Monkeys

10 little monkeys jumping on the bed!

One fell off and broke his head!

Mama called the doctor and the doctor said!

Your son has suffered very severe head trauma, one of the worst cases I've ever seen. The fall from his bed crushed his cervical vertebrae and left him with a penetrating skull fracture, which in turn lead to intense intraparenchymal hemorrhaging; that means his brain tissue is bleeding, Mrs. Monkey, and, try as we might, we have been unable to slow it down let alone stop it. He has been having frequent, violent seizures for the past two hours and his heart beat is becoming increasingly erratic. I'm sorry but at this point there isn't much else we can do. If you have anything you'd like to say to him now is the time. And Mrs. Monkey? Please, I beg of you, do not allow any more of your children to jump on their bed. I think we've all had enough heartache for one night.

 

9 little monkeys jumping on the bed!

Fear

One of my biggest fears is choking to death. Not because of the soul crushingly depressing angle of the whole ordeal, or the difficulty of having a choking death avenged (I expect- demand- my death be avenged, even if due to natural causes). We've all heard stories of said choker being found days later not because a concerned friend or loved one checked in to make sure all is well but a neighbor, fed up with the putrid smell waffing into their garishly decorated abode, postpones their How I Met Your Mother marathon to see what all the hullabaloo is about.

 

"Gasp!" the neighbor gasps, "The poor thing! He/she (choking is an equal opportunity killer) must have been dead for days! Surely he/she wasn't living such an isolated, lonely life that no one would notice they stopped breathing sometime last week?" The neighbor calls the cops and convenes with neighbors outside, arms crossed and brows furrowed, each softly shaking their head and insincerely lamenting the loss of someone who couldn't chew Doritos correctly.

 

Although finding a rotting corpse is enough to ruin one's day, can you imagine the tragedy of finding a fresh corpse? Fresh Corpse of Bel Air. To walk the rest of your days knowing you were minutes, seconds away from saving a life, however inconsequential that life ultimately was. "You saved the life of the assistant manager of an under-performing Albertsons! GOOD FUCKING JOB, here's your feel good story in the less successful of two local newspapers and a $25 gift certificate to the Outback Steakhouse furthest from your house." Whether deceased for some time or fresh to death (Ha! A pun and my daily black vernacular reference!) a stranger's death oftentimes leads one towards ambivalence moreso than sadness. The only difference between reading a stranger's obituary and being there as it becomes breaking news is physical proximity; emotionally, one may as well be on a different planet.

 

But enough about other dead people; let us discuss me as a dead person, for I am louder than other people and thus important. I fear choking to death because I know in my heart of hearts that it will be just after I have opened my internet browser but just before I delete my recent history. What horrors will be made known to my family and friends that Clear Recent History had so deftly shielded in the past? Will they just peruse my visited pages, or painstakingly click each and every link I failed to delete? 

 

Hopefully I will have left behind something lightly skimmed over and disregarded, such as two hours spent looking for the current whereabouts of the voice cast of The Land Before Time VI or my search for absurdist non sequiturs. "Why was he googling 'violent waffles?' What does that even mean?" More probable, however, will be the unanswered agony of why I kept bouncing between the Wikipedia page of E. B. White and five separate tabs of interracial bukkake. Or a plethora of eye surgery pictures. Or interracial eye surgery bukkake.

 

These are the things that keep me up at night.

Conversation

Hey there big guy! I didn't think you saw me waving my hand across the room like a jackass or heard me screaming at you, also like a jackass, so I decided to run up and basically slap that book you were reading out of your hand.

Long time no see man! What, it's been two, three years? Wow time flies. Well that's good to hear you're doing good, even though I didn't ask you how you're doing so as to expedite the time it takes for me to talk about myself.  I'm doing pretty good, just taking it day by day, y'know? Me and Renee are still together, yup. 12 years going strong, haha. By golly I don't know why she puts up with a knucklehead like me, I really don't. Although I do know that me using phrases like knucklehead, by golly, shucks, and negro are the reason you fucking hated working with me.

Hey remember how my daughter, Carol, played soccer? No? Oh, that's right because I only just mentioned it right now completely unprovoked. Well I- we- (Renee wants us to not just think as a unit but speak as one too, gosh she's so smart) signed her up for a little league soccer team! Crazy right? I mean crazy how both my tone and inflection are way fucking off base for the revelation that a 6-year-old is playing soccer, right? RIGHT?

Well she doesn't actually play, only kid this season not to now that I think of it, but she's just glad to be out there with her friends, cheering on their victories and triumphs as she watches from the sideline like some second coming of her piece of shit do-nothing father. Look at all the pictures of her in her uniform! Doesn't she look adorable? Never you mind the individual pictures of girls that are clearly not my daughter I have in my wallet, I'll just laugh it off and keep talking about Carol like the creepy pervert that I am.

That's my Carol though, such a sweetheart. And the only thing keeping this failing marriage together. Only thing. In fact, the ol' missus has said as much to my face on numerous occasions. The best part, compadre (there's another faux folksy colloquialism), is that I'm not even sure if she's mine! Yeah!

Yeah, Renee caught a bit of the jungle fever, if you know what I mean, but with Mexicans. It was only for a year or 12, she'd get a little liquored up or sober and sleep with anyone who's last name ended in "ez." In her defense it was mostly my fault; what with me working 60 hours a week to pay for her extravagant lifestyle and the mountain of debt she dragged into our marriage I rarely ever saw her. I basically threw her into Escobar's burly chest. I should have spent less time worrying whether her impromptu spending sprees would bankrupt us and more time tending to her needs.

We're working it out though, with a new couple's therapy called Don't Have Sex With Him And Make Him Buy You Nice Things. Yeah, yeah it sounds exactly like what we were doing before but she insists that it's not. Now it's only fair I spend what little free time I have chauffeuring a daughter who looks nothing like me around to activities she doesn't actively participate in while my unemployed wife spends time at home working on our marriage with a live-in male Latino counselor. Well, as you remember I'm bad at ending conversations so bye!

Social

Phil: Greg's house, situated in the heart of Dixieland, is the stage for what has become an annual American tradition unlike any other; two of the nation's most neurotic, socially inept warriors battle for the ultimate in awkward supremacy. It's Cera Bowl IX, it's Fox, let's get this party started! I'm Phil Philson along with my partner, Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal. Boom Boom, glad to have you with us.

 

Boom Boom: I'm only here for community service hours. You know that.

 

P: The weather is perfect outside, Boom! Well for our viewers at home who may be unfamiliar with Awkwardball, a quick rundown. Two individuals with varying degrees of social anxiety are set in a random setting, anything from drinks after work to funerals, and are tasked with out-awkwarding the other. Social faux pas, clumsiness, anti-social behavior, unwanted sexual advances and more are expected in this epic battle of wills.

 

B: Might even see some blood, Phil. I'd really like to see some blood, Phil.

 

P: Haha! What a card you are, Boom! After 30 minutes of blundering about The Council of Three convene to determine which of the combatants have brought more shame upon their respective dojo and a winner is chosen. The Cera Bowl, named in honor of the patron saint of all things awkward, Michael Cera, is the culmination of a grueling 52 week season and the dream of every person who has ever tripped in public or sweated profusely.

 

B: This one's for all the marbles, Phil. If you are pregnant, nursing, or may become pregnant you will want to change the channel to knitting or some shit, you fucking coward. It's about to get ugly.

 

P: And let's meet our combatants. Trevor "Booger" Nguyen, a 28-year-old Best Buy employee, and Jennifer "We're Not Related" Lawrence, a 26-year-old aspiring mime, are the best of the best at being uncomfortably awkward. All year they have proven their lack of societal worth and meet here today to determine who is the saddest sack of them all.

 

B: Win or lose, no one would miss either of them if they died. Will the loser be killed tonight, Phil?

 

P: They will not.

 

B: Unfortunate.

 

P: Well the party has officially started and we are underway. And it looks like Trevor is off to a fantastic start, he's employing the Doorman technique with outstanding precision.

 

B: That's right Phil. Not only is he holding the door for people at an uncomfortably far distance he's also holding the door for multiple people, increasing his awkward quotient tenfold.

 

P: The complete lack of eye contact is a real nice touch as well. Let's check in with Jennifer to see how she's doing so far and... wow, hot starts for both of our athletes, guess we're in for a doozy. The party has just started and Jennifer is already playing her Nintendo 3DS.

 

B: With the volume maxed out, and right next to the drinks, and on one leg. What a pro. If I was a gambling man, which I am, I would bet on Jennifer, which I did.

 

P: One really has to admire the lack of grace Jennifer is carrying herself with. One minute she's playing Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks and the next she is spilling her drink on other guests' shoes. It looks like she's in it to win it, Boom.

 

B: Well she better if she wants to cover the spread and save my ass. I swear to god I do not need another fucking Italian stereotype breaking my legs.

 

P: You said it perfectly, Boom, all that training has really paid off. Not to be outdone Trevor has made his way over to the dance floor, stepping on various patrons' feet along the way.

 

B: Now he's using the good old fashioned Dosey Doe; if you'll look where I'm pointing with my finger, but not look where my other fingers are pointing, you'll notice that after unsuccessfully attempting to dance with a young woman who politely points to her boyfriend, he immediately attempts to dance with said boyfriend.

 

P: Failing with style, Boom. But oh! It seems Jennifer has already countered.

 

B: Fuck yeah Jennifer! Fuck yeah! Tell that guy how you would love to have a Battlestar Galactica-themed wedding! Keep sneezing on every person unlucky enough to walk by you! Fart and try to play it off with that stupid "Oh, I'm a girl, everything I do is adorable!" bullshit! I think she might pull off the Awkwardball upset of the year, Phil.

 

P: Oh, and we were just talking about how well Jennifer was doing. It seems she has used too much quirkiness and has drifted into Manic Pixie Dream Girl phase. Her whimsical nature has actually become endearing, and she seems to be winning over some of the patrons rather than alienating them.

 

B: The goddamn confetti she's throwing everywhere isn't doing her any favors. And now she's DJing! That's kind of fucking cool! Gonna be tough to get out of this one, Phil, especially with Trevor aimlessly walking around the dance floor with his hands in his pockets. Wouldn't be surprised if he tries to end it now.

 

P: Oh! Oh my goodness! And that's exactly what Trevor is doing! He has just approached a young woman and complemented her hair!

 

B: Holy fuck, he's about to use the Recycler isn't he? He's about to-

 

P: And he has! Trevor has given her random strands of hair he has been collecting throughout the night! And now he is clumsily discussing why the European Union should be dissolved! What a finish! What a finish!

 

B: Ah...oh...ah... I did too.

 

P: You're right Boom, that's why they play the game. We want to thank you for watching Cera Bowl IX here on Fox and with Boom Boom McDougal-

 

B: And I have a shit ton more hours to complete, too. Don't drink and arson, kids!

 

P: I'm Phil Philson.  The post-game show with Terry, Howie, Jimmy and the gang is coming up and after that stay tuned for Fox's hit new reality show, Vaguely Sexual Doctor Visits; drop your pants, the doctor will see you now. Thanks folks, and goodnight!

 

 

Colors

I'm Blaxican, and as such many of my white peers look to me as an affirmative action twofer and the de facto voice on all things ethnic. Most of the time my services are needed for only minor disputes or questions; do I know anyone in a Mexican drug cartel, is there any context where tarbaby is not offensive, how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck was an illegal immigrant, things of that nature. I try to be as empathetic as possible so as to foster more open dialogue amongst my cohorts, since people are at their most sincere when they have no reason to be guarded. On occasion though even I am surprised by the thoughts made immortal by the people in my life. "Dude are you fucking kidding me?" type surprises, wherein I am left in awe of the limitless potential of humans to be dipshits.

 

I was having a conversation with a friend (and by friend I mean acquaintance [and by acquaintance I mean dude I met once {and by dude I meant once I mean a dramatized version of a person I think I saw at Chipotle}]) who told me that, not to be racist or anything, but he doesn't find black women attractive.

 

As an aside I have always found that phrase humorous, "not to be racist but." In between the time when it was acceptable to say "Y'know what? Fuck niggers!" with a hand almost guaranteed to initiate a high five in your direction and the political correctness paralysis we live in today it must have been tough to be a racist. Having to tell the world that one believes Puerto Ricans are kinda loud but fearing the repercussions would be torture, no doubt. Thank god for that phrase, that panacea of prefaces, to give courage to those brave men and women who need us to know that, not being racist or anything, but Indian food is kinda weird, yeah? 

 

Finding the entirety of an ethnic group, who's people can be found in almost every corner of the world in a wide variety of shapes and colors, unattractive is not necessarily racist in and of itself. To me for one to be considered racist one's motives and intentions must come from a place of willful ignorance and hate, or they must be from Alabama. Either works. My imaginary dream acquaintance didn't quite fit this criteria, nor do many of the people I meet who voice similar preferences towards other ethnic groups. Some don't find Asians attractive, some aren't into Asians, and others just plain don't like Asians. Regardless of the nonsensical nature of their preferences said people are more victim of social conditioning, advertising firms, and lack of diversity in their own neighborhoods than they are outright racists.

 

Having said that, DUDE ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? People who say they don't find X race attractive are the same assholes who eat cereal with a bagel everyday for breakfast. They look at you with both awe and apprehension when you tell them, cavalierly, that you intend to eat last night's pizza (which was dinner then, mind you) for breakfast. No, I didn't misspeak; this food that is generally eaten after noon will be eaten by me today, right now, for breakfast. Hell, I might even have cereal for lunch because, fuck it, I pay my own bills. Ain't no one go tell me what I can and can not be eating.  Their minds can't wrap around the idea of not only deviating from the gospel of Tony the Tiger but abandoning all preconceived notions of what a breakfast is supposed to be.

 

I read on the back of someone's car once that "Variety is the Spice of Life." Right above it was a Jesus fish smoking a joint and right below it was Calvin from the titular comic peeing on a "My Child is a Honor Roll Student" sticker, calling into question why there aren't stricter laws on the shit one can put on the back of one's car. But I digress. People are beautiful; their skin tones, be they white, black, brown or anything in between, are but different words for a rose. I am certain we are born with the ability to see colors for a reason.

The Beginning of Entropy

Since I was a wee lad, about 10-11, I'd always enjoyed writing. I used to write Final Fantasy fan fiction before I knew what fan fiction was. I wrote stories that made me laugh, poetry I thought was deep as shit, terrible rap lyrics in case the hip hop community ever needed one to champion the plight of suburban teens, and journals full of nonsensical one-liners. I would share bits and pieces with friends and family but rarely would I present a finished product. It was always a hobby I would tackle with enthusiasm in short bursts, then abandon completely for weeks.

In the past year though I started writing more frequently and began more proactively seeking criticism. Not only did I actually finish pieces, but I began submitting them to various humor sites and magazines, a monumental step for me; in my mind it ranks somewhere between civil rights icon Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat in the front of the bus and local cheap bastard Harry Reynolds refusing to pay for his seat on the bus in the pantheon of great American achievements. Sometimes I knew I had no shot in hell of having my work accepted (The Onion), other publications filled my head with tepid excitement (Cracked), whilst others still I believed were sure things (oh fuck you Going Bonkers, who names their magazine that? Going bonkers. When I hear that I think of whoopee cushions and Whoopi Goldberg, both of which are anathema to laughter. Fuck you and your stupid magazine title. Was A Dandy Fart Noise taken, you humorless sons of bitches? I gave you gold, pure gold and you tossed it off your stupid unicycle or whatever whimsical shit you use to get around then you threw a pie at someone's face because pies are always funny and honked a clown horn and rode off to publish a piece on how to be sardonic to a boss who doesn't understand the meaning of the word sardonic which when you think about it is beyond pointless but what do I know about humor I wasn't good enough to be published in the entertainment juggernaut that is Going Bonkers.) After more rejection letters than I could responsibly use for kindling I decided to start a blog to improve my writing skills to make pretty words sound nice good and receive feedback and criticism on my feeble portfolio.

I enjoy writing things that make me laugh, and wish to spread my laughter through the world like a sexually transmitted disease spreads through lower-income urban areas. Chlamyd-ha-ha. It's been a dream of mine for a while to try my hand at stand up comedy, and I feel continuting to write is the best way to not be terrible when I decide to grow half a spine and spend three minutes up on a dimly lit stage spewing incoherent, possibly anti-Semitic nonsense at a bunch of randos.

Well, that's mostly true. Yeah I've always wanted to perform stand up but I've never literally dreamed about performing. I'd be kind of disappointed in my dream factory if such was the case. Like when you dream about working, only your dream workplace is slightly less remarkable than your actual workplace. Someone was nice enough to have made coffee but it's kind of cold by the time you get there, there's a rock in your shoe small enough to not warrant a mid-hallway shoe removal but persistent enough to never let your mind wander far from the niggling discomfort, you use niggling discomfort in a sentence, at the end of the day you realize you've been carrying a crayon around and can't remember where you got it, shit like that. One of those dreams where you wake up and you're pissed at your brain for sucking at dreams. I mean c'mon Brain. What's the deal? You wanted 7-8 hours of sleep, I gave you 7-8 hours of sleep. You wanted sufficient amounts of gamma aminobutyric acid to facilitate REM sleep, I gave you expired Valium because chemicals, right? You wanted a pillow that didn't have decades of accumulated sweat and tears, I refused. That pillow has been in our family for generations. Just put a little more effort into the dream making, alright big guy? I believe in you.

Anyways I'll be posting things that make me laugh first and foremost because I've been conditioned to believe that breathing grants my opinion both weight and importance, thus it must be nurtured and cherished. I hope to make at least one person laugh. Or smile politely. Ok just finish an entire post. Well fine then, don't fucking read it! I'm not holding a gun to your head, Jesus!