High Tech Mortality

Every time I type every time I type everytime because everyday throws me off. Confusing English aside, every time a new iphone comes out, I wonder about diseases. Not from disgruntled Chinese workers putting herpes in the earhole or the ghost of Steve Jobs giving us ipolio. No, it makes me wonder how so much useless and amazing shit can be stuffed into such a small package, all for $199, and yet billions of billions (I think that equals trillions. I’ll let you math nerds figure those numbers out) of dollars can’t cure cancer, or anything for that matter. I know that sounds all high school philosophical, and something you might hear a beauty contestant say to prove her shallowness is only skin deep, after doing a baton twirl in a two piece. But, it is a valid point.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

 

When I was kid I heard about chemo. I’m thirty five and I hear about chemo. I’m sure there is a bit more advancement, I’m no gynecologist. If we’re going to stick with my iphone analogy, it would be the equivalent of us all carrying around rotary phones that will need to be plugged in but hey, they got caller ID.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

If any of you are the betting type, I’ll make a wager. I bet my sweet ass that they find a cure for Ebola. Wanna know why? It has quick pace. You’re dead in weeks. No profit in it. I bet the cure will cost as much as one of those fancy Ford Fiestas everyone’s been all hyped up about, but, it will cure it by God.

"Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away."

“Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away.”

Conspiracy theories aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t believe the world is being controlled by a shadowy group of power bankers and Jay-Z. What I do believe in is the trail of money in which all decisions are based, in regards to things that cost money. What a cluster fuck of a sentence that was. Sheesh. (Authors note: Learn to formulate a thought before typing.) Where there is a want or need there is a hope for reliance, where there is reliance there is hope for long term profitability. Remember that when you sign up for your two year contract on your new iphone 6, and pray the damn things don’t give you cancer.

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Gothic Benches

A position statement before I go into all this mess: I do not believe in the paranormal.

Recently, two of my best friends from high school came for a visit. These are dear friends who have been together since pagers and Tupac. She is an elementary school teacher and he is a police officer. I sucked at school and law abiding, so our friendship is most likely a lie. On the night they were leaving we stayed up telling stories and playfully pushing for wife swapping.

I vaguely recalled a story from when they were first dating, and for God only knows what reason, they would go to city parks late at night to talk. Talk? Whatever. I asked them to retell the story so Cris could hear it. Cris loves stories, and she really loves when they involve the mysterious.

The story goes that one night around 11pm in Mesquite, TX, Buttplug and Chastity (first names that popped into my head) went to Debusk Park to have their teenage-love-drama-public sex time. The park is massive, covered in trees, and at the time of the night, vacant. A walking & bicycling trail encircles the entirety and roughly every 100 feet are walkways off the main trail. The walkways have small wooden bridges. It’s picturesque and majestic except it’s located in the herpes of Dallas County.

These wooden plank mini trails lead to a circular concrete pad complete with a picnic table and benches. Once there, you’re secluded and surrounded by trees. Even during the day, no none could hear your screams, especially during the day, not over the excitement of Javier and his amigos having a go at the piñata, or the Meth Family having a go at normalcy. The place is probably safer at night, really.

Buttplug and Chastity went down one of the walkways to find the privacy they couldn’t get at home because parents. Once there, they sat down on one of the benches. Small talk, blah, blah. After about 10 minutes, they see a figure moving towards them. They said, it was as if it just appeared. Buttplug has always been and always will be the quiet badass type. He’s about as talkative as a mango, and not prone to freaking out. Before either one of them can react to the figure, a few more appear.

As the figures move closer it becomes clear that they are people, dressed in black and wearing hoods to cover their heads. The couple look towards the walkway and see the path is now being occupied by even more emo goths with too much Dungeon & Dragons coursing through their veins. Chastity looks behind her and sees they are completely surrounded by them. In total there were approximately forty.

Not a one made a noise, neither the couple nor the intruders. The mystery people did their best to keep their faces down and covered. From body types and movements, it was thought that the group was of mixed ages varying from 14-50.  Not a single face was seen. My friends have told me that the concept of time was lost. Not in the alien abduction sense but more in the “I’m scared I’m about to get gangbanged by a renegade branch of Slipknot groupies, and everything is in slow mo.” sense.

Since Buttplug is an officer of the law, he did his best to give us time frames. He said after a about 2-3 minutes of being stared at and full silence, two of the freaks began to walk towards them. One sat on his side and one on her side. Again silence. The two people acted as if the couple weren’t even there, staring straight ahead at nothing. After about two minutes the weirdos got up, and all at once the whole lot walked away.

No words, no pictures, no nothing could prepare me for the fear I would have felt if I thought I could die from a flashmob of Wiccans and Juggalos in Mesquite effing Texas. How they were able to communicate and get together before the internet was big is beyond me. This was a time when screwballs and kooks met each other through classifieds and cryptic signs on telephone poles. Their coordination is as much a mystery as their motives. Creepy shit, y’all.

Later, I’ll put another eerie story up that I was more a part of. It involves my cheating whore of an ex-wife and blood. That sounded better in my head.

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Length And Satisfaction

Word count in a blog post of my sort is perplexing. I tend to write to completion, FTW. After spending a good chunk of time (10 minutes) reading others blogs this morning (2pm) I realized what an ass beating it is to keep caring past about 300 words. The author better have some profound doo doo to say to keep my interest. Being the introspective, personalize everything because I’m an only child with a confusing cocktail of low self esteem and self importance, guy that I am, I decided I better be aware of length.

I’m tempted to stop this post right there for emphasis.

Nope.

It comes down to goals for your blog. I’ve already chosen the hardest blog type to pique interest, much less make a dime. According to my research, I’d have a higher shot at success doing a “How To” blog on urinating in Spanx, than doing a humor/personal life blog.

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

My goals are attention and vindication through articulation via the written word . Not unlike the 18 year old who moves to California to achieve her low budget porn dreams, I crave life validation, if you happen to have your pants around your ankles while reading this, all the better. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope this parlays into a regular gig writing for a big time publication such as Field & Stream or Good Housekeeping. I have dreams. I’m also a realist. The odds of anything, beyond my nervous flatulence questions addressed to ‘Dear Abby’, getting published are about the same as Rick from ‘The Walking Dead’ nailing a Southern accent.
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I’m learning on the fly here. Getting to know what people want to read, and how long they’ll hang around without prison shanking their dog, is a recipe I’m yet to master. The other worry is selling out…..I’m over 300 words, nobodies here. One time, I got my junk stuck in a vacuum cleaner. And still, no one knows.

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Coyote’s & Chicken Shit

You know what happens when you live in the boonies without a soul for miles around, besides your gf who is sick and tired of your shit, and you’re chatty? You post irrelevance on the internet.

I’m pretty sure my punctuation is so jacked in the above text, What can you do? Fifth grade was a rough time for me.

A strange occurrence has been going on for the past couple of months. I’m losing weight without trying. I move less while eating just as much. I’ve been mulling over a new diet plan for the masses. I’ll call it “The Biggest Loser”. It requires you to quit your job and to stop seeing your friends. I know I’m stealing a title. Maybe I’ll change it to “The Biggest Looser”. I’ve noticed a common misspelling of the word on the internet so it works. Third grade was a rough time for some. I get it.

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On to the bad news. I think I have arthritis. My left hand is giving me fits. I’m too young for such an ailment. It hit me that I turn 35 in a few months. Halfway to 70. Perhaps that’s why I have half the arthritis. I’m not a fucking doctor.

When I gave my pit bull/American bulldog a bath the other day I did so in the nude. My reasoning is solid and is based on not getting my clothes wet. My reasoning for mentioning it is to let you know how Cris has become immune to my ways. She didn’t even bat an eye as I chased him around naked. It’s nice to have someone get you.

We were offered fresh chicken shit to help our yet to be worked on garden. It was quite the gift. The gentlemen who wanted to give it to us, gave very detailed directions to his mounds of chicken shit. I found the spot but alas no chicken shit was found. He must have moved it. I didn’t know chicken shit was such the commodity that it required strategic hiding spots and black ops type of movements. I haven’t called him to find out its new location because that just seems like an awkward conversation.

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“I sold the shit, Keg. Flu season is over. Walgreens needed a gimmack.”

Have I told you about Cris’s collection of beetles? No? Okay. Cris has managed to acquire two colonies of beetles that are of the eating dead flesh variety. They clean bones. We feed them leftover drumsticks and deli meat. The beetles make homes and breed in styrofoam. We feed beetles leftovers. I’m not sure where my life is headed.

I’m the worst hunter in the region. First off, I’m not a huge fan of killing. I don’t have the heart for it anymore. I do however need to keep the coyote population in check because they don’t share my stance on killing. I think they would if they had their own grocery stores. Secondly, hunting takes dedication, patience and stealth. I’m none of these things. So, what I do is grab my coyote call, set it up at way too close of a distance for any coyote not stricken with schizophrenia to get near, sit in the bed of my truck and play on the internet. I occasionally look up. I’m not distraught about it. I enjoy nature amongst the backdrop of dying jackrabbit sounds in the distance. I’ll play with the call features here and there by simultaneously playing dying bunny with female coyote howl. I feel like a DJ for a redneck rave. I imagine a bunch of camo’d up bearded men having spasms to the sweet melodies of my stellar nature mixes.

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“You have a mighty fine erection, Carl.”

“DJ Buckshot gets me real amped up, Peter.”

I’m done being chatty now. All this socializing is mentally draining.

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Ruined People Go To Wal-Mart

We went to Wal-Mart. I’ve come to realize that that statement is the equivalent of “Nothing good happens after 2am.”. If you fancy the dregs of society showing off the latest in meth fashions, or people begging for a slow death while saving a dollar, than Wal-Mart is your place.

Walking through the parking lot, I saw a perfectly capable woman using one of those scooters meant for people who’s legs don’t effing work. She hit the gas, trying to beat me through the doors. I quickened my pace and cut her off, just to prove what moving your working legs can really do. I’m not saying I’m a hero but I do try to make a difference in the community.

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“We need Gatorade, Debbie. I plan on getting up later.”

The first section we went to was produce. I watched a 19 year old, very tall for his race Asian boy pick his nose and directly proceed to manhandle the tomatoes. It was all one fluid motion. Booger to tomato ninja. I immediately looked at Cris, pointed at Yao Ming and explained to her his sin. After that, I feared every non peeling item. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

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While loitering around the dairy section, pretending to check expiration dates on milk, a family of three strolled by. I noticed the mom first. Probably no more than 22, but she could have passed for 47. Her makeup was smeared in a way that only heroin can provide. She seemed to use eye liner as an homage to Pollack. The pail, clammy skin made me feel more black than listening to Jesse Jackson while watching Tyler Perry in ‘Madea Kills A Honkey’. The girls husband was rather rotund and could have easily played in ‘The Walking Dead’; no direction needed. The sad part was the screaming toddler in the cart. The boys face was completely covered in some sort of mess that could have been chocolate or dirt. I don’t know. Me being the piece of shit that I am, I ran to the cheese, where Cris was actually trying to accomplish something, and told her she needed to go look. These winners were hauling ass however, she never caught up.

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To round out my trip down The Skid Row of Savings, I went to the restroom. As soon as I made the right into the potty, a woman was staring at me. Not an employee mind you. I knew I was in the right place because I saw urinals, and unless the women’s rights movements has gone too far, it was not a ladies room. The woman was covered in bad tattoos and looked like she smelled of spoiled cocoa butter. I give her props though. Her reason for being in there was to help her man adjust his drawers. I honestly have not the foggiest idea what they were doing. He had his pants about halfway down the crack of his ass, as she stood behind him pulling at something. I watched while I relieved myself. They occasionally looked up at me so I figured we were even. I thought that maybe she was helping him with his colostomy bag. My mind was on overdrive as I also thought they may be stuffing balloons filled with angel dust up his anus. I looked him straight in the eye when I walked out to try to get a read on his plight. He just gave me that “What can you do, life sucks?” look.

I hope this brings you some sort of peace about where you are in your life.

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