While working out ideas for the "Waxy Nostalgia" post the other day, I recalled a number of incidents over the years where I encountered other guys engaging in what I can only describe as "just doing it wrong" in public bathrooms. I'm not talking about glory holes or "Frisco circles" or any other homoerotic activity that may go on. I honestly don't care about that stuff. What I am referring to are cases where men are showing a basic ignorance of how to properly behave in in a public restroom in the presence of others. For example, I've been in airports a couple of times, walked into the restroom and found business men standing at urinals with their pants completely removed. For reasons I cannot fully comprehend, I found these encounters baffling and terrifying. Did they not understand the unspoken laws of the public restroom? There are certain behaviors that men should be taught from the moment they master the art of toiletry. Here I attempted to jot down the important ones in a relatively mature, yet hateful manner so that today's young, hateful man does not end up tomorrows "that guy".
Ah, the public restroom! As much as you may try avoiding it, at some point in your life, you will have to use a public restroom. Before setting foot in a public restroom, you should probably know the Unspoken Man Laws of the Restroom. Yes, Virginia, there are unspoken rules about public restrooms. Not following these rules can reduce your social standing to zero, ruin your chances of getting a loan and stigmatize your offspring.
Because we live in a gentle age of standardized testing, lowered social expectations and greater acceptance of dudes walking around, touching their balls, these critical rules may not have been passed on to you. As such, I am presenting them here as a service to you, my dear readers.
I. ACCEPTABLE ATTIRE
Regardless of whether you are a wearing your finest Calvin peeing on the No Fear logo shirt or an Armani suit, the public restroom is an unnatural environment for your clothing. Doubtless, every inch of every surface is slick with a mix of urine, feces, semen, Axe body spray, semen, snot, semen, blood, used shaving cream and semen. You do not want to get any of that shit on the over-sized, wrap-around eagle print t-shirt you got from the discount bin at Kohls last week. Your natural reaction may be to be to remove all of your clothing.
DO REMOVE YOUR CLOTHING. Remember, your clothes are there primarily to protect your flesh from the elements - especially the filthy ones. Nobody wants to walk into a bathroom and find a fully disrobed man standing at a urinal. It's terrifying. It forces other people to ask questions that they don't want to be asking when they are attempting to defecate in a public restroom. Defecating in a public restroom is already difficult. Even if the naked man is wearing shoes, that man was at least briefly barefoot in a public restroom while removing their pants, and that thought pattern is not conducive to defecation.
Instead of removing your clothing, take a look down the crotch of your pants, fella.
Notice that you have several apparatuses down there. You may have a belt. Even if you don't have a belt, you should have a button and a fly. These items allow you to pull your pants down without removing them completely, thus preserving the dignity of the restroom, as well as your own.
(On a side note, if you see an elastic band, determine if you are wearing sweat pants or pajamas. If you are wearing either of these items, please exit the restroom and do your business in the gutter, because this is a Mensroom, not a Man-Child's Room)
Do not pull your pants down until you are within striking range of the urinal or before you actually have entered the stall and shut the door. Pull your pants back up before stepping away from the urinal or exiting the stall.
Once you have lowered your pants to ankle length while preparing to urinate, you will need to free your genitals from from the confines of your underwear. In this case, you have two options - you can either pull your penis through the fly of your underpants or lower the waistband until your genitals are accessible. If you choose the first option of pulling your penis through the fly of your underwear, do not pull your testicles through the opening. Pulling your testicles through your fly is weird and creepy and discourages others from wanting to be your special bathroom times friend.
Your undershirt MUST remain on at all times. If you are wondering why your shirt must remain on at all times in the public restroom, consider the following: WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF IN A PUBLIC RESTROOM. Do you pee through your nipples? If you do, you may want to consult your podiatrist. If you are wondering why you should consult a foot doctor about peeing from your nipples, bare in mind that you already remove your shirt in public restrooms which DOESN'T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE TO BEGIN WITH!
II. ACCEPTABLE COMMUNICATION
Communication, with the exception of a satisfied groan or frustrated grunt, is absolutely forbidden within five feet of the urinal or within the confines of the stall. Any and all who violate the sacred vow of silence are to no longer be considered men, and will be from now on considered Un-Men.
The sole exception to this rule is in the case of assassination attempts in which the assailant yells "Wah" or some variation on "Wah", or makes a terrible pun regarding the manner in which they dispatched their target, a "knife to meet you" or "that's all she garrote", for example. Chances are, however, that you are not an assassin, so keep your mouth shut.
If your cellphone rings while you are engaged at the urinal or on the commode, do not answer it. The person on the other end does not want to know that they are intruding upon your defecation or urination. They probably don't even consider you a human being, and therefore don't want to know that you have biological functions.
If an Un-Man attempts initiate conversation with you while you are in the confines of the stall, do not respond. If the Un-Man persists, you may clear your throat. If the Un-Man still does not grasp the situation, you are allowed to do one of the following:
a. Continue coughing, but subtly sneak in a few insults.
b. Kick in the stall door, point at them, bug out your eyes, pull down your pants and evacuate your bowels. Once your bowels have been evacuated, continue to stand in your filth, go cock-eyed and release a pleasurable moan followed by a prolonged fart. Without attempting to clean yourself up or pulling your pants, extend your arms and move in for a hug.
c. Pull your legs up so that they can no longer be seen.
I recommend option a.
If an Un-Man attempts to initiate conversation with you at the urinal, you are within your rights to turn your entire body to the side and continue urinating, regardless of whether you are hitting a partition or the Un-Man's leg. This is the only acceptable thing you can do. Upon completion of your urination, you may attempt to get a high-five.
Once you have finished your sissies and boom-booms (those are scientific etiquette terms, not my own), resist any urges you may have to speak until you have taken six full strides away from the stall or urinal.
You may converse at the sink while washing your hands, however, you should keep the subject matter of your conversations impersonal and brief. A simple, old fashioned "How's your father" or "Your stubble looks scratchy, Gene" will suffice.
Any conversations that you may have been having prior to entering the restroom absolutely must resume at an awkward clip immediately upon stepping out through the threshold of the doorway into the hallway.
III. DON'T BE A URINATION ABOMINATION
There are multiple ways to go about relieving your bladder: the right way, the wrong way and the all kinds of wrong way.
Once you have lowered your pants and exposed your genitals, you are presented with the age old question of whether to aim or not. The correct answer, of course, is yes, you absolutely must hold your penis and aim the stream of urine. Even if you posses the freakish ability to aim your urine stream solely with the muscles in your penis, you are doing your fellow bathroom patrons a courtesy by holding your penis, as it reassures them that you are not going to urinate on them. Choosing the wrong answer of not aiming at all will effectively castrate you, should word of your carelessness get out. Women hate men who pee all willy-nilly all over toilets.
Aim the stream of urine at the center of the urinal's basin. The proprietor of the restroom may have provided you with a urinal cake, which, as you probably long surmised, exists for the sole purpose of providing urinal neophytes with a convenient target.
While standing at the urinal and urinating, resist the urge to look around. Always try to look straight ahead or lean your head back. Even if you suspect that someone is about to ambush you, do not look around. It is better to suffer a physical assault or the loss of your wallet, watch, wedding ring, grill, cell phone, roller blades, and wristbands than to lose face in front of your special bathroom time friends.
IV. THE SUPER GROWN UP PORTION IN WHICH WE DISCUSS DEFECATION
Its an absolutely untrue fact that in January, 1975, Marlo Thomas attempted to follow up her popular "Free to Be You and Me" material with the instructional "Free to Feces You and Meesies", in which she and an extremely intoxicated Ertha Kitt encouraged children to be themselves and defecate however they wanted. While the album directly led to the Khmer Rouge surrendering, and thus ended the Cambodian Civil War, it also became a rallying call for The Standers Movement - a group of home school parents who encouraged their children to stand while relieving their bowels because they felt that sitting on the toilet inspired shame.
History, of course, has shown that The Standers Movement were horribly wrong. Even gentle Jimmy Carter singled them out as "reprehensible, bathroom destroying hippie scum" during his 1979 State of the Union Address. "Clearly," he unequivocally opined during that otherwise forgettable speech, "there is only one way to produce a stool, and that is sitting down on a toilet, and anyone who disagrees with me should be forcefully reeducated."
Upon fully stepping into a stall, turn and face the door. Pull your pants and underwear down around your ankles. Sit down on the toilet in such a way that your bottom is over the water. Defecation is not even remotely like sex. This is the only way to do it. There is no defecation equivalent of reverse cowgirl. If there is, I do not want to know about it.
When you step into a bathroom stall, you are effectively stepping onto hallowed ground- a cream, mint or obsidian sanctuary from the interferences of the outside world. Remember to do your part to keep this sanctuary clean. Do not leave wads of toilet paper on the floor.
One should clear their mind of stressful thoughts when sitting on the toilet. Likewise, one should not think directly about the act of defecation while defecating. Instead, one should envision metaphors for the biological process unfolding below their belly button. Picture trains coming out of a long dark tunnel, a B52 dropping bombs over the enemy fleet, or Boris Yeltsin breastfeeding a foot long hot dog. Do not think of sexy women, your sixth grade D.A.R.E. officer or the candiru of the Amazon Basin, as these concepts can leading to clenching.
If, for some reason, you should have reading materials handy, you may, by all means, peruse them.
Do not eat while inside the stall. While the safety you feel
sealed within its confines may give you the notion that this is an
opportune moment for snacking, it most certainly is not. Beyond
sanitary considerations, the rustling of plastic and foil wrappers may
cause others in the bathroom to clench up or completely withdraw their
still-active genitals, creating a mess and upsetting the psychological
balance of the environment.
Flush the toilet when you have finished. If particles remain after
your initial flush (a common occurrence in this age of low pressure
toilets), give the toilet a second, third or even fourth flush to ensure
that the next person to occupy this stall does not have to contemplate
the dark details of your dietary regimen. If your recent efforts have
left the stall haunted by a particularly pungent vapor, consider
lighting a match.
If, by some freak occurrence, you manage to clog the toilet of a public restroom with your feces, you are required to kick open the stall and run away. Your arms should be flailing over your head like Kermit the Frog and you must yell "Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!" until you cross paths with a custodian. This unspoken language of the American Men's Room signals to all other men that the toilet is out of order.
V. THE GRAND FINALE
Upon conclusion of your bowel movement, pull your pants back up and step out of the stall or away from the urinal. Be sure to yell "Hey fellows! I have finished!" and hold up one or two fingers to indicate which bodily function you have just completed in order to give the next man in line an understanding of what to expect once they step up to the plate. Try to give him a sportsmanlike high-five as you pass each other.
Once you have informed your new special bathroom times friends that the stall or urinal is free, make your way to the sink. At this juncture, you may wash your hands with soap and water or pantomime the act, should the fancy strike you. Dry your hands with a paper towel or using an electric hand dryer. If the bathroom is out of paper towels and no hand dryer is available, it is perfectly acceptable to wipe your hands on the back of someone waiting in line.
Make your way out of the bathroom, making sure to tip your hat to your special bathroom times friends and wish them a pleasant experience.
VI. CONCLUSION
Well, there you have it, friends. While I may have left out a few important details (like wiping), most of these concepts are things you should know instinctively. And, if you lack these instincts, you will naturally be removed from the gene pool, so I feel no need to pass them on.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
CHAPTER 189: WAXY NOSTALGIA #1
When I was but a wee, young lad, maybe three or four, innocent and yet to be forged into a cold, hard cudgel of hatefulness, I had a pet battery. I called it 'Gizer, as in Energizer, even though when I envision 'Gizer in my mind, it clearly was a Duracell copper top. I kept 'Gizer in my pocket and would always try to turn things on with it because batteries have THE POWER. Eventually, 'Gizer started to leak and burned me, so my parents took him away. 'Gizer taught me an important life lesson: friends are disposable and will burn you.
....
When I was nine years old, my brother and I attended Camp Ravencliff, a YMCA camp along the Eel River in California. While we were being assigned cabins based on age, I found myself seated next to this kind of husky kid with a bad bowl cut and one of those awful, prepubescent voices that modulates between Bobby Hill, Tiny Tim and Fat Albert who would not shut the fuck up about Michael Jackson, bologna, and Thundercats. When they asked him his age right before me, and I found out that he was also nine, I realized that there was a good chance I would have to spend the entire week listening to his awful voice go on and on about stuff that was even insipid to other nine year olds. So, when they asked me how old I was immediately after him, I lied and said that I was ten.
Now, in hindsight, I realize that this sounds insane, but my lie worked. In this day in age, computerized records and hyper-vigilant parenting would have prevented me from even having the option of bluffing, but in 1987, a boy three weeks from turning ten could lie about his age and wind up getting put in the cabin full for 12 and 13 year old juvenile delinquents.
Wait what? Yeah, there was one complication. The ten year old cabin was already full. And, again, let me acknowledge how insane this seems. Instead of assuming that one of the ten year old was really a lying nine year old who didn't want to bunk in the same room with Fatty McChatsalot, the counselors just decided to put the slightly smaller, less mature kid in the special cabin for criminally inclined tweens. Or maybe, they knew exactly what they were doing.
I learned a lot that week. I was introduced to the terms "boner" and "Skate Betty", to Thrasher, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Pyromania, and learned how and where to throw a punch. I learned how to ignite hairspray and the effect it had on cockroaches first hand, and what happens when you fill a sink with gasoline and light it on fire second hand. I learned a lot about what Juvenile Hall was like. I'm not going to say that it was a healthy experience, but it was probably the best possible coming of age moment that any nine year old liar could ever have.
....
In the Fall of 1988, when I was ten and still living California, my friends Justin, Robbie and I formed a rap group. We called ourselves the DC2s. I'd like to pretend we named ourselves after the planes, but it was actually meaningless other than it sounded vaguely like Run DMC and R2D2 to us. Our sole subject matter, as best as I can recall, was Paco, this fucking loudmouthed asshole in fifth grade who liked to pick on us fourth graders. The only lyrics I remember exactly were "I hate Paco, but I don't care / because he don't wear no underwear." I'm pretty sure we also implied that he made out with his own mother and pooped a lot. We were pretty fucking street for a bunch of kids at a Lutheran grade school.
....
You know what's really kind of awkward? When you hear the kid with Tourette Syndrome who lives up the road yelling at the top of his lungs, and you assume that he's having one of his moments because you're used to him from school, and then he comes running by with his shoes on fire.
Friday, August 9, 2013
CHAPTER 113: THE HATEFUL MAN'S GUIDE TO TELEPHONE PREPAREDNESS
Ah, the telephone! What a marvelous age that we live in when a man
or woman can use a machine to communicate with another man or woman over
long distances! Just imagine - in a hundred years, there will not be a
person alive who can remember a time when the telephone did not exist!
Rhetorical, snarky pause!
But, of course, making a telephone call can be a daunting task. Even with today's speed dials, speaker phones and midi ringtones, the telephone remains an alien, unwelcoming object that lives in your home but doesn't come to your dinner table unless your are a horrible, horrible human being. I spent countless nights in my late teens staring impotently at the telephone, wishing that I knew if I was prepared to make a telephone call, should the need ever arise.
By my mid-twenties, I began to hit my stride with my phonesmanship. I researched the techniques of the great telephone operators of mystical Calcutta and had begun to apply these concepts to the Western mind set and began to do man kegels before I dialed. Soon, I found myself wooing beautiful women by night and conversing with customer service representatives by day. As soon as I had reached this enlightened state, I realized that Crom had put me on this Earth to lead mankind into a Golden Age of telephone use. I just needed to figure out how to instruct the idiotic masses effectively.
When I was a Boy Scout, I was taught an old saying about snakes that goes "Red to yellow, kill a fellow. Red to black, you're friendly jack." (I have a better one. "Don't fucking touch snakes, stupid.") It was one of countless, stupid rhyme schemes they foisted on me to prepare me to survive after the government shits the bed and we all need to start eating snakes or something. The 'Scouts are all about preparation. Their motto, of course, is "Be Prediapered." That's not a typo. Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell, the founder of the Scout Movement, wasn't just a stickler for preparedness and a long name aficionado- he was also incontinent. Riss-Bip, as I call him, also knew that even the dullest, sweatiest, most knuckle dragging, cock eyed webelo can remember a fucking stupid rhyme. Following Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powells example, I created a bunch of useful rhymes like "Speak before you think, they'll think your mother liked to drink" and "stop chewing gum while talking on a communications device, you fucking annoying shit-cow! Jesus Christ!"
Now, you may be thinking This is the '90s, Matt. Rhyming is stupid. You're stupid, Matt. There's no fucking way that you are going to get me to memorize some stupid rhyme about using a fucking phone. I'm just gonna go bareback and make some calls without being prepared just to show you how stupid you really are, Stupid.
Whoa there, Fella! Dial it back a bit before you start to dial the ol' rotary. I wasn't going to teach you a rhyme scheme. I was going to do an informative rap, which is a lot like rhyming, but twice as humiliating to my audience if I am related to them, but then I remembered ANAHEIM.
What is ANAHEIM, you ask? ANAHEIM is a mnemonic I created to make preparing myself to make a phone call even more tedious. The letters of ANAHEIM can be broken down into the following easy to remember questions and statements:
A is for "Am I high?" The answer should be "No", because nobody wants to listen to you when you are high.
N is for "Nobody is already talking to me, right?" Again, the answer should be "No." If someone is already talking to you, finish your conversation before picking up a telephone. There's nothing worse than answering a phone, only to have to listen to the person on the other end of the line talk to someone else for several seconds before they even acknowledge you. You may also miss the part where the person answering the phone identifies himself or herself as someone other than the person you wished to be talking to, and you may proceed to then tell them about your need to purchase an all-natural cure for yeast infections in bulk for two minutes without letting them get a word in edgewise. And that's awful. Seriously.
A is for "Am I actually using a telephone and not, say, a package of birth control pills?" I have made this specific mistake many, many times, as both can fold, and some of each have dials.
H is for "Have I mastered the art of pronouncing consonants?" Consonants are hard, I know, but they are absolutely vital for telephoning. If you remove all the consonants from "Yes, hi, there's been a horrific xylophone accident at the opera house! Send paramedics!" all you have is "Eh, aye, eh eh a oh eh eh aye oh oh a eh eh a aw aw ow! Eh a eh eh eh!". Unless you are a chimp, that doesn't make a bit of sense!
E is for "Each thing that I am about to say has a purpose or point, right?" My friend's uncle crapped his pants while waiting in line at the Panda Express in the Dunston Mall at 6:23 PM last Thursday night and a prostitute once told me not to use the ice machine at a Travel Lodge in Cleveland because she'd seen someone vomit into it. Anyway, what does your father's favorite 1970s porn star like to eat? See? That's really fucking cloying.
I is for "I am not driving a motor vehicle." That's not a question. That's a statement. If you are driving a motor vehicle, please focus on operating your motor vehicle before you kill someone.
M is for "Mnemonics ending in Mnemonic are dumb as fuck because the M is silent, fuck nuts."
I attempted to patent my ANAHEIM system a few years ago, but I got bored. Patenting is boring. Anyway, if you can remember ANAHEIM (seriously, how can anyone forget fabulous Anaheim?), you probably are ready to attempt a telephoning.
But, of course, making a telephone call can be a daunting task. Even with today's speed dials, speaker phones and midi ringtones, the telephone remains an alien, unwelcoming object that lives in your home but doesn't come to your dinner table unless your are a horrible, horrible human being. I spent countless nights in my late teens staring impotently at the telephone, wishing that I knew if I was prepared to make a telephone call, should the need ever arise.
By my mid-twenties, I began to hit my stride with my phonesmanship. I researched the techniques of the great telephone operators of mystical Calcutta and had begun to apply these concepts to the Western mind set and began to do man kegels before I dialed. Soon, I found myself wooing beautiful women by night and conversing with customer service representatives by day. As soon as I had reached this enlightened state, I realized that Crom had put me on this Earth to lead mankind into a Golden Age of telephone use. I just needed to figure out how to instruct the idiotic masses effectively.
When I was a Boy Scout, I was taught an old saying about snakes that goes "Red to yellow, kill a fellow. Red to black, you're friendly jack." (I have a better one. "Don't fucking touch snakes, stupid.") It was one of countless, stupid rhyme schemes they foisted on me to prepare me to survive after the government shits the bed and we all need to start eating snakes or something. The 'Scouts are all about preparation. Their motto, of course, is "Be Prediapered." That's not a typo. Robert Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powell, the founder of the Scout Movement, wasn't just a stickler for preparedness and a long name aficionado- he was also incontinent. Riss-Bip, as I call him, also knew that even the dullest, sweatiest, most knuckle dragging, cock eyed webelo can remember a fucking stupid rhyme. Following Stephenson Smyth Baden-Powells example, I created a bunch of useful rhymes like "Speak before you think, they'll think your mother liked to drink" and "stop chewing gum while talking on a communications device, you fucking annoying shit-cow! Jesus Christ!"
Now, you may be thinking This is the '90s, Matt. Rhyming is stupid. You're stupid, Matt. There's no fucking way that you are going to get me to memorize some stupid rhyme about using a fucking phone. I'm just gonna go bareback and make some calls without being prepared just to show you how stupid you really are, Stupid.
Whoa there, Fella! Dial it back a bit before you start to dial the ol' rotary. I wasn't going to teach you a rhyme scheme. I was going to do an informative rap, which is a lot like rhyming, but twice as humiliating to my audience if I am related to them, but then I remembered ANAHEIM.
What is ANAHEIM, you ask? ANAHEIM is a mnemonic I created to make preparing myself to make a phone call even more tedious. The letters of ANAHEIM can be broken down into the following easy to remember questions and statements:
A is for "Am I high?" The answer should be "No", because nobody wants to listen to you when you are high.
N is for "Nobody is already talking to me, right?" Again, the answer should be "No." If someone is already talking to you, finish your conversation before picking up a telephone. There's nothing worse than answering a phone, only to have to listen to the person on the other end of the line talk to someone else for several seconds before they even acknowledge you. You may also miss the part where the person answering the phone identifies himself or herself as someone other than the person you wished to be talking to, and you may proceed to then tell them about your need to purchase an all-natural cure for yeast infections in bulk for two minutes without letting them get a word in edgewise. And that's awful. Seriously.
A is for "Am I actually using a telephone and not, say, a package of birth control pills?" I have made this specific mistake many, many times, as both can fold, and some of each have dials.
H is for "Have I mastered the art of pronouncing consonants?" Consonants are hard, I know, but they are absolutely vital for telephoning. If you remove all the consonants from "Yes, hi, there's been a horrific xylophone accident at the opera house! Send paramedics!" all you have is "Eh, aye, eh eh a oh eh eh aye oh oh a eh eh a aw aw ow! Eh a eh eh eh!". Unless you are a chimp, that doesn't make a bit of sense!
E is for "Each thing that I am about to say has a purpose or point, right?" My friend's uncle crapped his pants while waiting in line at the Panda Express in the Dunston Mall at 6:23 PM last Thursday night and a prostitute once told me not to use the ice machine at a Travel Lodge in Cleveland because she'd seen someone vomit into it. Anyway, what does your father's favorite 1970s porn star like to eat? See? That's really fucking cloying.
I is for "I am not driving a motor vehicle." That's not a question. That's a statement. If you are driving a motor vehicle, please focus on operating your motor vehicle before you kill someone.
M is for "Mnemonics ending in Mnemonic are dumb as fuck because the M is silent, fuck nuts."
I attempted to patent my ANAHEIM system a few years ago, but I got bored. Patenting is boring. Anyway, if you can remember ANAHEIM (seriously, how can anyone forget fabulous Anaheim?), you probably are ready to attempt a telephoning.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
CHAPTER 428: Graven Images
The summer between seventh and eighth grade had been boring enough that I found myself agreeing to go to summer camp
to break up the monotony. The camp - we'll call it Camp Gracefield -
was recommended to my parents by family friends from our very liberal
Lutheran church. If anything, the pamphlet seemed to play down
religious aspects.
The indoctrination into Fundamentalist Christianity kicked into high gear Wednesday night, when the older campers, myself included, were rounded up and taken to a cabin further out in the woods. First, the councilors told us about the evils of popular culture. Rock music was inherently evil because it was based on voodoo rhythms. The Led in Led Zeppelin referred to the band being led by the Golden Dawn. At one point, I asked about the Beastie Boys and was told that they ate cigarettes and did not take care of the bodies that God had given them, so they too were servants of the devil. They'd never heard of Jane's Addiction, but assumed that they were at least involved in drugs. Ministry were fine, though. The pop culture lecture was followed by info-dumps about Satanism, the secret sacrificial baby holocaust, the Golden Dawn, Aleister Crowley, feminism, homosexuality and Sammy Davis Junior. Finally, they told us about the Book of Revelations, the Antichrist and the coming apocalypse.
Thursday, we went on an overnight trip into the woods, which basically amounted to a forced march, dehydration and sleep deprivation with more lectures about evil. Also, at one point my CIT taught me how to make napalm and asked me if it was true that there were gay bars in Lewiston. By the time we got back to camp on Friday morning, most of us were delirious. I'm surprised there wasn't an outbreak of glossolalia. That's not sarcasm. Things had gotten weird enough that I expected someone to start babbling and everyone else to start worshiping him as a prophet.
Now it was Friday night, the last night before my parents came to retrieve me, and I was sitting on my bunk, listening to the mayhem unfolding outside. I'd had enough brainwashing, and decided to go draw in a corner. An angry mob of young, newly deputized religious zealots was outside, shouting and parading around, driven into a religious fervor by the instructors, preparing to burn a graven image.
A moment earlier, the mob had barged into the cabin, looking for contraband - pornography, music, books, inappropriate t-shirts - anything that they could make an example of. As I had chosen not to participate in this idiocy, they initially tried to strong arm me into handing over any forbidden fruit mingling with my personal property. I stood my ground, and explained that I had left all my heathen porn and heroin suppositories at home because the instructions we all had been given before coming to the camp had said to do so.
Boomer, the obligatory, chubby kleptomaniac kid with low self-esteem, stepped forward after a tense moment and announced that he had a graven image. He ran to his bunk, unzipped a duffel bag and produced a t-shirt. The crowd gasped as he held it aloft, then began shouting death threats and condemnations to this idol of Satanism. They charged back out of the cabin and paraded off to the fire pit. Boomer was beaming as he left, finally having a chance to be the hero.
My jaw dropped in disbelief of what I had just seen.
Several minutes later, Paul, my cabin's councilor, walked in. It had been his day off and he'd gone down to Brunswick. He was surprised to find me alone in the cabin and asked what was going on.
Paul was a pretty cool guy, but had always been kind of enigmatic because he was primarily occupied during the day as a lifeguard. He had a Clash sticker on his footlocker and wore combat boots like me. We had spent a bit of time talking about punk rock. Beyond that that, though, I didn't really know the guy that well.
I told him about the mob.
"Fuck." he muttered. "This happens every week."
It turned out that Paul wasn't nearly as religious as the other councilors and took Fridays off so that he didn't have to sit in on the insanity of the build up to the bonfire. It was just a summer job.
"Look," he said, calmly, "what's going on out there is bullshit. That's humanity, not God. Did they even find anything to burn?"
"Boomer had a Vanilla Ice shirt in his duffel bag."
Yes folks, the face of Satan belonged to Vanilla Ice, and this being July 1992, he'd been a stale punchline for nearly two years. The moment Boomer had presented his shirt to the mob was transcendent, perfect and perfectly awful. It may not have been the exact moment that I renounced organized religion, but it definitely sealed the deal.
Paul closed his eyes, knit his brows and shook his head for a second, then we both fell over laughing.
The indoctrination into Fundamentalist Christianity kicked into high gear Wednesday night, when the older campers, myself included, were rounded up and taken to a cabin further out in the woods. First, the councilors told us about the evils of popular culture. Rock music was inherently evil because it was based on voodoo rhythms. The Led in Led Zeppelin referred to the band being led by the Golden Dawn. At one point, I asked about the Beastie Boys and was told that they ate cigarettes and did not take care of the bodies that God had given them, so they too were servants of the devil. They'd never heard of Jane's Addiction, but assumed that they were at least involved in drugs. Ministry were fine, though. The pop culture lecture was followed by info-dumps about Satanism, the secret sacrificial baby holocaust, the Golden Dawn, Aleister Crowley, feminism, homosexuality and Sammy Davis Junior. Finally, they told us about the Book of Revelations, the Antichrist and the coming apocalypse.
Thursday, we went on an overnight trip into the woods, which basically amounted to a forced march, dehydration and sleep deprivation with more lectures about evil. Also, at one point my CIT taught me how to make napalm and asked me if it was true that there were gay bars in Lewiston. By the time we got back to camp on Friday morning, most of us were delirious. I'm surprised there wasn't an outbreak of glossolalia. That's not sarcasm. Things had gotten weird enough that I expected someone to start babbling and everyone else to start worshiping him as a prophet.
Now it was Friday night, the last night before my parents came to retrieve me, and I was sitting on my bunk, listening to the mayhem unfolding outside. I'd had enough brainwashing, and decided to go draw in a corner. An angry mob of young, newly deputized religious zealots was outside, shouting and parading around, driven into a religious fervor by the instructors, preparing to burn a graven image.
A moment earlier, the mob had barged into the cabin, looking for contraband - pornography, music, books, inappropriate t-shirts - anything that they could make an example of. As I had chosen not to participate in this idiocy, they initially tried to strong arm me into handing over any forbidden fruit mingling with my personal property. I stood my ground, and explained that I had left all my heathen porn and heroin suppositories at home because the instructions we all had been given before coming to the camp had said to do so.
Boomer, the obligatory, chubby kleptomaniac kid with low self-esteem, stepped forward after a tense moment and announced that he had a graven image. He ran to his bunk, unzipped a duffel bag and produced a t-shirt. The crowd gasped as he held it aloft, then began shouting death threats and condemnations to this idol of Satanism. They charged back out of the cabin and paraded off to the fire pit. Boomer was beaming as he left, finally having a chance to be the hero.
My jaw dropped in disbelief of what I had just seen.
Several minutes later, Paul, my cabin's councilor, walked in. It had been his day off and he'd gone down to Brunswick. He was surprised to find me alone in the cabin and asked what was going on.
Paul was a pretty cool guy, but had always been kind of enigmatic because he was primarily occupied during the day as a lifeguard. He had a Clash sticker on his footlocker and wore combat boots like me. We had spent a bit of time talking about punk rock. Beyond that that, though, I didn't really know the guy that well.
I told him about the mob.
"Fuck." he muttered. "This happens every week."
It turned out that Paul wasn't nearly as religious as the other councilors and took Fridays off so that he didn't have to sit in on the insanity of the build up to the bonfire. It was just a summer job.
"Look," he said, calmly, "what's going on out there is bullshit. That's humanity, not God. Did they even find anything to burn?"
"Boomer had a Vanilla Ice shirt in his duffel bag."
Yes folks, the face of Satan belonged to Vanilla Ice, and this being July 1992, he'd been a stale punchline for nearly two years. The moment Boomer had presented his shirt to the mob was transcendent, perfect and perfectly awful. It may not have been the exact moment that I renounced organized religion, but it definitely sealed the deal.
Paul closed his eyes, knit his brows and shook his head for a second, then we both fell over laughing.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Hello World,
A lot of people have been writing me, man, asking 'Hey Bad Impression of Bob Dylan, what's up with the Christmas album the guy you are impersonating released a couple of years ago, man.'
I didn't answer then. Bad Impression of Bob Dylan's got better things to do than be some kind of oracle during the holidays, man. But now I got free time, man.
Let me tell you something about Christmas, man. Christmas used to be about two things, man; Jesus and Santa. Both are imaginary. I'm a poor impression of Bob Dylan, man. I'm real. Christmas in the Heart, man. I gave the world something real. I gave the world Bob Dylan for Christmas, man.
Twenty years from now, ain't nobody gonna remember Jesus or Santa, man. They ain't gonna put little baby Jesus in the manger. They're not gonna be leaving cookies and milk by the mantle for jolly old Saint Nick. That's all irrelevant now, man, Because Bob Dylan changed the game, man.
Twenty years from now, the kids are gonna stay up all night, sittin' in the driveway on December 18th, waiting for ol' Bobo Claus to pull up in his Cadillac car, man. Why December 18th? Because there ain't no way Bob Dylan is actually gonna show up Christmas for a bunch of snotnose puke kids, man. Bob Dylan's got things to do on Christmas, man, like not calling Jake and drinkin' cognac by the fire, man. So Bobo Claus shows up, and the kids, they're gonna give me presents to sing them a song or two off Christmas in the Heart.
I ain't gonna sing to them, of course. This poor impression of Bob Dylan ain't a whore, man. Hell, I honestly hope I'm dead by then because I hate children, man. I hate my own and I hate the children of the world.
God I hate my own kids, man. They're so awful, man. Like, man, one year Jake gave me a copy of "Bringing Down the Horse" for Christmas. I was like, "It's Christ's MASS, Man, Not 'Christ!, ass."
But in all seriousness folks, Christmas in the Heart, man. Great album, man. Bob Dylan spent, like, man, I don't know, two hours of Bob Dylan's time compiling the Christmas songs that don't make Bob Dylan want to charge into an orphanage and tell those kids they're lucky because they ain't got nobody ridin' their coat tails or tellin' them that their appearance in the We Are the World group shot makes them wet the bed, Man. Planet Earth is lucky to have Bob Dylan, Man.
The night I recorded it, I had Jewell and Ray Sawyer over for dinner, man. As a parlor game while my staff prepared whatever slop they served us, we dug up Janis Joplin. It was wrong and I know it man, but that's why I recorded the album, man. To set the world right, man. To set an example for mankind. To make the seventeen minutes you spend in Starbucks that much more banal.
Now, you ain't got to tell me how much you love it. I know you don't. I don't love Jake, neither, man, but sometimes, I just gotta spend time with him around this time of year. And that's what Christmas in the Heart is all about, man. Spending time with the things you ain't proud to have in your life.
Merry merriment, humanity. I'm gonna go perform at a benefit for slapping and corporal punishment.
-Poor impression of Bob Dylan
Thursday, July 5, 2012
A Snappy Proposal
Dear Governor Mardens,
Now that our nice, quiet state has legalized the sale of fireworks, and our economy has been fixed because this, of course, created a hundred and fifty or so new, temporary jobs* and made some out of state companies a lot of money, I think it’s time to move into phase two. Maine, as you know, is open for business.
Are you familiar with Darra Adem Khel, Pakistan? Darra is a charming little town, just South of Khyber Pass and is way more open for business than we are. Like Maine, Darra is a popular destination for a certain breed of tourist looking for an exciting, quirky, out of the way place. Also, like Maine of late, a visitor strolling down Darra’s dusty streets will be greeted by a constant, jolly pop of small explosions. Darra, you see, is a legendary gun market where craftsmen can build perfect, hand-made replicas of any fire arm presented to them. Instead of fire crackers, diluted cherry bombs and tanks, residents and consumers in Darra are firing off AK-47s, Elephant Guns and just about any other fire arm you can imagine.
Of course, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, the goods are locally produced. There’s actually an industry behind them. Also, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, that money stays in Darra instead of going out of state or out of the country.
Let’s do this. Darra’s a third world shithole. While the nights in Portland lately sound like Tijuana, what with the constant rattle of fireworks and drunken wooing, we’re still squarely in the first world. There’s no reason we can’t.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. The legality of turning Maine into a gigantic, third world knock off gun market is questionable at best. There are copyrights and treaties to consider, local gun ordinances in place, not to mention the feelings of the Liberals. Oh the Liberals will hate this plan. They’ll be fuming in their teepees, pounding bongos and waving rain sticks around, trying to find a way to torpedo this industrial revolution on the grounds that guns are evil.
Let’s start with how to skirt copyright issues. We won’t be making American guns. We’ll leave that to local companies like Bushmaster and Remington. Instead, we will be making Chinese QBZ-95s, Russian AK-Ms and other guns from potential enemies into All-American guns. Doesn’t that sound snappy?
Local fire arms ordinances will be a non-issue. Like local fireworks bans, they will be completely ineffective. The police will simply not be able to enforce the bans due to the sheer amount of complaints they will be receiving.
As for the Liberals, it’s not like they actually vote.
Huggles!
-Matt Cargile, independent voter.
*For fuck's sake, they better be temporary.
Now that our nice, quiet state has legalized the sale of fireworks, and our economy has been fixed because this, of course, created a hundred and fifty or so new, temporary jobs* and made some out of state companies a lot of money, I think it’s time to move into phase two. Maine, as you know, is open for business.
Are you familiar with Darra Adem Khel, Pakistan? Darra is a charming little town, just South of Khyber Pass and is way more open for business than we are. Like Maine, Darra is a popular destination for a certain breed of tourist looking for an exciting, quirky, out of the way place. Also, like Maine of late, a visitor strolling down Darra’s dusty streets will be greeted by a constant, jolly pop of small explosions. Darra, you see, is a legendary gun market where craftsmen can build perfect, hand-made replicas of any fire arm presented to them. Instead of fire crackers, diluted cherry bombs and tanks, residents and consumers in Darra are firing off AK-47s, Elephant Guns and just about any other fire arm you can imagine.
Of course, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, the goods are locally produced. There’s actually an industry behind them. Also, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, that money stays in Darra instead of going out of state or out of the country.
Let’s do this. Darra’s a third world shithole. While the nights in Portland lately sound like Tijuana, what with the constant rattle of fireworks and drunken wooing, we’re still squarely in the first world. There’s no reason we can’t.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. The legality of turning Maine into a gigantic, third world knock off gun market is questionable at best. There are copyrights and treaties to consider, local gun ordinances in place, not to mention the feelings of the Liberals. Oh the Liberals will hate this plan. They’ll be fuming in their teepees, pounding bongos and waving rain sticks around, trying to find a way to torpedo this industrial revolution on the grounds that guns are evil.
Let’s start with how to skirt copyright issues. We won’t be making American guns. We’ll leave that to local companies like Bushmaster and Remington. Instead, we will be making Chinese QBZ-95s, Russian AK-Ms and other guns from potential enemies into All-American guns. Doesn’t that sound snappy?
Local fire arms ordinances will be a non-issue. Like local fireworks bans, they will be completely ineffective. The police will simply not be able to enforce the bans due to the sheer amount of complaints they will be receiving.
As for the Liberals, it’s not like they actually vote.
Huggles!
-Matt Cargile, independent voter.
*For fuck's sake, they better be temporary.
Monday, March 12, 2012
THE HATEFUL MAN'S GUIDE TO DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME
"Ugh."
"Uuuuuuuuuuughh...."
"Gaaaaaaaaaaawd."
Quit your belly aching, Nancy. Yes, you are cranky. You had to wake up, and some long dead dick decided to pull a long dead dick move and set your clock ahead an hour. You and everyone else. And that is fucking awesome.
Daylight Savings Sunday and The Monday After Spring Forward are Hateful Man holidays. Everyone is miserable and irritated, and that is fucking great. Shit, if you could drink a .40 at work, this could be the most entertaining day of your life - even more entertaining than that otherwise ordinary day when they actually did let you pound a .40 at work. Ah, student teaching!
Obviously, unless you you are a tenured college professor or lion tamer, drinking malt liquor at work is not an option. So how does one actually celebrate Spring Forward as a Hateful Man?
Here are seven great ideas for this sacred holiday:
1. Be Prepared, Be Happy - the most irritating thing that you can possibly do to the rest of the world today is to be absolutely chipper. As such, you need to have been preparing for this day for at least a week. Start waking up an hour early the saturday before DST. Exercise for an hour before work in lieu of coffee so that you are pumped up on endorphins, not caffeine. Smile. Tell people to cheer up. Shadow box. Do whatever it takes to convey that you are both happy and an absolute alpha motherfucker
2. Take Your Unwholesome, Poorly Behaved Child to Work - its possible, though unlikely due to the inherent dickishness of daylight savings time, that your child may be on spring break this week. If so, dress them up like Little Lord Fontleroy, give them a humungous lollipop and stick them in the break room or next to the fax/copier and tell them to cry about a dead, imaginary puppy. On a normal day, no one wants to deal with that kind of awkward. Now imagine it with an hour less sleep.
3. It's lent, bitches. Inevitably, your co-workers are probably going to be freebasing their double-doubles and doing lines of the blackest Sumatran off their keyboards. What better time to start boasting about how you've given up caffeine for Jesus and guilt tripping them for being a bunch of heretical pussies. Am I suggesting that you should actually quit coffee for lent in preparation? No. But try to quit drinking caffeine at work. I did. It was easy, and if you can't do so, you're a fucking mollycoddled, heathen pantywaist.
4. Dazzle them! Unfortunately, the National Flash-Bang Association does not have the clout that the NRA does, so you can't fling stun grenades with impunity yet. Recently, however, my state joined the ranks of many other shit ass hillbilly states and legalized fireworks sales. While I'm not looking forward to the annual Independence Day drunken jackass parade/unpreventable firestorm, I definitely see an upside to this newly earned freedom. There is now nothing stopping me from procuring strings of firecrackers to fling at my drowsy, irritable employees on spring forward as they slowly lurch their way across the parking lot or emerge from the bathroom.
5. Unexploited Ordinance Check your local charter's noise regulations, and then start using a leaf blower on Sunday morning at the earliest possible time. It's like getting an extra hour of dickishness in because your neighbors won't wake up early.
6. Be Preparedness It's a scientifically proven fact that Day Light Savings Sunday is the single best time of year to test your smoke detectors to see if they work, replace the batteries, and then test them again with the new batteries just to be on the extra safe side. Do it early, do it often and then do it a couple more times throughout the day. If your housemates complain, accuse them of being unsafe commies, blow the shrillest whistle you can find and yell "Be preparedness!!" at them.
7. Santa Lucia's Revenge For some reason, despite not having even a single drop of Nordic blood in veins, my family has always celebrated Santa Lucia Day, complete with my mother and/or sister wearing a wreath with fake candles on their head and bringing everyone Santa Lucia bread in bed. On Spring Forward Sunday, have your mother come in to your dwelling dressed in a white, flowing gown with a flaming garland around her brow, then have her kick in every door while blaring an air horn. Your housemates will literally shit themselves in terror.
Full disclosure: I've been working on this post since 2010. I always start it up a day before DST and never finish. I figured it best to just put it out there, even if its not my best work.
"Uuuuuuuuuuughh...."
"Gaaaaaaaaaaawd."
Quit your belly aching, Nancy. Yes, you are cranky. You had to wake up, and some long dead dick decided to pull a long dead dick move and set your clock ahead an hour. You and everyone else. And that is fucking awesome.
Daylight Savings Sunday and The Monday After Spring Forward are Hateful Man holidays. Everyone is miserable and irritated, and that is fucking great. Shit, if you could drink a .40 at work, this could be the most entertaining day of your life - even more entertaining than that otherwise ordinary day when they actually did let you pound a .40 at work. Ah, student teaching!
Obviously, unless you you are a tenured college professor or lion tamer, drinking malt liquor at work is not an option. So how does one actually celebrate Spring Forward as a Hateful Man?
Here are seven great ideas for this sacred holiday:
1. Be Prepared, Be Happy - the most irritating thing that you can possibly do to the rest of the world today is to be absolutely chipper. As such, you need to have been preparing for this day for at least a week. Start waking up an hour early the saturday before DST. Exercise for an hour before work in lieu of coffee so that you are pumped up on endorphins, not caffeine. Smile. Tell people to cheer up. Shadow box. Do whatever it takes to convey that you are both happy and an absolute alpha motherfucker
2. Take Your Unwholesome, Poorly Behaved Child to Work - its possible, though unlikely due to the inherent dickishness of daylight savings time, that your child may be on spring break this week. If so, dress them up like Little Lord Fontleroy, give them a humungous lollipop and stick them in the break room or next to the fax/copier and tell them to cry about a dead, imaginary puppy. On a normal day, no one wants to deal with that kind of awkward. Now imagine it with an hour less sleep.
3. It's lent, bitches. Inevitably, your co-workers are probably going to be freebasing their double-doubles and doing lines of the blackest Sumatran off their keyboards. What better time to start boasting about how you've given up caffeine for Jesus and guilt tripping them for being a bunch of heretical pussies. Am I suggesting that you should actually quit coffee for lent in preparation? No. But try to quit drinking caffeine at work. I did. It was easy, and if you can't do so, you're a fucking mollycoddled, heathen pantywaist.
4. Dazzle them! Unfortunately, the National Flash-Bang Association does not have the clout that the NRA does, so you can't fling stun grenades with impunity yet. Recently, however, my state joined the ranks of many other shit ass hillbilly states and legalized fireworks sales. While I'm not looking forward to the annual Independence Day drunken jackass parade/unpreventable firestorm, I definitely see an upside to this newly earned freedom. There is now nothing stopping me from procuring strings of firecrackers to fling at my drowsy, irritable employees on spring forward as they slowly lurch their way across the parking lot or emerge from the bathroom.
5. Unexploited Ordinance Check your local charter's noise regulations, and then start using a leaf blower on Sunday morning at the earliest possible time. It's like getting an extra hour of dickishness in because your neighbors won't wake up early.
6. Be Preparedness It's a scientifically proven fact that Day Light Savings Sunday is the single best time of year to test your smoke detectors to see if they work, replace the batteries, and then test them again with the new batteries just to be on the extra safe side. Do it early, do it often and then do it a couple more times throughout the day. If your housemates complain, accuse them of being unsafe commies, blow the shrillest whistle you can find and yell "Be preparedness!!" at them.
7. Santa Lucia's Revenge For some reason, despite not having even a single drop of Nordic blood in veins, my family has always celebrated Santa Lucia Day, complete with my mother and/or sister wearing a wreath with fake candles on their head and bringing everyone Santa Lucia bread in bed. On Spring Forward Sunday, have your mother come in to your dwelling dressed in a white, flowing gown with a flaming garland around her brow, then have her kick in every door while blaring an air horn. Your housemates will literally shit themselves in terror.
Full disclosure: I've been working on this post since 2010. I always start it up a day before DST and never finish. I figured it best to just put it out there, even if its not my best work.
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