First, the Karate Kid was one of the best movies ever invented.  We can argue that, but I assure you I’ll win in dramatic fashion. Unless, of course, you argue that “The Outsiders” was the best movie ever invented. That will be a fight. Then we’ll stare at one another in an intense face-off, perhaps circling one another for awkward-filled minutes before launching at one other like crazed X-Men. It will be a bloody back and forth battle, but in the end, I’ll be able to point to the best face-kick in Hollywood history. A moment that made people in movie theaters stand up and cheer. At a movie screen. For a karate champion that doesn’t exist. I don’t recall 2-bit inspiring any standing ovations, but whatever. You stay gold.

And then there was Karate Kid II. Almost never is a sequel is good as the first, but the Macchio bucked the trend and delivered to us a cinematic masterpiece. And every time I watch it, I can’t help but ask one simple question: Why do you people insist on building your walls out of paper? You have wood. Lots of it. Perhaps if you spent a little more time building walls that people can’t walk through to kill you, you might not need so much karate.

And then there was Karate Kid III. You see, Karate Kid III is what we in the movie-watching business call “not good.” It’s okay, Ralph. All the big ones have done at least one “not good” movie. A good example would be Tom Cruise and Eyes Wide Shut (the name of the film, as it turns out, also being an instruction manual for how to view it. Look out for the sequel, Just Go to Sleep Now to Avoid Bored Confusion.) What I’m saying is every great actor gets a freebie (Nicolas Cage gets 7, but only because it really aggravates Sean Penn… and we like that.)

As you may know, Anissa Mayhew is in the hospital after having suffered a stroke (she’s fighting her ass off!! All official updates will be posted HERE by her husband. Also visit AimingLow.) And if you know Anissa at all, you know that she loves her some the Macchio (probably even Karate Kid III.)  So a month or so ago, she and I were joking around about it and I started a little movement to get him to acknowledge her (on twitter.) I would change my avatar to various movie characters from Macchio flicks (like Mr. Miagi, of course) and say things like, “Daniel-san, Anissa is beautiful flower, you honey” (even though that really doesn’t make sense) or “talking to Anissa would be better than that time you saved all those kids from the burning church” (Of course, for the latter, I used the perfect sad-face Pony Boy avatar that no man, woman or child can resist.) 

You're melting, aren't you? Ralph, when you're at your lowest, always remember you could be C Thomas Howell. I can't tell you how many times that thought has gotten me through a rough patch.

He finally did speak to her and she credited me on her blog, but I don’t think it was because I was mocking him. Either way, it totally made her day.  So I decided if I could get him to actually follow her on twitter… well… she’d freaking love it. Hell, I’d love it. Because as I clearly stated, will stand by and defend with a perfectly executed crane kick to the chin if need be, The Karate Kid was directed by God, edited by angels and sent the Devil back to hell when he watched it.

So, the other day I recruited some tweeters, went after Ralph and within an hour, he followed her.  He even pulled a quote from one of my tweets to him when he announced it.  Awesome.  The Karate Kid quoted me. 

Ralph Macchio on twitter: Ok 2 the unrelenting ‘pls follow her campain’ “33,306 visit her official update site as of this morning.” Expecting a massive follower spike.

Did you hear the part about “unrelenting?”  Yeah, that part was about me.  Let that be lesson to those whom I all of the sudden decide to annoy. He must have heard what happened to poor William Shatner when I wanted him to click a button. I make celebrities click things and inspire others to help me make them. It’s a calling, a gift, if you will. I won’t abuse it (I probably will, but I abuse all my gifts. It’s another gift of mine.)

In all seriousness, thank you, Ralph Macchio. When Anissa is able to get back on twitter, I know it will make her smile and I’m very grateful that you did this. Despite what I said about Karate Kid III, I actually watched it several times. I couldn’t do it with Crossroads, though. Sorry. I gave it a shot because you were in it. For future reference, I’d watch you in a documentary about goat milking if at the end you kicked someone in the face (not a goat, though.) For me, a well scripted face kicking makes up for a tremendous amount of poor dialogue and acting. Just ask Steven Seagall.

And I’d like to say one last thing about the remaking of Karate Kid: NO! That’s like remaking the Godfather or Ishtar. It simply shouldn’t be done under any circumstances. Assholes. Will Smith, I love you, but your child is no Ralph Macchio and Jackie Chan is no Pat Morita. You can pretend it’s not your fault, but you’re Will Smith. You can do anything, and you should have stopped this from happening. Shame on you, Will. Shame on you.

Remember, Anissa’s family still needs help. This is going to be a long road for them, so please visit the update site at Hope4Peyton.org to see what you can do. If nothing else, keep praying.
 

I typically reserve things like this for the Bloggess Army website, but I can think of nothing else today. Just waiting for her to wake up. We were supposed to meet in person not long ago, and I was really looking forward to it. We didn’t connect, but knew we eventually would. Now I just want her to wake up. I’m watching this horror. I’m seeing my friends… those that are closer to Anissa than I (by a longshot)… in what can only be described as a beautiful and sad frenzy to support, protect, help… whatever they can do. True friends. Not just internet friends. True friends.

I believe in prayer. I believe our brains are transmitters and I believe the universe listens. I believe in karma and I believe the human mind can accomplish things we don’t yet understand. I believe in the power of willing something to happen. I believe our combined and focused thoughts can change things..

I believe in Anissa’s strength. I believe in her fight. I believe she will wake up. I refuse to believe anything else.

I ask you today, whether you believe in God or not, to pray, transmit your positive thoughts, whatever you want to call it. Simply think, “Please wake up Anissa, because the world’s not ready for you to leave.”

Please visit AimingLow if you would like to help Anissa Mayhew’s family or monitor her progress. You can also see regular updates at The Spohrs Are Multiplying

Update: By clicking on the first button, you’ll be directed to the official journal of Anissa’s husband where he posts regular updates. As of last night at 6:30, Anissa seemed to be making some progress.  Rather than me summarize his words, I’d prefer you get it directly from the source. Keep praying.

I watch a lot of movies. Probably to the point that’s unhealthy, expecially considering I’ll watch the same one a lot. Even if it’s bad. And the other night I was watching Mission Impossible 3. This would be a good example of what I’m talking about. Don’t worry. This post is not about that movie, but what occured to me while I was watching it: I would make a really horrible spy.

Interrogator: So, Mr. Pie, who are you working with?

Me: I’m working alone.

Interrogator: Really? Well, things will go a a lot easier if you just cooperate.

Me: I am cooperating. What do you mean, “easier?”

Interrogator: We know you’re not telling the truth, Mr. Pie, so please. Don’t make me hurt you.

Me: Make you… what?

Interrogator: Mr. Pie, we appreciate that you don’t want to share this information, but I assure you, we’ll get it howe..

Me: What do you mean, “hurt me?” Like… “pain” hurt?

Interrogator: Well…yes.

Me: Oh…. I’m working with Steve. He’s in the bushes outside the compound. Here’s his address also. He has children, too. Not sure if that helps.

Interrogator: I’m not sure his having children is relevant.

Me: Whatever. I’m just letting you know. Sometimes villains like to leverage the family, but I’m not telling you how to do your job. I’m pretty sure I can find out where his parents live if you need me to.

Interrogator: I don’t think that will be necessary.

Me: But he really loves them a lot. I think it’s the best way to get to him. He hates spiders, too. On the way over here in the boat, one crawled out from under the seat and he about had a ba…

Interrogator: What boat?

Me: Nothing.

Interrogator: Mr. Pie, where is the boat now?

Me: Seriously, that I can’t tell you. Wait… is that… a bucket of water?

Interrogator: Ahhh, I see you’re familiar with the technique your government calls, “waterboarding.”

Me: Not really. You’re not thinking of dumping that on me, are you? It’s kind of chilly in here and I don’t have a change of clothes or anything. And how long has it been sitting out?

Interrogator: What does that have to do with anything?

Me: That bucket is gross. And this dungeon hasn’t been cleaned in years. God knows what’s growing in that little cess pool you’ve got going over there.

Interrogator (picks up bucket)

Me: The boat’s in the harbor. It’s supposed to pick us up in an hour. Do you think we’ll be done by then? And I have to pee, but I can’t have anyone else in the room while I’m doing it. Is there a private bathroom around here? If I could have some music piped in, that would be great. It helps me relax.

Interrogator: Mr. Pie, who is your employer?

Me: Oh, no way, man. I can’t tell you that. Seriously. You’re just going to have to…wait… is that… a needle?

Interrogator: It is. Are you familiar with Sodium Pentathol?

Me: No.

Interrogator: Well, once I inject..

Me: Inject? I’m pretty sure that means “poke with a needle.”

Interrogator: Well, yes, but…

Me: Damn it. Ok. I’m not sure what his real name is, but we call him “Skipper.” His address is in my back pocket. We’re supposed to meet him there at 9:00.

Interrogator: Where is there?

Me: No way. That’s where I’m going to have to draw the li… owww… (doubles over) you ever get those stomach pains when you’re hungry? I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I’ll tell you what. If someone were to say… give me a sandwich, I might know where the meeting takes place. And if said sandwich were to be accompanied by… let’s say… some sour cream and onion potato chips, I might even draw you a map. You know… if I had a coke, too.

Interrogator: We have RC.

Me: Done. But I want crushed ice.

Interrogator: I think we can arrange that. One more question.

Me: God! Enough with the questions already! I can’t take it anymore. The microfilm is in my ass.

Interrogator: What microfilm?

Me: Nothing.

Interrogator: Mr. Pie, I’m losing my patience with…

Me: Fuck. I hate upsetting people. Ok. It’s the list of all our covert operatives, including their addresses and real names. You’re good, I’ll give you that. Jesus… is that… a scalpel over there? What the fuck, man? You were actually going to use that thing on… the CIA assasinated Kennedy. The moon landing was fake. I’m wearing women’s panties because they’re soft and I like the feel of pink against my skin. I like Rick Astley and enjoy being rick-rolled. I watch Saved by the Bell…

Interrogator: That’s enough, Mr. Pie, I think we have everything we…

Me: I’m attracted to Joan Rivers. I steal from the donation plate. When I hear “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler, I cry…

This is an actual conversation that would take place if I was ever on a secret mission with someone named “Steve” on behalf of the “Skipper.” I salute all those that live in the crazy world of war and espionage. I truly hope that I never know anything of value. So far, so good.

I was recently inspired by one of my absolute favorite bloggers, Steam Me up, Kid.  I love her writing.  LOVE IT.  She’s not only incredibly funny, but incredibly insightful.  And her last post seemed to speak to me directly on many levels. It’s a must read, as are all of her posts.  If you like it here, then you’ll love it there. 

I very rarely talk about my life here or my problems (of which there are too many to list. ) In essence, I’ve built a playground to get away from them.  A place for my mind to entertain and ponder the ridiculous.  I want to make you laugh, sometimes I want to  make you think, and sometimes I want to tell you about my problems and even seek your advice.  I don’t because this is my playground…. and I want to swing.

That being said, I’ll give a little window into me because it’s relevant to the topic at hand.  I’m a good looking guy, intelligent, and I’ve been known to garner some laughs from the crowd or two over the years.  I’m not sure why I feel socially awkward.  I’m not sure why when I walk into a room of unknowns that I feel out of place… even nervous.  I don’t know why I feel like I can’t express my thoughts in a group of strangers for fear that the room will slip into an awkward silence after I interject what I believe to be either relevant or funny.  I don’t know why I feel that I don’t have anything intelligent or humorous to offer, and even when I think I do, why it too often gets filed under, “better not risk it and just stay quiet.”  I don’t know why I feel that everyone’s judging me, because as Steamy pointed out, they’re probably not.  And that may be the key to overcoming this. It has nothing to do with everyone else, it’s my own belief that people are intently paying attention to what I’m doing, when in fact they couldn’t care less.  Assholes.  No wonder I don’t talk to them.

Interestingly enough, I started to write a post last week called “The Man in the Corner.”  It was going to be about my social ineptness and about how many might even perceive at as snobbiness, when in actuality, it’s insecurity.  I hate small talk, not because it bores me or I think I’m above it, it’s because I don’t think what I have to say is interesting.  I decided against writing it, because as I said, I don’t want my life to invade my blog.  But after reading Steamy’s post and having wanted to dedicate a post to her, I thought this would be a good opportunity to write about her (which I’ve been wanting to do) and coincidentally, cover a topic that I’ve wanted to cover but ultimately decided against.  And the only reason I’m doing it now is because her insight has helped me to see my problem in a different way, maybe even solve it.  Also because she turned her comments off  and I couldn’t gush on her, so instead of doing it in a comment I did it in 1,000 word post.  Ha.  That’ll teach her to try and censor me. 

In all seriousness, I really just want to thank her for featuring a few of my posts on her blog, for being a very valued and regular around here (as are all my readers, except for those that somehow find me by searching “toy baby vagina,” and for you I have a special post in the wings, fucker)  for writing some of the funniest stuff I’ve ever read and now for writing something that may actually help me live my life.  Thank you, Steamy.

After reading her post and, as is often the case, needing more Steamy, I went to the comments section of her previous post so I could see her reply to my last comment about me cumming in her hand.  She didn’t say “No” *crosses fingers.  And then I read another reply from her to another  reader about going on a “Lord of the Rings” quest to destroy her old diaries in the fires of Mordor. Then I started thinking about how cool it would be to have a magic ring and how easy it would be to take one from a hobbit, especially that pussy Frodo.  Even if he had a few hobbit friends with him. And I wouldn’t need a stick or anything.  I’ve done the math and I believe I could beat up as many as 6 hobbits at once.  But this isn’t about hobbits or magic rings,  it’s about something else (I’m pretty sure.)  What that is you’ll have to figure out for yourself, and if you can’t, at least take comfort in knowing that if you and I are ever somewhere together and are attacked by fewer than 6 hobbits, we should be fine.

P.S. I’d also like to thank XUP, quirkyblogger (She’s back!) my sister Apryl, IzzyMom and The Bloggess for me even having a blog. They are all brilliant and each have inspired me to continue after almost pulling the plug more than once.  And none of them even know it. Ha.  And again, I thank all my readers and commenters who are incredibly funny. You all really mean a lot to me.  And I’m not turning my comments off because I do require validation.

I love when someone’s telling me a story about a conversation they had and then tell me something they said which totally kicks ass. And I’m like, “Oh my god!  Did you really say that?” and then they say, “No, but I was thinking it. I should have said it. “   Agreed.  Because it would have been so much more awesome than what you said.  And then when you tell me the story I won’t be disappointed in you, because what you actually said was lame and you know it.  That’s why you made up something else, because not only does it make the story exceedingly more interesting or even worth telling, but it also  makes you seem hardcore.  But like me, you’re not.  You’re probably one of those nice people that tries not to hurt other people’s feelings.  Because if you said what you wanted to say, it’s likely the person you said it to would be hurt or at the very least, you’d be in an uncomfortable situation.  Most people (like me)  avoid those because they’re (we’re)  pussies. 

Anyway, I’m now going to  list the things I was thinking and totally should have said in various situations I’ve had throughout the years.  I can’t remember all the contexts of the original conversations, but I’ll list what I said and what I should have said.  I think you can get the overall gist of the topics.

Said: You’re probably right about that.

Should have said:  I saw you scratch your butt and sniff your fingers at the grocery store once. That pretty much means that everything you say is dead to me at the exact moment it crosses your lips, which by the way, almost touched the fingers that were in your ass only a moment before.  I’m sorry, did you just say something? No matter, I’m not even sure why I’m talking to you.

Said: I’m not sure where it is. Did you retrace your steps? Don’t worry, I’m sure it will turn up.

Should have said: I stole it because I hate you and you don’t deserve it.  And worse, if you tell  anyone? I’ll kill you.  You didn’t appreciate it like I will, as evidenced by my willingness to end you if you try to separate us.  It’s exactly that lack of commitment that lead to you losing it in the first place. Think about that.

Said: Go ahead. No problem.

Should have said:  No, there’s a reason someone invented “the line.”  It’s what keeps you from going before me when you arrive after I do.  I think it’s a great system and when we adhere to it, I don’t want to kick you in the face. But if you’re one of those that feels that the line is just something for other people, then there’s really nothing we can do about my wanting to kick your face, even if you get behind me now.  I’m afraid we’ve passed that “point of no return.”

Said: I really should have been paying attention. I just looked away for a second…

Should have said:   Fuck. You just said ”watch him” not “keep him from doing stupid shit.”  And quite frankly, the attitude is going over like a lead balloon.  I “watched” the whole thing happen so I’m not really sure what your fucking problem is.  Just put some ice on it when he wakes up.  Then maybe you can teach the little guy about the dangers of electrical outlets (thought you would have covered that already, but whatever, parents do things differently in third world countries, too.)  I would have said something but that’s really something a parent should teach.  I didn’t want to step on your toes.  

Said: I completely understand.

Should have said: I completely understand you’re a tool and that it’s the entire reason you and I are having this conversation.  I can tell because of all the toolish nonsense flowing from your face hole that’s resulting in this riveting dialogue we wouldn’t otherwise be having.   I’m typically not violent, but I’m envisioning all sorts of devilish cartoon-pain for you right now.  For example, I’d like to peel your scalp off, set it on fire and see if I can throw it down the hall like a flaming frisbee of awesomeness, only to watch you chase after it in terror.  I’d like you to experience the full range of emotions from “Oh My God my head skin is missing” to “I cant believe I’m chasing my flying head skin” to most importantly, “Oh my god  I can’t believe I just stomped on my flaming headskin. Do you think they can put this back on? Oh my god, Oh my god.” Because in the end I believe you’d have no choice but to stomp it out. Hair burns quickly and the smell is awful.

Said: I don’t recall saying that. He must have misheard me.

Should have said:  Oh, that’s right. Yeah, I was lying about that because I sensed I was about to get into trouble. I learned how to do it when I was little and have become pretty good at it over the years.  But hey, remember that time I found goat porn on your computer?  Yeah, that was fun.  Anyway, let’s not worry about what I said, k?

See? I think the above alternatives make for way better storytelling and even give birth to whole new stories.  Because if you were to say what you should have said, it would just be the beginning of the conversation instead of the end.  And maybe that’s one of the other reasons we do it.  Either way, every once in awhile we should just say what’s on our mind and let the chips fall where they may. If for nothing else, to just once be able to tell the story how you’d really like to tell it.

I’m a germophobe. I’ve mentioned this before.  It all began when a man I used to work with had IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) coupled with perhaps the poorest hygiene I’ve ever witnessed.  I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but it became clear to me that I needed to wash my hands pretty much after I touched anything in the office.  And then I just became more generally aware of the nastiness that surrounded me, and now people make fun of me, as you soon will.

Birthday Cakes

Hi, I won’t eat you. Or anything that’s been blown on by anyone.  I’ve had the research team look into this and they’ve determined when you deeply inhale and forcefully blow out air on to something, there are particles of what scientists refer to as “your gross spit” that fly through the air and land squarely on my food.  This can lead to all types of things like, ”disgusting” and “I’m going to throw up now,” in addition to any lurking viruses.

With the new, “Hey let’s sneeze on your arm” thing going on right now, I’d like to propose we also put birthday candles in our elbow pit.

Double dippers

Open up! I’m just going to go ahead and get your mouth juice while it’s still warm, ok? I just want to scrape my chip along your tongue a little.  But why? I mean, you obviously want me to eat your saliva. Why bother mixing it with sour creamy goodness when I can just get it straight from your mouth bowl? Better yet, let me just lick your teeth.  Why even bother with the chip? After all, I’m not even going to taste it because as far as I’m concerned, your saliva has just become the only ingredient on which I’m focusing. 

Plastic glove sandwich maker

Awesome. That’s really considerate of you to put on those gloves before you… pick up that old mayonaisse and who- knows-what-else crusted dish rag to wipe down the cutting board you’re about to make my sandwich on.  That was close. You almost touched that thing with your bare hands. Icky.  But at least you were able to transfer some nastiness to the prep station before you placed my bread on it. I mean, at least what didn’t come off on your plastic hand protectors. Don’t worry, I’m sure the bread will clean them right off for you. Did I mention I’m a vegetarian? No need, I’m sure there are no various meat remnants on the communitysandwich knife… especially now that you’ve wiped it down with that… is that an old diaper?  Oh. Just looks like one. Anyway, proceed. Looks yummy.

Waitress who likes to carry my food on her shoulder

Wow. You’re strong!  How were you able to get all that food on one tray and over here? Oh.. I see… your hair resting on my potatoes was keeping everything balanced. I could tell you were a little brighter than the rest of the wait staff when I walked in.  And I have to say, you should really wear more gravy droplets on your split-ends. The way they shimmer as you float across the room is hypnotic.   Before you go, can I have one of those straws you’ve had nestled against your vagina all day? The one in that pouch that looks like someone masturbated on it. Great. Thanks.

Fast food Worker

I’d love some condiments. Do me a favor, you see those nasty hands on the end of your wrists? You know, the ones that just took my dirty money and handed me some other dirty money in return?  The same ones you just used to handle all those other people’s dirty money? Yeah, those.  Open them up and grab a handful of ketchup packets from the condiment vat… perfect… now open up the bag and toss them all over my fries.  Make sure one of them  has some disgusting and hardened ketchup residue all over it from when one of it’s little buddies exploded.  They’re usually sticky and perfect for picking up any dirt still left in your palms.  Good. You got one. Every handful of ketchup packets usually contains at least one and I’d hate for it not to end up in my fry container. Excellent.

Ok, you can make fun of me now.

Pooping. We all do it.  I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m going to address it here once and be done with it.  It’s a weird thing (pooping, that is) and a whole weird thing we’ve got about it.  And I’m one of those that are weird about it.  First, I don’t want to think about you doing it or hear about you doing it.  I know you do it, I’ve accepted it and we’re still friends.  But when you start describing it in detail, that’s when you and I are going to stop getting along.  Don’t get me wrong, sometimes there’s a great story behind the morning after a party bowl-winder, but like with anything, moderation is key.

That being said, I’m not going to describe my poop to you. I simply want to discuss what I do while pooping, which is reading. Yep. I’m a toilet reader. Guilty.  Over the years, I’ve been given grief about that from various people (those close enough to know what I do while pooping and only because I’ve told them, probably because they’ve been in my bathroom and have seen my book or instruction manual or whatever basically has words on it) and today I’ve decided to fight back. That’s right bathroom non-readers, today it’s time for my side and your side to clash in an epic battle to finally decide who reigns supreme in, “Who’s doing  better stuff while pooping?”

Let’s do this.

So Mr. and Mrs. Bathroom Non-Reader, I’ve heard your argument. Who wants to hang out in the bathroom and read, right?  I mean, hardly a place to read something. You’re there to poop, not relax. Read at the beach or in bed. I don’t know, seems like an odd place to hang out and read, etc.  (Hopefully, you’ll comment with the other arguments, which I promise I’ll address.  I like to argue.) 

I get that you think I’m a little odd for multi-tasking in this way. So…. what do you do while pooping?  Stare at the wall?  Because that seems kind of retarded to me, no matter what you’re doing. I want to be whisked away from the reality of squatting on cold porcelain and dispensing the previous night’s dinner. I like something to take my mind off the fact that there’s poop-air everywhere and I am breathing it.  I’d just as soon not poop and read somewhere else, but if I have to poop, I’ll be damned if I’m going to stare at the wall or think about pooping.  And is that what you’re doing, Mrs. BNR?  Thinking about pooping while you’re pooping?  Are you counting?  Humming?  Thinking about Bono? I mean, really, what the hell are you doing? Now I’m curious. Now I’m starting to think you’re the weird one. Doesn’t feel very good, does it?  Uh huh. Welcome to your nightmare.

Ok, so I think we’re getting somewhere. I read when I poop, and so far we’ve been able to determine that you either stare at the wall,  focus intently on the task at hand or are thinking about random stuff other than pooping. Let’s address each:

Staring at the Wall

This isn’t fun at all. I’ve done it and almost always am immediately bored. That’s why in fancier restaurants they’ll even have a little plexiglass display box for the newspaper right above the urinal. Those establishments have clearly determined that staring at words is better than staring at tile.  It’s the most awesome thing ever.  They’ll also pipe in music so you don’t have to hear other people going to the bathroom, and more importantly, so other people can’t hear you. 

In the slightly less fancy bathrooms, above the urinal you might see “For a good Blow Job Call Mitch,” and then you call Mitch and find out he didn’t write it at all and he’s totally pissed at some guy named John, so he gives you John’s number and it turns out John doesn’t want to give you a blow job, either.  Then you just become a pawn in their little ruse and worse, no blow job.  No matter how much you demand one or claim “false advertising.”  That’s why it’s better not to respond to bathroom ads and just enjoy them for for their entertainment value.

Thinking about pooping while you’re pooping

If you’re one of those that feels you need to focus on the task and be done with it, then you’re thinking about pooping. I find this both disturbing and humorous. ”Ok… push! Nice. That was a good one. One more. A little harder this time but don’t pop anything. You remember what happened to Aunt Sara. Focus.” Or maybe just, “Pooping Pooping Pooping Pooping…” I don’t know.  I can’t climb inside the head of the BNR, but  again, I’m going to have to go with reading here as a much more efficient and less odd way to spend this time.

Thinking about other stuff while you’re pooping

If you’re one of those that uses this time to reflect, then you’re really no different than I. You’re entertaining yourself while pooping, plain and simple. Sometimes I’ll do this when no reading material is available, so really “pondering” is my back-up system.  If you’re a thinker, then you and I are almost compatriots. The divide between us can be bridged.  

So there you have it. I poop. I read while pooping. And I will no longer be persecuted for it. I will not wear a scarlet “P.”  For you BNRs, I don’t mean to speak for you. My comments section is open for debate. Let’s openly discuss this in a productive way and maybe, just maybe, we can end the bloodshed between our two factions. I extend my washed hand in peace. I hope you’ll do the same.

So, What does a father say that’s found his 18 year old daughter on a porn video?  More importantly, what can he say? how does one bring it up?  How did he find it?  What’s next?
Dad: “Honey! Get in here!”

Mom: “What’s wrong?”

Dad: “This is really going to upset you, so you might want to sit down.”

Mom: “You’re scaring me.”

Dad: “Just watch.”

Mom: “Oh my god. Is that… Is that Sylvia?”

Dad: “It is. Can you believe it? Is this who we raised? Get her in here now.”

Mom: “Ok, ok, but you’re too angry right now and this is delicate. Let me take the lead on this. I know how to handle it. Put your penis away and I’ll get her.”

Dad: “Ok, but don’t be soft on her. I’m staying and I can’t promise I won’t say anything.”

Mom: “Ok dear, be right back. Wash your hands.”

(Mom enters with Sylvia)

Mom: “Your father and I are a little disappointed by something he found on the internet while masturbating.”

Sylvia: “Ummm… ok…”

Dad: “Lose the attitude, young lady. This is serious.”

Sylvia: “Sorry. What is it?”

Mom: “Is there anything you would like to tell us?”

Sylvia: “No.. not that I know of…”

Dad: “Really? You know, lies by omission are still lies. But you know that already, don’t you?”

Mom: “Steven, calm down. We’re not going to get anywhere if we yell.”

Dad: “Dammit Ethel, you know how much I love to masturbate to internet porn.  And now that image has been emblazoned in my memory. Not only has she tainted my visual aid, I’m not sure I’ll even be able to fantasize anymore. And I just renewed my membership, too. Great. Just great.”

Mom: “Sylvia, your father works hard and he should be able to come home and masturbate while watching other men’s barely legal daughters having sex with multiple partners without having to see you doing it.  You know how much your father likes to touch himself.  Didn’t you think he might come across you and whatever those guys names were? And was that my scarf?”

Sylvia: “You… saw the video? Oh… This is embarrassing. I totally washed the scarf and I had no idea that dad was into barely legal…”

Dad: “It’s not about that, young lady. I shouldn’t have to update you on the ebb and flow of my fetishes because I expect to see you when I log on to watch people have sex. It’s true I’m more of a Cougar man, but from time to time I enjoy the… whatever. That’s not the point.  How would you feel if you saw your mother and I having sex on the internet? “

Sylvia: “That’s really gross.”

Dad: “And your mom has told you about borrowing her things without asking. What is with you lately? And what if your grandparents see this?”

Sylvia: “You think Nana and Bubby watch internet porn? I think I’m going to throw up.”

Mom: “You know, dear, once that’s out on the internet there’s nothing you can do. When you get out of college and you go to your first job interview, how do you know that the person who’s interviewing you hasn’t recently masturbated to your video? You don’t.  And then what’s he going to think about you?”

Dad: “I know what would happen if I was interviewing one of the girls I’d masturbated to. Next, please. Any girl that’s willing to have sex on video so that I can pleasure myself is not the type I want working for me. I mean, what if my customer recognizes her from when he was masturbating to internet porn? What kind of organization will he think I’m running?”

Mom: “It’s true. Just look at what happened to Paris Hilton and Britney. Their sex tapes ruined them. What are they even doing now?”

Dad: “Uh huh. Good point, Ethel.”

Sylvia: “Well, it wasn’t supposed to be on the internet…”

Dad: “Ohhh.. of course. That’s what they all say. Well let me tell you someting, young lady. Most of the sites I frequent make a mockery out of tricking girls to have sex with them on video. To us… I mean them, it’s just a big joke. When a guy or two guys or even four guys want to film themselves having sex with you, you can be sure it’s going to end up on the internet.”

Sylvia: “Wow, I didn’t know that. They said it was just for fun.”

Mom: “Men will say just about anything.”

Dad: “We absolutely will. Let that be a lesson to you. I can only hope you’ll learn from this and that I won’t come across any more of your work. Is that the only one?”

Sylvia: “Well, I did this foot thing once..”

Mom: “Oh dear. Did you at least wear a sock?”

Sylvia: “Well, no…”

Dad: “Dammit Syl..”

Mom: “Steven, it’s okay. Sylvia, we can’t make you not rub your feet on men’s genitals in front of a camera, but I think it’s fair that we can expect you’ll at least be safe. And now with the swine flu…”

Sylvia: “You’re right, mom. That was irresponsible. And Dad, I’m really sorry I ruined masturbating for you.”

Dad: “Well, you probably didn’t ruin it for me. I’m sure I’ll still do it, I just may have to seek some new interests. Of course, other than foot fetishes… (playful poke to Syl’s ribs.)”

Sylvia: “Yeah, you may want to stay away from lesbian sites, too.”

Dad: “What?”

Sylvia: “Gotcha!”

Dad: “You know, you’re not too old for some tickle torture.”

Sylvia: “Did you wash your hands?”

Dad: “Good one!”

(Group chuckle)

Mom: “Oh you two are too much. Ok, settled? Group hug.”

Sylvia: “I love you guys.”

Dad: “We love you, too. Anybody up for ice cream?”

I think I’ll begin by apologizing.  I’ve been misleading you. This blog, my message… everything.  Nothing more than a clever ruse to draw you to my pulpit.  I think there are enough people here now that I can unveil the real me and my purpose.

I’ve been given a gift, though it often feels more like a curse.  My entire life, it’s been an incredible burden for me and those  around me. I see things.  Things that are going to happen.  I know.  This is why I’ve never told anyone.  And unfortunately, I don’t have any proof because these are all things that haven’t yet happened, but as the end times approach, I know my visions will become reality.  I simply couldn’t live with myself  if I didn’t share it with the people I care about, despite the likelihood of being branded “insane.”  Once I share my secrets with you, you’ll understand.

I’m not the only one who’s seen it.  For centuries, people have foreseen the end of days.  Our fate is sealed and any attempts to change our impending demise is futile, at best.  I’ve seen everything and all we can do now is prepare as best we can.     

Like many prophets, I get visions.  Mine come in the form of extremely vivid and realistic dreams. Often I wake up screaming because I can’t tell the difference between the dream and real life.  It’s horrifying.  Their realistic nature is how I know that they’re just not dreams,  but an eerie picture of things to come.  And today I’m going to share my final apoctalyptic vision with you.

Despite what you’ve heard,  it has nothing to do with global warming, nuclear weapons, meteors, floods… at least not the way my visions tell the story.  First, it’s not happening in 2012.  It happens in a year called “Dave.”  Apparently, a couple of years from now, we get tired of numbers and start naming years (like we do hurricanes.) “Dave” comes right after “Jennifer.”  And Jennifer will be a total bitch.  I’ll cover that later.

At the end of Curtis (the year preceding Jennifer,) a major logging accident in the upper northwest will turn the  Pacific Ocean into delicious maple syrup.  In the months to follow,  the Canadian economy will collapse from within, leaving most Canadian citizens homeless and unemployed. 

As their entire population tries to migrate to the U.S., our border guards kill anyone that speaks French (we vote on that course of action and overwhelmingly agree.)  France sees it as an act of aggression and a prelude of things to come.  They respond by bombing Rhode Island with flaming donuts (though they’d call them “pastries,” which is one of the many reasons we don’t like them.)

As tensions mount, people begin walking around naked.  I’m also naked, but they’re all pointing and laughing at me.  David Caruso rides by on a unicycle yelling, “I like potatoes! You can too!”   A small indian man asks me if I’d like some string for my toaster. I tell him I brought my own.  My fifth grade teacher is there.  She’s wearing a t-shirt that says, “I’m with Stupid,” but with no arrow pointing to “Stupid.”  I find this very bizarre. “Where’s Stupid?!” I call out through the chaos, but nothing comes out but bubbles.

I've taken the liberty of depicting some other parts of my vision, but I couldn't fully determine their relevance so I excluded them. If anyone has any ideas about what these other images might symbolize, I'm open to your interpretations.

Inexplicably, you’re all sucked into the sky.  I’m the only one left.  There are peaches everywhere.  I see a plastic dog.  I ask if it’s seen my friend’s car.  I spring to consciousness in a cold sweat.

The rest is fuzzy, but I can only assume I’m the only one who lives through it.  It makes sense, as it’s the least I can expect for having to bear the burden of knowing.  If I’ve frightened you, I’m sorry.  It wasn’t my intention. I just thought you would like the opportunity to mend fences, right wrongs, and know that the time you have left to seize life’s opportunities is running short.  Good luck.

.

So… I’m on top of this building, scanning the street for crimes, organizing my iPod (which, by the way, if you haven’t downloaded Pearl Jam’s new album then you don’t deserve to have an iPod and yes, I will come to your house and take it from you)  and something occured to me: I can’t turn my head in this stupid outfit.  I have to turn my whole body when I want to look at something.  It’s so stupid.  I mean, a little lycra in the neck area would have been so much smarter.  Anyway, I decided I was going to change it, but the assholes in marketing at Wayne Enterprises   other crime fighters think it’s a bad idea.  “Branding” or something.  Whatever.  Don’t worry about me.  Just out there saving the city every night.  Plus, who needs to turn their head when they’re fighting eight super villain minions at once?  Sure, I’ll just swivel my entire body instead of my head.  Much more convenient.  Hate to tarnish the “brand.”  You’d think that getting stabbed in the side of the head would tarnish it a little more.  Assholes.  Fuck ‘em.  I’m doing it.

And fuck already.  Do we really still need the bat signal?  How about a text or an IM?  Or in addition to not being able to turn my head, would you also like me to stand at my window all fucking evening?  Jesus.  It’s 2009.  I think we can move beyond the Paul Revere warning system.  “No Batman, it’s so much easier to drive down to the station and climb up on the roof than to text or call.”  It’s no wonder you people need protecting.  Also, wouldn’t it be neat if the bad guys didn’t know I was coming?  I know, I know.  My safety and comfort aren’t really your concerns.  Sorry.

And another thing.  Why can’t we just have normal criminals?  Why does everyone have to have some kind of theme? (said the bat-masked man-lol)  But seriously.  I have Bruce Wayne  a secret identity to conceal.  But what about the Penguin?  That dude is soooo freaky.  I mean, he’s actually part penguin. WTF?  And then there’s the whole problem of me loving penguins.  How do I reconcile that? Yeah, he’s a super villain, but he’s also part lovable penguin. It sucks. All I’m saying is when he’s about to execute his city-wide plan of terror and mayhem, I may find myself a little conflicted.  Same thing if we’re ever attacked by kitten or hamster man.  I think they’re ok, but you never know.

Shit.  Almost forgot.  This is kind of important.  When the joker shows up and has another creepy parade with big floating balloons and is throwing out money?  He’s totally going to gas you.  Dumbasses.  I shouldn’t even need to tell you that.  So here’s a little rule:  When you see the Joker, run for your fucking life.  Think you can remember that? Here’s a mnemonic device if you can’t: WYSTJRFYFL.  Write it down and put it in your wallet or make a bracelet or something.  I swear, Batman or babysitter? Sometimes I just can’t tell the difference.