I tried to watch Key & Peel tonight. I really did. FYI comedy writers out there, if you want to make a shitty sketch show that never gets canceled, no matter how bad the ratings, focus it around one thing; the race card.
I’m all for stereotypical humor. I’m all for inappropriate humor. What I’m not for is focusing on race as the entire premise of a show.
In Key & Peel, they might as well call the show, “Hey, Look…We’re Black. Now Watch People Treat Us Badly Because of That.”
You know what Key & Peel, fuck that and fuck you. I’m tired of feeling a little bit guilty every time I tune into your show because of something people I never met…did something bad to people you never met…50 years ago. I’m letting go of my liberal guilt because I’m not a liberal. I’m a Libertarian and I consume enough marijuana to never feel guilty again.
I’ve had everyone from 20 year old Native Americans; to 50 year old black people say to me “Essa, usually I don’t like white people. But I like you.”
To that, I respond every single fucking time, “Fuck off racist.”
I’ve called out feminists. I’ve called out manosphereists. I’ve called out everyone in between, but I rarely call out people that pull the race card. I rarely call out people who respond to one of my posts ‘well, I’m Hispanic, so I think I have a better grasp…”
You know what? Fuck your race. It would be widely inappropriate for me to go to a Republican convention and say, “well, because I’m white, I think I have a better understanding of deficit control and fiscal responsibility.”
Your race doesn’t give you knowledge and intelligence. Your genetics and your schooling give you knowledge and intelligence.
Also, in regards to statements like; “I’m (insert race here). You don’t know the struggles my people have faced.” You know what assholes? You didn’t work in the cotton fields. Harriet Tubman did. You didn’t get assassinated for your beliefs. Malcolm X and Martin Luther King did. You do not get to take credit for their works, and take advantage of their suffering because you share the same skin color.
So you have faced issues in your past because of how you look? Welcome to the club.
Every time I go to an auto shop, everyone in the room thinks ‘trophy wife’. It doesn’t matter that I have never been married. It doesn’t matter that I am lower-middle class at best and I grew up in a place where most of the time, I was lucky to have running water.
Instead, they see ‘trophy wife’ because I have blonde hair and blue eyes. They see that and they think ‘some well-to-do husband is paying her bills”. When I say what the problem is, they pat me on the head (not joke, this happens regularly) and treat me like a child
I’m not a trophy wife. I grew up poor in a small town where everyone was poor. I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs. I had a choice between being a welfare mom and a convenience store cashier. Writing a novel was beyond my realm. Gaining a Masters was beyond my realm. They were beyond my realm because I was born poor white trash. I was trailer park girl. I was dirty. I was the girl that wore her brother’s hand-me-downs. But I would not let those labels define my future.
I joined the military. If you can believe it, I never experienced even one iota of sexism while in. My fellow soldiers respected me in a way that my small town neighbors hadn’t. I grew into someone better than my appearance. I fought for this country. While you were all watching the news regarding 9/11, I was there. I was an enlisted soldier dealing with terrorism. I fought and killed for this country. Many of you, black and white alike, watched it on your televisions and never truly understood the absolutely desperate significance of that day. I did. I saw it all. I saw how racism could twist the mind. Then, I saw how people of all races could come together for a common good.
And people choose to treat me like a child because of how I fucking look.
So yeah, I don’t know your struggles. Maybe a cabbie refused to pick you up one time because of the color of your skin. Maybe you get pulled over because of the color of your skin.
But I am not that racist cabbie. Nor am I that racist cop. I am a simple white girl, with blond hair, and blue eyes. The world should be mine on a silver platter, right?
Not so much. Most people treat me normally because normal people are not nearly as racist as you all make them out to be. For those who don’t, I deal with men twice my age or triple my weight hitting on me. I deal with creepy dudes following me until I turn around and show them what I have in my waistband. I deal with having to send four idiots on their way when they try to give manly advice on my car troubles, when I already know what’s wrong.
Simply stated, I deal with ignorant people who think I am stupid and helpless because of the way I look…when all I really want is to be left alone.
We all have our struggles. We all have to make people accept us at more than face value. Part of the human condition is finding acceptance somewhere. When you choose to hang that acceptance on the color of your skin, you’ve already lost the battle.
When someone pats me on the head, I gently remove their hand and warn them that the next time they touch me without permission; they will pull back a bloody stump. When idiots come racing to my rescue on the side of the road, I wave them away and handle my own shit. When predators think I’m weak (FYI white girls are the most common targets of serial killers), I make it clear I could take them in a fight.
I don’t get bitter. I don’t pull the race card. I move on with my life and smirk at the small minded idiots who think I can’t take care of myself, simply because of the way I look. I make those people out there that think they can take advantage of me reconsider their actions. I rise above how I look, to who I really am.
Race card pullers out there, you don’t get to pull the race card with me. You don’t get to email me that “you’re the one white person I like” and think that I am flattered. Slavery ended a long time ago and I had nothing to do with it. We all have to deal with preconceived notions. We all have to accept that some assholes out there will see us on the surface and nothing more. Your color doesn’t matter. Either, you can assume that the racist person you meet was an anomaly, or you can assume that everyone you meet of that race will be the same.
Just a hint; when you take the second option, you miss out on a lot.
“Get busy living, or get busy dying.” Those are your choices. You can confront the world like an adversary. You can assume that everyone is going to think about you in a certain way because of the way the you look. Your goal in this life isn’t to yell at the ignorant assholes that do that. Your goal in this life is to change the way they think entirely.
You can’t do that when you’re pulling the race card.
I’m driving home from Phoenix. This time, for the 400th time, me and Joe are through.
Our fight started out innocently enough. We were playing poker with his friends and one of his buddies, Dan, complained. He complained that I have no ‘tell’.
Joe doesn’t like it when I’m better at things than him and he was quick to jump on his buddy’s side when he started an argument. At 33 I would have dumped his ass in a heartbeat. But unfortunately, I’m 20 in this story.
Joe glares at me over his cards and talks about me like I’m not even in the room. “Yeah, she’s got a thousand yard stare. It’s kind of a pain in the ass.” He smirks in my direction. “It’s like she’s got nothing going on inside.”
“Excuse me?” I’m offended.
“I’m just saying, you’re kind of cold.”
“Why the fuck are you dating me then?” I’ll show this asshole cold.
Our conversation quickly deteriorates into one of those fights where neither party is wrong, and neither party is right, because both their arguments are fucking stupid.
I storm out the door and get into my car. I’ll show this bastard. I’ll strand his ass! I slide behind the wheel of my 1999 Dodge Neon with bald tires. I turn the ignition and step on the accelerator.
I’m driving for about 20 minutes, on a deserted stretch of highway the locals call the Yuma dessert. Suddenly, white smoke fills the inside of my car.
20 year old Essa was mystified. 33 year old Essa knows it was the radiator and could have easily been fixed with some distilled water.
My car stalls out on the side of the road. There is nothing. It is the dead of night but it’s still over 100 degrees. For 20 miles in either direction, I am alone.
I get out of the car and pop the hood. Steam flies out from underneath it.
“You need some help Ma’am?”
I spin around. A man stands 20 feet away from me. He’s old and nondescript looking, with a doughy middle aged face. He’s driving a tow truck and has pulled up behind me, on this lonely desolate highway. I should be relived. Instead, for some strange reason, all I feel is a cold tingle of foreboding running up my spine.
At 33 years of age, I still know it was a damn good thing that I trusted those 20 year old instincts.
I cross my arms over my chest. “It overheated. I don’t know why.”
The man looks at my engine. “You’ll need a tow. I can bring you to my shop.”
33 year old Essa is knows this is bullshit. All I needed was distilled water. Any decent tow truck driver has distilled water. But this is 20 year old Essa we’re dealing with, not the new and improved Essa 33.
“Ok, let me get my purse.”
I pop open the glove compartment to get my triple A card, knowing that tows are covered under my plan. I’m still sitting in the passenger seat when I hear this.
I freeze in my seat. I never told him my name.
His saying my name makes me jerk again, but I hide it. Instead, I reach for something else in my glove compartment.
The Beretta 9mm Joe got me for my birthday.
I wrap my hand around the gun and instantly feel a bit more secure. However, that security is wrapped in second guesses.
“Will I offend him?” My inborn level of politeness, from being a woman and a New Englander is starting to take over.
“I need to confirm the order.” My dependence on authority, from being a 20 year old soldier, is starting to take over.
I get out of the passenger seat, the Beretta 9 hidden in the small of my back. “You know what, I think I’m ok.”
The tow truck driver spins to look at me and for just an instant, his face changes entirely. The placid “just trying to help, Ma’am” look is gone. Instead, he is annoyed. “Ma’am, it’s like 103 out here. I can’t in good conscious…”
“I’m fine.” My finger touches the trigger behind my back while a million voices scream ‘you’re being impolite” and ‘you don’t have orders.”
“Look lady,” he is walking towards me rapidly now and his face is weirdly furious, considering the circumstances. He gets to the trunk of my car. “I’ll drive you to my shop. It will only take a few minutes. You can call your boyfriend from there.”
His words don’t reassure me. Instead, I’m wondering how he knew I had a boyfriend. “I said I’m fine.” Let him say one more thing, I tell myself. I don’t want to be impolite. I don’t want to pull a gun on a stranger. Just let him give me a reason.
“Listen!” he barks the order at me, sounding entirely too desperate for a tow truck driver.
I pull the gun. My hand doesn’t shake when I pull it. I’m surprised. I thought my hand would shake. I’ve always had such shaky hands. He is surprised to see a gun, but not entirely fearful.
He puts up his hands. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
Instead of running away, he takes a step forward. He doesn’t think I will use it. “Look…”
He starts to try to explain himself, but all I can think is one thing. No good Samaritan would hang out after a gun had been pulled on him. None. I don’t need orders and I don’t need to be polite, everything in me is telling me that something is wrong with this guy.
I fire one shot into the sky, not caring about PSA commercials about the dangers of firing bullets into the sky that always come out around this time of year. I fire one shot into the sky, not caring about offending a stranger.
If I am forced to choose between offending a stranger and defending my life, I will choose ‘offending a stranger’ every single time.
He uncovers his ears from the sound of my bullet escaping the chamber. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance.
“The next warning shot goes in your chest.”
Here’s the sick part; at this point, I didn’t want him to walk away. I wanted him to try and attack. I wanted him to give me a reason. As he was standing there, indecision plastered across his doughy face, I wanted him to be wrong. I wanted him to make the wrong decision. Some instinct inside of me told me that it would be better that his life ended right there, on that lonely stretch of Yuma highway. I wanted him to give me a reason.
Instead, he walked away, got into his tow truck and drove off.
By this time, my car has cooled down enough to limp to the next exit. I tell my problem to the cashier, and he dumps a gallon of distilled water in my radiator. I drive home, to Tucson, still wondering if I had been wrong. If I had wrongly attacked some random dude on the highway that night.
The next morning, I wake up. I call the cops, just to report the incident in case it’s important.
I learn during that call, the tow truck company listed on the side of his truck doesn’t exist. I learn he matches the description of a suspect in 4 rapes. I learn that more than a few women have gone missing along that lonely stretch of Yuma highway that summer.
I learn that sometimes, being right is a bit more important than being polite.
I hate platitudes.
This is not to be confused with Platypuses. Platypuses are awesome. It’s a mammal that lays eggs and spews venom. As far as I’m concerned, Platypuses are the most highly evolved of all creatures and if we’re lucky, someday, we’ll all get to be Platypuses.
No, what I hate is platitudes. Platitudes are inspirational bullshit that is supposed to make your life better, but in reality, just highlights how shitty it is. Usually, a platitude comes in the form of a Facebook post, superimposed over a beach. Kind of like this;
People love quoting Gandhi in some attempt to sound smart and deep. Maybe Gandhi’s sayings make them feel better about their own shitty lives. But if you’re looking to Gandhi as a way to improve your life, I have something sad to tell you. Gandhi actually had a pretty shitty life that most of us wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy.
Gandhi was forced into an arranged child marriage at the age of 13. He had his first child when he was 15 and it died 2 days later. He spent the majority of his teenage years abstaining from meat, promiscuous sex and alcohol. He never got to grieve for his mother’s death, because his family kept the news from him because they thought it would keep him from passing the bar. He got the shit beat out of him on a train when he was 24, because he refused to change seats. That beating wouldn’t be the first beating he would take. Gandhi spent his life getting the shit beat out of him, while at the same time, preaching love for his fellow man. He lived a simple life. He never had a 401k or drove a Lexus. For all his hard work, he was assassinated at the age of 78.
Listen, people who keep sending me fucking Gandhi memes; Gandhi’s statements were not about your own individual selfishness. Gandhi wasn’t trying to make you feel better because your 401k went down 5% or your car broke down. Gandhi’s statements were about you sacrificing your own creature comforts for the benefit of the whole.
In short, Gandhi’s life was meaningful, but it sure as hell wasn’t enjoyable. Stop taking the man’s work and turning it into some dumb fucking meme on the internet so you can feel better that those skinny jeans didn’t fit you at Forever 21.
While we’re at it with the stupid platitudes, stop with the ‘___ saved my life”. Like “Yoga saved my life” or “Music saved my life”. I’ve been guilty of this one myself and I just head butted myself in my own face for it. Yoga and music don’t save your life. Chemotherapy and defibrillators save lives. Yanni playing the jazz flute does nothing to save your life. You either decide to off yourself, or you don’t. Personally, I’m still on the fence…especially when I think about Yanni.
Also, ‘money can’t buy you happiness.” You know a rich motherfucker made that one up. One time, when I was uber-poor, I didn’t even know how I would get through the weekend. I was getting ready to do my laundry with dish detergent, when I pulled out an old pair of jeans. In the back pocket of those jeans was a $20.
That probably is going in my memory book as one of the top 10 happiest moments of my life. The fucktards who say ‘money can’t buy you happiness’ will never understand the joy that unfolds when you unfold a $20 you forgot about.
As I’m writing this, approximately 40 people are sending me idiot platitudes on Facebook. I’ll probably get forty more platitudes in the comments. It’s only a matter of time before I get an ‘it’s only a matter of time’ or ‘time heals all wounds’.
Well, today, I’m announcing my own new platitude. Feel free to paste it on a meme…preferably of Platypuses.
“It’s only a matter of time before an idiot who has nothing important to say claims that everyone is entitled to their opinion.”
You know who I feel bad for? This dude;
In case you’ve been living under a rock (come on, even I know what’s going on and I’m a crazy recluse) that guy is Ariel Anthony Castro. His dad is the infamous Ariel Castor senior. You know, the pervert who kidnapped those chicks out in Ohio.
Anyway, I stumbled on a news article today. Apparently, the sins of the father are getting blamed on his son, because this poor bastard, who had nothing to do at all with the kidnappings of those girls, is being harassed and abused by the general world of crazies out there. We all know those general crazies. They can’t be bothered to apply things like rational thought. I get them all the time on this site.
Anyway, Castro is now the focus of their skewed vision. He’s had his house broken into. He’s gotten threatening phone calls, letters, emails and more. He’s been harassed by reporters almost endlessly. And he didn’t do a damn thing wrong. His biggest crime is being related to someone who committed a crime.
So they did a news story on him, about the harassment he’s getting. I scrolled to the comments, as I always do. Instead of seeing people sympathize with this guy, I see idiotic comment after idiotic comment like this;
Really? Dude is getting held accountable because….here’s me trying to break this down…he didn’t visit his father enough?
Well, I guess I deserve to get tossed in prison too, because I haven’t spoken to my dad in about 10 years. Probably more.
But I’m not a bad person and neither is my dad. As far as I’m concerned, we’re relatively normal. The reason we haven’t spoken is that we never really had anything to say to each other. We never really bonded in any kind of way.
My dad is friends with me on Facebook, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know who I am. I use my pen name there like I do on here. My dad is pretty uninvolved in my life. I’m not saying anything bad about him. He’s a nice guy and everything. He’s just not the most open person and neither am I. As a result, we never really connected.
And if he has a basement full of dead hookers or something, no way in hell am I taking the rap.
We bitch all the time about kids who blame their parents when they kill someone or do something horrible. We see sleazy defense lawyers bring up mommy issues and blame horrendous murders on the people that raised the perpetrators.
“I’m sorry your honor, I killed all those children because my mom didn’t breastfeed me.”
“I’m sorry your honor, I beat my wife to death because my father beat me.”
We see those excuses and we write them off, quite correctly, as bullshit. Millions of kids in this country are abused or mistreated every year. Only .00000009% of them will go on to be serial killers.
But when the situation’s reversed, when the parent does something wrong, it’s totally kosher to blame that on his kids? I’m calling bullshit.
If anyone else had been connected to the kidnappings of those girls, you can bet your ass charges would already be filed. I know you all feel like cops, because you read a biased internet story and watch a couple of forensic TV shows, but I’m going to tell you a little secret. Cops are smarter than you. They do this shit for a living. They know who to question and what to look for. I know you think you know better, because after your shift as a WalMart greeter, you watch reality television for an hour a week, so you know all about forensics or whatever. Cops have access to things you don’t. They don’t investigate based on internet news stories. They investigate based on facts and evidence.
Any if Arial Anthony Castro had any culpability for his fathers crimes, he would have been charged, or as least named as a person of interest. Now let it go, and get off the dudes back.
Also, for all you idiots out there that think “this is his 15 minutes of fame,” I have this to say;
No joke, would you want your 15 minutes to be related to your daddy being called out as a psychotic rapist? Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Fuck all y’all.
I used to date a real jock type guy. He was insanely into football. American style football with the pigskin and the tackling and whatnot. Anyway, every Sunday, you could find him parked on the couch, watching any football available. He’d watch college football when the pros were done. He’d watch the Army/Navy games. He was in a fantasy league. Football was his life.
I am not the athletic type. To me, watching football is about as exciting as cutting my toenails.
Unfortunately, these jock types all have one common theme. All they think about is sports. They expect the women in their lives to sit on the couch next to them, staring off into space, and getting them beers as they hog the TV to watch game after fucking game.
One Sunday, I told Mr. Jock I was through. I hated sports, the sex wasn’t that good and I was tired of watching football. Apparently, Mr. Jock kind of liked me, because he begged for a second chance. Knowing how obsessed with movies I am, he offered to trade off his Sunday football for a movie night. Against my better judgment, I caved.
That Sunday, he showed up with two DVDs; ‘Any Given Sunday’ and ‘Rudy’. I promptly dumped his ass and traded up to a Brazilian who thought football was soccer.
Here’s the thing. Several years after I dumped Mr. Jock, I decided to watch ‘Any Given Sunday’. I watched it, and I loved it. A few years before, I’d shot it down because it was a football movie. I hated football, so I was sure I would hate it. The fact that the guy I was dating rented it was a slap in the face. I don’t regret dumping the douchebag, but I do regret dumping on the movie, without having seen it.
And it suddenly occurred to me that this is the way I have been treating religion. I have let fanatics color my view of something that could actually be, well…good. I didn’t watch ‘Any Given Sunday’ with Mr. Jock, because I was sure it would just be more of his football obsessed hyperbole. I’ve stayed away from organized religion because I didn’t want to become like the fanatics who follow it without thought.
But if I can give a simple movie a chance, I am sure I can give an organized religion a chance.
I come to this epiphany because I recently received a very small, but very important miracle. It’s not something that I’m going to share on here. If you can believe it, coming from the girl who once wrote an entire post about her pubic hair, who described her suicide attempt in detail, and who openly admits to wanting to have a 5 way with One Direction, my miracle is a bit too personal to talk about. Maybe I’ll write about it in a year. Maybe I’ll write about it in a week. But for now, it’s just going to be my own miracle.
Regardless, I think I’ve made it clear before; I am not an atheist. I think atheists are just as arrogant as the religious types who pretend they know it all. I’m not even a true agnostic, because true agnostics don’t believe in a benevolent god. What I believe in is universal energy. What I believe in is that there is some true form of structure to the universe. Like Einstein, I believe there is an afterlife, because matter can never truly cease to exist.
And I want to believe that there is some kind of benevolent creator that set this all in motion. I want to believe there is a purpose.
But I will not be blindly led by rhetoric.
I was brought up Catholic because of tradition. Everyone around me was Catholic. All the kids went to catechism classes and had their first baptisms and communions when they were too young to make a decision. Religious brainwashing is easy for an unmolded mind. A mind that doesn’t understand that people can have ulterior motives and that not everything is as it seems.
It’s a hell of a lot harder to influence a 33 year old cynic, with a base understanding of physics, and knowledge that evolution is a fact, not a theory.
So I’m doing my own ‘Any Given Sunday’ retake. For the next ten Sundays (or day of devotion based on domination) I will attend 10 different religious services. I will follow their customs. I will go with an open mind. I will find out if there is some group out there, in the thousands of years that we’ve all been on this planet, that can somehow offer me a way to find a deeper connection to the universe.
Here’s what I won’t do during these services. I will not change my existing moral beliefs. I will not deny scientific evidence I know to be true. I won’t limit myself to one set of beliefs. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Wicca and anything in between. All are welcome.
I will arrive. I will listen. I will participate. And then I will post my findings here.
Any given Sunday, for the next ten weeks, you will find Essa’s review of the religious service she attended that week. I won’t be cynical for cynicisms sake, but I won’t hold anything back either. God might had said ‘don’t take my name in vain’ in the Bible, but God didn’t say shit about ‘cunt, shit, fuck, assholes, motherfuckers, cocksuckers’ or ‘douchebags.”
My goal in this exercise is simple. I want to find the root of my miracle. I want to find it and I want to thank it. Consider this my fucked up version of Cinderella.
So for the next ten weeks, any given Sunday, you will find me here, either expanding my horizons or ranting angrily. If you have a religion in the Central Florida area you want me to try out, feel free to contact me on the contact page.
Mega-churches need not apply. Trust me; I’ve seen what you all do on “60 Minutes”.
As if you can’t tell by my high level of apathy and disdain for authority, I am a member of Generation X. Honestly, I kind of dig the title. I like being a Generation X member. It makes us sound all bad ass, like we’re too scary and non-conformist to actually have a name.
You know who got stuck with a shitty name? Generation Y…as in Generation …“why did we have them?”
Every now and then, I take a look at the generations around me in order to see where we are. I think this is am important practice, because the characteristics of the generation in control will decide the political moves that involve our country’s future (America, BTW, for my Brits. I have no idea how you all separate generations).
And we are currently seeing a major generational revolution that will absolutely affect all of our lives in an incredible way.
Currently, the members of our oldest generation, the Baby Boomer generation, are approaching their retirement years. They held control for a long time and they were a pretty conservative generation. The Baby Boomers believed in silly bullshit like company loyalty and listening to authority. No wonder they’re responsible for 74% of all prescription drugs purchased.
But now, they’re falling out of favor. The ideal age for people to get listened to in the US is around 36 to 50. Any younger and you’re too ‘idealistic’. Any older and you’re a grumpy old man kicking teenagers off your lawn.
And slowly, but delightfully, Generation X and Y are starting to take over.
Gen X are liberal cynics. We were brought up in a time when rising divorce rates and a shitty economy were the norm. As a result, we question the status quo. “What the hell is the point of working for a corporation and building a family when its all going to fall apart once we reach 40?” we asked.
No one had a good answer.
So Gen X became the ‘we don’t give a fuck’ generation. If Generation X had a motto, it would be “Apathy before Acquiescence”. This is going to come in very handy in the years to come.
Gen X workers are dropping out of the workforce like flies. They don’t care about pensions or retirements. They care about immediate satisfaction. They care about the fun they get to have in the present, not the vacations they want to have after retirement. Because retirement is nothing but an empty promise.
Gen X is the reason you are all seeing widespread demands to legalize marijuana and gay marriage. It is the result of the ‘have fun and love who you love’ culture we created. It is a result of an entire generation of people that don’t care about keeping up appearances. They don’t care what the neighbors think and they don’t ask for approval from authority, because they have no faith in authority.
Of course, if we left it up to Gen X, we’d all be sitting around, getting high and listening to old Kurt Cobain tracks. That is why we needed Generation Y.
Generation Y has the same level of ambition that the Baby Boomers did, but they have that ambition for a completely different reason. They have no desire to save for retirement or secure their families future. They want to be rich and they want to be rich now.
And they’re going to do it with technology.
Gen Y is smart and ambitious, just like the Baby Boomers. But they have something that the Baby Boomers lacked. They have the desire to focus on their own individual satisfaction above the satisfaction of a company.
While a Baby Boomer might have worked their entire life at a company, simply out of loyalty, a Gen Y kid will hand in their notice as soon as another company offers them more money.
Gen Y will make our economy competitive again. By refusing to bow down and work weekend shifts because a company tells them to, they make companies understand that workers are not sheep. They say to those corporations ‘my life is more valuable than your bottom line’.
In the years that come, Gen X and Gen Y are going to take over the political environment. When these generations hear JFK’s famous speech, and they hear that famous line “ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country”, they snort. They say, “I’ll start asking what I can do for my country when my country does something for me.”
It may sound crude. It may sound self serving, but honestly, I think it is just what we need. No more corporate bailouts. No more going to war to protect the oil interest of a major corporation. Instead, the American middle class will refuse to work in shitty jobs for minimum wage. We will refuse to work 80 hours a week with no overtime. We will refuse to go to war to fight for the oil rights of corporations. We will refuse to allow tax breaks for the companies that outsource their jobs to other low wage countries. Instead, the American middle class will take on the ‘me first’ mentality. We will question authority and will focus on individual satisfaction. Believe it or not, this thought process will actually make America great again. It is, after all, the entire basis of capitalism
And is why when I think about the future generation, I get just a bit of inspiration. It will get better.
I once heard somewhere that life is made up of little disappointments. It might have been my mother, and she might have been talking about me directly. But I can’t say she wasn’t right. Life is indeed made up of a series of little disappointments that we must all learn to live with on a daily basis.
Here are some of mine.
- When the first four chords of “Werewolves of London” starts playing on the radio, then you realize it’s actually Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long”
- When you open the candy bar you just bought at the gas station, get ready to take a giant bite, and then realize that it is covered in that gross layer of white mold.
- When realize that the hot guy you thought was checking you out was actually just staring because apparently it’s weird when adults go to the store wearing pajamas at 4 in the afternoon.
- When you get a new message on Skype, and realize it’s only because some idiot you don’t care about is having a birthday.
- When someone you thought was smart forwards you chain mail.
- When you thought you had one beer left, but it turns out you have no beers left.
- When you get on the scale, and you think you lost a ton of weight. Then you realize you accidentally kicked the reset button and it’s weighing you in kilograms, not pounds.
- When your long time crush calls you out of the blue…to invite you to their wedding.
- When you make a million dollars and buy your dream house….and then you wake up on the same futon in the same crappy apartment you’ve always had.
- When “Candle in the Wind” comes on the radio, and you realize it’s the Princess Diana version and not the Marilyn Monroe version.
So there are some of my common disappointments. For me, having a nightmare is better than having a great dream, because I’d rather wake up relieved than disappointed. Disappointment is a shitty feeling, but it’s also a huge part of the human condition. So, whenever I’m a little bit disappointed, I’m also a little bit relieved, because that disappointment means that I’m alive. What can I say? I’m a silver lining kind of girl.
Today is going to be one of those random, self confessional posts where I discuss the thoughts I have that got me into community college and kept me out of any accredited university.
So, I have a license to carry but I’m bored with guns. I mean a Floridian carrying around a gun? It’s such a fucking cliché. My question is this; does my license to carry cover me if I want to carry around a sword instead? Nothing flashy, just your standard 30 inch katana embedded with emeralds. I mean honestly, I hear about people getting harassed when they were carrying a gun all the time. But I have never heard of anyone getting fucked with while they were carrying a sword in WalMart.
You take a calculated risk whenever you release a mongoose.
About men and facial hair arrangements, why do men only play with the hair below their eye line? Mustaches, beards, mutton chops, I’ve seen them all together and I’ve seen a variation of all three separately. What I’ve never seen is a man purposely cultivate a uni-brow. Maybe it’s because uni-brows look stupid? But so do mutton chops, and guys still wear those. I have always believed that beauty is in the eyebrow of the beholder.
You’re always alone, but you’re only lonely if you don’t like the person you’re alone with…or if you’re ugly or really fat.
People who think George Carlin was overrated are the same people who find Gallagher hilarious. I think that should tell us all a little about how much to value their opinions. George Carlin used humor as a way to make social commentary about the depressing truths of the human condition. Gallagher uses a hammer to squish watermelons. Enough said.
Today is a sacred gift from life…but tomorrow you could get run over by a bus. Live fearlessly. Steal often.
Why do men go on the no strings attached section of Craigslist and post completely unrealistic demands? Seriously, today I went on there and saw 10 demands for virgins and another four looking to have sex with lesbians. Hey guys, I have a riddle for you; what do lesbians and virgins have in common?
Answer; neither goes on Craigslist trolling for cock.
If the girl is a 22 year old virgin, chances are she’s hideous or she’s waiting to meet someone nice in her church group (or cult). As for the lesbians, I went down to the dog park and took a survey today. I asked one question. “What is your biggest turn off in your potential partner?” 10 out of 10 lesbians answered ‘a penis’.
Think positively…unless you’re taking an aids test. Then negative is your friend.
Why was everyone comparing Obama to MLK yesterday? The only thing these two dudes have in common is the color of their skin. Martin Luther King Jr. was an amazingly skilled orator and civil rights leader who had the ability to get thousands of people to follow him and flock to his cause. For example, the Montgomery Bus boycott. Rosa Parks worked as a secretary for King and was the catalyst for that movement. The boycott crippled the Montgomery economy and led to a United States Supreme Court decision that declared the Alabama and Montgomery laws requiring segregated buses to be unconstitutional. That case law helped to end segregation entirely.
Obama can’t even get poor white people to accept free health care.
MLK might have paved the way for Obama, but they are nothing alike. MLK was a visionary. Obama is a sub par leader who is absolutely the same as every single leader before him.
But that won’t stop me from looking up shirtless pictures of him on the internet.
The shortest distance between two things is a straight line. The most interesting distance between two things is usually a lot curvier.
The other night, during my beer run, I ran into a little problem with my car. I got in, turned the key and nothing happened.
I immediately jumped out of my car to check for the most common cause for this type of mechanical malfunction in the state of Florida. A serial killer may have removed my distributor cap while I was in the store, with the intent of forcing me to walk along a poorly lit roadway, so he could pick me up and turn me into a skin suit.
After eyeing every white male in his late 30’s, early 40’s in the parking lot with suspicion, and checking to see that I did indeed have a distributor cap, I came to a much more horrifying truth.
I wasn’t being stalked by a serial killer…I was having genuine car trouble.
In case you missed my article from when I attempted to purchase a car, you might have missed how much I hate dealing with anyone in the auto industry. This is because of how I look.
As I’ve said before, I usually like the way I look. I’ve been told that I look a bit like what Drew Barrymore would look like if she decided to become a French dominatrix. I’m ok with that. What I’m not ok with is people who work in the auto industry see my adorable blonde ass but don’t see that high level of sexiness. Instead, they see a dumb blonde with the word ‘sucker’ plastered across her forehead.
Unfortunately, I lack the upper body strength or tools necessary to perform my own extensive auto maintenance. I resigned myself to going to the auto repair shop and being treated like I was only slightly smarter than a retarded parakeet yet again.
With a bit of jimmy rigging, I managed to get the car started again. When I did, my check engine light came on. This immediately told me that the problem was not with my starter, nor with my battery, but with the connection my starter had to the engine.
What can I say? I’ve owned a virtual parade of piece of shit cars in my time. In that time, I’ve learned a hell of a lot. I’m like the Einstein of jalopies.
I arrived at the car shop and immediately told the guy behind the counter the problem, making it very clear that the battery was working fine (full electrical), the starter was not broken (the started doesn’t hook up to the computer, so the CE light wouldn’t have come on) and the car has had no issues while driving or idling, so it probably wasn’t a bad cam sensor. In fact, I believed the problem to be quite simple.
I believed that the cable connection from the starter to the engine was corroded and needed to be replaced. I believed that this connection was causing an electrical surge that was causing the cam sensor to go into panic mode and shut down the starting process.
It was a pretty fucking good theory.
The man behind the counter listened with a half dazed look on his face as he stared at my tits. Finally he gave me a condescending smile and said “well, if you really want to know what’s wrong, we’ll have to hook the car up to the computer sweetheart. That will tell us if your starter is bad or not.”
I had to resist the urge to choke the guy. It wasn’t the fucking starter. I knew for a damn fact it wasn’t the starter because check engine lights don‘t fucking monitor starters!
Instead, I held my breath. As soon as he hooked it up to the computer, then he would know it wasn’t the fucking starter and I’d get my damn wire replaced. “Fine.”
“That will be $89.95.”
I nearly burst a vessel. “Are you fucking serious? $90 to hook a car up to a computer? It takes like twelve seconds to do that.”
“We have to charge for the full hour of labor.”
I’d had enough. “Come with me.” Surprisingly, the man followed me out of the shop, despite the fact that he was dangerously close to getting beaten to death with my crowbar. “I’m going to show you a magic trick.”
I plopped down in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition three times, from off to on, in rapid succession. Suddenly, and as if by magic, two codes popped up on my odometer.
That’s right people. If your check engine light ever comes on, you don’t need to hook your car up to a $90 computer. Instead, you just have to turn your ignition on, then off again, three times. At that point, your odometer will show you the error codes the engine is throwing.
I.e. your car will tell you exactly what is wrong with it…FOR FREE. Take those codes, look them up in your manual and you will have a general idea of what is really wrong with your car.
In my case, the cam and crank sensor codes came up. I made the idiot who followed me write them down. Then I told him what we were going to do about those codes, before he opened his idiotic mouth to try and upsell me.
“Don’t try to tell me both my camshaft position sensor and my crankshaft position sensor went bad at the same fucking time. That case is about as likely as an elephant falling out of the sky and crushing my engine. I don’t need a new cam sensor, I don’t need a new crankshaft and I don’t need a new starter. What I need is a new wire. Now, you can either charge me the $100 it will cost to replace that corroded fucking wire, or I can buy the wire myself for $14 and get a couple of Mexicans sitting there at Hope Depot to help me fix it, for $5 and a quick flash of the tits you’ve been staring at for the past 20 minutes.”
Long story short, I got my new wire. And wouldn’t you believe it, my car started just fine. But this only served to reinforce a lesson that one of my oldest mechanic friends taught me.
When you look like a dumb blonde, always know a bit about cars. I’m not saying that you need to know how to rebuild an engine, but you do need to know enough to not get fucked (in the bad way) while your getting your car fixed.
We as women created this image that allows mechanics to believe they can screw us over. I’m so sick of girly statements like ‘oh, cars are so confusing! My spacey little head can’t handle anything other than fashion tips and celebrity scandals. Math is tough!” (pouty face) I’m tired of seeing women on the highway looking at a tire jack like it’s a piece off an alien spaceship. It’s basic god damn leverage. Change the fucking tire yourself and learn how your own fucking car works.
Because when you don’t, you have situations like mine, where I walk into an auto repair shop and everyone assumes I’m retarded. If I hadn’t been a little informed when I walked in, if I hadn’t known how to look up my own engine codes, I probably would have gotten taken for the price of a new starter and $90 for R2-D2 to look up the codes from my engine (because for $90, that computer better have been a celebrity).
Cars aren’t hard. They are basic science and basic science is nothing more than basic math. Check out these equations I made.
1 uninformed car owner + 1 broken car = 1 rich repair company
on the flip side
1 smoking hot blonde + a rudimentary understanding of auto repair = a repair bill based on the repairs actually needed + tax.
Now that’s the kind of math I like.