Sunday, March 25, 2012
My Book: One Week's Vacation
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Mr. Nice Guy
The Mr. Nice Guys of this world wish they could be assholes, myself included. They want nothing more than to be smooth talkers with a heart of courage like heroes of the silver screen Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, and even that fuck of a stick Michael Cera. But the bottom line is Cera has seen more fuzzy clam than Spongebob Fucking Squarepants. It's harder these days to gauge a woman's interest seeing as how the glove has slipped to the other hand.
No longer are woman weak and powerless, they have discovered the Pandora's Box that lies between their legs and are quick to use it. Men have become the submissive.
Distinguishing who wears the pants is key.
You see, the man holding the woman's purse while she's trying on a dress, he's the bitch.
The man checking out the register girls ass while his girlfriend is standing next to him basking her retina into the latest line of celebrity endorsed fashion-ware, is still the bitch. He just doesn't know it yet.
Now that modern social precedence has been explained, back to the topic at hand.
On the sidelines always awaits for Mr. Nice Guy the friend zone, a rather unique play. Majority of those stuck on this bench await that single solitary moment when they can get into the game and go for a touchdown. But need I remind you? This is Mr. Nice Guy. He's going to miss every pass he gets, await another possible yard, fumble, and wind up back at the zero yard line. There is no winning here, and if there is it's after years and years and years of the "golden girl" fucking 30 other guys and realizing none of them could understand her quite like you.
By this time it's too late, she's a sagging old whore who no one wants to fuck. Meanwhile the nice guy friend has probably shackled down with the first girl he gave the ole' 2 pump finish too. Settled down at age 30, tired of waiting for the one he still contemplates how it would be if he got the girl.
But as Olive Penderghast (Easy A) says, " John Hughes did not direct my life." For you social retards who have no idea who John Hughes is, pick up a book and smash yourself in the face with it very hard.
It's a real rarity to have that Hollywood ending in real life.
So if you feel the reigns of opportunity pulling at your heart, ride the mother fucker into the sunset and get what you want. Stop being the cliche' Mr. Nice Guy and become a risk taker. Even if you fail, at least you can rot away the rest of this life with the satisfaction of knowing you tried.
Failure is my best friend, have you met him? Cause I'm sure in some way he's yours too.
But the only difference is I'm still living life, moving forward. No where near the shadows.
No longer are woman weak and powerless, they have discovered the Pandora's Box that lies between their legs and are quick to use it. Men have become the submissive.
Distinguishing who wears the pants is key.
You see, the man holding the woman's purse while she's trying on a dress, he's the bitch.
The man checking out the register girls ass while his girlfriend is standing next to him basking her retina into the latest line of celebrity endorsed fashion-ware, is still the bitch. He just doesn't know it yet.
Now that modern social precedence has been explained, back to the topic at hand.
On the sidelines always awaits for Mr. Nice Guy the friend zone, a rather unique play. Majority of those stuck on this bench await that single solitary moment when they can get into the game and go for a touchdown. But need I remind you? This is Mr. Nice Guy. He's going to miss every pass he gets, await another possible yard, fumble, and wind up back at the zero yard line. There is no winning here, and if there is it's after years and years and years of the "golden girl" fucking 30 other guys and realizing none of them could understand her quite like you.
By this time it's too late, she's a sagging old whore who no one wants to fuck. Meanwhile the nice guy friend has probably shackled down with the first girl he gave the ole' 2 pump finish too. Settled down at age 30, tired of waiting for the one he still contemplates how it would be if he got the girl.
But as Olive Penderghast (Easy A) says, " John Hughes did not direct my life." For you social retards who have no idea who John Hughes is, pick up a book and smash yourself in the face with it very hard.
It's a real rarity to have that Hollywood ending in real life.
So if you feel the reigns of opportunity pulling at your heart, ride the mother fucker into the sunset and get what you want. Stop being the cliche' Mr. Nice Guy and become a risk taker. Even if you fail, at least you can rot away the rest of this life with the satisfaction of knowing you tried.
Failure is my best friend, have you met him? Cause I'm sure in some way he's yours too.
But the only difference is I'm still living life, moving forward. No where near the shadows.
Friday, March 23, 2012
As the Merry-Goes-Round
Day after day I witness a smileless populace. The look of panic, emptiness, and deep struggling thoughts wash the faces of these people into a dry erase board. "Paint on emotions and try to make it through the day" is the mantra of the morning sun. Choose which shade of blue will decorate you. Tend to life's green garden for it's always greener on the other side. But this other side doesn't exist here, it's over the great barrier.
The boxing match between mind and reality has seen it's twinkling stars, black eyes, and vibrations of a Ting that spear through these eyes like a javelin landing directly on the medulla oblongata. One small step for man, one giant leap for the pessimist.
Hear ye' hear ye, give us your strong, your weak, your poor, your poorer, your gay, your crack addicted, paint huffing, whore of a pension and we will grant you a worthwhile nirvana for the span of ten years. Or maybe just trick you with a smile and say, "Only in America."
The boxing match between mind and reality has seen it's twinkling stars, black eyes, and vibrations of a Ting that spear through these eyes like a javelin landing directly on the medulla oblongata. One small step for man, one giant leap for the pessimist.
Hear ye' hear ye, give us your strong, your weak, your poor, your poorer, your gay, your crack addicted, paint huffing, whore of a pension and we will grant you a worthwhile nirvana for the span of ten years. Or maybe just trick you with a smile and say, "Only in America."
Thursday, March 22, 2012
And So We Begin.
New Jersey is my muse. In some sick sadistic fashion whenever I leave I always want to come back. Similar to the idea of returning to the scene of a crime, this state is my addiction. There's a certain appeal connected to a town I live in called Voorhees. Is it the soft rolls of the double o's and e's, or maybe the similarity with horror classic icon Jason Voorhees of Friday The 13th? In actuality, neither. It's odd since the only real connections I have here are my discoveries of marijuana, skateboarding, and pornography. There's no appeal about it other than being the epicenter of the epicenter of another cultural revolution, or shall I say downfall.
Jersey blew up on the map via MTV's so-called reality TV show The Jersey Shore, which portrays douche-bag guidos and guidettes basking in the limelight of reoccuring drunken friday night drama.
It's to my generation I show pity upon for their unnecessary relation to such bland "superstars," for stupidity adorned a new wardrobe.
Some may blame the downfall of society on an albino cum guzzling rap artist making dick and fart jokes, but the steady decline inched closer as moral decay started to show it's yellow, stained and chipped teeth on the 6 o'clock news.
Life altering events became shadows in the backdrop of celebrity gossip as we adapted those details into our lives. We then craved the drama of television to stop being a vicarious stooge and become one with our existence. The keyword to a healthy relationship: Drama.
Text messaging leapt up into the mouths of babes and tapped 6 6 6 in our soul. We became a Helen Keller clan, with the sight thing going good for them of course. But there is no tounge in the mouth of society anymore, only an empty dial tone that died out somewhere between 9/11 and Katrina.
These chain reactions set true the marching orders across the land.
Perhaps the last remaining domino that set everything into effect for the past 10+ years fell with the debut of reality television. The necessity of seeing not doing, wishing but not attaining, lying down and letting life's evil dick penetrate the empty, cavernous steeple called a skull until the black carriage we all fear and loom at all hours eventually arrives. I could be wrong, but nonetheless the evidence speaks for itself.
This state of Jersey has an inability to climax with others, yet sprouts a hefty erection admiring all its' fine qualities in the mirror.
As Jerseyians we've all indoctrinated a sort of false set of appeasement and happiness.
Well Mother, happiness is a warm gun, and I do have quite a smile on my face.
Jersey blew up on the map via MTV's so-called reality TV show The Jersey Shore, which portrays douche-bag guidos and guidettes basking in the limelight of reoccuring drunken friday night drama.
It's to my generation I show pity upon for their unnecessary relation to such bland "superstars," for stupidity adorned a new wardrobe.
Some may blame the downfall of society on an albino cum guzzling rap artist making dick and fart jokes, but the steady decline inched closer as moral decay started to show it's yellow, stained and chipped teeth on the 6 o'clock news.
Life altering events became shadows in the backdrop of celebrity gossip as we adapted those details into our lives. We then craved the drama of television to stop being a vicarious stooge and become one with our existence. The keyword to a healthy relationship: Drama.
Text messaging leapt up into the mouths of babes and tapped 6 6 6 in our soul. We became a Helen Keller clan, with the sight thing going good for them of course. But there is no tounge in the mouth of society anymore, only an empty dial tone that died out somewhere between 9/11 and Katrina.
These chain reactions set true the marching orders across the land.
Perhaps the last remaining domino that set everything into effect for the past 10+ years fell with the debut of reality television. The necessity of seeing not doing, wishing but not attaining, lying down and letting life's evil dick penetrate the empty, cavernous steeple called a skull until the black carriage we all fear and loom at all hours eventually arrives. I could be wrong, but nonetheless the evidence speaks for itself.
This state of Jersey has an inability to climax with others, yet sprouts a hefty erection admiring all its' fine qualities in the mirror.
As Jerseyians we've all indoctrinated a sort of false set of appeasement and happiness.
Well Mother, happiness is a warm gun, and I do have quite a smile on my face.
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