Shot in the Back

Now that this blog has been updated into a semi-monthly bulletin, I am happy to inform you that my buddy--the one with the life-threatening heart attack--is doing just fine.  I saw him the other day at an Easter get-together.  He was happily taking part in the biscuits and breakfast pizza (it was a sunrise service, which makes me wonder if Jesus would have even bothered getting out of the tomb if He knew he would be subjected to nutrient-deficient breakfast foods.  Though I guess he could just turn it all to bread and wine), and apparently he got a girlfriend a month or so back, so that's all good.

The heart attack?  Brought on by a buttload of sausage and ice cream, apparently.  Although I just had a buttload of chow mein and turkey for dinner, and you don't see me clutching at my chest.  Now, my stomach, yeah, a little bit, because dinner sometimes fights back.

Of course, he's kind of a small guy, which makes me wonder if he just isn't used to his food fighting back.  He didn't really go into detail about what the doctor said, and I didn't ask, so for all I know, House and his team were using the stethoscope all wrong.

Note:  I have never heard or read such obsessive use of the word "butt."

Back From the Abyss

...Kinda.

Does this video stretch out past the blog.  Let's see.

Nope.  Good.

Oh, and I guess it's not a "video" so much as an album cover with music playing over it.

Please don't tell the pastor at my local church that I've been listening to this.

Back From the South Side of Chicago

It occurs to me that I might seem like a bit of a jerk for not posting any updates, much less anything about that buddy who had a heart attack.  The most I can tell you, is that he's still on Facebook (he checked in some time a couple of days ago).

This, of course, should also tell you how much I've so much as even looked at Blogger for the past week or so.  The truth is, I've had a case study to work on for a while, so that has to take priority.

Note:  He's missing his spleen.  Is that important?

Remind me to do Evangelion some time...

An interesting read on two Genre Busting gentlemen, one Alan Moore (the creator of "Watchmen" and a giant in the comic book industry) and Hideaki Anno (the creator of...you know what?  Remind me to do a Brewhaha review on Evangelion some time...)

(No, seriously.  If I don't do an Evangelion review in the next few weeks, just shoot me.  In the back.)

As for that buddy I mentioned in my last post?  The last he said, he was back home.  I'm not sure whether to be worried or relieved that he was released from the hospital.  Beyond that, that's all I can tell you.

eXCLclamation pOINrts and Quesiton MARKS

Have you ever wound up looking for AAA's for your cheap MP3 player, and then it turns out you got AA's by accident?  Yeah, that guy was me.

Have you ever forgotten your pay check and then rushed to the office to get it over a week later?  Yeah, that employee was me.

Have you ever just put off your FAFSA for about one or two months, and then not been able to find your pay stubs when it comes time to estimate your income for the year?  Yeah, that potential perjurer looking at the possibility of jail time was me.

Have you ever gotten a heart attack about ten or twenty years too early?

Don't worry, that last one isn't me.  The bad news, it still happened to a buddy of mine from youth group.  It was a minor heart attack, but it was bad enough that he had to wait in the emergency room.  For almost three hours.  (Because when you get to the ER, they'll either have the decency to rush you in, or the decency to make you wait for a better part of your day.)

I'm talking to him on Facebook chat right now.  He says he's on a couple of medications, including an inhaler.  Nobody knows how it happened, but needless to say, I'm going to be watching the salt content in my own food out of pure, unadulterated fear.  And as always, he will be in my prayers.

And now, some YouTube junk.



Yes, from the show that taught us to toss our fridges out the door if it attacks us, it's "Tank"  "TANK!"

Social Animals

First of all, I probably need to mention that I am not anti-love, I am not anti-romance, and I am emphatically not anti-wedding.  As some of my posts would indicate, nothing could be further from the truth.  At heart, I am nothing more than a hopeless romantic.

Still, something has recently come to my attention.  Specifically, the quality of our weddings.  Specifically, the quality of our wedding receptions.  Specifically, the quality of wedding receptions organized and put on by very close friends of my family.

I can't believe it needs to be said, in this country, in this day and age, that your music sucks.  Your music sucks beyond words.  Your music sucks so much, so hard, that it wouldn't be out of place in your local red light district.

Or, specifically, the music at wedding receptions sucks.  Or, more specifically, the music put on by very close "family friends" of mine at their wedding receptions sucks.

I'm supposed to almost be an adult now.  I believe I fall into that much-sought demographic known as the young adult.  So I should be able to get past the thought of my aunts and uncles, my grand-parents, my mom, and both of my dads, some nice old ladies from church, all rushing to the dance floor and shaking their "thangs" to Def Leppard or Toby Keith or "Play That Funky Music White Boy," and then getting to talk with other "friends of the family" for about four hours while I sit around texting some friends, and then they try to talk me into getting off the phone with my friends and dancing with grandma for maybe one or two songs, and at the end of the night they're all drunk and I end up the designated driver.

Somehow, though, I can't get past that.  It might be a generational thing, or it might just be I'm not a family man.  Or, for that matter, much of a man at all.

A lot of my general resentment with weddings comes from just not being the life of the party.  See, even at wedding receptions, there are bound to be some chicas there (not that I resent the title of a one-woman man, but still).  The problem is that there's a certain social dissonance with trying to pick up chicks while Mom and Pop are about two feet away.  Not that one should be going to weddings with the express intent of trying to pick up chicks (I'm look at you two tools), but if such an opportunity were to present itself, having to worry about the approval of Mommy dearest makes it that much harder.

It's not rocket science, really.  It's just...well, it's more like brain surgery, I guess.  Possibly the brain surgery of one social animal Homo sapien.  Specifically, one very obtuse and stubborn Homo sapien who is still caught between a rock and a hard place.

This really doesn't have anything to do with my relationship woes.  It's more like me feeling like a fish out of water at a very recent wedding reception.  It was for someone at my church.  She has just married someone I used to have classes with in high school.  And I'm happy for both of them.  They're both very nice people, and they seem right for each other.  The groom gave me a Swiss Army Knife as a gift for helping out with the ceremony.  (I did some ushering.  I wasn't really an "usher," but I helped direct the flow of guests in and out, and I videotaped, so I guess it counts.)  It'll be nice when I travel to the south side of Chicago this weekend.

Weddings are a beautiful thing.  It shows the joining of two souls who have vowed to love and nurture each other for the rest of their lives.  There is nothing so sacred and so meaningful as giving one's heart to someone they truly cherish.

It's just.  The receptions.  Always.  Suuuuuck.

Just a word of advice:  If you should ever get married (and I hope you do), avoid country music.  And whatever "white boy" plays that funky music.  And ninety-percent of the stuff from the eighties (Queen is still more than acceptable though).  And, as a rule of thumb, anything that's been playing way too much on your local radio station.

And if you go to a party like that, bring at least one or two friends you wouldn't be embarrassed to start dancing in front of.

Linkage Overload

So there's this guy, he's been gone for spring break, so he hasn't been able to blog as much as usual.  (Four posts a month for the Brewhaha, and eight posts for this blog, that's how I roll).  So he goes to check back in and post some new stuff, and wouldn't you know it, his videos are all messed up.

See, he has a couple of videos for Phil Davison (who is the most greatest communicator of our time), and this one video with that teeth-scratchingly annoying guy who keeps chiming in on your date, and another video which demonstrates a more drastic male interest in feminine products than most people would consider healthy.

So he logs on for the first time since spring break started, and he scrolls down to check the videos real quick, and through some sort of glitch while logging on, it turns out they're all mixed up.  So in his discussion of Phil Davison, it also looked like Davison endorsed the Trojan vibrator for women.  And in the post discussing how annoying third wheels can be, one could see the video of Davison's presidential ad, originally posted along with the original Davison video.

So which video replaced the original Phil Davison video?  None of them.  Because nothing can replace the magnetic, roaring, prepubescent voice and feral, nigh-animalistic gaze of Minerva's greatest Republican county treasurer's employee between the years of 2000 and 2010.

They're all back in their usual spots now, though.  Which is a shame.  Because I want to see Phil Davison endorse Trojan vibrators.  "Drastic orgasms require WHAT?  DRASTIC VIBRATORS, YES!!!  WHO SAID THAT!?  THANK YOU!  DRASTIC ORGASMS REQUIRE DRASTIC VIBRATORS!!!"

"Et Tu, Henriques?"

"Facebook Diaper Food Ends in Kamisha Williams's Fatal Stabbing"

I think I facepalmed before I had even finished reading the title for this article.  I don't think I was even halfway through reading the damn title, and I was already thinking, "This is going to be really stupid, so I should put down the pencil in my hand before I stab myself in the face."  I could actually sense a few seconds into the future, and realized this was going to be inexcusably, unbelievably stupid.

Basically, Richards lent $20 to her friend Kayla Henriques so she could buy some diapers for her 11-month-old son, only to find out Henriques had spent the money on...hell, I don't know, Ramen.  Williams confronted Henriques...on Facebook, demanding her money.  The argument continued over the course of the day, with Richards finally boasting that she would have the last laugh.  Henriques replied, "We will see."

Sadly, there could be only one foreseeable outcome.  Richards confronted Henriques at her house, and they took their argument into the kitchen, where, after Williams presumably informed the latter of her rights as a creditor, Henriques took a knife and stabbed her.

17-year-old Richards is a junior at the local high school.  So, already, things aren't looking good for her.  Still, even as a teen mother, she definitely could have gotten somewhere as long as she hadn't gone and stabbed someone.  Over twenty dollars.  Of course, we'll never know the details of the actual physical fight which led up to the stabbing, but still...

A Night Out With Thor

This guy is officially awesome.  I'd have the video up on my actual blog, but I get quite sick and tired of seeing all those elongated YouTube videos stretching over to the right side of my screen, so instead I'm just going to link it right...about...here.

Suffice to say, though, that's some badass drumming.  Presumably, those hands and those drumsticks in his hands were blessed by Thor himself.  Presumably, they were blessed by Thor after our drummer in question gave the Norse god of thunder a profound ass-kicking.  And made him pay for a night at the local pub, or bar, or whatever it is you Americans call it.

Oh, and if you're wondering why I haven't been posting many new posts lately, I've been busy.  And you say, "Well, wait, Brewsky, how busy are you that you can post some schmuck in a band from YouTube, but you can't discuss, say, all those teachers that were fired?"  And I say, "Well, writing a decent, halfway-informed post like that takes time, and since I don't work with any major news networks, I actually have to take the time to compile such information and compose it in a professional manner.

"Plus, well, just look at that guy.  He's not just killing those drums, he's slaughtering them and dancing on their graves.  He is eviscerating them and then hanging them from the trees as a warning to unwary travelers not to play bongo drums in his presence.  While wearing their intestines as a scarf."

Note:  The opinions of The Brewsky do not represent Blogger.com's views on Norse mythology, America, major news, or the families of those whose intestines are currently being used as scarves.  If you have been offended, we apologize.

He's Comin'

This guy's got my vote.

He has quite the Bill Murray quality to his voice, whenever he emotes.  It's a good thing he spoke up for that crowd of about ten or twenty people.  You can tell he has that Master's in Communications.

Btw, have you seen his ad for the Presidency?



YEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

Soo-WEET!!!

Saw this on TV several times over the past couples of days.  Evidently, there's some kind of vibrator, which the main character's boyfriend finds out about.



Words escape me right now.

Does YOUR Computer Have a Virus?

Well, apparently, mine did.

So I'm on my computer Friday night, and seeing as how I try to keep the Brewhaha updated at least every week, I thought quietly to myself, "You know what, I should upload a review of that one Jim Carrey movie where he has to be unintentionally funny instead of intentionally annoying."  So I got my review for "The Truman Show" all typed up and ready to go, and I log on, and as soon as I try to get on to one of my blog pages, I get this error message saying:

"Warning:  Blocked by Sonic Wall.  Trojan Horse 666 #id Slash Delete Bleach Your Mind!  Impending Terror Imminent!  Consult your physician now!"

After I got a hold of my doctor, he told me I should go to the Blogger Help forum.  So I went there, and they told me I needed to get a hold of the company responsible for putting up the firewall (since Google evidently doesn't do that).

With this in mind, I went to bed.  Because it was late, and I told myself I could do it the next morning.  I logged back in and tried to get on my blog page, and lo and behold, the firewall was gone.

It's amazing what sleep can accomplish, isn't it?  It relieves stress, strengthens your immune system, and protects your PC from Trojan viruses.

100 Things?

So, needless to say, despite my promised quota of about nine posts a month (including dumb old YouTube videos and all), it's been kind of a busy month with school and work and all this random take-home paperwork I've got now, and I've fallen a bit behind schedule.

For anyone out there who blogs, or writes articles, or really just writes anything in general, have you ever had one of those days where you had a good idea, and you tell yourself you just have to write about it?  And then you have one of those days where you sit down to right about it, but you completely forget what on earth you were planning on writing?

Well, luckily that didn't quite happen with me, because there are too many people on the Internets who won't let me forget it.

Apparently, even in our ultra-capitalist, disgustingly-materialistic society, there are some brave souls out there willing to go without.  This is all part of the unofficial "100 Things or Less" challenge, where those brave souls have to give (or sell, or throw) away all but a hundred of their material possessions.

This craze started with Dave Bruno, an online "entrepreneur" and guy who writes stuff, who issued the 100 Thing Challenge to himself one summer when he realized he couldn't quite get into the kitchen without having to stop the hundredth pair of shoes from falling on his head.  Having finally developed some sort of averse allergic reaction to the mess his house had become, he now keeps a running tally of his personal inventory, and is "is so averse to excess he can't refer to 100 things in the plural."  In other words, he's exactly the kind of guy you wanna go drinking with.

In fact, the last I checked (about eight minutes before posting this), he and his wife were poised to sell their house.  Hardcore.

Now, I'm not saying you should just go and sell all of your possessions (although a good friend of mine might say that).  I'm even not saying you should go and sell half of your possessions (though, again, a certain friend of ours immortalized in the book of Esther might beg to differ, and half seems like a nice, round number to work with).  And frankly, keeping track of your possessions for the sole purpose of tallying them and obsessing over a quota is less healthy than letting them accumulate to begin with.

But let's just play a little game for the fun of it, and see how many random things are right in front of you right now.  Since I'm a non-homeless person sitting at my computer in my dorm, I'm assuming you are also sitting at your own computer right now, or at least sharing a computer with a spouse, a roommate, or possibly your parents.


Right now, just at a glance at my desk, I see:

My laptop (obviously)
HP All-in-One printer/scanner/copier (for the multi-taskers out there)
A stack of paper for my printer
A stack of papers on top of my printer (obviously that "paperwork" I was discussing)
My stapler
Pencil sharpener
Pair of scissors from grade school (back before The Brewsky had come into his own)
Some receipts I should probably throw out
A couple of pens (2)
Some pencils (3)
My MP3 player
An eraser (again, from grade school)
Post-It note reminding me about my date
Ticket stub for "True Grit" (which I may or may not be able to deduct as a business expense)
The Emerson MP3 player my buddy gave me the other day
School notepad



Now, as for the stuff inside my desk?  Well...

The drawer stuffed full of receipts I need to balance my check book (I use my debit card a lot)
The flashing orange USB plug police light deals my blog buddy gave me...oh, just look here
A case study for one of my classes
Some folders (3)
School planner
Batteries
Some box for a Christmas gift I got (audio recorder, I think)
First aid booklet (for my other job helping Hannibal and the guys get out of sticky situations)
Roll of quarters
The Essential Writings and Speeches of Martin Luther King, Jr.
The Watchmen comic book graphic novel
A Coca-Cola worksheet for one of my business classes
Some article from MercuryNews.com about "keeping the peace at the holiday dinner table" (I should keep that for next year, just to be safe)
More printer paper
Plastic bag from Wal-Mart
An old, presumably broken...yep, it's broken...candy cane
A bottle of bubbles
The Christmas bag the above two items came in when a friend of mine gave them to me
Bag and receipt from the campus bookstore



Now, as for the stuff on the floor right by my desk...

My school notebook
Laundry bag (any clothes you would need for, say, maybe a couple of days, counts as one item)
Underwear (again, all one item--all of it)
Novelization version of the Iron Man film (spoiler:  There is no "icing problem.")
Some old textbooks (2)
An old school notebook  (What can I say?  Our school bookstore is generous.)
Backpack
Briefcase for my laptop



Across the room?

Laundry basket full of clothes (let's just say that's what I wear for about a week and be done with that)
Quart of oil
Some files (5...or 6?  Yeah, go with 6.)
Two old backpacks (the books ripped through them like paper.  Well, paper processed and held in a hardback by ridiculously profitable textbook companies.)
Plastic silverware (technically that would make it something other than silverware, but whateve)
Shirts on hangers (I'll be a sport and count all 9 of them, including the flannel)
ID tag for the state Thespian festival
Winter coat
Beach towel
Graduation cap and gown (assuming I graduate this term)



Over by my dresser...

Pretzels (2 different brands, so that counts as two)
Can of soup
Shampoo
Soap
Lotion (What?  It gets cold this time of year.  And my hands always dry out anyway.)
Purex washer/dryer sheets (the kind you can use for both detergent and as fabric softener)
Hydrocortisone or some kind of cream
Tickets for a local play (2)
Air freshener
Electric razor
Hair gel
Toothbrush and toothpaste (frankly, it's better to count hygiene items as one)
Ramen.  Lots of Ramen.
Noodles and Sauce.  Lots of Noodles and Sauce.
Box of popcorn
Book I need to start reading



On the stand for my TV, there is...

A TV (go figure)
DVD for Season 1 of "Bleach"
DVD for Season 2 of "Bleach" (I should start watching that)
DVD for "(500) Days of Summer"
DVD for the South Park movie
DVD for "The Simpsons" Season 1
Alarm clock
Bottle of soap
Post-It notes

Oh, I think I just hit exactly 100 right here.



And finally, just over by my bed, we have...

Green chair from home
The box for my printer
More (MORE!!??) textbooks (2)
Couple of sweaters (read: 2)
Winter jacket
Plastic bags (3, at a glance)
Cap from the Hard Rock Cafe of Minneapolis
A Confederacy of Dunces (which I seriously need to finish)
Mini-fridge
Apples from the cafeteria
3 water bottles
Some fruit punch from the local dollar store
iChill Relaxation Shot
The Dixie cup I use for that punch (drink too much sugar as it is)
Plastic/metal cup to store in heat from that morning coffee (or hot chocolate, or whatever your warm beverage of choice is)
Napkins
Trash can
Roll of paper towels
Blue Bunny bin I use to heat up Ramen with


And I guess I'm supposed to count the bed coverings too.  I'm not counting the bed, though.  That's the school's.



So, by my count, that's...124.

As I recounted, it occurred to me that there were a few things I was missing.  For instance, 1 "DVD" may refer to a pack of 4 or 5 DVD's with about 3 or 4 episodes each.  And I never bothered to check my backpack, or any of the files or folders.  Plus, there's also the...yes, the multiplug extension cords I use, and...one plastic bag full of cans and bottles that need returned.

But yes, I'm guessing that I could throw out a lot of this stuff.  If not half, than definitely at least enough to put me down to 100 items.

Of course, if you're not a college student like me, then you probably have a lot more stuff to throw out.  In which case...well, good luck with that, I guess.

Note:  The Brewsky acknowledges that 100 items is a relatively arbitrary quota to go by when getting rid of stuff.  Remember to properly dispose of all of your items, or else you could risk getting fined by the city.  And, as always, remember that when you get rid of one priceless, mint-condition Han Solo action figure, another poor sap will just buy it.  It's the blind leading the blind, the cycle that never ends.  The...ugh...Dark Side of the Force, if you will.

The Third Wheel

So there I was, on a date at T.G.I. Fridays.  I'm finally getting over that whole fiasco with the last girl.  This one is someone I used to know from high school.  She's kind of lonely, just needs someone to talk to.  I'm more than happy to oblige.

I don't know what's going to happen.  She's nice and all, she's fun to talk with, she's not unattractive.  Who knows what could happen at the end of the night?  We're just having a fun night, the way two kids should.

Then this happens.



GTFO, whoever you are.  And since when is my date any of your business?  "Hey, bud, date's going great!"

Listen, first you barge in here, taking my date's seat.  And then you're all like, "Hey, your date would want you to eat this.  And this.  Hey, I've got an idea, let's look at the menu together!"

Listen, guy, if I get angry at my own mom whenever she so much as absent-mindedly suggests, "Hey, don't chicken nuggets sound great," why would I give one chicken's derriere what you would want me to eat for dinner?  Who do you think you are, some kinda chef or something?

And then, you're all like, "Show her you like new things."

The hell is that supposed to mean?  I mean, we used to go to high school together, but I barely know this chick.  I don't even think...of her...like that.  She's my freaking rebound girl.  Stuff like...sex...has barely even crossed my mind, and now you're trying to warn me, "Hey, you should try that thing you've never tried before."

And then let's not forget that time you decided to go to dinner with me.  As if that wasn't awkward enough, you ask me what I wanna get, and then you're like, "Don't answer, I know what we're gonna get."

You dick.  Listen, if that line didn't work with your actual girlfriend, it's definitely not gonna work with me.  Especially after you ruined my last date.  C'mon, I barely know you.

Oh, yeah, and have fun with that game show of yours.  How's that going anyway?

Note:  Sure, "My Secret Girlfriend" was terrible, but at least this guy wasn't in it.

A Worthy Cause

Oh, my.  How long has it been since I've posted?

Between work, school, and various personal matters (including TV Tropes), I have been prevented from posting on a regular basis the past week or so.  Ever since they upped my hours and gave me some extra work to do around the office, it seems like I just keep losing track of time.  I'm fast becoming one of those poor, beleaguered "working stiffs."  And all work, no play makes The Brewsky a dull boy.

People have been asking me what I think about the situation in Egypt.  And by people, I mean the one guy I still hang out with on a regular basis, as well as a nice old lady who goes to my church.  And by asking me what I think, I mean they ask something along the lines of, "Have you been watching the news at all?"

I can't say I've been watching the news all that closely.  Whenever I'm around to watch it, I have it on one of the news channels out of some semblance of a mature habit, but I don't watch watch the news, if that's what you're asking.  (Perhaps Fox's strategy isn't entirely beyond the pale.)

In any case, shouldn't our efforts be focused inward?  Despite pleas for a global government, and the immortal call of President Wilson and the U.S. of the twentieth century to reach out and extend to others, our country is fractured, and divided against itself.  And as either President Lincoln or James T. Kirk once said, a house divided against itself cannot stand.  Our own house needs to be attended to before we can worry about anyone else's.

The deficit has ballooned, exploded to the tens of trillions.  Countless Americans are out of work following the financial crisis of 2008 and 2009, with hundreds, if not thousands more, losing their jobs every day.  Unemployment has reached the double digits, and families all over the country are losing hope. 

We have infighting, the result of a two-party system which wishes only to sling mud, while failing to address the problems facing our country.  We have a gilded age where the rich keep getting richer, and the poor keep getting poorer, their jobs shipped overseas and their tax dollars going toward federal bailouts.

Our politicians have done nothing to help.  The Tea Party has been formed in response to deteriorating conditions in this country.  The repercussions of the Bush era and the War on Terror, exacerbated by the current administration and a financial crisis unequaled by any other period in nearly a hundred years, have only served to make things worse.

Americans as a whole are growing dangerously close to a moral, intellectual, and literal bankruptcy, and our way of life cannot be sustained for much longer.  Through a combination of factors such as our education system, our job market, and the actions of the government, we cannot support our own way of life.

Need more proof?  Take a look at some of our nation's finest young women, who have been reduced to attending to our cars in order to make ends meet.

These are Playbunnies.  As in, they work for Playboy.  They are Playboy models.  And they have been reduced to washing cars.

I can't believe it needs to be said, in this country, in this day and age, that models should not be forced to wash cars.





The first thing one notices is the near-absolute lack of clothing.  These fine ladies could have been given professional uniforms for their work, but instead are forced to make do with these bare-bones, two-piece swimsuits, which leave almost nothing to the male imagination.  Only their supposed crew leader is given a uniform, and even she unzips it, possibly as a show of solidarity with her coworkers.

I was surprised by how well-stocked their cleaning station is, though; they seem to have plenty of sponges and cleaning solutions to work with, as well as a steady supply of running water.  So, unlike many car washes, they are seldom forced to use their...er, "human resources" to clean off the car.  Which is good, because the last thing we want to see is them getting completely soaked.

Still, isn't it a shame that these fine Playboy models have been reduced to joining the service industry?

Note:  If you wish to help these young ladies, their phone numbers can be found at this link.  Any support you can give, no matter how small, will be greatly appreciated.

Can You Guess What This "Special" Soldier is Saying?

What the heck is he yelling?

"Live free or die!  AHHHHH!!!"  No, that's not it...

"Live die or free!  AHHHHH!!!"  No, that seems too long...

"Hands on your feet!  AHHHHH!!!"  Seriously, what the heck is he saying?

"We forgot the key!  AHHHHH!!!"

"Read our Tweets!  AHHHHH!!!"

Highest-rated comment?  As you might have guessed, "He must be in 'special' forces."

Which reminds me...

The Great Train Robbery

Okay, it goes without saying that this is just awesome.

Bishnu Shretha, a forty-year-old retired Gorkha soldier in India and presumably an eater of scum like you for breakfast, was on a train which was robbed by, literally, forty thieves.  The robbers were able to stop the train, before entering and demanding the passengers' valuables.

Presumably, Shretha warned them "not to make me angry," but complied with their demands as they pilfered the passengers' pockets.

The criminals then proceeded to strip one eighteen-year-old sitting next to Shretha, preparing to "rape her in front of her parents."  (I feel like if I say that enough times, it'll start to make some warped kind of sense...)  The girl, crying for help, begged our would-be bystander, "You are a soldier, please save a sister."

Recalling the incident, Shretha comments, "I prevented her from being raped, thinking of her as my own sister."

With this, there could be only one outcome.  When it was all send and done, three of them were dead on the spot courtesy of his khukuri, while another eight had been injured and were later taken into custody.  The soldier had injured his hand, but noted, "“They may have feared that more of my army friends were traveling with me and fled after fighting me for around 20 minutes."

Twenty minutes?  And he only lost a hand?

This guy.  Yes.

YouTwits

I can't believe it needs to be said, in this day and age, in this freaking country, that violence against others is a bad, bad thing.  (Especially if it's in honor of those who "kill people and break things" during wartime.)  So of course, when word passed along my extensive line of contacts (re:  the one other guy I hang out with) that a 14-year-old kid had gotten beaten up, you might imagine I had a few choice thoughts.

The victim?  One fourteen-year-old whose name has not been revealed in order to protect him Nadin Khoury, who was assaulted by seven other students near an apartment complex in Upper Darby, a suburb of Philadelphia.  Not to profile the perps, but all of them were part of an alternative school program at Upper Darby High School.  Only two of them had any sort of criminal record (although one of the idiots suspects caught on camera had two previous charges of assault).

I'll spare you the details, since anyone can pull a Google or click on my magic links to read about the incident, but here's a quick breakdown:  They ganged up on him, pinned him down, spent at least a minute (out of the twenty-minute scuffle) kicking him in the chest, stuff him in a tree, and finally hung him by the hood of his jacket from a wrought-iron fence.

In case you're wondering, no, the kid never actually did anything to them.  This was simply bullying at its finest.

The bad news?  Nobody thought to help him.  Nobody was around to call 911.  Well, except for the woman caught on camera who basically looks the other way and walks away from the scene while he's calling for help.  As you can imagine, this was the "bystander effect" at its absolute finest.

The good news?  It was caught on camera.  Because our youngest generation is the brightest generation ever, one of them was standing there with a video camera, taping the whole damn thing, so they could post it online at their convenience and gloat about it to their classmates.  Presumably, this is the latest, hippest e-trend in cyber-bullying, which police all over the world are calling "YouTwit".

Of course, my forte, my raison d'être, is in the comments section for articles such as these, where emotion-driven dialogues and reactionary rhetoric are the name of the game, and yahoos like me can post compelling arguments such as "Fine the Parents $2000.00 each," "I say $10,000 and make them (and their child) do community service," and the classic line, "kids these days need their ass beat."  Because nothing solves violence like more violence.  (Just ask Batman.)

Of course, in situations like these, "Then you have the drugs."  Granted, they might have been a gang, but why does everyone always assume it has to be drugs?

Look, kids like violence.  And kids like being in groups.  Unfortunately, violence is bad.  And, by the transitive property, "groups" ---> "violent gangs".  It's a match made in hell, and trying to solve these problems with strictly punitive measures isn't going to fix anything.

I can only pretend to understand these situations insofar as I'm a violence-loving fourteen-year-old driven by mob mentality.  It's true that parenting plays a role, but let's face it, parents also have to compete with pop culture--specifically, a pop culture which glorifies violence.  I know that's a weak excuse, but I say this as someone who loves TV and movies--especially the violent ones (while being pretty ambivalent around all three of my parents).

You know what the solution to this is?  (Well, besides taking their phones, hanging them from a fence, and seeing how they like it?)  Community service.  Just...community service.  And a written apology to the victim, stating what exactly they did wrong and just how sorry they are.

And if that doesn't work.  They'll go to jail.  Actually, I believe that's how our justice system works.  Except they'd need a third strike anyway.  Which leads me to believe the guy with two assault strikes on his sheet is about to get put away, even if he is only 14 years old.  Frankly, it's been a while since I took those classes on Assault and Battery in the City of Brotherly Love.

Speaking of which, where's Charlie and the gang when you need them?

Note:  Probably dead by now.  Hopefully dead by now...

A Wicked Plan Born of BIG HUGS!

Somehow, this should be made into an actual TV show.

Seriously, whose idea was that creepy baby in the sun?  As if Teletubbies bouncing to death metal isn't enough of a mind fuck...

Toppling the Food Pyramid

First of all, I'm curious about who on earth honestly likes breakfast pizza.

To be fair, things like eggs, bacon, and sausage are really good respectively.  And pizza is absolutely awesome on its own.  So how is it that you can put those two things together, and, as Jim Gaffigan once said, it's just "nasty crap"?

Yes, breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but it's seldom one we enjoy.  And for good reason.  Because when we think of a good, "healthy" breakfast, we seldom think of the official deities of the food pyramid--your fruits, veggies, and grains, if you will (assuming Michelle Obama hasn't done away with the pyramid altogether).  We think of pyramids made out of pancakes, lathered with butter and adorned with grease-covered meats cut straight from the hog's ass itself.

Yes, I do realize my choice of language is nausea fuel.  Why do you ask?

Breakfast, contrary to its firmly-entrenched perch at the start of our day, is the excrement of our three square meals.  Nowhere is this more apparent than in such choice "meals" as the breakfast pizza, which I had the unpleasant experience of being given this morning.  It was a boxed pizza which a buddy picked up from our local gas station.  One could see the grease stains on the box when we went to grab our slices, meaning it had all the nutritional value of regular pizza with none of the redeeming qualities, such as the sauce, the cheese, the pepperoni, and...really, that's about all I actually like about pizza.

Unfortunately, this sub-par class of food seems to have a Stalin-esque hold over any meals we might order before 11:00.  Think I'm wrong?  Then tell me, why can't you order a decent burger or fries at your McDonald's before 11:00?  (I could be wrong, considering Adam Sandler couldn't seem to get his Hot Cakes and Sausage after 10:30 or so.)  Why is it that our fast food restaurants are monopolized by such monstrosities as breakfast menus when you first wake up?  Why is it that I ended up having to smell the Egg McMuffin on the classmate sitting behind me for the better part of an hour?

If it makes you feel better, I haven't totally dismissed breakfast just yet.  I've taken to eating an apple every day when I first get up.  (That, and maybe a Dixie cup's worth of pop.  Hey, I gotta wake up somehow.)  If you're curious about that exercise routine of mine, it's been relegated to an "every-other-day" schedule.  Because, every other other day, it's a pain doing so much as waking up in the morning.  I don't know what's going to happen to my desire to exercise once I start going to work every day at 8 o'clock.

*Edit:  Amy Chua on the Colbert Report right now.  Should probably be watching that instead of typing this.

Note:  That link to the Adam Sandler video has a really bad cuss word in it.  As in, one of the big seven words you shouldn't...you clicked on it already, didn't you?  You unbelievable jackhammer doglicker.

Hide The Kids...

Apparently the "blogosphere" has been abuzz discussing the whole "Tiger Mom" situation, which means I probably need to say something.

The uproar started with a Wall Street Journal article featuring Amy Chua, titled, "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior."  The article consists of an excerpt--or supposedly, an "extract"--from her new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom.

The article emphasizes the difference between us lazy, Wii-obsessed, fast-food-loving Americans and our feel-good, New Age parents, and Chinese/Korean/just generally Asian parents, who are achievement-oriented and work their kids like drill instructors to get them into Yale.  In fact, the enclosed passage speaks for itself:

"Here's a story in favor of coercion, Chinese-style. Lulu was about 7, still playing two instruments, and working on a piano piece called 'The Little White Donkey' by the French composer Jacques Ibert. The piece is really cute—you can just imagine a little donkey ambling along a country road with its master—but it's also incredibly difficult for young players because the two hands have to keep schizophrenically different rhythms.

"Lulu couldn't do it. We worked on it nonstop for a week, drilling each of her hands separately, over and over. But whenever we tried putting the hands together, one always morphed into the other, and everything fell apart. Finally, the day before her lesson, Lulu announced in exasperation that she was giving up and stomped off.  'Get back to the piano now,' I ordered.  [...]

"Back at the piano, Lulu made me pay. She punched, thrashed and kicked. She grabbed the music score and tore it to shreds. I taped the score back together and encased it in a plastic shield so that it could never be destroyed again. Then I hauled Lulu's dollhouse to the car and told her I'd donate it to the Salvation Army piece by piece if she didn't have 'The Little White Donkey' perfect by the next day. When Lulu said, 'I thought you were going to the Salvation Army, why are you still here?'

"I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn't do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic.  [...]

"I used every weapon and tactic I could think of.  We worked right through dinner into the night, and I wouldn't let Lulu get up, not for water, not even to go to the bathroom. The house became a war zone, and I lost my voice yelling, but still there seemed to be only negative progress, and even I began to have doubts."

Forever plastered on the article page is a choice selection from the comments section, as one James Post states, "I am in disbelief after reading this article."  Another wonderful piece of dialogue is given to us by Diron Tappin, who writes, "Parenting is the only thing people do once or twice and think they are an expert at it." 

Critics, while obviously voicing their concerns about Chua's parenting methods, have also begun debating the notable racial differences in academic performance, especially with a growing number of Asians enrolling in top schools.

In response to all of this, Sophia Chua-Rubenfeld, one of Amy's daughters and supposedly traumatized tiger cubs, wrote a letter in the New York Times to her mother while retaliating against her critics.  She takes a moment to clear the air by telling everyone that a lot of what we read in the Journal article was...well, a joke. 

Because, you see, when an Asian woman jokes about driving her daughter to starvation and near-insanity over piano lessons, us dumb, uneducated, bar-hoppin', NASCAR-racing, Twitter-addicted Americans have no sense of humor beyond fart and boob jokes, and we're all gonna hide the kids, hide the wives, and hide the husbands while we call the cops on her.  (While I'm still on this train of thought, I wonder how many "wives" and "husbands" are police...oh, crap...)

Sophia's letter to the editor goes on to say that while "having you as a mother was no tea party," she also admits that her Tiger Mama's tough love made her the strong, independent young woman she is today, and at the end of the day, they're all still family.

It probably needs to be said that both articles may or may not have been planted by someone other than the supposed author.  Much in the same way that Jerry Springer gives us supposedly "random" audience members telling their latest neo-Nazi guest's sister (and wife) to "COVER UP FO' I THROW UP!", this article may or may not have been planted by...

Go ahead, guess!

...by Fox.  Yes, freaking Fox.  They're at it again.

According to one article on OriginalSpin.com, Rupert Murdoch (or a close associate of his, at the least) copy-pasted the most questionable lines from Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother into the Wall Street Journal article, resulting in...well, that clusterfuck of parenting literature I just copy-pasted above.  Now this is probably just hearsay, but the source of the article's source's source says that this whole monstrous affair can be traced to "the very top" of the hierarchy of News Corp, which owns both the Journal and the New York Post.

Granted, Occam's Razor states that there is no substitute for human stupidity, nor is there a more likely alternative than someone from another country--or at least presumably a second or third-generation immigrant--failing to appreciate the cultural nuances of child-rearing, or make note of a simple thing like child abuse rubbing us dumb Americans the wrong way.

Unless, of course, we simply go by the old adage that Fox is evil.  And, by the transitive property, so is its owner.

Note:  The opinions of the Brewsky do not represent those of Fox News or its affiliates.  And, frankly, neither does the prospect of a 16-year-old girl writing a letter to her mother in the New York Times.  Seriously, who does that?

Head On; Show Directly on NBC

Brian Williams, I have no clue what's going on here!
Brian Williams, I have no clue what's going on here!
Brian Williams, I have no clue what's going on here!

Brian Williams can be seen weeknights at 6:30/5:30C on the NBC Nightly News nationwide.

Thumbs Up for Justice

In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr., here's a video from...oh, hell, I don't know what this is for.  Honestly, I've just been wanting to post it for a long time, and I realize my timing might be off, but I'm just better off doing it now before I forget.

I think we can all agree that the Reverend would have taken a stance against the rapist in question if he were alive today.

I think he has a real future in music.

You Can Still Work Out By Watching TV (and Otherwise Just Messing Around At Home)!

I'm sure most of you out there made some kind of resolution to ring in the New Year.  Personally, I made several.  First, I made a resolution to keep it real, even if I do work at a gas station for minimum wage and I'm in desperate need of funds to pay off my student loans.  I also made a resolution to stop hitting people; Mom says I should probably just try to be a better person, but I told her, "We've got to do this in baby steps.  It's a New Year's resolution, not a Christmas miracle."

Like many people, I'm also in dire need of exercise.  So I made a New Year's resolution to get into shape, to work off some of those Christmas pounds and get some muscle tone.

Naturally, one starts by trying some light cardio.  Which basically amounts to jogging.  I set aside some time--it could be an hour, a half-hour, twenty minutes--usually when I get up.  The doctor recommends eating a little something before moving into warm-ups and other exercise routines; a full breakfast isn't a great idea, but something like a piece of fruit or a granola bar helps give you the energy you need to wake yo' self up in the morning.

This jogging routine lasted about three days.  Then I moved back into the dorms, where there isn't really any good spot to do warm-ups.  Plus, it's cold as hell outside!  Have you been out there today?  If the temperature is in the single digits, it's a sure sign that you should just stay in bed.

Now, many of you are probably wondering, "Well, doesn't your school have a gym?"  Well, yes, actually it does.  But, again, the doctor says exercises are best accomplished in the morning, right when you first wake up.  Guess which college gym isn't open at seven or eight in the morning.  This is a really, really stupid college.

And then, by the time the gym actually is open, you're either in class, at a newspaper club meeting, hanging out with friends, doing homework, working the crank shaft at the gas station, or eating.  (Or, if you're anything like me, you're watching the same video over and over again...)  Even if I decided to start an exercise routine later in the day, it would mean setting aside that time in the day, needing to get showered later on, and then before you know it, it's time for bed.  And I still have to get showered in the morning (just because).

Luckily, it turns out it's still possible to get a good workout even when you're in bed.  According to WikiHow, you can work the abs not only without having to worry about the technicals of those annoying things called sit-ups, you can also do it without even getting out of bed in the morning.  The trick is to hold your legs up at a slight angle from the bed, with a starting position at a ninety-degree angle.  The linked article goes into more detail about this exercise, but suffice to say, I plan on adding it to my morning routine.

The article, of course, also stresses the importance of a proper diet and additional exercises above and beyond, saying, holding your legs up in bed.  We'll see if that happens any time soon.  Like I said, baby steps.

"I'm Just a Bill"

I'm like a dog.  I have my highs and my lows, but when I have my highs, I'm really high, and when I have my lows, I might as well be in hell.  When I'm happy, I end up chasing cars, chewing endlessly on a bone, or watching the same video over and over and over again.  When I'm sad, I dwell on it, and soon I end up writing something no man was meant to write.

And when I'm mad, I dwell on it, and pretty soon I start hatching a plan to rid the world of this menace known as Republicans (whether through legal means, or through a coup.  Le coup de grâce.).

You might remember some time before Christmas when the Republicans chose to stall a bill meant to aid 9/11 workers suffering from 9/11-related injuries in a desperate and monstrous political ploy to pass the Bush tax cuts.  I mean, it's one thing to argue in favor of...well, anything "Bush"-related.  But more than forty Senators--really, anything more than "zero" Senators is unbelievable--actively decided to keep much-needed medical care from some of our nation's finest heroes.  That takes some balls.

Some issues become apparent in the analysis of the tax issue, though.  The first issue is that nobody really knows what the Bush tax cuts are supposed to accomplish.  I don't know what they're supposed to do.  The Republicans probably don't know what they're supposed to do.  I'm not sure the President knows what the tax cuts are supposed to do. 

The former President (and former Texas rodeo clown) probably doesn't know what the tax cuts were supposed to do either, only commenting if "they woulda called it something other than the Bush tax cuts [...] there'd probably be less angst among some to pass it."  After all, it's not like the Bush tax cuts were actually passed during the Bush administration (unless anywhere between 2000 and 2009 counts).

The main point of contention is the compromise reached between Democrats and Republicans last month, in which the cuts were extended for two more years.  Obama was pushing to extend the cuts for income levels below $200,000 ($250,000 for couples), while Republicans wanted all the cuts to be extended, including everyone above those income levels.  So really, everyone wins!

According to the WhiteHouse.gov, working families experienced $3,000 in revenue which would have otherwise been paid out in income taxes.  (Assuming you can call that "revenue.")  These cuts include a 2% decrease in payroll taxes.  So for a worker earning $60,000 a year, this means an additional $1,200 in "revenue."  And for a worker earning $120,000 a year, this adds up to $2,400 in "revenue"!  And for someone earning a million dollars a year, that spells $20,000 in additional "revenue" dollars!  Just imagine!  Twenty thousand dollars a year (for millionaires)!

The agreement reached on the tax cuts also include breaks on the estate tax.  So, for those of you out there who have stumbled on an inheritance, you'll be seeing more money come in.  The Making Work Pay tax credit, meant to aid families with students enrolled in college, was also lost in the tax legislation during the lame duck session.

The second issue surrounding this whole debacle is, apparently our country has this little thing (if billions of dollars can be considered "little") called a "deficit," which we've wracked up over the years--specifically, the years from 2000 to 2009, when a certain former Texas rodeo clown was running the country.  It's either the Democrats increasing spending, or the Republicans cutting taxes...and increasing spending.  Or, on the ground level, it's either tax breaks for the middle class, or tax breaks for corporations and high-income families. 

It's like having your cake, and eating it too.  Except you can't physically do that.  So instead, we're trying to take what cake we can get while spending cake we don't actually have (usually it's someone else's cake).  And also, we don't get to eat any of it.

The third issue to point out is a matter of logistics--specifically, the logistics of trying to get the approved $4.3 billion enclosed in the James Zadroga bill to the 9/11 workers who need it the most.  Word on the blogosphere--and by "blogosphere" I mean some random commenter I caught the other day, possibly a troll but still not something I want to discount simply because of my political leaning--is that the local level of New York is bogged with corrupt and incompetent officials.  And where corruption and incompetence go, money such as the funds approved for 9/11 workers also magically disappears.  (Unfortunately, Batman is not around to make such corrupt, incompetent officials disappear as well.)

Plus, as more cynical observers might point out, some of that money might also go to faking fakers who are faking being our nation's heroes in order to get that money.  And immigrants.  After all, if they're sick, they should be able to pull themselves up by their own boot straps.

But you know wage earners like them don't do that.  They just pull other people up by their boot straps.  And out of burning buildings.

If you'll excuse me, I need some Prozac in the worst way.

Note:  Consult your doctor before taking any sort of antidepressant.  You should not take Prozac if you are pregnant, over sixty-five, and have a low blood-to-alcohol ratio like The Brewsky does.  Side effects include deck rot, A.D.H.Dead, low tires, and onamonepaeia.

Sticks and Stones

In case you're curious, I did actually run into this piece on Captain Honors yesterday when I was looking up Mind's Eye.  I just didn't really feel like commenting on it.

For those of you who haven't heard, either through Google magic or The Daily Show, the aptly-named Captain Owen Honors has more-or-less been discharged as the captain of the naval vessel U.S.S. Enterprise following an investigation into an offensive series of videos he created using military equipment.  Or, as AOL has taken to calling them, "movies."

One of the videos, which is presumably a commentary on the various "movie nights" Honors has run for his men, can be seen here.  And as I watch it, I wonder quietly to myself, "What's the big freaking deal?"  After some colorful cips (including a retrospective on the F-word, a montage dedicated to masturbation, and a shower scene with...heaven forbid...two chicks!), our captain proceeds to get drowned out by Starship as he disclaims responsibility on the part of his superiors.  Then we get to see...*gasp!*...sailors dancing!?  Well, I never!!

The video then proceeds into the Aerosmith montage glimpsed on the latest episode of Jon Stewart, complete with one of our finest naval officers eating what I can only hope is a Baby Ruth bar out of the toilet.  All of the raunchier stuff is blurred out by The Virginia-Pilot, but featured prominently in the last half of the video is what I can only assume is the captain's pet parrot, before (and after) its suicide attempt.  There are also some chicks in the shower, an...anal exam?...and a special appearance by...Glenn Close!  Say it ain't so!

Frankly, this whole affair warrants far less attention than the media has given it, but one note I'd like to make is that "XO" (which is apparently the name our captain goes by in his videos) speaks through his three multiple personalities, including the douchebag sitting to his right who is apparently straight out of Top Gun.  His use of the word "fag" is therefore representative of his own negative personality traits, much in the same way that the N-word is representative of the negative traits of slave owners.

Which, as you might guess, brings us to the Huckleberry Finn censorship scandal.  In case you haven't heard, NewSouth Books is publishing a school-friendly version of "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," which has excised the over 200 uses of the N-word in place of the word "slave."  Proponents of this move, in addition to considering the use of the N-word to be offensive, also acknowledge that the use of the edited version is a necessary evil in order to reach a larger audience.  Critics point out that not only is this plain and simple censorship, but it renders any honest discussion on the evils of slavery an impossibility.

Notable is one piece on CNN.com by the author of "Black American Money" and a spokesperson for black America, who argues against the use of a word that has such power to hurt:  "Long before I became a scholar, I was a black teenage boy. At that time, I would never have enjoyed hearing my English teacher repeat the n-word 219 times out loud in front of a class full of white students. I also would have wondered why African-Americans are the only ethnic group forced to read "classic" literature that uses such derogatory language toward us in a disturbingly repetitive way.

"Although the brilliance of the Mark Twain novel must be acknowledged, students can and should be engaged in constructive ways to learn what happened to their ancestors without being subjected to racial slurs in the process."

Huh.  You know, as much as I value free speech, I don't know how to tell a black man on the receiving end of the N-word that he's wrong.  And knowing how well we uphold the First Amendment in this country, I don't see this stopping until the edited version of Twain's classic has been made available and has become a staple of cirricula across the country.

One quick note, though.  NewSouth Books is a Montgomery-based publishing company which has given us such titles as "Alabama:  One Big Front Porch", and "The Other Side of Montgomery:  Growing Up White In the Civil Rights Movement."  It's enough to give a guy diabetes, especially considering Rosa Parks could have died on that freaking bus.

Mind's Eye

A group of research teams has been contracted by the military to develop sophisticated, unmanned surveillance and reconnaissance devices.  Specifically, they are trying to computerize ground surveillance, which up until now has been the bread and butter of James Bond.

The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, which has been charged with contracting the research teams, has stressed the importance of such a system, which would require the computerized system to visually process information at the ground level.  They claim to be "addressing this problem with Mind's Eye, a program aimed at developing a visual intelligence capability for unmanned systems."  The research teams include more than a dozen university-based departments, as well as a trio of private companies who are looking into the software required for an "unmanned ground vehicle."

In so many words, the Mind's Eye system would be capable of doing what only humans have been capable of until Ahnold traveled back to before Judgment Day and showed us meatbags how it's done.  Truly something "strait [sic] out of the Terminator movies," its applications include "opening doors and drawers," as well as disarming bombs and tracking moving objects (machine or otherwise).  DARPA has already begun looking into a "perch-and-stare" monitoring system, which entails the creation of self-piloted surveillance devices traveling into enemy territory and monitoring them terroristsumbssobitches.

As you might have guessed, this means we're only a few decades away from this:




Note:  Why is there a little mushroom robot on my screen...oh no.

Good Old Country Kitchen

Have you ever caught someone at the wrong place and the wrong time?  Well, I live with her.

I’ve been staying back at the house for the past couple weeks since getting out of class.  Meaning, I’ve been staying with my mom for the past couple weeks.  Meaning, eventually, I’m going to catch her at the wrong place and time.

Now, we’re both good, God-fearing Christians and all, but we were both raised to despise the Christmas season with a passion.  Mom doesn’t enjoy having to buy presents for every Tom, Dick, and Harry in her extended network of friends, family, co-workers, and the guy who occasionally mows our lawn (he’s built up an immunity to the poison ivy in our yard).  And I’m just not wild about Santa Claus and decorating in general (having built up an immunity to the Christmas spirit the moment I met Santa Claus—if that is his real name).  Neither of us enjoys the icy roads, or the cold weather, or the shuttling between ten different Christmas parties in these icy roads or that cold weather.

I’m assuming this is about the busy holidays we’ve had.  Either that, or the fact that both of our cars have basically broken down.  Or it’s just her time of the month—she had been complaining about cramps.  I don’t really know what this is about, I can only guess at why she snapped.  One thing my ex-girlfriend probably learned in a hurry is that I skipped those classes in Empathy and Charisma, so as you can imagine, it’s easy for me to miss these nuances in the heat of the moment.

It started when I went to the bathroom.  I had gone to Country Kitchen my last meal, as we always do whenever we ring in the new year, or Christmas, or any non-denominational holiday, or whenever we’re really happy, or really sad, or really hungry, or really thirsty, or whenever it’s a nice day, and occasionally when it’s a dark and stormy night, because apparently my extended family makes a hobby out of eating bacon/omelette/chicken/onion/fried/breaded/charbroiled/microwaved sandwiches with people thirty to forty years older than us.  So naturally, I made use of toilet paper and baby wipes.

Now, there are three things to understand.  First, our toilet isn’t the best.  Second, baby wipes aren’t bio-degradable, which I would appreciate our public schools teaching us.  Our teachers instruct and test us on material concerning the Inquisition, or Mark Twain, or geometry, or the chemical number for calcium, or calculus, or the principles of socio-economics, but they can’t teach us things we might need to know in our day-to-day lives.  (And then we wonder why so many kids drop out.)

Mom says that not flushing certain things down the toilet is “common sense.”  But if toilet paper can go down the toilet, then why not hydrated material of similar density?  We know to draw the line at things like logs, or bricks, or asparagus, or blocks of cheese.  Or toys.  (Although a grade school buddy of mine once flushed his sister’s doll down the toilet, not realizing Bikini Barbie might clog it up.)  But who thinks of something as miniscule as wipes not being able to flush?

The third thing to consider is that while we have a trash can in the bathroom, stuff like that will stink up the trash can—and ultimately the bathroom—until our friendly neighborhood garbage man comes.  So, I weighed my options, seesawing between leaving it in the trash can, or flushing it down the all-consuming black hole and being done with it.  Now, I have clogged the toilet before, which is why we make more liberal use of the trash can (or just flush a couple of times in between wipes), but I thought to myself, “What harm could baby wipes possibly do?”

Well, Mom found out when she went in, and then before I know it, I hear, “What the hell did you put in there!!??”

It turns out the all-consuming black hole doesn’t consume all; something as simple as baby wipes can resist its gravitational pull.

Now, I put forth a reasonable argument about the similarities between toilet paper and baby wipes, and how such a misconception concerning the degradability of the latter is inevitable in such circumstances.  But when she asked me why “you didn’t use any fucking common sense,” something about her condescension brought out of me a reply along the lines of “I DIDN’T KNOW!!!”

As you can see above, the number of exclamation points are the degrees from my indoor voice.  Normally I use my indoor voice, and I especially use it around Mom, which probably caught her off guard.  Somehow, though, Mom managed to one-up me, screaming back, “Don’t you yell at me!  Don’t you DARE YELL AT ME!!!!!”

Now, neither of us have really yelled at each other, and I always figured our first actual argument would be over something a bit more important than freaking baby wipes.  However, her above ultimatum triggered in me a need to make my point to an exhausted, car-less, emotionally-disturbed opposite.  Which came out as, “Well, you’re ACTING LIKE IT’S THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!!!!!!111”

Mom finally decided to make an appeal to logic.  Either that, or she was just really, really pissed that “We DON’T HAVE A FUCKING TOILET BECAUSE YOU CLOGGED IT!!!!!!!!!1111111111111111”

And then I remembered, “Oh, right, because we can’t afford a plumber.  Because we’re broke.  Because our cars both need fixed.  And we can’t leave this God forsaken house.”

Needless to say, the whole experience has left a bitter taste in my mouth.  She apologized, and I apologized, because we both realized how stupid it was and how we let our tempers get the better of us.

She also made some chicken noodle soup for supper.  Naturally, I’m not all that hungry.

*Edit:  It does, in fact, say on the box that you're not supposed to flush baby wipes.  It says this in very small letters.  In the middle of a wall of instructions on the back of the box.  So, yeah, easy to miss that.

And yes, apparently, baby wipes have instructions.