Equal

Freedom is the romantically vague ideal upon which our great nation was built. Cheap ethnic labor too, but mainly freedom. However, there is a large segment of our population that has been repeatedly denied a seat at the table of liberty (where, I imagine, one would eat nothing but Freedom Fries doused in American Cheese). These people are not criminals. They are not terrorists. They are not anarchists, deviants, or Kardashians. These people are gay.

Like, super gay. Gay gay. So gay, in fact, that some of them want to be able to marry another gay person. That's double the gay!

This poses a problem for certain people. Mike Huckabee, Mitch McConnell, an inappropriately chatty woman standing in line behind me at Albertson's, staunch racists looking for more things to hate, Westboro Baptist Church. The creme de la creme of society. According to these paragons of virtue one is to believe that the legalization of same sex marriage would lead to the disintegration of America's moral fibers. The same fibers that allow for unarmed black men to be shot to death and multi-billion dollar corporations to pay no taxes, mind you. These people are also quick to claim that disagreeing with their intolerance is a form of intolerance itself. Intolerance judo.

That's not how intolerance works. You can't just I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I yourself out of an argument. If my stance is that your views on same sex marriage are both antiquated and oppressive, then my stance serves as a rebuttal of your worldview and is not a form of intolerance itself. In more blunt terms, if one believes there is something wrong with two people of the same sex getting married, then there is something wrong with said individual.

Another argument that doesn't pass the sniff test is the notion of gay marriage altering straight marriage. Do you know what has happened to heterosexual married couples in the 37 states that have already legalized same sex marriage? Fucking nothing! Surprise! What was supposed to happen when gay people started getting married? Glitter sales go through the roof, making it impossible to properly decorate for a tacky business meet-and-greet? Do some truly wish to deny same sex marriage for the express purpose of keeping the price of glitter reasonable? Isn't there enough glitter in the world for us all to be fabulous?  

An equally baffling off shoot of this line of thinking is faux-protective parents, hands on hips and brows furrowed, who are unsure of what to tell their ever inquisitive children when asked why Bill and Tom are holding hands. Here's what you can tell your crayon-eating kid: literally anything. You're confused on what to tell a child about gay marriage? These little shits are a few years removed from jingling keys being a legitimate magic trick. Elementary-aged children don't bat an eye when you tell them a fat immortal white guy stationed in the middle of the Artic is both monitoring their behavior and making Playstation 4s year round. How hard would it be to say "Bill and Tom love each other?"   

I do not pretend to know nor care of any legal voodoo that correctly justifies a state's right to ban gay marriage. I am not arguing from the point of view of a lawyer but the point of view of a human, and my human senses are screaming bullshit. 

Currently there are 19 countries which allow same-sex marriage, one of those countries being South Africa. Let that sink in for a bit. A country that is only a temporal stone throw away from apartheid collectively decided that two women in love deserve the same rights and dignity as a man and woman in love. South Africa, a country who's institutional racism made 1960s Alabama blush, has the wherewithal to understand that there is nothing inherently abhorrent about same sex marriage. For whatever reason we have yet to reach such a state of enlightenment. America is losing the moral arms race to fucking South Africa.  

The silver lining to all this nonsense is that the gay moon is high and the tides are changing. As I put pen to paper there are multiple cases across the country that will decide the fates of gay men and gay women for years to come. More states are legalizing gay marriage each year, public opinion is shifting from cautious indifference to outright support of equal rights, politicians are coming to a consensus that all citizens are entitled to the quiet comfort of sharing a name and a bed with the one they love, and glitter sales are at an all time high. In the end, as it usually does, love will win out. If we are to consider America a beacon of justice and enemy to the wicked, it must win out.

Sleepless

Nathan looked outside the cafe window to see the rain hit the pavement softly, regretfully. Was this god's way of laughing at him, or laughing with him?

It had been six years since he had last seen Zoe. A few more tattoos, a Pinterest-approved mohawk, a cut above her lip from a bar fight. But that smile, often used to buy her time for a playful riposte to whatever moderately clever nonsense had just come out of Nathan's mouth, that smile hadn't changed. Was there a time when I knew Zoe but didn't love her, Nathan asked himself. He knew the answer.

"So? What's your answer?" asked Zoe. "We down for hiking next week?" Six years in the urban shithole that is Detroit had done nothing to quell Zoe's love for the outdoors.

"I'm down for whatever, lady. You know that." The two shared a small laugh, then silence. He gently grabbed her hand. "Zoe, I.. I've missed you. I've missed you more than I can really put into words. And now that you're here, you're back, I feel that we can try again. Like we can start over."

Right before Zoe started choking to death on her sandwich she nodded in agreement with Nathan. She, too, had felt her return to Seattle was a chance for her to start her life over. While she did not love Nathan as much as he loved her, Zoe could see herself dating him again. At least, she could have. Before she started choking. To death. On a sandwich.

Her face turned from red to purple to blue, like a grotesque parody of the blueberry scene from Willy Wonka. She grabbed her neck as she fell to the ground and began to claw at her throat and face. Shortly after the capillaries in her eyes burst she began bleeding from her nose.

"Zoe! Zoe! Someone help, please!" Never in his life had Nathan felt more powerless. Despite each heave and squeeze and pull he could not get Zoe to spit out the food lodged in her throat. She was going to die in his arms. The entire small cafe had flown into a very polite panic, with various customers calling 911 and offering disingenuous aid to Nathan and Zoe, each person frantically surveying the room as if to look for someone to blame.

At the table adjacent to Zoe and Nathan's was an older woman. She had come alone, a light book about the decline of silent pictures in the 1920s resting unopened by her coffee. Much like her fellow patrons the old woman's eyes were transfixed on the scene unfolding right beside her, a woman's life dashed for the most asinine of reasons in front of a man with much mourning ahead of him. In spite of absorbing the entirety of this tragedy the woman had not put down her menu. She flagged a nearby waitress.

"Excuse me miss," said the woman, only now turning her head away from the grief stricken Nathan. "I'll have what she's having."

   

Mortify

Children are a callous lot by nature, lacking empathy and tact. Whenever someone espouses the inherent goodness of children I simply point them to the nearest fast food play pen. On the surface one would see kids being kids, as it were; movement and laughter and scrapped knees and happiness. Upon further inspection, however, one will see children for what they really are: fucking animals.

One child is being excluded from a game of Hide and Seek because the others think he smells (he totally does but that's beside the point). Another child is being pelted with recently purchased kids meal toys. Yet another child is being stabbed to death with sharpened crayons. And finally, turn your attention to the ball pit. Do you see the overweight kid wearing eight too many wrist bracelets and a stupid shark tooth necklace struggling to breathe and crying like a little bitch because he's stuck in the ball pit and no one will help him?

I was that kid.

In fifth grade I was a fat, awkward caterpillar waiting to blossom into a fat, awkward butterfly. I was ignorant of my own impotence, and looking back on my youth I find this ignorance comforting.

Many moons ago during an English lesson we partook in a class reading assignment. Instead of having children read clockwise around the room my teacher (his surname escapes me so I shall refer to him as Mr. Nixon) utilized a "popcorn-kernel" technique. One would finish reading a passage, select a child at random, said child would say popcorn if they accepted the challenge to read or kernel if they refused. Despite having two options we were forbidden to say kernel.

Wisely, I questioned the purpose of saying popcorn when accepting one's call to read next, as we were not allowed to decline said proposition. Dickly, Mr. Nixon replied "because that's what my lesson plan calls for and I'm too much of a scared coward of a bitch to alter it in any way and I fart in crowded elevators before getting off and tip 5% at restaurants and I believe the Holocaust was exaggerated." Paraphrasing, of course.

Before I had a firm grasp of modern American vulgarity I knew this man was a raging asshole. Mr. Nixon used air quotes, had an unearned smugness to his demeanor, and consistently made use of shitty puns. The worst I can recall was, in response to the complaints from one of my peers, he said "would you like some cheese with your whine?" FUCK YOU, with your early 90s sitcom dad humor, you fucking twat.

As an aside, can people please stop using apostrophes when they write 90s, or any other decade for that matter? Misappropriated apostrophes are an efficient way to let the world know you are a dumbass.

For this particular class reading Mr. Nixon threw in a new wrinkle: say popcorn, then one's name, then start reading. The first few students read their passages without incidence. A few stutters, confusion at seeing so many multi syllabic words in sequence, y'know, regular kid shit. Then it was the Cool Kid's turn.

Cool Kid was asked to read by one of my peers and in typical Cool Kid fashion he did so, but on his terms. Cool Kid terms. First, Cool Kid flipped each of his three collars to look extra cool (I don't know why but when I was in elementary school kids just wore a lot of shirts underneath more shirts). Then, Cool Kid took his gum out (Big League Chew like a fucking boss) and puts it back on the table instead of the trash, because you know Cool Kid is coming back for that shit. Finally, Cool Kid got on his skateboard and did a sick kickflip over Mr. Nixon's table. At this point everyone is cheering and singing the praises of Cool Kid, whilst the parents outside fight amongst themselves over whose daughter will marry Cool Kid when he is of age.

Before he starts reading, Cool Kid slightly turns down his cool to obey Mr. Nixon's rule of saying popcorn then our name before reading. However, in typical Cool Kid fashion, he says his name then popcorn instead of vice versa. This creates the illusion that his full name is Cool Kid Popcorn. To 10-year-olds this was fucking comedy gold. Everyone, including Mr. Nixon, starts laughing. To soak in the moment Cool Kid puts on his sunglasses, lowers them, then winks at a girl sitting across from him. She blushes and pledges her virginity to him.

Seeing how much joy and laughter filled the classroom following Cool Kid's joke, I thought it would be a good idea to repeat his exact joke. Same delivery, same punchline, same everything. Only 30 seconds after he said it, too. My 10-year-old brain had yet to learn that lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.

Dead fucking silence. No one even smiles or offers polite, conciliatory laughter. One of the children literally says "Uh, not funny dude." Mr. Nixon looks at me, shakes his smug possibly-used-to-be-a-date-rapist-like-at-least-once-because-c'mon-look-at-the-way-I-part-my-hair-classic-reformed-date-rapist-hair-part head and tells me to "just read the paragraph. No jokes please."

Compounding the uncomfortability of the situation was the fact that I still had to fucking read my paragraph. The contents of my assigned reading passage have eluded me to this day, as I willed myself unconscious prior to reading. When I came to another child was reading, and my joke faux pas had passed from moment to memory.

"But Dominic," you say, "why focus on such a seemingly innocuous memory from your childhood? We all make jokes that fall flat from time to time. No big deal. Laugh it off, and move on."

Really, you are right; having a joke that bombs, in the grand scheme of things, is not all that important. But, if you know only one thing about me know that I am impressively neurotic. For all intents and purposes I am Sisyphus and that singular moment is my boulder. Now go sit in the corner and think about what you just said.

Super

Man 1: Look! Up in the sky!

 

Man 2: It's a bird!

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Woah, youse guys serious?

 

Man 2: What?

 

Man 1: Ya' walkin' in downtown Metropolis, one of the largest damn cities in the world, and youse freak out when ya' see a bord?

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Fuckin' tourists, man. That up there is clearly Superman.

 

Man 2: Well from a distance it could have been a bird.

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: When was the last time ya' saw a blue and red man-sized bord flyin' around? Never, that's when.

 

Man 2: Ok whatever, Jesus. So I can't tell the difference between Superman and a bird or-

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

 

Man 1: Hey fella, what's ya problem? This one screwed on right?

 

Man 2: He's my brother, he's a metahuman. His only power is having Super Tourette's.

 

Man 3: Cloud bitch poo poo fuck!

 

Man 2: Sigh. I love him but he is so emotionally draining.

 

Man 1: Yeah, yeah, I can see that.

 

Man 2: Alright next time I see something flying I'll just assume it's Superman.

 

Man 1: Tourists! Tourists, I swear to god! This is Metropolis, buddy. Literally every third person here can fly. We even have a flying dog.

 

Man 2: You guys have flying dogs?

 

Man 1: Dog. Singular. His name's Krypto, Superman's dog. Doesn't even train the sonofabitch, fuckin' dog shittin' everywhere. Disgustin'. Shat on my car last week. I kid you not, Superman has like eight different flyin' animals. Just captures the poor bastards, throws a cape on 'em, makes 'em fight crime.

 

Man 2: That's really fucked up.

 

Man 1: Totally fucked up. But what're you gonna do, eh? Guy's fuckin' Superman, he can melt ya' face or rip ya' arms off like nuthin'.

 

Man 2: Oh, ok. Thanks for the tip.

 

Man 1: Fuckin' whateva, buddy. You take it easy now, say high to ya' mutha for me.

 

Man 2: We should have stayed in Gotham.

 

Man 3: It's a plane!

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.