out for trying to start a fight.  I didn’t know which guy would get really drunk and try to hit on the DD from a group of young ladies, but is too drunk to get out a complete sentence without burping or hiccupping.  I didn’t even know which crazy bitch would start crying halfway through the night.

That experience at the bar got me to start thinking, and that is when I made the disturbing discovery that I was getting old.  Earlier in that same week, when I was out drinking with some of my other friends, I found us talking about things that happened way back in high school.  That’s when I realized that I’m getting fucking nostalgic.  At 22 years old.  Maybe it’s the fact that I have been known to be mature beyond my years.  Maybe it’s because my hairline is receding and I’m thinking back to the times when my hair was long.  Maybe it’s because I’ve always strived to be like Harrison Ford, and I always liked to imagine that Harrison Ford sits around his mansion dressed up as Han Solo carrying around a mock blaster pistol making “pew, pew” noises at imaginary Stormtroopers, just waiting for someone to compliment him so he can tell them, “I know.”  Or maybe it’s just because I’m a bitter fuck that loves to complain about people who are different than me.  But whatever the reason, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about things, and how great life used to be back in the days when I was a kid.

You know, I always used to hate when people said, “Back in my day, we used to do this, and that.”  But it’s something that couldn’t be truer nowadays.  I mean, I used to grow up in a time when if you didn’t pay attention to what you were doing, playing on the playground could get you sent to the hospital, but now you have these fucking ridiculous rainbow colored plastic shits without a single pointed corner or loose screw in it.  I used to grow up when an awesome night didn’t involve getting drunk on the half bottle of Fleischman’s that my older brother left at home the last time he came home from college.  Rather, we’d get 6 people together, take four cars to BW3, eat a bunch of wings, played pool in the bar section until they kicked us out for not being 21, and heading back to a friends house to down a 12-pack of Mountain Dew while watching the unedited edition of SuperTroopers.  I grew up in a time when we had our best friends’ phone number memorized and could tell the difference in voice between the family members of your friends. I grew up in a time when I thought that candy corn was all right.  Our orange juice had ungodly amounts of pulp in it.  I grew up in a time when we didn’t make booty calls or hook up, we got in meaningful relationships with people we actually cared about and had feelings for and maybe, if in a couple of months the feelings between the two of you grew enough to the point where you told each other, “I love you,” even though your combined age was barely in the thirties and combined maturity age maybe hit twenty-two and neither of you really knew what you were getting yourself into either physically or emotionally but for some reason you both were kind of comfortable with it (despite the fact that saying those three words would ultimately, instead of bringing you closer together for a long, long time, lead to your relationship disintegrating because she thought you were only using her for the sex that you weren’t having, and thus because of the arguments that ensued because of the disparity of the two views of what you meant by saying, “I love you,” you had years of botched relationships and poor decision making because you’re too unresponsive to emotion because of everything that went down years ago), you might get a kind-of handjob through your cargo shorts maybe, like, twice.  I grew up in a time that if I skinned my knee, I took an aerosol can and sprayed shit on it that made it hurt MORE.

Some of you are probably starting to think that perhaps I need to take a chill pill.  Maybe it’s just the natural progression.  Maybe times are supposed to change.  Maybe the old things need to be pushed aside for the young bucks.  I say maybe.  But I also offer up these maybes as well:  Maybe I’m supposed to be looking back, getting upset at all these things.  Maybe I am supposed to be thinking about all these things that make no sense and telling the world about it.  Maybe I was meant to be a real life Batman, watching over Gotham with a careful eye, doing the deeds that nobody else has the backbone to do.

This is community service.  This is my gift to you.

Take it easy,