Birthday

It was my birthday a little over a week ago. I've never been the type to get inappropriately excited for my birthday nor the holier-than-thou types that go out of their way to tell you how little of a shit they give for their birthday. To me it's always just been another day.

When I say "always," I am of course referring to life after turning 18. All children 3-17 get super stoked for their birthday, since it means (at best) you'll be getting a lot of presents and free pizza at Chuck E. Cheese or (at worst) your dad won't punch you in the face for 24 hours. Both good things! Alas, the onset of adulthood marks the death crawl towards maturity and responsibility and tax returns and no jumping balloons. Once jumping balloons were out of the picture my interest in future birthdays waned. 

"Hey! You've made it an entire year without dying! Please have some cake and take these gift cards to stores you don't really frequent from people you don't really know!" In a nutshell, birthdays.

Now my only real grievance (I wouldn't even call it a grievance. Y'know when your eyebrow kind of itches but not so bad that it necessitates an immediate itch? That is the exact feeling I have towards birthdays.) with the celebration of birthdays is when one is excited for one's own birthday.

Parents happy that their unemployed, do nothing piece of shit son has made it to 30 with no real life goals, let alone life achievements, to merit any form of celebration? Cool. Significant other wants to surprise the newly 28 year old man/woman/passable transsexual in their life with a day filled with romantic cliches (it's like the beginning of act 2, right before shit gets real)? That's cool too. Friends want to have drinks after work with a just turned 40 compatriot (I hope when I turn 40 one of my friends gets me one of those humorous birthday cards that has a tombstone or Death personified on it, so I can take my birthday cake knife and stab the living shit out of him/her for thinking something so fucking trite could be mistaken for being funny)? That is also cool.

But if I, a grown man and owner of dozens of books (if not dozens of dozens), were to get excited for my own birthday? Like, just excited that the anniversary of the day I punched myself out of my mother's womb was today? I'd be an asshole. If you are the biggest advocate of celebrating your birthday you are being a decent human person wrong. Holding one's own birthday with actual reverence is kind of like masturbating to pictures of oneself; it says so much without having to use any words.

Like I said (or alluded to. Whatever. Just keep fucking reading, alright? We're almost done.) earlier, your day of birth has almost nothing to do with you. It is about the people in your life who are grateful to know you, to love you. Your birthday is a celebration of the bonds forged through life, strengthened to endure any hardship or adversity. So before you dive into that double chocolate cake (it's not even gluten free, you fat cow) remember that those candles weren't put up for you. Not really.

Humor

Dear Dominic,

"...and so the mortician tells the necrophiliac that's not a cadaver, that's my wife!" I forget how it started, but that is the actual end to an actual joke one of my coworkers (let's call him Craig) told me. Craig is terrible at jokes. Like, fucking terrible. If I had a nickle for every time he told an unfunny joke I'd be all "holy shit, where did all these nickles come from!? Genie, take it back, take it all back! No more wishes!" or something of the sort. When he makes jokes I feel like American slavery was somewhat justified. Is there any thing I can do on my end to make him not not funny?

Regards,

The Green Power Ranger



Dear TGPR,

I've met many people like your friend in my life. Completely devoid of humor, they are missing the ability for their humor gland to secrete Laughamine, a neurotransmitter that makes you interesting in conversation and not a cow. It's science. There was a time when I worried that all the exposure to unfunny jokes from unfunny friends over the years would give me a form of cancer that doesn't have a ribbon or 5K attached to it. Horrifying. To combat such hypothetical illness, I have come up with a series of humor do's and don'ts that can easily to applied to your comedy challenged co-worker.

DO: Make context appropriate jokes

If everyone is talking about tax-rates being unreasonable, whimsically counter with tax related jokes. It shows that you are not only paying attention to the conversation at hand but have the quick wit to playfully turn discussed ideas on their respective heads.

Reading that last tip back makes it sound like I'm trying to write for The New Yorker. Which leads me to my second tip:

DON'T: Talk like you are trying to write for The New Yorker

It's fine if you read it, but, like, keep that shit to yourself alright? Reading The New Yorker, much like your gluten allergy and the godawful Nirvana cover band you play bass for, is the type of information that should be projected as little as possible.

Like right there! The way you just rolled your eyes and flipped your scarf! That's the kind of sassy fuckery people who read The New Yorker do! Cut that shit out, alright? I'm trying to help you here.

DO: Strategically use props

I'm not saying go full Carrot Top here. You don't need a suitcase full of rubber chickens and clattering teeth, although could you imagine if you did? People would be all like, "wtf bro, you has chickens?" and you'd be all like "yeah I do bro, cool right?" and they'd be all "we are friends now and forever." Fuck it, go get yourself some rubber chickens.

DON'T: Laugh maniacally at your own jokes

BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. A little smile, slight chuckle at your own material sure, that's fine. Reasonable even. But laughing like you just heard the funniest thing in your life? And it came from your own goddamn mouth? Gimme a break, dude.

DO: Utilize racial humor

After extensive daydreaming of researching stand up comedy I discovered that 65% of all jokes can be boiled down to "Black people and white people are different. Crazy, right?" So if in a pinch for a funny one liner, reference slavery or the Holocaust. But humorously.

DON'T: Be Jeff Dunham

This last tip should not be too difficult to pull off, unless you are already Jeff Dunham. If you are Jeff Dunham, sorry dude, you're fucked as far as being funny goes.

Hope these tips help your pathetic fraud of a human being co-worker to better make non-threatening amusing conversation in the future.

Love,

Dr. Dominic Coats

Ferg

I was 11 or 12 when my Dad first talked to me about how to deal with police. I forget what exactly prompted the lecture, but I remember him giving my brother and myself a quick rundown of what to do if we were to find ourselves face to face with a fucking pig with a badge an officer of the law.

 

"It's 'yes sir no sir' for everything the police officer says."

 

"What if it's a girl?"
 

"Don't be a smartass." I've been a smartass since forever. "Yes sir, no sir. Face him with your hands at your sides, and don't move your hands unless he tells you to put them in the air."

 

"Like I just don't care?" Oh, me. I was so Raven before That's So Raven.

At the time I thought this talk was akin to the ones ol' Pop-Pop had given in regards to speaking to elders, teachers, the Pope, etc. An etiquette type thing. It didn't cross my mind until I was much older that he was genuinely concerned that my lack of officer talkin' finesse could get me arrested or killed. Luckily I have only had a handful of cop encounters in my life, none of which have ended with me dying in a hail of gunfire. Good job Dad!

 

The underlying issue of my Father's warning was that people would treat me differently because of the color of my skin. And the silky smoothness of my skin. Go ahead, touch it. No, really, touch my skin. C'mon, touch it. See? Fucking smooth, right? I know, it's crazy. Who wouldn't want to oppress this skin, na' mean? 

 

I digress.

 

There have been times where I am very conscious of the fact that I am a minority. When I get followed around a grocery store by employees, when I walk past a woman gripping her purse with all her might, when I get pulled over while walking, I generally assume that my skin had something to do with the matter. While the above examples totes suck whenever they happen, they do not happen to me as often as they did to my Father when he was my age. And they certainly do not carry the same viciousness as when my Grandpa was my age.

 

I feel ambivalent talking about dealing with prejudice because, while I feel the effects on a daily basis, such prejudice serves as little more than a nuiscance. I'm not being barred from entering establishments and I can whistle at white women to my heart's content without fear of retribution. Like, they can tell me to fuck off but I don't have to worry about them lynching me, y'know? Nothing that happens to me is really all that bad, and other ethnicities have their own little racial obstacles they must navigate during their day to day.

 

On the flipside, I find it frustrating that some people refuse to belive such prejudice even exists. They Quantum Leap around American history, highlighting the kick-ass freedom parts whilst glossing over the Trail of Tears, Japanese internment, and the death of Emmett Till. They see a large percentage of blacks in prison, but don't see that for similar offenses to white men black men recieve harsher sentences.

 

I had a co-worker ask me (paraphrasing) "If racism is still around, then why do white people think Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever? If they were really racist wouldn't they call Larry Bird the greatest?" Can't see the forest for the trees.

 

I don't know what happened in Ferguson on August 9, 2014. I do know that it is a pretty stupid idea to get into a physical altercation with an armed police officer, and I do know that a police officer shooting an unarmed man six times is doing a shitty job of being a police officer. I also know that Mr. Brown's complexion only served to expedite his demise. I understand the anger of the black community. I don't agree with the looting or Al Sharptons of the world, but I understand the anger.

 

From my paternal grandfather, to my Dad, to myself, I can see the anger dissipating. My progenitor's have every right to remain indignant until the day they die, for they lived through injustice the likes of which I literally cannot fathom. And I'm great at fathoming shit. However, for myself, my generation, our barriers are not as omnipresent. Racism is still prevalent, but it no longer has a death grip on our lives.

Jesus

Sara: High! How are you doing?

 

Jesus: Great, how are you?

 

S: Fantastic, fantastic. So sorry to keep you waiting, I had to take a call from distribution that just dragged on and on.

 

J: No worries, I understand how it can be.

 

S: Please, please come inside. Have a seat right here, thank you.

 

J: Sure thing.

 

S: You've been waiting quite a bit so I'm going to be very blunt and cut to the chase; the reason we called you in for an interview is because you have one of the most impressive resumes we have ever seen.

 

J: Aww shucks, I'm blushing.

 

S: I don't mean to speak in... what's the word, hyperbole? But seriously, your resume reads like a 'what-to-do' for aspiring Best Buy Team Leads. The extensive experience working our Jasper store, sensitivity training you volunteered yourself for, and dying for our sins after being wrongfully sentenced by Pontius Pilate are all huge pluses.

 

J: You are too kind.

 

S: Plus I haven't seen many people pull off Comic Sans on their resume, but I would expect no less from the Son of God.

J: Thank you. Well I've never been too big a fan of Times New Roman, or Romans for that matter, so I tend to switch up the font here and there.

S: Your references all spoke glowingly of both your work ethic and ability to cure leprosy. One of your references, John I think it was? Seemed a bit off compared to the other three.

J: He can be a bit over dramatic but he's a good dude.

 

S: Going over your work history I see you mostly worked in miracles between 33 and 1996.

J: Oh, I was, uh, in Heaven serving with my Father. It was an administrative position, mostly paperwork and the like.

S: What made you leave, Your Holiness? I imagine serving as the right hand of God is a pretty tough position to walk away from.

J: Just odd hours, honestly. Mostly because the Sun never sets. Makes it hard to know what time it is.

S: So Jesus, tell me what you feel you can bring to the Best Buy staff? How do you feel you can help this store succeed? I guess what I'm asking is, why should we hire you?

J: Well first of all, I am Jesus.

S: ...

J: ...

S: The Perfect Man, with the perfect answer. Listen, being honest with you Christ Almighty, you got the job. You had the job the moment you walked in this office.

J: Excellent! Wonderful! I am Jesus!

S: However, discussing with my supervisor we feel that you are a bit overqualified for this position.

 

J: Is it because I'm your Lord and Savior, turned water into wine, all that?

 

S: Exactly, exactly. But let me clarify. We like what you bring to the table. We really do. We just don't want to hire you and then three days later you ascend to Heaven or accept a position at Circuit City. It's not very often we get a deity of your caliber wanting to work for Best Buy.

J: I will do whatever you ask using my name, so that the Father will be glorified by the Son... I will do it. (JN 14:13)

S: I don't think that answered my question but I like Bible references. Congratulations, Jesus Christ, welcome to Best Buy.

J: Appreciate this. Thank you so much.

S: We'll be giving you a call some time this week to let you know when your first day and orientation is.

J: I'll be looking forward to it.

S: Um, Jesus?

J: Yes, my child?

S: Just one final question, if you don't mind.

J: Sure, anything.

S: ...so are you, like, your own dad or uh, how... how does that work?

Laundry

I fucking hate doing laundry.

It's a 20-25 minute walk from my apartment to the nearest laundromat. While I could drive, these legs of granite aren't going to chisel themselves. I load my duffle bag with clothes and snacks, walk in a circle five times before exiting my door (I have OCD), then lock/unlock my door eight times (OCD again; it's not quirky, it's miserable) and head about my way.

As I near the laundromat I notice a motley crew of foul mouthed children playing a rather raucous game of craps in the parking lot. Recognizing the smallest child, and hoping to avoid conflict, I quietly shuffle by whilst avoiding eye contact.

"Hey Coats!" The smallest child calls to me. He flicks his cigarette and approaches menacingly. "Ya' got a lotta fuckin' nerve, ya' know that?"

"Knuckles, please, I just need a little more time," I plead. He flips out his butterfly knife and grabs me by the collar.

"Ya' got one week, ya' hear me? One fuckin' week, then I gut ya' like the fuckin' pig ya' are. Understand, friend?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir." He balls up his fist and punches me in the stomach, which elicits laughter from his fellow eight year olds. I sort of have a gambling problem, and sort of owe people money.

Dragging myself into the laundromat I'm greeted by grainy Ranchera music and babies running around in diapers. The mounted television is playing one of those Mexican game shows that has some clowns, some hot women, and some mustaches. The scene causes either nostalgia or indigestion to briefly consume my being, as my local laundromat is the closest I will come to visiting El Paso, my home, for the foreseeable future.

As I'm loading my clothes into the nearest washer I feel a tiny foot repeatedly kicking my leg. A small, ice cream stained toddler stands behind me, his face in perpetual I'm-about-to-sneeze-I'm-about-to-sneeze-no-wait-I'm-good mode. His mother quickly runs up and grabs him by the hand, apologizing. He looks up at me, with his stupid three year old eyes, turns absent-mindedly to his left, then does the most impressively awkward sprint I have ever, or will ever, see in my life. Like a gazelle missing one leg, with its remaining legs on fire. Ambivalent as to what to do in such a situation, I turn to the mother and say "Cute kid."

"Oh, thank you," she smiles politely. "He's not mine." Her smile slowly dissipates. "Not yet." She is staring off into the distance. "Soon. Soon he will be." Her eyes are the eyes of one who has seen much sorrow, of one who will see much more. "Mine. Forever."

Focusing on the task at hand I put my quarters in the washing machine. Not one to disappoint, the washing machine eats my quarters. The machine reads ERROR: DESPAIR. Using my Ring of Summoning (+2 Wisdom, +15 Mana) I call forth Quarter Wizard Lady the Gray.

She stops sweeping the floors and comes to my aid. "Que paso? It eat you quarters?"

 

"Your grace, this washing machine has broken the Pact of Six and consumed my quarters without having first laundered my laundry. I beg your assistance in retribution, o' Great Wizard."

"Oh, este no work. No use it." Quarter Wizard Lady's sagacity never fails to impress me. She hands me six quarters. "Different one."

"You humble me with your assistance, Quarter Wizard Lady. A thousand pardons for having disturbed you from your sweeping." She grunts and waddles off to sweep floors that need sweeping.

Many moons later I transfer my clothes from a washing machine to a dryer. I briefly contemplate what would happen if one put a washing machine into a dryer, then quickly shake such juvenile thoughts from my head. Obviously it would make a Transformer®.

 

I notice that an older gentleman is removing my laundry from the dryer. I reach for my wallet to flip a silver dollar for his troubles, then I realize he is stealing my clothes. I flare my lats to look hella jacked and more intimidating, then ask him what he is doing.

 

"Him what he is doing?" My brain and mouth don't always see eye to eye.

 

"What?"

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Getting my laundry."

 

"That's my laundry."

 

"Whaaaaaaat?"

 

"Do you work for UNT?"

 

"Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"  

"Because those are UNT shirts I wear for work."

"Oh, it looks like you're right. These are clearly shirts for pussies."

"There's no need for name calling."

"There's also no need for you to have such colorful underwear."

"Just drop the clothes, dude."

"You must say that alot." He drops the clothes, then he drops the mic.

I fucking hate doing laundry.

Games

My carriage rolls to a stop as I reach my destination. Hugo, my driver, hastily opens my door.

 

"Thank you, Hugo. I shall send for you when I am ready."

 

"Yes sir, very good sir."

 

I dust off my spatterdashes, adjust my handkerchief, and leisurely twirl my cane as I make my way toward my friend's apartment. I stroll by two lovely young women, and tip my hat to them. "Good evening ladies. Mayhaps this be the apartment of one Evelyn Miller?"

 

"Nah, next one over. What the fuck are you wearing?" asks the more boorish of the two.

 

"Why, only the latest coat from famed Italian designer Sergio Mozzarella." Instinctively I twirl so they may absorb the entirety of my coat.  

 

"You look like a fucking asshole."

 

"Charmed, I'm sure." I tip my hat and genitalia towards them and bid them adieu. 'Adieu' is Mexican for 'sayonara,' which in turn is Asian for 'goodbye.' Language! I approach Evelyn's door and bang the ever loving shit out of it. I quickly ruffle up my cravat; a properly ruffled cravat serves as a visual aphrodisiac for women and some household plants.

 

She opens the door, looking ravishing as always. Her Homer Simpson pajama pants, ketchup stained t shirt, and complete lack of make up only serve to accentuate her beauty. "Dominic, what's with the costume? It's just board games, not a Halloween party." She laughs erotically. Or nervously, one of the two.

 

"Oh, bwa ha ha! Fa la la la! Scrumpleedo! My dear, you mustn't jest like so; you shall make me laugh off my new wig." I place my hat and coat away, though I do find it strange there are no negroes to do so for me. I walk- no, glide -towards the living room to great the other guests. There are roughly eight people spread out on various couches and the floor itself, partaking in delectable imported cheese and Steel Reserve™ malt liquor.  All eight stop speaking as soon as I enter the room. Knowing a cue if I ever saw one, I perform the most elegant of bows in the history of elegant bows.

 

"Good evening. I am Lord Dominic Coats, Duke of Ravenshire. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots." Oh, dear. It appears I have accidentally let out another homophobic epithet. A remnant of my father's convictions, I assure you; it is most unbecoming of a gentleman and a habit I try mightily to shake.

 

"Er, uh... a thousand pardons. What I had meant to say was 'a pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots and ladies.'" Pleased with my swift recovery, the guests clap politely and nod in agreement.  

 

Afterwards I assert myself as the belle of the ball. But, like, the dude version. I regale my fellow guests with delightful tales of hunting trips with Lord Baron Von Poopshitcz, my harrowing escape from the fiendish Redcoats during the summer of 1775, and that time I hit a deer driving from Fort Worth to Austin. Alas, my tales would not be enough to satiate the party for the entirety of the evening.

 

"Alright! Everyone get your drinks! Game time!" Evelyn says. She holds various games in her hands; Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Priests and Ladders, RENT! The Movie: The Game, and more. "What'd y'all want to play first?"

 

Her question holds little merit, for whatever game is decided upon shall end no differently; me, standing above the mangled and charred corpses of my enemies, victorious.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Nigerian

Dear Friend and Acquaintance,

Forgive for such an informal notice of assistance. I am Prince Charmander Agabi, Defense Secretary of the Nigerian People of Freedom Republic. As you may well already be aware of and know, we are currently fighting the Nigerian Army of Tyranny and Oppression. We have only now recently begun to march single file onto Abuja, our capital city of Nigeria, seeking to overthrow President Bulbasaur Okafor. His leadership has been an outrage and injustice to our people. To fight the government people we must properly have the funds to make do so.

To aid in the fight we shall transport the sum of 250000USD$ to your account, of which you will re route to an offshore account near a shore. Upon successful completion we shall transfer 10000USD$ to your account successfully. I would not ask you of this if not very necessary. We shall need your account information and date of birth to verify your trust and once verified we shall transfer you the sum of 250000USD$ immediately. The people of Nigeria thank you friend.

Regards,

Prince Charmander Agabi


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My Dearest Charmander,

 

Oh! Has it been so many years, my love! Many an evening I have waited on the veranda, praying to catch a glimpse of your carriage returned from the War, or for the postman to deliver a message of your good health. Instead, many an evening I lay awake in tears for I was greeted with no such correspondence. For so long I have yearned for your touch, for the rough, callused hands of an African warlord masquerading as a diplomat, and now, after all this time, you return to me!

 

Oh! The way you held me in the foyer as we basked in the moonlight, the way you gently nibbled on my ear like a man mouse nibbles on a woman mouse's ear, the way you sent your military junta to slaughter an entire village so that we could leisurely stroll through town square. My love! My sweet, sweet Charmander! Just the thought of your touching my body makes me... makes me...

 

Oh! It appears I have fainted. My delicate, womanly form could only take so much scandalous thoughts of you and I together before succumbing to my lady boner and losing consciousness.

 

Oh! I had initially feared for the worst when I sent letters to you on the war front only to have severed human fingers returned to me. Surely, I thought, surely this could not be true; the man who taught me burning the children of one's enemy is an effective method for squashing disobedience in one's own ranks could not meet so grisly a fate.

 

Oh! There is so much you have missed in your five years on the war front, my love! Without your military to buy their wares, the local machete factory has closed indefinitely. So has the Superfluous Military Medals factory, unfortunately. Many of the women your soldiers raped have given birth to healthy, beautiful mulatto children. Alas, my womb remains barren and devoid of child. But oh! With your return we shall rejoin our bodies in union, my legs spread out among the stars and heavens to receive your noble celestial ejaculate. Finally, my love, you shall have your heir!

Oh! You need not ask for my assistance with your war effort, my love; only tell me where, and I shall send the full extent of my resources to aid you. Unfortunately, there is but one stipulation. Currently, as you know, there is an embargo between the Colonies and Nigeria. Luckily, there is no such restrictions with either country trading with the Democratic Republic of Congo. If you were to transfer the sum of 500000USD$ to my account in the Congo, I would be able to repay with interest plus 250000USD$. While I make arrangements with my associates if you would be so kind as to write me with your account information and date of birth to verify that you are indeed the love of my life.

Devoted Always,

Lady Catherine Raventits