Archive for April, 2010

Because I want to

Posted: April 16, 2010 in Uncategorized

It seems that everyone is a fan of the blog these days. Not “the” blog as in my blog, but rather, of composing one’s thoughts in a manner that is shareable with the rest of the world. And really, why not? It is a self-gratifying activity and allows a person to easily hide behind the act of sharing when it is really just an act of egotism. I, of course, lump myself into this, and any of you that may know me know that I have quite a large ego, despite the fact that I have short legs and crow’s feet.

What I have also realized is that the blogs of the majority of people I know are kinda sappy (no offense family and friends). Sure, a lot of them are about family life and avoid many of the topics that yours truly likes to broach (Sarah Palin, monkeys, and vagina, to name just a few). So that got me to thinking, why is my blog seemingly so jaded, occasionally vile, and routinely sarcastic, when everyone else seems to be so reflective and nauseating happy? The answer to me was simple…

Because I want to.

Happiness, to me, is a boring proposition. Nobody gives a shit if I like someone, or like something (other than bacon, of course). No, to me, the most exciting things in life are the ones that make people cringe just a bit, or make them talk about you behind your back. To me, that’s how you know you are really making an impact on someone and digging your spurs deep into their ribs. Knowing this, one must then wonder, why are other people afraid to walk the scandalous line? And once again, the answer to me is simple…

Because they are scared.

Scared? Yep. Scared. Scared to discuss the issues. Scared that other people will think ill of them. Scared to dig deep down into the pits of their souls and expose a little bit of themselves that others might find different. Fear can lead to a lot of things, or in this case, prevent a lot of things. Fear leads to assimilation and to walking the straightest line possible. There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that, but…

I believe you have to take chances in life. Much like we are expected to adapt throughout the course of our existences (children, losing hair, breaking a hip), we are expected to take chances in order to keep moving forward through the jungle (unless you carry around a machete). That aside, some people just aren’t born to take chances and, ultimately, I guess that is okay. That is their existence and it would be wrong of me to be too judgmental (beyond the compulsion to quickly muse about it). They can continue to coat the world with sugar while I will continue to scrape it off and take a bite out of the lemon.

I guess that’s just my existence.

You have to risk going too far to discover just how far you can really go.
–T.S. Eliot



A meat by any other name

Posted: April 13, 2010 in Uncategorized

It is no secret that I love bacon…really, really love bacon (as illustrated, here: I saw Stir of Echoes and Hollow Man just because Kevin Bacon was in it; that’s how much I love bacon. It’s salty, and greasy, and low-fat, and delicious. It’s good on a sandwich, or on a burger, or in ice cream, or in a vagina. To me, bacon is the perfect, on-the-go snack if you have about 20 minutes to cook it up and package it correctly so it doesn’t leave your pockets looking like you just finished an oil wrestling match. Hell, even if you have grease stains on your pants, who cares? It’s bacon for Christ’s sake (by the way, seriously, how effing rad is that picture above?)

Bacon is not only delicious, it is made of pig. And pigs, as we all know, are fucking awesome. They are cute as babies and tasty as adults and, of course, they make terrifyingly cool sounds that make your ears ring and your stomach growl. My love for bacon aside, I have to take exception to a phenomenon that attempts to minimize the role of traditional bacon in the American culture. I’m talking about turkey bacon.

Turkey bacon. Let that rattle around in your skull for a moment. Turkey. Bacon. Sounds like something is wrong, doesn’t it? If you think something is wrong with “turkey bacon,” you would be right. Gold stars for everyone. The words “turkey” and “bacon” do not belong in the same sentence, unless of course you are referring to a turkey club with bacon, or perhaps a turkey leg wrapped in bacon and deep fried to orgasmic perfection.

Turkey bacon is a fraud, plain and simple. According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, bacon is defined as, “the side of a pig cured and smoked.” See that turkey? A PIG! Nowhere in this definition does it say anything about a turkey. Or a cow. Or a bunch of vegetables mixed together and presented as some viable alternative to the almighty, meat, greasy bacon (take that, vegetarians!). Bacon is pig and pig is bacon. Turkey does not equal bacon and bacon does not equal turkey. Got it?

Look, I have no problem with providing an alternative to bacon. Most great things in life are imitated, and I understand the health-conscious’ desire to try and find something to be happy about while they are starving themselves of the finer things in life. I get it. It’s admirable. It’s foolish, but admirable nonetheless. What I take exception with is the fact that people are trying to reinvent the greatest meat known to man. There is no real substitute for bacon. There is no competition. There is no equal. Period. So, stop trying to flood the market with your lies.

I don’t care what you call it, to be quite honest, so long as you stop calling it bacon. Maybe just call it greasy turkey fat. Or maybe you can call it like tacon, or tucon, or something like that. Whatever you want to call it, stop trying to fool everyone into believing that what you’re peddling is even a tiny bit as tasty as the side of a pig cured and smoked.

Porkchops and bacon, my two favorite animals.
–Homer Simpson


AMENDMENT: MSNBC must have been reading my mind.

Thug life

Posted: April 13, 2010 in Uncategorized

Now, before we get started, let me first admit that I am a bit detached from the, shall we say, hip hop scene. Sure, I like Outkast and Jay-Z as much as the next 5’8″ white guy from the suburbs, but I am definitely not plugged into the whole slangin’ yayo lifestyle. I mean, I tried coke once, but it was with other white people and we were in Mexico and I was already drunk, but that’s besides the point.

Bearing in mind that I am not part of the chocolate (or caramel) underground, please take my confusion with a grain of salt (or coke…whatever). What I am confused about is quite simple. If you are a criminal, and you know you’re a criminal, AND, you get mad whenever you get arrested, AND, the whole being-a-criminal thing hinges squarely on you NOT going to the clink, then why must you dress, drive, and behave like a criminal in public? Even if you aren’t a criminal, why must you dress, drive, and behave like a criminal in public?

Take driving for instance. Not a day goes by where I am behind, beside, or in front of a vehicle that seems to have a phantom driver. I mean, it’s not bad enough that the vehicles pretty much all look the same. You know…the 1992 Ford Festiva with a spoiler and rims that probably cost more than a semester at Harvard. No. In addition to driving a vehicle that looks like someone saw Fast and Furious 1,456 times, we have a driver that appears to be absent from the front seat. Oh, but where could he be? Wait. I see him. He’s leaning so far back that I think he might actually be driving from the trunk. And why lean to the side? Is this in case you have to do a tuck and roll when you car speeds unexpectedly and uncontrollably towards Dead Man’s Curve and the cliff at the top of the ravine?

How about the license plate cover? You know the one I’m talking about. The tinted one. The one that says one of two things. It either says, “I don’t want my license plate to get sunburned,” or it says, “I bet the cops won’t be able to read my license plate at night.” Well, chief, I have news for you. First, license plates are made of a material we call metal and they are not subjected to the perils of the sun. Second, we can all read your license plate. In fact, not only can we read it, we also make fun of you (like now) because you think you’re so clever. And you know what that says to the fuzz? Pull me over, because, well, I have something illegal in my vehicle. I wonder if that constitutes, “probable cause.”

Personally, if I were a thug, and chose to engage in a profession that relied on performing tasks that may be viewed as less-than-legal, I would want to hide it a little better. You know. Drive a normal car, sans tinted license plate cover. Or walk, sans limp. Or wear clothing that, you know, fits (unless you were really chubs before, because then I understand not wanting to be a whole new wardrobe, just in case you gain it all back after you tear up a gallon of mint chocolate chip). I think it is just common sense to give the appearance of a law-abiding citizen, even if your day job consists of street corners, Ziplock bags, and the occasional dismantling of a wheel wheel.

I guess it is this lack of common sense that lands ’em in jail in the first place. Or in the ground. Or both. Maybe this needs to be added to school curriculum in the future.

It’s a hard knock life, for us.