Thursday, October 26, 2006

Flippant Reflections on College (Part Two)

Complaints 1-10 came early, now 11-20 follow. I could probably go on forever, so I'm going to stop here for the time being. Feel free to start your own complaint list! Pass it around! Nail it to the dept. chair's door! Whine until you get that 4.0!

COMPLAINT ELEVEN: The Walk of Shame is a Shame
Dudes, these girls were kind enough to let you ejaculate on, in or near them, and here they have to walk home by themselves? Be gentlemen for once in your unfortunate lives and make these ladies breakfast and drive them home. They did you a favor, now do them a favor.

COMPLAINT TWELVE: Here We Are Now, Entertain Us
Everyone drinks constantly because there's nothing else to do. I went to one of the biggest party schools on the planet, so I know. Most on-campus entertainment sucks. I don't care about jugglers with one arm or Stalinist piano players. I don't want to hear the guy who wrote a book of poetry about the Darfur Massacre on Friday night ... and I actually give a shit about politics and poetry. Your Fun Committee's idea of a good time is not my idea of a good time ... and my idea of a good time involves yuppie fucks getting arrested and smashed in the face. Your Fun Committee needs to experiment with cocaine, hire a circus and go batshit insane. Then I will start paying attention.

COMPLAINT THIRTEEN: Tuition Hell
I'm trying to figure out what I'm paying for. I do all the work, someone tells me I'm right (or wrong), and then I get a paper saying I'm right (or wrong). At least when I give a stripper in the Las Vegas $50 and she sticks her glittered-up tits in my face, she does all the work and I'm always right.

COMPLAINT FOURTEEN: Achtung, Amazon Women
Ladies, come on. I know pants and shirts cover it up, but we're going to be grownups here, and I'm going to tell you that your legs shouldn't be hairier than mine. High school girls want to look like porn stars and college girls want to look like street trash. Street trash with Lexuses and thousand dollar handbags.

COMPLAINT FIFTEEN: Major Nothing
The number of things you can major in at some universities is bewildering. If you offer Wine Making or Do-Rag Wearing, people are going to take them. I mean it. Video Game Design? Every high school male wants to go for this with dreams of making Halo. Um, are you Hideo Kojima? Do you even know who he is? Did you even pass Geometry? A student I couldn't pick out of a line-up told me she's planning on majoring in equestrianism. Like, uh, ponies? Sure, I've bet on a few, but that's not a career, Slutbiscuit. Neither is Medieval Literature or Greek Philosophy. Wake up and smell your parents' basement.

COMPLAINT SIXTEEN: Dorm Showers Kill May Flowers
The shower curtain is to keep the water from getting on the floor, not for wiping your ass with. Thank you.

COMPLAINT SEVENTEEN: Dope Haze
Apologies to friends who partake, but the characters played by Sean Penn in Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Rory Cochrane in Dazed & Confused are comic relief. That means, you're supposed to look at them and go, "What assholes!" Blockbuster Video doesn't need more like you ... really. And no, for the thousandth time, I don't want any. While you're smoking, I'm the one stealing money from your wallet.

COMPLAINT EIGHTEEN: Taste is Relative
Party People: the beers you like are trash. Coors Light, Bud Light, Keystone anything, Lord Chesterfield ... my god. Yes, I agree we all need to get wasted, so why not cut right to the quick and get some grain in this motherfuck? And turn that bass up because I can almost feel my blackness coming on.

COMPLAINT NINETEEN: Dr. Oh No
Please Professor Talks-A-Lot, help me to find the string that winds you up so I can cut it off and whip you Jesus Style. Also, I know we're all "adults" but making one night "mandatory" for the class to come over your house and eat with you and your haggard wife isn't fun: it's creepy. The 70's are long gone, hippie. Thank the Heavens something called "Tenure" exists, or else you'd be with me, teaching 17-year-olds how to count change so they can work at Wendy's and sneeze in the Frosty Machine.

COMPLAINT TWENTY: Greed
Wait, as Alumni I'm going to be hounded by you jokers for more money until my dying day? Do what I did: mail it back to them. Just mark the material (unopened) "Return to Sender." If anyone asks where you got this delightful idea, you never heard of me.

Twenty-one through one-hundred-and-fifty to come over the course of the next several decades. I came, I saw, I came again, I saw something, I need to find a Diet Coke ASAP.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Flippant Reflections on College (Part One)

I've said many times I didn't really care for "college" (the whole package) - I liked the classes but not the people (it depends on the school you go to, I believe) - so now that I'm back doing graduate studies (after years of real world experience, whatever the heck that means nowadays), it forces me to reflect on what is so terribly wrong with college ... and I was right all along: it's mostly the other people.

COMPLAINT ONE: Group Work Is a Cop-Out
Take it from someone who knows. The teacher gets out of teaching, leaving the class to ultimately teach itself. And what happens within the groups? The work is never spread out equally (there's always a slacker or three), the students argue over the work, there's never a set 'leader' and the final project is almost always sloppy. The actual class presentation is so dull and droning I want to take everyone in the group and light their Birkenstocks on fire to entertain myself.

COMPLAINT TWO: Girls In Class Look Like Shit
No make-up, track pants, wet hair and a stinky t-shirt? Not acceptable. Get a few quarters and wash things. I'm trying to fantasize about you spread eagle on my bed coated in butterscotch being choked by a necktie and the bags under your eyes are a distraction.

COMPLAINT THREE: Grow a Personality
College kids are only funny when they're drunk. Beer in plastic cups should not make you a comedian. Every day is not a trial - chances are your parents are paying for this joy ride you call a Bachelor's Degree. If you can't sleep, try a sleeping pill. If one doesn't work, swallow the whole box. In the morning, drink coffee, shoot up bug juice, masturbate to Animal Planet, whatever floats your tug boat. Smile. Because it gets worse a little later on.

COMPLAINT FOUR: Stop Faking Suicide
I interviewed for a job at the campus Psych clinic and I can't believe how pathetically emo a lot of these kids are. Stop making a scene. You should have sorted that shit out in high school, drama queen. Maybe that guy doesn't like you because you actually do have a head shaped like a banana. Maybe that girl doesn't like you because you don't wear the right clothes. Maybe you like eating pillows and get turned on by cigarette burns on your nipples. Remember those commercials with the butterfly or the teardrop and the magical happy pills? Those pills are begging to float inside your brains. Don't take them with grapefruit juice.

COMPLAINT FIVE: Hang Up
Why is it that after every class everyone whips out their cell phones to notify their friends they're getting out of class? Your campus is five feet long, can't you just use your meaty thighs and WALK to the other person? No wonder there's such a thing called the Freshman 15. Your ass shouldn't suck canal water: do something about the blubber. Also Verizon called back: they don't need any more of your parents' money.

COMPLAINT SIX: Greek Bullshit
ATTENTION: You are paying for your friends. Just because you live in a filth trap with twenty-six people who dress and act just like you doesn't mean you're important. It means I'm stepping in pools of beer sludge every three feet and smelling dog poop in the kitchen. If you want to live like a wino, save everyone a little time, grab a cardboard box, some MD 20/20 and piss on yourself. There! Alpha Gamma Epsilon Omega Weapon!

COMPLAINT SEVEN: The School Newspaper Is Crap
You people write like the idiots who are employed by trashpapers like the Morning Call, i.e. like people trying to earn a paycheck before going to a bar and doing twelve shots of Jim Beam. Also, the cartoon looks like it was drawn by someone with Parkinson's - you are not Charles Schultz, you are not subversive and nobody understand you. Stick to doodling the AC/DC logo in the back of your notebooks.

COMPLAINT EIGHT: You are the Fat Chick
Please stop getting in the way of everyone trying to talk to the Hot Chick. Maxim told you this a thousand times, now Matt's telling you. Just focus on graduating in five years, then getting a job, then marrying a banker, then getting lipo. Done.

COMPLAINT NINE: Superminds
This is to those who don't do any class work, don't turn in papers on time, don't go to class and get better grades than me: I don't know who you have incriminating photos of (or what's in that mind of yours), but gimme gimme gimme a clue. Please?

COMPLAINT TEN: T.A.s Are Horny
Stop trying to fuck every 18-year-old in class and pay attention when I tell you I'm present because you keep marking me absent. Oh, and please remind me of this if I ever become a T.A.

More complaints will follow whenever I dig myself out of this mass of literature that threatens to smother me in my sleep.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Receiving Gifts From Marlon Brando

Normally I don't try to think too much about my dreams - there are usually a lot of people getting massacred and bleeding sores and midgets - but just last night I had a dream in which a female postal employee came up to my front door and handed me a box of Mallomars and told me Marlon Brando sent them. The instant I looked up, she vanished. After taking the Mallomars I decided to go on a Ferris Wheel ride because that's what happened to be planted in my living room. I don't remember what happens next, but it probably had something to do with waves of violence and misery.

Upon awaking, all I could think about were Mallomars. I have never eaten a Mallomar or anything resembling a Mallomar in my life, so I decided my Mission For The Day was to purchase a box. I mean, when Marlon fucking Brando mails your subconscious a box of treats, that means something. I think it means Marlon Brando wants to clog my arteries with lard.

Today, after searching several poorly-stocked grocery stores, I failed to unearth a single box of Mallomars. Apparently Brando has gone from Ghost Form to Human Form and is ravaging the local stores for their chocolate and marshmallow and graham cracker treats. The stores were not out of butter, however, which happens to be what he asks the busty Maria Schneider to smear inside a certain orifice in Last Tango in Paris, but that's undoubtedly another dream for another night.

Monday, July 10, 2006

The Perks of Being Completely Broke and Homeless

Believe it or not, having no money and being homeless isn't as bad as you might imagine. Consider the following:

1. Pity sex. There are homeless dudes, right? But there are also homeless chicks ... right? And homeless chicks need dudes sometimes. Are you following me? There ain't much to do outside, either. Watching squirrels fuck only gives you dirty ideas.

2. Free food. Wasteful Americans throw out good quality food all the time. Hell, I throw out chunks of filet mignon regularly. So instead of paying high prices for delicious food, why not rifle through a garbage pail? You're destitute, not a caveman: use fire and cook that shit. Leftovers? Yummertime.

3. Nobody blames you for anything. Global warming? Not your deal. Terrible education for children? Your kids disowned you. Kim Jong-Il firing rockets into an L.A. Starbucks? Who's this King Wong Dill you speak of ... and isn't he in the Wu-Tang Clan?

4. Nobody expects anything from you. If a woman has a heart attack in front of you, you can't be expected to call 9-1-1 because you don't have a cell phone plan because you don't have money. Watch her die while eating the burnt filet mignon I talked about earlier.

5. Everyone's trying to help you. The government talks about how it needs to give money and jobs to the homeless. People win Nobel Prizes trying build you homes. God-fearing Christians pretend to love you so long as you don't stink up their living room. Weirdo filmmakers want you to fight other bums and sell the DVDs. The world is full of possibilities.

6. You get to hone your street-corner musician skills. Always wanted to be Dylan but didn't have the songwriting ability? Now all you need is an acoustic guitar with all its strings, a few licks and you'll be getting change in no time! Hell, that douche bag Jewel lived in a van and she acts like she survived in the Amazon for six years - and she sucks as a poet - so you have to be able to write *something* about your bum experience. The pavement hurts / my toes have warts / I just dookied in my shorts. There. I got you started.

7. You get to hone your street-corner madman skills. Composure and elegance are SO 17th Century. Vomiting on things, smoking the remains of cigarettes people have just spit out of their mouths, pissing in garbage cans and screaming incoherently are just the beginning. If you get really good, hitchhike to Hollywood, make sure you wear your Bum Attire and claim you're "Method." Or start painting and call yourself an "Outsider Artist." Très avant-garde!

8. No bands on MySpace try to add you. (This is self-explanatory.)

9. God talks to you. He doesn't talk to the Pope, Priests, Cardinals, lawyers, doctors, Roma Downey, Osama bin Laden (they play phone tag), televangelists, politicians or scientists. It's just you and President Bush. What's that Lord? Do a whole lot of cocaine and send 18-year-olds to die in a war for the profits of oil companies? Fuck, dude, that message is for Dubya! (Click.)

10. Drinking wine every day at 10 in the morning and bathing in a river are expected. You're drunk at 2 PM and talking to a chipmunk? No one cares. You're exposing yourself to the elderly and feeble while nude in the creek? You won't be arrested. A man's gotta wash his bits sometime: why not right now in broad daylight?

I'm sure there are other things I can't think of, but I am only one person, and to be honest, top ten lists are all the rage. Now if you don't mind me I have to get back to my glass of Glenlivet on the rocks, fondue and megs after megs of smut I just swiped off of the Internet. Thank you for your respect and consideration, etc.

Friday, June 2, 2006

The Summer '06 Declaration

I have now decided that I'm going to dedicate my Summer of 2006 to doing absolutely, positively nothing, because this is an area in which I have already shown excellence, grace and form. And technique. I am going to lay on my back porch and let the sun cook my pasty American skin a healthy Iranian brown while periodically moving my head to utilize the straw that is connected to a barrel of Bellini mix, with actual champagne and peach puree, because I go all out and you know it. I'd think sexual thoughts about dancing, singing and mostly naked Italian girls feeding me melon and ham while saying "Prego" in an endless loop, but that would involve mental work, and I am against work in any form be it physical, mental and/or spiritual. Plus, chewing that meat and fruit would also be an effort, therefore all nutrients must be in liquid form, or if the Italian girls would be willing to chew it up like momma birds and place it into my slightly agape beak, that would be swell.

I'd recommend the same for you, but I don't like inflicting my philosophies on others. To quote Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "Give me health, wealth and liberty, oh no wait scratch that dude grab me a Blue Raspberry Slurpee from 7-11. What? You're not going to 7-11? Jesus fucking Christ why must everything in this world be a chore I mean really."

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Observations Regarding the Mating Rituals of Poison Dart Frogs

I was at the Baltimore Aquarium the other day when I should have been working. I was taking in the sights and smells of thousands of varieties of fish, frogs and aquatic life. But only one creature was going to satisfy my curiosity: the Poison Dart Frog.

As soon as I found the Poison Dart Frog display, I was in ecstasy. There's something so very amusing about a creature that, if eaten, gets the last laugh by poisoning the predator that consumed it. Of course, there are those bright colors on its froggy back that signal danger, but nature is nature and sometimes a motherfucker gets hungry.

I stared at the bright orange Poison Dart Frogs, which are about the size of a half dollar (tiny, in other words) for what felt like an eternity. And lo, I noticed something in the lower corner of the container: one of the male Poison Dart Frogs had mounted one of the female Poison Dart Frogs. Yes, it is true: there is only so much time in the cage and only so many leafy branches to crawl on. A Poison Dart Frog needs love, too.

The mounting did not last long, alas - the Poison Dart Frog was no stud, no superstar - but during the twenty-second bump and shuffle, I believe I exclaimed, much to the amusement of the twenty or so people huddled around the same display, "Holy shit, they're doing it!" My Traveling Companions squinted to see what I was getting at and also noticed the Frog Copulation. I had Spotted Something, like people on those nature shows ... and what I spotted was hot like burning asphalt.

Eventually, the Female Poison Dart Frog wriggled out of the male's grasp and moved onwards to paint her nails or wax her upper lip or something. I didn't stay around long enough to check. But for the Male Poison Dart Frog, it was twenty seconds of an attempt at pleasure. Afterwards, I can guarantee, over pints of Poison Dart Guinness, he relayed the story with exaggeration and gusto to his friends, about how he rode the ride for an easy two to three minutes, about how he was King for a moment, and about how he was going again the next day and the next day and the next day. And before he would know it, he would be drunk and throwing up in the alley next to the pub, because that pathetic bastard can't hold his liquor.

Nature is complicated.

Sunday, January 1, 2006

I Love and Hate Atlantic City

I almost won $80 at craps in Atlantic City, but this Korean fucker rolled a 10 twice. I was having such a good day too: it was freezing cold outside, I had like 2 gin martinis and a watery beer inside my head and was feeling lucky.

I broke out even for the day, which means (or so I'm told) that I "kissed my sister." Being an only child I do not have a sister to kiss and compare feelings. That made me sad for approximately forty-five minutes.