Does this come in snuggly ?

I WISH this was the reason my marriage failed. It seems so normal.

Your husband farts. He leaves. Awesome.

Instead I got a pathologically cheap musician who was fucking a Jesus loving game show host, and who STILL wouldn't leave !

Wheres the blanket for that , Huh ? HUH ? The Shroud of Turin ? Anthrax flavored Snugly ? Small poxy-o's flavored blanket? Pigs in a blanket? Michael Jackson's Son ?

I'll take losers for 500$, Alex.

I did try to fart my husband into leaving me, but it was so powerful the military was alerted and special op's intervened. This is actually how Better Marriage Blanket(BMB) was invented. He wrapped it around his head and plugged on NEVER taking it off ! He was an oddly determined fellow.

Comrade X is no longer sure what the point of insurance is.

Comrade X recently received this piece of spam from 2insure4less, which uses the usual scare tactics to get you to buy insurance. What they did was list the price of a "typical" funeral:


"Funeral Costs

Cost of regular adult funeral including following basic items. Does not include cemetery, monument/marker costs or miscellaneous cash advance charges such as for flowers or obituaries.

I need burial insurance.

$1,595 Non-declinable basic services fee
$233 Removal/transfer of remains to funeral home
$550 Embalming
$203 Other preparation of the body
$406 Use of facilities/staff for viewing
$463 Use of facilities/staff for funeral ceremony
$251 Use of a hearse
$120 Use of a service car/van
$119 Basic memorial printed package
$3,940 Subtotal without Casket
$2,255 Metal Casket
$6,195 Subtotal with Casket
$1,128 Vault

Total Cost $7,323

I need burial insurance."


Okay, aside from the obvious questions (like, "What the fuck is 'other preparation'?" and "Why would I need the use of staff for a viewing? So they can point out the right body? 'No, kid, your dead mother is that one over there. Yeah, we made her look pretty, not like she was in REAL life!'"), the most GLARING question that still confuses Comrade X is: WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE OFFER BURIAL INSURANCE? Does this sound like a scam, O Dear Reader? Isn't the whole point, nay, the very DEFINITION of insurance, that you pay money to an insurance company IN CASE something happens, and if it does, you're covered (that is, if they decide to pay and not hassle you and refer to some clause in your insurance contract that you never saw or never actually existed when you first signed), and if it doesn't, the company gets to keep your money and stay in business? Why would you pay money against a BURIAL? I mean, last time I heard, death was INEVITABLE. And if you decide to get buried, then doesn't 2insure4less (a sketchy name if I ever heard one) HAVE to pay? Are they banking on you NOT dying? Or on you changing your mind and getting cremated at the last minute? Or your body being lost at sea? Or what?

Comrade X doesn't get it. If any of you can explain, please do. What kind of scam IS this?

How to Submit to The New Yorker.

Comrade X was recently asked by a fellow Comrade to submit one of his posts to the "Shouts and Murmurs" section of the The New Yorker. Not surprisingly, it was rejected, as that bourgey rag doesn't appreciate revolutionary humor IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER. However, they did send me the rules for submission to that section of the magazine:

How to Submit to Shouts and Murmurs

Please submit humorous articles if:

1. You are Steve Martin or a friend of Steve Martin (and have a Certificate of Authenticity to prove so) or know someone who knows Steve Martin or have a letter of introduction from Steve Martin.

2. You are David Sedaris or a friend of David Sedaris or have a letter of introduction from David Sedaris or can write self-indulgent inoffensive slightly humorous putatively autobiographical pabulum about your life of privilege and the things you have done or would like to have done in it.

3. You can reference current affairs that will not offend anyone and are not connected to any controversy of any note among groups of people who do not read our magazine and can put these references in contexts derivative of David Sedaris or Steve Martin.

4. You write things which will slightly amuse but not inflame the deadened passions and affected insouciance of our geographically and socioeconomically targeted readership.

5. You mention rich people no one but us has ever heard of and put them in popular culture contexts. Bonus points for writing yet another article that uses Twitter as a format.

Please DO NOT submit if:

1. You are someone we have never heard of.

2. You are poor.

3. You do not envy us our positions.

4. You are actually funny.

5. You are relevant.

Criteria for accepting submissions:

1. You make us smirk so hard our monocles fall off.

2. You make us feel condescendingly superior to everyone else in the world.

3. You get us laid by the secretaries by providing us with something that makes THEM smirk so hard they fall off their Ferragamos.

4. You include a very substantial check with your submission.

5. You inflate our egos to the bursting point.

Failure to follow these steps will result in a very quickly-submitted and highly condescending email rejection that is designed to make you want to never submit again. Good luck!

f-arget

I went to go get my children clothes at the slave labor shop. 5 dollar.

We asked the guy ," Where are your sweat pants?" and he said, "They are out of season".

And my son said, deadpan,"Gee, I didn't know pants had seasons. What, do they go bad? Do they get rotten ?"

I laughed so hard I fell down and the security guy came .

Okay, okay, I'll write something about Boobquake!

Okay, Comrade X, giving in to pressure, will write this one thing and THIS ONE THING ONLY about the recent here-one-second-gone-the-next phenomenon of Boobquake (for some reason I initially typed "Boobquest," which, in a way, is more accurate, considering its origin), possibly the stupidest thing Comrade X has heard of in quite a while. Apparently some idiot teleported to 2010 straight from the Middle Ages and reported that breasts (or even the hint of breasts or even, it would seem, the thought of breasts) can cause earthquakes (oh, great, I hear the fatwah being issued right now -- this is why Comrade X did not want to get involved). Obviously, this is absurd, as is both the reaction and the amount of media attention being given to it (including this post), but Comrade X is here to explain what lies at the bottom if it: look again at the two pictures above. Why are men obsessed with breasts? Each picture is one reason why: they got 'em as kids or they didn't. Either way, they still want them now, either to get back to that pre-Oedipal moment or because they feel cheated somehow (Nota bene: look at the eyes of the babies pictures above: the one sucking the bottle shows fear and loathing, dashed expectations, impotent rage, while the one sucking the nipple shows a kind of drugged contentment, euphoria, almost comatose as he approaches satiety).

Of course, this does not go for all men (Comrade X himself is not a "breast man," as they say), but it is true that hidden deep in the recesses of the primitive male brain is the connection to the breast, and when they see one, they start to quake psychically, and this, in essence, is the Boobquake phenomenon in its entirety. So yes, it has some underlying merit, but only in a metaphorical sense. And no, it can't cause real earthquakes. Only penises can do that, as everyone knows, which is why you can show tits on tv but not cocks. Duh!

Comrade X presents: Music for Online Daters.

Children are masters of the bleeding obvious (but is it their fault?).

Nicole, age 11, would like you all to know that "Anger is a feeling. Violence is a choice." And she wants you to know this in service of the "Hands and Words Are Not For Hurting" project [See previous post on the ridiculousness of THIS particular entity]. Now don't get me wrong -- Comrade X likes kids. What Comrade X DOESN'T like is that kids are rewarded for putting no effort at all into their work and for a complete lack of critical thinking (it is even doubtful that this is even Nicole's thought, and highly likely that it came from a pre-packaged list of phrases), which, I assume, is a reflection of the complete lack of critical thinking abilities on the parts of teachers and administrators in the public schools here in that part of the Pacific Northwest where the public school systems rank in the bottom five in the nation. Yes, I blame the teachers -- at any point, Mrs. Whatever or Mr. Whatsisface could have said, "Yeah, no shit, Nicole, anger IS a feeling. So is peristalsis. So is sadness. So is despair. So is revolutionary fervor." Duh! And violence is OF COURSE a choice, unless you suffer from some sort of mental disease, which proviso Nicole does not here allow for.

Now, Comrade X is well aware of the idiocy and ill-preparedness of primary (not to say college) teachers in this part of the country as he has seen, first hand, a group of them go through their one-year "teacher training" program (Comrade X was involved with a non-revolutionary at the time, a woman so obsessively narcissistic that she couldn't even SEE classes other than the glittering bourgeois mediocrity she aspired to and wanted to be queen of), and was able to be present at a presentation of "projects" designed by these teachers as lesson plans in their courses. A sampling:

1. One group decided to teach Shakespeare's sonnets. After listening for five minutes, Comrade X felt it incumbent upon himself to point out that a.) they were incorrect about the rhyme scheme of a Shakespearean sonnet; b.) they were incorrect about the metrical scheme of a Shakespearean sonnet; c.) they were incorrect about the content of a Shakespearean sonnet; d.) they were incorrect about the structure of a Shakespearean sonnet; e.) they were incorrect about the creation and publication dates of Shakespeare's sonnets. In addition, Comrade X continued by pointing out that any of the above information could be found in two seconds (or less) by looking it up on Wikipedia, and asked if perhaps they had done so but certain learning disabilities kept them from reading the information accurately. Or perhaps a certain degree of laziness prevented them from looking it up at all. And, Comrade X finally noted, he was surprised that these people were English majors as undergraduates, and lamented the shoddy state of an English department that did NOT make EVERY student take a course on Shakespeare (none of these students had, and were relying on misinformation they hazily remembered from high school -- which misinformation they were cheerfully going to pass on to the next generation of high schoolers). Comrade X then walked away in disgust, leaving the blank stares and gaping mouths of these future teachers behind him, only to walk into this presentation:

2. Yet another group of English majors was presenting a "unit" on Frankenstein. Now, I'm not sure anyone reads Frankenstein in high school, but if they do, they will not glean anything from the guided readings of THESE people. A man and a woman were presenting, and asking questions. The questions seemed irrelevant to the text and missed the main points entirely, so Comrade X asked questions back, which caused the woman to turn away and address other audience members while the male member aggressively and obnoxiously tried to tell Comrade X that his particular reading of the text was wrong and that this proto-teacher's reading was right, intimating that he shouldn't ask questions outside the "teacher's" rather limited (and wrong -- did I mention it was wrong?) interpretation which prompted Comrade X to ask the following: 1.) Is there only one reading of a text?; 2.) If the meaning of the text is so fixed and transparent, why do students need you to point it out to them?; 3.) Is telling a student that they are wrong and that they need to do it the teacher's way the best course for encouraging critical thinking? Comrade X, unwilling to listen to more ignorant belligerence, left that presentation rather unsatisfied and very deeply worried about the state of education in this country.

3. One final example from the many presentations Comrade X saw that day. This one was about Japanese internment camps in World War II. Instead of presenting any factual information and asking hard and important questions about legality and morality, this group chose to read aloud love letters written between two people, one interred in a camp and his wife who was on the way to the camp (or something like that), then led the audience in a calligraphy exercise. This was their contribution to the "addressing diversity" portion of their teacher education. Comrade X of course could not keep his mouth shut: 1.) Why did you focus on bathos instead of pathos?; 2.) What does calligraphy have to do with ethnic diversity, other than pointing out that different cultures write in different ways, which I think every kid who ever read a Japanese comic or saw a movie of ANY sort from ANY culture already knows?; 3.) What did I actually LEARN from this other than that it's hard to paint on rice paper?; 4.) Are you trying to say that even though they were in the camp it wasn't that bad because they were in love? Because that's what it SOUNDS like you're saying.; 5.) How is this history -- you are all going to be history teachers, it says here on the handout -- and what constitutes history? The glossing over of actual factual material and difficult questions of interpretation for a bait-and-switch time-wasting kindergarten-level activity?

Well, Nicole, age 11, I don't blame you for your blatantly obvious statements standing in for acute observations. If your teachers are no smarter than you are, how are you supposed to learn anything?

Teachers of the world, unite! Raise your revolutionary consciousness! The mind is the greatest weapon in the fight against oppression! But you wouldn't know that if you went to school around here ...

Another poor product name choice.

This one is a bit obvious, but Comrade X likes imagining the conversations between the morons like those at 1 Snack Food Lane (that's a real address?!) who get paid ridiculous amounts of money to come up with these things. I'm sure it went something like this:

"So we got Slim Jims to compete against -- how are we gonna do this?"
"Well, they make it sound like a diet product, so how about going in the opposite direction?"
"Well, that could be risky ... "
"No, really, it's the Super Size thing! More is better! How about, 'Giant Meat Chunk'?"
"Nah, sounds like vomit."
"Umm, then, we could ... I don't know ... how about 'Huge Beef Wiener'?"
"No, I don't know ... but I like the Freudian angle. Can we work that up?"
"'Massive Meat Phallic Symbol'?"
"Too obvious."
"'Large Meat Boner'?"
"Umm ... "
"'Meat Boner. Super Size.'"
"Nah, reminds me of that documentary ... "
"'Meat Boner. Fun Size.'"
"Yeah, no."
"Hmm. Oh, I got it! 'Massive Meat Erection'!"
"I think it's the size issue that bothers me. I like what you said about Slim Jims -- let's go with the diet angle. Make it little."
"'Little Meat Erection'?"
"Oh god no! You want to bankrupt us? Consider our audience!"
"What if we make it kind of jokey?"
"Such as?"
"'Little Meat Chubby.'"
"Good, but shorter."
"'Lil' Chub'?"
"THAT'S IT!"

Yeah, brilliant. But then you turn it over and see this:





That's when the "Jack Link's" part of the brand name becomes so ironic. Looks like a shrink-wrapped turd. Disgusting. And yet people still eat them. Go figure.

Hackahwanao-gwa-wa-wa-da-lay

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLStJReze8s

Black mannequin love guy (BMLG for short) and his “wife” were recently spotted in the Goodwill getting dressed for the evening in the house wares and furniture section. Despite BMLG wife's recent loss of her lower extremities, in what could only be called ”a sex accident”, the couple pressed on in their pursuit of “The most insane” award. They won by a landslide.

Bringing his mannequin-wife’s own clothing in a backpack, instead of dressing her in the clothes from the Goodwill was a brilliant stroke of genius. NO ONE expected that! Even a special needs Goodwill attendant was shocked by the bold move and was heard whispering, “Why didn’t he just use the clothes here?"

Judges took notice when BMLG disrobed and then screwed the arms off his wife in order to fit the lacy corset over her head , Instead of just slipping it up her torso (which would have been the easier route considering she has no legs).BMLG also got big points for not panicking when his wife's matted wig fell off revealing unsightly paint chips. Other points were gained for “Best Twin Effect”, “Best ability to scare the shit out of everyone", “Best dark black makeup application” and “Most monochromatic couple ”.

Shout out to the other contestants:

Sideways neck guy, small child reading on the floor in the pants aisle, loudest boom box tester, and hipster who can clock in the most hours at the t-shirt rack.

His cousin Blue bum wept with jealousy when notified by payphone.

Good idea, poor execution.

Comrade X is obviously pro-revolution, but not when it comes to THE WORST PRESIDENT OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY! Don't appropriate our Revolution, Bourgeois Scumbags! This t-shirt gives Revolution a bad name! Comrade Y pointed out the absurdity of our propensity to cover ourselves with logos and have them scream at each other through our t-shirts so that our bodies themselves become the site on which capitalist competition plays out, but this -- this is RIDICULOUS! REAGAN on a t-shirt? In association with the thing he was so adamantly opposed to that he started secret CIA-run wars in almost every third-world country on earth in order to keep this very thing from happening? Huh? Comrade X is confused by this and doesn't quite know what to do about it other than -- DESTROY THESE SHIRTS WHENEVER YOU SEE THEM! Viva La IBS Revolution!

The results are beginning to come in.

After a fiercely-waged battle in the Most Outlandish Personal Appearance event in the Bum Olympics, local favorite Bluebum took the Golden Shopping Cart. Shopping Bag Pants Guy came in a close second, but when it came right down to it, Bluebum just wanted it more. He was better prepared, more color-coordinated, trained harder, and, well, covered in blue paint. Early in the event, Shopping Bag Pants Guy seemed to pull ahead as the judges were clearly impressed by the variety of shopping bags wrapped around his lower half, but as some started to fall off due to the weakness of the material and lack of adequate attachment, Bluebum began to appear the favorite, as he was less aggressive towards the judges, used no profanity, and did not defecate in his pants (which were not clear plastic -- Shopping Bag Pants Guy seems to have really erred with that move, which cost him quite a few points, especially with the Romanian judge, though the German judge actually raised his score after that occurrence). Coming in a distant third was Purple Muu-Muu Guy who wandered into the stands asking for change close to the beginning of the event.

Asked what his thoughts were upon winning, Bluebum remarked, "I won what now?" Modesty in a champion. Truly admirable.

Well, then, what ARE hands and words for, exactly?

Comrade X was shocked -- SHOCKED, I tell you! -- to come across this most distressing slogan at a local middle school. Where did this propaganda come from? Which bourgeois corporate interest is THIS serving? ALL of them, perhaps? The message, loosely translated, really says: "Don't rise up against your oppressors and definitely don't say bad things about them." In other words, LOVE CAPITALISM AND NEVER, EVER TRY TO DESTROY IT, KID! What the fuck is the "Hands And Words Are Not For Hurting Project"? (Not for hurting? Of course they are! How else will we win the Revolution? By stuffing flowers into rifle barrels? Yeah, that worked out well for the hippies in the 60's, didn't it?) Syntactic ambiguity aside, Comrade X could hardly believe his eyes. Through diligent and painstaking research (conducted via Google, the capitalist's wet dream [more on this in a later post]), Comrade X found the mission statement of this putative non-profit agency:

"End Abuse and Violence in our homes, schools, and communities around the world. Mission Statement: To educate each person in every community about their moral and legal right to live free of abuse and violence. The Hands & Words Are Not For Hurting Project is an effective tool and a key piece in the puzzle of abuse and violence prevention education."

Okay, now Comrade X is certainly against violence against the innocent, but is that what this "agency" REALLY promises to deliver?

1. Capitalizing "Violence" and "Abuse" reifies those concepts and turns them into living things, things which become the actual oppressive tools of the bourgeois oppressor, THUS effectively negating the message and making the cowed recipient of said message realize that there are indeed stormtrooping truncheon-wielding cronies of the Oppressive Bourgeois World Order waiting, just waiting for their chance to stomp you into dust.

2. You do have a moral and legal (which amounts to the same thing) right to live without violence, unless: a.) you perpetrate violence yourself, and are caught doing it (or at least are accused of doing it); b.) you are a race other than white; c.) you are a socioeconomic status other than rich; d.) you are in jail; e.) you are in middle school; f.) you are under 18 and living with your parents; g.) you are a Revolutionary; h.) you commit treason; i.) you offend someone of a higher socioeconomic status; j.) you are a member of an organized crime syndicate; k.) you work at a minimum wage job; l.) the police mistake you for any of the above; m.) you are retarded; n.) you live in a nursing home; o.) you are homeless; p.) you resist arrest; q.) you are rude to a traffic policeman; r.) you are in the wrong place at the wrong time; s.) you are a prostitute; t.) you are a junkie; u.) you are an animal; v.) you live in a banana republic; w.) you are a political prisoner; x.) you are in Guantanamo Bay or any other Black Site; y.) you are involved in the drug trade; z.) you are human.

3. Why is "abuse and violence prevention education" a puzzle? Is it some kind of game? Oh, and by the way, you can't just SAY something is effective -- you have to SHOW that it's effective. Putting it in italics doesn't prove anything. Plus, that can't be part of your Mission Statement -- it's a Mission Outcome. Dumbasses.

Comrade X apologizes for the non-humorous tone of this post. But he is dedicated to the Revolution, and feels he sometimes needs to prove it.

WHY YOU TALK LOUD AT ME ?

Obnoxious T-shirts have been on the top of my hit list for so long that I forget to even think about it anymore.

I saw this guys T-shirt on the subway today and it all came back to me.

First of all,who decided that shirts have to talk so much. Can't we just wear shirts? Do we all have to shout at each other with our shirts ?

Do we care that you think "Save a tree, wipe your ass with a spotted owl" is funny?
or that you "Hate to love and Love to hate " or that "You were my favorite artist at the Whitney Biennial 2010 "

The general public has been coerced into renting out their chests for unethical sloganisms , dubious advertisements, and cultural ruination for so long that we've forgotten to care anymore. "Here, take my chest for what ever purposes you so desire, oh great and mighty beast.I DOTH NOT NOTICE. "

People ! Let's just be quiet with our shirts .

Shhhhh. SHUSH. shhhhhhhhhhhhh shush ! Why you talk loud at me ?

TODAY Ferdinand Marcos was on the subway and he kindly offered me his seat.

I thought," Well. Ferdinand what are you doing here!?" and I also thought

"Why is this guy such a gentlemen?" and then I thought "Do I look so tired and infirm, that I need to sit down ? "

I quietly declined and gave him an ill fated smile. When he got up to get off the train he stood right smack in front of me. Not a gentleman at all ! His shirt ,oh how I wish you were there to see it.

It had these little illustrations of CIGARETTES having sex all over it ! Yup. Cigarettes with little genitalia giving each other hand jobs, blow jobs , 69's , anal , fucking in all different positions, and doing some other things I actually didn't recognize but was afraid to scrutinize any further.

Actual drawings of cigarettes fucking .On a shirt . Many pairs of cigarettes! Like an orgy! What if a child saw that ? They'd never be able to grow up and smoke without having nightmares.

Speaking of which ,it's possible there was some anti-tobacco message at the top of the shirt but I was too mesmerized by the little cigarette-sex for it to register. And the weirdest thing was that I got horny. Not because they were having sex but because they were CIGARETTES having sex ! It was like double porno.

More Product Evisceration

This one should be obvious. Three things:

1. Why in the world would ANYONE naming a product whose only function is to increase obesity and diabetes rates in this country be so stupid (some might say "bold") as to name their product after the very outcome it produces: FAT BOYS. Although, to be fair, they really should have named it "Fat Boys and Girls," or, in the interests of political correctness, "Fat People," or even "People of Fatness," or perhaps "Differently Corpulent." Because believe me, a diet of these fuckers is not going to leave you merely corpulent, but FUCKING GROTESQUELY GUINNESS-BOOK OBESE. You can't have just one! In fact:

2. You can have twelve. I realize that the the "12" got cut off in the picture, but there are TWELVE of these gut bombs in this package, and seriously, for people who buy this kind of thing, how long do you think twelve will really last? They may as well just have combined all twelve into one single serving and called it a Super-Sized Fun-Filled Fat Boy and marketed it to the gastronomically suicidal.

3. And, as the icing on the cake, so to speak, they are the ORIGINAL Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches. You mean there are OTHER Fat Boy ice cream sandwiches that are merely cheap imitations of this disgusting mash of ground-up pieces of other despicable non-food items ("Cookies") inside what might possibly be (but probably isn't) milk ("N' Cream") mixed with sugar (milk itself being essentially all lactose, don't forget)? Good god, fuck the imitations! Get the original!

Now, the only reasons Comrade X can see for this gross violation of usually-obfuscatory and utterly meaningless advertising language are these:

1. The advertising agency is utterly lazy and shiftless and the copywriter working on this campaign was being laid off anyway and so put no effort into it, choosing instead to spend his working hours consuming said Fat Boys, or:

2. It is a take-off on the short-lived generic food craze of 1979-80 (or thereabouts), only in this case instead of labeling the item as what it is without any other distracting advertising language, it labels the CONSUMER after what HE (or she) is, without any other distracting advertising language, or:

3. The copywriter in question is actually a subversive Revolutionary whose tactic is to shock into wakefulness the capitalism-duller consumer so that they are suddenly shocked by a vision of what this product will do to them, thus subverting the company's attempts to sell said product.

Comrade X prefers explanation #3 (but knows that it's actually explanation #1).

It's called Nicorette

Hey Europe, we know it's sexy and all, but stop smoking so much! Jesus !

It's getting a little out of hand, don't you think ?

The Bum Olympics

Now, do not let it be said that Comrade X is pitiless when it comes to the plight of the homeless. He realizes that something -- and something drastic --must be done to alleviate this problem, as it grows worse by the minute. The bums are NOT getting any nicer, and their ranks grow daily, almost to the point where they threaten the Revolution! Bums are not joiners, and are not politically or ideologically committed, and are most certainly not proletarian. So, with this in mind, Comrade X (along with the assistance of Comrade A) has come up with a solution that can serve the interests of all: The Bum Olympics.

Now, this event, patterned after the real Olympics, will consist of the following stages:

1. Opening Ceremonies: bums will line up across town (in whichever town decides to hold this annual event) and pass a hand-rolled cigarette one to another until it enters the arena, where the last bum in line will throw it in an oil drum filled with combustible materials, creating the Bum Olympics version of the eternal flame.


2. The Games: bums will compete in the following events. Events will be open to any bum able to stagger into the arena location where the games are being held. They will consist of:

a.) Filthiest Bum: contestants will enter the staging area where a calibrating device will be inserted into the patina of grime covering their bodies, and the body with the thickest build-up of dirt will win. In beta testing, Steamboat Joe was covered in an astonishing 6 inches of soot, dirt, and assorted uncategorizable grime.

b.) The Four-Lane Dash: contestants will run across a four-lane busy thoroughfare to the the McDonald's on the other side, beg for a bag of fries, and upon receiving said bag will dash back across traffic and lie supine on a bus shelter bench. Contestants must be completely passed out on said bench in order for their effort to be counted.

c.) Most Incomprehensible Jibber-Jabber: the contestant able to produce the longest stream of utterly incomprehensible noise will win this event.

d.) Most Consecutive Non-Sequiturs: contestants in this event will be judged based on their ability to utter the longest stream on complete non-sequiturs. Example: "You can't play in the Kool-Aid if you don't know the colors! They're comin', and we ain't got no bananas!" Etc.

e.) Foulest Obscenity: a kind of sprinting version of the more long-distance Most Consecutive Non-Sequiturs. Contests will be judged on the succinctness and offensiveness of their epithets.

f.) Drunkest Bum: contestants will merely enter the staging area to have their blood alcohol levels measured. Each year will bring a new batch of contenders as the previous year's winners are not expected to outlive this particular event. In beta testing, the winner of this event was found to have a blood alcohol level of 12.7, and actually died while blowing into the tube.

g.) Most Offensive Personal Habit: contestants in this event will be judged on the heinousness of the behavior, including its social inappropriateness and physical repulsiveness.

h.) Most Bags Contained in One Bag: contestants will be allowed one standard-sized plastic shopping bag, into which they can stuff as many other plastic shopping bags as possible. The winner will have the most bags, obviously.

i.) Most Time Spent at a Bottle and Can Return: in this event, contestants will be given a shopping cart full of deposit-value bottles and cans, and the object is to spend as long as possible feeding them into the recycling machine and inconveniencing the most amount of people by doing so. In beta testing, Underpass Jim was able to spend an astonishing 17 hours completing this task, taking time to scream at passing cars and nap frequently between cans.

j.) Largest Backpack: This event is something of a triathlon: contestants will be judged not only on the size and weight and volume of their backpacks, but will also be required to run three city blocks with them, take them off, unload them to find an object at the bottom of their packs, reload the packs, and run three blocks back to the starting line. They will then be asked to account for the importance of the found object in their lives, and judged accordingly.

k.) Most Convincing Cardboard Sign: contestants will be judged according to how convincing the excuse for money written on their cardboard signs is. All contestants will receive standard-sized cardboard pieces. Points will be awarded for uniqueness. Creative spelling and grammatical errors will also be taken into account in the scoring.

l.) Most Unique Way to Stop Traffic: this event requires contestants to wander into traffic on a busy street and stop it in any way they deem most effective and creative. The amount of time traffic is stopped will be taken into account, as will the agitation levels of the drivers.

m.) Best Song-and-Dance Routine: contestants will be given a city block on which to perform their particular brand of music. Any object may be used as an instrument. Lyrics need not be comprehensible.

n.) Most Comfortable Nest: contestants are given one hour to set up their sleeping area for the night, and judges will take into account the amount of debris scavenged to create the most comfortable bedding.

o.) Most Aggressive Harassment: contestants are judged on their ability to harass passersby in the most offensive and unusual manner possible without getting arrested. Bonus points are awarded for attracting and harassing police officers (without, of course, getting arrested).

p.) Most Full Pee Jar: contestants will enter the staging area and be placed before a glass mason jar, which they will be given as much time as they need to fill. The contents will be measured and the fullest jar will win.

q.) Largest Oil Drum Fire: in this, the only team event in the Bum Olympics, participants will work in pairs to create the largest (in height) AND longest-burning oil drum fire. Teams will be provided with a large empty oil drum (similar to the one holding the Eternal Flame), and must scrounge their own combustible materials.


3. The Awards: first place in any event: a gold-plated shopping cart; second place: a bagful of McDonald's French Fries (super-sized); third place: a plastic bag full of other plastic bags.


4. Closing Ceremonies: contestants will march once around the staging area and exit out a back door into an alley, where they can begin training for next year's Bum Olympics.


Comrade X hopes this idea will work to solve the ever-increasing problem of homelessness. Social consciousness will also be raised by permissible gambling on the various events. All proceeds go to the non-profit Begin the Revolution Fund, administered by Comrades X and Y. Applications for judges are now being taken. Please send your qualifications to:

Bum Olympics
123 Skid Row
Crackton, CA 97011

Descriptions of the various contests, for those who miss them, will be forthcoming.

Comrade X's run-in with the Read Hat Ladies, who, by the way, are NOT Revolutionaries, despite the color of their hats

Comrade Y's recent terror while confronting a gang of Red Hat Ladies is well understood by this Revolutionary, as I, too, have had an experience with a similarly thuggish mob of sartorially-challenged individuals. Last summer, while on an excursion to Victoria, Canada, which Comrade X had heard was a hotbed of potential revolutionary activity (these reports proved false, by the way -- there are no more complacent people in the northern hemisphere than Canadians, it turns out [but more on that later]), Comrade X and his not-so-revolutionary parents stopped in a tiny tourist town on whatever back road it is that brings you to the town in which is located the ferry to Victoria. This town, which consisted of maybe twenty buildings -- businesses and "historic" domiciles -- was essentially merely a strip of the back road and a turn-out that contained the "downtown" area. After eating at the local ten-dollar sandwich place (whose standards of sandwich-making ran somewhat short of Subway's), Comrade X was driving back to the thoroughfare when he spotted four fat old crones dressed in shapeless purple gowns and wearing the most hideous red hats he had ever seen seated on the porch of the local tea house (more on tourist traps later, and whether or not they have revolutionary potential or are even MORE bourgeois than the most bourgeois business). Astounded by the sight, Comrade X stopped the car (a full thirty feet away from the crones), said "Oh, I GOTTA get a picture of this!", and leveled his phone at the four women when one of them, noticing this, turned to him and screamed, "Hey! It's ILLEGAL to take my image!" Take my image? Nonplussed not only by the particular language used but by the aggression of these now riled backwoods hags who were beginning to get out of their wicker chairs, Comrade X said, "Oh, shit!", snapped a quick and blurry photo, and began to panic while putting the car in gear. But the crones were more agile than he thought -- they had left their chairs with astonishing speed and were approaching the car, malice shining like the Morningstar in their eyes. "Hey! Hey! Come here! You need my PERMISSION to take that picture!" Meanwhile, his mother said from the back seat, "Oh, I think you've made them mad!" while his tough-as-nails step-father, who had twenty or more years of naval service under his belt, similarly panicked and said, "We'd better get out of here!" when Comrade X finally managed to put the car in gear and step on the gas, spraying dirt and gravel as he screamed down the short dirt road and took a sharp right onto the thoroughfare, the rear end of the car fishtailing with the abuse of physics he was applying to it. He hit 70 in mere moments, and looked back, saying, "Are they following us?" (sure that he had seen something moving in the rear-view mirror, a blur of purple and red looming ever larger despite his increasing speed) and his mother replied "No, but you might want to go faster." "What the hell WAS that?" said Comrade X. Neither parent knew, and only later did we discover that these gorgons were part of what might be considered an international conspiracy: The Red Hat Society. Imagine: an entire organization built upon the foundation of a hat color.

What? Why? And how do we make them go away and stop scaring innocent civilians?

This is so upsetting.

Dear X,

The dentist ripped my molar out today.

Then I headed home high as a kite. On the subway there were a million ladies dressed in ALL purple with gigantic sparkly red hats, all chattering away mercilessly.They were joyous and fat. I thought I was hallucinating. We've all seen and heard about these so called "ladies",but who thought they really existed?

I hate them !

Yes, we know, middle aged women are so isolated and disenfranchised that in a desperate attempt at tribalism they dress up and walk around like transvestites, but do they really have to have to have such bad style?Do they not realize purple and red is the worst color combination ever ?

Are they trying to look like my cheek face-tooth hole ?

Please get a fucking grip, ladies.

http://www.redhatsociety.com/

I really, really wish to be less judgemental . But this might not be the time.

Please make them stop it.

-Y

What seems to be running through the heads of these people Comrade X has recently encountered

Midgets: the Revolution's Secret Weapon!

The Insane, Part 2

Comrade X has had his share of strange encounters in his life, but to tell you all of them would take longer than the time he actually spent living them, so he'll stick with only the most recent. After the Raven episode, Comrade X was at the gym (Comrade X believes in physical fitness -- one must be ready for action when the Revolution begins!-- and in keeping an eye on the Bourgeois Enemy, and what better place to do so than that most obvious of Bourgeois gathering-places, the Palace of Narcissism, the gym?), getting in fighting shape and picking out threats, when he noticed a certain non-bourgeois implant sticking out like a sore ideology: a man, perhaps 40ish, maybe 50, with giant basketball shorts and some kind of heavy metal logo t-shirt, not running, but sort of dancing on a treadmill. He was performing some kind of kick-ball-change and then this weird sideways running that looked like he was attempting some version of The Grapevine, or perhaps a twisted Hurdy-Gurdy, and making bizarre noises that Comrade X can only with much generosity call singing, while pumping his arms straight up into the air in some kind of rock-concert motion, all the while staring at the elevated television set and NOT watching the precariousness of his situation vis-a-vis his feet, which the treadmill threatened to pull out from under him and send him crashing into the heart monitor (which he disdained to use). After gazing open-mouthed for some time at this specimen, Comrade X decided to read a magazine and neglect his watchfulness for fear of not being able to take watching this person without making some inappropriate comment, and, still fresh from the encounter with Raven, wanted no more to do with crazy people.

Well, of course this plan went about as well as any of Comrade X's plans, and the next thing I know I'm in the locker room getting undressed for the shower and I look up and who do I see at the end of the bank of lockers? That's right: crazy dancing fat guy (oh, I forgot to mention that he was fat and his treadmill was set at a speed just under the normal pace for walking, yet he still managed to be sweating profusely). Staring at me. Mouth gaping, eyes unfocused, and so I looked down and kept getting undressed when suddenly I was overwhelmed by the smell of beer (the guy was shitfaced! That explained a lot), and, looking up (and trying not to vomit), I notice he's standing right next to me (with no one else in sight), staring at me and saying, "You know, I try to get a body like that, but I just can't, man, like, I want that physique [he was mumbling but I was sure he said "physique," which surprised me], you know, I want a body like yours, but I just can't, I try and I try and ... "

At this point Comrade X had removed his shorts in an effort to speed his way to the shower when he noticed the drunken googly-eyed greasy-pony-tailed crazy dancing singing arm-pumping fool's gaze drop to Comrade X's penis, whereupon the reeking insane hippie nutcase (and what the hell was this guy doing with a gym membership anyway? He looked one step below homeless) said, "I mean, I'm not a homosexual, you know, but I really want ... " Not caring what he wanted, Comrade X did the only thing he could think to do: he answered him with some sage advice:

"LIFT MORE! LIFT HEAVIER!"

Now, I thought that might be sound weight-lifting advice, and the conversation could end (especially as I practically screamed it in his face), when he returned to his lament. "Aww, I can't get a body like that, I just can't, I ..."

"ALWAYS MORE! ALWAYS HEAVIER!"
"Aww, I don't ... "
"GET A SPOTTER!"
"Yeah, like THAT'S gonna happen ..."
"More more more, always heavier, always more," I said, walking away now, seeing that this was not going to end well.
"Yeah, right, like ... "
And then, as I turned the corner with a final screamed "MORE! HEAVIER!", which caught the attention of the men on the other side of my bank of lockers, I took my shower. Now, as I was in the shower, I realized that his statements were actually ambiguous: did he mean he wanted a body like that himself, or he wanted a guy with a body like that for some devious drunken sexual purpose? Was I just hit on, sort of? Musing about this, I walked back to the lockers, knowing that he'd still be there and trying to figure out a strategy. If I kept yelling "HARDER!" at him it might be counter-productive; if I ignored him it might seem like I'm playing hard to get. What to do? Luckily, there were now other people in the row, so when I went to my locker he was just sitting there, his gut flopping over the tops of his thighs, with not one, but THREE submarine sandwiches wrapped in plastic next to him on the bench! No fucking wonder he can't get a "body like that" -- he comes to the gym drunk, gets on a treadmill going perhaps 3.2 miles per hour for maybe ten minutes, then stumbles into the locker room to eat THREE TIMES the normal food intake of a grown man?

He sat looking despondently into his open locker as I dressed and left.

The fucking revolution better start soon because I can't take much more of this ...

Shout out to my peep in the ocean.

I love you person in the life raft off the coast of Africa who is reading our blog.

I hope you get saved soon.

Love--Y

.

The Insane: Unintelligible, Inescapable, Inevitable

Recently, Comrade X was sitting on the stoop of an apartment building waiting for a fellow revolutionary when he was approached by a rather disreputable-looking individual (Nota bene: this apartment building was in a not-so-desirable section of town adjacent to a desirable section of town, similar to where Comrade X himself lives, his domicile sandwiched in a thin strip of seeming seediness between two of the major bastions of Bourgeois Ostentation in this town), who treated him to the following unprovoked conversation. Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, this bedraggled, unsavory member neither of the Bourgeois Oppressors nor the Proletarian Revolutionaries, but rather one of those who exist on the fringes of the social order and thus are not really part of the coming class war, this thus classless entity sparked the following conversation:

"You look like you could use a beer."
As it was three o'clock in the afternoon, I did not in fact feel that I needed a beer, and, wondering what a person who needed a beer actually looked like, or rather what cues were given off as to the presence of the desire or need for alcohol (of which my interlocutor had recently consumed sufficient amounts to create a three-foot surrounding aura of beer effluvia), I began to ask, "What makes you think I need a beer?" when I was suddenly interrupted by this question:
"Are you a virgin?"
This question, a propos of nothing, startled me, and wondering how he could think that a.) I was in need of alcohol, and b.) I had heretofore never engaged in sexual relations, I was too stunned to come up with any other than a rather less-than-articulate "Wha?", when he preceded to offer his services to correct the assumed problem:
"Cause I could take you to some places, but when we get there, remember: I'm in charge!"
"Okay," I said, realizing too late that in assenting to let him be "in charge" in those places as-yet-unmentioned where he was now honor-bound to take me, I had also assented to the proposition that I was a.) a virgin, and b.) desirous of correcting that condition, and c.) desirous also of his company and aid in doing so. All this began to be a little too much, and so when I began to decline his services, he ended our little tete-a-tete with this startling command:
"Never, ever sell your girlfriend for sex!"
Then, wandering off and shouting back his delayed introduction ("I'm Raven!"), I was left to wonder how and why one would, in fact, sell one's girlfriend for sex, assuming that if one had a girlfriend they would a.) be getting sex, b.) probably not be white slavers, and c.) possibly not be so stupid as to sell the sex they're getting for sex that is only temporary and possibly promissory.

How does one sell one's girlfriend for sex? Raven, please respond -- I am unable to answer this most provocative of paradoxes! But no, I'm sure he's out there, peripatetically wandering like some Greek philosopher of old, offering us only paradox through which we can think our way to reason.

Thank you, Raven, for the Good Works you are doing in our community! Fucking hell.

THE PROVIDERS STOPPED PROVIDING

PROVIDERS.

Those "providers”, they took the plug out of the base of my neck. (or rather AT & T did-- Have you ever spent 5 hours on the line with tech support trying to figure out why your modem/computer/Provider keeps sending you the “Oops there has been an error- you are not connected to the internet” message ?

What am I saying ?--OF COURSE YOU HAVE!

So, yeah, anyway the Internet was gone ,and there I was standing in the middle of my living room not being provided for . I looked around dumfounded. What had just happened to me?

That humm? You know the one of your computer in the background? Well, It was gone and the silence was fucking deafening.Suddenly I was on a warm tropical island of pre-technology. I could think straight.It was the greatest vacation I’ve ever taken.

Or so I thought. Then I looked around.

Wow. The real world ! It’s so shiny , and smelly, and depraved.

Have you ever looked up from your blackberry/iphone before ?

It’s FUCKED UP, let me tell you.

There is a lady in the shape of a turnip living on my street corner and that doesn’t even begin to tell the story… I've been gone so long that I dont have the vocabulary to report back to you what it's like out there in the new/old world.I don't even know what I'm looking at .

P.S.BTW If I don't die from exposure, I will be posting from my laptop in Starbucks. Check for horrible updates.Blog.

Graffiti: Illegible, Incomprehensible, Inevitable

Comrade X is constantly surprised and dismayed by what people choose to write in public forums, or rather, on public spaces (or rather, on private property). If it's something you're putting out there for the world to see, Graffito, why can't it be something the world can enjoy? Or something that will educate, stimulate, perhaps even, oh, I don't know, START THE FUCKING REVOLUTION? Why can't graffiti writers be sloganeers? Oh, no, instead they choose to waste valuable space which could be taken up with ideologically agitating propaganda with things like this:



Now, who the fuck is Will and why are you writing a letter to him on a wall (are you sure he'll see it? He didn't respond), and what do you care how big his room is and WHY CAN'T YOU DRAW? First: maybe you'd be spending more time with friends (if you had any) and less time spray painting retarded-looking images on buildings if you actually asked people things that actually mattered. Or do you have some sort of social phobia or disorder that makes you utterly stupid and embarrassing in public? Do you have Turrets? Or do you REALLY CARE how big his room is? In which case, get a fucking hobby, man.

Or consider this:





R. Crumb? Really? Do you think he will actually see this and somehow be pleased? He HATES people, especially people like YOU! What exactly are you trying to say here? What ABOUT R. Crumb? Are YOU R. Crumb? Do you suffer from schizophrenia? Is this some sort of warning? Is it a coded message about something? WHAT IS IT?

And then of course there is always one misguided hippie who thinks that by scratching something in wet cement on a street no one actually uses (there being nothing but the back end of a parking lot on the other side of this sidewalk -- no foot traffic at all) that he will inevitably spark some kind of reaction and change the world. More likely, he was too much of a pussy to put this message up where SOMEONE MIGHT SEE IT and actually get the message across! We must risk things (like our freedom, like jail time, like OUR LIVES) for the Revolution! Listen, hippie: we don't WANT you in our Revolution, and your attempt to be a part of it here is just PATHETIC:



Good god! THAT'S your attempt? So sad. What would Will think? Or R. Crumb?

Two great tastes that taste great together!

Okay, one of these was found in a grocery store (photo contributed by the ever-loyal Comrade E) and one of these was found abandoned at a bus stop (photo by the ever-curious Comrade X) in a less-than-desirable part of town. Can you guess which is which? Ha! Wrong! the Baconnaise was found in a grocery store. Okay, not to belabor the obvious, but:

1. Why is bacon NOT one of the ingredients? Suspicious!

2. Why is this the ULTIMATE bacon-flavored (and where do they get the flavor from if not bacon? I shudder to think) spread? Like there are COMPETING brands? How many kinds of spreadable meat-n'-lard-flavored-gel do we need?

3. Where exactly do you spread this? On toast? On pork chops? Is it some kind of sexual aid in the South? Or what?

4. I question the veracity of the tag line "Everything should taste like bacon." I mean, what about variety? And shouldn't things taste like they actually taste? If you want the taste of bacon, why not just, oh I don't know, EAT BACON? Why make OTHER things taste like bacon? Call me crazy, but ice cream should not taste like bacon. A tangerine should not taste like bacon. Peanut butter should not taste like bacon. Your underwear should not taste like bacon. Your boyfriend/girlfriend/etc. should not taste like bacon. Bacon should taste like bacon. Which of course begs the question: do you spread this on bacon, too, to make it taste MORE like bacon?

5. It's not mayonnaise, either, so what exactly IS this horrid hybrid?

Now, on to the other picture:

WHO LEAVES A FUCKING FISH IN A PLASTIC BAG AT A BUS STOP!? And would it be okay to eat if I spread Baconnaise on it? It seemed to be half-cooked, too. Where do you get a half-cooked fish with the head and tail intact, but not cooked? So it was half-cooked in that it wasn't fully cooked but also in that only half of it was cooked. Because, amazingly, it didn't smell. Weird!

I don't get this world. AT. ALL. Comrade X is, again, disgusted and confused.

The Online Experience Visualized

If you could make a visual representation of the online dating "seduction," it might look something like this:



No one knows what the hell they're talking about, and every attempt at communication is a miscommunication. Fuck the emails -- just meet and get it over with. Then text your friends on the way home to complain about it.

Comrade X's Taxomony of Women (Continued)

Comrade X has received a few requests to expand his taxonomy to include the kinds of women one can expect to find in the online dating miasma (Nota bene: NONE of these subcategories corresponds IN ANY WAY to anyone Comrade X now knows in his life -- they all come from his own past experience). Well, I have already sketched out the three main character types of female online daters, but I will here provide a few more detailed subcategories:

1. The Iron Maiden

What she says: "I am self-sufficient and happy in my life, my job, and with my friends and family. I am always busy, and rarely have any time to myself! My spare time is spent with various social groups or working (I have a great job that I LOVE!) or volunteering. Still, I wouldn't mind finding that special someone to share the adventure that is my life. I am easy-going but critical, and don't have a problem voicing my opinions (though I am a good listener, too). I'm not afraid of a good debate, but don't like to argue. Life is too short to waste it arguing! Love to cook and spend quality time at home, though I could just as easily be found out dancing, having fun with friends, or eating good food."

What she means: "I never go out and you won't, either, if you're with me. I don't like arguing, i.e., I don't like it when YOU argue with ME, so if you know your proper place, we'll get along fine. I hate my job and my life and you and I don't have any friends so your purpose is to accompany me to social outings that work forces me to go to and act like we're a happy couple. I need to show Shelly and Tammy and Jana in Sales who has the better boyfriend (and that prick Dave upstairs who drives the Beamer and who didn't respond to my advances back in 2004 at the Christmas party! Well, HIS LOSS!), and who has the better relationship -- ME! Those bitches always try to set me up with men, like they pity me, well, FUCK THEM! I want my revenge on the world, and on them, and you are my instrument. I WILL destroy you if you attempt to disagree or to break up with me or to have sex with me. Your job is to take me out to dinner and buy me presents on the appropriate occasions and get my mother off my back by showing her that I've found 'a good man' -- ha! You're a spineless jellyfish, and don't even THINK about growing a pair now, because you're fucked and that's that. Your life is over. Now sit the fuck down on the couch and watch Home Shopping Network with me. Oh, and I HATE the outdoors! And stop spending so much time with your friends. I'm all you should need."

Warning: you will find yourself in a relationship faster than you can say "Dude, where's my dick?" And strong men are not safe, either, as The Iron Maiden is not above the challenge of trying to break one. And there isn't one she hasn't yet broken (except Dave), so watch out. She can be recognized by the waxy appearance of her make-up, like it was put on by Vincent Price, and her French tips and her clothing that seems to exceed her income level.

What she wants: your balls in the garbage disposal. And revenge.


2. The Mother(can't)fucker

What she says: "I am perfectly happy raising my lovely kids (whom I can't live without!) and don't need any drama in my life. I like to go out dancing, or even stay home cuddling on the couch in front of the TV, making dinner or eating out, or even going for a hike or maybe just taking in the latest exhibit at the museum!"

What she means: "I don't know what the fuck I want because my WHOLE LIFE revolves around my snot-nosed brats and their fucking extracurricular activities. What I need is some guy to move in and show my ex that his fucking kids, whom he DOESN'T SUPPORT LIKE HE SHOULD -- he's eight months behind on his child support! -- have a REAL MAN now in their lives, and you'll be there when that fucking bastard shows up to get them on weekends (when he remembers!) and to show him that I've MOVED ON and I COULD CARE LESS about him and his adolescent bullshit like how he sat around all day playing video games and his stupid delusions of grandeur of being some asshole guitar hero and HE CAN'T EVEN PLAY the fucking thing and the only reason I married him in the first place is because he knocked me up and the second one was a mistake too -- in hindsight -- but what the fuck did I know? He played head games with me and totally RUINED MY LIFE and now he needs to pay in every way possible (he made me hate all men for all time, or rather, he reminded me that I ALREADY HATED all men for all time), and YOU will be there to make sure he does! AND I can't even think straight because of all this and I hate men and I hate you and you're not here to be a FATHER to these kids because they don't need a father, they need ME, and you're just here to back me up and watch them when I go out BECAUSE I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM THEIR FUCKING WHINING SOMETIMES and give me some FUCKING SUPPORT and don't try to be a father to them because they already have one and who the fuck are you to think you're ANYTHING to them, huh? HUH?! Well, HUH!!??"

Warning: she's angry. Really, really, angry.

What she wants: nothing from you (especially sex). So don't offer.


3. The Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

What she says: "Looking for a partner in crime to share the wild side of my personality. Must be adventurous, kind, sharing, open, a little wild, a little kinky, crazy, able to turn on a dime. If you think you're ready for me, and can handle me, go on and give me a shout."

What she means: "I don't get out much and I'm hoping that someone will tell me what the hell it is I meant by all that stuff I wrote in my profile (well, I actually took it from another profile), but that's it: just TELL me, don't actually try to DO anything or I'll freak out and tell you I don't like it and cry for, like, twenty minutes and then tell you a really weird and vague story about my daddy. Then I won't stop calling you ever, and you'll be forced to be my boyfriend and protect me from the world or I swear I'll kill myself, I will, I WILL!"

Warning: well, this one's obvious, right?

What she wants: therapy.


Comrade X hopes he was able to partially fulfill the expectations of his loyal readers. But never fear: if you feel you need more information about the online world and its various hazards and pitfalls, there is certainly more to come.

Comrade X expands his taxonomy

Comrade X recently wrote about the vicissitudes of the online dating world, and gave some broad general character types to watch out for. Now, he wants to expand that list to include some very specific types you might encounter in your searches. BEWARE OF THESE PEOPLE! We will start here with some of the more heinous and more common male types one might encounter if one is not careful (Nota bene: maintain vigilance AT ALL TIMES when traversing the mephitic ethersphere of the online dating "experience"!):

The Self-Proclaimed Artist:

What he says: will claim to be working in some sort of artistic field to "further his self-expression" in order to a.) "open himself to the greater possibilities of the universe"; b.) "achieve self-fulfillment"; or c.) "attain a higher awareness of the possibilities of my creative potential."

What he means: this narcissistic talentless loser is trying the old bait-and-switch. He DOES NOT create art, but has a room full of paints, junk, stolen items, notices from collection agencies, pornography, etc., in order to give the appearance that what he does is in fact NOT work as a clerk at the local organic food co-op (which job he was recently laid off from) but makes his money creating art that the art world is either currently too unsophisticated to appreciate or too elitist to accept.

Warning: he is NOT an artist, and will make you look at his "creations" until you tell him something that strokes his badly damaged ego. Much of it will be very phallic in nature to compensate for his lack of talent both on the mattress and on the canvas.

What he wants: money, food, and a place to live. Which he hopes to get from some unsuspecting female. Beware!


The Musician:

What he says: will "casually" mention his "band" within first ten words of his profile. The rest of the profile will be variations on this theme.

What he means: he WANTS to be in a band, but doesn't know how to play an instrument and doesn't have the talent or diligence to play one well even if he knew how. Will tell you that "our band just lost our [fill in musician type], and so we're not practicing right now. We're still looking for another [fill in type]."

Warning: you will be subject to long insufferable monologues about why some obscure band you never heard of from the 80s is the best thing to happen to music, ever.

What he wants: to be a musician, i.e., he's a lazy fuck who wants to get laid a lot.


The Adolescent:

What he says: that his age (or yours) doesn't matter, that he's responsible and committed to his career. Usually 20-something, but not always.

What he means: I want my mommy!

Warning: underdeveloped physically, sexually, emotionally, intellectually, socially, and in any other way I might have forgotten to mention.

What he wants: he doesn't know. But it isn't you, ultimately.


The Mountain Man:

What he says: "Love everything having to do with the outdoors, camping, hiking, fishing, snow shoeing, you name it, and am looking for that special person to share it with."

What he means: I'm an ungroomed sociopathic separatist and want to take you to my cabin to force you to produce children whom I can raise (well, whom YOU can raise, and I will indoctrinate) with a hatred for the American government (whom we do not recognize as having any authority over us) and a desire to kill anyone who comes onto our property, which we do not recognize as American soil but as OUR land. Must be able to farm own crops, make own clothes, strip, clean, reassemble, and load an AK-47 in under 10 seconds. Looks not important, but a susceptibility to believing insane conspiracy theories and a willingness to die for them a must.

Warning: date survival rates with this type are alarmingly low.

What he wants: nothing he can articulate coherently.


These are merely four types who commonly lurk on the various online sites. Learn to recognize them -- it might save your life. It will certainly save you some aggravation.

This has been yet another public service announcement from Comrade X.

Just one more thing about Christian Scientists ...

Comrade X forgot to give them this message:

And now a message from Hermann Goering ... What?

Does it scare you that Hermann Goering knew exactly how to cow a population, and that what he knew is also not only known by our own "leaders," but actually PRACTICED by them as well? Consider the last "administration"!



And you wonder why this country is in the state it's in ...

Happy-Something is wrong in the animal Kingdom-Easter

I am on Vacation and I saw this in real life , right in the middle of nothing , and I became frightened.

As I stood dumbfounded , a hoard of teenagers passed by .

Boy Teen:"But it's holding a duck."

Girl Teen # 2 "It's a terrorist"

Y: "It's really weird"

Unrelated Teen passerby:"They are trying to show that gorillas are the mothers of mankind"

Small Child "Jesus was a gorilla?"

Girl Teen #2 "They are trying to stop evolution by telling mother goose she is a primate"

Boy Teen : "One word-PETA"

Small Child "It's wearing a shirt,but..."(confused)

All I wanted to say is, "Why is every single holiday about buying CANDY?"

But, I think I might need to rethink.