Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Eye Twitch
You know those twitches you get in your eyelid that drive you crazy and don't go away for days and days? I've heard people say that they are caused by stress. How in the fuck am I supposed to rid myself of stress if my eye continues to spasm my face off?? What the fucking fuck??!!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thoughts For Life
To insist on issues being one way or another-- things must be black, or they must be white-- is to insist that there are only two roads in the world. And if you've ever looked at a map, you can clearly see there is more than one or two roads.
To insist on issues being either black or white is to deny the entire rainbow.
The people who walk around saying they know everything is like a person saying they understand oceans after drinking a cup of water. The wisest people in the world are the ones who comprehend just how much there is that they simply cannot know.
The people who present themselves as people who know everything are people who are limited by their own ignorance. They either cannot see how much they don't know, don't have enough experience to teach them that they don't know everything, are lying or are stupid. These people cannot be trusted. And yet, these are the people who tend to run for public office. Which, then, guarantees our country to be run by people who are blind, stuck, stupid and lying.
I strike a match in a dark room and proclaim that I understand the nature of the room. I cannot see anything beyond the light of the match. How, then, is it possible that people will believe that I understand the room when I have lit only a portion of it and the majority remains unexplored, undiscovered, unknown?
Why would you want 72 virgins upon arriving at heaven? Do you know how much girls cry when you break their hymens? And the bleeding! Come on! If you want to improve your religious appeal, tell me there are 71 women in heaven who will cook me dinner every night and make sure I've got a cold beer in the fridge and one in my hand and 1 woman who is my wife. That would make me at least contemplate blowing myself up.
The funniest thing I've heard today: "I've changed my mind. I would like menopause for xmas. Thank you."
Do the people who cheer for college football teams know what a college is? And the answer "college is training for the NFL" indicates you do not understand what a college is. Perhaps these people should be fired from their current jobs and told that they must go to college before they can cheer for a sports team hosted by an institute of learning. When people get fanatical about collegiate sports, it's only because they are completely void of anything else. In fact, when people get fanatical about [blank], it's because they are completely void of everything else.
Whoever said, "you can't have too much of a good thing" has never heard of water poisoning.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_intoxication
You're welcome.
The person who came up with the shirt that says "My Dad Is Stronger Than Your Dad" was a wistful orphan.
If you only believe one thing all day, believe this: I'm fucking deep as a motherfucking Yoda Jedi and my cock is significantly above average in size, girth and performance.
And I'm stronger than your dad.
To insist on issues being either black or white is to deny the entire rainbow.
The people who walk around saying they know everything is like a person saying they understand oceans after drinking a cup of water. The wisest people in the world are the ones who comprehend just how much there is that they simply cannot know.
The people who present themselves as people who know everything are people who are limited by their own ignorance. They either cannot see how much they don't know, don't have enough experience to teach them that they don't know everything, are lying or are stupid. These people cannot be trusted. And yet, these are the people who tend to run for public office. Which, then, guarantees our country to be run by people who are blind, stuck, stupid and lying.
I strike a match in a dark room and proclaim that I understand the nature of the room. I cannot see anything beyond the light of the match. How, then, is it possible that people will believe that I understand the room when I have lit only a portion of it and the majority remains unexplored, undiscovered, unknown?
Why would you want 72 virgins upon arriving at heaven? Do you know how much girls cry when you break their hymens? And the bleeding! Come on! If you want to improve your religious appeal, tell me there are 71 women in heaven who will cook me dinner every night and make sure I've got a cold beer in the fridge and one in my hand and 1 woman who is my wife. That would make me at least contemplate blowing myself up.
The funniest thing I've heard today: "I've changed my mind. I would like menopause for xmas. Thank you."
Do the people who cheer for college football teams know what a college is? And the answer "college is training for the NFL" indicates you do not understand what a college is. Perhaps these people should be fired from their current jobs and told that they must go to college before they can cheer for a sports team hosted by an institute of learning. When people get fanatical about collegiate sports, it's only because they are completely void of anything else. In fact, when people get fanatical about [blank], it's because they are completely void of everything else.
Whoever said, "you can't have too much of a good thing" has never heard of water poisoning.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_intoxication
You're welcome.
The person who came up with the shirt that says "My Dad Is Stronger Than Your Dad" was a wistful orphan.
If you only believe one thing all day, believe this: I'm fucking deep as a motherfucking Yoda Jedi and my cock is significantly above average in size, girth and performance.
And I'm stronger than your dad.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Random Shit
My father told me that he had rebelled against his father when he selected what he was selecting his major for college. His father was a chemical engineer and wanted my father to become a chemical engineer. My father said that he rebelled by majoring in mathematical engineering. Which, according to my father, is, essentially, chemical engineering without the chemicals. And later, he became a biostatistician. So the chemicals came back at that point.
When I first met my fourteen-year-old stepson, he was coming out of a phase where he really liked Napoleon. Thought he was a great man who had done great deeds and it sounded like he looked up to the Frenchman. As he started to find out that Napoleon wasn't really a man who many considered did great things, but rather a military leader who killed a lot of people because he felt a certain way, his love for Napoleon started to fade. In it's place, he started to love Hitler. Great man who did great things. He almost took over the world. Nobody pushed him around. And then, just like before, he started to find out that Hitler wasn't really a person to look up to. And if you did look up to Hitler, people kinda think you're weird. So now he's starting to like Mussolini. I guess I shouldn't really be surprised by any of this. Except that he seems to continue to find out that these dictators aren't really great men. His father loves Hitler. Has memorabilia around the house and reads about Hitler on a regular basis. What I gather from my fourteen-year-old, it's something that he and his father have in common: history, war, and love for Hitler. I had a thought that my fourteen-year-old might be rebelling against his father by trying to love Mussolini or Napoleon rather than Hitler. "That'll show the old man! He thinks I should love Hitler? Well, what does he know, he doesn't even have hair! I'm gonna love Mussolini instead. That'll drive him nutz!"
I dunno. I rebelled against my father and grandfather who wanted me to "bone up on my math and science" by becoming an actor. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I had a pretty good carreer as an actor. So I guess my personal definition of rebellion isn't as tame as my fathers or what I've imagined my fourteen-year-old to be doing. I'm not sure there's anything more opposite of an engineer than an actor. I dunno... maybe if you could live inside an elephant's asshole, maybe that would be more opposite and then I would've chosen to do that. Nah... there's science inside an elephant's asshole. And chemicals. Acting is as opposite engineering as you can get.
I think about what our kids are going to be when they get older. Our nine-year-old said something about Obama being a chain smoker last night. He was parroting his father, something most kids do without thinking about it. Of course, my wife and I are Obama supporters (my wife supports Obama primarily because I do and she gets her news through me, but I think she would've liked him even without me), and our nine-year-old's father is a supporter of all things Fox News-- so lies, commercialism, and Republicanism. So when our nine-year-old said that Obama was a chain smoker, I knew where it was coming from. My response: "Wow." And then I flash forward: both boys are going to be Republican. They will watch Fox News and be horribly, horribly misinformed. They will be racists who love war. They will desire that other people's children be drafted and fight for the freedoms that they enjoy in this country. They will have unsuccessful personal relationships as they are out-of-touch with their emotions and why they behave the way they do. They will be incapable of apologizing or empathizing. They will be their father. And they will be their father because I find myself slowly turning into my father, even thought I rebelled.
My father does nothing. He's a hugely fat fuck. Hugely fat. Gets-In-The-Way Fat. Knocks-Shit-And-Water-Glasses-Off-Other-People's-Tables-When-He-Walks-By-In-A-Restaurant Fat. He has retired from his job because he hated where he worked. He hated it for almost 40 years and did nothing to change it. Didn't look for something else, didn't put in applications, didn't follow through with any of the dreams or aspirations he would talk about with me when he was a kid. He simply went to his job and died there. And then, when he retired, he started voluntarily teaching at his children's school, and he hates that, too. He can't even enjoy retirement! He's just that miserable a person! He currently hides from his family by turning off his hearing aids or not even putting them in, making him deaf to what they have to say. Which is fine, becuase his wife doesn't have anything at all worthwhile to listen to. He has adopted two children in a successful attempt to take money from me. He doesn't write, call or come over to the house. He doesn't email, except to tell me that my 10 year old brother has abandonment issues which I'm perpetuating because I don't spend enough time with him and I should either schedule regular visits or he will have to explain to my brother why he will never see me again.
I mentioned Mother Theresa to my fourteen-year-old last night. He didn't know who she was. I've mentioned Gandhi to him before. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't care.
My nine-year-old just had a birthday party. Nerf war was the theme. He and his friends shot each other with Nerf guns.
For our fourteen-year-old's fourteenth birthday, we took him to the paintball range. He and his friends shot each other.
They have toy guns around the house and act surprised when my wife and I shrug away from a gun that they're pointing at us. "It's not loaded," they will say indignantly, and then proceed to shoot somebody without realizing there was a dart in the gun, or the gun was cocked when they thought it wasn't.
And all of this is kid's stuff, I know. I did it too. In my lighter moments, I still do it, I'm sure. The last time I went to the arcade with our nine-year-old, I had a helluvalot of fun at the House of the Dead game, where you have a gun and you shoot video zombies and other undeadicles. I love that game.
I don't want to turn into my father. I hate my father. But I really have no choice, do I? We will all turn into our parents, even if we try not to. When I look at my father it's like I'm looking into my future. Like the terminators inability to kill John Connor, I cannot kill the whatever it is that's forcing me down this path. No matter what I do.
I have this idea for a movie. I keep trying to start it. But there's this voice yelling at me inside my head, "It will be shit! It will suck! You suck! And people will not only laugh at your finished product, they will laugh at your attempts! If you try to make this movie, you will fail! You will not finish! You will not succeed!" It's a big, loud voice. It's very powerful. It sounds like my voice. When I was a kid, that same voice sounded like my father's voice. It was easier to rebel against my father's voice than it is my own. And I try not to listen to that voice, but it's incessant. And relentless. "It can't be reasoned with! It can't be bargained with! It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop! Ever! Until you are dead!" Kyle Rees, The Terminator.
I'm so fat my stomach brushes either the door or the wall when I get into my shower. And it's a great shower. But taking a shower reminds me of how fat I have become. What a failure I was at keeping off the weight.
I wear a black jacket every day to hide my body. Even in the summer. I would rather sweat and be hot than have people see my fat, fat fucking body.
I'm very quickly going bald. Every day, may head looks more and more like my father's head. I hate my father's head.
I hate my kids' father's head. He's another big fat fuck who should've been aborted. I hate him and wish nothing good for him. I hope he gets an itch behind one of his eyes and scratches it until he shreds his eyeball into little white strings of eyeball and he slowly bleeds to death from a self-inflicted eyeball scratching wound. I hope that he and my father get in a car together and start driving, and then I hope my father starts fucking him in the asshole while he gives my father a reach-around, and then they crash into an over-pass and the roof of the car gets imbeded in their chubby, hairy, disgusting chests so that they can feel the metal from the car scraping against their spine and ribs, and as the cops come to help them, all the policemen and firefighters are completely disgusted by this horrible act of beastiality-- becuase they're both beasts-- and they stand back and laugh as both of them cry and bleed and die.
I need to brush my teeth. My mother hounded me about going to the dentist yesterday. I hate going to the dentist. I don't brush my teeth enough.
I don't like pears. I liked the pineapple fruit cup better than the pear fruit cup. I don't even really know if they're pears or not. Whatever they are, I don't like it very much. However, I like it in my lunch that my wife packs for me. I hadn't been eating a very good lunch, and she asked me why, and I told her that I had tried and failed to make a sandwich the night before I went to work, and I certainly didn't wake up early enough to make a sandwich before going to work in the morning, and I had failed at that attempt also, so if she could come up with a way for me to have a healthier lunch than a bottle of honey roasted peanuts and a couple of granola bars, I would be more than open to hearing about it. She started packing a lunch for me. One of the sweetest things that has ever happened to me.
My wife is the one thing that stands out in the world of shit. In my mind, a huge whirlpool of feces and shit starts spinning around, blotting out every other image. It smells and it's chunky and it's spinning around and there's no toilet. And in the center of it, faintly backlit, is my wife, standing, untouched and clean. And there's a pathway to her. And I can see it. And if I focus on her as she smiles at me without judgement or conviction, just standing, neither impatient or waiting but standing because that's what she wants to do, if I focus on her, I can actually see my pathway to her and the spinning shit starts to become blurry and the edges fade away. It's still there and I have to concentrate really hard and it's really tiring, but there's a way out of that spinning shit world. And there's a safe spot. And it has my wife in it. And there's room enough for me next to her. And she's not rushing me. She's just standing. Smiling. Not pitying me at all. Just smiling until I get to her. I dunno. We might even stand there in the middle of it all for a while after I get to her. Just looking at the spinning shit. I mean, it would be kind of an amazing thing to watch a Spinning Shit World from the safety of your Clean Spot. If you knew that you weren't going to get hurt or dirty, wouldn't you be facinated by a Spinning World of Shit? I think I would. At least for a little while with my wife.
I did laundry last night. It's kinda nice to have clean underpants.
Under pants. Under shirts. No under socks. You might wear two pairs of socks. You might double up on the socks if it got cold. But you wouldn't put on your under socks. Or your under hat. There's never an under hat. Not even if you wear two. If you wear two hats, there's a hat on top of the first hat. No under bras, either. Or under shoes. Under gloves. Gloves are like socks in that you can wear two, but one pair doesn't become an under pair and the other is the over. Speaking of pairs, why do you have a pair of pants? It's only one garment. Sure, it's got two legs, so shouldn't it be pants with a pair of legs? And why can't you have one pant? You must always have a plural amount of pants! Even one pair of pants is still pants. Today, I must put on my pant and under gloves. You never hear anybody say that, because, technically, it doesn't exist. I have just created a fantasy. Like The Easter Bunny, Jesus and George Washington. You can't have a pant.
Well, I want a pant. Today, I've decided that I'm wearing pant. Wearing a pant? Wearing one pant? No... I think it's best that I wear a pant. After all, you wouldn't wear two pants, because then one pant would be an under pant, and there's absolutely no such thing as an underpant. Oh wait, I guess there is.
Underpant.
When I first met my fourteen-year-old stepson, he was coming out of a phase where he really liked Napoleon. Thought he was a great man who had done great deeds and it sounded like he looked up to the Frenchman. As he started to find out that Napoleon wasn't really a man who many considered did great things, but rather a military leader who killed a lot of people because he felt a certain way, his love for Napoleon started to fade. In it's place, he started to love Hitler. Great man who did great things. He almost took over the world. Nobody pushed him around. And then, just like before, he started to find out that Hitler wasn't really a person to look up to. And if you did look up to Hitler, people kinda think you're weird. So now he's starting to like Mussolini. I guess I shouldn't really be surprised by any of this. Except that he seems to continue to find out that these dictators aren't really great men. His father loves Hitler. Has memorabilia around the house and reads about Hitler on a regular basis. What I gather from my fourteen-year-old, it's something that he and his father have in common: history, war, and love for Hitler. I had a thought that my fourteen-year-old might be rebelling against his father by trying to love Mussolini or Napoleon rather than Hitler. "That'll show the old man! He thinks I should love Hitler? Well, what does he know, he doesn't even have hair! I'm gonna love Mussolini instead. That'll drive him nutz!"
I dunno. I rebelled against my father and grandfather who wanted me to "bone up on my math and science" by becoming an actor. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I had a pretty good carreer as an actor. So I guess my personal definition of rebellion isn't as tame as my fathers or what I've imagined my fourteen-year-old to be doing. I'm not sure there's anything more opposite of an engineer than an actor. I dunno... maybe if you could live inside an elephant's asshole, maybe that would be more opposite and then I would've chosen to do that. Nah... there's science inside an elephant's asshole. And chemicals. Acting is as opposite engineering as you can get.
I think about what our kids are going to be when they get older. Our nine-year-old said something about Obama being a chain smoker last night. He was parroting his father, something most kids do without thinking about it. Of course, my wife and I are Obama supporters (my wife supports Obama primarily because I do and she gets her news through me, but I think she would've liked him even without me), and our nine-year-old's father is a supporter of all things Fox News-- so lies, commercialism, and Republicanism. So when our nine-year-old said that Obama was a chain smoker, I knew where it was coming from. My response: "Wow." And then I flash forward: both boys are going to be Republican. They will watch Fox News and be horribly, horribly misinformed. They will be racists who love war. They will desire that other people's children be drafted and fight for the freedoms that they enjoy in this country. They will have unsuccessful personal relationships as they are out-of-touch with their emotions and why they behave the way they do. They will be incapable of apologizing or empathizing. They will be their father. And they will be their father because I find myself slowly turning into my father, even thought I rebelled.
My father does nothing. He's a hugely fat fuck. Hugely fat. Gets-In-The-Way Fat. Knocks-Shit-And-Water-Glasses-Off-Other-People's-Tables-When-He-Walks-By-In-A-Restaurant Fat. He has retired from his job because he hated where he worked. He hated it for almost 40 years and did nothing to change it. Didn't look for something else, didn't put in applications, didn't follow through with any of the dreams or aspirations he would talk about with me when he was a kid. He simply went to his job and died there. And then, when he retired, he started voluntarily teaching at his children's school, and he hates that, too. He can't even enjoy retirement! He's just that miserable a person! He currently hides from his family by turning off his hearing aids or not even putting them in, making him deaf to what they have to say. Which is fine, becuase his wife doesn't have anything at all worthwhile to listen to. He has adopted two children in a successful attempt to take money from me. He doesn't write, call or come over to the house. He doesn't email, except to tell me that my 10 year old brother has abandonment issues which I'm perpetuating because I don't spend enough time with him and I should either schedule regular visits or he will have to explain to my brother why he will never see me again.
I mentioned Mother Theresa to my fourteen-year-old last night. He didn't know who she was. I've mentioned Gandhi to him before. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't care.
My nine-year-old just had a birthday party. Nerf war was the theme. He and his friends shot each other with Nerf guns.
For our fourteen-year-old's fourteenth birthday, we took him to the paintball range. He and his friends shot each other.
They have toy guns around the house and act surprised when my wife and I shrug away from a gun that they're pointing at us. "It's not loaded," they will say indignantly, and then proceed to shoot somebody without realizing there was a dart in the gun, or the gun was cocked when they thought it wasn't.
And all of this is kid's stuff, I know. I did it too. In my lighter moments, I still do it, I'm sure. The last time I went to the arcade with our nine-year-old, I had a helluvalot of fun at the House of the Dead game, where you have a gun and you shoot video zombies and other undeadicles. I love that game.
I don't want to turn into my father. I hate my father. But I really have no choice, do I? We will all turn into our parents, even if we try not to. When I look at my father it's like I'm looking into my future. Like the terminators inability to kill John Connor, I cannot kill the whatever it is that's forcing me down this path. No matter what I do.
I have this idea for a movie. I keep trying to start it. But there's this voice yelling at me inside my head, "It will be shit! It will suck! You suck! And people will not only laugh at your finished product, they will laugh at your attempts! If you try to make this movie, you will fail! You will not finish! You will not succeed!" It's a big, loud voice. It's very powerful. It sounds like my voice. When I was a kid, that same voice sounded like my father's voice. It was easier to rebel against my father's voice than it is my own. And I try not to listen to that voice, but it's incessant. And relentless. "It can't be reasoned with! It can't be bargained with! It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop! Ever! Until you are dead!" Kyle Rees, The Terminator.
I'm so fat my stomach brushes either the door or the wall when I get into my shower. And it's a great shower. But taking a shower reminds me of how fat I have become. What a failure I was at keeping off the weight.
I wear a black jacket every day to hide my body. Even in the summer. I would rather sweat and be hot than have people see my fat, fat fucking body.
I'm very quickly going bald. Every day, may head looks more and more like my father's head. I hate my father's head.
I hate my kids' father's head. He's another big fat fuck who should've been aborted. I hate him and wish nothing good for him. I hope he gets an itch behind one of his eyes and scratches it until he shreds his eyeball into little white strings of eyeball and he slowly bleeds to death from a self-inflicted eyeball scratching wound. I hope that he and my father get in a car together and start driving, and then I hope my father starts fucking him in the asshole while he gives my father a reach-around, and then they crash into an over-pass and the roof of the car gets imbeded in their chubby, hairy, disgusting chests so that they can feel the metal from the car scraping against their spine and ribs, and as the cops come to help them, all the policemen and firefighters are completely disgusted by this horrible act of beastiality-- becuase they're both beasts-- and they stand back and laugh as both of them cry and bleed and die.
I need to brush my teeth. My mother hounded me about going to the dentist yesterday. I hate going to the dentist. I don't brush my teeth enough.
I don't like pears. I liked the pineapple fruit cup better than the pear fruit cup. I don't even really know if they're pears or not. Whatever they are, I don't like it very much. However, I like it in my lunch that my wife packs for me. I hadn't been eating a very good lunch, and she asked me why, and I told her that I had tried and failed to make a sandwich the night before I went to work, and I certainly didn't wake up early enough to make a sandwich before going to work in the morning, and I had failed at that attempt also, so if she could come up with a way for me to have a healthier lunch than a bottle of honey roasted peanuts and a couple of granola bars, I would be more than open to hearing about it. She started packing a lunch for me. One of the sweetest things that has ever happened to me.
My wife is the one thing that stands out in the world of shit. In my mind, a huge whirlpool of feces and shit starts spinning around, blotting out every other image. It smells and it's chunky and it's spinning around and there's no toilet. And in the center of it, faintly backlit, is my wife, standing, untouched and clean. And there's a pathway to her. And I can see it. And if I focus on her as she smiles at me without judgement or conviction, just standing, neither impatient or waiting but standing because that's what she wants to do, if I focus on her, I can actually see my pathway to her and the spinning shit starts to become blurry and the edges fade away. It's still there and I have to concentrate really hard and it's really tiring, but there's a way out of that spinning shit world. And there's a safe spot. And it has my wife in it. And there's room enough for me next to her. And she's not rushing me. She's just standing. Smiling. Not pitying me at all. Just smiling until I get to her. I dunno. We might even stand there in the middle of it all for a while after I get to her. Just looking at the spinning shit. I mean, it would be kind of an amazing thing to watch a Spinning Shit World from the safety of your Clean Spot. If you knew that you weren't going to get hurt or dirty, wouldn't you be facinated by a Spinning World of Shit? I think I would. At least for a little while with my wife.
I did laundry last night. It's kinda nice to have clean underpants.
Under pants. Under shirts. No under socks. You might wear two pairs of socks. You might double up on the socks if it got cold. But you wouldn't put on your under socks. Or your under hat. There's never an under hat. Not even if you wear two. If you wear two hats, there's a hat on top of the first hat. No under bras, either. Or under shoes. Under gloves. Gloves are like socks in that you can wear two, but one pair doesn't become an under pair and the other is the over. Speaking of pairs, why do you have a pair of pants? It's only one garment. Sure, it's got two legs, so shouldn't it be pants with a pair of legs? And why can't you have one pant? You must always have a plural amount of pants! Even one pair of pants is still pants. Today, I must put on my pant and under gloves. You never hear anybody say that, because, technically, it doesn't exist. I have just created a fantasy. Like The Easter Bunny, Jesus and George Washington. You can't have a pant.
Well, I want a pant. Today, I've decided that I'm wearing pant. Wearing a pant? Wearing one pant? No... I think it's best that I wear a pant. After all, you wouldn't wear two pants, because then one pant would be an under pant, and there's absolutely no such thing as an underpant. Oh wait, I guess there is.
Underpant.