Tempin' Ain't Easy

Grating Papers

2009-06-09T07:26:00.000-07:00

Recently, I read a magazine article about how english teachers are on the front lines of preventing school shootings because warning signs of violence are often embedded in the creative writing assignments of troubled students. At first, I felt sorry for english teachers. Not only is the dagger of your own failed literary aspirations twisted with the reading of each melodramatic, sophomoric student essay (How's that for metaphor, Mrs. Brown?), now you have to be on the lookout of for the next Columbine? Those assholes in the history and math departments don't have to put up with this crap.

Talking to some of my friends who are teachers, I learned that those assholes in other subjects do have to put up with this crap; it's just much less obvious. Luckily, those teachers were kind enough to pass along some examples of such troubling homework. See if you can spot the subtle red flags.

Math:
The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. When expressed in equation form, the theorm is typically written as A squared + B squared equals C that justice is leveled against the corrupt, the wicked...and also the football players.

History:
Some authors draw a distinction between the Founding Fathers of the United States of America, who signed the Declaration of Independence, and the Framers, who drafted the United States Constitution to replace the Articles of Confederation. George Washington was considered the dominant figure in both the framers and founding fathers and as is typical of any father, he took enormous strides to act like a giant dickwad and failed to ever find the time to take his son, America, fishing.

If you have access to any similar "examples", please paste them in the comments section.

A Load of Bull

2009-04-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

I recently accomplished, at the age of 26, what few mortals are able to achieve in a lifetime: being thrown from the back of merciless, raging beast that has claimed too many lives to document…a mechanical bull. A fire to conquer such a creature has been burning in my loins ever since that fateful birthday when a car load of friends and I searched in vain for the only habitat in the St. Louis area hospitable enough for such a species to survive…and stud. Sadly, we discovered the once lush plains where mechanical bulls had grazed for centuries (i.e., a country-western mega-bar located in a strip mall deep into St. Charles County) had been wrought by over-development (i.e., folded to due to poor business practices).

I had mentioned this disappointment casually to my girlfriend; careful not to disclose the full extent of my pain. Luckily, she recognized the thinly veiled devastation and quietly yet dutifully kept watch for opportunities right this catastrophic wrong. Then a few weeks ago, in a tone of voice a doctor uses to describe terminally ill patient’s full yet unexplained recovery, she said “There’s going to be a mechanical bull at some bar in D.C.”

Choked up and fighting back tears, I whispered, “The time for victory is upon us.”

The window of opportunity was narrow. Le Bull had a one night engagement at the local McFadden's; a chain bar world-renowned for their inattentive wait staff, skanky girls and hip-hop remixes of "Devil Went down to Georgia." This particular franchise was located in the heart of Catholic academia, George Washington University’s campus, and also featured an inattentive wait staff, skanky girls with rosaries and hip hop remixes of "The Lord’s Prayer.”

Upon entering, we were immediately struck by the abundance of cowboy hats and girls dancing on the bar while wearing what, in terms of square footage, would barely qualify as potholders. Naturally, I assumed that a film crew was shooting b-roll for the upcoming Coyote Ugly sequel ("Coyote Uglier?") and scolded myself for neglecting to wear my nice chaps…and then congratulated my friend Brad for not repeating my mistake.

Just because Brad and I chose to express ourselves with our shirts off didn't mean we appreciated being objectified.

According to their email blast, the bar’s $20 cover charge would grant patrons access to an open bar until 11pm. Or if you were a lightweight (I’m looking at you Brad), you could pay $5 and pay standard fare for drinks. Assuming I could easily consume $40worth of beer in just over 2 hours, I opted for the former. But by minute 17 of trying to flag down a bar tender, the evil genius ofthe bar's business plan became clear and I was reminded of my least favorite bible verse: it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a man to order a fucking drink at McFadden’s." (Matthew 19:23)

I won’t deny that being a guy affords me a lot of undeserving privileges in life, (generally higher pay, a leg up in an entrenched paternalistic society, relatively short grooming rituals) but getting the attention of a straight male bartender is not one of them. That’s why I prefer gay bars where my batting eye lashes and opened shirts aren’t completely ineffective in getting daddy a mimosa.

Eventually, we wrangled some longnecks and proceeded to the riding area where we stood in awe as cowpoke after cowpoke were humbled before the bull. Supposedly, there was a cash prize for longest ride. This was hard to believe because a) no one appeared to be timing the riders b) the guy controlling the bull (aka: the bull master) was clearly biased. Basically, he could buck the rider whenever he pleased. All he had to do was whip the bull’s axis and, within a couple quarter turns, the strongest of riders would be reduced to a defeated pile of skin, bones and axe body spray. Make the no mistake; he’d generally make it fun for the rider -- rocking the bull back and forth, up and down to provide a challenging but enjoyable experience for a reasonable amount of time. But in the interests of his own amusement and depending on whether there was a hot girl next in line, he would usually buck the rider within 10-20 seconds.

It was particularly amusing when an attractive girl would ride. The hotter the girl, the more the cadence of the bull’s bucking and thrusting would most graphically resemble intercourse (weird?!) and prompt throngs of onlookers to yell “Arch your back!” Naturally, attractive girls tended to ride longer and it was always obvious which ladies the bull master considered the hottest because he would bite his lower lip and cover his crotch with his Trapper Keeper.

I ended up riding twice. The first time wasn’t recorded because I wrongly assumed there would be a sizable line preventing me from immediately signing up. There wasn’t and, though I rode for fair amount of time, I ended up getting bucked before my girlfriend could snap a photo. Not content to let one of the top three moments in my life to go undocumented, I returned to the line with bated breath. This time however, the bull master recognized me from earlier and immediately began to punish me with violent spins typically reserved for only the most douchey riders. I suppose if the shoehorn fits…

You Look Delicious

2009-03-04T12:41:00.001-08:00

Apparently, edible clothing is all the rage...and I can't stop thinking about it. Here's what's been eating me for the last couple of days:

- As an edible clothing retailer, it seems most profitable to follow the common business practice of selling smaller items at seemingly lower cost but ultimately at a higher profit margin per square inch. For example, an edible hat might cost a consumer $20 (roughly $.50 per square unit of edible fabric) and a shirt might cost $80 (approximately $.40 per square inch). Though the customer pays $60 extra for the shirt, they're getting more food/clothing for their dollar while the store enjoys a higher gross profit.

- A savvy consumer might recognize this superior value of larger pieces of clothing and shell out the extra cash knowing they can eat their way to whatever smaller garment(s) they desire. Obviously there are limitations specific to each garment, but a hungry person could easily nibble a pair of slacks into some tasteful (zing!) chaps or capri pants. For their money, a shopper's best buy is surely a wet suit. Since it covers your entire body, it could easily be eaten into whatever apparel needed: sweater, tank top, board shorts, whatever. The flexibility is certainly worth paying a premium.

- Despite any the monetary value of the attire, its real cost must be calculated to include the fact that no sane person would wear an edible garment more than once and certainly not eat the clothing after use. For sanitary and psychological reasons, it's difficult to believe that food can possibly be enjoyed after rubbing against a person's figurative "buns", "pits" or "bacon strip" for any amount of time. Those who invoke the 5 second rule are being unrealistic considering most clothing takes at least 5 seconds to put on.

We're dining on Jordache and Playtex.

- Washing the garment presents further challenges. Using a traditional washing machine would effectively transform it into a giant pot of stew (which can be good or bad depending on whether you're hungry for stew). Even if it did survive the wash, drying is even more complicated. Machine drying would turn your dryer into an oven and prevent you from ever doing laundry without making your clothes reek of jerky, quiche or whatever fabric your shirt is made of. Though advocates of edible clothing will argue that the threat of clothes smelling like food is a moot point, I'd counter that most people would prefer a choice in the matter. Air drying is an option, but would certainly attract invite unwanted critters and/or malnourished children eager for a snack. Who wants that?

~

Other thoughts worth considering before choosing to wear edible clothes:

- You’ll never need to salt your food.

- Your credibility when complaining about hair in your food will be greatly diminished

- Depending on how well it’s cooked, the sticking properties of a “Spaghetti strap dress” could remove the need for a brassiere.

I Suck At Talking

2009-02-17T21:15:00.000-08:00

As a poorly adjusted, easily flustered person, I have a tendency to leave out entire words and phrases when speaking. These aren't minor oversights like omitting a throw-away article or adjective. I’m referring to important sentence components vital to the idea I’m trying to express. The best example came a few years ago while attempting to describe a concert experience to my girlfriend.

Here’s what my brain was attempting to say:
"Last summer, me and Kevin went to this outdoor music festival. It was great but we were so tired by the end of the day, all we wanted was to soak in a hot tub. That would’ve felt SO GOOD!

And this is what my mouth actually shat out:
"Last summer, me and Kevin…hot tub…SO GOOD!

While this verbal mishap didn’t produce any serious consequences (other than merciless teasing that continues to this day), I’m horrified that this tic is going to rear itself during a really important conversations that include but are not limited to:
- Legal depositions
- Job Interviews
- Marriage Proposals
- Obituaries

God forbid the day when I decide to get married and ask my girlfriend’s parents for permission to wed their child.

This:
“I love your daughter very much and with the blessing of you and your wife, it would be my sincere honor to drop to my knees and ask her to make me the happiest man on earth.”

will come out as:
“ I love …your wife…honor…knees….make me…the…man”
or
“Your daughter….blessing…your…would…on…earth…SO GOOD!”

The Nation's Best Public Transportation System

2008-12-12T08:02:00.000-08:00

While riding on the Metro recently, I was pained to discover that my forearm had produced an enormous whitehead resembling a tablespoon of elmer's glue. Simaltaneously proud and ashamed this dormant yet grumbling volcano, I pondered with horror and fascination how an absurdly large pimple could go unnoticed for so long.

Most reasonable people might discreetly conceal the blemish with a plausible cover: coat, ipod, a fig leaf. Unfourtately, I fell victim to a mysterious logic that somehow convinced me that it would be less embarrassing to immediately extinguish the zit while in plain sight of anyone watching rather than roll down my sleave and wait until I got home.

With a sense of purpose and urgency, I pounced on the blemish with the wicked delight of a neglected housewife sufficating her rich, bed-ridden husband.
But as the ruby, white puss splattered against the seat in what looked like cover art for a White Stripes album, l felt a deep sense of remorse. Despite years of deluding myself that I was mature, wise young man, I solemnly conceded that I was indeed that "that guy who pops arm zits on the subway." Shamed, my eyes quickly scanned the car to confirm whether anyone witnesses my crime.

That's when I saw a girl blowing a guy.

That's right. Not more than 20 feet away, a teenage girl, barely concealed behind a short wall and plane of slightly tinted glass, was chomping on her boyfriends genitals like a homeless man devouring a $50 steak.

At least that's what it looked like from my vantage point. To be fair, all I could see was the back of the girl's head bobbing up down from behind the short wall. However, the young man's expression seemed to confirm my suspicions; his euphoric gaze, head alternately tilting back with his eyes closed and then looking down smugly at the beautiful sacrifice being put forth by his lady...yeah, this guy was getting his shit sucked.

Suddenly, my embarrassment was put into perspective. Here I was, worried that someone might have witnessed me waste a few seconds by pinching my skin to expel some harmless white puss. Whereas, this girl was clearly straining her back and neck (those seats hurt to sit in normally, let alone ....) for who knows how long; demonstrating her undying affection for her love, undeterred in her conviction that this blowjob could not wait until they could go somewhere more private/romantic like a public restroom or roommate's living room futon.

What better place than here? What better time than now?

Carpe Diem, my friends. Carpe Diem.

Running list of bad, politically-themed pickup lines

2008-09-12T09:00:00.000-07:00

1: Do you subscribe to Reagan Economics? Because I want to trickle down all over you.
2: Do you support the surge? Would you like to?
3: You're not the only frustrated person in a blue state.

Change I Deserve?

2008-06-23T23:36:00.001-07:00

Ingesting a regimen of anti-depressants strong enough to kill a racehorse everyday for 6 years is bound to create dependency issues. It's also expensive. So, out of apparent emotional and financial necessity, moving to D.C. was partly an effort to rid myself of this chemical deadweight.

After 8 months of gradually reducing dosage amounts (with permission of a medical professional), I'm happy/horrified to announce that I've successfully waned myself free of a former 300mg/per day habit of a drug that shares it's slogan with the GOP.

And it sucks.

If you thought I was moody before, my current emotional state makes my previous-self look like a fucking Osmond. The last 4 weeks especially have required a Hureclean effort to function normally while cleansing my inards of the final 37.5mg per day. The more "free" I become of the medication, the more my mental state resembles erratic emotional rollercoaster ride with soaring peaks (jubilation that our office got a new coffee maker!) to deep, deep valleys (uncontrollable sobbing triggered by hokey Mastercard commercials.:( )

Coincidently, the same month the new incredible hulk movie opened in theaters, a real-life, seemingly mild-mannered man was released on the streets of our nation's capital who, at the slightest provocation, transforms into a ruthless, monotone killing machine. Me.

You wouldn't like me when I'm cranky.

On Thursday, for example, I provoked a completely unnecessary and nearly violent altercation with a stranger on the subway. Exiting a DC Metro gate involves inserting your fare card in one slot and waiting for it to reappear out of a different nearby slot. Only after the patron removes the card from the second slot does the gate open and allow the individual to pass through. Or, if you don't prefer to live like a caveman, you can obtain a credit card-like pass that will open the gate with a simple wave over a sensor.

Because the exits at DC Metro stations are designed much like cattle yards and include long, narrow shoots at which far too many time-pressed individuals try to cram into at once, after-work crowds tend to "bottleneck" while trying to exit. Anytime a gate doesn't open (due to personal error or otherwise) that person has to turn around, apologetically navigate through an impatient crowd that has assembled behind them and seek out a station manager.

Minor delays at the metro exits my not seem like that big of a deal, but trust me, if you've had a long day, you have to be somewhere and you've just ridded your body of medication designed specifically to make you feel good, your ability to choose your battles dwindles significantly.

The gentleman in front of me had inserted his card in the first slot but failed to remove it from the second. Despite forgetting his card, he somehow managed to squeeze through the gates just as they were closing from the patron in front of him. Because his card was still waiting in the slot, it prevented my swipecard from working.

It's was an honest mistake and most reasonable folks would wait patiently for the gentleman to retrieve his card. Or, if they were really nice, might even hand it to him across the gate, you know, as an act of "teamwork" and/or "goodwill."

On this afternoon, I was not one of those folks. Instinctively, I snatched the card and dismissively flung it frisbee-style in his general direction. Not surprisingly, the piece of cardboard almost boomeranged back towards me as it spiraled down to floor; clearly causing further delay and making matters worse

"Thanks for throwing my card!," he hissed sarcastically.

Without missing a beat, I snarled, "Thanks for taking it in the first place, asshole!"

While I made full "chest-puffing-you-want-to-go-motherfucker-eye-contact " during this initial exchange, I quickly realized the gravity of my dickishness as I glanced down to wave my card over the sensor. Being too proud to apologize but too sheepish to continue eye contact, I looked straight ahead as I exited the gate. Out of my peripheral, it was clear the gentleman was staring me down and calculating how hard he was going to kick my ass. Luckily, we parted ways towards different escalators before he could act on his intentions and thus allowed to escape certain embarrassment and/or hospital visit(s).

Clearly, I was at fault for the incident and while my lack of medication influenced my behavior, it doesn't excuse it. So, if he's reading, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to that asshole (I didn't catch his name) who forgot to take his card and also express my deep remorse for acting like such a monumental douchebag.

Any takers?

2008-05-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

It's difficult to pinpoint why this movie poster made me laugh so hard...but it did.

Rents are due on the 19th

2008-04-19T22:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently, the girl I have been dating has these "parents" who, for some unbeknownst reason, decided to spend an entire god-damned weekend visiting their "precious little girl." Translation = I will be sharing a meal(s) with said parents and my special lady friend.

All kidding aside, I'm actually looking forward to meeting her folks but still feel slightly nervous. Many of you are well aware of my ability to turn the most pleasant conversation into a remarkably awkward and eerily quiet nightmare. In anticipation of any potential uncomfortable silences, I've made a cheat-sheet of backup conversation starters:

- "If you want to see you daughter again, put $100 worth of unmarked pennies in this gym sock, turn around and walk away .... are you going to finish your homefries?"

- "Does vaginal dryness skip a generation?"

- "My water just broke."

- "You have your mother's tounge."

- "I'm keeping the baby."

Rejected Titles for this Blog

2008-04-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

www.BitchesGetStitches.gov
www.FromTheFilesOfJackson'sLaughTop.net
www.Jackson.Jacksoff.com
www.ThisIsRemarkablySimilarToJackson'sShittyMyspaceBlog.blogspot.com

Condumbs

2008-03-31T13:53:00.000-07:00

The only thing more awkward than putting on a condom is buying them in bulk. While both tasks are necessary evils, one would assume that each practice would grow less awkward and embarrassing as the said condom wearer grows in age and maturity. I learned recently that while the speed and dexterity I’ve developed to don a sheath has come to rival the fastest gunslingers, purchasing these baby-shields continues to involve some inevitable yet unforeseen bullshit.

Over the weekend, I went to a grocery store to purchase two crucial ingredients of my social life: beer and condoms. What should have been a 5 minute excursion, turned into long, grueling ordeal as I frantically paced two health and beauty aisles (or "booty asiles" perhaps?) for nearly 30 minutes. Finally, it occurred to me that the prophylactics were sold in the pharmacy area, which also happened to be chained off. Luckily, the condoms were inches from the chain link curtain and could easily be snatched by through the gaps in the metal.

However, the fact that the merchandise was under lock and key (sort of) and surrounded by security cameras suggested they were off limits to customers. Sure, they were in plain sight and could be easily reached but it seemed uncomfortably likely that the moment my fingernail exceeded the plane of the metal curtain, a series of loud alarms would sound and my hand would be ensnared in the equivalent of one of those cartoon bear traps. Even if no sirens flashed, the security footage would look suspiciously like 16 year-old in a hoodie trying to steal a Lifestyles Her-Pleasure Variety pack because he was too embarrassed to buy them.

So, I was at a crossroads: I had plans with a special lady and it was crucial that I procure these protective sheaths soon. . . but at what cost? Being arrested for shoplifting would jeopardize my chances of getting laid nearly as much as attempting to "slip it by her" without a condom. What the hell was I going to do? Finally, when I realized that fathering a child would only be slightly more embarrassing than explaining how "I was totally planning to pay for them, officer." I said to myself, ’Fuck it, I’m going to chance it.’

My hand inched towards the johnnies, carefully avoiding the metal links as if I was playing "Operation." And then suddenly with almost disappointing success, I liberated the condoms from the clutches of the Pharmacy section . . . and nothing happened. No alarms, no bear traps, no officers. The coast was clear. All I had to do was find a cashier, pay and get the hell out.

With a spring in my step, I grabbed some beer and glided towards an available register. The cashier was particularly friendly fellow with an effeminate voice. He didn’t notice the condoms at first and upon discovering them, he flirtatiously gushed, "Ooh, condoms and PBR? Well, Friday night is the night to party!"

I tend to blush when I buy something as mundane as scented soap, so you may imagine how red I can get when purchasing more intimate items; throw in a well-meaning but sexually coy cashier, the tryst with the store’s security system and the fact that the cashier kept winking at me and suddenly "flustered" becomes a criminal understatement. I felt like saying, ’Hey man, I’m really flattered but they do say ’HER pleasure.’ Instead, I just laughed nervously and flashed the devil horns.

Because I frequent this grocery store often, I have a membership card that, when scanned, automatically applies any discounts for on-sale items. Because I was only purchasing two items, it didn’t occur to me to produce the discount card until the cashier asked for it. Skeptically, I handed it over. To my astonishment, a full $6.25 was subtracted from the $13 box of condoms. I was ecstatic. Normally, this perk fetched a paltry $.75 off my $35-50 grocery bill. I was gleeful to discover such a large of percentage of my total was subtracted and, for a brief joyous moment, all of the previous hassle seemed 100% worth it.

Then I became horrified. Why was this grocery store selling condoms for half-price? Normally, businesses don’t offer those kind of discounts unless the merchandise is ancient or damaged and they’re trying to make shelf space. If this were the case, it was particularly troubling because it’s, well, birth-control.

Many couples have discovered that older condoms tend to fail. If you’ve never experienced a breakage first-hand, it’s essentially the best feeling ever (climaxing in the most intimate environment; with no barriers to separate you and your partner) followed by the worst feeling ever (realizing the reason it felt so good was because you used a defective, brittle sheath that broke at some point during the previous 2 minutes).

While day-after pills are offer an enormous amount of security, they are not a guarantee and a certain amount of anxiety still lingers while waiting for confirmation that you’re not going to be a father. Oddly, when the news does arrive, you find yourself cheering the sound of a phrase that you’ve otherwise come to dread hearing from your partner: "I started my period."

Closer examination of my purchase revealed that the expiration date was still months away and since there was no evidence of tampering with the package (no pun intended . . . oh, who am I kidding?) I got the fuck out of that store. As far as whether I’ll be a daddy, I’ll let you know sometime in the next 4 weeks.

You can't shit a shitter

2008-02-04T13:56:00.000-08:00

Below is a remarkably absurd email exchange between a former roommate and myself. Some prior knowledge about how much we hate each other is helpful but not required. It also helps clarify some confusion if you've personally witnessed the horror of 2girls1cup.com

Don't worry, Atieno is not her real name. It's Jennifer.

I'll concede that, if made by anyone else, this would be a reasonable request. But this woman is by far the most spoiled, manipulative, self-entitled person to have roamed the earth. The only reason I attended her fucking gratitude party was because there was free booze and I didn't feel like being prisoner in my own room. It should also be noted that the party happened in November, 1 month before Atieno moved out and nearly 3 months before sending the email.

Basically, her request seemed like a trite and desperate attempt to retain control over a small aspect of her miserable existence.

If you can't tell, my response was extremely sarcastic. Atieno is actually a painter and I was trying to get under her artistic skin just enough to persuade her to watch the video and commit those "disgusting images" to her own memory.

I'd be lying if I said that having those spelling errors shoved back in my face didn't sting. It took every ounce of strength to write back an emotionally measured response:

By now, I figured this little spat had run its course. We were both acting incredibly immature for our ages. Though to be fair, I'm not a 35 year-old, single woman with a marriage-complex on the cusp of a mid-life crisis. I'm 25.

Anyway, I thought the feud was over until another roommate showed me this message authored by Atieno.

There are a few points of interest to consider from the above response.

- Atieno's decision to forward our exchange to my current roommates, but not me, suggests she was attempting to "out" me as some sort of sick pervert. She didn't realize that I had already shown 2girls1cup to all of the house residents who, despite finding it disgusting, didn't maintain any personal grudges.

- She included only the 1st half of our e-conversation and omitted her clever usage of my spelling errors.

- She carbon copied the message to my sister Amanda. Amanda had lived in the room I now reside in and had arranged for me to take her place upon moving out. Amanda and Atieno also HATE each other and barely spoke the last 8 weeks they lived together. Not surprisingly, Atieno transferred every ounce of contempt she harbored for my sister onto yours truly.

This is pure speculation, but these points have led me to the following conclusion:
- Atieno gave into temptation and actually watched the 2girls1cup video and thus experienced all of its horror first-hand.

-This enraged her because, not only did she now have those revolting images in her head (Success!), she had caved in after self-righteously implying that she was above watching the video.

- Because further chastising me with the slightest reference to the video would reveal her inferior will power, she attempted to "out" me as a sicko to my roommates and family as an act of revenge. She omitted the 2nd half of the exchange to give the appearance that she was taking the moral high-ground.

Although the evidence supports my theory, it has not been proven. All I can do is hope, pray and beg that it's true . . .and pen this response:

The black boxes make it difficult to deduce that in addition to "accidentally" forwarding the message to Atieno, I included our entire unedited exchange in the response. I also sent the note to all of my roommates and to all three of my sister's email accounts. If anybody is going to creep out my kin, it's going to be me.

You may also notice the gross misspelling of numerous words (including my own name). If Atieno is going to use my poor grammar and spelling against me, she'll have to earn it. She hasn't responded since.

I have far too much spare time.