You're weird

Has anyone ever said this to you? For some reason, this assertion typically carries negative connotations. But why? Why is the knee-jerk reaction to being called 'weird' negative? Let's explore this in greater depth. My last two ex-girlfriends saw a friendship blossom out of the severe emotional trauma I inevitably inflict upon all women who try to get close to me. They are now BFF's. Since a few years have passed and the wounds have healed, I enjoy spending the occasional evening at their domicile, smoking marijuana. I find it profoundly ironic that I am in a room with two women who have both spent years of their life being my girlfriend. Of course, having been intimate with both of them, in the back of my mind, I'm hoping that one thing will lead to another and we can all truly enjoy each other in all our carnal glory. But that would just be icing on the cake; it's almost as fun sitting with them and hearing all about the unnecessary drama they create in their lives. Both women, over time, have changed. Enthralled with pop culture, they lack patience and wisdom, which is typical amongst my generation, but perhaps it is unfair to say they lack wisdom, for they are only in their mid to late twenties. Then again, after a quarter century on this Earth, you better have a little fucking perspective. But alas, they do not. They think they know it all. They react in the moment, with emotion and without thought. They succumb to all the current trends and move in circles with like-minded individuals. Let me hit you with a term: "Reactionary Existence". I just made that shit up, just now. What does it mean? It means I'm awesome. No. It means not thinking for yourself. Actions are a response to what others have already done. If you listen to the radio, you are hearing what others' want you to hear. By working a 9-5, you are playing it safe. No child wishes to be a menial worker for an accounting firm when they grow up. Statements such as, "I will never work for anyone again," "I want to live in another country," or "I would rather be dead than work 9-5 for thirty years," are bold. You don't hear stuff like too often. Statements like that reside outside of the status quo. I can't tell you how many times I've been in a public place and a girl has told me I'm weird after 10 minutes of conversation. I'm weird means I'm different, which means I'm unique. Blending into the masses is something I have no desire for. I don't want to be famous, I don't care if I'm rich. I care about being happy. That's it. I just want to have a good time and take life as it comes. I don't wan't to be rigid rock, standing still in a stream as the water flows past and away from me. I'd rather float in the water and see where the stream goes.

Baster Mater

Why can't I masturbate at work? Surely such an activity should be saved for the privacy of one's own bedroom. But I assert that sometimes, there are extraordinary circumstances. I try to drop loads AT LEAST once a day, but shit happens. Maybe I've been busy and I can't get that apple bottom out of my mind. What if my ability to perform my tasks in a productive manner is hindered by these urges? I think it should be permissible for me to relieve myself of this tension in a discreet fashion somewhere in the workplace. I often frequent a bathroom in an area of my building that's rarely occupied. I attain complete solace in this place. What if I've had a few busy days, see the marketing coordinator who happens to have a shelf for an ass, and I haven't had the time to drop a load? I should be allowed to relieve myself. Men are visual creatures. It's simple biology; we become aroused through visual imagery. The onus is on the company when they employ women who wear figure fitting clothing so it's not my fault I have a tent pole in my pants because I saw my colleague's thong when she was bending over to replenish the copier with paper. That's bullshit. Bill Clinton know what I'm saying. And at the end of the day, it really is for the company's benefit: I go back to work, rosy-cheeked, focused, productive, and no one has to know. Instead, I feel shame. Imagine that? Shame when I masturbate in the cold, dark bathroom. Where have we come to as a society when it is considered a shameful act to furiously masturbate (privately) in the workplace? I'm not making unsolicited advances or harassing female employees. I make sure I clean up real good. What's the problem? Why is this frowned upon? If someone came in, I would stop. Or at least keep my groans to a minimum. I always wash my hands. I go dry, so I'm not wasting soap. I'm in the stall. . . I'm really having trouble understanding why this is an issue. I work from my mind so there's no possibility of errant pornography offending other visitors. I challenge anyone to convince me that loving myself in private, at work, is salacious behavior. Anyone who would is obviously sexually repressed. In order to maintain positive sexual mental health, all of this must be brought to the forefront. These desires cannot be contained. It's natural and beautiful. I'm not going to think of my dog getting run over the next time I pop wood at work any longer. THAT's offensive. And I won't seduce a coworker to satisfy my lust when I feel overwhelmingly amorous. Workplace pumping sounds great in theory, but in practice, a terrible idea. It would be awesome for like two days, and then it would be awkward (For her, obviously, I don't care about her feelings). I would have to tell her:

"Look, we only had sex because I felt a severe compulsion to masturbate in the middle of the day. But I realized it's more socially acceptable to defile another human being instead of myself because of my anti-workplace-masturbation acculturation, so it was just some immediate physical gratification. You were really just a substitute for my hand and I probably won't want to do this again for at least 5 months. I hope you don't get too emotional because it wasn't personal. Don't tell anyone because I don't want people in the office thinking you're a slut. It would also make things easier if you could avoid making eye contact with me when we pass in the hall. . . Oh! And if could you remember to turn in those invoices from last month, that would be terrific. Thanks!"

Boomerang Bang

In five years, I'm going to fuck your wife.

My apologies if that statement offends, but I feel an obligation to brace you for reality. You really shouldn't be upset over it because the overwhelming odds are by then, you'll be divorced and have another woman. See, my generation has grown up in an age of unprecedented technology, communication, and media. Everything is reported in real time. Whatever we could possibly want to know is one search engine away. We use credit cards to spend money we don't have. TV show plot lines have been reduced to 3 second soundbites because our attention spans are shorter than a mouse's dick. With the meteoric rise of reality television, it's ridiculous to believe my generation can sustain a marriage past five years (and I'm probably being generous with my estimation). There's a reason we don't produce students who can't compete with the rest of the world; they're too busy being enthralled by the "Jersey Shore". I would bet a million dollars no one on that show has ever read a book. No one reads books anymore. College students these days can't even be bothered to study. If they can find out who invented carpet in less than sixty seconds, why would anyone bother putting time into a marriage? Because you think you love each other? Just because you lived with each other for two years doesn't mean you're in love. In your case, it was more convenient and cheaper if you shared a domicile, cause one of you was always at the others' house. My generation doesn't know what love is. Love is the shit that makes you want to poison someone. Romeo and Juliet, that was fucking love, and it wasn't even real. But no one would know unless they hadn't made a movie about it. If I had a dollar for every person who hasn't read Shakespeare, I'd wipe my ass with Bill Gates. That's why in five years, you will divorce your wife. Neither of you will have the patience or fortitude to put in the work a quality marriage requires. You're soft. You're used to the easy way, and the easy way is walking away. That's when your ex-wife is gonna start whoring it up, with me. After a few years of marriage go by, the passion goes away. The routine sets in, the excitement vanishes. It's clinically proven that a man's testosterone wanes in a long term, monogamous relationship. When sex is available 24/7 , you will begin to take it for granted. There are no more surprises in bed, you've done everything there is to do. You will worry more about your fantasy sports league or whatever non-creative interests you have. By the time you guys finally split up she will have felt neglected by you, and now craves the attention of other men. A LOT of of other men. She will long to be desired. Inside every woman is a freak, desperate to get out. So in five years, she will get what I call, "The Boomerang Bang." Women will hit their mid to late twenties, feel the biological clock speed up, and pressure their current boyfriends into marriage. Then she'll depart upon a journey of wedded bliss. In her head, because she doesn't realize, as you do, that we are in a new age. "Till Death Do Us Part" is obsolete. This is a message of hope to men who believe their chances to land a marlin have come and gone because of a silly little band on her finger. Patience is a virtue, my friends. We'll catch them on the flip side.

Alpha Male

Basically, I'm superior in every quantifiable measure of what makes a man, a "man." My dick is 17 inches long. I can suck that shit. And it's not gay because that would make jerking off gay, and jerking off is awesome. I fuck a different bitch everyday, ever since I was six years old, which was when I lost my virginity. You want to fight? HA HA! Bad idea, buddy. I have quintuple black belt in Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, which is the best way to fight in the world. I was at a bar one time and this dude looked at me. I told him, "Hey! Don't fucking look at me!" even though I knew he couldn't help it because I was so much better than looking than him. I used to model. Then I punched him the face and knocked him out, because I know exactly where in your face to punch so you immediately lose consciousness. He had, like, 15 of his boys with him, but I used my Jiu-Jitsu skills and fucked them up, one at a time. They ended up apologizing for not recognizing my awesomeness and bought me drinks. Let's see how many push ups you can do. 1, 2, 3, 4 . . . 73? Wow, that's not bad. I actually have the world record for most push ups in row, which is 1,023 so you wouldn't want to have a push up contest with me. Want to arm wrestle? Big mistake. Look at these forearms. They're bigger than Mark McGwire's forearms. They wanted to use me in that arm wrestling movie but Stallone did it instead because he was willing to lose. I never lose. Not even if it's pretend. I'm so fucking manly that if I were chick, I'd use strap-on's to fuck other bitches. I'm also a fucking genius. My IQ is 162. When I was twelve, I had the vocabulary of a thirty seven year-old. You know I'm smart because I make more money than you; I make a shit load of money. Last fall, I outbid Bill Gates on a Basquiat painting at a Sotheby's auction. You're going to Europe this summer? That's pretty sweet. Weather permitting, I'll be summiting Everest at the end of August. I saved the biggest for last. I did K2 last year; while technically more difficult, it lacked the accomplishment one experiences from conquering the tallest mountain in the world. I had to step it up after Kilimanjaro. I barely broke a sweat, in Africa no less, ahuhuhuh!

Summary:

I make more money than you, I'm smarter, I'm stronger, I can beat you up, I fuck more girls than you, and my dick is bigger. You should probably just kill yourself now because happiness is obviously completely out of the question.

Boston Market

I'm on my way home after completing my Black Politics in Conservative America midterm faster than anticipated. Too fast. Last fall, I took Dr. ____ 's Black Experience class and, for personal reasons, had to reschedule my final, so I was already on his radar. I was, "one of those."

You know, one of those students the professor is always talking to because they believe (in my case erroneously) in their potential. I arrived at 6:15 Post Meridian, five minutes prior to the start time of class. Dr. ____ exclaimed at my presence,"Welcome, Timmy! You're late, I thought scholars arrived to class early!" My head, swimming with thoughts of Black Power and why coalition building is an ineffective means of affecting change, was unable to form a witty, let alone coherent response. My brain, soaked with marijuana, can only retort, "I. .am. . .early."

Brilliant.

I turned my exam in early, too. I was the first to finish. Took sixty five minutes to answer 7 essay questions. I filled every page and even wrote on the back of a couple.

"If you managed to complete my exam so expeditiously it must not have been too difficult was it, Timmy?"

I detected a tad of patronization in his voice, so with my instinctual arrogance, I replied, "Maybe I have a superior grasp of the material."

He glances over my essays and after a few seconds, raises an eyebrow, looks up and winks, and says he'll see me next week.

I banked my Minute Maid apple juice bottle off the wall into the trash as I walked out, and murmured to myself, "I can't wait."

I plopped down in my car and packed up a bowl of some Cali Orange Kush, which had been curing for three months. I inhaled quickly, feeling the sharp bite of smoke flowing into my lungs, eager to feel the herb's soothing effects. I held my breath for a few seconds and exhale, the relief washing over me in an awesome wave. The stone consumes me and I put on some Metallica, James Hetfield's growling vocals alleviated the leftover anxiety I felt before taking the exam.

Cause we hunt you down without mercy!

Hunt you down all nightmare long!

Yeah!

Knowing a week of scholastic brutality was behind me, my body allowed the pangs of hunger to hit with a vengeance. But tonite, I just wasn't emotionally capable of creating a dish from scratch. I felt the onset of panic, and then I saw it.

Boston Market.

Yes. This will be the shit. I calm myself, and pull in, immediately noticing a long line in the drive-thru. That was out. I never wait in lines; it is for lesser evolved beings who aren't capable of coming up with a more sufficient alternative than waiting their turn. I park, and almost get hit by some dude with a van that's obviously doubling as his home. It had curtains and a Lazy Boy. I walk into the establishment and am immediately, but pleasantly, overwhelmed with all the delicious possibility that is Boston Market. Four cars in the drive-thru and one fat, redneck between me and marshmallow- topped sweet-potato.

Yeah, I made the right decision.

The fat redneck was in the process of ordering. After he finished placing his order, the employee asks him sweetly, "Anything else?" He proceeded to place a whole separate order, except the way he did it sounded like it was on a whim.

Employee: "Your sides?"

Fat Redneck: " Corn! Uhhhh. . . masht pertaters. . . stuffin'."

It appeared as though he were ordering someone else's food, yet randomly selecting all their sides. All the bad sides. None of those things were healthy; everything was a starch, he totally ignored the green stuff.

"Anything else?"

"How much is the Turkey Carver?!?"

"Five dollars."

"Gimme one o' those, too."

As she started making his Carver, I turn him and say, "None of those things are healthy."

"Huh?" He whirls around.

"I said, 'None of those things are healthy'. You didn't order one healthy thing; everything you got is garbage." I see creases in the fat redneck's brow as he processes my observation.

"Excuse me? I can order whatever I want!"

"Of course you can, but you're fat as fuck and you're just eating more shit. Your small intestine must hate you."

Now his face starts turning red, but before the hamster running the wheel inside his head can produce his primal response, I interrupt him:

"Did you vote for John McCain?"

"Huh? What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"I asked if you voted for John McCain."

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did, so fucking what?"

"Well, you're obviously intelligent enough to barely have survived as long as you have, and you're ordering the least nutritious items possible on the menu because you have no regard for your long-term health, which means you only care about your immediate gratification, and being this fat at your age, five years from now you will be one of the people benefitting from an overhaul of the healthcare system because you will want someone other than yourself to pay for your gluttonous lifestyle." I have no doubt if he possessed a firearm, now is the time he would use it. I started to feel sorry for him, but I'm not sure why. My ability to empathize is constantly under attack by the Machiavelli in me. Sometimes, it's easier just to mind my own business. I turned back to the counter and asked the employee,

"Can I have a cookie?"