Love’s blind
He wasn’t; thankfully it was dark.
Her haphazardly applied cheap Shiraz lipstick might have deterred his advances had his numerous appearances in front of the bathroom mirror while emptying his drinking bladder not revealed a similarly clownish rouge on his own mug. Anyways, appearances mattered little when they were in the dark; neither one could see or be seen. He could easily keep her image in his mind, or elsewhere, wherever appropriate for the moment. While in the dark, the thought occurred to him, he could dress her up however he liked: C-cups, support hosiery, lunch lady hairnet, or Mary Poppins-esque umbrella – literally, whatever he dreamt!
The dim light the flat screen cast on her face by its brighter pulsations was easily avoided by keeping her out of sight and in his mind.
Moments later, fretting about the Freudian interpretation of the appearance in his list of potential fantasies of a deployed umbrella, a more pressing concern presented itself: he was drinking quite a bit, and the hour, as hours ceaselessly do, was advancing. Drinking late hours, as he often had occasion to reflect, was the preserve of the lonely. On the first hand, there was the inevitability of gas, which became awkward when close sleeping arrangements were arranged, as he hoped they would be this night. Second, he remembered that drinking, and late night bingeing in particular, was but a psychological attempt to fill a void – in his case, a woman-sized void.
He could not understand why he was drinking so much tonight of all nights. He shot her direction – rather than her face – a perfunctory coverall smile in response to her feminine purr during the commercial display of some SPCA puppy dogs. Damn it! He felt that he was as confused about his intentions as a medically oxygen tank-dependent smoking an ashy cigar. What, exactly, was the point? He did not need to drink tonight; he had someone!
He’d better turn it down a bit, he rationalized, if he was not going to spoil it. Damn, reality sunk to his core, she was hot – and she was here!
Returning himself to the date night, he refocused on the movie – some trifling “drama” so called only by default; it could not rightly be called either comedy or action, and horror devotees would have expected something altogether different. The fare was some heavy-handed treatment of allegedly universal trivialities, probably the sort of schlock which attracts lame theatre-goers pathological enough to applaud at film’s end to a movie screen thousands of miles removed from anyone involved with the film’s production. Yes, he surmised, this probably was why he needed to drink in the first place.
Letting his mind slip to the things he wanted to do to her tonight, his imagination was not as inhibited as his earlier images of hairnets and Disney films, but he was nevertheless struck most of all by the desire to simply be with her – to lay next to her. How good that would feel, he imagined. He had spent years sleeping alone with two pillows, one under his head and the other between his arms, on his chest, or next to his side in simulation of a soul who could put up with his nightly gas.
She got up and filled her glass, topping off his either because she did not notice he was no longer drinking or because she noticed that he was no longer drinking. Either way, he wasn’t about to blow the opportunity by letting the ball drop.
For years he had secretly questioned the wisdom of the nighttime imperative “Sweet dreams,” preferring that those with control over such matters would instead command him to “Erotic dreams” which were after all both more memorable and enjoyable than those simply sweet. Tonight, he relished that the dreams could be sweet; hopefully he’d tackle any outstanding erotic requirements before the dream portion of the evening.
With the particulars in mind, he laughed a disturbed and sedated hop which was amplified midstream by a cough on his dry, tannin-tanned throat.
His pace quickened, his consumption made haste to keep pace. The movie would be ending soon and she’d want to consolidate any emotions heightened by the artistic abortion; he was positioned to be in position. For his part, she was in the dark over there, so he could imagine her anyway he wanted. Stereotypical candidates like crotch-less panties and schoolgirl uniforms occurred to him only as things he didn’t want. He started and restarted his imagination, but found too few reference points to fuel a burning fire; what the hell did he want her to be?
The fuzziness of indecision did not mean he lacked desire. In fact, it was like those times spent awake in bed trying to precondition himself to “Erotic dreams”; coming up with viscerally physical images and appealing storylines was the act of a man who wanted it, but didn’t have it. It was a contradiction in terms: he wanted, but what he wanted he did not know.
Maybe he’d dream it.
Giving thanks
Image by Yoshi 2000 via Flickr
“Dave Stefano” his CVS nametag reads.
He still prefers “Mr. Stefano,” though he’s rarely afforded such respect since being fired from the High School. Customers buying Zyrtec, ribbed condoms, and sour gummy worms are not required to show such deference, and they rarely do.
Still, he remembered as he finished doing up his necktie in the bathroom mirror, he had scored somewhat of a coup 9 months ago when he had found enough adhesive letters in the storage closet to spell out both his first and last names. This way, he didn’t have to suffer the indignity suffered by the elderly women who worked at the picture counter and cash register who had only their first names – “Edna,” “Bertha,” “Rose-Marie” etc. – written on their nametags. He didn’t want some snot-nosed teenager flippantly thanking “Dave” for helping him find the extra soft toilet paper. “Dave” was something only his mother could call him. He’d also allow it in the heat of passion, but that did not happen since losing his gig at the High School.
The serendipity of finding the box of adhesive letters was something to be thankful for, Mr. Stefano reflected. The morning show had had some guru on preaching about how today, Thanksgiving, was really all about convincing yourself you were happy.
Unconvinced, Dave was nonetheless struck by each tiny thing he could be thankful for. During breakfast, he had appreciated the plastic spigot on his cardboard half-gallon milk container. In the shower, he dropped the soap and had felt lucky he was not in prison. On the can, he was thankful that he had healthy, regular bowels.
The larger things: losing his job as Band Director at Maple Grove High, working at CVS with Edna, and living in a wretched apartment above an elderly woman’s home did not occur to him.
In fact, there were more pressing concerns for Dave, and they only increased when he got to work and found the garbage can nearest the front entrance uprooted and its contents littered across the parking lot.
Beatrice, Edna’s replacement for the holiday, was waiting by the door, having arrived a few minutes early.
“Looks like some skunk had his Thanksgiving dinner early!” she bellowed as Dave unlocked and opened the security door, allowing his elderly coworker into the store.
“Something to be thankful for,” he muttered, trying to keep the spirit.
Part of the responsibilities of the assistant manager position Dave had accepted when he took the job was that he was responsible for any manual labor. Nancy, the general manager, has insisted upon this when he took the job:
“You understand that you’ll be working with either old ladies who can’t be out lifting and craning or teenagers who can do both but won’t?” she had asked at the interview in the storage room.
Dave, the middle-aged fit ex-Band Director, was the muscle. In fact, he often enjoyed the surge of testosterone and masculinity he felt when the old gals and young duds told him about a soda spill or an especially intricate end-cap display to be set up.
He did not want to clean up scattered garbage in the parking lot, however. Goddam, Beatrice, he thought: she was out back rubbing her gams while he was in the freezing, pitch-dark parking lot cleaning up God knows what left by cretins who inhabited pharmacy parking lots during the wee hours.
Other than the obligatory call to Nancy, who never answered his calls, the early morning gathering of the contents of the upturned garbage can was all Dave expected to suffer from the nuisance.
After all, it was Thanksgiving; other than the numbing depression of having no family who cared to be with him and having to work, the day would be tit! He laid on the charm and customer service extra thick.
“Good morning, this is CVS, your Flu shot headquarters. Thank you for calling in today!” Dave answered the phone with what genuinely seemed like genuineness. “Hello, ma’am, may I help you find something today?” he asked many a ma’am apparently earnestly. He aided an obvious alcoholic find the cheapest wine; he advised a forlorn teenage couple that the generic home pregnancy test would yield results just as accurate as would the brand name; he managed to keep a credible smile when a young boy sneezed on him as he bent down to patronize and talk down to the child.
The month was almost over, and Nancy had promised to finally consider him for the Employee of the Month award because his performance had been so exceptional that even she had to agree that an exception could be made to her previous insistence that it would not look good for an assistant manager to win a spot on the plaque and the $50 bonus.
All was good, and it got even better when the cute brunette forty-something stepped to his cash register with the Cosmo and Pepto-Bismol.
“Miss, can I interest you in a flu shot,” he asked discreetly, making excellent eye contact.
She didn’t buy, but the sale wasn’t over.
“Do you have an ExtraCare Rewards card?” Dave continued.
“No, I don’t,” she admitted.
“That’s ok, I’ll just use this one,” he gambled, betting that Nancy wasn’t there to witness the breach of protocol.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you!”
“It’s really nothing…..”
“Excuse me, where’s your garbage?” some young fleece-adorned intruder interrupted as he approached the cash register.
“Sir, I’m sorry but our trash can was destroyed this morning,” Dave answered quickly, hoping the slovenly attired brat would go away.
“Well, I’ll just leave this here for you,” the twenty-something asshole said, placing his Starbucks cup and a half-eaten cookie on the counter next to the woman with an upset stomach and feminine reading habits.
“Ahh, Sir…,” Dave stumbled, temporarily losing his customary cool.
“Thanks, Dave,” the bumwipe in fleece burped, turning away.
The sale completed, the woman gave Dave a puzzled look, “Yeah, thanks Mr. Stefano.”
“Thank you.” Yeah……thanks a lot, Dave thought to himself.
A translation from the alien
A translation from the alien:
Bill: They didn’t believe in the Fabricator, they lived without respect for Him, and they were extinced because of that.
Teacher: (interrupting, enunciating each syllable) They are…ex-tinc-t.
Bill: (enunciating each syllable) Yeah, they are…ex-tinc-t.
Teacher: (after a moment) Yes, thank you Billy. Very good; the humans are ex-tinc-t.
(seconds later)I’m… (searching for the word) happy… to know that you have accepted the Fabricator into your life…
Class: (in unison) Praise He who Fabricates!
Teacher: Yes…praise…umm(tails off)
(regaining composure) In Reality Class, though…, we talk about reality –what we know through reality, its logical conclusions, and what these conclusions likely mean.
Class: (staring blankly at the teacher)
Teacher: (hesitatingly) So….what does reality tell us about the homo sapiens – also known, as Billy did a good job of pointing out, as the humans?
Soft, impressionable, and bottom-feeding.
A lesson:
Teacher: Thank you, Sally.
You’re thinking about the dinosaurs – the large reptilian beings which came before the homo sapiens by nearly 66 million years – that’s equal to about 200,500 of our small suns!!!
But, focusing on the humans – the homo sapiens, can anyone tell us what happened to them and their planet, Earth?
Class: (staring blankly)
Fat red-headed boy in the back row: (mockingly) Ah…they died…
Teacher: (ignoring comment)
Class: (giggling)
Teacher: Well, Herman is right: they did die. But, what’s important to remember from our homework last night is that the humans went ex-tinc-t for a special reason.
Does anyone remember what that reason is?
Manuela: Because the Fabricator thought they didn’t respect Him enough?
Teacher: (trying to contain frustration) Thank you, Manuela, but let’s try to talk about Reality – what we can measure from observation and logic, rather than what we feel or pretend to feel.
Class: (silent)
Teacher: (waiting) Anyone remember?
Sasha: (finally) Does it have something to do with how they got sick of making, like, changes???
Teacher: (practically with a bonk-on) Yes, Sasha!!!
(pointing at Sasha) Sasha is right, she’s on to something, she might be right!!!
What do you mean, Sasha?
Sasha: (gaining confidence) Wasn’t it, like, something to do with the homos… (class laughs)
Teacher: Class! Be respectful.
(eagerly) Go ahead Sasha.
Sasha: Didn’t the homo sapiens think they were too good to make changes…
Teacher: (extending credulity) Good job, Sasha!
Sasha is kind of correct!
The humans became weak and died after they began tinkering with the balance of natural selection.
(waiting for the class to absorb the words) And natural selection is the process by which a species evolves, stays strong, and changes, like Sasha said, to adapt to circumstances.
A very large example of natural selection is how the Founding Family broke free from the Blobs by using their intelligence to build Rand’s Ark, leave the Blobs behind, and come here to Perseverus to start our civilization.
The Blobs died because they did not accept Reality, reason, and therefore could not build a ship to leave Earth. The Founding Family, on the other hand, used Reality and its tools to come here and start the adaptus race.
Manuela: My mom says that the Fabricator brought the Founding Family to Perseverus because they put their lives in His hands.
Class: (obviously rehearsed) The Hands of the Fabricator are Divine!
Teacher: Actually, Manuela, Reality has proved that the Family did not believe in a fabricator, and only the Blobs did.
Your mom must be telling a….charming version of the Fabrication Fairy Tale. It’s a…interesting story, but Reality has shown that it’s false.
(sternly) Herman! What on Perseverus are you doing back there? No, stop poking Sidney!
(more sternly) Herman! Stop it now or you’ll have a detention!
Herman: Whatever; this class is so boring. Who cares about the homos?!
Class: (giggling)
Sidney: Yeah, Ms. G, Herman wasn’t bothering me. He was just keeping me awake.
Teacher: Well, he was disrupting class – poor Todd back there can’t even hear what’s being said because of the noise.
Todd: (lifting his head from the table) Huh?
(confusedly looking around) What?
Teacher: Look, everyone needs to be completely quiet while I’m speaking or they’ll have a detention!!
Got it?!!!
(refocusing) Ok, the human race went extinct because they interfered with natural selection, which did away with the biological imperative.
Can anyone tell me what a biological imperative is? We covered it last chapter.
Class: (completely quiet)
Sasha: (eventually raising hand) Isn’t it, (looking down and reading from her notes) “a circumstance or a set of circumstances which a specific species must attain in order to survive.”?
Teacher: Yes, thank you, Sasha.
The humans became maladaptive when they tinkered with technology, medicine, and social policy. For the only known time in history of the universe, a species actively sought to rid itself of the need to adapt.
The sick were given drugs which prolonged their lives; rather than eating and exercising, people were able to stay alive so long as they had pills created by those smart enough to make them.
Machines like cars carried people around, so they no longer had to walk or carry things. Then computers were created by the thinkers so that no one but the thinkers had to think. Computers did calculations, did research, and even did your homework – so long as they were properly programmed.
The lazy and dumb were given free money, housing and food, so that there was no need for them to think or try. Eventually they demanded more, and they demanded that the thinkers give them more.
Todd, are you still with us?
Todd: (lifting his head from the table) Huh?
(confusedly looking around) What?
Sidney: (interrupting) Ms. G, do we need to know this for the test?
Teacher: (angrily) Yes, you should all be writing this down in your notes.
Guys, you are in 25th grade now; I can’t hold your hand through all this – you need to be responsible for everything in this class.
It’s time to be responsible for your selves.
Bill: (raising hand) Can I go to the bathroom?
Teacher: (irritated) Quickly, Billy. Yesterday you took 10 minutes to go to the bathroom.
Herman: Maybe he was pooping!!!!
Teacher: That’s enough!! That’s inappropriate for class, and the next person who’s inappropriate will get a detention!
(staring around the room) Are we ready to move on?
Class: (silent)
Teacher: So, can anyone tell me what is special about the human extinction?
Class: (silent)
Todd: (a beat later, startled) Huh!?…..What!?
Teacher: What is so special about the human extinction?
Class: (still silent)
Teacher: Has anyone been paying attention?
Class: (silent)
Herman: (hand raised) Ahh, can I go down to the guidance counselor now?
Teacher: (nodding to Herman) Guys, you need to know this!
Herman: (making fake farting noises as he slowly leaves to the bathroom)
Teacher: (turning to Sasha, ignoring Herman) Sasha, can you bail out your classmates?
Flightless birds
Brett was the kind of guy who could keep your respect even after walking out of an airport bathroom with the disposable hygienic toilet seat cover still stuck to his ass and protruding from his pants like a halo on some droopy, ass-height angel.
He was my kind of guy.
When I found him that way at the airport in Charleston he had simply looked back, grinned, and tore the wax paper asunder, throwing the bits into the stylish metal garbage can next to the uncomfortably sleek airport benches. It was like saying, “Yeah, I muffed that one, but at least you know I care about the cleanliness of my ass.”
It was true; I somehow felt better about our friendship knowing that he didn’t want his bare ass touching strangers’ urine and airborne fecal matter.
Years later the lesson still impressed me so much that once when an over eager office bathroom soap dispenser shot its wad all over my crotch, I proudly strode back to my cubicle with the white foam for all – at least all those watching my crotch – to see. Let the fucks know that I wash my hands.
Today, though, Brett was more traditionally attired. He wore that goofy Red Sox hat which by now probably had a ring filthier than the one in the Charleston airport bathroom, baggy jeans, thick Dr. Martens from a decade earlier, and a flannel which had left and returned to fashion so many times that it was timeless.
“’Sup my brah?” He was still borrowing other people’s style because he hadn’t yet settled on his own.
“Brett, it’s good to see you haven’t changed.”
He had changed, though. He was older, a good deal heavier, and I was less likely to be drunk when spending time with him. He also had draped himself in more fucking fleece, the fabric of the lazy and inexplicably cold.
To be fair, my relative sobriety was as much my fault as it was his. I had always needed to drink to tolerate Brett. So the fault was probably more like 50-50.
But it was I who bore disproportionate injury.
We had started together Freshmen Orientation weekend, and had carried on strong for four years of college. He and I both pledged Alpha Sigma Sigma and we both became ASSes, partying and ‘brah, dude, brah-ing’ the remainder of our years at the Sumac League school.
“Brett, you’re an infantile frat boy with the maturity of a tadpole,” I nearly began several times at the bar where, several hours later, I had recommenced drinking, having already found the prospect of a weekend with this creature frozen in late adolescence enough to undo 8 months of AA.
Instead, I nodded and smiled politely like the polite adult I had become. I nodded at his considered evaluation of the state of Oregonian weed, Mist Popcorn Nugs included. I grinned at his not-so-subtle pointing at a buxom woman bending over to attract attention to her formidable cleavage, as if I needed help noticing a woman’s cleaving tits. I made my concerned look, which may have strayed briefly into my constipated look, when he took so long detailing the abuses of Big Pharma and bubble-gum manufacturers.
“Gum Arabic? What the fuck do the Arabs have that we don’t?”
He may not have said that last bit. I was rather drunk by the time he had begun the gum diatribe. Nonetheless it was a legitimate point, or so I pretended at the time.
He was clearly delusional, and clarity is most impressive when exhibited by the delusional. One way or another, he managed to exhibit it for the rest of Friday and Saturday.
We drank, caroused, and reminisced what we could remember through the two-ply drunkenness of drunken memories drunkenly remembered.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he laughed, slurring the words imperceptibly. He had always loved my way with girls. I was not afraid to make an ass of myself and it came rather naturally. I won the bet: five in a row – the homeliest, loneliest looking five in a row Brett could find –opted for the cash when propositioned with my opening line, “Can I buy you a drink or do you just want the money?”
It was all great fun, except for the bartender who missed out on five drink orders and the accompanying gratuity. And I tip well when potential pussy is watching.
“You still don’t care what they think,” he laughed the next morning with the reflective glow of two nights of debauchery and sleeping on an undersized sofa his causes for introspection.
“What?”
“I mean you don’t play the game,” he seemed to know of what he was talking. “You don’t laugh at shitty office jokes just to lick the boss’ ass. Like at the bar, you don’t act all smooth and polite just to get a girl. You just creep out, lay your nuts out there for them to see. It’s like you’ve said this is me, world; accept me or fuck you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You’re genuine,” he tried to complete his thought.
Outside the window, I watched a pigeon take off from the balcony railing and dive out of sight toward the streets below.
“Yeah – genuine,” I nodded.
Streaking
What would Rorshach say? Image by iancorey via Flickr
Jon’s on a streak and it can’t be stopped. He’s untouchable!!
It’s been nine years, give or take a week or three, since he had sex.
U-N-T-O-U-C-H-A-B-L-E!-!
But who’s counting?
Jon, for one, is counting. So am I, just so I’d be able to write this.
“I think about it all the time,” a reflective Jon admits stepping out of the shower. I had to be there for the interview, whether I liked it or not.
“I see girls, their faces, their asses, their thick thighs, football-shaped hips – they’re always showing them to me whether they know it or not. I see them whether I want to or not. I always want to.”
Jon is single-handedly rewriting the record books which, admittedly, are rather depraved and unkind record books to be keeping in the first place. Nevertheless, though, they are books and books must be kept. The Western tradition of Homer and Sappho demands no less.
Just over two years ago last August, Jon overtook Pee Wee Jones for the longest post-pubescent mark of days without pussy. Jones’ mark, despite being set in the dead-ball era before the much-noted oversexualization of society, stood for decades until Jon overcame it.
“It’s a great honor to pass Mr. Jones record; it’s one I’ve had my eyes on since I was a kid,” Jon said on his lucky night.
Teammates and well-wishers alike marvel at Jon’s streak: “It’s one thing to watch a guy fuck a hot girl,” remarks one fan, “but I’ve been watching Jon burp his own worm for so long that I’m starting to feel half a fag.”
Vigorously drying himself from the shower, Jon smiles when reminded of his followers: “What else’s a guy gonna’ do?” Though I had some ideas, his was a rhetorical question.
Between the sheets, the accolades have come rolling in. Last year Jon won his fifth consecutive Blue Balls Award, given annually to the man best able to suppress his desires. National media outlets regularly place Jon on front pages and feature him in programs which champion him as the ideal postmodern man. Cosmopolitan magazine has named him the “Man You Ought to Marry” two years running.
Elsewhere, though, the road has been less steady. Last summer Jon’s much publicized advertising deal with the Wholesome Family Cookie Company fell apart amidst rumors that he hadn’t had a cookie in years. “It’s just not natural,” said a company spokesman at the time.
Christian denominations, early converts to the cult of Jon, have also soured in recent years. “We see now that the man we thought we knew was actually just a fictional apparition – the product of some crazed men seeking to attach themselves to something, anything at all,” Father Bill Maloney, spokesmen for the Archdiocese of St. Bernard told Sports Illustrated last month. “Jon’s lack of sex is great until you realize that, as an original sinner, he has only the hand of man to release his bile,” Maloney told the magazine.
As fans and society struggle to accept him, Jon finds solace in his streak. So do I. He says he’ll never forget the feeling of putting his dick inside a warm, loving woman. “It was something soft, forgiving, tender. She was an absolute cunt, but her cunt was absolutely great.”
Even if he is never again esteemed as he once was, Jon will forever have a spot in the record books. Peers remark at his ability to avoid females and his dimpled buttocks which, in this reporter’s humble opinion, are indeed quite sublime.
Jon’s longtime coach and mentor, Hank ‘Screwball’ Holder believes Jon will go down amongst the most celibate of all-time. “What sets Jon apart is that he wants skirt; he wants skirt so badly, but he can’t get it. He’s utterly afraid of it at this point because that’s his comfort zone. It’s a streak of a man who’s denied he’s a man. No man will ever be able to touch it.”
The pressures of such super-man abstinence have left their toll. Recently Jon admitted to WBALZ 9 TV, “I’ve been Jones-ing for so long that I forget what it’s like to feel like a man. I shouldn’t have to feel this pressure. Sometimes I even think I don’t want to feel it at all.”
Nine years is uncharted territory for a man who wants to bust a nut on every female he sees but can’t. In an age when sitcoms and Hollywood movies pretend as if a few months is a longtime to go without female loving, Jon knows better.
“A few months is a lifetime to go without pussy.”
Thank God I have Jon.
Incompetence we trust
She tells the student to divide when he should multiply. He doesn’t notice and anyways wouldn’t care if he did. That’s why he needs special ed. It’s also why she’s no good at what she does, which makes you wonder if that’s why he needs special ed. to begin with.
HW and HW Jr.: a failure in dad's eyes?
He takes wrinkled paper notes and filthy metal coins from motorists. He doesn’t smile or return the stale niceties spat toward his window. Instead he sighs, nonplussed by the regular interruptions to his magazine thumbing and AM sports-talk radio listening. He will not break a twenty without extracting a pound of guilt from those paying with large denomination bills, the needy fucks.
She slices cold cuts to the customer’s exact specifications so long as they don’t specify anything like a third or fifth of a pound. She deals in quarters and halves of pounds, and the customer is never right if they want a quantity of meat or cheese which cannot be measured accordingly. If such parameters must be breached, she requires a decimal – never a fraction. That’s the language of the digital scale which does her thinking.
He muddles the evolutionary implications of his genomic research with the creationist twaddle of his upbringing. While he rectifies such teleology with whack-a-doo mythology, he sabotages the empiricism of his profession with the defeatism of his obsession. Science has no dogma with which to compete – unless you want to count that silly theory about reason and proof.
Adults – and a surprising number of them – are incompetent. They bungle and mince when they should not. Children naively expect adulthood to be attained only by masters – the skilled and adept success stories. But everyone who lives to adulthood becomes an adult, no matter their qualifications. Even adults faultily assume the competence of their counterparts. Lawyers, teachers, prossies, and physicians are widely revered for their supposed aptitude.
It’s not true, though – the bit about adults being capable.
They’re failures, pockmarked by acne scars, failed marriages, Low T and E.D., and flat out lethargy, not to mention poor grammar and limited vocabulary (but I did). There are actuality entire professions of failures, and I’m not just referring to the executives at NBC; ABC and Fox can’t hold a flame to the likes of CBS’ “most-watched” lineup of shows like NCIS, The Mentalist, The Big Bang Theory and other shows neither I nor anyone I know have ever seen. Apparently we’re all a bunch of fuck ups AND we have horrible taste in tv.
At least we have children to look up at us.
God forbid they ever grow up.
Don’t fuck it up!!!
I kill animals
"And we thank the Lord for this delicious... towel...?" Image via Wikipedia
And I’m not (yet) a serial killer.
You’re so broad-minded that you wouldn’t deign steal a chicken’s eggs, let alone rip off its head and eat it. I have to hand it to you; you’re a sanctimonious turd if ever I saw one. It’s incumbent upon me to prepare a vegan meal to appease your righteous ass when you come to dinner at my place. There’s no question, though, that you won’t reciprocate and make me a steak when I come to your room at the co-op. That wouldn’t be en vogue enough for your practiced self-image.
By the way, your diet will likely lead to osteoporosis, anemia, and kidney damage. But it sounds way cool to be vegan!!!!!!!!
And it’s not because you’re a Jain either. Jains wouldn’t kill the listeria on their brussel sprouts, the cancer attacking their brain, or the bear which is about to eat them – the perfect religious abstention from human agency! Sure, killing plants, if done with the utmost care (can you smell a religiously certified racket like ‘Kosher’?), is permissible in this ‘faith.’ Otherwise, there’d be no Jains to speak of; what would they have eaten…unicorns and herbs de-plastique?
You’re neither a (carnivorous) brute nor a (Jain) wimp, you’re a monotheist – the safe choice for mainstream folks everywhere! Genesis 1:26 tells (at least in the English translation) those who listen to it that man, “rule[s] over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, over all the creatures that move over the ground.” Rule is a great thing indeed! It tells us we are able to eat pigs (Christians), not able to eat pigs (Jews and Muslims), or able to ‘sacrifice’ “an animal from either the herd or the flock” (Leviticus 1:2).
So how will you, God’s best creation (!), handle this divine power? Chances are that you’ll eschew pigs (you’re Jewish or Muslim), you’ll kick dogs (you’re Jewish, Christian, or Muslim…hey, God gave ‘us’ the right), or you’ll think the animal is just there for your own entertainment (me and the Montauk Monster). Let your dog stick its head outside the window of your Volvo, going 45 mph with debris being kicked up, sudden stops being made, and tempting smells being up thrown. Hell, that pretty much describes every time a D.D. has driven me home from a bar; what would the dog do?
But that’s (your) beauty and my problem with religion and culture. Vegans and Jains are taught to do no harm to living organisms, all the while abdicating their own right to well-being. Monotheists claim their righteousness and piety while telling all those who suffer – dogs, the Dafaris, the Palestinians, the atheists (shameless plug), the Horn of Africa, the Democratic party, the United States Post Office – that they do not deserve happiness because they are second or third-order beings (to be fair, many Democrats are). The problem here is that the religious act blithely with the backing of ‘God’ – or so they‘re told.
And that, my friend, is not why atheists are ‘better’ than the rest – it’s why we should be better than the rest. I have nobody from 2000 years ago telling me what I should think. I don’t trust Nancy Pelosi or John Boehner. I treat animals well because my morality tells me that’s what I should do. There are no scriptures or ahadith telling me that I should treat them one way or another. That way you’ll know that when I pet a pussy, I do so because I like pussies, not because a book told me to like pussies.
And if it sniffs my crotch excessively, and I shoo it aside, it’s because I don’t want anyone drawing attention to my crotch while I’m petting pussies.
Here are some things an atheist can do with animals:
Kill a skunk A neighbor recently killed a skunk with a pitchfork – perhaps the worst method, short of a salad fork, with which to kill a skunk. At such short range? With something that perforates? At least killing it with a push lawn mower would have diffused the smell (and mess) over a few square yards. Death by pitchfork will lead to a smelly statue of Pepe le pew aerating on the front lawn.
play leapfrog with a unicorn I’m a white man and the stereotype’s true: I cannot jump (my dong is huge…enough). Any ideas where the mythical horn ends up? By that I actually mean horn, not penis.
Run over squirrels in the road I was ten years old when my head smashed the windshield. We stopped short in an antique MG because of the fucking squirrel. Almost two decades later, I’m still not slowing down for the furry fucks.
Evisceration Do you want to work for minimum wage at Perdue Chicken? Neither do I, but at least it’s got a cool name, nothing at all like plucking or trimming. I believe those actions are for eyebrows.
Eat monkey blood Look, there’s nothing better from this atheist’s point of view than mammal blood. I love to imbibe in these tasty evolutionary treats whenever the Christians aren’t looking. Of course if I was caught, the Christians would excommunicate me, the Muslims would stone me to death, and the Jews would hire an investigator to see what I’m up to.
