Let the bullsh*t fly!

If you want to live life right, you gotta let the bullsh*t fly!

Recently it was brought to my attention that the periodic reporting I’ve been doing on my life is  highly inconsistent from what is actually happening in my life.  I’m talking about fact checking, folks.  It’s happening.  And I’ve been called out.  In a big way.  I’m not going to lie to you; I’m a liar.  Big time.  I one time took an ice cream sandwich from a little kid because it looked delicious and he looked like a fart smeller.  Did I mention I’m also a jerk?   But, I don’t want to talk about that really.  What I want to address is a life philosophy that I hold high above the rest.  It’s based on consistency.  You know, consistency?  The art of speaking and doing and acting similarly in every occasion of your life because Jesus or God or Elvis told you so?  Guess what?  That sh*t is totally bunk.  Bunked up beyond belief, sucker.

You can have a strict set of guidelines and abide by the rules set in place.  You can play your game of life on a black and white polarized line of yes and no, right or wrong.  You can also poke you own eyeballs out with a big wet wiener.  If that’s what looks good to you, you are absolutely fooling yourself, dude.  Sure, there’s instances in life of complete clarity where in which the outcome of some action is absolutely determinable as good or bad, right or wrong, yes or no, wet or dry.  For example, do you want to go to the movies tomorrow with me?  Obviously yes (HP6 guy or ma lady).  Can I borrow a pair of your panties for a science project..P.S. I need to smell them?  Clearly huh?  You’ll never make fast friends that way.  What you’ve neglected to observe in the past is that the world is not always as easy as black and white.

The world is grey and bleak and red and bleu cheese dressings and ambiguous and confusing.  All at the same time and sometimes, all the time.  Wrap your little mind around that!  If you’re playing the Game of Life and your little car filled with all of your peg headed children fall out before you finish college and become a veterinarian, there is no clear answer for you.  There is no rule for that (actually there is, it’s on the inside of the box lid about halfway down on the right, but pay no mind to that).  You should pick yourself up and dust off your peg kids and finish the game, broken and bent.  Things are not going to be the same for you any more.

Given the circumstances life hands you, you’d better figure it out and quick.  No ones waiting for you.  If you want to make it as a decent human being, you have to put all of that Bible thumping, Good vs. Evil, hogwash to bed.  Think about this…Terrorist tucks her son into bed.  Hmmm?  Why is she a terrorist?  Easy.  Love.  So she kills and maims and rapes.  Her son is safe…for now: Look out! It’s gonna blow!  KABLOOEY!  But that’s her life.  That should be your life, too.  Pure instinct and devotion.  Inconsistent at best.

Let your emotions get the best of you and set your self free.  Don’t be a wiener.  Be a man.  Be an emotional person.  Not a dirty Christian.  The people that run an inconsistent operation are liberated from facts and their incessant checkability.  It’s that easy.  I can lie and steal.  I can love and help.  Let the bullsh*t fly.  I’m accountable for me and you’re accountable for you.  Now, let’s blow this place and go to the movies.

 

A lot of people ask me what I do for a living.  It has been suggested that I should have an “elevator speech” prepared for just such occasions. Something that titillates and informs in the time that it takes to travel on an elevator.  So here it goes.  This is what I would tell you if you asked me what I do for a living:

“Hi, how’s it going?  (Pause for response, very important).  Good, me too.  Oh, what do I do?  I work in the health care field.  I am what’s know as a materials handling specialist.  (pause for courtesy chuckle).  I do some dicing and cutting, but for the most part I work the scrape and suck apparatus.  But don’t let the name fool you.  There’s no real scraping going on.   It’s more like a scramble using a plain ol’ garden-variety clothes hanger (sterile, of course) in a vigorous whisking motion.  There’s no real sucking either, come to think of it.  I just use the end of the hanger like a hook and extract that way.  It can be pretty messy work.  That’s why I wear latex gloves and a rubber smock.  I really hate staining my scrubs.  They say you must not have a soul to do this job, but that is so misguided.  Dozens of little souls are harvested every day.  I figure when I die, I can just rope them together and ride the “stairway to heaven” in a chariot behind those little angels.”

Were you titillated? If you guessed correctly, you may have said that I work as an omelet chef in a hospital brunch buffet (it’s a nice hospital).  If you guessed incorrectly, you’re sick.

 

Yeah, I shard.  So what?  If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too.  Have you ever been on a bus?  This isn’t about that.  This is a story.  And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old.  It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon.  I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple.  At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers.  I was proud then.  It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos.  They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people.  I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age.  During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house.  There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two.  We never needed outfielders.  Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house.  Like I said, it was a defunkity sac.  We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp.  There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun.  Actually, it was a lot of fun.  Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues.  They had organized a game that we all knew well.  We got on to playing.  As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus.  I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt.  Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass.  It was coming on slow but steady.  I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options.  I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences.  Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat.  It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right.  For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy.  I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way.  After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch.  So, I sat on a pitch.  And another.  And another.  And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far.  The pitch came and I took a cut.  It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me.  Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed.  The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants.  As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete.  I did it.  I crapped my pants.  And the driveway, too, apparently.

 
Most couples bearly even talk after awhile

Most couples bearly even talk after awhile

I took a class in college.  Just one.  It was a sociology class entitled Society through Sexuality or something like that.  Tons of hot chicks and their stupid, idiot, jock boyfriends.  It was a cool class because there was a statistic that was taught.  Just one.  It said 95% of people will marry at least once in their life times.  Now, I’m a firm believer in the idiom that 92% of all statistics are made up on the spot, but WoW!  Getting 95% of everyone to do one thing?  That’s a boat load.  Someone should be making a ton of money.  What if 95% of your friends showed up to your party on Friday?  That would be like half a dozen or so of your friends that had wished they were somewhere else!  Similarly, what a relief for most of those loser dorks out there that didn’t think they’d ever get laid.  You can almost guarantee sexy relations when you’re married!  Well, actually marriage does not entail sex.  Just ask any one of the 95% that got suckered in.  (BTW, no one has sex…no one.  It’s too risky.  Don’t be daft.)

The funny thing is that somewhere between nearly half to more than half of those marriages will end tragically in magnificently wonderful divorce.  The tie that bonds often breaks and splinters and sends stabbing pains into your back.  However, as good as it may sound, divorce has a serious down side.  Forget what it does to your emotions, credit and therapy bills.  The real frightening aspect is that some of those divorcees will marry again with an even lower success rate than the first time.  I call it the trash principle.  If one person doesn’t like something, then no one will.  Just look at that stinking heap of unwanted trash at the junk dump.  People just passed stuff right on down the line thinking someone else could benefit and the stuff just piled up.  If you’ve ever seen a sitcom, then you’ll know what I’m talking about.    Sitcoms have always sucked but somehow they all wind up on DVDs which no one wants and they go directly to the dump.  If you’re like me, and there is no doubt in my mind that you are, then you’re probably asking yourself: “If the trash principle is true and no person would ever find love with someone that was tossed away by a first husband/wife and 2nd marriages happen, who in their right mind is taking the wild chance to pair up with those losers in a second marriage?”  The answer may surprise you because of it’s deceptive plurality: single parents.  That’s right, single parents.  There is another unwanted breed out there that is just as used and spit out as “the divorced” and it’s not a bunch of little bastard kids.  It’s the little bastards’ mothers and fathers.

If you really stop to think about them, single mothers would terrorize your dreams.  To me, a single parent is a person that got to the abortion clinic a day late (not surprising, they’re irresponsible freaks).  A single parent will claim that s/he was “in love”.  Their brain power appears limited as they live selfishly without consequence.  Don’t get me wrong, living without consequence can be a fine quality in a person, if s/he knows how to use a condom.  The only redeeming quality of single parents is that once they hit rock bottom (an absolute certainty), they often figure out they cannot survive without help from other people (often their parents).  A humbling experience, I’m sure.  The usual outcome of this fall from grace, of course, is that they will cling to whatever life form shows interest.  Sorry USA Network, characters need not apply.  Qualities that appeal to normal people are lost on single parents.  You drink and have a history of violence on your ex-wife but appear to have a stable income and can tolerate other people’s kids, you’re hired!

So, desperate and eager to live another day in loving arms, singles parents and divorcees say their “I dos”.  Who could make a better pair?  No one, apparently.  And no one will.  Like I said, the success rate of these marriages is so low that its basement floods when it rains.  The unfortunate twist to this love story is that this behavior stands to become more common.  As more people live this way, it stands to reason that they will more frequently miss their appointments at the abortion clinic.  As the children pile up and the loveless marriages contribute two halves a time, the giant trash heap will continue to grow.  It will grow until one day, when I decide to come down off of my high horse, I kick stomp it back into the receptacle where it belongs.

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