Posts tagged I am Pointless!
Posts tagged I am Pointless!
Things I Don’t Get but Not to My Credit: Crosswords. Smart people are really into them, so there must be something there, some there-there. Jon Stewart; Bill Clinton; people in the J. Crew catalog probably. Sure; great. But when I actually sit down and play one, I always just feel belittled and mocked. ”I know something you don’t. Can you guess what it is? Boopity boop." You know who the screenwriter of Cimarron (1931) is? Then just tell me. Just tell me who it is! If it’s so damn important to you, try sharing it with me instead of— instead of playing games with my emotions. Crosswords just seem like these smug jerks of the newspaper page. And what do they prove anymore? I could find out who wrote Cimarron if I just googled it. It just tests how stubborn I am, that I don’t. G. Gordon Liddy used to hold his hand over a candle to prove how loyal he was to Nixon, but we don’t put photos of that next to Ziggy in the newspaper every day… I know I’m missing out and I know this isn’t to my credit because, like, Jon Stewart! Bill Clinton! But anytime I do one, it just leaves me a wreck. 70-across, four letter word for "Puts on TV" that ends in r and s. I put on a TV every night!! How dare you, crossword? How dare you…
I’m really taken by the box that my chicken popper dinner (jealous?) came in tonight, this little Ziggy comic strip they put on it. I like how they don’t even bother to tell you the Papa John’s Founder name. There’s something really wonderfully tragic about it that makes me having chicken poppers for dinner not seem so bad. ”Nobody cares who I really am! Nobody loves me! Just call me Papa John’s Founder— that’s all anyone cares about." I like to imagine Papa John’s Founder is just some crying teenager. Because otherwise it’s just a smiling man in an apron who insists he be called Papa, Notorious BIG-style…? "You want some chicken poppers? This is Papa’s chicken. NOW I AM YOUR PAPA. MWAHAHAHA." That’s just creepy— I’d much rather think of him as an aspiring Ziggy. I Was a Teenage Ziggy…
Come on, you guys! Come on! There’s a beer I drank in college, a professor got me drinking, Fullers ESB, which is a beer that always made me feel happy for some reason. It’s a beer a lot of places don’t carry, but I went to a place that had it and enjoyed one or two tonight, (not such that I’m inebriated by any means so please don’t take this as an inebriated drunky-drunk thing). And I was in a good mood all day to begin with, so maybe I’m what Verbal Kint would call an “unreliable narrator.” But my point, here’s my point: my point is come on, internet! I just looked at gifs of model ladies in kinda-superhero costumes looking foxy, and then I followed it almost immediately by looking at gifs of Halloween cats doing funky Halloween stuff, all cute and whatever. This is great; we’re all having a great time! I’m going to go do things that aren’t about the internet now because it’s finally the weekend and I got my work done and so forth, but in conclusion and summation: come on.
I’m just in a good mood this morning— I was all mopey yesterday, and today I’m all cheerful and “We built an amazing computer that lets all of us share neat videos with each other, you guys! I’m going to reblog everything I see because it’s all so wonderful, zippy-do-da!" I’ve just felt like that part of Anchorman where Steve Carrell says "I love lamp" since I woke up in the morning. Moods are so weird— it’s like weather at some point; I can’t pretend like I have any control over it, at least. Neurochemicals go one way, neurochemicals go another way— I’m just their sexy marionette. That’s what I have on my business card anyways.
And it can all turn on a dime— in an hour I could be in the mood to sit at my desk eating cupcakes and regretting things I said in high school. Or I could be in the mood to burn something— you know, to light a fire and then run for it? I think I would use a really long fuse— that way I could run really far before the fire started and it’d be harder for them to catch me. Is that a good plan? I just googled “best way to commit arson” — here’s a listicle on the Top 10 Tips to Commit the Perfect Crime (“Chose a crime that can be committed in the early hours of the morning or that can be done very discretely during the daytime”). That seems like good advice. But nothing in there about using a long fuse. Or maybe people don’t even use fuses these days…? Maybe I should try to figure out how to do some cool radio-controlled thing. Or is there an app I could use? I think a fun part would be buying gloves so that when they’re looking at the charred remains of whatever I burn down, they can’t figure out my fingerprints; I haven’t bought gloves since I moved since the weather doesn’t get too cold, so that’d be a pretty fun thing to do, right?
My glass is half-full! Of Arson fantasies!
For the last week, I’ve been staring at my computer screen and my eyes have been flashing dark. And at first I just thought, “oh, I’ve come home from a long day of work and I’m just falling asleep." Then, a couple days later, it happened again. I used to have a high school teacher who talked about having that— she had, like, an episode. So I started thinking, “Oh, there’s something wrong with my eyes. Oh well, I guess it’s started. It’s started, the inevitable process of death and decay, some problem with my circulation probably, probably because I each too much candy and junk food, something I should google on webMD eventually and learn about the thing that’s going to make my last years miserable, oh well. It was bound to happen sometime. Just— just don’t think about it because if you think about it you’ll have to google it and then it’s just hospitals and doctors and oh man, well, it was bound to happen."
It took about a week but I finally looked up at the lamp above me— turns out I got a broken lamp! The air conditioning in my apartment broke, the building elevator has broke twice this month, and now my overhead lamp’s broke, but the good news is I’m going to live. Eeyore’s going to live, you guys! Yaaay. Took me a week to look at the lamp…
(Vampire, Abraham-Lincoln-Hunter on TCGS tonight— that character’s one of my favorites…)
I find this interesting because at this particular moment, at least, sitting here today with my mental state today, my instinct would be to go with “yourselves.” Wouldn’t I? The internet’s more than one person— that’s what makes it the internet, and not just an especially shouty version of ZORK. So if you wanted to tell everybody on the internet to engage in a violent self-fucking, you would go with the plural form. Right? You would tell them to fuck themselves, not it to fuck itself.
Then again, maybe I’m wrong because … because if you’re anthropomorphizing the Internet, Carl Barks Ducktales style— no one anthropomorphizes an abstract concept to be a multitudinous entity— at least examples of doing so don’t spring to mind right this second. Mother Nature, Kool-Aid Man, King Shit of Fuck Mountain— all one guy/gal, not some cloud. Though … Kool-Aid Man’s not really supposed to represent a sum collective of the individual consciousness of Kool-Aid drinks extant in reality either— at least I don’t think so. I think he’s supposed to be, like, just one particularly big jug of Kool-Aid that was so awesome that it achieved sentience, right? So it’s different.
Of course, if we were to make internet the subject of the sentence, I wouldn’t have a problem going “the internet hates being reminded to floss.” There, I’d go with hates instead of hate, suggesting that despite the foregoing, I believe that the internet is properly singular and not plural. So I guess it would be “yourself…?”
But then, imagine a— imagine in your head a little crying teenage girl who got picked on, by the Myspace Cheerleader mom bullies, say, and her dad comes in and he tries to comfort her. In my head… in my head, he’d be like, “Bonnie Sue” — her name’s Bonnie Sue, I forgot to mention that before— “Bonnie Sue, you go and tell the internet to go fuck themselves.” And then rock and roll guitar twang, cut to her walking down the hallway, maybe with a new haircut or something or clothes that say “i don’t care about your bullshit, internet— I’m going to live life the way I want to!”, and everyone in the hallways being like “oh shit”. Good movie, right? You change that to “Bonnie Sue, tell the internet to go fuck itself”— not as good a movie! Not as good…
I have a hard time with grammar.
The article is just a carefully lit photograph of a bucket of glitter, confetti and marshmallows.
“I wish the whole wide world were made out of pillows,” exclaimed eager readers.
Well, I beg to differ. I think our future depends on corduroy elbow patches, slow wet kisses from unicorns, and yelling “whee” while crying hot tears of whimsy!!
I work in an office, around paper, and I was just sitting here and thinking about it… I would say I lose one pen approximately every two-to-three days. That’s being conservative because some weeks are better than others or worse than others, but. But roughly? Roughly every two-to-three days I will say either to myself or out loud, “What happened to my pen?" My office isn’t even that big— there are only so many places a pen could go (and I’m not talking about my butt, in case you think I’m building to a big pen-butt thing because I’m not that’s gross you’re gross). Theoretically, at any moment a cascade of pens should erupt out at me from some cobwebbed area of this office, because that corner of space-time is so gosh-darned pen-saturated. And yet no pens! This has been going on since I was in at least middle school. Most of my childhood is (thankfully) a blur, but I remember constantly having to ask people for pens in class. Constantly! It was rough when I’d lose more than one in a day— kids can be cruel at that age, when it comes to pens. …sometimes I lose shirts and I just find them months later in the trunk of my car. I feel like that’s happened at least 3-5 times. I have no recollection of 2006, at least sitting here this moment. What happened in 2006? Something must have happened. Definitely, definitely don’t remember last Wednesday— last Wednesday might as well have not even happened. Basically. Basically, I might as well have not even existed last Wednesday for all the good it’s done me. Probably today, too, once it’s over. Man…
Maybe I should switch to pencils.
Sometimes I’m on an elevator and I’ll be looking at my phone— I have one of those phones that has the internet— and I’ll look up. And in this elevator, there’s a half dozen people, and we’re all looking down at our phones. (Once in a blue moon you get someone who’ll hold the phone up to their face but usually we’re all slumped over our phones, bowing to them, Miyagi-san style). And there’s that moment of panic, you know… “They won! We’re all a slave race! They made us willing wardens of their invisible jails! The Empire never ended!" Or what have you. Spiritual panic, like something essential is being stolen.
But then if I have more than 5 seconds to think about it— man, life before these wacky-fancy phones… I don’t remember elevator rides being any fun at all. So … What am I missing out on exactly? Sometimes I try to force myself to not look at my phone on the elevator and it’s not like new ideas suddenly rush into my brain, like in a Japanese poem about a frog or whatever. I’m just BORED.
Then again, these phones have been around so long maybe I’ve just forgotten. There’s that Aerosmith video for Love in an Elevator— maybe that was from a golden age of Elevator Rides I missed out on. Maybe Steven Tyler was on to something when he sang “I’ll chase you all the way to the stairway honey / Kiss your sassafras"— maybe that’s a much deeper lyric than I’d ever cogitated. On the other hand, there was that M. Night Shyamalan movie Devil (twist ending: sometimes the Devil rides the elevator too); that movie won an Oscar for Best Picture, if I’m not mistaken. But it didn’t make elevators look good; it made elevators look devilish.
So I’m not sure how to feel anymore, basically. Fuck stairs, though. I guess that’s my point. Fucking stairs think they’re so good and they’re not…
Oh boy, another late night at work— just one of those weeks. Here’s the thing about not being a “fun person” that’s a bummer— it’s not so much the Not Having Fun part because man, I’ve had fun before. Eh. Or at least, the stuff I remember actually being really fun also had a “oh shit, what did I do" component or a "I’m not supposed to be here" bit to it that’s better to remember in retrospect. But anyways, mostly, not a fun guy and that’s fine because it’s tiring and you know… naps. But the crappy part is as much on nights like this as anytime, when it’s like, "Man, when I’m going to get out of this office and get away from this job, I am going to lie around and read a magazine so hard! SO HARD! It’s going to be 12 am and I’m going to be so wired from getting half that magazine up my nostrils… my eye-nostrils.” I don’t have, like… like, Revenge Fun to look forward to. … Though, Magazines are pretty great, though, if you think about it…
You guys are probably into all kinds of fun, though, right? What are the fun people into nowadays? You guys into, like, orgasms, and stuff? Cool, cool— I ja’feel liking orgasms. Is that how you use ja’feel? I’m pretty sure that’s the exact correct usage. What’s the deal with that girl sticking out her tongue all weird all the damn time? You know: tongue girl— what’s going on there? Is that what fun people do now? You guys like hanging out at Friendly’s or Skyline after the big game? When I get out of this office, I’m going to learn about you fun people and your mysterious ways.
I’m really unhappy about my vocabulary lately, at least where it pertains to swearing. There’s are all these times where I want to describe something as “lame to the extent that the degree to which it is the opposite of how a Manly thing should be is noteworthy.” (Even though— shit, how am I a person entitled to comment on how Manly things are? I don’t know numbers about sports. I super-like when to-go bags from restaurants are interesting or natty. If I had to, like, change my own oil, I’d start crying into my Robert Pattinson body pillow and shut down emotionally pretty completely. I’d like to think I’m manly in other ways— I’m pretty much a monster, I swear, promise— but… ). Anyways, but all the words that express that sentiment are, like, “You’re a member of an oppressed minority group HA HA”. Not to get all “My tumblr is taking the fight to society, The Man. What’s that behind your ear? It’s your privilege, The Man! You forgot to check behind your ear! MAGIC!" because I find that stuff more than a little wearying.
Some bad words I was never that into, granted— like, I know there are bros who use the word “beaver” casually but I’ve never really been one of those dudes. Beaver doesn’t sound too natural coming out of my mouth, at brunch or whatever. That’s not really one of the words I’m talking about though. Like all of the “you’re not very good at the video game Halo" words— I want better words for that, but that’s aren’t really all political or connotative. Bitch is probably the least offensive word for what I’m talking about, as things go (though I’ve seen people get upset by bitch). But I mean, who wants to be stuck saying bitch a lot anyways? Freddy Krueger always said bitch a lot but that was cause he was in PG13 movies— man, I don’t want to sound like Freddy Krueger. He was a child murderer.
"Lame" or "weak" or whatever— those just too soft. I don’t want to hit things with a pillow— I’m trying to be mean, not have an elaborate fantasy about your mom’s secret life (which involves a lot of pillow fights, I presume). You can chain bitch to other swear words "bitch-ass motherfucker" or whatever, but that sounds more like "I’m really angry and maybe from the mean streets" more than derisive; plus, "bitch-ass motherfucker" is respectfully a mouthful; takes alot of energy to say that one. I don’t want some made-up sounding Battlestar Galactica swear words. (Though I hadn’t really heard the word hyphey much until I started watching The Chris Gethard show, so it’s like— we’re still capable as a species/culture/whatever of coming up with new words that are pretty, pretty good. I think it’d be lovely to be hyphey someday).
Maybe the underlying concepts are like … unworthy concepts and based on like “outdated concepts of masculinity, man…”, but from a practical standpoint, they just feel like pretty necessary concepts to express sometimes. But I just want to be vulgar, not like accidentally supporting the agenda of bad people, that one guy who wrote the Harrison Ford Space Robots Vs. the Gays movie who’s all hatey-hatey. Yeah, basically, now that Messenger Bag on the Chris Gethard show is evil, I hope he cracks this whole “it’s getting harder to be mean to one another" thing wide open; he’s basically my last, best hope.
Slate’s getting to the bottom of things. Slate sees through us all, all of our petty hypocrisies, all the lies we tell each other, all the ways we’ve sinned— like one of those characters on that TV show Heroes except I don’t know which one because I don’t remember that show much it wasn’t very good (one of them was Super-Japanese, I think…?).
“Crack pie from Momofuku Milk Bar is just like crack. Except it doesn’t ruin lives." People aren’t being sufficiently respectful towards crackheads… Check your privilege, everybody. Is it in your pockets? Did you leave it in your car? Where did you leave it? Have you tried tying a string around your finger, to help you remember? That’s something they’d do in old-y movies. Why don’t people do that string-bit anymore? Probably because of privilege. Damn damn damn.
Actual lines from article: “And yet food is not like crack in several significant ways. None of the foods touted on menus as being like crack is illegal." This behavior is very confusing because I too AM A ROBOT BLEEP BLORP BLORP BLEEEEEEP.
I’m a pretty high-powered Business Insider, you guys. I own ties; I know what monograms are; “Sell high; buy low”— I yelled that at the drive-thru the other day, and people who heard me were like, “Check out the Insider Secrets! This Wendy’s just became like that movie Boiler Room." I’m a business insider. Thought you should know. "Windows is dead; Google killed it SAD FACE PHOTO"— I’m on the inside now, looking out at the rest of you and wondering how I could ever have been so, so outside. You’re like a child, a big dumb child, covered with inappropriate hair.
If you can’t read it, under “More” Business Insider News, the headlines are “ugly fight brewing between a kicker and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers”, “Here’s the season when your favorite TV show peaked" (season one for the Marshall Chronicles; strong choice), and "Kid from Australia is driving Apple nuts with leaks.”