"My daddy was the family bassman
My mamma was an engineer
And I was born one dark gray morn
With music coming in my ears
In my ears.
They call me Baby Driver
And once upon a pair of wheels
Hit the road and I'm gone......"
They didn't call me Baby Driver, though. No one does, much to my bowed-head, lowered-eyes, tear-soaked-pillow, melancholy-ridden disappointment. I would, however, much further down the Yellow Brick Road of Life (any short jokes about me being the Mayor of Munchkin Land or the choreographer for the Lullaby League will be reported to my Professional "Manservant," Warner) be christened Cage the Duke. How impressive is that?!
If your answer is "not very," then proceed directly to number 3.
If your answer is "cataclysmically impressive," then continue reading on to the next paragraph.
If your answer is "gee, sort of impressive, I guess," proceed directly to number 17.
Names. I'm into names. I like that they all mean something - not quite to a "Close Encounters" plate of mashed potatoes extent, but they do mean something. Of course, it's not always as direct and descriptive a meaning as Native American's have, like "Quiet Breeze That Ripples The Meadow," or "Watchful Eye of The Soaring Eagle," or "Mighty Testicle of The Mating Buffalo," or my personal favorite, "Smells Like Otter Urine."
I just read a book that briefly featured an Esquimaux (the Old English, stuffy, pedantic way to spell Eskimo) woman whose name, roughly translated, meant "Very Large Tits." I kid you not.
Very Large Tits, I'd like you to meet Mighty Testicle of The Mating Buffalo. I think you guys will have a lot to talk about. Go on now! Oh, I love those crazy kids.
#3 - Pssht! Neither was your mom, jackass.
Where was I? Oh yeah, very large buffalo testicles.
Wait, no - NAMES! Our names aren't as descriptive as Native American names. But maybe that's a good thing. Nearly every male college student's name would mean either "Wearer of Much Stink-Juice And Shirts With Girly Collars" or "Slipper of Pills Into Fire-Water While Squaw's Back Is Turned." As for the girls - "Hollow Space Between Ears Where Wind Makes Low Whistling Sound," or "Giggles At Nothing," or "Majors In Communications."
HAHAHA!! Just kidding, Communications Majors! You guys are great! The world needs more.....umm.....communicators.
What really sucks is when your name means something incredibly idiotic. Like Beverly. Beverly means "Beaver Meadow." YEESH!! That's almost as bad as "Very Large Tits." Why don't you just name your kid "Vagina Grass"? Or "Munches on Carpet"?
And Mary. Mary (and all variations of Mary, like Marian) means "Sea of Bitterness." Good lord, what a bring down! Just name your kid "Curse of Humanity" or "Lead Balloon." In a side note, I've met several girls named Mary. They were all 100% insane. Not in a life-of-the-party type insane, more like certifiably insane.
#17 - Sort of impressive, you guess?? Take a stand, you jello-giggler, spinal tap of a prodigious limp noodle! That's like saying something is "sort of awe-inspiring." If it's only a little awe-inspiring, why use the word awe-inspiring? There's already a word for that, it's called "intriguing." What was my point? Oh yeah - believe in Jesus.
Moving on, if you have very earth-loving, nature-type people (*cough hippies cough cough*) as parents, I'm sure they made it very easy for you to figure out what your name means. You're probably named "Rain Melon," or "Moonbeam," or "Color Spirit," or "Soleil Moonfry," or my favorites, and your parents' favorites as well, I'd imagine- "Shrooms" and/or "MaryJane."
I'd also imagine that, in addition to being silly enough to name you "Whispering Flower," your parents also smell kind of funny. That's what happens when you use wheat grass and chamomile ginger root shampoo and eat nothing but soy and organic peanut butter. You end up smelling like a pickled burrito every time you sweat. Give me chemicals any day of the week! Steaks, cheese, Pantene Pro-V, and Degree Deodorant/Antiperspirant! HUZZAH!!!
I also like taboo names, like Judas. Sure, we have variations of Judas, like Jude and Judah - but no one names their kid Judas! And no American would ever name their kid Benedict. The Brits still do, but the name carries no stigma for them. And when was the last time you encountered an Adolf?
If I ever have children, god forbid because children just don't mesh well with me, I'm going to name them Judas, Benedict, and Adolf. Even if they're girls. No, strike that. ESPECIALLY if they're girls! And I'll name my boy Jezebel. Or Condoleezza. Ah, the inevitable therapy bills that would hound me into senectitude.....
Personally, I think I got off easy in the name department. My real name has a number of meanings, as most names do, but none of them are terribly embarrassing (like Beaver Meadow *snicker*) The Hebrew, and therefore the oldest, meaning is "God is My Judge," which doesn't really bode too well for yours truly! I have no doubt I'll be heading straight for the 9th Circle of Hell. At least my kids - Judas, Benedict, Adolf, and Condoleezza - will be there to keep me company by the Lake of Burning Sulfur. We have a time share.
Pew. Something's burning. It smells like pickled burritos......burnt ones. My foot hurts. Can I go to the nurse? I'm leaving, bzzzzzzzzzzt!
Green with envy,
the Ever-Punctual Cage (aka Whispering Flower).
Friday, March 12, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
It's a Slippery Slope and There's No "I" in "Team"
I have recently come the conclusion, drawing on hard evidence this time and not just my usual specious reasoning, that the number 10 gets far too much attention. So I've decided to only give the number 10 kudos if and when I see the "10 couple."
10 couple - (adj. or noun) One part of the couple is perfectly round, rotund, and often squat; the other part is lanky, usually tall, and thinner than a lamp post. More often than not, the female is the rotund half.
This phenomenon is something I encounter often. I'm not sure why. In any case, I wish them well. But let's get back to the number 10 and its unfounded esteem. Damn near every list of favorites/winners is the "Top Ten blah blah blah." I say NO MORE of this blatant numerical favortism!
So I'm starting my own ranking list called "My Official Top Sevens." I've written a few for you already and here they are for your viewing pleasure. Or displeasure. Whatever you want.
In the future, I may post more. We'll see. HOWEVER, if you, the reader, would like me, the writer, to write a Top Seven list with a topic of your choosing, I would be more than happy to do so. Just shoot it my way in a comment, along with your full name, address, blood type, PIN number, and social security number and I will get right on it.
Without further ado, I present.....
My Official Top Sevens, Volume 1
The Top Seven Worse Places To Get A Paper Cut
1. The very soft flesh between your fingers.
2. Right across the knuckle.
3. Your upper lip.
4. The small area where the top of your philtrum connects to the nostrils.
5. The arm crease (opposite side of the elbow).
6. Across the protruding, prominent tendon in your wrist, right at the base of your palm.
7. The very tip of the tongue.
The Top Seven Things You Don't Want to Hear Your Dentist Say
1. Okay, let's see here: 29, 30, 31, 32.... And, um, 33? What the???
2. For the love of god and all that is holy, DO NOT SWALLOW!!
3. Haha! Wow! My vision sure ain't what it used to be, I'll tell ya!
4. Isn't this drill piece amazing? It's considered an antique, you know. It's part of the de Sade Collection.
5. I kind of forgot to put that heavy lead vest on you before the x-rays....but don't worry! I mean, you should be fine. Your heartbeat doesn't feel erratic or anything, right?
6. (Right before a lengthy, painful procedure) I would really hate to be you right now. But try to relax nevertheless.
7. The palsy has been acting up something fierce this past week! Okay, shall we get started?
The Top Seven Songs That, If You Know All The Lyrics To, You Should Be a Little Concerned
1. Any of the songs featured in "The Sound of Music."
2. "I Don't Want To Wait," by Paula Cole.
3. "Let's Get Together," the insipid song sung by Hayley Mills in the original Parent Trap.
4. "Your Body Is a Wonderland," by that really boring average guy that everyone loves.
5. "What If God Was One of Us," by that poodle haired girl who only had that one hit. You know, the one with the nose ring....?
6. "Hello (Is It Me You're Looking For?)," by Lionel Richie
7. "You're Beautiful," by that guy who, for the longest time, I thought was a woman.
The Top Seven Most Disgusting Things Found Under A Couch Cushion
1. A large toenail clipping with dried blood and pus blob still clinging to one edge.
2. Crusty tissue with an unidentifiable flaky substance trapped inside.
3. A moldy cheese hunk complete with teeth marks.
4. Old limp band-aids with scabs still attached.
5. Cat regurgitations (either puke or hair logs).
6. Dirty tighty-whiteys complete with skid-marks and old urine stains.
7. Tighty-whiteys in general. Constricted balls. Ewww.
The Top Seven Under-Appreciated Parts of the Human Body (Both Internal and External)
1. The big toe.
2. Fingernails.
3. The liver. (This guy can bounce back from an INCREDIBLE amount of damage. It's nothing short of miraculous.)
4. The mandible (lower part of the jaw). You have no idea how badly it can hurt if this little fucker isn't lined up right.
5. The small hairs that line the nasal cavity. (I know that they can be revolting on some people, mainly old men, but thank god we have them. I'd rather not have a cold 347 days out of the year.)
6. That little calloused bump that forms usually on the side of your middle finger or index finger, commonly called the "writer's callous." Not everyone has one, but they should, goddamn it.
7. The epiglottis. (I have a faulty epiglottis, and all of you out there who have normal epiglottises should be grateful. You have no idea what a pain in the ass it is to take a big old swig of liquid and have your epiglottis react just one second too late. I once sprayed my sister's friend with a mouthful of root beer when my epiglottis decided take a little nap. She was none too pleased.)
Okay, presently that's all I have. I feel a little like Andy Rooney now, so I think I'll go lay down until that feeling goes away. Maybe I'll call my sponsor.
Good Tidings to you,
From your loving uncle,
The Cage.
10 couple - (adj. or noun) One part of the couple is perfectly round, rotund, and often squat; the other part is lanky, usually tall, and thinner than a lamp post. More often than not, the female is the rotund half.
This phenomenon is something I encounter often. I'm not sure why. In any case, I wish them well. But let's get back to the number 10 and its unfounded esteem. Damn near every list of favorites/winners is the "Top Ten blah blah blah." I say NO MORE of this blatant numerical favortism!
So I'm starting my own ranking list called "My Official Top Sevens." I've written a few for you already and here they are for your viewing pleasure. Or displeasure. Whatever you want.
In the future, I may post more. We'll see. HOWEVER, if you, the reader, would like me, the writer, to write a Top Seven list with a topic of your choosing, I would be more than happy to do so. Just shoot it my way in a comment, along with your full name, address, blood type, PIN number, and social security number and I will get right on it.
Without further ado, I present.....
My Official Top Sevens, Volume 1
The Top Seven Worse Places To Get A Paper Cut
1. The very soft flesh between your fingers.
2. Right across the knuckle.
3. Your upper lip.
4. The small area where the top of your philtrum connects to the nostrils.
5. The arm crease (opposite side of the elbow).
6. Across the protruding, prominent tendon in your wrist, right at the base of your palm.
7. The very tip of the tongue.
The Top Seven Things You Don't Want to Hear Your Dentist Say
1. Okay, let's see here: 29, 30, 31, 32.... And, um, 33? What the???
2. For the love of god and all that is holy, DO NOT SWALLOW!!
3. Haha! Wow! My vision sure ain't what it used to be, I'll tell ya!
4. Isn't this drill piece amazing? It's considered an antique, you know. It's part of the de Sade Collection.
5. I kind of forgot to put that heavy lead vest on you before the x-rays....but don't worry! I mean, you should be fine. Your heartbeat doesn't feel erratic or anything, right?
6. (Right before a lengthy, painful procedure) I would really hate to be you right now. But try to relax nevertheless.
7. The palsy has been acting up something fierce this past week! Okay, shall we get started?
The Top Seven Songs That, If You Know All The Lyrics To, You Should Be a Little Concerned
1. Any of the songs featured in "The Sound of Music."
2. "I Don't Want To Wait," by Paula Cole.
3. "Let's Get Together," the insipid song sung by Hayley Mills in the original Parent Trap.
4. "Your Body Is a Wonderland," by that really boring average guy that everyone loves.
5. "What If God Was One of Us," by that poodle haired girl who only had that one hit. You know, the one with the nose ring....?
6. "Hello (Is It Me You're Looking For?)," by Lionel Richie
7. "You're Beautiful," by that guy who, for the longest time, I thought was a woman.
The Top Seven Most Disgusting Things Found Under A Couch Cushion
1. A large toenail clipping with dried blood and pus blob still clinging to one edge.
2. Crusty tissue with an unidentifiable flaky substance trapped inside.
3. A moldy cheese hunk complete with teeth marks.
4. Old limp band-aids with scabs still attached.
5. Cat regurgitations (either puke or hair logs).
6. Dirty tighty-whiteys complete with skid-marks and old urine stains.
7. Tighty-whiteys in general. Constricted balls. Ewww.
The Top Seven Under-Appreciated Parts of the Human Body (Both Internal and External)
1. The big toe.
2. Fingernails.
3. The liver. (This guy can bounce back from an INCREDIBLE amount of damage. It's nothing short of miraculous.)
4. The mandible (lower part of the jaw). You have no idea how badly it can hurt if this little fucker isn't lined up right.
5. The small hairs that line the nasal cavity. (I know that they can be revolting on some people, mainly old men, but thank god we have them. I'd rather not have a cold 347 days out of the year.)
6. That little calloused bump that forms usually on the side of your middle finger or index finger, commonly called the "writer's callous." Not everyone has one, but they should, goddamn it.
7. The epiglottis. (I have a faulty epiglottis, and all of you out there who have normal epiglottises should be grateful. You have no idea what a pain in the ass it is to take a big old swig of liquid and have your epiglottis react just one second too late. I once sprayed my sister's friend with a mouthful of root beer when my epiglottis decided take a little nap. She was none too pleased.)
Okay, presently that's all I have. I feel a little like Andy Rooney now, so I think I'll go lay down until that feeling goes away. Maybe I'll call my sponsor.
Good Tidings to you,
From your loving uncle,
The Cage.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I Found Myself Driving Past Convenience Stores......That Weren't on the Way Home.
"These [balloons] blow up into funny shapes and all?"
"Well, no.....unless round is funny."
I've done a few drugs - I'm not going to lie. I'm not going to try to defend my bizarre ranting. I've written a few while intoxicated with this, that, and/or the other. I haven't done anything too illegal, don't worry. I'm not going to end up penniless, bloated, face-down in a murky Cuban gutter or anything cool like that. How Hemingway would that be, though? Sweet.
Nah, I'll probably die either in some really confusing way or in an incredibly mundane way. I would prefer the confusing way, because at least confusing is something – mundane is just....well, it's just mundane. I don't do that whole humdrum thing – just thinking about the ordinary makes me all agitated and fidgety, which is probably why I put off doing the everyday things for as long as humanly possible. I may have mentioned this before, and if I have, it's about time I mentioned it again: I have honed my procrastination skills into an ART FORM. I kid you not. I'm the envy of every teenager and twenty-something bachelor, which is so sad I think I'm going to just end it all.
Kidding. But at least this gets me back on track – the cheery topic of death. Someone like me has two ends in sight: confusing or mundane. And since I'm vetoing mundane, let's go with confusing. (Let me give you quick examples of mundane ways to die: I'm 93 and had a stroke in my sleep. BOOOORING. Oops! Fell down the stairs and broke my neck. Tragic. Sudden. Completely uninteresting.) Okay, now let's get to the fun stuff – confusing ways to die, my future:
- A porcupine has found some random mushroom to which I have a non-preexisting allergy. It has managed to get some of this mushroom's oils and whatnot on its quills. It wanders into my backyard, mistakes me for a bloodhound, and punctures my epidermis and dermis with previously mentioned offending quills. I swell up like a balloon (the funny round kind), and with no concentrated benedryl or an EpiPen on hand, I go into shock and die. And when my relatives try to explain how I died, each person will have the look of "quoi?" on their face.
- One of my personal favorites: dying of a disease that NO ONE gets anymore. Or dying of something that wouldn't even kill a frail elderly man who lives in a sterile bubble. Like influenza. Not weird fuck-all influenza, like that bird flu or swine flu – but just plain old, once every winter influenza. Or bursitis. Who dies of bursitis? No one, that's who!! Until I come along. Or maybe leprosy will kill me off....or small pox. (Yes, I understand that in some 3rd world countries people still get small pox, but even then, one does not hear too much from old Uncle Small Pox these days.) And everyone will say, "Wait. What did she die of? I didn't think people could even get that anymore..." Or, "She died of what?! That's not even MILDLY lethal!" Confusing as all hell.
- OR I will get killed by something completely harmless, like a bunch of house cats. Or a school of rainbow trout. Or perhaps a family of field mice. Or maybe I will unwittingly get too close to a swan's nest and six swans will come out of nowhere and flap and pummel me to death. Actually, I wonder if anyone has been killed by a swan. They're generally harmless, but ornery as all get out. I wouldn't put it past one to try to kill someone. I once got an up close and personal view of the inside of a swan's mouth. Ever see the movie "Little Shop of Horrors"? Well, the inside of a swan's mouth looks just like the inside of Audrey 2's mouth. If you haven't seen said movie, then cut open a very large eggplant. It's basically a swan's mouth in there.
So oddly enough, this blog was supposed to be about television and the weird shit I used to watch. But obviously things didn't pan out that way. Oh well. Such is the creative process. Anyway, I have that blog, or at least the outline of that blog, already ready, already! So expect that one soon.
Actually, you know what? Don't expect that one. I'm really not very reliable when it comes to this whole blog writing thing. My next one may have nothing to do with television, and it may not even appear all that soon. Remain ever neutral in your expectations. That's what all the good little Jedi Knights do. Or so I hear. But my source isn't very reliable. Fucking Lando Calrissian!
May the Force be with you,
The Cage.
"Well, no.....unless round is funny."
I've done a few drugs - I'm not going to lie. I'm not going to try to defend my bizarre ranting. I've written a few while intoxicated with this, that, and/or the other. I haven't done anything too illegal, don't worry. I'm not going to end up penniless, bloated, face-down in a murky Cuban gutter or anything cool like that. How Hemingway would that be, though? Sweet.
Nah, I'll probably die either in some really confusing way or in an incredibly mundane way. I would prefer the confusing way, because at least confusing is something – mundane is just....well, it's just mundane. I don't do that whole humdrum thing – just thinking about the ordinary makes me all agitated and fidgety, which is probably why I put off doing the everyday things for as long as humanly possible. I may have mentioned this before, and if I have, it's about time I mentioned it again: I have honed my procrastination skills into an ART FORM. I kid you not. I'm the envy of every teenager and twenty-something bachelor, which is so sad I think I'm going to just end it all.
Kidding. But at least this gets me back on track – the cheery topic of death. Someone like me has two ends in sight: confusing or mundane. And since I'm vetoing mundane, let's go with confusing. (Let me give you quick examples of mundane ways to die: I'm 93 and had a stroke in my sleep. BOOOORING. Oops! Fell down the stairs and broke my neck. Tragic. Sudden. Completely uninteresting.) Okay, now let's get to the fun stuff – confusing ways to die, my future:
- A porcupine has found some random mushroom to which I have a non-preexisting allergy. It has managed to get some of this mushroom's oils and whatnot on its quills. It wanders into my backyard, mistakes me for a bloodhound, and punctures my epidermis and dermis with previously mentioned offending quills. I swell up like a balloon (the funny round kind), and with no concentrated benedryl or an EpiPen on hand, I go into shock and die. And when my relatives try to explain how I died, each person will have the look of "quoi?" on their face.
- One of my personal favorites: dying of a disease that NO ONE gets anymore. Or dying of something that wouldn't even kill a frail elderly man who lives in a sterile bubble. Like influenza. Not weird fuck-all influenza, like that bird flu or swine flu – but just plain old, once every winter influenza. Or bursitis. Who dies of bursitis? No one, that's who!! Until I come along. Or maybe leprosy will kill me off....or small pox. (Yes, I understand that in some 3rd world countries people still get small pox, but even then, one does not hear too much from old Uncle Small Pox these days.) And everyone will say, "Wait. What did she die of? I didn't think people could even get that anymore..." Or, "She died of what?! That's not even MILDLY lethal!" Confusing as all hell.
- OR I will get killed by something completely harmless, like a bunch of house cats. Or a school of rainbow trout. Or perhaps a family of field mice. Or maybe I will unwittingly get too close to a swan's nest and six swans will come out of nowhere and flap and pummel me to death. Actually, I wonder if anyone has been killed by a swan. They're generally harmless, but ornery as all get out. I wouldn't put it past one to try to kill someone. I once got an up close and personal view of the inside of a swan's mouth. Ever see the movie "Little Shop of Horrors"? Well, the inside of a swan's mouth looks just like the inside of Audrey 2's mouth. If you haven't seen said movie, then cut open a very large eggplant. It's basically a swan's mouth in there.
So oddly enough, this blog was supposed to be about television and the weird shit I used to watch. But obviously things didn't pan out that way. Oh well. Such is the creative process. Anyway, I have that blog, or at least the outline of that blog, already ready, already! So expect that one soon.
Actually, you know what? Don't expect that one. I'm really not very reliable when it comes to this whole blog writing thing. My next one may have nothing to do with television, and it may not even appear all that soon. Remain ever neutral in your expectations. That's what all the good little Jedi Knights do. Or so I hear. But my source isn't very reliable. Fucking Lando Calrissian!
May the Force be with you,
The Cage.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
When Was Meat so High?
"I think it's always good to know where someone's coming from and, quite frankly, your origins have been a bit of a mystery to me."
Yeah. I find myself thinking this about 15-30 times a day.
I went through a period of just saying whatever popped into my head, no matter how scathing, how offensive, or how odious and loathsome the notion was. These were my acerbic high school days. Luckily, sarcasm and wit were considered "funny" at the time, and so no one ever tried to stab me in a parking lot. But as the years went on, I realized that one cannot safely say whatever is on their mind at any given time - you could conceivably get stabbed in a parking lot. Or worse, you could end up coming across as an utterly egregious great douche bag to a person who means well.
Or perhaps you don't care how you come across to well-meaning people. And in which case, kudos, I guess. Good luck leading a life utterly devoid of decent friends.
Do I sound like I'm getting soft in my old age? Well, SCREW YOU!
Kidding. But not really.
I don't condone censorship. I want people to speak their mind. But I feel that one can do so without being a tactless, overly caustic, curmudgeon.
As far as poking fun at people who are NOT well-meaning and who, for all intents and purposes, are complete morons – I say, HAVE AT THEM! But they could be psychotic, so keep your voice down, lest you get stabbed in a parking lot.
Moving on, I was at the beach the other day* – attempting to get some color. My skin is as pallid as a carp's belly. For me, the coloring process is slow and steady. By the end of the summer, I'll have the skin tone of a normal Caucasian human being. But enough of this tangential blithering.
I was at the beach. It was very crowded with the wrong kind of people, mainly because they weren't charging admission. So the beach was rife with all sorts of littering, abrasive, alcoholic riffraff. And, of course, teeming with the dime-a-dozen, two-dimensional, gum-chewing "teenage girl" and "teenage boy." The pack (because they always travel in packs – god forbid one of these characters goes off and does something on their own. Perhaps they're afraid wolves will pick them off if they stray too far) nearest to me was having fun consuming alcohol and climbing the lifeguard tower. Never a good combination, but, hey man, whatever it takes to thin out the shallow end of the gene pool.
Now, when I say lifeguard tower, I don't really mean "tower." It's not really a "tower." A tower implies something that's kind of, you know, tall. Something above.... maybe 8 feet. The lifeguard "towers" at Narragansett beach are about 6 to 6 ½ feet high. And below the "tower" is lots and lots and lots and lots of very, very, very, very, very soft sand. So basically, what I'm trying to imply is, should one decide to jump off one of the "towers," said person will not get hurt.
Unless, of course, they jump head first, and in which case, once again thank you for removing the undesirable genes from the pool.
So some of these generic girls climbed up the tower, sat down and, as far as I could tell, just stared at the boys in their pack, and giggled inanely. This is completely copacetic behavior, I suppose. However they want to spend their time is fine by me. But they progressively got louder and more abhorrent. I have a strange genetic malady that does not allow me to block out background noise, so I overhear conversations – NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO, TRUST ME!! It is a curse!! There's really no point in reiterating their "conversations." It will cause neuronal breakdowns if I do so.
The part that vexed me so was when it came time for them to get down. Keep in mind these girls are only about 6 feet or so off the ground. They were immediately bamboozled and started to panic. So they started shouting for the boys. And that's exactly what they called them – "the boys." "Oh.....um......uhh.....err.....how do we.....ummm.....get the boys! Call the boys! We can't get down!!" So of course the boys wandered over one by one once they realized that the girls were screeching for them. And they didn't really help! They just kind of watched while the girls made a big deal out of getting down.
Then they all merrily skipped away. They most likely blew chunks in the parking lot, and had lots of unprotected sex in the car, and in 10 years, they'll probably be soccer moms and dead-beat dads. Me? Judgmental? NO WAY!
This is the kind of scenario that, should you feel so inclined to make fun of people, you have my blessing. In fact, I'll join in with you. We'll make a time of it. What exactly a "time" is, I'm not quite sure. But we'll make one. Together. But I must insist you wear protection since I'd really rather not make a contribution to the gene pool. That way no one can wonder about the origins of my potential offspring.
One major problem avoided.
See you in the Netherworld,
The Cage.
* Clearly this is an older blog. I did not, in fact, go to the beach the other day, seeing as it is January. This blog was written during the summer of '08.
Yeah. I find myself thinking this about 15-30 times a day.
I went through a period of just saying whatever popped into my head, no matter how scathing, how offensive, or how odious and loathsome the notion was. These were my acerbic high school days. Luckily, sarcasm and wit were considered "funny" at the time, and so no one ever tried to stab me in a parking lot. But as the years went on, I realized that one cannot safely say whatever is on their mind at any given time - you could conceivably get stabbed in a parking lot. Or worse, you could end up coming across as an utterly egregious great douche bag to a person who means well.
Or perhaps you don't care how you come across to well-meaning people. And in which case, kudos, I guess. Good luck leading a life utterly devoid of decent friends.
Do I sound like I'm getting soft in my old age? Well, SCREW YOU!
Kidding. But not really.
I don't condone censorship. I want people to speak their mind. But I feel that one can do so without being a tactless, overly caustic, curmudgeon.
As far as poking fun at people who are NOT well-meaning and who, for all intents and purposes, are complete morons – I say, HAVE AT THEM! But they could be psychotic, so keep your voice down, lest you get stabbed in a parking lot.
Moving on, I was at the beach the other day* – attempting to get some color. My skin is as pallid as a carp's belly. For me, the coloring process is slow and steady. By the end of the summer, I'll have the skin tone of a normal Caucasian human being. But enough of this tangential blithering.
I was at the beach. It was very crowded with the wrong kind of people, mainly because they weren't charging admission. So the beach was rife with all sorts of littering, abrasive, alcoholic riffraff. And, of course, teeming with the dime-a-dozen, two-dimensional, gum-chewing "teenage girl" and "teenage boy." The pack (because they always travel in packs – god forbid one of these characters goes off and does something on their own. Perhaps they're afraid wolves will pick them off if they stray too far) nearest to me was having fun consuming alcohol and climbing the lifeguard tower. Never a good combination, but, hey man, whatever it takes to thin out the shallow end of the gene pool.
Now, when I say lifeguard tower, I don't really mean "tower." It's not really a "tower." A tower implies something that's kind of, you know, tall. Something above.... maybe 8 feet. The lifeguard "towers" at Narragansett beach are about 6 to 6 ½ feet high. And below the "tower" is lots and lots and lots and lots of very, very, very, very, very soft sand. So basically, what I'm trying to imply is, should one decide to jump off one of the "towers," said person will not get hurt.
Unless, of course, they jump head first, and in which case, once again thank you for removing the undesirable genes from the pool.
So some of these generic girls climbed up the tower, sat down and, as far as I could tell, just stared at the boys in their pack, and giggled inanely. This is completely copacetic behavior, I suppose. However they want to spend their time is fine by me. But they progressively got louder and more abhorrent. I have a strange genetic malady that does not allow me to block out background noise, so I overhear conversations – NOT BECAUSE I WANT TO, TRUST ME!! It is a curse!! There's really no point in reiterating their "conversations." It will cause neuronal breakdowns if I do so.
The part that vexed me so was when it came time for them to get down. Keep in mind these girls are only about 6 feet or so off the ground. They were immediately bamboozled and started to panic. So they started shouting for the boys. And that's exactly what they called them – "the boys." "Oh.....um......uhh.....err.....how do we.....ummm.....get the boys! Call the boys! We can't get down!!" So of course the boys wandered over one by one once they realized that the girls were screeching for them. And they didn't really help! They just kind of watched while the girls made a big deal out of getting down.
Then they all merrily skipped away. They most likely blew chunks in the parking lot, and had lots of unprotected sex in the car, and in 10 years, they'll probably be soccer moms and dead-beat dads. Me? Judgmental? NO WAY!
This is the kind of scenario that, should you feel so inclined to make fun of people, you have my blessing. In fact, I'll join in with you. We'll make a time of it. What exactly a "time" is, I'm not quite sure. But we'll make one. Together. But I must insist you wear protection since I'd really rather not make a contribution to the gene pool. That way no one can wonder about the origins of my potential offspring.
One major problem avoided.
See you in the Netherworld,
The Cage.
* Clearly this is an older blog. I did not, in fact, go to the beach the other day, seeing as it is January. This blog was written during the summer of '08.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Now I'll Never be a Teen Model!!
Skadoosh.
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately (NOT drinking, although drinking can be fun and good for what ails ya, unless life is what ails ya, and then you might be an alcoholic and then more's the pity and so forth and et cetera.), and I have come to the conclusion that I may be the reincarnation of Andy Rooney, even though I'm pretty sure he's not dead.... Yet.
Don't worry. I'm not going to kill Andy Rooney. But I've had my eye on Jimmy Kimmel for years. He's going down, going down like a sweet muffin.
So anyway, yeah. Andy Rooney. Reincarnation. Granted, I don't have bushy eyebrows and a profoundly nasal voice that is hitherto unprecedented. But I DO have a lazy eyelid and a goofy laugh. BOO-YAH! So the proof is in the pudding, whatever the stinking hell THAT means.
Here's the thing: I don't really trust gummy bears. No matter how much you chew them, they never really start to break down. You can only scissor them into smaller chewy bits, smaller versions of themselves, if you will. Then swallow very carefully so as to avoid choking. Nobody wants gummy bear bits getting into their lungs. Instant death, or so they tell me.
But with most other foods, you can feel them start to break down as soon as they mix with a decent amount of saliva. No amount of spit can break down a gummy bear. I'm convinced that after the end of the world, after the nuclear holocaust, all that will be left are cockroaches, spider plants, Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, and TONS of Haribo gummy bears.
I eat a lot of gummy bears (only Haribo gummy bears will do) and I'm convinced that they're building up in my colon somewhere. I just know that as soon as I turn 50, when it's time for all god's chillun' to have their preemptive colonoscopy, that they're going to find a lifetime's worth of masticated gummy bear bits nesting within my.....*gulp* .... murky tract.
And by that time, I'm sure that pile of gelatinous nastiness will have become sentient. It'll be like that episode of "Futurama" where Fry eats the egg salad sandwich from the vending machine and ends up with sentient parasites that fix all his neurons and make him more intelligent. Except my sentient gummy bear colon mass will just make me all bloated and irritable and cantankerous. So in actuality, I'll be exactly the same at 50 as I am now at 26. WOOT! Or maybe they’ll develop into a second brain – a Bum Brain, just like dinosaurs!
I'll have sentient colon cancer (aka A Bum Brain) and the world's worst case of TMJ from eating too many Haribo gummy bears. I'll be a whole medical case study AND a study in evolution, what with my new bum brain and all. My retirement is going to be so cool!
Yours with everlasting fervent admiration bordering on sinister obsession,
The Cage.
I've been doing a lot of thinking lately (NOT drinking, although drinking can be fun and good for what ails ya, unless life is what ails ya, and then you might be an alcoholic and then more's the pity and so forth and et cetera.), and I have come to the conclusion that I may be the reincarnation of Andy Rooney, even though I'm pretty sure he's not dead.... Yet.
Don't worry. I'm not going to kill Andy Rooney. But I've had my eye on Jimmy Kimmel for years. He's going down, going down like a sweet muffin.
So anyway, yeah. Andy Rooney. Reincarnation. Granted, I don't have bushy eyebrows and a profoundly nasal voice that is hitherto unprecedented. But I DO have a lazy eyelid and a goofy laugh. BOO-YAH! So the proof is in the pudding, whatever the stinking hell THAT means.
Here's the thing: I don't really trust gummy bears. No matter how much you chew them, they never really start to break down. You can only scissor them into smaller chewy bits, smaller versions of themselves, if you will. Then swallow very carefully so as to avoid choking. Nobody wants gummy bear bits getting into their lungs. Instant death, or so they tell me.
But with most other foods, you can feel them start to break down as soon as they mix with a decent amount of saliva. No amount of spit can break down a gummy bear. I'm convinced that after the end of the world, after the nuclear holocaust, all that will be left are cockroaches, spider plants, Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, and TONS of Haribo gummy bears.
I eat a lot of gummy bears (only Haribo gummy bears will do) and I'm convinced that they're building up in my colon somewhere. I just know that as soon as I turn 50, when it's time for all god's chillun' to have their preemptive colonoscopy, that they're going to find a lifetime's worth of masticated gummy bear bits nesting within my.....*gulp* .... murky tract.
And by that time, I'm sure that pile of gelatinous nastiness will have become sentient. It'll be like that episode of "Futurama" where Fry eats the egg salad sandwich from the vending machine and ends up with sentient parasites that fix all his neurons and make him more intelligent. Except my sentient gummy bear colon mass will just make me all bloated and irritable and cantankerous. So in actuality, I'll be exactly the same at 50 as I am now at 26. WOOT! Or maybe they’ll develop into a second brain – a Bum Brain, just like dinosaurs!
I'll have sentient colon cancer (aka A Bum Brain) and the world's worst case of TMJ from eating too many Haribo gummy bears. I'll be a whole medical case study AND a study in evolution, what with my new bum brain and all. My retirement is going to be so cool!
Yours with everlasting fervent admiration bordering on sinister obsession,
The Cage.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
What is this? A Center for Ants?!?!?
These days, man. I just don’t know. These days I feel like I bring nothing to the table. Except more chairs.
And maybe some ugly pea-green crocheted place mats I bought at a yard sale for $1.25 that smell just a little like moth balls and cat pee. Sigh. These days.
So you know when children reach that age when they want to know where babies come from? And their parents give them some bullshit answer that goes something like this: "Well, Jimmy, it takes a mommy and a daddy who love each other very much to make a baby." Most insipid parents stop there, knowing full well they didn’t answer JACK DIDDLY!! But others will elaborate by telling little Johnny that "the daddy gives the mommy a seed that she can grow into a baby."
Yeah. Okay. Now don’t be surprised when precious little Billy thinks that babies come from dirt and runs to his teacher with whimsical stories like: "My daddy is going to give me his seed so I can make a little brother!" Oh, Bobby – you adorable little mistake! I mean scamp! Adorable little SCAMP!
Yup. Poor Timmy. He fell victim to one hell of a communication cluster-fuck. Although, I have to admit, the seed explanation is a somewhat better game plan than blaming a large, clumsy, pointy white bird for the Curse That is Children. But it still isn’t a very good explanation. It’s also saccharine and coddling and it makes me want to puke.
I think it would be funnier (and indeed, far more helpful) if, when a kid asks where babies come from, you bust out the charts and the anatomy books. Oh, and don’t forget the laser pointer. The kid’s education isn’t complete until it can successfully locate the epididymis, the salpinges, and provide an acceptable definition of the word "ovulate."
I wondered about a lot of crap when I was a kid. But, oddly enough, never cared about babies or their origins. It didn’t really occur to me that anyone was born AFTER the year 1983 until about the year 2000.
I’m kidding, of course! It was actually more like 2002.
However, as a child, I didn’t quite understand why people closed their eyes when they kissed. When I closed my eyes, it was because I was tired or I was scared. So I therefore deduced that kissing must be incredibly boring, or incredibly scary. I decided I would try my best to avoid it in the future. I never claimed that I was a bright child.
But anyway, to get back to the dreaded Sex Talk and how parents seem to bungle the whole affair, what’s up with that "Birds and the Bees" speech? I never fully understood that one. I sort of get the Bee part – what with pollinating and all. But if you’re going to explain boinking (ahem, excuse me, Making Love) to your kids, at least pick animals that are constantly fucking (oh sorry, Bumping Uglies) and ALWAYS seem to get pregnant. Like the obvious example of rabbits. Or gerbils. Or white trash. KIDDING!
.....But not really.
Birds’ mating habits are pretty common and aren’t all that amazing. They have a mating season in which they do their best to look and sound good, they find a mate, they do it, and they poop out some eggs. Done deal. They’re not randy little fuckers. In fact, many species are monogamous, or at least seasonally monogamous.
When I think of animals that epitomize the word SEX, I think more along the lines of a female cat in heat getting gang-banged by 15 males rather than the frigging till-death-do-we-part, I’ll-never-let-go,-Jack, You-had-me-at-hello blue jays. Fucking blue jays are making us look bad, by the way. Damn them and their fidelity!
So yes! I think we should change the saying altogether. Screw that "Birds and the Bees" crap! It should be "Gerbils and the Bees" or "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees." So when little Tommy comes asking, tell him you’re going to have the "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees" talk with him, then bust out the creepy anatomy charts with the exposed muscles (you know the ones I mean) and have that laser pointer ready. Trust me, you won’t confuse the ever-loving fuck out of him. Nor will you traumatize him horribly in any way.....
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Your best good friend,
The Cage.
And maybe some ugly pea-green crocheted place mats I bought at a yard sale for $1.25 that smell just a little like moth balls and cat pee. Sigh. These days.
So you know when children reach that age when they want to know where babies come from? And their parents give them some bullshit answer that goes something like this: "Well, Jimmy, it takes a mommy and a daddy who love each other very much to make a baby." Most insipid parents stop there, knowing full well they didn’t answer JACK DIDDLY!! But others will elaborate by telling little Johnny that "the daddy gives the mommy a seed that she can grow into a baby."
Yeah. Okay. Now don’t be surprised when precious little Billy thinks that babies come from dirt and runs to his teacher with whimsical stories like: "My daddy is going to give me his seed so I can make a little brother!" Oh, Bobby – you adorable little mistake! I mean scamp! Adorable little SCAMP!
Yup. Poor Timmy. He fell victim to one hell of a communication cluster-fuck. Although, I have to admit, the seed explanation is a somewhat better game plan than blaming a large, clumsy, pointy white bird for the Curse That is Children. But it still isn’t a very good explanation. It’s also saccharine and coddling and it makes me want to puke.
I think it would be funnier (and indeed, far more helpful) if, when a kid asks where babies come from, you bust out the charts and the anatomy books. Oh, and don’t forget the laser pointer. The kid’s education isn’t complete until it can successfully locate the epididymis, the salpinges, and provide an acceptable definition of the word "ovulate."
I wondered about a lot of crap when I was a kid. But, oddly enough, never cared about babies or their origins. It didn’t really occur to me that anyone was born AFTER the year 1983 until about the year 2000.
I’m kidding, of course! It was actually more like 2002.
However, as a child, I didn’t quite understand why people closed their eyes when they kissed. When I closed my eyes, it was because I was tired or I was scared. So I therefore deduced that kissing must be incredibly boring, or incredibly scary. I decided I would try my best to avoid it in the future. I never claimed that I was a bright child.
But anyway, to get back to the dreaded Sex Talk and how parents seem to bungle the whole affair, what’s up with that "Birds and the Bees" speech? I never fully understood that one. I sort of get the Bee part – what with pollinating and all. But if you’re going to explain boinking (ahem, excuse me, Making Love) to your kids, at least pick animals that are constantly fucking (oh sorry, Bumping Uglies) and ALWAYS seem to get pregnant. Like the obvious example of rabbits. Or gerbils. Or white trash. KIDDING!
.....But not really.
Birds’ mating habits are pretty common and aren’t all that amazing. They have a mating season in which they do their best to look and sound good, they find a mate, they do it, and they poop out some eggs. Done deal. They’re not randy little fuckers. In fact, many species are monogamous, or at least seasonally monogamous.
When I think of animals that epitomize the word SEX, I think more along the lines of a female cat in heat getting gang-banged by 15 males rather than the frigging till-death-do-we-part, I’ll-never-let-go,-Jack, You-had-me-at-hello blue jays. Fucking blue jays are making us look bad, by the way. Damn them and their fidelity!
So yes! I think we should change the saying altogether. Screw that "Birds and the Bees" crap! It should be "Gerbils and the Bees" or "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees." So when little Tommy comes asking, tell him you’re going to have the "Female Cat in Heat and the Bees" talk with him, then bust out the creepy anatomy charts with the exposed muscles (you know the ones I mean) and have that laser pointer ready. Trust me, you won’t confuse the ever-loving fuck out of him. Nor will you traumatize him horribly in any way.....
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Your best good friend,
The Cage.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
That's Never Going to Heal if You Don't Stop Picking at It
Once upon a time, what specific "time" it was is something of a mystery, and by "mystery," I mean way back when I was still dwelling in a small cinder block cell (or college dorm room, if you will), I knew three young gentlemen who insisted upon calling all name-brand merchandise by its lesser-known generic name, or a generic equivalent.
For example, they never called Frisbees Frisbees. They called Frisbees "novelty flying disks." Yeah....
Q-tips were always "cotton swabs," Kleenex was always "facial tissue," and I'm sure Cheetos were always "cheese flavored corn crisps." I'm not joking. They actually did this. I frequently asked why they did this, but I was never presented with any logical or practical reason. I think mainly it was because they wanted to be different. Or amusing. Or both.
This is not to say that I required a logical or practical reason – I rarely make such frivolous and futile demands on people. If they had told me it was part of the requirements for their Unholy Cult of the Latter Day Satan's Helpers, or if they were doing it because of some sort of obscure foreign holiday, I would have understood completely.
So needless to say, out of these three gentlemen, I was really only good friends with one of them. Nice guy, very Irish. And I'm sure one of the other two has since won the World's Biggest Yuppie Douche Award – 3 years running! And if he hasn't won that infamous and prestigious award, I'm sure he will soon. He is destined for it, trust me.
And as for the last fellow, well.... I don't know. I just don't know. I'll say this much, though: I hope he stopped wearing those tight-fitting denim high-waters. Otherwise, at this point, he's definitely as sterile as an unopened Band-aid. Oh, I'm sorry – as sterile as an unopened "compact adhesive bandage." And hopefully he has figured out that there is more to life than getting blow-jobs from strange women. Granted, there's not much more, but there's still more.
In any case, they were an interesting bunch. Not as interesting as, say, the creepy, foul-smelling derelicts who seem to be omnipresent in the world of public transportation. They are on EVERY bus at EVERY time. Explain that to me!!!!! They lurk and they loom, always muttering to themselves and occasionally displaying some of the more savory symptoms of THE DREADED TOURETTE'S SYNDROME.
Yeah, no one comes close to that lot. They're the best of the best of the best, SIR! With honors! No one is nearly as interesting. Or as malodorous. And the more normal you appear to be, the more they hone in on you. They feast upon the Average Joe and the Mind-My-Own-Business types like maggots on an old leathery steak. The best course of action, and the course frequently employed by my cousin, is to behave even more inappropriately than they do: random clapping, raucous guffaws, mindless humming, things of that ilk.
I had to take a bus out of Providence once – Providence to Pawtucket, so you know there's going to be a number of Exceptionals on that one. It was raining heavily that day and many of the roads were flooded. And of course there was a cataclysmically stoned guy sitting near the front, occasionally laughing at nothing and rubbing his droopy, red-rimmed eyes. He was probably in his mid to late 20's, though it was hard to tell. It's always hard to tell with druggies. Anyway, we got to one flooded road and the bus almost got stuck. The guy immediately burst out with, "Ohmygod!! Ohmygod!! This is just like that movie, "Alive"!! Did you guys see that movie??? Wow! This is just like that movie! You know that movie, "Alive"?? I want you all to know that if we get stuck here forever, you all can eat my bum. I'm kinda skinny, so it'll sorta be like eating a pigeon. But you can have it! I'm giving it to you!"
Then he proceeded to give everyone on the bus "bad-ass" nicknames. I don't remember all of them, but I remember that my sister and I were lovingly labeled "9 Millimeter and Baby 9" respectively. Then he rubbed his eyes, coughed a few times, and looked around like he had no idea where he was or who all these people were.
Ah, memories. I liked that guy. He was cool. He didn't use generic names or wear tight high-water pants. I'm actually impressed that he was wearing pants at all, come to think of it. Go him!! So good luck to you, Raving Derelict, wherever you are! I sincerely hope you didn't offer to let people eat your bum too frequently. You never know who might take you up on it.
I'm cold and there are wolves after me,
The Cage.
For example, they never called Frisbees Frisbees. They called Frisbees "novelty flying disks." Yeah....
Q-tips were always "cotton swabs," Kleenex was always "facial tissue," and I'm sure Cheetos were always "cheese flavored corn crisps." I'm not joking. They actually did this. I frequently asked why they did this, but I was never presented with any logical or practical reason. I think mainly it was because they wanted to be different. Or amusing. Or both.
This is not to say that I required a logical or practical reason – I rarely make such frivolous and futile demands on people. If they had told me it was part of the requirements for their Unholy Cult of the Latter Day Satan's Helpers, or if they were doing it because of some sort of obscure foreign holiday, I would have understood completely.
So needless to say, out of these three gentlemen, I was really only good friends with one of them. Nice guy, very Irish. And I'm sure one of the other two has since won the World's Biggest Yuppie Douche Award – 3 years running! And if he hasn't won that infamous and prestigious award, I'm sure he will soon. He is destined for it, trust me.
And as for the last fellow, well.... I don't know. I just don't know. I'll say this much, though: I hope he stopped wearing those tight-fitting denim high-waters. Otherwise, at this point, he's definitely as sterile as an unopened Band-aid. Oh, I'm sorry – as sterile as an unopened "compact adhesive bandage." And hopefully he has figured out that there is more to life than getting blow-jobs from strange women. Granted, there's not much more, but there's still more.
In any case, they were an interesting bunch. Not as interesting as, say, the creepy, foul-smelling derelicts who seem to be omnipresent in the world of public transportation. They are on EVERY bus at EVERY time. Explain that to me!!!!! They lurk and they loom, always muttering to themselves and occasionally displaying some of the more savory symptoms of THE DREADED TOURETTE'S SYNDROME.
Yeah, no one comes close to that lot. They're the best of the best of the best, SIR! With honors! No one is nearly as interesting. Or as malodorous. And the more normal you appear to be, the more they hone in on you. They feast upon the Average Joe and the Mind-My-Own-Business types like maggots on an old leathery steak. The best course of action, and the course frequently employed by my cousin, is to behave even more inappropriately than they do: random clapping, raucous guffaws, mindless humming, things of that ilk.
I had to take a bus out of Providence once – Providence to Pawtucket, so you know there's going to be a number of Exceptionals on that one. It was raining heavily that day and many of the roads were flooded. And of course there was a cataclysmically stoned guy sitting near the front, occasionally laughing at nothing and rubbing his droopy, red-rimmed eyes. He was probably in his mid to late 20's, though it was hard to tell. It's always hard to tell with druggies. Anyway, we got to one flooded road and the bus almost got stuck. The guy immediately burst out with, "Ohmygod!! Ohmygod!! This is just like that movie, "Alive"!! Did you guys see that movie??? Wow! This is just like that movie! You know that movie, "Alive"?? I want you all to know that if we get stuck here forever, you all can eat my bum. I'm kinda skinny, so it'll sorta be like eating a pigeon. But you can have it! I'm giving it to you!"
Then he proceeded to give everyone on the bus "bad-ass" nicknames. I don't remember all of them, but I remember that my sister and I were lovingly labeled "9 Millimeter and Baby 9" respectively. Then he rubbed his eyes, coughed a few times, and looked around like he had no idea where he was or who all these people were.
Ah, memories. I liked that guy. He was cool. He didn't use generic names or wear tight high-water pants. I'm actually impressed that he was wearing pants at all, come to think of it. Go him!! So good luck to you, Raving Derelict, wherever you are! I sincerely hope you didn't offer to let people eat your bum too frequently. You never know who might take you up on it.
I'm cold and there are wolves after me,
The Cage.
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