I'm Moving at the Speed of Technology

I'm working on something. I'm slow. I know. I'm not really sorry, so I won't say I am. These things take time, but more importantly, they take me caring for enough time in one sitting to stop watching tv and dedicate myself to writing something. Rare moment.

To tide you over, I'll tell a quick story of something that just pissed the crap out of me in lieu of the big one that will be coming in the next few days. I just ate a peach, and with that peach, I secured a paper towel on which to carry it. There are four things I can see written on the inked-in decorative designs on this paper towel. They read as follows: "Reach for the Stars", "Live. Love. Laugh.", "Live life to its Fullest", and "Follow Your Heart and Your Dreams Will come True". Next time I need to feel better about myself, I'll ask the Brawny Man. I want to see the douchebag that thinks they're making a difference in the world with self-affirmations on a damn paper towel sheet, and then castrate her. Yeah, I said it, don't worry about it. If you'll excuse me, I have to go self-affirm my ass with some paper towels.

Quicker pick up this, bitch.

WHO THE SHIT WAS THAT?

Comment. Who's comment? Show yourself. I know you're reading this. I will ruin this internet with my anger, and I'm huuuuungry!

Find out if you're pissing me off here:

Scenario: I'm returning a DVD to Hollywood Video. I thought I might take advantage of the conveniently placed drive-by drop box in the parking lot so as to avoid using my legs. Much to my dismay, not so much for the fact that I had to walk, but for the fact that it made me hate everyone but myself even more than I already do, there was a piece of paper taped over the slot where one might find it suitable to deposit an item of borrowed media to return it to its owner. This piece of paper said: "Drop Box is out of order. Sorry for the inconvenience!" You know what? No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you have to wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror and then STILL decide that your toothbrush belongs in your mouth more than it belongs inserted 7 inches into your brain through your eye socket. It's a box. The box has a slit in it. The box also has a door from which to remove items that have been placed inside of it. I would love to know which part of that is "Out of Order". I think the part that is out of order are the two fatass movie-store clerk legs that ache and burn after walking back from the microwave with popcorn as if they just participated in the Chuck Norris workout infomercial they were watching. It must be difficult to walk those 20 yards to pick up the 13 small, jewel cases from the Drop Box twice a day, but I'm glad that in doing so, you've managed to inconvenience me tremendously on my one and ONLY venture into the outside world today. Now it will probably be a week before I get the motivation to go outside again. Not to mention, think of the Earthly resources you're wasting by making countless people park their own cars and walk their own asses up to the drop box attached to the wall of the store (which was, remarkably, in full working condition). Petroleum reserves are exhausted as I am forced to stop and restart my engine, wasting precious gasoline. Depleting food stores are further challenged by the calories wasted by me walking a cumulative FORTY yards, as well as standing up and sitting down. And, lastly, baby seals are killed because I get so frustrated by the whole ordeal I have to go club one to death at the aquarium to relieve my stress.

When I walked to the window to drop my movie in the non-drive-through box, I decided to go inside and look for things to buy, as a way of demonstrating my outrage with the establishment's Broken Drop-Box Policies. I hate myself.

By the way, I wanted to talk about something that pisses me off. Oh, wait...well, I wanted to talk about more things. Health nuts. Shut. Up. I'm glad you've found a diet that works for you, despite the fact that it is ultimately unsatisfying and leaves you chewing on your pillow as you fall asleep wistfully dreaming about flavor or having enough nutrients to effectively run all of your vital organs instead of just your loudmouth lungs and your colon that is inexplicably connected to your vocal cords. I'm even happier that the years of misery you live in as you subject yourself to carefully executed starvation will allow you to live an extra 127 days more than me as you dodge the looming threat of a cholesterol and chemical induced heart attack at the age of 74 cause by the lifelong consumption of processed foods, only to fall victim to a fatal kick in the nuts from me at the ripe old age of 74 and 127 days for pissing me off all the time. Most of all, however, I'm happy that you will probably spend those last 127 days whining about how much you are upset with the world and the current state of affairs and how depressing life is (not to mention how hungry you are), just like you did for the 27,028 days you were alive before that. If life is really as bad as you say it is, then stop trying to prolong it by adding to your "suffering". I'm glad you're doing us all the favor of keeping yourself alive for that little extra, but we don't want to impose on you, so we give you permission to stop trying to breathe. I know you're probably saying, "Hey, James! But you're complaining about the world, too! You're a hypocrite!" The difference is, I'm complaining about the world with a Twinkie in my mouth, a Ding Dong close in line to go down the hatch, and, I'm washing it down with a steak (actually, just bacon fat), all the while unable to care less if I woke up dead tomorrow. Sure, life's great, but making it longer isn't what makes it fun. If you want to make my life better, guess how much I would care if YOU woke up dead tomorrow with a rice cake lodged in your esophagus. I'll give you a hint: the answer starts with "not" and rhymes with "lot bat fall". Ok, fine, here's another hint: the answer is "not at all".

I was going to finish off with making fun of vegetarians, but it's not nice to pick on retarded people.

Warning: Entering Incoherent Rant

Today's menu contains one item and one item only. That item is potpourri. However, that particular item happens to inherently consist of many items, but the point is, it's just a bunch of random shit I feel like writing right now. But, I will try to string them all together with one very important connection: this is all stuff that pisses the crap out of me. Please, take heart in the tortured emotional and self-induced physical pain stressing out about these annoyances affords me, and enjoy!

Ok, what the shit. If you applied for a job, then you wanted to get a job. No one "made" you, no one forced you. You got an application and you applied and then you even accepted. You made several conscious decisions to end up where you are, so if you can't handle performing your job without complaining about it, then quit. And if you can't do that, quit talking to me about it. I've got a solution for you: shut the crap up. You know why you're getting paid 7 bucks an hour to do it? Because whoever hired your reject ass did it out of the kindness of his or her (ok, his) heart and disappointed one very ready and eager half-trained chimpanzee that probably would have done the job with less complaining, greater efficieny, less demands or benefits, and probably less feces throwing. The point is, you're probably not doing skilled labor, and there are a lot of 6 year olds in Uganda that have a lot more right to complain about having to do bitch work than you. Lucky for me, kids are meant to be seen, not heard. Furthermore, I also think they should be laughed at and subsequently punted, and not seen. But I digress. The point is, I don't like kids, and shut up. Money doesn't make you better than me, just happier, richer, and more useful to society. By the way, here's a quick test to determine if your job is skilled labor and therefore considered useful to me. Please answer yes or no: 1) Are you paid less than $20 an hour? 2) Does the other person your dad hired to do the same job as you get paid 75% of what you do? Scoring: If you answered yes to the above questions, you would be more valuable to society as a traffic cone. The kind you run over.

Here's something that pisses me off, cause I know you want to hear it. You're going to hear it...if you speak the following paragraph out loud. Otherwise you'll just scroll past it because it's way too long to "waste" your time on. After all, you've got important NOTHING to do on the internet that you do every damn day anyway. I wouldn't want to get in the way of that. Holy crap, just thinking about how angry this topic makes me has caused me to not want to write any more tonight. It was about people saying certain drugs or substances are OK to use because they're "natural", as in, found in nature. The next time I hear this reasoning, I'm going to tell the guilty party to go make out with an "all natural" King Cobra because his or her (ok, her) ignorance manages to ruin my life on a regular basis by causing me to be markedly disappointed that I am associated with modern society through the loose affiliation of sharing the same base genetic make up. On second thought, I don't feel angry or frustrated, I just feel like complete shit right now. I need to go watch TV. Sorry, I'll try to be funny tomorrow, I just lost my muse, along with my will to live. Thanks a lot, society. Pucker up.

This probably won't last

Let's get a round of applause for Brian Lum. He told me this was a good idea. But, now that I'm actually doing it, I still don't agree. The fact of the matter is, I am bored and lonely at the moment, so I will have to live with debasing myself to the point of blogging.

I would like to set a precedent for this particular blog. I think each day (or perhaps several times a day depending on how excited I am that other people care about what I don't really think, but pretend like I think so I'll sound cool and thus post it on a blog because people will think I'm deep and provocative and have a hidden tortured or brilliant mind behind the dumbassery of my everyday self). Wait, I was in the middle of a sentence. Ok, rewind. I think each day I will post what I think about global politics and express my discontent or admiration of several 24-hour news station commentary programs.

Immediately following this, I will tell you to like my music.

After that, I will erroneously decide a one or two word description that bears no place in describing human emotions and use it to depict my current mood, despite the fact that my mood will probably be the same as it was before I started the blog, which can be easily described by the following words: happy, sad, or pissed off at you.

Following this deep plunge into my psyche to give all those that know me (and some that don't! I heart the internet!) a close view into the REAL me, I will tell you to like different music than previously mentioned, but this music I will have never heard myself, but rather saw in a public forum and decided it would make me seem revolutionary or edgy if I did listen to it, so I'll pretend like I listened to them before they were popular, if selling 4 albums at a Berkeley EMOshop can be called popular. I will, however, assure you that despite their imminent sell-out, they still make my soul feel better.

On an entirely different note, what the shit is an LP anyway? I'm tired of people saying they heard the LP. It's a CD. Get over yourself. (Editor's note: I won't ask that question everyday. That particular thought was out of the context of my "Blog Precedent" piece) . (Writer's note: I am the editor, so I guess the previous parenthetical statement would have been more appropriately labeled as a "Writer's note", as well). (James' note: I find parenthese to be one of the most useful tools of the English language. Not any other language. Just English. Other languages are too direct). P.S. - ( )

I think to top off the (multi)daily blog post, I will proceed to tell you how the lyrics of my music affects my political beliefs and why insert shitty EMO/INDIE band name here that consists of an obsolete noun with an unrelated adjective somehow attached gives me a profound right, nay, OBLIGATION, to tell you all what I feel and think.

After all this, I will put a little quote at the bottom that is in no way related to anything I have said in the above post but that I hope will provoke as much thought in you as I pretended like it did for me when I typed "philosophical quote" in Google and clicked the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button.

By the way, every third word in my average blog post will be linked to some website I find poignant, but since I don't know that many websites, and not one of them is poignant, many of them will probably just be porn because I am dubious that anyone could possibly care enough to click on ALL of my hyperlinks.

At this point, I'm sure you all wish as much as myself that I had just typed "RAMBLING SARCASM" in size 72 font in place of the above paragraphs and saved us all a lot of time. Unfortunately, my choices for font size are "huge, large, normal size, small, and tiny", the latter two of which I am all too familiar, and the first two of which I am longingly frightful of, so I just stuck with normal font. As for why I wrote all the stuff instead of just writing "RAMBLING SARCASM" in normal font, well, I can't answer that. The point is, I just made a suggestive penis joke, so that means I should probably end this.

At this somewhat slightly later point, I should probably admit that although my sarcasm and facetious patronism of blogs sounds like an expert speaking, but the truth is, I haven't ever really read many blogs. I just described them like I did above so I could have good reason to hate them. But I can't be THAT far off, can I?

Thanks for tuning in, I hope you had a goodtime. I'll leave you with a tally I've kept:
Number of times I made myself laugh while writing this: 9
Number of times you laughed while reading this: 1 (unrelated to my blog)
Amount of pathetic I am by writing a blog that makes fun of how dumb blogs are: A lot.
Number of minutes I spent writing this: 20
Number of minutes I got sidetracked while writing this because I was reading about a guy's recount of his experiences having sex with dolphins: 15 (I was trying to find a funny hyperlink, not my fault...and fascinating besides)
Number of people who will read this (hopefully): 0
Number of future entries I will probably make due to my extreme levels of dedication: 0, maybe 1
Number of these tally count jokes I should have made before stopping: 1

Until next time.