The Forgetful Bulemic...

** Sorry to Don about the tardiness of this post **
I am a degree holder in psychology from the university of tennessee. Apparently to employers the last sentence is read: "not suitable to answer phones at our place of business" but i digress.

What the piece of paper that i got for showing up to a majority of my classes gives me the right to do is to (mis)diagnose illnesses and diseases and then have no authority whatsoever to do anything about it. I have for example, on many occasions diagnosed ex-girlfriends after we broke up. The fact that everyone was labled "psycho" just seemed to be an incredible coincidence.

I have also attempted to diagnose myself. I found that i have an eating disorder. Most types of eating disorders are well known, namely anorexia nervosa (see, the nervosa part is what the schoolin' taught me) and bulemia excita (excita isn't really part of it, but it sounds ok right?). Well, i am here to tell you about a terrible new disease that i have diagnosed in myself (you always think it can't happen to you, but alas... whatever).

I have a terrible eating disorder. It is baffling scientists and farmers alike. It is known as bulemia forgeta. It is an unbelievably complicated disorder carrying with it a multitude of problems, which can be easily summed up in one sentence:

I eat, but then i forget to throw up afterwards.

It's terrible, i know. The worst part about it is what i miss out on. I only get to experience half of what other bulemics experience. It's kind of like visiting an awesome vacation destination like sioux falls, south dakota, but not being able to leave. Oh the horror. It's like all of the bad qualities of having an eating disorder and none of the positive aspects of losing any weight.

I guess the opposite would be pretty bad though. I mean, if i stopped eating all together, i guess that would make my figure pretty svelte, but then again, i'd probably not live to be able to show it off to anyone.

I mean, it's pretty obvious that i should start working out, and as nice of a thought that is, it's a nicer thought to think of me sitting around not doing anything (except possibly scratching myself). Getting in the habit of working out has got to be as hard as it is for me to turn down a beautiful steak. Neither is likely to happen anytime soon.



Mitch Hedberg's QotD:

I was in downtown Boise, Idaho and I saw a duck. I knew the duck was lost, because ducks aren't supposed to be in downtown. There's nothing for 'em there. So I went to a Subway sandwich shop. I said, "Let me have a bun." She wouldn't sell me just the bun, she said it had to have something on it. She said it's against subway regulations to sell just the bun. I guess the two halves aren't supposed to touch. So, I said, "All right, put some lettuce on it." "That'll be $1.75!" I said, "It's for a duck!" "Oh, then it's free." I did not know that. Ducks eat for free at Subway! Had I know that, I would have ordered a much larger sandwich. "Let me have the steak fajita sub, and don't bother ringing it up - it's for a duck! There are six ducks out there, and they all want Sun Chips!"

The Maturation Stage...

This is sort of a follow up to the "paycheck lovin man" post. I'd link to it using the handy-dandy link tool, but i'm too lazy. Following, is one of the reasons why.

Dreams are nice. Everyone has nice dreams of the future. Kids especially are very excitable, being told from an early age that they can do anything they want to with their lives. This invariably causes them to have dreams that far exceed reality. Well, i suppose i should walk that back a little bit. It depends on how old the kids are when you ask.

Young kids generally want to do jobs that are seen as heroic or exciting. This usually comes down to policeman or fireman (oops, pardon my mistake there, we live in a more politically correct world, i should have said policemale and firemale). This is actually somewhat realistic but serves to not really prove my point so i'll stop talking about it. Anyway, on to the actual point.

Everyone reading this, who hasn't already figured it out, hence, have "matured" heed my words:

Whatever you think your dreams are... get used to the idea that they will never come true. Life sucks. Get used to it. I thought i wanted to be a doctor, but after the butt-raping otherwise known as the university of tennessee chemistry department, i quickly understood that perhaps that dream was well beyond the scope of my personal achievement level. Much in the same way, many kids are disappointed to find out that they're not good enough at sports to be able to play professionally, or perhaps are just not good looking enough to be famous.

It's a cold reality, but at some point, everyone realizes that fame and fortune are unattainable, and people one by one, like the leaves off a dying tree, fall to the ground known as "cubicle life." I know at this point you'd be quick to mention the people that seemingly have "made it" such as the professional athelets, the actors, the doctors etc... to which i reply that those people are actually computer generated images concocted to keep us distracted long enough to accept the miserable conditions of having to work in a space roughly the same size as a walk-in closet for 8 hours a day (which consequently works out to a little over 7 years over a span of 30 years).

Everyone wants to be rich and/or famous and everyone has grand ideas of how it's going to manifest itself with minimal effort to themselves. This brings me back to the idea of when everyone wanted to be a policedude or a firedude. In actuality, this is a more realistically attainable goal than that of a movie star, rock star, international jewel theif, etc. I mean, when you think about it, those are actually pretty nice jobs. You don't have to sit in a cubicle, you get a snazzy uniform and you get to run red lights (you know, just for fun). I guess the slight, and you do have to call it slight, negative aspect would be the whole risking your life thing. But better than sitting in a cubicle? You bet.

If i had more than one reader, i would mention something at this point about how the chances favor the fact that you're probably reading this from your cubicle as we speak, while looking around to see if the boss is walking around looking in on your progess, as if that mattered seeing as how you've spent the better part of your day rearranging the pictures on your desk and seeing how much ink you could possibly waste on that doodle on the company pad of paper. It's an interesting question to ponder, about dreams and crap, and there are so many aspects to consider, except to say that i can't do it now because i'm off to buy some lottery tickets. Wish me luc... nevermind.



Mitch Hedberg's QotD:

I hate dreaming. Because when you sleep, you wanna sleep. Dreaming is work, you know - there I am, in a comfortable bed, the next thing you know I have to build a go-kart with my ex-landlord. I want to dream of me watching myself sleep.

bonus QotD:

I'm tired of following my dreams. I'm just gonna ask where they're going, and hook up with 'em later.

The Spanish American Revolution...

They're a sneaky people those spanish (i guess i should put in a disclaimer here about how by spanish, i don't necessarily mean mexican or people from spain or latinos and blah blah blah... you know what i'm talking about, so from here on out i shall use "spanish" "mexican" "latino" and "swedish" interchangeably).

Of course, the next logical question on your part would be: why are they so sneaky? If you don't know by now, i'm afraid you have not been paying proper attention to those things... that require the payment of... attention. I have to say here, that when i mean sneaky, i actually mean resourceful, and by resourceful, i mean sneaky.

Let me tell you a tale. A tale of intrigue and mystery. It was a dark and well, probably not stormy night (because this story takes place in mexico, and you know, it doesn't really rain there). There they were, the leaders of the mexican revolution. No, these people were not military strategists, or government spies or even revolutionaries... no, they were entrepreneurs. The single most destructive force the world has ever seen. During this meeting, it was revealed that perhaps americans aren't as cunning in sniffing out scams as one would think (aside from phishing, multi-level-marketing, avon, chain letters, etc). But they also realized that the secret was to scam people, and make them like it. That is a true artist, the man who can scam you out of your boots and have you love every minute of it. That is of course, until the diarrhea starts.

I know at this point nothing is making sense, but i'm doing it on purpose to force you to have to read the article again. Ok, i've drug in on long enough. The meeting ended with one conclusion. And the conversation went something like this:
"Let's sell the americans a large variety of 'mexican food' which in reality is the exact same dish served over and over again in different looks, and charge different amounts for them... ha ha ha ha ha....."
"even american's couldn't fall for that..."
"yeah, but let's try it anyway!"
"ok."
"holy crap! it worked!"
"you know what?"
"hell yeah, siesta time!"

And so it began. The revolution collectively known as "taco bell." Well, i guess more accurately it should be called "mexican food" or later repackaged as "tex-mex" and once again repackaged as "taco bell" coming full circle. If you think about it, it is indeed genius. I mean, selling roughly 4 ingredients over and over until people feel like they've tried every possible iteration, and then changing it slightly and repeating the process.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?
(slightly edited version of jim gaffigan's take on the situation)

Taco: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
Burrito: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
Tostata: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
Taco salad: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
Gordita: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
Crunchwrap supreme: tortilla, meat, vegetables and cheese.
(i hope that you guys appreciate that i didn't copy/paste any of that last part, i typed out every last damn letter)

I mean, there were mad mexican scientists working long, sweaty nights, thinking:
"hmm, this one is getting old, what should we do?"
"fry the tortilla!"
"brilliant!" (yes, the guiness spokespeople are eveywhere)
"ooh, ooh, this one, i'm going to make the tortilla look like a bowl!"
"brilliant!"
and so on and so forth.

And so it came to be, the real spanish american war, still being waged between the mexican restaurant owners and our bowels and possibly for generations to come, although i see us losing the battle, eating one too many packets of fire sauce and literally melting into a pool of goo. Good luck soldiers, fight the good fight.



Mitch Hedberg's QotD:

I have a cheese-shredder at home, which is its positive name. They don't call it by its negative name, which is sponge-ruiner. Because I wanted to clean it, but now I have little bits of sponge that would melt easily over tortilla chips.

Paycheck Lovin' Man...

Everyone remembers certain things about their lives. Everyone remembers their first car, their first kiss, their first time being held upside down with head submerged in the water while other people flush the toilet as a sign of affection..............

Their first place on their own, their first time making love (or so i hear, i'll let you know if i remember it when it happens or not because i am not a ho).

Another thing that everyone usually remembers is their first job.

It's like a shiny new wonder thing. I mean, you go somewhere, do something that you probably wouldn't have minded doing for free (this being high school, chances are you still had enough energy to be able to run 2 consecutive marathons), and you get paid! I mean, how much better can it get? Especially since you're not having to pay for trivial things like food, housing, clothing, gas (you think you paid for gas back then, but you really didn't).

Little did you know, that this would probably be the best possible outcome for any kind of job that you'd ever have for the rest of your life. You didn't care about taxes, and all that. You didn't care because the money you made was used exclusively at the mall. You didn't have to worry about insurance, mortgage payments, gas (because like i said earlier, you only thought you paid for gas), clothes... and the like...

Now, whenever you get a job, you have to already discount at least half of it to taxes and fees. Much like the way a bully lets you keep your wallet, but takes all the money in it, then the other half is taken care of by bills which have a way of popping up every single month not unlike the mole whack game, where you whack the mole, and you think you've gotten rid of the damn thing, then his ugly little head pops up again, so you whack it again, then it just pops up again!!!.... hmm... a few issues with bills... sorry.

Now, this leaves you with... well, a couple bucks. Like maybe 2. With this money, you can... well, put it away in that savings account that you forgot about (does anyone even know what a savings account is anymore? does anyone even know what saving means?), or you could do what i do (which is what everyone else does) and spend it on peeps. No, i don't mean "other people" i mean, marshmallow peeps! Buy a couple rows of those... and finally, "poof" goes the rest of the joke that used to be called your paycheck.

So now, what ends up happening? You end up working all day, everyday, looking forward to the weekend where you can sloth around, spending money that you don't even have, not even having the vacations you used to have in school, looking forward to anyone who might have been born and died (i.e. martin luther king jr., christopher columbus, frank g. president, willaim h. memorial, etc) who the country cares about so you can get an extra day off.

Woe is the workin man, who lives and works for the paycheck that settles him into mediocrity. I know this ending has been kind of depressing so i shall string together a few random words: pineapple necktie tonail clippings.



Mitch Hedberg's QotD:

If I'm out to dinner with a group of friends, and somebody offers to pay for the check, I immediately reach for my wallet. Inside is a note that says, "Say thanks!"