The problem with Christmas as a secular holiday is that everybody gets something – when in truth some people just don’t deserve anything. Here is a quick summary of those joyless shit-boxes that don’t deserve anything unless it’s the back o’ Santa’s hand:
Yoga proselytizers. Yeah yeah yeah – it’s good for you, but so are steroids, pot and Cialis and you don’t see me harping on you. Ditto Cross-fitters. Argue it out among yourselves. I’m glad you exercise. You lapped everyone still on the couch. No gifts.
Middle-Aged women in Creative Writing Classes, who, having never written anything at all, ever, advise the rest of the class that “Hemingway was not good. I’m sorry. But some of his stuff is shit.” Because the stakes are so high in continuing education classes some people magically rise to the occasion by letting everyone else know about that no-goodnik Hemingway? No gifts.
Anyone who’s name/Facebook profile picture appears on another (especially commercial) website with “Top Commentator”. Hell, “Top Commentators” period. Santa actually wrote a poem for you – just a few syllables short of a haiku. Here it is – wait for it … wait … … … wait:
Memorize that – you ain’t getting a signed copy because guess what? You get no gifts, troll.
Poets. They’re weird and they’ll complain about what they get. So give ‘em nothing. Not even attention or they’ll just do it again.
Anyone who ever posted a “meme” on any social media site regarding overcoming adversity and blah blah blah. If you have the wherewithal to post to social media, things aren’t all that adverse.
Secretly Really, everyone dislikes you. No gifts. I’d like to extend this to anyone who ever posted any “meme” ever – but maybe we could get you a blow-up sheep doll so you sheeple can reproduce and be even more thorough followers/re-posters of pop-psych diarrhea.
“Open Carry” Advocates. Oooh, look at you with your Chinese-made AK-47 knock-off walking around in Target. Ain’t no one gonna fuck with your rights, right? You know, like that right to intimidate a bunch of little old ladies in the toothpaste aisle. Except for the Chinese Gov’t, who already own you, because you are a chickenshit. Mind you, you would get a gift – if they made tampons large enough to put a whole person in. Maybe try to do a push-up first before you start packing, shitwit.
People who drive to a pipeline/fracking protest. If you really want to protest the hydrocarbon industry 1) Don’t drive or ride anything, ever. No planes, trains or automobiles. 2) Actually invent/fund/participate in the research and development of alternatives. Hypocrisy. like herpes, appears to be the gift that keeps on giving and you don’t need any more. You are taken care of in perpetuity. (Note: “We Bussed” supports my argument, not yours.)
Smug Bloggers peddling the same ol’ brand of snark that has populated the internet for a decade now. What a bunch of losers, right? How about trying to say something positive for a change? Immediately after posting this, I’m going to kick my own ass. It’s the right thing to do.
OK guys – I’m outta here. Gotta fill an old coke can with pea gravel then put it in a sock and administer some rough justice upon my own person. I’ll be back when I heal. Steve
A little background here:
A while back at my old office we were discussing the “weirdest people” to deal with as a class of clientele. The top two were Chefs/Cooks and Hairdressers.
In regards to chefs/cooks I have never worked in food service but a number of my co-workers had and they all had stories about chefs involving heavy drug use/knives/sexual harassment/rage-quitting in the middle of a shift. Stuff like that.
Hairdressers were just odd. I discussed this with an ex-girlfriend and she quickly described HD’s as “They think they’re ultra cool because they have piercings in their genitals and say “fuck” a lot.”
I don’t think that’s quite right but I do note that any hairdresser I have ever brought up the “hairdressers are nuts” issue to agreed wholeheartedly. Most brought up the constant exposure to the chemicals in perms/dyes etc. that are a constant part of their job as a factor in their Lovecraftian weirdness.
It made me think about creative types in general – can you in fact associate a person’s level of creativity with a corresponding level of weirdness?
I came up with an “off the cuff” list of occupations (from the notionally creative to the highly creative) listed in ascending order of nuttiness. “Ascending” means from lowest (almost normal – a few weird twitches) to highest (totally fucking out there.)
- Non-Fiction Writers/Journalism
- Graphic Designers/Illustrators
- Fiction Writers
- You choose/Open for further discussion
Of course individuals can be exceptions to the rule for all of the above – we can all think of examples – except for poets. Poets are nutters! It’s practically a requirement.
Philosopher’s are even crazier but I’m not sure it’s A creative art or THE creative art so I didn’t include it here but I’m holding #10 on the list open in case of feedback.
I eagerly await your input, loyal
readers reader – and if it comes in couplets or dactylic hexameter … it’s proof positive. Especially dactylic hexameter.
Over and out!
A Cat in a Hat
Just took a hairy Shizzat!
Right in my kitchen!
WTF is with that?
His back it did spasm
His tail gave three twitches
It went right into his hat
Blew out three hat-stitches!
“Steve – Look out at that Window”
The Cat said in fear
“See the snow and the wind?
I can’t go out there!”
Let us have a moment of silence
For the feline in the hat
He’s staring in from the deck now
I don’t even own a cat.
It was 10 – 6 for the Raiders when I went out to shovel snow a while ago and when I got back in the Raiders had Raider-ed and this is the best I can do at this moment. Between the weather and the game … I feel piled on.
A little bit of Flash I wrote is on-line now and available in issue 5.13 of The Molotov Cocktail – an E-Zine based out of Portland Oregon.
It’s free – so go one and read my story “Flower” (Kids and dogs hey? It’s like they belong together!) and two other excellent shorts. I’m in good company in TMC.
And check out that cover – I’m lovin’ it!
Over and out compadres – I’ll be back when it’s safe!
The other night I decided to buy some beer so I hit an ATM and got some cash but then went straight home – no beer – watched half of “Ancient Aliens” and went to bed.
I’m so sorry it’s come to this.
As my regular
readers reader know(s) I’ve been dating stalking a really attractive woman from Cali so I went down this past weekend and spent three days in the desert with her.
It was hot.
She was hot too – and its not just a looks thing. Some girls can say “You just don’t appeal to me in any way” and it’s just background noise/static but the way this girl says it it’s like a song or even – dare I say it – a prayer.
Needless to say, I love her.
When I mentioned that I aspire to write n’ shit and even have a couple of publication credits (n’ shit) the two things she always says are “How come I have never heard of you?” and “My mom and I lived with a famous writer when I was little and she wrote a biography/book about their time together.”
To make a long story short her mother had a serious and complicated relationship with a guy named Charles Bukowski – some dude from LA who had some moderate degree of fame/infamy in certain literary circles. A “Literary Genius” apparently – whatever that is.
Here’s her book:
I read it and it’s fascinating – less a homage to Bukowski (who has too many fanboys as it is) than a chronicle of people, places, and times – an LA waking up with speed and champagne and going to bed and with bennies and beer. Pam (sorry – I mean “Ms. Wood”) is very fair and doesn’t sugar coat anything but doesn’t judge either. It is what it is. It is also well-written.
I was fortunate enough to be gifted a copy! Pam (Ms. Wood) inscribed it with:
“Here’s your book. The answer to your question is no, he would not have liked you or read your shit. Now leave my daughter and I alone.”
How cool is that?
You can buy it here at amazon
I’ll be back soon folks – I’ve got some stuff to sort out with the INS.
Just a quick reminder – Big Pulp’s “M” #1 ships this week – you can find it here
$6 and you’ll get the deepest satisfaction you can get short of killing dangerous wild game with a flint-tipped spear and your bare f*cking hands.
Remember: When in doubt, buy Big Pulp & blow shit up.
Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human qualities to anything other than a human being – in literature it is typically done with animals or natural events. Aesop’s fables are a good place to start if you want to see anthropomorphism in action.
The reason that it is immoral is that animals aren’t humans and can’t talk. As such, it’s a deception. Think for a moment, on what life would be like if your pets really could talk. There is no reason to believe they would be kind or even helpful. Your cat for example, is probably a jerk, potty-mouthed, and likely a bit of a passive-aggressive racist.
You would be sitting there on your end of the couch, Mr. Tiddles on his and you’d be watching the news while he licked his anus with that raspy pink tongue of his, buffing that ruddy pink spider-bite to a new-car shine. Something would come on and you’d only be half paying attention when he’d stop his counter-clockwise lingual rotation and say “I just don’t trust those people!”
You would look over and say “Did you actually just say that? Did I actually just hear that?” and he’d go back to licking himself, very slowly, clockwise this time – for two complete rotations – and without ever breaking eye-contact with you (a challenge to your authority!) he’d stop and say “Why don’t you take a f*cking picture, Fatty. It’ll last longer.”
And that kind sirs and good madams, is your cat.
Don’t even get me started on your dog. If your dog was an actual person he’d repeat everything you said right back to you as a question, be obsessed with poop, and be like that kid in class the teacher shuts in a closet because he’d immediately stick his hand down his pants anytime he heard his name called, even if it was just to go into the closet for having his hand down his pants.
The above illustrate why we should not anthropomorphisize. I don’t even think anthropomorphisize is a real word. It didn’t pass spellcheck here. So don’t do it.
Now go take Mr. Tiddles to the vet and have him put down. He deserves it.
Keep the faith brothers and sisters, and I’ll be back after Watership Down is over. LOVE that movie.
I don’t talk about my day time job on my blog much – mostly because this blog is to promote my writing efforts and besides, there are only so many ways to kick a puppy. You all know the drill. However, there was an incident the other day I feel compelled to describe because it made me think of the power of words – and names especially.
Our first name – for almost all of us – is given to us by our parents. Some names we get to choose – easy examples are our email/blog names. What we choose to name ourselves – in all seriousness or just in fun – says more about us than the names bestowed upon us by others. (Conversely, what our parents name us says more about them than it does us – right “Justice’? Right “Eagle Eye”?)
One of our clients came in about a month ago to update his contact information. I sat with him and started updating the customer information screen and when we got to the email field I asked the question. He hung his head and laughed nervously – I just looked at him, waiting for the info. Finally he said “ricochetrobbie” at (some email address). I just typed it in (trust me, I’ve heard odder ones) but he felt compelled to explain:
“Oh man,” he said, with a California stoner drawl (even though we’re not in Cali), “When I was a Kid we’d play Cowboys and my cowboy name was “Ricochet Robbie” so I have always kept a variation of that as my email. Kind of silly hey?” He looked like he did, indeed, feel silly.
You know, I feel for the guy. We’re about the same age, it’s been a long tough winter, and you know what? Whatever brightens your day – it’s all good by me.
“Hey – it’s cool with me Rob” I said. “In fact, I’ve been on-line dating and “Steve Nine Plus” is my username on the website I use. Look at it this way – you really could be a cowboy. There’s time. You can buy a horse, a hat, and give it a shot. Ride off into that sunset. Me? I’m just another f*cking liar on the internet.”
We both laughed at that.
After I completed the customer information screen I brought a puppy out of the bag and we took turns punting it clear across my cubicle. Mission accomplished.Another happy customer.
Stay frosty my friends – I don’t always lie on the internet but when I do? It’s to strange women.
I want to give a quick shout-out to WITW 2014 and reblog this item. It’s an excellent group of writers and I hope I see you all there to support them. I will be in the audience, jacked up on caffeine, and ready to get rowdy.
WITW 2014 – be there!