Return

After roughly five years I have made the trek back to the world of academia to finally finish my undergraduate degree. Despite being told my entire life that it is never too late to complete one's degree, I feel more sheepish than triumphant in my return. Currently I'm only taking two classes. I'm 28, just two years short of 30, colloquially referred to as the "your shit should be together by now" age. 30 is more than halfway to 50, which is only 15 years away from the retirement age of 65, which is only 13 years away from the average age of death in the US. Basically I'm almost dead and still don't have my diploma.

First day of Motor Development we are told to introduce ourselves to our neighbors. A cheery eyed young woman sits to my left and introduces herself. Because I am bad with names, faces, and feet, her name escapes me. "I'm Dominic," I say, "just trying to finish my degree after a long layoff."

"Oh really? What made you decide to come back?" The Germans use the word sehnsucht to describe a sense of intense longing, a simple word for the complex emotion of yearning for a life, an idea, that has escaped me thus far. Her demeanor implies a hopefulness, an optimism that I wish not to tarnish with my truth. I stare deep into her eyes.

"To serve as a cautionary tale, my dear." She absorbs the gravity of my words - intent and sincerity - and is visibly uncomfortable. "Also," I roll up my pants to better show off my footwear, "to bring back Heelys." I pull off some hella sick ass tricks with my Heelys, much to the delight of my peers and professor.

"Damn bro, save some pussy for the rest of us," says my professor as I Heely out of class eight minutes after it started. 

I've found that media depictions of the modern day college student have been vastly blown out of proportion. Sure, we are required to spit on a picture of Milo Yiannopolous before entering any academic building. Sure, my statistics class spent the first two weeks going over appropriate pronouns (one lecture devoted entirely to the Elven) before getting down to brass tacks. Sure, both of my professors insist on passing around complimentary e-cigarettes along with scantrons. Sure, one registered Republican is burnt at the stake each month to appease Mount Sanders, lest it erupt and engulf us in socialist flame and ash. Ignoring all that I've mostly found my peers to be an affable bunch that hardly represent the SJW stereotype perpetuated by the media. Except for this one dude in my Stats lab.

He's an older gentleman - mid 40s - rocking the shit out of the try-hard glasses/fuckboy haircut combo. His gaze for our 21 year old instructor walks the precarious line between awkwardly seductive and dude-chill-the-fuck-out-she's-a-person-not-a-prime-Brazilian-steak. Aside from his date rapey stares, what annoys me the most about him is he feels the need to fucking interject at every momentary respite in the lecture. Jokes no one needs, insights no one finds profound, sentences devoid of substance. He's what happens when the word pretentious goes super Saiyan.

As far as actual course work is concerned, my return has been like riding a bike. By "a bike" I mean "a unicycle on fire" and "riding" I mean "being bludgeoned to death with." This is a good sign, as my previous attempt at being a college student consisted of no cycling in any form. I have refined a schedule of class, workout, study, cry on a park bench while eating lasagna, work, more study, cry until physically incapable of producing anymore tears, and sleep. Repeat until the end of the semester. With only five weeks left to go, I think I can manage. 

Cowboys

Dear God,

What's up Bro - can I call You Bro? - what have You been up to? I mean aside from further destabilizing the Middle East. I'm not judging, Bro, we all have our hobbies. Some people like to jog, some people like to paint, You happen to enjoy petty wars between dozens of loosely affiliated coalitions fighting over whose dirt is most deserving of Your favor. To each his own. But I'm not here to clumsily talk about international politics (we literally just elected a guy for that), I'm here for something more important, more salient. 

As I'm sure You know since You're You, the NFL playoffs are currently underway. Appreciate You helping the Patriots cover the spread, as that saved my ass with biracial Italian mobster Anthony "Fat Tony Toni Tone" Roselli. Dude's a real pain. Now I know prayer doesn't work on a 1:1 scale; I can't pray for something and expect it to happen, obviously. I also know You aren't real and have mostly outlived Your usefulness as a coping mechanism for goat herders' death anxiety, but none of that matters right now. What matters is that You need to have the Green Bay Packers beat the Dallas Cowboys. 

Now I know what You're thinking; "Oh my Me, I just helped with the Patriots game! A 16 point spread against a pretty solid defense!? You can't seriously be asking Ol' Magic Fingers to whip up some more shenanigans." Your Holiness, You are absolutely correct (as usual). To continue to aid my crippling gambling addiction would be both immoral and irresponsible. This prayer is not for my own monetary gain, nor is it even to see the Packers win, even more norer is it to see the Cowboys themselves lose. I am praying to see Cowboys fans lose. 

You're mysterious. We get that. But jeez, Bro, did You have to only use the autism clay when forming the most annoying fan base in all of sports? Since they started winning a few months ago not a day has gone by without hearing or reading a grown man doing his damnedest to mask depression and a failing marriage proclaim WE DEM BOYZ like he's part of some elite strike force that specializes in being annoying as fuck. I didn't even add caps locks for effect, that's how they write it. I was recently assaulted by a gang of Cowboys fans - each more mouth breathery than the last - at a 7/11 when I refused to respond to one of their cereal eating gestures with "let Zeke eat." And these fucking flags! My heart bleeds for the Peruvian children forced to produce each and every one of these flags flown from lawns, doors, cars, and anywhere else that doesn't really need a sports team flag. 

I can forgive the utter lack of tact and humility displayed by Cowboys fans. I can forgive the cannibalization of former franchise quarterback and five time Aww Shucks Face Award winner Tony Romo. I can forgive the tangible hubris known as AT&T Stadium. I can even forgive the fair weather nature inherent to the Cowboys fan base, but I cannot forgive the cumulative awfulness of Cowboys fans.

So if You're awesome (which You are) then please have the Cowboys lose in a manner that would produce the highest amount of grown man tears. Late fumble, missed field goal, that sort of thing. Oh, wait! It might be a bit much but if we could have a showing of Dez Bryant's latest one man play The Catch Vol 2: Not This Shit Again, that would be fantastic.  

Amen. 

Halloween

Phil Philson: Hubris Consulting, home of superfluous titles, inaccurate job descriptions, questionable ethics, and zany costumes! We're here for the 35th annual RC Cola™ Office Halloween Party Costume Competition, where adults careening towards middle age temporarily embrace a facade of youthful exuberance by dressing as ironically humorous characters while battling unironic mid-life crises.

Boom Boom: Chill with the big words, bro.

Phil: As always, I'm joined by my partner, Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal. How are you doing tonight, Boom Boom?

Boom: I'd be better if I wasn't consistently court-ordered to provide commentary for random shit.

Phil: That's right, Boom, the energy here is electric. And a big part of that energy is thanks to our longtime sponsor RC Cola™. RC Cola™, when literally no other drink is available. This year's OHPCC is primed to be one of the most competitive Halloween office parties in recent memory. Not since the great Crow vs Duffman clashes of the mid 90s have we had so many fierce competitors. 

Boom: We got everything from sexy superheroes to insanely accurate superheroes. You see that dude in the Iron Man suit with working rocket boots? Does he even work here?

Phil: I am being told that not only does he not work for Hubris Consulting, he does not reside in this state. Apparently he has been flying around the country fighting crime.

Boom: Aaaaaand he just flew away. 

Phil: Our first contestant of the evening - or should I say, first contestants- is a group of Harley Quinns. Far and away the most popular costume of the evening, for expediency's sake we have grouped all 16 Harleys as one competitor.

Boom: Still not as bad as that time when half the office came dressed as Elsa from Frozen.  

Phil: Unfortunately with so many dressed as the same character, this is really going to hurt their originality scores. Tough break for these ladies and one gentleman. 

Boom: Except for that one. Harley number 12, you see her? Jesus. She got that double take booty. She got that "ay bro, I'ma call you back," booty. She got that 9/11 never forget booty. 

Phil: On that note we would like to extend our condolences to all the families affected by the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Truly a day filled with sorrow, but what better way to drown your sorrows than with a nice, room temperature RC Cola™? RC Cola™, because you've already given up on life. Moving along our next two contestants are the reigning Couples Costume champions, dressed tonight as the formidable political music duo Daft Trump and Hill Khalifa.

Boom: The glowing electric hair on Daft Trump is wonderfully executed, but what really puts this couple over the top is how Hill Khalifa has combined all the elements that make Wiz a fuckboy with all the elements that make Hillary a shit human being. 

Phil: Tattoo covered pantsuit was an excellent decision, as was the giant bag that says "deleted emails." Our third contestant is sporting tonight's first completely original costume, with a character of his own design. And he is... oh boy.

Boom: Your dick is out, bro.

Contestant 3: You mean my dicks are out. 

Boom: What the actual fuck?

Contestant 3: I'm Tri Dick, the Man with Three Dicks. He's an OC and the main protagonist from my Harry Potter fan fiction. In the latest story he gets into a disagreement with Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and Snape, and solves it the only way Tri Dick knows how.

Phil: While I'm sure it makes for riveting storytelling, your costume clearly breaks the no nudity clause of the contest, so I'm afraid you are disqualified. Next up we have Father... bear with me, Gascoigne? 

Contestant 4: It's pronounced Father "Gass-coin." He's the first main boss from the critically acclaimed PS4 exclusive, Bloodborne. Father Gascoigne is actually a very tragic character. You see, for some time now the good Father has been losing his grip on reality, and on the night of The Hunt he does the unthinkable and gives into his beastly instincts, allowing himself to be completely engulfed in bloodlust, after accidentally killing his own wife, who had forgotten to bring the music box used to revert him back-

Boom: You've only been talking for like 20 seconds and I already genuinely hate you. 

Phil: The hat is well crafted, Boom, good eye. Contestant number 5 is the Bride of Frankenstein. I'm loving the make up application.

Contestant 5: Actually, I'm the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster, if we want to be technical.

Boom: A spade's a spade, toots.

Phil: Apologies, miss.

Contestant 5: And to be more technical, I'm dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster in a meta comedy where I'm actually the real Bride of Frankenstein's Monster but everyone just thinks I'm only dressed as the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster.

Phil: And I'm being told that contestant 5's costume has such a needlessly convoluted backstory that she wins the competition! Even though we had no less than 20 more contestants to go through!

Contestant 18: So I got dressed up as the dude from Drive for the the fifth year in a row for nothing?

Boom: I mean, you still look hella rad, bro.

Contestant 18: Thanks bro.

Phil: Contestant 5 has secured one of the most impressive, expedient wins in OHPCC history! While you're enjoying the taste of victory, contestant 5, why not enjoy the taste of an already opened RC Cola™? RC Cola™, the official drink of clinical depression. As always I'm Phil Philson and he's Buster "Boom Boom" McDougal-

Boom: Seriously man, the booty on Harley number 12...

Phil: On behalf of everyone here at Hubris Consulting, thanks for tuning in. Be sure to keep it right here for the new hit show Bees Stinging People, the only show on television that exclusively fills its runtime with bees stinging people. Thank you, and goodnight!  

Argue

For the better part of three months I have conducted informal research into the nature of man, of good and evil, of existence. Three months spent firmly entrenched in the belly of the beast, with little but my wits and resolve to guide me through. A Faustian journey who's only accepted currency is sanity. 

I've been arguing politics with strangers on the internet. 

"But Dominic," the naysayers naysay, "your task shall bear no fruit. Trying to educate people on the internet is akin to squeezing blood from stone." First off bro, I don't know who the fuck you are and secondly, what's with all this bloody fruit rock talk? You calling me queer, you libtard jew nigger faggot? How about you take your homo rocks and get the fuck out of my country. Fucking sheeple, stay woke. 

Apologies. After so much time in comment sections of various facebook, youtube, and yahoo posts I've grown accustomed to the... customs of the belligerently retarded. To attack at the faintest of slights, the most innocuous of statements. To vehemently crucify a stranger as if packersfan85 is all that is standing between you and Valhalla.

It mattered not the subject; from Obama's birthplace to Hillary's voting record to Trump's everything, all conversations in which I partook transpired and ended the same way. Conservative/liberal caricature posts a comment on an article or video of dubious integrity, I offer a level headed rebuttal with as many sources as possible, caricature ignores evidence and doubles down on craziness, I sit back in my chair dumbfounded by such intense ignorance, scene. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained.

The memes. If it wasn't for the occasional clever meme buried within comment sections the world over, I do not think I would have had the fortitude to continue my research. Harambe alone was enough to get me through August.   

My work has brought little joy these past few months. Brushing digital shoulders with the best of the worst America has to offer, those who find hastily made white text pseudo-memes viable sources of information, has dulled me to the point that 'irate' is the only emotion I can muster when browsing online. My studies have not shed light onto a subject as much as they have confirmed a belief; we do not want to learn, we want to be right. A sobering confirmation, akin to the true nature of Santa Claus or learning your favorite actor is a Scientologist.

And yet, I soldier on, as any true activist should. Oh yes, I do consider myself an activist. Some of us work on the front lines, building affordable housing in Sudan, helping women start their own businesses in Guatemala, or teaching Tomi Lahren how to read in Dallas. Others such as myself fight the good fight against the subterranean of the internet, the old racists, the young dipshits, the blissfully ignorant and the ignorantly blissful, those with strong opinions and weak resolve. I mean, if y'all only knew how many times I've had to read "wake up sheeple" or "I'm not racist but HERE'S SOME FUCKING RACISM," you'd understand the dire necessity of people serving at the vanguard of the internet, the place where oblivion and entropy coalesce.    

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will call thou a nigger.  

September

Few days offer such a smorgasbord of mismatched emotions and misplaced xenophobia quite like September 11. At this point the itinerary is almost routine. News broadcasts and articles offer reflection in between stories of a faraway natural disaster and the size of Kanye's poop (spoiler alert, he's been getting his fiber). Sporting events will parade out any first responders yet to be claimed by asbestos for the singing of the national anthem, moment of silence, and back to watching grown men move a ball around a field. That one co-worker who twists the most tangential of relations into a story about how 9/11 really made him depressed for a solid week because he loves America THIS MUCH and seeing the good ol' US of A hurt in any capacity is just too much for his empathy meter to bear even though you can distinctly recall this insincere fuck literally walk over homeless people during your lunch break.

In our quest to never forget 9/11 the tragedy, we have remembered 9/11 the spectacle.

If there is anything we can be sure of memory, is that it will fade. If we don't forget that which must not be forgotten, we can be sure our children will, or their children will. There are kids in grade school for whom 9/11 is question #5 on a Social Studies test. Stated purpose becomes intent, intent open to interpretation. Revision. 'Never forget' is less a declaration and more a challenge.

December 7 has gone from a day which will live in infamy to about a week removed from eight maids a-milking. Memorial Day - memory could not be more implicitly encouraged - has Animorphed™ from a day of solemnity to opening weekend for a shitty summer blockbuster reboot no one asked for. I mean, how many times are we going to allow Hollywood to fuck up the X-Men?

The memory of 9/11 is disjointed and unsure in our minds, yet we do remember. What we are remembering is clear. The why is less so. 

It can't be the violent loss of civilian life, as hundreds of thousands of civilians deaths in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and a plethora of other clusterfucks masquerading as countries have passed through our news tickers with the same frequency and gravity as weather reports. Or gorillas getting shot. Kids today tell me dead gorillas are all the rage. It can't be the loss of American life specifically, as at least 10,000 Americans have been killed by drunk drivers every year for the past 30 years, yet no showings of phony solidarity or patriotism. Not too many corny, emotionally manipulative country songs about drunk driving released either. 

No, no, the deaths themselves are not the reason. A large part, but a part. The spectacle of 9/11, the explosions, the fire, the screaming, the bravery, the tears, the demands for justice, the president's declaration of war on a concept (groundbreaking stuff), the star crossed lovers that are nation and unity, the divine purpose, all of it as personal for the man in Washington, D.C. as it is for the man in Washington state. The spectacle.

A somber memory is difficult to monetize. The memory of a spectacle, however, basically sells itself. You like french fries? Not anymore you don't, those are freedom fries. Here, have a flag lapel pin. Wouldn't want to confuse you with the enemy. Actually now that I think about it, I noticed you're not dressing like an asshole. Perhaps I could interest you in this all denim outfit emblazoned with American flags and bald eagles?

This is why I'm cynical. No opportunistic parasites are selling commemorative breast cancer plates or drunk driving fatality coins. But how quick were businesses big and small - businesses often championed by the American oligarchy as the very heart and soul of this country - to throw a rough sketch of the Twin Towers onto everything from fucking ties to overpriced wine? Never forget is what was asked of us. Difficult to forget something you put no effort into remembering in the first place.

So as the memory fades, as the solemn gives way to celebratory, all that remains is the spectacle.

I've never much enjoyed fireworks. 

Doctor

I cough some more blood onto the book I am reading, and pause to give serious thought to the necessity of scheduling a doctor's appointment.

The last time I visited a doctor's office was when I broke my foot during a car accident in 2009. In the seven years since I have made it my life's goal to never see a doctor again. Have a cold? Take some medicine. Unexplainable pain running along my lower back? Take some medicine. Stabbed multiple times in the abdomen after fighting a crackhead for half a grilled cheese sandwich? Take some medicine. This regimen has served me well until a few days ago. In addition to feeling nauseous for hours at a time I have occasionally coughed blood from my mouth. After a brief foray into WebMD - every hypochondriac's personal hell - I determine coughing blood is bad.

My path is clear; I must see a doctor. Doc, once I become familiar with him/her.

I've scheduled an appointment with a general practitioner less than 100 yards away from my apartment and have already filled out the corresponding new patient forms. When I arrive to the office, the receptionist, Judy, greets me with a smile. The office is generically quaint, with just the right amount of home decor magazines (that fucking no one reads because why) tastefully strewn about. Save for myself there are no other patients. Judy asks for my paperwork. "All filled out?"

"Yes," I reply, proud of myself for not procrastinating on an assignment for once.

"Excellent." She takes out a butane lighter and sets my paperwork aflame. I chide myself for deeming it urgent to not die from internal bleeding. "Sorry, your handwriting was super ugly. Eww!" She hands me another set of forms to fill out. 

After completing my new patient paperwork a second time, I am escorted to the back for measurements by a nurse whose name escapes me. She looks like a Tylenolisha. Hand to God I could fit my legs through her hoop earrings.

Tylenolisha measures me at 5'11" and as I step onto the weight scale, it reads 'well that's disappointing.' Tylenolisha then leads me into an empty room. "Alright Mr. Coats, Dr. Funk will see you in a minute." She braces for my reaction.

"Dr. Funk?"

She offers an exasperated sigh that feels both rehearsed and genuine. "Yes that is her name and no she does not enjoy the genre. Please do not mention it to her."

I immediately begin planning how to mention it to her. Dr. Funk sounds like a street basketball legend from the 70s, or a former lead singer trying a solo career from the 70s, or someone in their 70s from the 70s. If I let this opportunity pass me, if I don't attempt an odd reference or forced pun, then what the fuck am I doing with my life? This doctor is about to get funked (that was terrible, I'll fix it in post).

After a few minutes Dr. Funk enters the room. Her perfectly shaped afro dares me to not be an asshole. She is fixated on a series of forms on her clipboard. It is a few more deliciously awkward seconds before she acknowledges me.

"So, Dominic." Dr. Funk raises her eyes just above her clipboard. "I noticed under the question 'Do you think I'm pretty,' under yes and no you scribbled in a maybe box." 

"I... I've never met you before literally just now."

She turns dismissively towards some charts. "Sure hope someone doesn't get diagnosed with cancer today." Her bedside manner could use some improvement. Dr. Funk - or a jive talking detective from the 70s! - then takes out a stethoscope to check my heart and breathing. As she rests one hand on my inner thigh, I try and fail to will myself unconscious. "Now if you will breathe in..."

I breathe in.

"And breathe out."

I breathe out.

"Breathe in..."

I breathe in.

"And breathe out."

I breathe out.

"Let me nibble on your ear..."

I sit uncomfortably.

"And breathe out." It's been a while since my last doctor visit but I don't recall this much sexual tension. After a few more standard tests and a quick round of blood work Dr. Funk tells me the reason I have been coughing blood is because I was a ghost the entire time. She writes a prescription for Valium and sends me on my way. On the whole this appointment has been successful.

As I exit the office I stop in the doorway. "Doc?"

"Yes?"

"I loved you in the Ohio Players."

"FUCK OUT MY OFFICE." 

Other

Dr. McSassy: Mr. and Mrs. Fries, thank you for coming to my office today to discuss your daughter, Sara.

Nora: Thank you for the minor exposition, Dr. McSassy, we're glad to be here.

Victor: She's glad to be here.

Nora: Victor, please.

Dr. McSassy: Interesting. Sara often talked to me during our meetings how resistant and outright combative you are when discussing Sara's true identity, Mr. Fries.  

Victor: I'm combative because she's not a dragon. I feel like the only one who can see this.

Nora: What Victor meant to say was he is having trouble coming to terms with Sara's status as dragonkin. This is still very new to both of us.

Victor: Well, being a dragon is new but I've seen plenty of crazy in my life to know it when I see it.

Nora: Victor, please. 

Dr. McSassy: Victor - may I call you Victor?

Victor: Mr. Fries.

Dr. McSassy: Victor, dragonkin is a subset of the more overarching otherkin subculture. People who identify as dragonkin, or wolfkin, or elfkin, or what have you, genuinely believe they are dragons, or wolves, or elves. These people have existed for thousands of years. This phenomena is nothing new; what is new, however, is otherkin's willingness to be both seen and heard. No more are they relegated to the shadows. No more are they ostracized for following their beliefs. It is 2016, Victor. The time for otherkin is now.

Victor: Okay, to keep this as short as possible, I was under the impression you were going to cure Sara. It sounds to me like you're enabling her.

Nora: Sara isn't sick! She's just... being a dragon for a little bit.

Victor: She jumped out of her window trying to fly, Nora. When I lectured her that she can't fly because she doesn't have wings, she started spitting on me.

Dr. McSassy: Sara, utilizing her dragon instincts, was attempting to breathe fire on a perceived threat.

Victor: I'm her father.

Nora: I'm her mother!

Dr. McSassy: And I'm her therapist, and I'm telling you Sara is, for all intents and purposes, a dragon.

Nora: Doctor, my only concern-

Victor: You only have one concern?

Nora: My only concern is that Sara may have trouble with kids at school. She starts high school in a few months and I know this can be a difficult time for any teenager, let alone a teenager who is hoarding gold and keeping a watchful eye out for hobbits. Is her dragonkin-yness something we should keep at home, or should I talk to her teachers beforehand to accommodate her transition? 

Dr. McSassy: That is an excellent question, Mrs. Fries. Here's a Good Question Sticker.

Nora: Oh! It's so pretty!

Victor: Aww, I want stickers.

Dr. McSassy: School has proven to be a tricky situation for many otherkin. The most important thing to keep in mind - and you touched on this a bit - is to make sure that at least her home life is stable. Another tactic I have successfully implemented with other dragonkin is to have actors hired to act as peasantry outside the school, so if Sara needs to terrorize a small village to blow off some steam she is more than able to. I actually have an actor in mind, he's part of a troupe that has helped my clients in the past. Have you seen Doctor Who?

Nora: He was in Doctor Who?

Dr. McSassy: No, but he does own the complete box set, so if you want to watch a season just ask.

Victor: Alright, I've had enough. Sara should be obsessing over make up and boys, not scales and knights. Are you going to help my daughter or do we need to find a new therapist?   

Dr. McSassy: I'm beginning to get a better idea of the type of environment that has nurtured Sara's dragon persona to flourish and grow. The type of hostility and almost backwaters mentality I've witnessed today is entirely unacceptable in today's progressive society.

Victor: Oh, so I'm not progressive but Sara is? She talks all the time about how much she hates Jewish people. 

Dr. McSassy: Dragons are vehemently anti-Semitic. It's intrinsic and nothing can be done to change this - very important - aspect of their personality and culture. This is common knowledge.

Nora: Victor, you are sounding like a real asshole right now.   

Victor: Y'know what? You win. Sara's a dragon. She can fly, breathe fire, the whole package. As soon as we get home, I'll watch How to Train Your Dragon for pointers. Thank you, Doctor.

Dr. McSassy: You're being facetious but that's actually a pretty good idea. Toothless is an excellent role model for many dragonkin.

Nora: Again, thank you for meeting with us, Dr. McSassy.

Dr. McSassy: My door is always open. Except when I'm not here, because that would be silly. Now, if you'll excuse me my 12 o'clock should be here soon. I've been trying to convince her for the better part of a year that margarine isn't butter.

Woman in Waiting Room: You lie!