Musical Masks

Musical Masks

As we continue to navigate through the current state of things, I have noticed that a number of people in our world community are having trouble following simple instructions.

Don’t worry I’m here to help.

Everyone loves The Beatles, so I decided to rewrite the lyrics from the chart topping hit “I Want to Hold Your Hand” to aid us during this difficult time.

Can I, tell you something
You don’t seem to understand
When you’re out in public
Put on your fucking mask

Put on your fucking mask
Put on your fucking mask

So please, MAGA fucktard
Go wash your fucking hands
Oh please, it’s not that hard
Put on your fucking mask

Put on your fucking mask
Put on your fucking mask

And when you touch your face, I cringe inside
I can’t help feeling like we’re all
Gonna die
Gonna die
Gonna die

Yeah you, science denier
COVID is not a fad
Yeah you, flat-earther
Put on your fucking mask

Put on your fucking mask
Put on your fucking mask

And when you breathe germs from your insides
I can’t help feeling like we’re all
Gonna die
Gonna die
Gonna die

Now you caught that something
And coughed it in your hands
And you’re full of toxins
You should have worn your mask

Put on your fucking mask
Put on your fucking mask

Phrases on a Chalkboard

condescending phrases

This is a PSA: A sanctimonious demeanor does not make you superior, it makes you obnoxious. If this statement makes you uncomfortable, you are part of the problem.

We’ve all heard them, phrases that make our skin crawl. That make us cringe so hard we nearly give ourselves a stroke. That fill our minds with murderous thoughts. These phrases are utterly obnoxious, passive aggressive and as classless as the people that spew them.

These phrases are meant to distance the offender from the hateful nastiness they are directing at you.

They are cowardly acts of aggression.

More than the words themselves, they are about the tone and demeanor of the person vomiting them into our personal space. They are so intrusive I can  hear them being said as I type them. I can visualize the chief offenders of each phrase that I’ve personally met as I expand upon them.

Anyone that disagrees with the fact that words have power can eat shit.

I actually crowd sourced ideas for what should go on this list and I learned that I’m not alone in my cringing.

Just sayin’: This phrase is the worst of the bunch. It’s meant to distance the offender from the vile, repugnant venom they just spewed in your face. There shouldn’t be a three strike rule on this. After your first offense, you have your tongue cut out.

I was gonna say: The offender who utters this nonsense has a condescending comment or criticism all queued up, and is not gonna let something so trivial as the fact that it’s irrelevant and unwarranted cause it to go to waste.

I don’t mean to (judge, start a fight, offend, be nosy, be rude): Let’s be clear, you absolutely do mean to do those things. You just don’t want to own your shit. You want to own someone else’s shit. If you’re gonna be judgmental or offensive, own it like an adult. Otherwise, Fuck You. Also heard as: Not to be….but.

This is none of my business, but: If you know it’s none of your business, why are you saying anything in the first place? How about you answer that one first, and then we can get on with whatever self-important bullshit you want to say?

Just joking: You want the (false) sense of power that goes comes with insulting someone and laughing in their face, but you’re too much of a fucking pussy to own it. Probably because you couldn’t handle taking any in return. Also heard as: Only teasing.

To be honest: This one runs counter to its true meaning. The Shakespearean phrase “Doth protest too much” comes to mind anytime I hear this one. I assume your lying when you say this. I also assume you don’t care about the truth, just your truth. Also heard as: I’m not gonna lie.

But the Bible says: I loathe organized religion. Unless we’re having a theological discussion, the bible doesn’t belong anywhere near any conversation you and I are having. And if you bring a bible to a gun fight, you’re bringing the ensuing bloodshed on yourself.

Fair enough: In the interest of full disclosure I am guilty as sin of this one. I don’t think my intent is nasty, it’s been more like a tick, or a way to acknowledge a point. However, now that it has been pointed out I can see how it would be taken as something different. It’s always nice when my own snarky writing project can help me better myself.

You do realize: This is code for fuck you, I’m smarter than you, and I’m going to try to make you feel stupid and inferior right now. More often than not the person saying this either stated the obvious or missed the broader point. Also heard as: Actually…

Bless your heart: The quintessential southern phrase for “you’re a fucking moron.” Admittedly, most of the time I hear this one, it’s kinda deserved.

I’m not racist or anything, but: You are absolutely a fucking racist, and you want me to be in on your vile nastiness. To be complicit in your (white) inside joke. Fuck you. Own your bigotry and hate. Fuck, even the MAGA fucktards own their shit. Keep it  the fuck away from me.

I’m entitled to my opinion: Something tells me your overblown since of entitlement doesn’t end there. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. If you have to state you are allowed your opinion, what you really mean is that you are entitled to either your uneducated or hateful opinion.

Fine or whatever: This is the most passive aggressive dismissive fuck you of a phrase ever written. These people aren’t willing to show you the same level of basic courtesy that they show their own mirror. Often coupled with I’m entitled to my opinion.

I could have told you that: You’re powers of hindsight are duly noted. The fact you think this is a superpower would be comical if it wasn’t so obnoxious.

Just so you know: I am going to speak to you in the most condescending way with a false air of superiority. Without substance and while stating the obvious.

You’d know if i was pissed: Okay, take your shot or don’t you piece of shit. But don’t cry foul when I punch you just because you mistook this for a slap fight. Chest-thumping like this is nauseating on all levels.

Don’t take this the wrong way: So, align my view with yours, or I’m wrong. Fuck you, you self-centered piece of shit.

We’ll agree to disagree: My point is as dead as fried chicken but I don’t want to admit that.

Fight Club Call-In Code

The rules of Fight Club are so iconic that most of us can recite them more than 20 years after we first heard Tyler Durden’s famous speech. In this time of social distancing I wonder how these rules would be conveyed if they were done via Zoom.

INT. PAPER STREET HOUSE – NIGHT

Tyler sits at his dirty Apple IIe. Because it’s Tyler, of course we ask the audience to look past the fact it shouldn’t have internet, be Zoom compatible, and should only have access to Oregon Trail. The tiles of call participants saturate the screen. It looks like a testosterone fueled Brady Bunch intro where the tiles fucked like rabbits and forgot to use birth control.

They all stare in chatty anticipation, eyes looking anywhere except directly into the camera. Everyone brims with eagerness, waiting for their leader to start the meeting.

Jack (V.O.)

Every week , Tyler gave the rules that he and I decided

Tyler starts to speak, but although words are coming out, no sound is heard. He is oblivious to the fact his voice is not carrying through the internet to his followers.

Jack (V.O.)

And every week he forgets to take himself off mute first

The chatter from the other participants continues to rise until Tyler realizes his mistake, hits the button and clears his throat.

Tyler

Judging by the number of people with the code to this meeting, a lot of you have been ignoring the first two rules of Fight Club.

The first rule of Fight Club is: you don’t give out the meeting code to Fight Club. Seriously, this is a free account, don’t fuck this up.

The second rule of Fight Club is: you DO NOT give out the meeting code to Fight Club. Jesus, how many of you fuckers are there? My scroll button is getting ridden harder than Marla.

The third rule: if someone freezes, hits mute, logs off, the fight is over. No one is waiting for someone to get past their own technical issues.

The fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Any more than that and it will break my speakers.

The fifth rule: no shoes, no pants. In fact, none of you should have put on pants for the past month.

The sixth rule: fights will go on for as long as the free zoom account allows. This isn’t a premium account maggots. You are not special. You are not a unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

The seventh rule is: rock beats scissors, scissors beats paper, paper beats rock. There is no place for that Big Bang Theory bullshit in Fight Club.

The eighth rule is: if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight

Food Blog Bloat

Quran-Cooking

At the start of the year I decided to make 2020 the year of exploration. I was moved by my friend Craig, who called 2019 his “year of the yes” and came out of it with a lot of wonderful experiences and stories. I wanted to make this a year of trying new things. Part of it was about exploring my city: locally owned restaurants I’ve never tried, museums and venues I hadn’t experienced in decades because they are “always there.”

You better fucking believe I won’t be taking those opportunities for granted once Mother Nature says we aren’t grounded anymore.

But exploration is about more than the external.

I love to cook, but it had turned into nearly all meal prepping. I got into a rhythm of cooking the same few things over and over again in big batches and eating off them all week. I decided to make it a focus to expand my horizons by trying two new recipes each week (one of them meatless) moving forward.

When COVID hit, I leaned even further into that mindset as I was quickly reminded that cooking was also a great way to help bolster creativity, pour my energy into something productive, all while combating the stir crazy. And it has been a wonderful, and fattening, experience.

I’ve learned that it’s easier than I thought to cook for myself multiple times a week without creating a fuckton of leftovers. I’ve learned how to maximize perishables and make sure nothing goes to waste when I try new things.

And I have learned to absolutely worship my dishwasher.

This all also means that I’ve spent more times on food blogs than I’m comfortable with. I mean seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with these people, and why in the fuck do they think I care so much about their personal lives?

First, your websites all have so many goddamn widgets, links, buy my shit and donate buttons that it takes half a fucking century to load. By the time it’s done I’ve said fuck it, gone to Taco Bell and shame eaten my way through a 12 pack of tacos.

Second, I don’t need 87 pictures of the food taken from different angles to make sure you got it’s good side. You know how to plate your shit, I get it. Anything more than one photo of your food is a gratuitous cry for attention (says the guy who writes shit like this and pesters all of his friends to read it, sorry not sorry guys).

Third, I don’t give a shit about you or your family. I really don’t. I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t give a shit about how much your kids love it. Kids would love torn up pieces of cardboard drizzled with ketchup if Baby Yoda called them Chicky Nuggies. Your repugnant rugrats are not a selling point. I found you because I was looking for a mashed potato recipe that wouldn’t give me carpal tunnel, don’t read anything more into it.

Speaking of the recipe, I don’t need the story about how it was created.

“So my husband John and I were on vacation in St. Barts, splitting a bottle of Pinot Grigio on our balcony overlooking the ocean. We picked St. Barts because that’s where we had our honeymoon, 20 years ago. Can you believe it! Between the wine and view the mood was right and we were both feeling kind of randy. As he was squirming on top of me and my fingers were digging into his doughy flesh my mind wandered to how much I loved mashed potatoes, but hated the work, and that’s when I came up with this recipe.”

I came to find a recipe, not read an autobiography. I don’t need to hear about how feeling your husband’s flabby body on top of you while he was struggling to finish, and you had given up all hope, inspired you to create this dish.

Fourth, after navigating all of this, you still make the recipe impossible to find and follow. Even if I do magically find the ingredients list, there is a barrier of three more paragraphs of your dear diary bullshit and more pictures of food, which by the way are way too big for your page, before I can even get within striking distance of the instructions.

Speaking of the instructions, the purpose of them is to instruct the reader on how to prepare the dish in the most direct way possible. This is not the time to prove how smart you are, or how many big words you know. I don’t need to know why I need to pre-heat the oven to 350, or about the new oven model that you got from Sears at a good price (click here to purchase!),  I just need to know that’s the temp to set mine to. Instructions are about vital information, nothing more, nothing less.

Finally, reviews (which were all written by your friends) belong in the comments section of your blog, not in the body of your four part feature on the perfect mashed potato. Suzy with a Z raving about your dish isn’t going to sway me in the slightest. If I am on your site, it is because I am looking for a specific recipe that I want to try, and chances are I am going to modify it to suit my preferences (none of you use enough garlic).

In short, if you want someone coming back for your recipes just to see what you are up to, make the food the story, not your life.

God Damn It, now I really am craving mashed potatoes.

Spring Cleaning Boner

Spring Cleaning

Unless you are totally immune to the feeling of four walls stalking you with their invisible wall eyes (or maybe you’re into that sort of thing, I don’t judge), you’re like the rest of us and are battling degrees of stir craziness that are so ADD they change by the hour. You’re also trying to find things to do with your time and energy as we all fuck-off-at-home. Some of you may have even staggered your way into spring cleaning.

I love spring cleaning. I do it once a year regardless of whether or not Mother Nature has grounded me to my room for fucking up her planet. There’s something cathartic about purging things that you don’t use, getting reorganized, and that feeling of total cleanliness that goes along with it. It’s almost enough to make a tainted soul feel pure. I do the apartment, my physical files, my calendar, my laptop, all if it over the course of a few days. It really is a project I both lose and find myself in at least once a year.

It is also a fucking gigantic pain in the ass. In fact, it has its own stages of grief.

Stage One: Arousal. Yippee-Ki-Yay Motherfucker! This is gonna be so cathartic that I’m gonna have a soul cleansing, spiritual orgasm. Holy shit! I have a spring cleaning boner! Rage on! I’m gonna clean everything right in its sweet spot.

Stage Two: Uncertainty. Um, so this is taking a little longer than I thought. The sweet spot has become elusive. I’m an awkward teenager all over again. Why did I decide on this over sleep and snacks? Can I just throw everything back on the shelves and curl up with the remote? No one will ever know, so they can’t judge. Which pile is the remote buried under? I’m just running a disk defrag on the computer, why does it sound like it’s dying?

Stage Three: Confusion. Jesus Fucking Christ, when did I get all this shit? Did I buy all this shit? Was I drunk? Is that a fucking shake weight? How long has this been in the fridge? Since before I moved in? When in my wildest dreams did I think I was going to use that, eat that, finish that? Where in the fuck did these files come from? Are these viruses from porn? Should I be worried?

Stage Four: Conflict. I should donate or throw this shit out, I’m never going to use it. Well, wait. I might. I mean I bought it for a reason, right? The virus scan came back mostly negative, so I need those files for something, I’m sure. No, I want to de-clutter, I need to get rid of it. Burn it all and play the fiddle like Nero! Oh fuck, why did I get rid of that? I want it back!

Stage Five: Disgust. Where in the fuck did all this dust come from? Has it been lurking here the whole time? Do the dust bunnies fuck like rabbits and hide in shame? Did the shower grout whore itself out on Tinder and catch mildew? Have I been bathing in this? Oh fuck, turns out those files are viruses. I feel so unclean.

Stage Six: Despair. I have lost all track of time and space. What day is it? Are we still under quarantine? Do my friends miss me? Do my friends judge me? I am Jack’s never ending shame.

Stage Seven: Domination. It’s done! I finished! I came 😉, I saw, I fucking conquered! I’m so fucking clean I make Danny Tanner look like fucking Pig-Pen. I will never, ever let this happen again.

Lies. All  fucking lies. I found the remote. I’m gonna go eat snacks in bed.

Laundry Room Retaliation

Laundry Room

With all of us being under a “shelter-at-home” order of some type at the moment, I wanted to take this opportunity to talk about an important issue: laundry room etiquette. After all, clean clothes and linens are a core component of good hygiene, which is of the utmost importance right now. Those of you who own your home or rent an apartment with an in-unit setup, you don’t know how real the struggle can get. For those of you who have to use a laundry mat, your struggles are different and I feel you. I’ve been there.

For the rest of us: What the fuck is wrong with some people? I mean fucking seriously. Adults that expect other people to pick up their dirty duds need to move back into their parent’s basement and stay away from civilized society.

Let’s begin with the function of a washing machine. A washing machine is designed to, wait for it, wash your nasty ass clothes. You put in the detergent and softener, select your cycle, and it cleans your shit (in the case of skid marks this is literal). It’s magical like a fucking unicorn. Do you know what the function of a washing machine is not? It is not a storage unit for your damp, musty clothes. You see that display on top of the washer that has numbers that count down? That is called a timer. The function, as the name implies, is to tell you when your clothes will be done with phase one of doing laundry and are ready for phase two, which we will get to momentarily.

The timer is here to help you. The timer is your friend. Set the alarm on your phone, or look at a fucking clock so that you know when to go back downstairs and move your shit. This is not hard, and if you don’t know how to read a timer or a clock, you have no business adulting on any level. And the fun privileges of being adult (booze, sex, not living with your parents) are hereby revoked.

Moving forward, my action plan is gonna be to piss all over your clothes if you leave them in the washer. Since they are damp you won’t know. And to be clear I eat a lot of asparagus and broccoli. And I use a fuck ton of garlic in my cooking.

And I’m gonna chug an extra hoppy IPA just to get the flow going.

This also means that when you do magically find the dryer, you’ll just be baking that shit into your clothes and sheets. In some cultures this makes me your Alpha.

While we are on the subject of the washer, what the fuck is it with y’all and over stuffing it? Do you really think this is saving you money? If so, you are a fucking moron. Almost as bad as the people who can’t tell time. One of two things will happen, neither of them good for you. The spin cycle (the thing that makes your clothes less wet before they go into the dryer) will be stagnant and ineffective. This will make your clothes wet instead of damp which means they will take more time (ergo money) to dry. This is the better of the two scenarios.

The second possibility is that you break the fucking washer, meaning not only did your clothes not get clean, but you ruined it for the rest of us. And trust me, if you break a washer in a multi-unit complex we will find you and deal with you accordingly. And seriously, you would rather deal with a few angry residents than the maintenance man if he finds out you broke his shit with your stupidity.

Now that fear, intimidation and shaming have taught you how to use a washer, let’s move on to part two of the tutorial.

As with the washer, let us start with the function of a dryer. The function of the dryer is to dry your damp (not wet unless you overstuffed the fucking washer) clothes. As with the washer, it is not a storage unit for your now urine tainted (you’re welcome) clothes. The goal here is to transport the clothes from the washer to the dryer in a timely fashion, toss in some dryer sheets unless you’re a heathen, select your cycle and push start.

The dryer is also equipped with a timer, which will once again tell you when your shit will be done. If by now you don’t know how the timer works, you need whatever the hooked on phonics equivalent of reading and understanding numbers is. And for the love of god don’t procreate.

If you leave your clothes in the dryer after they are done, I am not moving them for you. That would be rude. What I am gonna do is dutch oven the fuck out of them. Remember when I said I ate a lot of asparagus and broccoli? I forgot to mention Brussels sprouts. Can’t get enough of ’em. Oh and they are in the cabbage family in case you didn’t know.

In case you think I won’t do it, I should tell you that both I and others say that I am a man-child and have a Peter Pan Complex (that means that at times I can be puerile, that means childlike). I have no fucking problem farting on your clothes. I will, however, be Febrezing the fuck out of the dryer before I use it. Because I am an adult, and I practice good hygiene habits.

Now that your clothes have, for all intents and purposes, been turned into a used diaper, I will sit in the laundry room and wait patiently while reading my kindle. Don’t worry, I won’t stare shame you when you finally come get your shit. I will casually watch with curiosity to see if you notice that anything is off. Your response doesn’t matter, either one will please me. More than anything I will be curious to see if you recognize me as Alpha.

But you better believe I’m gonna snap if you don’t clear the lint trap.