How to Forcefully Reenter Society After Months of Hibernation.


For the past few months I have been in a deep hibernation that involved wearing pajamas more often than the regular jeans and collared shirt, eating massive amounts of Doritos and bingewatching Futurama. I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow I gave less of a shit than I usually would on a day where I’d be working on short stories or writing a screenplay that never gets fully completed because I’d get bored of it. The only real similarity between who I am when working and when I’m on break is the massive amounts of Coca-Cola I consume.

Sadly, my months of hibernation ends tomorrow with education once again becoming an essential part of my young life, even though no one has fully explained to me why it’s important. Even if it’s unclear whether or not education is truly going to help me later in life, and even if I don’t really need to do it, I’m going back, and I need to get back in some sort of work and human relation cycle. So, I took initiative and made my last week of free time going out into the world and doing shit that, arguably, I could have been doing earlier in my break but never felt the need nor desire to do such things.

So, a week ago, I embarked with my sister and her boyfriend to Downtown Orlando where they reside. Before I was given opportunity to settle down in the nightlife, her boyfriend needed to do some shit at his work, primarily moving boxes. We stopped by one of the hotels he works for, a Double Tree in Downtown Orlando, to move empty, unfolded boxes from his office (the former security office, with the word “Security” on the door poorly masked with black tape. Double Tree spares no expense) into a closet near the convention rooms. Now, before we begin taking the carts for transporting to the office, which were just taken out of a broom closet, alarms go off. Nothing fully explained, just a singular tone repeating as a lady says “There is an emergency in the hotel. Please evacuate using the stairs and proceed to leave the building. Do not use the elevators” blahdy blahdy blah, shit they tell you to do in theoretical situations but never think to do. Now, sister’s boyfriend passes it off as a drill, continues to proceed with his job like a goddamn man. After five minutes of the drill going off and literally zero people passing us in the worker’s hallway, he finally caves and tells us to go outside while he figures out what’s going on. My sister and I leave into an apparent rain, and only one other person in the hotel follows after. Looking up, it seems like the hotel is in fine shape, no fire or explosion happening, just rain hitting windows while people are probably doing butt stuff in the emergency. We walk back in, because fuck Florida rain, and as the alarms still go off, I take more of a closer look. The bar near the lobby has a crowd just drinking and ignoring the chaotic sounds around them. To this day, I aspire to be like each and one of them. Eventually, we do the work, alarms on and then off, then going back on, as firemen and policemen rush into the building trying to figure out what was going on. I got the opportunity to make a Vine making fun of that fire and dancing song with Sean Kingston and that asshole kid. Has an astounding 35 loops.

35 loops? Shit, people will watch anything they’re given. Wasn’t even good, easily the worst thing to ever be posted to Vine, even though my sister encouraged its posting. Literally just me singing off key while blurry ambulances and fire trucks are in the background at night. I’ll take it though.

Next day, nothing special happens, just bowling and eating out at an Asian place (not at a restaurant, but at a message parlor). Day after, I went to an improv show. Now, as a person who was forced to do improv during his eighth grade year of school, let me enlighten you what happens: A whole bunch of people who have real improvisation talent and one fuck up (me!) who was really only there because he had nothing else going on play a bunch of on-the-spot acting games that are based of suggestions they come up with themselves or from the audience and try to make it funny, normally through outrageous gestures or characters or subjects. Now, everyone is usually good, even if someone is a little off their game, they still do a good show. Thankfully, this was the case, which was to my surprise as these actors just got out of the classes the venue offered. Vastly different experience in my eighth grade drama class, with me acting too cool for outrageous characters and scenarios (jokes on all of those actors in that class from years ago though, because now I’m a writer with a sense of reality who has a reason to make fun of improvisers who aren’t on Whose Line is it Anyway) where I’d, let’s say purposefully, ruin any improvised game I was forced to take part in. Good times, good times. (I have nightmares where I forget to “Yes and” during the games, so thank you for that drama teacher!)

Day after, final day of my visit, we celebrate my sister’s boyfriend’s birthday in a good old fashion go-kart race, including three ten minute rounds of MarioKart action. Now, I’m a poor driver as it is, so putting me in a smaller car with no mirrors and no reverse capability when I go into the grass after a cool looking spin (which happened to me and others many times) a thrilling experience that I’ve been told (and know very well) I took no advantage of. The karts had a maximum speed of 45mph, and the fastest I would get to was during the longest stretch of straight track, getting up to 38mph but probably averaging 20mph. I was told I was on a Sunday drive, not caring about the race and everyone passing me at least once, even though I was unaware that I wasn’t there to kick some ass. Afterwards, we retreated to their house where we stayed up til three in the morning playing FIFA, Kinect, and Cards Against Humanity, which I lost because I was with idiots (WAR IS DEFINITELY GOOD FOR “ACTUALLY GETTING SHOT, FOR REAL”).

I left the day after in preparation for a gala the art school I still somehow tolerate going to was putting up. I was told to not wear jeans from the little invitation they sent, which is insane because it’s a school, not a museum, and it’s an art school, so I should be allowed to wear something that speaks to me as an individual while simultaneously tells all participants at the event that you shouldn’t give as much of a shit as you are. Like, I get it: Some parents are proud that they’re child is going to a school that will mold them into little pretentious assholes without any career opportunity, minus the tech and writing departments. (And dance if you include stripping. And drama if you include lying.) I ate at Panera before with two, I guess you could say fine looking women, who allowed me to eat with them when I asked if I could join, and that was a mistake they’ll need to live with for the rest of their lives. They did compliment my appearance, which was a blue suit and tie, and I thought about complimenting one on how they looked, but with how I usually say it to her on a daily basis through texting, and how she usually rejects the notion, I thought she’d just say “You’re wrong on that” and disregard any of my attempts to compliment. I didn’t compliment the other female because, eh, I didn’t feel like it. The gala follows after our meal, and I had forgotten how boring it was. On the plus side, I remembered why I hated all departments, not including tech: Visual Arts: Tried to make me learn about art and history. Drama: Boring actors doing a boring presentation that had no real point to it. Dance: Shit I could do real easily without choreography and balance, and especially without because they had bars on the stage that helped them with it. Band: Better than me. Vocal: Thought that adding different colors and visuals would make it seem cooler, but it’s still a-cappella, and that genre should just die. Orchestra: I’ve been told has weed but no one offers it out of the program.  Creative Writing: Didn’t ever consider having me on the stage and speak the truth about the school being a sham. Boring. Put the Ga (pronounced “Gay”) in Gala.

After that, not much has happened. I have been enjoying the last few moments of not needing to wear pants and not learning anything. I got a haircut, but that’s about it for going out of my house. Now I wait for my return and all of the complaints I will receive because of this. Note: If you are returning tomorrow to this school, which is a good possibility seeing as a majority of my readers are from this school, and you have any complaints about what I said about your department, then congrats on the shitty department, your opinion means nothing to me or any reasonable person.

More to come. Or not. Really depends on what I feel like doing.

My Experience Watching UFC 190 (in an Irish Pub).


Folks, I very recently came into the world of Mixed Martial Arts and the UFC. I knew very little about it twenty-four hours ago, but I have learned all that I needed to know to become a professional of it. By professional, I don’t mean in the actual act of performing and fighting in MMA, but the reviewing and the blogging of it.

Here’s the basic story of how I got the privilege of watching the fight: I was invited out to this bar in Orlando that was having a whole promotion with it, because it’s apparently a big deal. To be clear, this wasn’t a fancy-schmancy bar with people with self respect, this was an Irish pub and grill with games of cornhole being played inside.

Now, if you’ve never played the game of cornhole, let me explain the basics of it: It’s similar to golf in two aspects: You try to get something into a hole, and a majority of players are white men with a few black guys that obviously play better. However, cornhole is not a sport, it’s a game, there are no balls, only bean bags, and no greens or grass or long distances, just concrete and twenty feet between you and a slanted wood slab with a hole you gotta put your corn in, or some bullshit analogy like that.

I stood near the bar while those I was with were off doing their own thing, including watching the suspenseful cornhole tournament happening (a dude that looked like President Snow from the Hunger Games movies was up against a guy that looked like Lester from GTA 5, which knocks all of my fan fiction into the ground), and the event began. Well, the fighting didn’t begin right at ten like the many posters positioned in the pub said it would, but the commentary begins with the host from Fear Factor and some other asshole trying to make the fight seem like it’s really classy and a true sport with judges and official rules on technique and ring girls wearing bikinis who obviously aren’t there for show, even though they have electric billboards above the ring that show the round number. Upmost class.

The first main fight began and I begun to understand the sport for what it is: A long, drawn out, relatively boring act of two men or women (not one man and one woman against each other, though, ’cause that’s illegal) moving back and forward attempting to intimidate one another for a minute before a real punch is thrown. Now, this cycle continues for each round in each fight, and ends at the end of the third round or when someone pussies out. Thankfully, most of the beginning fights end near the second round, and few end with the third round. It wasn’t much if you missed the first few, only a little bit of blood loss took place. It was not quality pay-per-view television.

Midway through the show, I start to question whether or not this so-called ‘sport’ is just softcore gay porn. My suspicious on this began during the Lopes vs. Vieira fight. Both of the dudes appear, with one guy in these bright pink gym shorts. The screen said it was red, but everyone who watched the fight knows it was a shallow attempt at concealing shame. First round goes by with a lot of cuddling on the floor, against the wall, I saw some butt grabbing action going on, and the round finally ended after a five minute lovefest. Round two comes along with some more cuddling, and there was some blood drawn near the end. Now, it was very minimal to the blood loss in the third and final round, with blood everywhere: On their sweaty bodies, on the floor, probably the walls if there were some, and the more they punch-cuddled, the worse it got. Now, I’m barely a fan of softcore gay porn in general, but apparently a lot of red stuff everywhere has ruined any possibility of me watching softcore gay porn for the rest of my life. I should sue the foundation for ruining the already low possibility of me watching it.

I left the pub after that bloodbath because it felt like it was dragging on and the big fight wasn’t after bloodbath 2015. Fast forward to this morning, and I find out that the main event, Rousey and Correia, ended thirty-four seconds into the first round, with Rousey knocking out Correia. I saw a clip of it, and I was astonished. For all that I have made fun of in the sport, that final fight is probably the thing that counters all the shit I give it. However, I’m still not big on the sport. That was the one fight of seven that got straight to the point. I don’t watch Michael Bay films for the barely 1/7 bit of the film with some sort of plot but have to go through 6/7 of it where they attempt to make explosions into plot devices.

Still, that last round was insane, but that bloodbath was somehow gayer than the art school I go to, so it’s really split in the middle on whether the sport is good or bad.

More to come.

The Fun in the Differences of Economic Class!


Folks, before I become the cause of class warfare between the poor and the rich, the privileged and the underprivileged, and me and idiots who read this established blog and feel so obligated to become the cause of my demise (you three know who you are), it should be noted that I’m not an economic expert. I know that it’s good to have money and it’s bad to lose it, but that’s as far as my understanding of capitalism and economic freedom goes.

Now, this is inspired by this link that my mother sent to the family. If you don’t feel like reading it (I certainly didn’t), the title of this brilliant website is Rich Habits, and the beginning of the page asks the question “Will Your Child be Rich or Poor?” Now, parents, if you’ve never gotten the most realistic and reassuring answer humanly possible, let me be of service: You’re little fucktards are never going to make a shitton of money. Unless they make a new version of Windows or make the next Candy Crush game (and if they know what they’re doing and make a huge profit off of the next big Candy Crush-like game, then you got an evil kid on your hands. I do not apologize, you raised them, you deal with them), then they’ll have some sort of chance at making it big. Unless that happens, teach them to aim high but be realistic with goals.

BAM. Three sentences and a sidebar is all that question needs for an answer. However, the author who wrote the article lacks the intelligence to know that less is more. He adds on to what should be a single, rhetorical question for a title with “15 Poverty Habits Parents Teach Their Children.” This guy automatically blames parents for teaching kids poverty habits. Also, poverty habits. Not just ordinary habits, but habits on welfare. That’s what I think he means. Not the logical “habits that those in poverty are more likely to do,” but the crazier “personified habits currently in poverty and on welfare support.”

Also, before I continue into the article itself, let’s talk about the author: The author is, according to the bio he so kindly puts on the sidebar, a bestselling author with two books under his belt (to replace the two balls he lacks), a speaker, and media contributor. He has studied habits of hundreds of those in wealth and in poverty, and that is his job. Now, this is on his website that he runs, owns, writes on, etc. With his self-proclaimed media contributions and bestselling books with multiple, I’m guessing important, studies, isn’t it odd that he doesn’t have a Wikipedia page? As of writing this, the closest that there is to a Wikipedia page of him is a dead Army officer with the same last name and the middle name of the officer as the first of the writer.

Put this in perspective: These people do have a Wikipedia page: PewDiePie, Bacon, W (not an initial for anything, the actual letter), Taco Bell, and Chalkboard Scraping.

People without a Wikipedia page: The author of two bestselling books about habits between rich and poor people.

I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t trust people without a Wikipedia page. (Also, yes, I too don’t have a Wikipedia page. I don’t trust myself, and you shouldn’t either. At least you get a warning of my bullshit, unlike asshole “I know everything about the rich and the poor so give me money so you can learn them” bestselling author.)

Anyway, article begins with him bragging about traveling across the country at schools, and complains about how there are no school programs that teach college students or high school students how to handle money properly. The reason he complains, I’m assuming, is because he feels like the Al Gore of Money Change. (Get it? Climate Change? Money Change? Fuck you, that’s hilarious.) Then he brings percentages which tells us what seems to be common knowledge: Rich people know what they’re doing with their money and set specific goals, poor people spend money on lottery tickets and use technology, you know, like regular people do. Then the article takes a turn for the worse by offering solutions for parents to teach kids how to be successful. Some make sense: Mistakes are good, be a good human, become smart. Others make little sense: Limit junk food (solves obesity, not money), control tempers (I have a whole career off of not controlling myself, and I’m fine, I think), and don’t do sports in school (because rich people own sports teams, not participate in sorts themselves, excluding golf and that Mitt Romney horse sport thing). And it ends with “Wealthy people do certain things every single day that sets them apart blahblahblah.” Talk about pointing the obvious. My question is, dear readers, do you know why the wealthy do things differently?

Answer: THEY HAVE SHITLOADS OF MONEY. Not that difficult. If I owned a business that required my full attention from 7AM to 8PM, I wouldn’t be watching TV or using my phone at the end of the day. Why? Because I’d be making sure my business doesn’t go to shit and I continue to widen the wealth gap! Jesus Christ, man.

Please send all money complaints to JC-Did-Neglect-Some-Parts-of-the-Article-But-Means-Everything-He-Said-About-The-Parts-He-Referenced-For-Comedy-So-Shut-Your-Money-Hole@aol.com

No one uses AOL anymore, so you can tell it’s a fake address.

More to come.

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.

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