Mister Misanthrope

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. In my experience, I have known this to be true. That being said, I hate bad actors. The overly calculated, meticulously sculpted messy hair and over-priced ripped or "vintage" pants are indicative of the amount of time you spent calculating a careless, "thrown together" look. It is a direct contradiction to the character you're trying too hard to portray, douche. Neither do we believe the political rhetoric you're regurgitating from your preferred talking head. Yes, we know your ideas are painfully unoriginal, and your jokes are worse than that of greatest douche of all, Dane Cook. I'm sure you're a fan.

Yes, everyone knows you're a total douche, as is the self-loathing whore with obvious daddy issues sitting at your table. Isn't the tramp stamp rising from her exposed coin slot pretty? Never seen anything like it. Neither have I come across an attention starved narcissist pounding wimpy cocktails and strategically placing her cleavage beneath the eyes of self indulgent liars. "I'm a record producer." Yes, we could tell, shitweasel. We'd never doubt you.

None of you are fooling anyone. It only seems that way because you're all so incredibly self involved. There is no conversation to be had with you, as it's plain you lack the capacity to listen, let alone comprehend. Thus, an awkward conversation with you is a series of intervals in which you're anxiously awaiting your turn to speak, as if you're gracing us with the melodic sound of your own voice. The thing of it is, your voice does not sound like bells on the ankles of angels the way you think it does. No, it's more like an irritating murmur that gently grinds the human soul into a fine, useless powder, unfit even for pig slop.

Tattoos, piercings, shopping mall fashion. You couldn't make up your own mind about anything, even if your life depended on it as evidenced by your utterance of idiocies like:"I like every kind of music except (blank)". Fuck you, dirt bag, and your little dog too. The one your girlfriend carries around in her purse, sometimes pretending it's a baby. One that eats it's on feces.

What's that? Oh no, you must be mistaken. I'm in a fine mood. Just fine.

There's a scientist who studies endophytes, which are tiny micro-organisms that live in the spaces between plant cells. The plant offers them food and shelter (neither of which harm the plant) and in turn, the endophytes produce chemical compounds hither to unknown to science, which fight off specific diseases. Malaria, for instance. The scientist leading the way in the study of endophytes (Gary Strobel, Montana State University) travels the globe speaking to traditional healers and shamans to discover which plants they use medicinally. He then collects the plants, and searches for endophytes.

He's basically saying that indigenous peoples were right, or, at least they were on to something. And it's only taken science 2000+ years to catch on. Sure, many shamans chalk up the healing power of medicinal herbs to spirits, gods, or other metaphysical concepts, but they were still right... according to science. My question is this: Does it matter weather people call it God, Nature, Biology, Endophytes, or the great Googaly Moogaly? Nope. It'll take science and modern medicine to make believers out of us Westerners, but as far as I'm concerned, you can call it whatever you want, it still doesn't change the bottom line.

Science and modern medicine have a long history of being wrong. There's a simple explanation for it that people generally don't want to accept. That explanation is that there are things in this world, forces at work, if you will, that are still so far out of the realm of human comprehension, that we can't hope to understand them scientifically. At least, not in the foreseeable future. That being said, when will it be ok to relax and take things at face value? When will it be ok to enjoy life without having to search for an explanation of why?

It's a proven fact that contracting the muscles of your face into a smile will prompt cells in your body to fire signals into your brain telling it that you're happy. That means, if you're in a shitty mood, smile. Science has proven that this will put you in a better mood almost immediately. Strangely enough, this scientific realization is relatively new. Ironically, everyone who has ever been born has known that fact to be true. Maybe they don't (and didn't) know the inner workings of cells, neurons, electrons, endorphins and the like, but who cares? Isn't it enough to know from personal experience that smiling and laughing make you happy?

I wonder how science would explain my having to take a giant dump right now. Surely it has something to do with the food I've consumed, the nutrients my body has absorbed, the energy I've used, and the resulting waste needing to be expelled. But how do I know that this particular dump is going to be monstrous and vile? Why is it that I can already anticipate the horrible and very specific smell, and preemptively empathize with the gag reflex any unsuspecting bathroom visitor will experience during, or soon after the taking of said dump? Does the ability to scientifically explain such phenomena make the result less funny? I think not.

I wish I could be a money grubber by trade, but the occupation does not befall me. It's not that I can't handle money, but the grubbing cramps my style. Grubbing anyting (but especially money) can be hard work and usually requires years of training. No, no, I lean naturally toward bullshitting, punctuality and mediating arguments. That means I'm good at selling nothing. By that I mean, if you have a whole lot of nothing, and you can't sell it, you should call call me. I'll sell your nothing for you, at prices way above current blue-book values, turning a nice profit for both of us.

How does one sell nothing? Easily. Make the potential buyer think they're buying something. Like "service and expertise" for instance. Lots of people want to buy that. What kind of service and/or expertise? It doesn't matter. What you're really saying is, "For a nominal fee, I'll make three phone calls per month on your behalf." And, if you're really clever, you have a clause in your contract that indicates possible extra charges should the phone calls become excessive (more than three).

I can hear you saying, "What if someone finds out you're not an expert of anything, and they call you on it?" Not to worry. Simply agree with them that you're not an expert on whatever it is that's upsetting them, then suggest they hire one. In fact, tell them you know of just the right expert, and for an additional fee, you'll hire said expert on your clients behalf, getting them a bulk rate discount.

Suppose they realize they haven't bought anything, and are paying you for nothing. Ha! That's laughable! Of course they'll never think that, because they're also too busy selling (and buying) nothing. The thought will never occur to them, because they think they actually have something. That's what makes the trick so easy. Sure you know you're selling nothing, but everyone wants so badly to believe it's something. They'll never question it, because if they do, they'll be questioning themselves, and that, friends, would not be acceptable.

Still at the end of a hard day of selling nothing, someone still write me a check. A check to show they're appreciation to me for getting rid of all that nothing, which can really start to clutter up... uh... whatever you're keeping your nothing in (warehouses, offices, bank accounts, garages etc).

If you've got nothing to sell, call me right away. My services are in high demand, so these deals won't last. Remember, you're nothing if not for nothing.

G'mornin', gluttons. What's the buzz, cuz?

I spent a couple few years in giant, corporate coffee shops, doing every job from part time morning guy, to General Store manager. From Starbucks, to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, to Peaberry Coffee and a couple few independent, hipster laden shit holes, where before they let you in the door, they check your haircut to make sure it's trendy enough to enter. Needless to say, I have observed a thing or two about coffee, it's culture, and the people who drink it. In fact, we used to play a game of "call that drink". A game at which I had become quite efficient.

Believe it or not, your Starbucks order acts like an accessory to your outfit. Judging by your choice of clothes, the time of day you some in, the frequency of your visits and a few other variables, an experienced barista has a good chance of accurately predicting your coffee order. Here's a few popular choices, and a brief description of the people who usually order them.

Regular Coffee: No nonsense. Usually older (over 35) men order this. Most of the time, they are republicans, and they come in early in the morning on their way to work. They have their own insulated mugs which they'll ask you to rinse out with hot water before pouring the coffee. They also don't care which kind of coffee they get (light or dark), so long as it's fresh and caffeinated. There is a window for the broke democrat, or the serious-about-studying college kid though. But they'll get the drip coffee in the afternoon, sit at the shop all day, and get like 30 refills at 50 cents a pop, if not free.

Flavored latte: There are many, many variables to this drink. It's most commonly ordered with skim milk (skinny), and usually befalls the fairer sex. That's a lot of sweet cream for any self respecting man to be ingesting. The sweeter the drink, the younger broad (i.e., extra caramel, 6 pumps of vanilla, etc).

Mocha: This is for the person who does not like coffee and would rather be drinking hot chocolate, but desperately needs the caffeine. This drink, when ordered decaf, is typically done so by older women who aren't quite ready to let go and just be the crazy cat lady they are inevitably going to become. They hang around day-time coffee shops, scoping out any man they think they can get their hooks into, while pretending to read Danielle Steel novels.

Cappuccino: You're probably a noob and don't know what you're getting, but ordered this drink because you'd heard the name so frequently. You think it'll be a sweet, chunky, gluttonous American drink, but it isn't. As soon as this person picks it up, they send it back claiming it's empty. Also, for the record, baristas usually know you have no idea what you're ordering, but the individual who typically makes this mistake, is also the type of person to pretend to be offend by the idea that he's got no idea what he's ordering, and will try to make you believe otherwise. This beverage, when ordered "dry" however, is a symbol of someone who's really been around the block. They probably know more about coffee than you, and more about literature as well.

Espresso: Occasionally, this will also be ordered by mistake, given the popularity (and the the confusion) of the name. People who order this on purpose do not have time to fuck around with an entire cup of coffee. They almost always make some form of stale joke regarding a caffeine I.V., and would buy harder drugs if you were selling them.

Frozen/blended coffee drinks: If you're ordering these and you're of legal drinking age, you should consider the search for a new beverage of choice, douche. If you're a cheerleader at a local highschool, you're only dilemma is "what flavor?"

Iced coffee: You're one of the good ones. Unpretentious, but with a good idea of what you're doing in a specialty coffee shop. You probably have a french press at home, which you use from time to time. This person can also be witnessed ordering the elusive "Americano", and is probably a regular at more than one coffee shop.

Yes, there are more variations to be discussed, and a relatively detailed description can be offered about the typical orderers of those variations as well, but I think this is enough for now.

Cheerio.

Here's the bathroom door at my office:



Seems like a normal bathroom with typical, appropriate signage, right? Nothing to worry about here. However, there is a rather curious sign on the inside of the same door, shown here:



Huh. "Avoid accidents"? What exactly are they trying to say? I mean, usually, when speaking in reference to a bathroom of any kind, the term "accident" refers to a shart, squirt, leak or full fledged load being released where it shouldn't have been. In most cases, one's undies.

If this door were abnormally heavy, (it isn't), I might be able to make a case for such a sign in that if one were rushing to the bathroom with a turtle head pokin' out, said person would not want to quickly yank on something that is unexpectedly weighty. That would surely cause the deuce to drop in the ol' pantaloons. On that note, the same action could very well cause one to be standing in a puddle of warm urine.

A "bathroom accident" upon opening a door to quickly might also be caused by a person in a scary mask, hiding behind the wall opposite the door. I can assure you, however, that in a professional setting such as this, people in scary masks are quite uncommon, let alone ones that are hiding behind doors, literally waiting to scare the shit and/or piss out of you.

All I'm saying is that maybe they should have been more specific with the wording. The sign could have very well read, "To avoid hitting someone with the door, please open slowly". Then they wouldn't have some smart alack mocking them on the internet.

Right. Carry on then, and try not to soil yourself. Remember, every day that ends without poop in your pants is a successful and happy day, so heed the sign on the wall. May all of your undies remain dookie-free.

a vague recollection of a harder time

Struck a match and lit a smoke
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.

I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.

Life, Tetris, and beating Gunnar at Connect Four

There's an old phrase people frequently use about learning something every day. I forget how it goes... but that's beside the point. I bring it up because I'm not sure the people who use (or perhaps more appropriately, abuse) the phrase actually learn anything, ever.

The learning process becomes more difficult as one gets older. It might be because most of us get progressively dumber as the years float by, but I don't think so. I think that life can become stagnant as one begins to "settle down" or become "established". In order to keep learning, we've got to constantly break down the walls we are continually building around ourselves. These walls are commonly known as "comfort zones", and while they certainly are nice and cumfy, they don't do much for us in the way of expanding our minds.

It's not easy to break break down our comfort zones. It takes effort and creativity. It's sort of like playing Tetris, in that pieces of these walls are always falling from the skies of our personal experience, and we've got to find a place to put them. If we organize them correctly, they fit together and eliminate themselves (at least partially). This is known as "getting lines". As time goes by, the pieces begin to fall faster and faster, making it more difficult to get lines. If we do not make an effort to keep up the pace, the pieces will stack up too high, and our learning experience grinds to a halt. It is at this point that people begin to listen to Kenny G, and recognize it as good music.

There are some cheat codes in this game of Tetris though. Ways to get a bunch of lines at a time when the walls start to get too high. It sounds easy, but it's surprisingly difficult to do. You have to scare yourself. I don't mean "scare yourself" as in ask a friend to hide behind something then suddenly jump out at you when you least expect it. Neither do I mean to insinuate that we should watch scary movies, or read Edgar Allan Poe stories late at night in creepy old mansion estates. I mean, think of something in life that scares you, then do it.

I used to hate parallel parking, and would therefore avoid it at all cost. It wasn't until I tried scaring myself that I learned to do it, and do it well. Not only did I make myself parallel park, but I made myself do it on busy streets. I know to some of you, that doesn't sound scary at all, in fact, you probably think I'm a giant douche now. There was a time in my life however, that it scared the piss outta me. Don't judge. Some of you are probably afraid of spiders. I'm not judging you (ha ha! wimp!) but I am suggesting that you make an effort to collect one. A big ol' scary one. Or, if you see one in your home, instead of smashing it or drowning it in a smoking puddle of dangerous poison, try to get it in a dixie cup and put it gently outside. Maybe even study it a little before you let it go peacefully on it's way. Look it up on the internet, find out what species it is and it's habits etc. You might be surprised to find that this will give you a shit load of lines, and you'll probably beat your previous "high score".

Thinking of new ways to scare yourself isn't easy either. Most of us can probably come up with one or two scary things right off the bat, but if you try this technique often, (which I enthusiastically recommend) you'll probably run out of ideas pretty quickly. The trick is to listen to your emotions, even when they're acting retarded. If you're out and about, for instance, and notice a member of the opposite sex checkin' you out, go over there and say howdy. I know that's not terrifying, but the great majority of you would be lying if you said it didn't make you a little nervous. It doesn't have to go anywhere. It doesn't have to mean anything. Just do it to scare yourself.

You may not realize it right away, but each time you're successful in doing something nerve wracking, you're learning something. Or maybe it's more accurate to say you're growing. You see, the higher the Tetris walls get, the more they impede your progress, and subsequently, the more difficult it is to grow as an individual.

I do understand that some of us are naturally better at Tetris than others, and those individuals may not need to utilize the "frighten yourself" cheat code as often as others. Those people are called "scientists" or "doctors" (not doctors of the medical variety, necessarily, but with PhD's). Ironically enough, those individuals are already predisposed to liking Kenny G, and are therefore beyond help. They can still benefit from growing as an individual though, even if only socially or emotionally.

I also understand that Tetris fucking cheats. Ask anyone who's ever played. There are times in life when you've got a solid wall built and it's poised to crumble down like those of Jericho at a jazz festival, but the piece you need (usually a long, straight bar) just isn't falling. In this instance, you must breathe deeply and relax. The bar will fall. Just be patient. And whatever you do, don't throw the controller. If you bust that, you'll have to play with the the "player 2" controller, and we all know you spilled beer all over it and the buttons stick, rendering it all but useless. Besides, when the bar finally does come, you'll get four lines simultaneously. This is called "a Tetris", and is worth a shitload of points. Sweet success!

This Tetris metaphor reminds me to let everyone know that even though my girlfriend is beautiful AND bright, I always kick her ass when we play in 2 player vs mode. Also, I can easily annihilate both of my brothers at almost any video game, not the least of which is Tetris. Just so you know. Oh, and one more thing. I LET Gunnar win at Connect Four. I could've beat him easily, but I felt bad since he was the one who actually made the trophy. Here he is posing with it, and feeling like it was a legitamate victory:



Keep on keepin' on.