Ok readers, I have to admit: I’m slightly disappointed that no one has read the latest two blog posts. Not like, “Dad disappointed”, which everyone knows means “furious as shit but not willing to cross the line from emotional and verbal abuse into physical abuse… yet,” but GOP Senator disappointed, where they’re very slightly disheartened but don’t actually give a fuck. Maybe that “Dad disappointed” was just my dad. It takes a certain amount of child abuse to forge a truly great writer, but my fuckup dad only ever hit me with an open hand, so I’m just funny enough to write a comedy blog that no one reads. I would tell my father “Well done, I’m proud of you!”, except he never taught me how to say those words. Sorry, I don’t usually talk about my Dad this much, but I’m a little sad, and you’re just sooo pretty. Don’t start feeling all special because I called you pretty – I say that to everyone when I’m drunk. And by everyone, I mean most people in bars, and every food dish that I see. I once told a raw potato that we were soulmates, and I sang Journey’s “Open Arms” to the burrito it eventually became. If it eventually turned into a plate of nachos, I probably would have given it a lapdance. This is crazy, because I don’t believe in soulmates, or potatoes. This is fun. If we continue this thought experiment, at what point would I just fuck the food? When would I have my American Pie moment? If I fuck a sausage, does that make me gay? If I fuck a turkey sausage, does that make me extra gay? Or is it only if it fucks me? See, this is what they should have taught us in Health class. In terms of gender roles and heteronormativity re-enforcement, that’s about the same as my actual Health class curriculum. Man puts penis inside woman = baby. Man puts penis inside man = AIDS. No conversation about women’s sexuality at all, or even what consent is. If consent is simply being a woman around a sexually aroused man, then that explains health class and, you know… rape. Not male rape, like in prison, because free men are staunch physical beings that are too hyped-up on football and first-person shooter video games to ever be penetrated, but the scary man-in-an-alley-with-a-knife kind of rape. Didn’t we find a fun topic! Don’t click away though, “keeping it light” or “palatable” or “tasteful” is a method of vacillation or hiding to avoid taking an uncompromising stand, and we shan’t be doing that here. IF that fucker hadn’t raped someone, then they would’t be raped, end of conversation. It doesn’t matter what they were wearing, what time it was, how many friends they had with them, or how how many weapons they had on them. Just how many assault rifles should a woman carry on her to avoid being raped? The NRA will tell you six, plus a sidearm (preferably a large-caliber pistol with a high-capacity magazine for maximum stopping power (“stopping power” is the NRA’s more palatable term for taking a human life)), plus a knife, and maybe some mace that comes in a cute pink container. That’s because they’re trigger-happy misogynists with little respect for human life. Sorry for the tangent. When I’m mad, I tend to lash out at rapists and organizations that promote gun violence. I could act like my father and violently lash out at my first-born, but we all see how that turned out, right? See how I brought it back to daddy issues? Things always come full-circle, just in a sloppy fashion. As an often-abused but not badly-beaten child, that’s the best writing I can hope for. I’m so close to being actually funny! If my dad wasn’t such a pussy and just got out the belt a little more often, you’d be laughing your ass off right now! And mine would still be stinging. Am I doing comedy right?
Disclaimer: I’m still not a vegetarian, but I have substantially reduced my beef and pork intake because a doctor diagnosed me with the cholesterol of a 64 year-old Republican rancher three years ago. I was 23 at the time, and the condition is known as “You’re fucked.” Best of all, both my parents and all four of my grandparents were also diagnosed with Cholesterolus Fuckingkillyouitis early in their lives as well, so if I suddenly stop blogging, bet your money on a heart attack. If I die in the next few weeks, consider this my Last Will and Testament. I want a pony, and a jump rope, and an astronaut suit, Santa! I’m not entirely sure which way wills work. Get stuff while you live or give stuff when you when you die? I just want the one with more ponies. Anyway, read some stuff I wrote about vegetables.
My chest heaved as I finally crested the hill. I turned and gazed back at Broccoliworts, the only real Holliday Inn that I had ever known. I needed a break; I’d been traveling for hours. I sat down, swigging kombucha as I studied my map. It clearly detailed a perfectly straight road from Broccoliworts to Mt. Quinoa, but such a path wouldn’t make for an engaging character arc because I’m not a good enough writer to show catalytic personal growth with nuanced introspection, so the route I planned began with The Rolling Hills, then wound through The Abhorrent Swamp, and eventually finished with The Really, Really Tall Mountains. I’m more of a club-swinger than a scalpel-wielder when it comes to fantasy writing, apparently. The manic route I plotted snaked through an incredible 250 miles of wilderness, whereas the main road looked to take 30 minutes by Lyft. I can’t understate how ideal this road is. It’s a fucking highway. Just let me swing my damn club. I resumed my trek through the hills, occasionally swerving, zigging, and zagging, for character-building purposes. Consider each swerve, zig, and zag +1 Character growth for me since I haven’t written enough of a backstory for my character in this to show any truly measurable growth. At best, my character is somewhat boring and probably autistic. I marched on through the hills, sustained by grass awns pulled from my socks and the occasional bite of Lembas bread. Yeah that’s right, I went there. Fucking sue me, Tolkien, I’m sure my 42 followers will suffer a supreme disappointment when my monthly 600-word blog posts stop appearing in their spam folder. Since nothing cool ever happens in hills (hills without eyes, anyway), I soon found myself at the edge of The Abhorrent Swamp with a staggering 1,735 character points that I couldn’t spend, because even though I could send this whole story careening into Role-Playing Game territory, I’ve already written most of this paragraph with my characteristic self-indulgence, so I’m going to try to focus. Cut me some slack though, they’re fucking hills. Hills are just a fantasy narrative device to buy you time until you think of something actually interes- hang on, I’ve got it!
At the entrance to the swamp, a figure hung upside-down from the nearest bough. It was clad toe-to-head in red and blue spandex with his fists clenched between his knees, which were spread wide to the side, even as the bottoms of his feet were pressed tightly together. Already wary of superheroes, I approached carefully as he slowly lowered himself until we were face-to-face. “You have a knack for getting in trouble,” he said, his voice muffled by his mask. “Professor Bale already tried that, I’m not going to kiss you,” I answered. Tobey Maguire ripped off his mask. “Batman stole my gig?” he asked, incredulously. “It doesn’t even make sense, the cape would flap down and look stupid.” I leaned back and asked “Do you just hang here and try to make out with strangers?” Indignantly, he replied “Trust me, if I had just saved you from four assailants in an alley and it was raining heavily, you’d be into it!” I pushed past him and headed for the darkness of the swamp. “Watch out for Russell!” Tobey called, before shooting his webbing into the trees and disappearing from the camera shot. I brushed off Tobey’s last remark, since he was probably just mad that I didn’t make out with him. Hell hath no wrath like a Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman scorned. Seriously, he was a super-dick to Mary Jane after she broke up with him! Pathological, even. But as I fought through the still, oppressive swamp air, Tobey’s last words rang in my ears like the church bell that fucks up black Spiderman. Not black Spiderman like when everyone wanted Donald Glover to play the new Spiderman, but black Spiderman as in the Spiderman who is evil because his tights are black. Glad I had to clear that up, welcome to America! Tobey’s warning rang again in my ears, and I began to worry. “Who’s Russell?” I thought to myself. As I walked, I pulled out my phone to Google celebrity vegetarians to prepare myself for what personality potentially patrolled the swamp depths. No signal. That’s how you know it’s a good swamp, trust me, I’m a writer. Suddenly, a single Wi-fi network with a weak connection appeared on my screen. InfntSrrw. InfntSrrw? What could that mean? If I could just add in some vowels, it might make sen- sweet Mother of Asparagus! Whipping my head to the side, I searched desperately for a route off the main path. Venus Fly Traps the size of slightly larger-than-average Venus Fly Traps staggered the right side of the path, randomly snapping shut as they consumed one of the ubiquitous flies before opening slowly and effortfully, as Tom Cruise opens his eyes after realizing a new action movie will pay him millions of dollars for almost zero acting. If I hadn’t received my education at a Holliday Inn, then I’d know that Venus Fly Traps are harmless to people, however, thousands of years of human evolution told me to be wary of plants with teeth that are catching and eating things of their own volition. There was no escape on the right side of the path. I turned around. A thin, mousy-looking Christian Bale clad in tattered clothing from the Old West holding a battered rifle stared intensely and silently back at me. Perfect. Desperate, indefatigable, and obsessed with keeping appointments crucial to the plot, 3:10 to Yuma Christian Bale was the last thing I needed right now. He motioned with his rifle for me to move down the path. With a resigned sigh, I began trudging down the path before checking my phone. Two Wi-fi bars. I’d baited Omnivores with meat, but I’d never fought another Vegetarian, except for the times when Batman wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I wasn’t prepared for this. I hesitated. A loud click sounded from my left as Christian Bale cocked the hammer on his rifle. I continued down the path, checking my phone as I walked. Three bars. The hair on my neck stood as I readied myself for Russell. A particularly short, mangled tree stood in a clearing ahead of me, obscured by fog. As I approached, the twisted tree resolved into Russell Brand, dressed in a tight leather vest and even tighter leather pants, holding himself in a particularly elaborate yoga pose. As I entered the clearing, Russell untangled himself from himself and stood in the middle of the path, barring my way. “‘Ello, mate,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he continued “If it’s enlightenment you seek, you’re gonna haf to go fru me.”
It’s that time of year again. When the burning sun in the sky inspires me to watch movies featuring shirtless, sweaty men. When the warm weather drives me to emulate their powerful, precise movements. When the bird songs in the air inspire me to watch Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon and start playing with my nunchucks. No, that’s not a metaphor. When the weather grows hot, a man’s blood thickens, and his desire to engage in the most fun activity for men returns: frantically and uncoordinatedly swinging full-weight martial arts weapons. On the first day of summer, I grabbed my nunchucks and ran outside. And make no mistake; these nunchucks are REAL. I know they’re real because they’re heavy as shit. There’s no way these bad boys are street-legal. Like all men coming of summer, I swung, jumped, and pivoted around my yard with pure joy (and nunchucks). I danced a completely untrained, yet still very lethal (in its own way), dance of… lethality. I freed my spirit to the nunchuck gods and whirled with gusto… until my nunchuck did a crazy nunchuck spin and landed, with quite a lot of force, across my left buttcheek. It was only in this moment that the true nunchuck reality set in: Anyone who swings a nunchuck without proper training WILL accidentally fuck themselves in the ass. And that’s also how I discovered the secret to success. The secret is: practice everything like you’re practicing with real nunchucks. Shoot freethrows like the ball will, for an absolute fact, come rocketing off the rim and strike you in the balls, should you miss. Bowl like the pins are rifle-wielding Republicans with an NRA tattoo right next to their 2nd Amendment tattoo. Sprint like Donald Trump away from a thesaurus. Sad! I didn’t become the best high school javelin thrower in Colorado by practicing. That’s because I barely practiced. I’m a natural athlete, duh. Maybe this is a bad example. Although, in the four practices I had before the big meet, I completely dedicated myself to the ancient, murdery art of spear-throwing. I did my homework. I worked through technique drills. I also engaged in substantial mental preparation during the meet, just before I threw. And by that, I mean “I drank three RedBulls and watched 300.” Fucking Amped. Sorry, I mean, “Fucking Redbulled.” Who needs the 300 Workout when there’s literally zero regulations on caffeinated beverage purchases? I once walked through a grocery checkout line with four four-packs of Monsters and no one batted an eyelash. I work better with a couple (caffeinated) drinks on board. And apparently, I perform incredible physical feats when I overindulge. I’m like Popeye, but not a vegan (can you remember ever seeing him eat anything other than spinach?). I guess I’m not a “sailor man” either. There’s a semen joke in there somewhere, but no semen/seaman joke is worth pursuing for more than four full seconds. That’s an unwritten rule for us distinguished writers. Ernest Hemingway didn’t write about cum. F. Scott Fitzgerald didn’t write about cum. Jack Kerouac… might have. I don’t know all of his work but… he seems like the type. Actually, now that I think back on my work, I’ve probably written about cum, too. I seem like the type. Goddamn it. I was this close to becoming the next classic American writer. Wait, I can still do it! I already know the secret to success, I just have to expect the worst-case scenario as the consequence of failure! What’s the worst-case scenario for a writer? No one reads their work, right? Let me just check on how many followers I have… Fuck.
Happy Pride, everyone! Break out the glitter cannons and lube! But not necessarily in that order, I’m sure you resplendent gays are just dying to be ordered around by another straight man. I’m delighted that Pride weekend has become a serious holiday for so many. Progress! Maybe someday we can watch a play about a gay man in a small town in Wyoming with a happy ending. But not like, that kind of happy ending, just the kind that doesn’t make for a Westboro Baptist bedtime story. Speaking of Westboro, back to how awesome Gay Pride is! This year, I really began treating it like a national holiday: weekends where I grant myself leave to eat however much of whatever the fuck I want. I consistently avoid beef for environmental reasons, pork for ethical reasons, and vegetables for childish reasons. Not this weekend. I’ve eaten steak, I’ve eaten sausage, and I’ve even eaten a piece of spinach that accidentally drifted onto my half of the pizza. I’m so inclusive I even allow spinach into the party! But not arugula. We’re just acquaintances; we never hang out alone. Despite the obvious perks of personal and dietary inclusiveness (not being sexist, racist, homophobic, hungry), there are a few drawbacks (like constipation (but from red meat, not gay people (although a few gay men will experience a similar sensation tonight, I imagine))). One of my home-remedies for feeling a little blocked up is drinking a lot of alcohol, since it usually has the polar opposite effect on my bowels. I call it Whiskey Pompeii. I’ve been working on my imagery, but I only use my powers for evil. I’ve tried other home-remedies for constipation but they’ve all figuratively backfired, since a literal backfire would be success. Some of them are also painful, or downright dangerous. Shitting bricks is a learning experience, and I’ve learned that WD40 enemas are NOT the proper solution to dietary indiscretion. Burritos should be butt-birthed with the aid of an excess of green chile, not lubricant for automobile parts. I must have skipped that day in high school. Maybe I was valiantly attempting to shit, or maybe there was a salad in the classroom; in either case, I was far away. Several doctors have told me that consuming more fiber would help move things along more often. Fiber from leaves. Salads. Things that grow out of the ground. There’s a very large chance that eating vegetables will make me feel better, but there’s also a very small chance it will not, so I won’t, and that’s just good science. At least, I think it is, did I miss that day too? Is that why I’m stuck in my ways? It could be, but it could also be because I’m too stubborn, too proud. And Pride is what this weekend is all about. Despite all my physical pain, I am proud to have my butt stuffed on Pride weekend.
Sooo… yeah. Re-branding. Still working on it. I’ve dreamed up a lot of awesome band names, but still not a good blog name. That’s mostly because I always start out trying to brainstorm blog names but end up coming up with epic band names, and then I find myself acting out awesome guitar solos in my living room as the lead guitarist in Trek, the Star Trek-themed Journey cover band. You read that right. Set phasers to “Touch their hearts and souls!” I’m on a bit of a Journey kick, in which my new car has been instrumental. “Instrumental” works two ways in that sentence! Get it? As in like an instrument, like a guitar, and as in like another instrument, like a… bigger guitar. My mind was built for wordplay! But I actually did get a new car, and it’s from this century, so I can play music from my phone in it! My last car was great, in that it had wheels powered by an engine, but the windows didn’t work and I couldn’t turn one of the lights off. Before you imagine me in a beautiful 2016 Corvette Stingray Coupe Z51, let me stop you. It’s even better than that. I’m now the proud owner of a used 2002 Subaru Outback. That’s right, folks, I’m embracing my inner lesbian. I’d embrace my outer lesbian too, but she filed a restraining order, so now I’m not allowed at that woodworking class anymore. If loving an incredibly practical car makes you a lesbian, then by god, get me some pussy! Lesbians aside, my new car is a fucking dreamboat, and I don’t even care that it’s got 134,000 miles on it. If it was a fighter jet, that would be like the perfect number of miles, because no one wants to be the one to break in a new fighter jet. I also feel like a fighter pilot in it because there’s so many important-looking knobs and buttons on the console compared to my last car. It’s got heated seats, a rear window wiper, and hazard signals that actually signal hazards! Now, I keep my hazards on literally all the time so everyone knows that I’m a fighter pilot controlling a beautiful and lethal engineering marvel. As such, I have christened my car “Mighty Wings”, after the second track on the Top Gun soundtrack. I’m sure that I’m not the first station wagon owner to name their car after a Top Gun song. A gay man somewhere has surely named his after the third track, “Playing With the Boys“. After all, station wagons, especially Outbacks, are almost as ubiquitous as Top Gun fans, because they’re so perfectly practical. Outbacks, not Top Gun fans, that is. There’s so many Outback owners that we have our own hand signal, much like that cool wave motorcyclists do when they see each other. Ours is where we keep both hands firmly on the wheel and our eyes on the road, because we are a practical people, unlike motorcyclists. While driving a vehicle with zero protection almost straight at another vehicle with zero protection, they both take one of their hands off their handlebars for the sake of solidarity. That is so the opposite of Subaru Practicality. Yeah, I capitalized it. That’s because it’s the name of our weekly gazette, which is mostly just full of Home Depot coupons, but it also outlines etiquette for interacting with a Fellow Outback Owner (FOO). For instance, when addressing a FOO, one always inquires into the status of their 401k, or asks how many multi-tools they travel with on an ordinary day. The proper response to both inquiries is “I have quite a lot, but not enough”. Any other response and you’ll be shunned, and you can eat our collective tail lights as we speed away with our all-wheel drive. Luckily, all you have to do to get back into the group is load something into your Outback that’s long and bulky enough that you have to put the back seats down. Because we lesbians are an inclusive, practical people. The more Outbacks we see on the road, the better we feel about humanity. That’s why we tell everyone considering purchasing a Subaru Outback, “You too, can be a FOO.”
[Insert excuse for not writing here]. Phew, glad we got that over with! Now that you’ve forgiven me for my absence, let’s proceed, since I’m sure your life is significantly worse without my sensual sentences serenading your… sphincter? Just take my word for it. I have a degree in molecular biology, and all the curriculum focused very heavily on sphincters, so it’s safe to say I’m an expert on the subject. Seriously, I had to study that stuff like every night! In class, the professor would be like “We have a quiz on chapter 4 tomorrow!” and I’d be like “That’s the sphincter chapter, right?” and she’d get angry and say “For the last time, there aren’t any questions on sphincters in Contemporary English Literature for Non-Majors,” and I’d say “OK” and just look up pictures of raw buttholes anyway. So, from an expert to a plebeian, just relax, open your mind, and allow my sentences past your sphincter. That’s how you make your brain bigger! And guess what? Your brain is like a sphincter, too! It’s not that hard to learn something new, it just takes time. Start at the beginning. Just imagine the grades of elementary school as a set of graduated butt-plugs. First and second grade are tough because you’re still getting used to the idea, third and fourth grade are a little easier because you’re starting to get the hang of it, and fifth grade is really hard because you have to do it twice. But look at you now! Your elementary school butt-plugs have opened you up to an entirely new world of knowledge and possibilities. Just think of all you can take in now! Calculus! Quantum Physics! Human fists! The amazing array of things you can receive today is a result of your perseverance through the gradual dilation of mental and physical apertures! As I’ve said earlier, I’ve been through 16 years of school, so I could fit a bag of potatoes in my ass just by sitting on it. Don’t ever let someone put a limit on what you can fit in your… brain. I thought I was stupid for the first 18 years of my life because some people kept telling me so, but look at me now! Whole sentences! Sometimes. Lately, I’ve been thinking about creating a physical copy of all my posts and burying them in a time capsule so that I may subject future generations to the very idiocy which you suffer now. Maybe aliens will find them, who knows? If the Trumpies somehow manage to burn all books on Earth because knowledge offends them and then the world ends because of nuclear war, then maybe the aliens will find my posts in the wasteland and think they are revered human knowledge. I could become part of human canon! When people are asked what three books they would want if they were trapped on a desert island, they’d list the bible, Eat, Pray, Love, and that one blog of assorted ass jokes. If they weren’t all dead from the aforementioned nuclear war, that is. Maybe my posts will end up in an alien museum, and everyone would know exactly why we became the only species on the planet that went extinct from sheer stupidity. I need a new name anyway, Levar Burton is a Maybe isn’t a good blog name. I’m thinking about re-branding, not only because this blog is hard to market with such a long name that makes no sense to most people, but also because Levar Burton blocked me on Twitter after I sent him a dick pic and now I’m mad at him. It was artfully composed, thoughtfully lit, and masterfully captured, which is Instagram speak for “I took a picture with my phone and put a black and white filter on it.” Fucking genius. What should I call my blog now? Undercover Drag Queens? The Strumming Virgins? Erin Brockovich? All solid band names, not great blog titles. Reposado Stranglers? The Softcore Pirates? Still from my list of band names. This isn’t going well.
Hello again, dear followers! I apologize for the lengthy hiatus, the election results have provided a plethora of blogging fodder but lately I’ve found myself drinking in preparation to blog without actually stopping to blog. I’ve wanted to make fun of the ridiculous mockery which has become the American presidency (fuck yeah I didn’t capitalize that shit), but unfortunately, it isn’t a joke anymore. How do you satirize something that itself is already a perfect title for an article by The Onion? Just like how “Area Dad shares photographs with family using previously unheard-of online photo-sharing website” felt like the author was writing just to me, so now does the news headline “President Trump denounces Nordstrom stores via Twitter because they drop shitty clothing line”. Usually, I’d attack stories like these with my signature blend of sarcasm, self-deprecation, and horrific social skills, but I just can’t keep up anymore! He’s only been president for a month and shit has already hit the fan and sprayed all over grandma’s meticulously prepared Thanksgiving turkey, Dad’s midlife crisis Mercedes, and the family dog with cancer. I could list all the things that have gone wrong in a month, but hey, have you ever known me to exceed 700 words in a blog post? I don’t think I even know 700 words. Another reason why I haven’t been blogging or learning words is because working two jobs to afford GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF MONKEY SHIT CAR INSURANCE massively sucks my mana. That’s a foreign word for “life stuff”. Get your mind out of the gutter. Now I know that getting paid $12.50 an hour sounds like a lot, but it’s actually slightly less than it sounds when you account for taxes and the fact that my car insurance is just over $252 every month. Jesus fucking Christ, you plow through six elementary school kids in a school zone crosswalk doing 28 over while looking at your phone because you were Googling “Was Fantasia 2000 actually released in the year 2000″, and suddenly everyone’s all over your shit. And before you lose it too, just chill the fuck out, they were probably gonna turn into crackheads anyway. They just looked like tiny fuckups, especially that 65-lb suspenders-wearing, four-eyed piece of shit. Nice pocket calculator, were you doing your taxes or just writing 58008 before turning the device upside-down to make it spell BOOBS? Get a goddamn job already, you lazy mooching cunts are the reason the economy’s fucked. I’m glad there’s blood all over your DeadPool backpack now. Your stupid twat parents shouldn’t have let you watch that in the first place; their neglectful parenting is probably why you did a quadruple backflip and landed on the lawn while your shoes got caught in the damn monkey bars in the playground on the other side of the school. And it’s a two-story school. Rich fucker. Probably too busy getting stoned and watching SpongeBo- oh wait, that’s me. But in all honesty, sometimes the only way to forget the sensation of breaking the ribs of the dog you’re performing CPR on because they died suddenly and literally in your arms in front of their family during a routine veterinary visit and never getting them back while continuing to feel the ribs you broke shift and move beneath your hands because stopping compression means they’ll die for sure is getting stoned and watching SpongeBob. See how I got really dark, but in two different ways? THAT’S CALLED COMEDY. Or something of that ilk. That was a rough stretch, how the hell do I walk that back? I’ll just ignore it and hope my readers can’t read. Speaking of illiteracy, Betsy Devos is now… fuck it. I’m not going to address it because I don’t feel overly misanthropic at the moment, but the best way to agitate that sentiment is to speak of our new Teacher in Chief. There’s no ending to the sentence “Betsy Devos is now…” that will make me happy unless it’s “fired”. But, I would also accept “not a total piece of shit”, or “curing cancer using an evidence-based scientific approach”, but those will literally never happen. At best, she could be like those shitty, hungover substitute teachers who just let us watch movies like Fantasia 2000 during class, which actually came out on December 17, 1999. WE’VE BEEN LIED TO, WAKE UP, SHEEPLE! Also, welcome to the 700-word blog post club, me! This is how you become a genius, unless I’ve done it before and I just don’t remember. If I’m becoming dumber, I blame Betsy.
Vet school applications: Submitted. Odds of admittance: Approximately 8% nation-wide. Actual odds of admittance: … Less… Less than that. But it’s done, and now it’s time to celebrate, and also time to ponder a panicked change in my life plan for the next three months until the schools get back to me. Luckily, I’ve already figured it out! I’ve always thought I’d be good at Army-ing because of the unique intangibles I bring to the service: I’m a man, and I can do several pushups. Like, without stopping, though. But that’s only part 1. The second part is my tell-all exposé on the American military machine through letters sent home to my beloved. But, every letter would be censored of all pertinent information and probably all my best butt jokes (the government will keep them for themselves, I’m sure), so I would just stash all the letters in my pillow. I’m aiming for a 600-page novel, so maybe I’ll get two pillows. I’m sure a testosterone-driven organization would just love that. I already have a title, too! I’m calling it Letters From Iwo Jima II: Let’s Iwo Jima Some A-rabs! Now that title may seem insensitive, but it’s actually not bad when you consider this is America and we really don’t give a shit. When you account for the facts that we have a football team called the Washington Redskins and the logo for the Cleveland Indians looks like someone drew a crude face on a tomato and then stuck a couple of feathers in it, we’re lucky Operation Iraqi Freedom wasn’t called Haji-Shootin’ Oil Grab. Sorry, I should make it official. Operation Haji-Shootin’ Oil Grab. But somehow, Kaepernick sitting during the national anthem to protest racial injustices (injustices uncovered and verified by a division of the government headed by a black woman, a la the Baltimore PD report) is the worst occurrence right now in American sports. Sure, not standing for the anthem isn’t the best way to protest. Even though their recent, detestable history of intentional obstructionism has further damaged Americans’ faith in our government, I don’t make a farting sound every time someone says “Congress”, as fun as that sounds. Even that sentiment is more specific than CK’s protest, but you get the idea. Now I believe, however poorly phrased and executed, Kaepernick is genuinely drawing attention to a real issue through peaceful protest, and attempting to use his status as a celebrated athlete to effect positive social change, for which he has been unceremoniously vilified. Go, Americans! Take to your smartphones to tweet your opinions, provided you complete the necessary research to inform them! Or just, you know… Tweet them anyway. Interestingly, according to the 2002 legal book Collective Bargaining in the Private Sector, NFL players are considered private sector employees in the NFLPA, meaning they forfeit certain Constitutional rights at work, including their First Amendment rights to free speech while “on the clock”. The right to peaceful process was not addressed in my research, and since only three rights seem to be different between the public and private sectors, I assume that to mean that CK probably retains that one. Then again, I could be wrong, because I’ve only performed a cursory search on Google Scholar and evaluated my sources based on the reasonability and objectivity of their methods. As in, I performed what should be considered the precedent for what should be the bare minimum of research to form what is considered almost an informed opinion. Look at me, being all adult-y. That sounded a lot more sexual than I meant it to. That’s what she said? That is what she said. That’s what a lot of ladies said, right before they saw the light of hope in my eyes die like Gary Johnson’s presidential dreams when asked about Aleppo. I know a presidential candidate should know about the city crucial to current American foreign policy, the city where the Syrian refugee crisis, our conflict with the Islamic State, and our tenuous relationship with Russia all intersect, but it’s hard to get a libertarian to pay attention to refugees lazy enough to be born into an impoverished country when he could be jerking off to a framed picture of his bootstraps instead. You’d think he would do some basic research before running for the most powerful office in the land, or he could, you know… Do it anyway. He also could have brushed up on foreign policy after this monumental gaffe to avoid a similar incident, but he didn’t, instead choosing to reference his “Aleppo moment” when unable to name a single leader of another country that he admires. You’d think maybe then he’d do the foreign policy research required of a high school sophomore, but when asked to name the leader of North Korea, the country hell-bent on becoming the world’s most unstable nuclear power, he just refused. He claimed to know without wanting to tell, like Donald on his plan to defeat ISIS, or a six year-old on what Aleppo is. “I know what’s going on, I just don’t wanna tell!” Vote Gary Johnson for President, but only if there are ZERO other countries on the planet! He could learn from his mistakes, or he could just… Run for president, anyway. I know, kids, we’ve covered a lot tonight, and I usually keep things light on here, when I’m not talking about dead animals. Even then, dead animals are still kind of light in a metaphorical sense (they are extra heavy in a literal sense), because that’s how you get stuffed animals. Not like creepy taxidermied household pets, but like the lie my mom told me when I was four that live animals eventually become cute stuffed animals for you to cuddle forever so you never have to experience loss or grief. Mom? Why would you lie to me?? Next, you’re going to tell me Santa’s not- Are you fucking shitting me?? Mom, what’s Aleppo??
I am proud to present to you my blog’s live coverage of the 2016 Rio Olympics! What’s happening during primetime – Men make sport. Happening later – Women make same sport, but less money. I don’t mean to trivialize the Olympics – as an avid sportsmaker myself, I appreciate the dedication and athleticism on display. I also appreciate the several week-long reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never achieve even a fraction of a 16 year-old Chinese female gymnast’s athletic accomplishments. I’ve been making a stronger effort to remember that Olympic athletes are people rather than superheroes. So, every time the aforementioned tiny Chinese gymnast finishes a quadruple-spin triple-flip with a another flip and then a smile and a flourish, I remember that her parents love her just as much as mine love me… hardly at all. The only difference is, their desire to please their distant parents resulted in Olympic Gold Medals, and mine resulted in a college degree that helps you get into college again and total and complete emotional maturity. Take that, Me! I don’t mean myself, I actually just assume that all Chinese people’s names are English pronouns – Yoo, Mee, Soyeon… That last one was actually one of my college professors. And She was actually Korean. And that wasn’t an accidental capitalization in my last sentence. See three sentences ago. And C-3PO. But my professor named Soyeon was actually Korean. Is actually Korean. She’s not dead – At least, I hope not. I need her letter of recommendation so I can make animal college with my mind. I think I’ve just stumbled onto a great TV sit-com! Animal College – Where humans study animals and then fuck each other and stuff. I should call it Spay’s Anatomy, but let’s be honest – Animal College is much more clever. Cleverer. Many clevers. Clevererest. Fucking nailed it! I apologize, high-brow humor is not my strong suit. My Superman suit is my strong suit. And six minutes without a poop joke is my kryptonite. I should quit while I’m ahead in the “clevererest jokes ever” category, but I’m only at 343 words, so please stop telling me what to do and just let me express myself, Dad. Mee and I are going to get high and then go to the playground monkey bars so we can do flips until I break my neck. Then, Mee will drive me to the hospital where I will be diagnosed as a paraplegic so that I may become the Stephen Hawking of blogging. What exactly does that mean? That I will become such an advanced intellect that I will predict the pre-eminent nuances of astrophysics? That I shall inspire copious legions of scientists and science enthusiasts to quest after the mechanisms of the universe? Or that I have a wheelchair and a computer? I choose the one that will make my parents love me. All these Olympics athletes Olymping together reminds me of my encounter with one, back when I threw against one of the Olympic discus throwers in high school. Back then, he was 6’7″, 315 lbs, and I was 5’10” (in shoes (with thick soles)), 185 lbs. Now I could lie, and just say that I fucking wrecked him in the meet in which we threw against each other, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. I fucking wrecked him in the meet in which we threw against each other. He threw a little over 236 feet, setting a new high school record for the entire country, and I threw a little over 152 feet, settling for disappointed parents and 10th place in state. DO YOU LOVE ME NOW, DAD? DO YOU? DAD?
I feel like posting now because I’m at just the right amount of drunk where I’m not sober but I’m also not sleeping. As such, this post will be less rigorously dictated by my fear of rejection and self esteem issues so it can be more free-wheeling and stream-of-consiousness… ey. Like if Eminem tried to freestyle as Jack Kerouac. I would totally pay to see that. Except I don’t think Eminem has a serious sweating problem or more than 5 T-shirts. But seriously, where else would you set the next great American naturalist novel other than urban Detroit? There’s cigarettes, railroad tracks, broken glass, lots of dirt… All the shit you need. Maybe my love of naturalist novels informs my love of rap, since a lot of really honest rap evokes themes of environmental determinism’s triumph over human agency. Maybe I’m full of shit. But by “honest rap,” I mean “Ghetto made me gangbang to put food on my table and most of my friends never made it out,” rather than “I bought a Lambo with cash, hoes bring me bottles and such.” I probably shouldn’t shit on “club rap” since that could actually be Flo Rida’s version of honest self expression, but even if it is, that’s fucking stupid. You’re a minority in America. I know you’ve got shit to write about. I was told twice this week that Asian men are less manly than “normal men.” To my face. Sorry Eva Braun, I didn’t realize my muscular build, strong jawline, and big cock made me too feminine for you. To be fair, I was wearing light blue scrubs and those people probably weren’t Hitler’s wife since she’s dead and the other person was a man, but all the same; don’t be racist. Even if I wasn’t on the clock, I still wouldn’t have said anything to them because I wouldn’t have been at the work to talk to them. So take that, racists. I’m a progressive. Saving the world, one racist’s companion animal at a time. I’m pretty sure that’s somewhere in the veterinarian’s oath. Right between “I promise to heal and stuff” and “I don’t want to make much money.” I’m having serious problems blogging right now because the Internet is being an asshole. Do you want to see a picture of my balls? Well you can’t, because apparently it’s 1994 and we don’t have the technology yet. Also, if it’s 1994, I’m 3 years old, so unless you’re a pediatrician, you’re a pedophile. Sorry. I like to make false dichotomies when I’m drunk. Sometimes, I have trouble thinking of things to write because I get random boners; I call it “writer’s cock.” But going off that thread, I also sometimes get sleeper’s cock, steak eater’s cock, bowler’s cock… The list goes on. Like, for miles. Just like my di… sorry. My dick does not go on for miles. It’s actually easier to measure in kilometers. I’m sorry about that joke. What is wrong with me?