Today, something that most people call inspiring kind of set me off. Specifically, it’s the new Cover Girl, “Girls Can” campaign.
There are so many things I hate. I hate peas and cold weather. I hate fan fiction. I hate Kirk Cameron, the Taliban and people who clap when the plane lands.
But above all, I hate being patronized.
In case you haven’t seen this ‘inspiring’ new gem, it features a group of female celebrities, who normally, I don’t hate. These ladies spend the entire commercial talking about how hard it is to reach the top as a woman in music, business, and a whole host of other industries that are apparently allergic to vaginas.
This is all done for a campaign for a make-up company.
Now look, I’m not one of those chicks who hates make-up. I rarely wear it, because I can’t find a color scheme that matches my sweatpants, but I don’t hate it.
What I hate is that an industry that is completely dependent on making women feel like they’re not good enough unless they’re pretty has the balls to jump on the “girl power” train. What I hate is that a company that claims to be so women focused has a board of directors that’s 60% male.
I hate being patronized and I had the phrase ‘girl power’ or anything to do with ‘empowering woman’ because I find it entirely patronizing.
Nothing makes me want to smack a chick in the chops more than the phrase “girl power.” It’s usually spewed out after a bunch of shots of Jose Cuervo, after said girl just got dumped and has decided to “give up on men” and “just focus on me for awhile”.
Even though I give an agreeable smile and down my own shot, I get annoyed. Why?
Ladies, ask yourself this? Has a man ever done this? Has any dude you’ve even known shouted out ‘boy power” as he downs a shot and said that he didn’t care about picking up, he just wants to focus on himself? No?
Hold on while I recover from my shock.
Ladies, straight up; it’s patronizing. While you’re shrieking out ‘girl power’ you’re making it clear that you had no power of your own to begin with. When you say, “I’m just gonna focus on me,” you’re indicating that you weren’t before. And I know, two months from now, no matter how much ‘focusing on you’ you’re trying to do, you’ll have some unemployed douche bag living on your couch because you’re afraid of dying alone.
Because you’re not powerful. You’re just using a phrase that rich white dudes came up with to sell lipstick.
People who are actually powerful never have to tell others that they’re powerful. It’s obvious from their actions. When woman who are powerful say “I succeeded despite the fact that I’m a woman,” they’re not taking a stand for feminism. They’re simply making it sound like there’s something wrong with being a woman.
And when they start saying dumb shit like ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can!’ it sounds a lot to me like of case of protesting too much. It’s patronizing.
The fact is, some girls can’t. Just like boys, some girls are stupid and lack talent and would have never made it to begin with. It’s not because they’re girls. It’s just because they suck.
And yelling ‘girl power’ and ‘girls can’ all night isn’t going to change that, no matter how many celebrities you stick in your ads.
As you know, I frequent a little place called “Gas Station” for purchasing my addiction necessary items; i.e. cigarettes and beer. No, I’m not making the name up or changing it. This place is actually just called “Gas Station.”
I can respect that kind of marketing transparency.
What I can’t respect is you, new cashier. You have started playing the obnoxious dating game that I hate so much, despite the fact that I want nothing more to do with you than beer and cigarette purchases.
Let me give you the dating game in four stages, in case it’s unclear.
- Outright flirting “gee, your eyes are blue.” “I like your hair like that.”
- Passive aggressive flirting. “You’d look prettier in orange.” “Why don’t you leave your hair down?”
- Playing hard to get. “Oh, I can’t wait on you now. I’m busy answering my fucking cell phone.”
- Outright hostility. “Do you need to drink this much beer?” “Despite the fact that I see you 14 times a day, I need to see some ID.”
Apparently, new cashier, you have decided we’re in some type of relationship because I go to your store on a regular basis. I have been put through all of the obnoxious stages of flirting, from outright flirting, to outright hostility, despite the fact that I have no interest in you whatsoever.
Look at me. I show up at your fucking store in sweatpants with hair that hasn’t been brushed in a week and I bitch about period cramps as I slip an economy pack of tampons onto your register. I am making no effort to impress you. This is not part of the mating ritual. You are supposed to be my safe zone. I shouldn’t have to deal with your fucking mind games because I never promised you anything but the $4.23 a day it costs to support my nicotine addiction.
But you still manage to get offended by me refusing to date you. Really, you should be thankful. I’m a terrible human being. But you need to stop being offended, because you aren’t my type.
Let’s make this crystal clear. In order to even the playing field, because I’m Barbie with a brain, you must be one of two things to date me.
- You must be much better looking than me.
- You must be smarter than me.
I meet the guys I date by stumbling into shirtless models outside of Abercrombie and Finch, or by trolling Mensa meetings. I have never, and will probably never, pick up a cashier at the convenience store because he’s holding my beer and cigarettes hostage. I’m better looking than you (even on a sweatpants day). I guarantee I’m smarter than you, because right off the top off my head I can think of 11 different alternatives to working at a convenience store.
So stop with the bullshit. We’re not soul mates; we never even dated. I barely know you and I don’t give a shit about you.
I know you think that you have all the power, because you stand behind the register, but you don’t. There are at least 34 different convenience stores I could go to in a four block radius. I used to choose yours, because I used to enjoy it. Then they hired you, and they ruined it.
I’m not usually the kind of chick who makes complaints; I’m far too lazy to do that. But I’m seriously thinking about having your ass fired. Because when you think about it, who is management going to side with?
The totally replaceable dude they’re paying $6.00 an hour to, who makes his customers wait while he makes imaginary calls on his cell phone?
Or are they going to side with me, the chick whose beer and cigarette purchases are putting their kids through college? Trust me bro, I push it, you’ll be out of there faster than I can say namastē.
Save your novice college games for the girls who will actually play them and get me my beer and cigarettes without wasting my fucking time. I’m not at Gas Station to flirt. I am here to buy what I need to buy and move the fuck on. You want to play games, know that my game playing skills come in at the advanced level. Expect some slashed tires.
Every now and then I get a message from a dude from my past, who I was friends with, but never romantically interested in.
These messages all take on the same theme. First, they start out by asking how I’m doing. Then, they move on to dragging up the past. This dragging up the past usually includes a confession about some secret crush they harbored for years, but never had the ability to act on.
Then it turns accusatory. Along the lines of ‘I always wanted to tell you how much I liked you, but I knew you only dated assholes and I never thought you’d go for me.”
First, guys who do this, stop calling the dudes I used to date assholes. Yes, some of them were jerks, but many of them were perfectly nice guys with whom things just didn’t work out. These things happen and I don’t see the reason to pigeonhole them into the whole ‘asshole’ category. That category is reserved for actual assholes, like the guy who slapped me around or the asshole who’s behind on his child support.
Stop claiming that ‘girls only want assholes’ because we don’t go for your passive aggressive shtick. I’m so sorry that you spent years pretending to be my friend in some half-hearted attempt to get into my pants. Life must have been so incredibly rough for you…Seriously, those Boko Harem victims must have nothing on your pain.
You are not a nice guy. You’re just telling yourself you are because you feel like a failure. I know, because I’ve been in the same position.
A long time ago, I was crazy about this guy Dave. We went on a few dates but it never amounted to anything serious. Simply stated, Dave didn’t want children. I had one, so he shut any potential relationship we could have had down early on.
Initially, I was a bitch about it. I mean, I was perfect for him. Why couldn’t he ignore his own standards in order to make it work between us? We laughed at the same things and watched the same movies. We argued allot. He was one of the few people that could argue with me in a way that would actually shut me up. Let me tell you people, that is a rare quality for me to find in a man.
But we never really escaped the ‘friend zone’. Over time, I got mad at him. I was irritated with him because he didn’t want me. I started ignoring his phone calls and being a cunt to him.
Then, I remembered my friend Mark.
Mark was one of those guys that I had a ton in common with. We read the same books, watched the same movies and laughed at the same jokes. Despite the fact that Mark was an incredibly attractive Cuban guy, I was never sexually attracted to him. He just wasn’t my type. So when the inevitable came and Mark word vomited his feelings all over me, it made things weird. Mark got resentful because I didn’t feel the same way.
He disappeared from my life, despite the fact that we had a fantastic friendship. He threw that away because he couldn’t get into my pants, even though as he said , he was “such a nice guy”.
Then it occurred to me that Mark wasn’t really a nice guy.
He was a jerk who was only after me because he wanted to screw me. The fact that he wasn’t my type for a romantic relationship was enough of a problem to throw away 2 years of a good friendship. That made me feel utterly useless, like the only reason he laughed at my jokes was because he was trying to sleep with me. Like the only reason we ever hung out was because he wanted me to be a notch on his bed post. I felt used and hurt.
I thought we were friends, but we were only friends until Mark realized I wasn’t going to screw him, because my only apparent value to him was a sexual one.
Then I realized that I was doing the same thing to Dave. Dave was a good dude. We had fun together and he helped me through a lot of hard times. Was it really ok for me to cut him out of my life because he didn’t want to be romantically involved with me?
No, it wasn’t and I wasn’t being a nice girl. So I let that shit go and I accepted our friendship for what it was. A really good friendship. That is rare and there was no way that I was letting him out of my life over my own petty feelings.
To this day, me and Dave are still good friends. We don’t talk as much as we should; we both lead pretty busy lives, but he’s a good dude. He is one of the first people I contact when I’m having problems and he has helped me through more than a few rough patches.
He started seriously dating someone else, and I never even got jealous. By that time, I realized what he’d known all along. We weren’t really right for each other. He’s a type A conservative who has never smoked pot, hates kids and has an affinity for greyhound dogs.
I’m a type B liberal who loves kids, is secretary treasurer of a cannabis reform group and finds greyhounds creepy (their necks are just so skinny).
Once I was able to let of that romantic obsession I was feeling, I found true platonic love with Dave. I was able to be happy for his new relationships and tell him anything. I talked him through his depression and he talked me through a bipolar summer.
I would have never had that kind of friendship if I’d just decided to cut him out of my life simply because he didn’t want to fuck me.
Our relationship is good because we’re not friends with conditions. We’re not friends until one of us decides that ‘friends’ isn’t enough. Our relationship is good because we accept each other.
Boys, if you’re pissed because some chick that you’ve been passively aggressively seeing doesn’t want to take things to the next level, know this. She’s not the problem. You are.
You are the problem because apparently your entire relationship with that girl was based on manipulation. You weren’t being nice to her because you cared about her. You were being nice to her to see what you could get from her.
That isn’t nice and you are not ‘such a nice guy’. You are a manipulator and that is the polar opposite of being nice.
If you want to be friends with a girl, then do it. But if you’re only being friendly because you hope to get something out of her later, that’s not friendly. In fact, you’re kind of being a passive aggressive pussy.
Not everyone who you’re attracted to will be attracted back. That’s just a fact of life. But if you walk away from people because they don’t want to sleep with you, don’t want to date you, don’t want to have a relationship with you, you are limiting your own horizons. You are choosing your friends based on what they can do for you and not how you feel about them.
And you are not ‘such a nice guy.”
I’ve never claimed to be the smartest person in the world. Well… actually I have, on several occasions. But rest assured, I was entirely drunk when I did so.
My point is I am at best above average on the intelligence scale. But there are still several things in this world that confuse me. So I would like some clarification on the following.
Why the hell do my maxi pads have diagrams?
For men and really stupid women, a maxi pad is something that teenage girls and lazy writers with tilted pelvic bones use during their monthly menstrual cycle. What confuses me is that the inside of my maxi pad looks like this;
Is my menstrual flow supposed to be reading this diagram? Are my unfertilized eggs that smart that they know exactly where they are supposed to go? If so, should I feel guilty for the fact that I’m flushing them down the toilet? I mean, I won’t eat pork because pigs are smarter than dogs and that bothers me. If my unused eggs are smart enough to follow the diagram on a maxi pad, should I be throwing them away at all? Or should I be enrolling them in an Ivy League school?
Also, why blue for the diagram? Trust this people, the second I start seeing blue stuff leaking out of me; I’m not worried about staying ‘dry and fresh.’ I’m more worried about the fact that apparently I’m miscarrying an alien’s baby.
Why do people play the lottery?
I used to consider playing the lottery, then I elected to start lighting my money on fire and flushing it down the toilet instead becuase I realized the lottery is for idiots.
I’m not talking to you occasional hopefuls who buy a ticket on the way home from work. I’m talking to all you fucktards out there who choose scratch tickets like you’re choosing your first born’s name.
You know who you are. You show up at the gas station at rush hour and take 45 minutes trading in tickets to buy more tickets to a lottery that you will never win.
Listen fuckers, in the time that it takes you to pick out those tickets every day, you could have written a novel, created a cure for cancer or more realistically, GOTTEN A FUCKING JOB.
The house always wins. Whether you’re playing at a craps table or scratching off little grey boxes, you will always lose. But the lottery commission depends on one thing to keep selling tickets.
They depend on you being a fucking moron. Stop playing right into their hands.
Where the hell did Tilapia come from?
Ten years ago, I had no idea that this fish existed.
Now, it’s everywhere. At any restaurant I go to, tilapia is on the menu. When I was in the hospital, I even got served tilapia during the daily meal I ignored because I was too drugged up to eat. As I recall, it smelled like feet and tasted two items as bad.
The best way I could describe the flavor is ‘cardboard flavored death.’ But now it’s popping up everywhere. It’s like reality TV shows. One day I saw one, and the next day, the world was overrun. I’m pretty sure the government manufactured tilapia out of cardboard and old ashtrays in an attempt to make fun of hipsters.
What does the ‘power of prayer’ really do?
This week, Tracy Morgan was seriously injured in a car accident. That isn’t news. But what I saw in the comments is news, because apparently there are idiots who feel they can save Tracy Morgan through the power of prayer.
First of all, the fact that Tracy Morgan is a celebrity does not make him any more important than the people that were on the bus with him, who were also seriously injured (or killed).
Next, what the fuck are your prayers supposed to do?
Let’s be honest. You don’t know Tracy Morgan. If he dies tomorrow, you might open your Facebook page and be like “oh, so sad, I will pray for his family. :( :(”
But you won’t really pray and you won’t be sad. You’re just saying that. You don’t know him, his family or what they’re going through. You’re just using him as an excuse to sound like a good person.
My bible knowledge tells me this. You can’t pray for someone to live or die. It doesn’t work like that. According to the Catholics, everything is predefined and whatever happens to one person will be god’s will, and can’t be changed. You can only pray for your own acceptance of that fate.
So why the fuck are you idiots wasting time praying? If you really want to honor Tracy Morgan, head to Vegas, get wasted and snort some coke off a hooker’s ass.
Above all, stop bringing god into this mess. It isn’t your place to pray for Tracy Morgan, no matter how much you liked him as Brian Fellows. It’s his family’s place so back the fuck off and let them grieve in peace. Stop stealing their grief so you can get attention.
That’s all I had to say. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to go buy some lottery tickets so I can buy candles for Tracy Morgan at midnight mass, because he is the most important person in the world to me. My menstrual eggs are also coming. They followed the maxi pad diagram right out of my pants and used a very complicated algorithm to buy their own winning lottery tickets.
Usually, I can get behind something one way or another. I am either 100% for something or 100% against something. I’m pretty black and white like that.
But sometimes, I just don’t know what to think.
I bring this up because of this couple.
Joshua Boyle and Caitlin Coleman are two tourists who elected to go to Afghanistan, despite full knowledge that the country is dangerous and filled with anti-western extremists who would like nothing more than to kill as many of us as possible.
Look, I have nuts the size of bowling balls, but even I wouldn’t do something like this. When I look into making my travel arrangements, if the American government lists a country as “red-level, extremely not-recommended for current travel due to likelihood of having head separated from neck”, I tend to listen.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have put off my walking tour of Chad for so long.
When this shit happens, I get annoyed. I get annoyed because if the US government chooses to find a way to free these people, either through a special ops situation or through exchanging prisoners, American lives will be lost. Either they will be lost when our service people take the extreme risk to go and get them, or they will be lost when dangerous criminals are released in exchange for them.
I don’t think that our American soldiers should have to pay with their lives for another persons’ stupidity. These people were not there as humanitarians. They weren’t there to build schools for poor kids, provide medical care for sick people or expose war atrocities to the world. They were there because apparently they ‘like exotic travel.’
Part of me wants to say ‘let them rot.’
But here’s the thing. Not only did these idiots choose to travel highly dangerous terrains, they actually chose to travel when Caitlin was pregnant.
That means, somewhere in Afghanistan, there is an innocent baby who does not deserve to suffer for its parents’ stupidity. Somewhere in Afghanistan, there is an American citizen who deserves the right to come home.
That baby should not have to pay for its parents’ mistakes.
It’s annoying to me that this comes on the heels of the highly controversial exchange for Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl. Seriously, fuck that guy.
I’m sorry, but if you voluntarily enlist, and then choose to desert in the middle of a war zone, I don’t think the armed forces’ policy of “leave no man behind” should apply to you. You chose to leave your fellow soldiers behind. In my view, once you desert, you are no longer a member of the armed forces and the military has no obligation to help you.
I only pray that exchange was made as part of a higher military strategy that we all can’t be party to. Otherwise, I’m forced to ask this question.
What ever happened to “the United States of America does not negotiate with terrorists?”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but last I checked, the Taliban was the poster child for terrorism. I’m pretty sure if you look up ‘terrorist’ in the dictionary, you will find the 2014 Taliban reunion picture.
If we’re going to start negotiating with terrorists, maybe we can do it for the people who deserve it? Like the Boko Haram victims kidnapped while they were just trying to get an education?
I don’t know, just tossing those thoughts out there, but maybe we should use the leverage we have for people who actually deserve it?
Look, when an American citizen is in a dangerous land for a good reason, I can respect that. Even if I don’t agree with that, I can respect why they did it. When a citizen is in danger because they were trying to do something good, I think we owe it to them to do everything we can for them.
But when we have citizens who choose to do something stupid, and then expect the government and the soldiers who have already sacrificed so much to put their lives on the line for them, I have a hard time getting behind the cause to free them.
Once, when I was in Germany, I got into a fight with someone and threw a beer bottle at them. As I was in an Irish pub, everyone used that as an excuse to start throwing punches and the place quickly turned into a veritable orgy of violence.
Later that evening, I was arrested and charged with ‘inciting a riot.’ I’m not making this up. To this day, I still have an Interpol record.
I deserved to face those charges. Even though I wasn’t sure what would happen, I knew deep down that starting a fight in an Irish pub at 2 am on New Years would result in a serious incident.
Because Joshua Boyle and Caitlin Coleman have a baby, an absolutely innocent victim, I think that we should do something to help them.
Then, I think as soon as those two idiots step their feet onto American or Canadian soil again, they should face charges for manslaughter and assault for every last one of the lives lost, and every soldier injured, while trying to save them for their own stupidity. The United States or Canadian government should sue them for every penny lost in their rescue attempt, just like that bar owner sued me for the damage caused in the bar fight I started.
I can respect the courage it takes to be a civilian going to a scary foreign land while just trying to help a disadvantaged people. I can respect the journalists who take their craft so seriously that they would put their lives in danger to expose a country’s crimes against humanity to the world. That takes an incredible amount of courage and is also a job that needs to be done, that very few people are willing to do.
What I can’t respect is willful ignorance. Joshua Boyle and Caitlin Coleman chose to be willfully ignorant. While they do not deserve what is happening to them now, American and Canadian soldiers also do not deserve to lose their lives in an attempt to rescue them.
When they do, Joshua Boyle and Caitlin Coleman need to face the consequences of what they did, just like I faced the consequences of starting that bar fight.
I recently wrote a couple of offensive posts (shocker, right?) that have garnered a few email responses. One thing that I get allot in these emails is;
“Are you this much of a cunt in real life, or are you just hiding behind the internet?”
To be honest, it’s a little bit of both. Much like any other emotion, cuntiness is purely situational.
I don’t believe that anyone is a bitch 100% of the time. When I worked in insurance, I used to have to deal with this zoo owner whenever one of her employees got injured. Let me tell you straight off, she was a fucking bitch. Seriously, she was a nightmare of a human being and I used to dread contacting her. She was the type of person who could take the most innocuous question, and turn it into a personal attack. She couldn’t even make small talk without getting offended.
Me: It sure has been cold out lately.
Her: No it hasn’t. God, everyone in this state is such a pussy. You all bitch about the weather, and you have no idea what cold it really is. Jesus, you people are friggen useless. It’s like the air you breathe is wasted.
There were times I considered driving to this cunt’s house and slashing her tires. She ruined my day on a regular basis for about 6 months straight. Just saying her name to me, nearly five years later, is enough to make my hands clench into fists of rage and make me start grinding my teeth.
One day, I Googled her and I found some surprising information. She was a complete pushover when it came to animals. She even had a moose that she raised since it was a baby, staying up nights, feeding it with a bottle. There was a video of her on the internet singing that damn moose to sleep, I shit you not.
It occurred to me that as much as I thought she was a cunt, that moose probably thought she was the greatest person on the planet. While that thought didn’t stop me from wanting to slash her tires, it did stop me from assuming she was a cunt to everyone.
I admit I can be a bitch. Much like the zookeeper, I have my hot button issues. Just today, as I was driving through my neighborhood, a 12-year-old boy tried to stare me down after taking his sweet-assed time crossing the street.
I immediately pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked the little fucker what his problem was. He ran away and I had to resist the urge to chase him down. Not fucking around people, I came about 2 inches from kicking a 12-year-old’s ass today all because I didn’t like the way he looked at me.
If that isn’t being a cunt, I don’t know what is.
But I’m not always a cunt. In fact, most people who interact with me find me very pleasant, because I’m pretty laid back. I’m polite to service people, I give money to homeless people, and I only flip people off in traffic when it’s absolute necessary (like they just nearly killed me…or they have a Sarah Palin bumper sticker)
But no, I’m not a cunt all the time. I have situational cuntiness.
When someone contacts me in my personal space, like on my blog, and is rude, I am a cunt. When a man treats me like an idiot because I was born without testicles, I am a cunt.
When a child somehow thinks he’s tougher than me and can stare me down, even after I’ve generously decided to not run him over with my car for delaying my beer run, I am a cunt.
But no, rest assured, I am not this much of a cunt in real life. In fact, most times, I’m only a cunt for one childish reason.
Namely, you started it.
Today, I saw an article about a Pennsylvania couple that was charged with contempt for filling out jury forms filled with sarcasm and profanity. While most people were attacking the couple, all I could say was ‘more power to them’.
Who among us isn’t sick of filling out forms? Who among us isn’t sick of people giving us pages and pages of incredibly personal questions to answer with no regards for our privacy or our time?
Everyone I make an appointment with does not need to know my employment history, my PCP, my middle name or if I am white, black, Asian, Latino or ‘other’ (because there are only 5 kinds). When I go to my doctor, she doesn’t need my full employment history, unless that history includes working in a coal mine and my diagnosis might be pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. (round of applause for Essa, for finding a way to put the longest existing English word into a sentence)
I say rock on Pennsylvania smart asses. Jury selection forms are nothing more than gathered data designed to allow some slime ball attorney to stack a jury and get their dirt bag client off on a technicality anyway. As far as I’m concerned, the courts don’t need to know my employment. They don’t need to know my financial history and they don’t need to know if I’ve ever been convicted of a crime. Because I’m not the motherfucker on trial.
You want me on your jury, fuck your forms. You only need to know two things. You need to know my name and you need to know that my ass is small enough to fit into one of those horrible wooden jury chairs at the court house.
Forms are ruining society. They are what people give you when they don’t know what else to do. You lost your luggage at the airport? Fill out a form. The doctor is 45 minutes late for your appointment? Fill out a form. The cops beat you within an inch of your life during a standard nonviolent arrest and you want to complain? Fill out a form.
I hate forms.
A few months ago, my son brought a form home from school. On one side was a bunch of requested information. On the other side was a request for the exact same god damn information. Apparently, someone in my kid’s guidance office can’t be bothered with the lofty task of turning over a piece of paper. I marked it ‘see other side, idiot’ and haven’t heard back since.
Which only goes to prove that no one reads those fucking things.
Yes, I am aware that sitting on a jury is a civic responsibility. That is why I don’t vote, to avoid civic responsibility. But filling out forms is not a civic responsibility. It’s a nuisance and a big one at that. So props to the Pennsylvania couple for telling it like it is.
In their honor, if I am ever forced to fill out a jury selection form, I will make a point of making it twice…no triple…as offensive as theirs was.
Because it is my duty as a patriotic America to exercise my freedom of speech…whether out loud, in a blog post, or via form.
God bless America.
The Facebook nostalgia video has officially gone viral. It’s called the ‘look back’ and it is designed to tell you what was really important in your life thanks to how many of your friends halfheartedly liked something.
Of course, because the vast majority of my friends are idiots, my video is nothing more than a pile of loud garbage. Generally, the drunker I am when I post a status update, the more people like it. Despite writing approximately 5,000 articles for various news outlets, publishing 3 books, raising a kid, changing careers, getting my masters degree and all the other life changing things I have done, this is apparently the most important thing I have had to say in the past 10 years.
I genuinely hate my Facebook page. As far as I can tell, it’s nothing more than a digital exercise in rejection. Even someone as together as me gets a little bit hurt when I post something that I think is pure genius, and no one likes it. When someone does like it, I think that they only clicked like in order to get me to go to their page and like something they made. I can’t help it, it’s pure psychology.
So I’ve decided to fix the problem by encrypting all of my Facebook status messages using PGP.
Now, I will truly know who actually cares what I am posting, as these people will be forced to spend 15 minutes hunting down my public key, and then another 5 decrypting it. In addition, I will only respond to comments that have also been encrypted using PGP.
As an awesome side effect, it will ensure that any future ‘look back’ videos created on my behalf come out as pure gibberish.
**In case you were wondering, this encrypted message says “haha fuckers, good luck making a video about this.” A valuable resource put to good use just to piss off my Facebook friends. I truly do have far too much time on my hands.***
In about a month, I will be leaving Florida to take on the great, classy city of Las Vegas. I get the urge to change states every 4 years or so to
outrun all my warrants take in new scenery.
Anyway, most of the people you will meet in Florida are transplants. In the years I have been living here, I have only met 1 or 2 ‘born and bred’ Floridians. Everyone else came from freezing cold states, and were lured here with the promise of eternal summer.
I have to agree that the weather is beautiful. As most of my friends are shoveling out their driveway, I sit here in flip flops and complain when the weather gets below 60.
But there are a few things that I wish someone had told me when I first moved, and now I’m going to share those things with you.
#1. Only hookers wear panty hose in the Sunshine State.
With weather that tops 100 on a daily basis, and an average 90% humidity rate, most people are practical enough to forgo an extra layer of nylon covering when they go out. The ones who don’t are the ladies who need to hide their varicose veins and track marks. Unless you’re looking to get solicited by a car full of college boys, leave the tights and pantyhose at home.
#2. Never trust the outside appearance of a neighborhood
As an apartment dweller, I’ve always been careful to avoid places with bars on the windows or mattresses in the yard. But Florida landlords are getting wise to that and now slap enough window dressing on any apartment complex to fool prospective tenants into moving into a ghetto neighborhood.
How to avoid it? When looking for a place to live, don’t look at the landscaping in the complex. Look at the cars in the parking lot. If you spot more than one 1998 Corolla with window tint, spinning rims and a stereo system that Blue Books for more than the car is worth, move on.
#3. There is no such thing as an ‘outdoor’ pet.
You won’t see a lot of stray cats roaming the neighborhoods in Florida. Here, stray cats are alligator food and they will not last very long. The only people who leave their animals outside in Florida are the meth dealers who need to leave their Rottweilers outside to protect their meth labs.
#4. Rudeness saves lives
Florida comes in at a hefty third place, right behind California and New York, for the most victims of serial killers. Remember these two words; Fuck ‘em.
A person broken down on the side of the road and they’re trying to flag you to stop? Fuck ‘em. A person knocking on your door looking for their lost dog? Fuck ‘em. A person in a cast wants help carrying their groceries? Fuck ‘em.
Yeah, I know it sounds terrible, but I don’t care. I’d rather a stranger think I’m rude than some Buffalo Bill nut job think I’m an easy target.
#5. ‘Palmetto bug’ is Floridian for ‘creepy assed flying cockroach’.
A Palmetto bug, aka the Periplaneta Americana, is a member of the arthropoda phylum and resembles a cockroach with the same approximate size as a small dog. While they do not bite, the first time you have one fly into your face in retaliation for spraying it with Raid, expect to be scarred for life. I’m not fucking around people. It will haunt you to your grave.
#6. Manatees do not exist
I think they are some kind of fake endangered species made up by a corrupt Florida official in order to get government funds for preservation. While I have no statistical proof, I can tell you that I have been to 3 manatee festivals and have yet to see one actual live manatee.
#7. All your neighbors will be nuts.
Again, something about the heat drives people nuts here. In my short time in my middle class apartment I’ve seen;
- A guy try to light his girlfriend’s place on fire…while completely nude
- A high speed chase, ending in a police standoff in my neighborhood, where the man claimed to be receiving secret messages from the children’s show “Yo Gabba Gabba.”
- An invitation to join a cult
- Another note telling me I’m going to hell for not joining said cult
- A bronies convention (Google it)
- A six foot red headed Asian woman with 6 toes on her right foot, who will gladly show the mutation to anyone for $1
If you don’t have any crazy neighbors in your Florida neighborhood, guess what? You are the crazy neighbor.
Florida has been fun, and it’s given me a lot of material, but its time to move on. For anyone about to move to “The Penis of America” (<- slogan is copyright of Essa Alroc) , I hope my guide will prepare you for what is sure to be a memorable stay.