The Incredible Exploits of JC: Volume 2: Floridian in Texas.

From the past Saturday all the way into last night, I was in Texas. That’s an odd thing for me to say, mostly because I never travel and I never feel like going anywhere with rednecks doing redneck things. However, sometimes you need to go out of your comfort zone for people you semi-care for. Yeah. Semi. Its work-related caring for, strictly platonic, only because it might help me progress personally which in turn might allow me to screw some people over. That’s all. In the end, if I’m still an asshole, then everything worked out well.

So, I was in the lone star state. It was no easy task to get there: It took work and confusion from multiple different places in the Orlando airport. I found out that airlines have just stopped giving a shit whether or not you’re on time for your flight. They now have these self automated machines for buying and selling tickets that literally zero people on Earth know how to operate properly and quickly. I get to the airport with some family, get with my work crew, and we get the tickets printed out. The way these things work is, along with ticket printing, they come with an option of doing self-tagging for any checked-in luggage which saves time not having to wait in the line where someone does it for you, and that option, for some reason, wasn’t selected when the person printed out all the tickets. If you don’t know, I’m the kind of guy that, at any time a person does something that causes me or someone I know personally to do work the people who fucked up could have done in the first place, gets a little frustrated. My parents find a way to do it, and no one pays any attention to it happening, so everyone is crowding, waiting in the tagging line, while my tag gets printed out and it’s sent down the conveyor. It takes a minute until people realize that I have lost my suitcase, which proves how little these fuckers I’m with care about my shit or their security. At least, that’s what security thinks.

Keep this in mind: this is all before I even get to the security checkpoint. Already, no one has a clue as to whatever the fuck is happening and they haven’t even gotten to secondary screening. You know, the screening you have to wait for because you forgot that laptops need to be out of your case? And I specify this because no one, including me, remembered that that’s a dumb fucking rule. It seems like that shouldn’t exist: What terrorist has the arts and craft skills to make a bomb look like a laptop? They’re not raising IT technicians in terrorist camps, they’re raising infantry. Just saying.

The flight was okay, mostly due to the fact that I sat far away from the people I know and got the last few minutes of personal time without judgment for a few days. I landed in Dallas, and the airport is easily the second best thing in the city. It’s fancy, it has the terminals to the flights right next to the ticket counters, it’s small, and they have automatic revolving doors everywhere. I’m from Orlando, and the only revolving doors that are automatic for miles are at the Orlando Eye and SeaWorld, and who the fuck goes to SeaWorld anymore? It’s a shame that one of the coolest things ever to be automated can only be experienced at either the worst Orlando major theme park, or a gigantic Ferris Wheel that overshadows the magical revolving door. Dallas doesn’t fuck around when it comes to being advanced.

Anyway, the group and I took shuttles to the Gaylord Texan, and this place is astonishing. And it’s not because there’s a large atrium filled with small buildings with classical architecture, nor the two pools, one indoor and one outdoor, and it’s also not because of the amazing automatic revolving door at the entrance, but it’s because there is zero reason to need to go outside. Everything is air-conditioned, there are no reasons to even venture outside and be a vital part of society, and I can wear fucking jeans and not feel bad about it. I’m a Floridian and I know people question me for wearing jeans in hundred degree weather, and I’m now in Texas with the same thing, but without any goddamn humidity, but people still judge jean wearing. I’m in one of the worst heat states and it’s freezing inside.

If I’ve never given my professional opinion about shorts on men, here’s the synopsis: Fuck them. If you’re a guy under 40 and aren’t going to a beach, pond, or any other major source of water that you may be entering, then don’t wear shorts. If you’re at the mall and you wear shorts, what the hell are you doing? I can only assume you gave up on everything in your life. However, if you’re a female and wear shorts, it’s totally fine. And yeah, it’s sexist to think that only women should wear shorts, but they deserve to. Men legs are disgusting blobs of fat and bone that don’t even look good shaved or muscular. Women have the advantage of better legs, so they deserve every opportunity to show them off.

Back on some sort of topic, it’s a nice place. My room is… I don’t know, it’s a standard two bed hotel room. If you’ve ever been in a hotel, imagine that but with an added ten square feet or so. It’s the Gaylord, I thought there would be more pizzazz, same applies to the window view: I have a great view of a sunrise, but I also get to see every arriving American Airlines flight block the sun and I have a way better view of the staff parking lot with every bus shuttle entering and leaving every twenty minutes. It’s a bustling view that I got screwed over with, because I’ve seen pictures, and none of them showcase “the amazing parking lot with planes!”

First day passes, nothing of major note happens. Second day begins with a nearby water park. Hotel exclusive, nothing major. A slide, lazy river, a bunch of rich white people, you get the deal. Third day is when shit gets serious. It began with a general session in this nice and large ballroom with an opening dance number that seemed like it was choreographed at the last-minute. This was quite the tough start for the meeting, allowing me to fully take in the surroundings of the ballroom and analyze all the different ways I could kill myself with a booklet, a chair, my pen, and my aviators (I’m the MacGyver of theoretical, boredom-related and not depression-related suicide tactics.) Now, the whole general session involves a parade of state flags and giving dumb questions to candidates for positions on the main board of the organization (“What do you think of the organization’s website?” was an actual question. This organization is in the shitter.) After that, I played billiards because I needed a break from the two-hour hell I was in. Apparently, I was supposed to be studying for some stupid test, which I found out later that I didn’t need to because I passed it, but I still had to leave in the middle of a game. Let’s argue that the extra fifteen minutes of study was the cause of passing the test. That’s an extra fifteen minutes of me memorizing stupid bullshit that I forgot five minutes after reading it because there’s more important things on my mind, like regular smart bullshit.

That’s not the best part of the third day: A few friends got the ingenious idea of buying a bow and suction-cup arrows. If you wonder why a hotel/resort sells bow and suction-cup arrows, let me reiterate something you should know by now: This is goddamn TEXAS, and you bet your ass that the bow/arrow isn’t the only thing being sold: There are rubber-bullet guns being sold that I almost got shot with by a fucking five-year-old waiting for someone at Starbucks to give a shit about making my macchiato. Luckily, no one I knew bought a rubber-bullet gun, because I know that someone would have found a way to kill with it. These are tech and engineering nerds in the hotel: Once every day, I lose internet access in my hotel room because someone wanted to see if they could hack into the system for shits and giggles. I’m fairly certain that they could find a way to engineer rubber bullets to be lethal and kill anyone, especially those who might be a threat to them winning anything in the conference.

Day four passes and I didn’t do shit for work. Day five is when people start getting on my case for being lazy. I need to present something for judges and someone calls me out for being not-as-enthusiastic as they were. Don’t get me wrong, they’re completely right: I don’t get a raging hard-on because of parliamentary procedure, but I still give enough of a shit to know at least half of it and kick the shit out of the competition. That being said, I didn’t win the competition, but I got top ten, so suck it.

Day five ends with a business meeting, because all conferences in this organization need some sort of officialism without meanings of competition or fun. At the business meeting, there’s an amendment to the bylaws of the organization. Basically, the amendment changes nominations of officers from specified positions to a pool, excluding the president who has its own, specified nomination process. The intention of this amendment is to allow the best officer candidates all together into leadership positions. There were two or three hours dedicated solely on debate of this amendment for a multitude of reasons. One of them was that everyone had an opinion and everyone just had to share it. Second one was because people don’t get parliamentary procedure and slowed everything down (Don’t get me wrong, I know jack shit too, but I happily admit it and don’t fuck others over with it). My personal favorite was when people tried to end debate and vote, or to just kill the amendment altogether. In order to do either, you need two-thirds of the those voting to vote for those motions. Doing that, requires a standing vote, first for affirmative votes, second for negative. Then the president, or whoever is in charge, makes a personal decision as to whether or not there were two-thirds standing for the affirmative side, and rules on it. If there’s a dick in the audience who wants to waste time and question the person in charge’s decision, they can call for a division and roll call vote. For that to happen, someone else tallies the vote by calling for each delegation present to verbally state the number for, against, and the indecisive assholes who decided not to vote on the matter. With this, if the person calling back the number doesn’t speak up enough, they might need to say it again and waste another ten seconds. At the end, if there wasn’t enough in the affirmative, then debate continued for another ten minutes before the process started all over again. This happened a combined four times, with the reasoning of the last motion that actually did end debate was “It’s late, we’re hungry, this is getting old, let’s just get this over and done with.” Then it was voted on and I could go back to the room and sleep. Just to put how stressful the meeting was, here’s a little fun fact: They give complimentary water through water coolers and plastic cups, and after drinking three cups that would give me a valid excuse to leave the room an hour after drinking, I crushed the living shit out of that plastic cup, as well as two others from the people sitting near me. That’s how I got through: Violently crushing plastic cups, imagining it was the neck of every person wasting my time.

Day six, the final day, was the awards ceremony and other crap. I didn’t win anything, so who cares. I get to the airport around two, and sit, waiting five hours for a flight that was delayed an hour and a half later than intended. I got back to Florida at midnight, and got home an hour later, finally getting some peace and alone time.

Did I learn anything? Nope. Did I give a proper goodbye to everyone I was with, knowing that I wouldn’t be seeing them for another month, or even ever again? God no. Did I ever receive nude photographs from a female colleague who messaged me during my trip, even though I would bring it up as a joke and spell it as n00dz (add extra z’s need be)? Nope. Would I have enjoyed it if I got them?

That’s an answer and an exploit for another day.

More to come.

The Incredible Exploits of JC: Volume 1.

An old friend of mine once messaged me, and I quote, “JEEZ.” To this day, I totally understand what they meant by that, directly related to a string of unrelated events that help to prove that my life has gone into some sort of downward spiral. So, in more professional words, chaos theory came to fuck me in the ass.

How did this chaos all begin? Simple: I went to the gym for the third or fourth time this year (I don’t keep count, because , but the number is definitely under five times). Apparently, I haven’t learned that the end result of me going into a room designed for white people to work out on machines is a bunch of unnecessary sweat and time wasted, along with the sad realization that I can no longer lift 12.5lb dumbbells on either arm for more than one set of ten (and I could do it the last time I went, if I recall correctly). No, this time, the shame came before I even stepped into the room. I went on a Sunday, and if you don’t know any of the rituals of Christianity and Catholicism, let me enlighten you on the main one: Usually, on Sunday, a bunch of people go to sermons at churches or other public places. The gym is located in a clubhouse facility that also holds a movie theater, and I went during some sort of sing-along in the small theater. Luckily, I didn’t arrive when people were walking out, but there was this young, skinnier-than-me kid wearing a blazer, a plaid button-up, khakis, and dress shoes, just standing outside the doors when I walked through the main room/hallway. There was also the manager of the building sitting at his desk wearing a light blue polo and jeans, but I know he’s probably wearing flip-flops, and he works at a clubhouse facility for upper-middle-class white people, so I don’t give a fuck about whatever he’s thinking. I looked at this young boy and then compared his outfit to mine: I was wearing these red running shoes, mismatched light socks, gym shorts that just exposed my hairy legs to all those unwilling to look at them, and a white shirt made word working out. I was only in his sight for a minute, but I know he was thinking “Wow, that dude needs to get his shit together.” I don’t know this kid, and I don’t want to know him, but I know that the little shit should mind his own fucking business. I could have called him out for wearing khakis, because, in all honesty, who wears khakis? I’m not a religious or spiritual man, but I’m fairly certain you can go to a religious event that isn’t even in a church, by the way, wearing jeans and getting all the hot Christian girls. It’s not a matter of me being pissed off at him for wearing the dumbest pants wear when it isn’t required; it’s a matter of me being pissed off for being dumb and not getting any bitches. Just saying.

Chaotic event number two was when I went to Publix and bought twenty packages of cookies. Not even the gourmet, freshly baked, “Someone took the time to make these” type of cookies. No, they were the buy-one-get-one-free, “these cookies were conjured up in a lab in Montana,” Chips Ahoy cookies. Why’d I get them, you ask? Because fuck you. That’s why. I’m not like you nice, clean people, where you walk by the cookie aisle and say “Fuck that deal, who would need that shit?” I’m the guy who gave up on caring what goes into my stomach only to be wasted three hours later who thinks “Hey, they’re on sale, gotta get them all.” The worst part is that I know if they weren’t on sale, I still would have bought ten little packages of the damn things, just because I know that I could, easily. Give me some credit, though, I didn’t buy ten chewy and ten crunchy bullshit ones, I diversified: I got the ones with Oreo creamed filling forcefully stuffed in the center, Reese’s Cups infused into the cookies, and coconut ones, AKA the ones that I know that no one in my household, including me, would eat. I know no one would eat it, I just felt like getting them. (To anyone who did want them, I don’t apologize, because if you like coconut cookies, you’re dead to me.)

Third and final event is the one we all know too well: I ate at a Taco Bell. Please note, it wasn’t because I wanted to, it was because I needed to. I wanted to go to McDonald’s, because that’s the sanest choice of fast food options, but I was asked if I wanted to go to the Bell, which I responded with “Sure.” People go to Taco Bell for three reasons: 1: They actually wanted to, which is a rarity. 2: They’re bored and aren’t planning on doing anything for the next seven hours (four hours for the stuffed bliss you will experience, three hours for the expulsion of said bliss on the toilet), so they have a schedule that can be easily filled by Taco Bell’s magical powers. Or, you go for the same reason I went, which trumps the other two in any scenario, 3: You texted someone at 2 a.m., pouring out all your feelings onto them only for it to backfire seven hours when they wake up and call you out on your bullshit from the past six months and you lost a friend when you didn’t mean to and you need something to distract you for the rest of the day. Stuffing Taco Bell into your facehole is a great way to waste time. And I had plans for the day to work with friends in a club where you build robots and do other technological shit, but I still got Taco Bell with full knowledge that I would have to hold all bowel movements until after the meeting, which was longer than the four hour bliss-to-shit transition. Not only that, but apparently I can only eat one taco and a gordita when I’m in the store eating, but I still had a leftover taco. If you still have another taco from a place profiting in self-love followed by self-hatred, you don’t throw it away, you save it for later. I was in the meeting and I was only a tad bit hungry, so I only ate half of the taco before giving up. There are so many things wrong with that statement. A: I ate it in front of people I know who weren’t willing to eat or watch other people eat fucking Taco Bell. Everyone was having a jolly good time before I pulled out a taco and ate half of it, letting everyone think “Jesus, Taco Bell? God, this was a pleasant meeting and then this shit happens.” B: I wasn’t even that hungry when I first ate, but I still ate it. What’s wrong with me to where I eat half of the taco and then give up, only to finish it later? That’s weakness to the Bell, ladies and gentlemen. Also, C: Showing weakness in front of people I know. Eh, arguably, they’re all weak technology nerds. Fucking nerds.

That’s chaos theory, folks. As Ian Malcolm once said, “Life, uh, finds a way to, uh, fuck you over.”

More to come.

The Jeremy Situation: A Short Story.

I wrote a slightly dramatic, dialogue driven short story. One editor said that it was strong and emotional, and another editor stopped all communications with me because of it. Let’s see how this turns out.


Steve and Clover were sitting outside a slightly crowded cafe in San Francisco. Steve had his legs on the table, sunglasses on his face while Clover slumped in her seat, eyes focused on her phone. Steve glanced at Clover as she was typing.

“The hell are you doing?” Steve finally asked, causing Clover to slowly glance upwards.

“I’m texting Jeremy,” Clover responded, shaking her head as if she didn’t understand why Steve asked.

“Jeremy?” Steve said in disbelief. “Jeremy, as in ‘Dickless on Boston’ Jeremy?”

“Uh, yeah,” Clover said, rolling her eyes and returning to her phone.

“Why are you so wrapped up in this douche?”

Clover snapped her head back up. “What do you mean douche?”

“I asked a question, you’re avoiding it: Why so interested?”

Clover stared into Steve’s eyes. “Uh, well, we met up on Facebook, he thought I was cool, I thought he was cool, we both kept talking, and even though we both know that a long-distance relationship is hard to maintain, we kept talking, no labels, and that’s about it. Nothing serious. No relationship.” Clover went back to her phone.

“So,” Steve started, removing his legs from the table, leaning toward Clover, “You keep talking because he’s cool?”

“Basically.” Clover said. “What are you getting at?”

“Is that why you just stopped all contact with me for two months up until a week ago?” Steve asked.

“Jesus fucking-” Clover began to say, rolling her head and bringing her palm out to her face.

“Don’t give me that shit, alright? It’s another question and I think I should get an answer.”

Clover looked at Steve. “Yes, I did stop texting and talking with you because of Jeremy. You were too needy and annoying.”

“Needy and annoying?” Steve questioned Clover. “Yeah, that’s the reason why you hung onto me from January to March. I never started any conversation, because you were always the one who began it, and somehow I’m the needy one.”

“I was trying to be helpful because you were depressed and bitching about being single. I decided to be nice and solve some of your problems.”

“Well being nice doesn’t usually end abruptly. It happens after some bullshit happens with some guy you haven’t even met in person yet.”

“We’ve seen each other, we Skype!”

“Who gives a shit if you Skype? That’s calling with video, it doesn’t mean shit!”

Clover stood from her seat. “I don’t need to hear this,” she said before walking away.

“Uh, yeah, you do, actually!” Steve exclaimed to her as he stood, beginning to follow her. “You can’t be nice enough to a guy to where he thinks you’re interested, only to give him the bird the first chance you get! What, you got bored? You got tired? You were afraid I would put a label on it?”

Clover continued to walk, continuing to face forward. “I was bored. There. You happy?”

“No, because you could have just said that the second you could, and we wouldn’t be here right now! I wouldn’t be pissed off, I wouldn’t be chasing you, and I might have a slight clue as to what the fuck I’m doing with my life!” Steve yelled. “I didn’t want to put any label on it, and neither did you. You preached the idea of not having a relationship with anyone and just fucking around, and when you got so afraid of getting into one you made one with a guy two thousand five hundred miles away! What the fuck are you thinking?”

Clover stopped, turning to Steve, stopping him. “I’m not thinking about you, okay? Not anymore. I care about you, enough to where I’m stopping this fuckery. I’m not attracted to you anymore, nor do I think I ever was. For three months, I thought about you when I didn’t mean to, and it went away for Jeremy. That position changes from time to time. Learn how to live with it. Jesus, dude. Why are you being such a dick?”

Steve thought for a moment. “Why are you being such a bitch?”

“I asked first.”

“Because you’re being a bitch and I don’t think you should get away with it, now why are you being such a cunt?”

“I thought I was a bitch.”

“Within the past ten seconds, you got upgraded.”

Clover looked around before focusing back to Steve. “Because you can’t seem to notice that you had your shot, and you blew it.”

Clover walked away from Steve. Steve surveyed the area, noticing that there was a small amount of people nearby. When Clover was about two hundred feet away, she could hear Steve yell multiple profanities, finally admitting his defeat.


Jesus, that story was depressing. This is a comedy blog, right? There needs to be a joke in here somewhere…

No? No jokes? Huh. Weird.

More to come. Hopefully something that’s humorous. This dramatic shit gets depressing.

I Hate Chipotle.

Folks, I am a big fan of Mexican food, so much so that you would need to go out of your way to make me hate a specific chain of Mexican Grill food joints where the only way to get the most food and value is in a cardboard/foil hybrid bowl and not between a goddamn flour tortilla (like whatever Mexican food God intended).

And I know that not liking Chipotle is an unpopular opinion between idiots who never had other Mexican food before, but it’s a valid opinion that needs to be addressed and agreed upon by the intellectuals of this civilized society. I went to this hell on Earth as a personal sacrifice for those who haven’t been and have yet to hear the horrible tales of whatever the fuck Chipotle attempts to be, and here’s all you need to know:

The one I went to was inside this shopping/dining/entertainment plaza, and as such was located in a small retail space meant for, I don’t know, retail, and not, say, food. They built actual places meant for restaurants and fast/casual food, and Chipotle said “Fuck that, let’s be a burden to our customers and pack them in like they’re in a Chinese subway.” You walk in and the place is filled with smug, modernistic shit. The people eating have this smug look to them, the art on the walls look like they were made during an artist’s fever dream, the fact they make all photos in black and white (and don’t argue they’re black and white because Chipotle is an old business and the photos are classic, Chipotle was founded in 1993, when color cameras existed and people gave a shit about Celine Dion, okay?), and don’t get me started on the smugness of the trash cans. The trash cans are fucking smug, and I never thought that it was scientifically possible to invent a smug trashcan. These metal fuckthings are cylinders cut from the top down diagonally, curving with a little platform for trays in the upper half with the actual trash can at the bottom which, while out and easily visible, is covered by this metal contraption for placing glass and shit for recycling, I guess. I kind of get being smug and practical, but being a dick to employees who need to switch out the bags is where I draw the line.

Now, smugness aside, the small space has some room for a queue line, and the line surpasses it to the other corner of the retail space. My reasoning is either A) the overhead menus are so out of the ordinary hip and modern that normal people people who are stuck in the past need a minute to read it, B) the fact that they don’t specify what the fuck kind of meat barbacoa is so people who never had it before because they’re white and they understandably have never tried it before had the chance to experience its greatness, or C) there was a customer who wanted tofu sofritas (a dumb name for tofu, but, whatever. Sounds cool to people who don’t think about it, right?), but they follow a business model similar to Subway where they make the food to a customer’s specific demand, excluding the part where they make the specific amount of meat for the one order at a time, where they instead make the meat in batches, making the customer (and everyone behind the customer) wait for the tofu which takes forever. All of these are arguably not the customer’s fault, so Chipotle is to blame for fucking over its customers. And employees.

So, decor aside, food is okay, but is undermined by the fact that they think they can get away with shitty service and logic just because they make decent food. Chipotle is the hot, popular blonde girl of the food industry: Just cause all the boys are willing to eat it, doesn’t mean you ‘re allowed to be a piece of shit. Chipotle also thinks it’s the shit when it comes to their packaging and cups: Bags have inspirational quotes and cups have different explanations and essays that try to teach you about shit you could have learned in school or from Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader, but because no one who regulars Chipotle have brains or TV sets, and because Chipotle knows this fact well, Chipotle gets away with thinking that its teaching people super cool things. My cup, as a matter of fact, talked about the rise of Albert Einstein, which I learned in a mix of schooling and Family Guy cutaway gags. Sorry Chipotle, watching an animated version of Einstein a patent office stealing other people’s ideas is way cooler than a “Two minute essay about Albert Einstein.”

Fuck Chipotle, man. Seriously, I hope they go bankrupt soon. Fuck their name for tofu, their mission for non-GMO food, their bag quotes, and fuck their trash cans.

Also, side note: I have genuinely not stopped thinking about their ridiculous trashcans. The fact that it has inhabited my mind the past day is probably more of a problem than my actual anger problems, and that’s saying something.

More to come.

How To Handle Rejection Like A Pro.

A female colleague of mine that I used to be in some sort of weird, non-relationship but still kind of a relationship, once told me that women are evil and manipulative. I, not being as sexist as I make myself seem on here, didn’t believe her because I thought “Women are the bomb-diggity. Most of them are angels, how would any of them be awful human beings?”

Apparently, I didn’t take the warning seriously, as I found out within the past week when the woman I asked out and rejected me was, and still is, an evil motherfucker.

And I say that with the complete knowledge that half of that comes from the immediate anger over her rejecting me. The other half, however, comes from one week of just rethinking the past year and me ignoring all the warning signs and all the crap that she has done and fucked up. So, in comedic fashion, and for me to help the youngins with their own relationship problems, we’re gonna troubleshoot what I did wrong during the week after the rejection.

Now, before we begin, I’ll put in some sort of disclaimer because I don’t want to get in as much trouble as I could without some bullshit “Hey, I’ll make fun of myself primarily but if I’m going down, everyone else is” warning. I’m willing to accept 50% of screw-ups on my part, and that’s me being fucking generous. I’m totally willing to admit I made a few mistakes personally, but some people need to learn that they made their own mistakes, one of them being that they rejected me, that screwed them up as well. And if, by the end of this, they or any other reader don’t learn or laugh from this, then this was all worthless. And, knowing her, this is all worthless, even though she loves any attention, so good for her.

So, let’s begin on how I fucked up this whole situation.

Day 1: JC pops the question. So this all begins with me asking her out to the Orlando Eye and some burgers. Perfect date idea: Introducing her to some of the best burgers in the Orlando area, then taking her out to a large Ferris Wheel where you can see all of Central Florida’s bustling city life and see some of the nature people forget about, it’ll be a great time! I ask her out as friends at first, she said she’ll think about it, and I realize I should have called it a date from the get-go, so I clarify “It’s a goddamn date.” I get passionate about this shit. She read it a few minutes after I sent it, and she didn’t respond.

Day 2: JC Gets the Rejection. After a day of waiting and talking to other people besides her who tell me “You should have talked to her and get a response in person” or “You were right not to talk to her, because you asked a question and you should get a response,” I decide to respond, coming to the final conclusion that she isn’t into me, and I say “Never mind.” Folks, “Never mind” means “The deal’s off, you don’t need to go. Thanks for not responding, I’ll find someone nicer than you to go out with me.” She decides to begin her response with “I was thinking about it…” No you weren’t, don’t lie to me. It doesn’t take a full day to come to the conclusion of no. Some other shit about how she’s not into me, then she drops the bomb of “As flattering as it is, I respectfully decline your invitation. But thank you for the offer.”

You could not even begin to understand how pissed off I was because she wouldn’t just say fucking “No.” I have zero clue what as to why she thinks it is cool to be a bitch about it and give me the suspense of her rejection. Ladies, if a guy asks you out and you don’t want to date them, here’s a tip: JUST SAY “NO.” Don’t water it down with a bunch of bullshit to get to the rejection, just be nice and be straightforward. Life’s not a fucking M. Night Shaymalan film: I don’t want to wait hours for a the conclusion we see coming after an hour of nothing, alright? Just say it right off the bat and save me the time and energy.

I made my first mistake right after the rejection: I responded “Cool.” That’s a fuck-up on my part. I showed weakness, and now she thinks she has the upper hand. I should have responded “Alright, sucks to be you, you could have been eating the best burgers on Kirkman road and seeing some beautiful views 400 feet in the air with the first nice guy to ask you out, but you just threw the best choice of all the men you know to the curb. Have fun sucking dick in Jacksonville, bitch.” I personally don’t think it was harsh enough, but it was surely better than just saying “Cool.”

Day 5: The first interaction between JC and the girl he used to like: I went a few days without talking to her, but when wd did finally acknowledge the other person’s existence, it was short. I made fun of her for confusing two words, for her to respond “You know JC, you’re not helping your chances of dating me.” I didn’t respond, because I didn’t want to drop the bomb that I’m not trying to date her anymore because she’s a dumbfuck. So, she got away still living in her fantasy world.

Day 7: JC goes to the Orlando Eye with family, not a woman who would totally limit him from having fun. I decided to go to the Orlando Eye without her, because I didn’t need her in order for me to enjoy the burgers and the views. I will say, some fucking amazing views of Orlando from the height  I was at. She missed out, that blind, uncultured swine.

Day 9: The second interaction between the two. She decided to talk about some stupid shit to me, who cares. She wouldn’t stop wearing dumb sunglasses during the conversation, so I didn’t take her seriously. For anyone who argues “JC, you wear those dumb aviators, why are you picking on her for her glasses?” She wasn’t wearing aviators, AKA pussy magnets, on her face, so she couldn’t be taken seriously.

Day 10: The third interaction: Here’s some bullshit: She expects me to be nice to her, as she thought I would be nice enough to let her borrow my phone, even though she has her own phone she can use. I said “No.” She decides to be a dick and asks “Doesn’t that sound familiar.” This is her way of ‘subtlety’ mentioning that she rejected me, and, at the all female table she sits at, everyone laughs, because it’s a joke now. I say nothing, letting her continue to think that she holds a better hand, but I know the best response is “Yeah, doesn’t feel good to treated like garbage, does it?” Ladies, here’s another tip: If you reject a guy, he ain’t giving a shit about you anymore. He won’t fake being nice in order to try and fuck you, and he won’t let you get away with the stupid shit you used to get away with.

As you can see, it’s been very uneventful the past ten days. Hopefully, we all learned not to be dicks, or if you are gonna be a dick, don’t expect to get away with it without someone being a dick to you. You should have also learned that, apparently, I still have some unresolved anger problems. Who’d have thought?

More to come.

JC Shamelessly Plugs/Makes Fun of a High School Band.

Folks, this post is an important milestone in my blogging career: This is my 69th post. I assume WordPress has a trophy for that. Something like “You made it this far! Too bad that, because you blog and do nothing else with your life, you will never experience this number and its act personally, loser!”

Now, because 69 is such an important number, I’m doing something special. Sorry, avid readers, it is not the long awaited blog post update about my failures with the ladies, even though, with recent events, that would be totally fitting and brilliant. The fact that I am not making fun of my failures and the fact that some girls are mentally handicapped at realizing that they could have it way worse than me (AND SHE ALREADY HAS HAD IT WORSE, BY THE WAY) is completely selfish on my part. (More on that bullshit later on this week, or probably this year. Depends on when I feel like writing it.)

Instead, I’m being kind to the fact that today was the second to last day for seniors at my school, and as such there were special performances saying goodbye to the college-bound students. One of the performances was a band called The Charter. They’re the average high school band: They do mostly covers, may have a few original songs (‘Original’ being used loosely), everyone at the school they go to loves them, mostly because they’re a band and no one else has gotten the idea to play instruments with other people, and the bass player is, like any other band, more worthless than shit. Personally, I get the appeal, but I’m not batshit crazy about them. They play songs. Who cares? I play a few songs on the guitar and women aren’t throwing their panties at me, even though they should.

So, as everything does have its flaws, and since all band performances, like movies, have repeated cliches, I’m taking a lesson from the Cinema Sins duo and making Band Performance Sins. I do this because I have no other things to write or make fun of and I don’t feel like being original.

This is not against the people who are in The Charter. They are all musicians, they do way more than I do when it comes to song-playing, and they are decent human beings. However, they are a band, and all bands do the same shit in different ways. They did what bands were expected to do, and even if you didn’t see the performance, my realistic description and sin counter will make it seem like any other rock performance.

The following is a list of thoughts and sins that I found during the performance:

  1. Band members are known for liking and overplaying Weezer. Of course, they could like Weezer ironically, but they still encourage the listening of Weezer songs that aren’t “Perfect Situation” or, depending on the listener’s mood, “Buddy Holly.”
  2. Also, obvious Weezer cover-band does not play a Weezer song right off the bat.
  3. No one in the band is relatively ugly. As usual, musical talent is only possible if you can attract people in the bar in the first place before sealing the deal by saying “Oh yeah, I’m in a band.”
  4. Guitar player, who hasn’t even played a note yet, doesn’t hide the fact that he knows he’s about to have control over all the women in the room, which somehow makes his face more punchable.
  5. Band’s lead singer has “Hard Rock” written on his T-Shirt, but band only plays soft rock and pop songs.
  6. Female singer wasn’t my girlfriend during performance.
  7. Guitar player thinks that looking like he has Parkinson’s Disease will make him look like he’s rocking out. Michael J Fox is not happy.
  8. “Guitar player moves body because he gets bored playing same four chords” Cliche.
  9. “Someone in band throws a piece of clothing into the audience to make band seem cooler” Cliche.
  10. Bass player thinks that looking like he has Parkinson’s Disease will hide the fact that he plays bass. Michael J Fox is now furious.
  11. “Bass player moves body because he gets bored playing same four notes” Cliche.
  12. Bass player doesn’t sing, making him worthless to the performance’s overall impact and value.
  13. Lead singer doesn’t play guitar during first song, but decides to play it afterwards because he didn’t like that all the female attention was going straight to the lead guitarist.
  14. Lead singer thinks that looking like he has Parkin- Oh fuck it.
  15. Lead singer says “I love you” to the audience, but only means to say it to the woman he’s going to bang later.
  16. Band thinks that playing “Shut up and Dance,” which I have been playing on repeat on my phone the past week, will make me get involved in the dance party that forms in front of the stage. Band is wrong.
  17. Band’s female singer just walks around stage because she already sang the two lines she was supposed to sing, and does not walk off the stage because she wants to feel somewhat important to the whole performance.
  18. Band does not play any original songs. Or, they did play original songs, but they sound so damn similar to other songs that I couldn’t notice. Either way, it’s a sin.
  19. Lead singer thinks that singing gibberish will make me think of Pearl Jam and actually make me like the band. Singer is wrong.
  20. Lead singer sings gibberish but it is not singing Yellow Ledbetter. You could argue that this sin is the same as the previous sin, but one is manipulation of thinking of Pearl Jam itself, and the other one is a lack of Ledbetter.
  21. “Lead singer and guitarist sing into same microphone” Cliche.
  22. So, did they not plan on the lead guitar player singing? Is that why they needed to share microphones? Couldn’t they have just given the guitar player a microphone as well? My conclusion is that the guitar player can’t sing, but he wants more attention, so he sings when the lead singer sings to make himself appear to sound good. Guitar player is a dick to actually good singers.
  23. Band’s drummer thinks that they should be given more time to perform simply because they are a band. Drummer is misled.
  24. “Someone in band throws a piece of clothing into the audience after done with set to make set more memorable” Cliche.
  25. Cover-band did not play any Pearl Jam songs. But, they might have, but I couldn’t hear because of uneven sound mixing. That’s either a fault on the band for not knowing how to use the amps they have some control over, or it’s on the venue’s shitty sound system. Either way, someone deserves to get kicked in the dick.
  26. Michael J Fox didn’t kill anyone who made fun of Parkinson’s.
  27. Band does not have bodyguards escort them out of the building after performing, which makes my dream of punching the guitarist in the face a somewhat feasible reality.

Sin Count: 27

Sentence: One album of covers, a few singles, and fading into musical obscurity after a regional tour.

Follow The Charter on Twitter if you want (@TheCharterMusic). I don’t personally follow them, but you could, if you think high school students make good bands, you fucking pedophile.

More to come.

I Wrote a Short Play. It Had An Okay One-Night Run.

Folks, I am a published playwright. Officially, as of last Friday, I have had a play that was performed in front of an audience*.

*Of course, as most things that I have called myself, including funny, stand-up comic, and magic fingers, there requires an asterisk after that statement. I think it would be wrong to lie to the whole writing community as a whole if I just say “Yeah, my play was done in front of an audience, what do you dumbass bloggers do with your lives?” So, as a sign of goodwill and losing some of my assholeish charm, I will correct and specify my opening statement: As of last Friday, I have had a play, co-written with a friend/editor of mine, performed by high school students at the high school I still attend, in front of high school students and their parents, totaling around a few hundred people.

So, yeah. Playwright. Technically. Don’t hold me to that title.

The short play was selected, along with others, by a group of directing students. Ten total plays were selected: Five that were comedic, five that were goddamn depressing. Like, I know I’ve made jokes about “Oh, Creative Writers are depressing,” but I now realize that it wasn’t a joke. It was a cold, hard, probably scientifically provable fact that some writers have read too much of Poe and somehow read Macbeth at too young of an age and now think “Oh shit, that’s how we need to write everything!”

Of course, I say that with the knowledge that some of the readers of whatever this is did not get to experience the short one-night run of the one-act collection. So, as I did a little while back when I summarized short films at a student festival, I will give that same treatment here to these short plays in a student showcase. I am not paying attention to who wrote it, unless it’s my own, in which case I will give a biased opinion. Continuing off of that, I will not say names of writers, directors, or actors, but I will say titles of productions. I am going off of what I can remember of each of the plays and its content, and I have one shitty memory. I will not apologize to the writers of the plays, seeing as they were, technically, the best of the twenty-something plays that were given for consideration, so you can disregard anything I say. As always, a nice reminder that I am an asshole whose opinions should not matter in any serious case.

Lets do this shit.

ACT I: The “Don’t You Fucking Cry Lit” Act.

Act Summary: All the depressing plays, just to start off the night on a good note. Filled with violence, tears, and serious topics, I was thankful that the showrunner of the night decided to mention that they were all serious plays after the act was over, and not before the act when I could have decided if I wanted to leave until the relatively funny plays began. But, hey, he’s the professional who has real experience in show business, right?

Play 1: The Shot: A good title, seeing as it focuses on one major event in the story that happens in a split second. Big sister looks after little sister, little sister killed in drive-by shooting, doctor says she’ll make it, she doesn’t, shitty mother goes to grave same day as older sister three years later, verbal and physical fight happens, shitty dad’s a piece of shit who killed own daughter because he thought wife would leave him, mother doesn’t seem as much of a shitty person, but she still kind of is, story ends. Some moral about motherhood isn’t biological but an ideology, another hidden moral about not writing unrealistic storylines in any form of narrative. A good moral for all of us to learn.

Play 2: Pain Management: Okay, in all fairness, this is semi-biographical to the writer and I enjoyed it. Title actually focuses on theme of play, which gives itself bonus points. Girl coops with rare disease that parents really don’t understand, they have to learn how to live with it at the same time she does, a message about the use of language, and ends in a speech about pain. However, I can’t remember the name of the disease, mostly because it sounds made-up even though its real. That’s a fault on the writer, or a fault on the guy who names diseases, who knows. My money says writer. Also, credit is given for being one of the two dramatic plays to not end in death.

Play 3: Insight: Alright, another title that focuses on what happens throughout the play, not a specific event, so far so good. Special child begins having dreams that predict the future, predicts 9/11, shitty dad’s a piece of shit who sends daughter off even though mother wanted to actually help the daughter themselves, daughter now in some room with “specialist,” fight happens, daughter pushed downward onto table, story ends with specialist pointing gun at daughter’s head, fading to black, and a five second delay until we hear gunshot. Anyone else seeing a occurring theme of piece of shit dads being shitty? No? Just me? Never mind.

Play 4: One Word a Night: Okay, back to title being based around one little piece of dialogue that is mentioned only twice. Guy’s sent off to war, little girl from country they are stationed in sneaks in looking for food, small story about how her parents are dead, guy has a wife who had a miscarriage then, like, two minutes of somewhat comedic dialogue around roommate who can’t believe here’s a small girl he needs to hide and a “surprise” inspection (THAT WE ALL KNOW HAPPENED PURELY FOR THE SAKE OF A FEW LAUGHS AND NOT FOR ANY REAL PLOT ADVANCEMENT, BY THE WAY), guy promises that he’ll come back for the girl, guy’s wife says no to the child (EVEN THOUGH WE ALL KNOW SHE WOULD HAVE LOVED TO HAD A CHILD TO REPLACE THE CHILD THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE, BY THE WAY), child says some speech about inspiration, guy and wife comes back a few years later to find child dead, inspiration is gone, guy teaches dead child a new word, piece of shit wife apologizes, even though it’s way too fucking late, and she throws a cigarette at the grave. This play gets credit for actually causing a few people to cry, but loses all of said credit with ALL THE GODDAMN PLOT HOLES AND USELESS CONFLICT. I might have cried too if I weren’t paying any attention, just saying.

Play 5: Being Late: Title revolves around both dialogue and whole play, so this was great. Also the most comedic of the first act. Guy goes to coffee shop, asks for plain bagel and coffee, waitress gives him everything bagel and coffee, guy complains about it, a both comedic and serious argument about the ideologies of the type of bagel you eat, job choices, and perfection happens, and it end with moral that perfection and wealth isn’t always perfect. Relatively cute, second of the two dramatic plays to not involve death, only real problem is that money does equal perfection. You ever see Donald Trump depressed? Didn’t think so.

ACT II: The “Beginning and Ending of this Act was Good, The Middle Was a Clusterfuck Of Confusion” Act.

Act Summary: All the comedic and slightly comedic plays are packed together into the final act. Starting off with comedic brilliance, going on into a play about kidnapping, one I still am very confused about, one that’s relatable, and finishing off with one that I don’t feel like talking about, the night ended off slightly on the right foot.

Play 6: A Play.: Well, the title seems like two assholes who didn’t give a shit wrote it. I know this because I wrote it with my asshole friend. Starts off as a parody of dramatic plays, with actor staying true to what he believes is correct, challenges director and writer who both think that they are correct, and an incompetent techie who likes Spice Girls, all of whom argue with each other until the director walks away, the actor walks out, and the techie and writer dance to the Spice Girls together. A Big Bang Theory joke, a masturbatory hand joke, and other fun things happen. Best play of the year, in my personal opinion.

Play 7: Kidnapped: Title relates to whole story, so it’s clear in that aspects. Two incompetent brothers try to kidnap the wife of a guy who owes a fuckton of money to the mafia or mob, some illegal shit, dumb brother gets talked into changing sides after smarter brother attempts to screw him over for valid reason, but oh shit, the wife isn’t the wife but the housemaid, and they’re fucked! A relatable kidnapping story for all mafia members in the audience (0, by the way).

Play 8: The Hungry Games: Okay, the title rips of two things: The Hunger Games, and every other parody of The Hunger Games that’s called The Hungry Games. Best part: Not even a Hunger Games parody, just some bullshit. I had no clue what happened in this play. I don’t know, something about baseball, Satan, and fighting over cakes. Plot was fucking everywhere, jokes were bland, I don’t know what to think. (Also: Two people chasing each other in a circle, one going out to take a breather while the other still runs, then rejoins the chase isn’t funny: It only makes the viewer question if the person still running is stupid or blind. But, hey, blind people are funny, right? Wearing sunglasses indoors and falling over shit. Hilarious!)

Play 9: Oh Brothers: Play actually about brothers, but sounds like a sitcom that I would hate, so very mixed feelings based on title alone. Sister has two older brothers, one’s a nerd, one’s a jock, sister has a date, date gets harassed by brothers, brothers reveal to themselves that their sister has finally grown up, but they still want to protect her, and another moral I didn’t feel like learning about. It was cute, had some moments. Only problem with it is that it is that the whole premise begins with the two brothers playing video games. Jocks don’t play those nerd games. Jocks play sports and get laid. The fact that the jock was home and not getting bitches was definitely put in the play for plot purposes.

Play 10: Camp Funshine: Title relates to setting, so who gives a shit. Murderous six-year-old kills all the stereotypical kiddie campers who make a few jokes, including a nerd with asthma, a female rapper from New York (fuck New York, by the way. Too close to Jersey.), a fat kid who eats food, and some asshole who you only see for two seconds on stage, all because she “loves” the camp counselor. (Not irony: Play about love written by two females, one of which has had no real experience with love but has had at least five boyfriends. Six year old’s idea of love is almost identical to her idea about love, excluding the murdering (as far as I know)). What was the worst best part of the play? Sitting next to the writers as they reenact what’s happening on stage and laugh at their own jokes when no one else laughed. Like, a good three times they thought what they wrote was funny, but it was not with a crowd pissing their pants, it was with three other people, scattered through the audience, giving a slight giggle. I love audience interaction.

That’s that. My comedy play definitely was the bomb, but I let the writers of Camp Funshine think that they won the best comedy play contest in my head, even though they were a close second.

More to come. Not about any more stupid plays, hopefully.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 257 other followers

%d bloggers like this: