Tuesday, November 10, 2009

A General Inquiry

Today I have a question for you. I'm not going to tell a funny story or prepare some sort of commentary on life. I just have a question for everyone and anyone that takes the time to read this. So here you are:

Think about the worst nightmare of your life. Imagine that the very dream you are most scared of is real. It could be anything, from monsters sleeping under your bed to a goldfish eating your family. Whatever horrifying thing it is that you imagine in your sleep, that is what I want you to picture at this moment. Now, imagine that that nightmare isn't just real, but it happens over and over and over, every single day of your life.

Let's continue with the family-eating goldfish dream. Imagine that every single day when you wake up, a goldfish eats your family. The next day, your family are all alive and well like nothing ever happened, and then MUNCH! The same goldfish eats them all over again. The next day is just the same, as is the one after that, and the one after that. No matter what you do, no matter what you try, every single day this goldfish eats your entire family.

This is where the question arises. How do you escape that nightmare? You cannot sleep, because in your sleep, you give birth to the nightmare, and yet you cannot be awake, because when you are awake, you live the nightmare. Every night recycles your family, just to have them eaten by a goldfish when you wake. And yet, if you stay asleep, the goldfish will eat your family in your dreams. So, again, I ask the question:

How do you escape a nightmare that exists in real life?

Monday, October 26, 2009

SCREEEEECH

It's raining again today. Last time it rained in San Antonio, the forces that brought it on decided to turn it into a hurricane as I were halfway through walking to my car. Needless to say, all my books in my backpack were ruined. Thanks again, God.

Let me take a second to address a side-note. I still don't believe in God. I don't believe in fate. However, when shit just keeps going wrong, it's easier to have someone to hate. Blame is the best way of dealing with what feels like a constant stream of diarrhea. So, in summary, no I don't believe in God, but I'm damn well going to blame him because you do believe in him, and if you believe he's responsible for the goings on of the world, then guess what. This is all your God's fault.

Back to the point, it's raining again today. Rain in San Antonio is a funny thing. It's like ice in a place that only freezes for a few weeks of the year. When it starts raining in San Antonio, everyone begins acting like chickens with their heads recently cut off; they run round and round until eventually they drop.

So, I was driving to school in the rain. Unlike the rest of the city, I am not that bad at driving in the rain. It's pretty easy if you plan to aquaplane. It's also pretty easy if you plan for other people to do the same. San Antonian's don't plan for either of those things. They continue doing 70 on the freeway, the continue to wait for the last second to break, and they continue to drive while texting and talking on their cell phones.

I pull onto the freeway about 10 mph under the speed limit, just in case of hidden puddles, with some guy about 6 inches from my rear bumper. I can see his face, through rain soaked windows, as he gets angrier and angrier that I'm not doing the posted 70mph which he feels is essential in a downpour. As soon as we get onto the freeway and off the on-ramp, he guns it and whips into the lane next to me.

This is where I laughed. I knew exactly what was about to happen, because unlike him, I'm not stupid. With the rapid acceleration, the changing of lanes, and the abrupt motion of both his actions, his wheels spun beneath him, his car lost its grip on the road, and over he went into the next lane. With all the intelligence of a moron, he slammed on his breaks, something you should never do when skidding because you just increase the friction of the tires and keep on going as you were. In his case, he kept changing lanes. Unfortunately for him, the next lane was grass. Off the road he went in his Ford truck, straight into the grass. But he still didn't stop. He kept going left, into the grass, further and further until the sound of metal on cement echoed across the freeway as he slammed straight into the cement blockers separating the two directions of traffic.

It's funny to me, when people don't think before they act. It's even more funny to me when they get punished for it.

Becoming Hank

For the first time in my entire life, I have what is known as "Writer's Block." I've tried everything to find some way of getting words from inside my mess of a brain and onto paper, but for the past few weeks I have been almost completely incapable of doing so. I think the problem is based on a flaw at the start of the writing process. See, its called Writer's Block, which reads to me like there's a block in your brain stopping the words going from head to paper. But my head is empty. I have nothing. I have no ideas, no clever lines, no anything. I can't even seem to throw together a fucking sentence.

The funny thing is that I have, in the past, written some of my greatest pieces when upset or depressed. And yet now, I am upset and depressed and unable to write, making a bad situation even worse. I can't even throw together an entertaining blog.

So what do I do instead? I drink. I drink a lot. I smoke. I fuck. Sometimes, I do them together. Life is more fun in combination. And then I wallow. And when the day is done, I go to bed, wake up, and do it all again. Occasionally I'll sit down and try to squeeze out a word, but when I stare into the darkness of my head, my brain separated from the one real skill that I have in my life, the one vent in my entire world, I light up a smoke, throw the base of a bottle into the air, and I drink away the darkness.

I have, in every aspect of my life, become Hank Moody. And I don't like it one bit.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Talking to Ghosts

So let me kick this off with a pretty important piece of information: I don't believe in ghosts. That being said, there are still plenty of times in life when the things that we do or don't believe in are tested. Tonight was one of those nights.

I was sleeping, or maybe I wasn't. I can't quite tell anymore. I don't exactly fall asleep so much as I lay there and sort of drift off and sort of stay awake. Still, that's how I was, somewhat sleeping, and then I wasn't anymore. I woke up. I woke up and in my bed, behind Rogue who always sleeps next to me, was someone else. I don't know who it was, or what they were doing in my bed, but they were there, watching me.

Me, being the extremely masculine man I am, almost had a heart attack. I am proud to say that I did not soil myself, but I think I actually came pretty close. So, there I was, in bed, having a heart attack, as some random girl smiled at me from behind my sleeping dog. And then the person was gone. I was left in my bed, heart pounding as it burst back into life after a heart-attack, and my dog sleeping peacefully.

So, given the fact that I don't believe in ghosts, here's what I think happened. Either (a) I was still dreaming, even though I was awake, or (b) I am going bat-shit crazy and am starting to imagine people in my life that don't really exist.

Honestly, I hope it's the latter. I'd like to be absolutely, unarguably insane. They give you padded walls that way.

Trying to Write

I have a problem. I can't seem to think of anything to write. I want to write something, but all that's in my head is a string of ideas that are about how terrible life is, and I feel like I exhausted that bad-boy yesterday. I feel like if you are going to talk about how bad life is, you need to take a little break and try to talk about how great it is. So, let me have a quick attempt at that, seeing as I don't know what it is that I am going to write about in this blog today.

Life is pretty great. Sometimes there is sun, sometimes there is rain. I don't like rain. But sometimes I like sun, if it's cold out. I like cold. Cold is pretty great. Sometimes people look stupid in front of other people. That's pretty funny. I like it when that happens. Life is also pretty great when someone gets hurt in a crazy way, like slipping on a banana peel or swallowing a jalapeno. Those things are pretty great. It's also great when people sneeze more than 10 times. It's annoying, but it makes me laugh. They say a sneeze is 1/10 an orgasm. I sneeze twice. I bet those 10 time sneezers wish they could sneeze 10 times, simultaneously, instead of in succession. It'd be better that way.

But what I really like, and this is pretty selfish, is when someone elses life sucks more than mine. I often pretend that I have this "higher-than-thou" situation in my writing. I like to pretend I am not part of the rest of the worlds terrible problems. The truth is, I'm just as terrible a person as you. I love it when I'm feeling like shit, and I run into someone who's feeling worse. What's better? Sharing a bad mood. Bad moods are like a disease, one that can only be healed by giving it to multiple other people. It's delicious.

Basically, life could be great if I were pretending, but you guys know me well enough to know that I don't believe that for even a second.

Hey, look at that. I wrote something, even if it is shit.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Life Will Kill You

There's this idea that there is something bigger out there, something watching over us. This idea is spread across the planet through so many means. It's spoken of in terms of God, it exists in fate, and people constantly talk about it as if eventually this "something bigger" will make everything better.

It's a really nice idea. I wish it were true. I just don't really have it in me to believe it. And, because of that, I want to try something that not enough people are willing to do. I want to present the other side of the argument.

People say that life is a gift. A gift is something given, regardless of desire, to someone. A gift can be loved or hated, and regardless of how it's received, it's given all the same. With almost any other gift, it can be returned, ignored, discarded, loved, or re-gifted. Life, however, does not fall into any of these categories. Life is a gift that is given, like most gifts, without any choice. The only option the receiver has, however, is to take that "gift," and learn to make it their everything. There is no choice in how its received. The only way out is death, but even in death, life was still a gift that the person lived with for as long as they were around.

So that moves me onto my counter argument to something bigger being out there. Call it God, call it Fate, but the idea is that there is something bigger out there, guiding us and giving us this gift of life and making sure everything turns out well in the end. If this is actually the case, then whatever it is that is "bigger" is a horrible, horrible creature. It gives this thing that it calls a gift to people, and it expects them to appreciate it. But let's look at the big picture, shall we?

People are terrible creatures. They kill each other without reason. They pollute, they steal, they murder, they rape, they reproduce to unimaginable levels, they spread disease, they withhold goods and services, they are corrupt, they are evil. And so this gift of life is given to humans, who are forced to exist within humanity, one of the most horrible species in the known universe.

And live we do. We go through the routines of life, committed to the false idea that everything will end up okay. In truth, nothing is ever okay. People get married wrapped up in the delusion of finding happiness when the reality of the situation is that 2/3 marriages end in divorce. People make friends in hope of searching for some form of connection, but in truth, these people are just as wrapped up as anyone else in making themselves happy over everyone else. People turn to God to find hope for something better than life, when in truth all they are doing is praying that this shit-hole of an existence isn't all that there is.

And so here's my counter argument to the idea that everything has purpose, that everything will eventually work out for everyone in the end. The only guarantee in life is this: One day you will die, and then, if everything was absolutely horrible and meaningless, at least it won't be that way any longer.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Goodbye My King

I have always been a very strong supporter of the internet. I feel like something as powerful as a device that allows all people in the world to come together as one single, malfunctioning brain must be respected. With that being said, I have always felt that there just isn't something right about a system that invites everyone and anyone to express their opinions. Stupid people just shouldn't be allowed to speak. But, unfortunately, that's not how the first world works.

There has always been, in my opinion, two different types of internet users. There are people who use it as a business and communication tool, and then there are those that use it as a social networking device. The business users follow regular writing protocol, or at least try to. Often, you get an email from a company that looks like it was written by a five year old, but that's just the byproduct of poor education. Then there are the social networkers, who use the internet as a means of destroying the English language in whatever way they see fit. They'll take a perfectly normal sentence like:

Today I took the bus through the tunnell to East Whereversville.

and turn it into:

tday I tk de bus thru de tunl 2 east wrsvil

Now, I have always accepted the social networking style of writing as a side effect of giving lazy writers the power to communicate through text. That is, I have always accepted it until today, when it bled over into the real world and corrupted everything I have ever believed in about the internet.

Here is a copy of an email that was sent to me by a professional writer, someone whose job is strictly to write. This poor individual gets paid to do one thing, to communicate with the companies consumers. I won't give you the poor sods name, but I will tell you that this email was sent to me from Case-Mate.

Here it is, and I'll go ahead and boldface the two parts that killed my soul:

Dear James,

Thank you for your inquiry.

Your order was shipped thru the USPS and it may take between 5 to 10 business days for delivery. Please feel free to contact us if you have any further questions regarding this order.

I hope you have a wonderful day :)

Regards,
[censored name]
Customer Experience Group

I realize these are just two measly errors, but this was a formal letter form an online retailer to a consumer. This is how it begins. This is where the death of English starts.

So, before it's too late, I just want to bid you farewell my dearest King's English. You have done me proud. I will miss you always.

Monday, July 27, 2009

I'm Black and You Are Stupid!

First off, I'm not black. Sadly. Sometimes I think it'd be pretty tight to be black. I mean first off, there's the whole penis thing. But that goes without saying. Also, there's the whole fast-twitch muscle fiber thing. I'd like that also. But once again, as I tend to do, I digress.

The point of this blog is not to say how I want to be black. It's to talk about all that wonderful stuff your president (assuming you are American), Mr. Obama, has been up to. For those of you that don't know, here's a quick little recap on the actions of yet another president whose support is rapidly plummeting for acting too much like a dictator and not enough like a President.

Regardless, here's what happened: A black Harvard professor was arrested for being an asshole to the police after he was caught trying to break into his own house. The police quickly established that he was the resident of the home he was attempting to break into, and were going to leave it at that. However, the professor was apparently a dick. He made a huge scene and kept bugging the hell out of the cops, so they cuffed him and took him into the station. There were three police offers at the scene, two white and one black. Mr. Obama then proceeded to, nationally I'd like to add, chew out the officer that arrested the professor for, and I quote, "acting stupidly." He accused the man of racial profiling and only arresting the professor because he was black.

Side note: the white officer that arrested the professor is also the racial stress adviser. One of his key jobs is to teach other officers how to avoid racial profiling and situations that may cause such an issue with the public. He is widely respect by both black and white officers in his department because of his skills in working with the public. Race is not and has never been an issue with this particular officer.

So, after a lot of argueing, Mr. Obama finally realized he was wrong. When he went up infront of the world to admit this, he did and said everything short of saying "I'm sorry."

Now, I know you're president Mr. Obama, but how fucking big does your ego have to be that you can't apologize to a man that clearly did nothing wrong? If every cop in his department is behind him, don't you think that maybe, just maybe, you could have gotten all of this completely wrong and made one big presidential booboo?

But hey, what do I know? I'm a white Englishman who bitches about everything and everyone regardless of race, gender, or creed. I'm pretty much a hater. Maybe you are too?

Saturday, July 18, 2009

"Let's Say I Break into Your House..." Response

Below is a copy of my response to "The Email". If you haven't read the previous post, I would suggest doing that before you start reading this one.

Here's what I wrote:


That's certainly an interesting point to say the least, but it does ignore a large portion of issues surrounding the situation. Let's continue the metaphor, shall we?

Let's say you break into my house.

I worked hard to earn that house. I came from nothing, earned money, built that house from the ground up by myself. That was nobodies money but my own. That was nobodies work but my own. I alone own that property. As a free man living in America, that house and the land it sits on is mine. Unless I declare bankruptcy or something else along a similar line, I will not lose that house. It is mine.

Let's say you break into my house.

I load my gun and shoot you dead. That's my house. You were a criminal for entering it. It's my property. I feared for my life when you set foot into my small, isolated little piece of security. I wanted to protect myself, and I wanted to protect my family. I didn't want to hurt you, but my desire to protect the ones I love was more important than the discomfort produced by taking your life.

However, America is not a house. Like all other countries, it's a place of individual government and leadership. A large body of land full of houses, millions of them, for all those within and enough space for millions more. It's a community of people who sometimes like each other and sometimes don't Some people you know, some you don't. Some you spend time with, some you don't. But it's a collection of houses all the same, and though I can walk down the street within this neighborhood, I am not allowed to walk straight into any house but my own, unless I'm invited to do so.

America is a neighborhood.

Now imagine this. I am born in a neighborhood where bullets are constantly whizzing outside my door. I live in such an unsafe place that I cannot even lift my head off the ground without fear of a stray round ripping open my skull. When I hear a car pass outside my house, I pray to the God I lost hope in years ago that it isn't someone coming to drag me off and kill me for being born into a different belief system than himself. I grow up here, from child to man, and every second of every day I am afraid. I can't ever have children, because what awful person would bring a child into a life of such misery?

But then I hear that in the neighborhood several miles away, there is more room, there are less people, and there are laws that would never let what's happening to me ever happen to its citizens. So I leave this place, because I am human and I am afraid, just like the people who are living in the neighborhood several miles away would be if they were in my situation. But when I get there, I find it to be a gated community. And the gates are locked. The guards are waiting. When I arrive, they tell me to go home. I refuse, because I am scared, because I want a life for my children, because I don't want to die for nothing. But I am not allowed in. I am escorted home by armed guards, and placed back inside my house. Everyone has seen me march through the neighborhood that I tried to escape. Everyone watched me go. Nobody will talk to me now for fear of being associated with me. I cannot work, I cannot trade, I cannot survive. And then one day, because the people in my neighborhood wish for nothing more for themselves than I did for me, they come to my door, drag me outside, and murder me for running away. They take my insides out, and bleed me dead just because of the simple fear of being considered my friend when the truly terrible people come rolling back through our neighborhood.

Would you not let that person into your country?

Would you not let that person into your home?

If not, then think of this:

The statue of liberty its self, which sits at the gates of America, standing tall and proud welcoming all that pass her by, the symbol of hope for the entire world, reads:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

Perhaps you would prefer we string some neon lights that read "No Vacancy" over that inscription instead?

Sincerely,

James R. Mitchener

Friday, July 17, 2009

"Let's Say I Break into Your House..." The Email

I am going to post in this section an email that was sent to me. I just want to have it up here for a while so you can have a chance to skim over it. My response to what is being said will be the post that follows this one.

Here's the email:


Let's say I break into your house...

A lady wrote the best letter in the Editorials in ages!!! It explains
things better than all the baloney you hear on TV.

Her point:
Recently large demonstrations have taken place across the country
protesting the fact that Congress is finally addressing the issue of illegal
immigration.

Certain people are angry that the US might protect its own borders,
might make it harder to sneak into this country and, once here, to stay
indefinitely.

Let me see if I correctly understand the thinking behind these
protests
Let's say I break into your house.
Let's say that when you discover me in your house, you insist that I
leave.

But I say, 'No! I like it here. It's better than my house. I've made
all the beds and washed the dishes and did the laundry and swept the floors.
I've done all the things you don't like to do. I'm hard-working and honest
(except for when I broke into your house).

According to the protesters:
You are Required to let me stay in your house
You are Required to feed me
You are Required to add me to your family's insurance plan
You are Required to Educate my kids
You are Required to Provide other benefits to me & to my family
My husband will do all of your yard work because he is also
hard-working and honest. (except for that breaking in part).

If you try to call the police or force me out, I will call my friends who
will picket your house carrying signs that proclaim my RIGHT to be there.

It's only fair, after all, because you have a nicer house than I do,
and I'm just trying to better myself. I'm a hard-working and honest, person,
except for well, you know, I did break into your house

And what a deal it is for me!!!

I live in your house, contributing only a fraction of the cost of my
keep, and there is nothing you can do about it without being accused of
cold, uncaring, selfish, prejudiced, and bigoted behavior.

Oh yeah, and I DEMAND that you learn MY LANGUAGE so that you can
communicate with me.

Why can't people see how ridiculous this is?! America is governed by
idiots, and populated by apathetic individuals.

If you agree, pass it on.

If not, blow it off......... along with your future Social Security
funds and a lot of the former benefits of being an American Citizen.

Golf-Run Derby

I was watching the Home Run Derby the other day on ESPN. I know, who knew right, James was watching a sport that wasn't football! Oh, and when I say football, I mean real football. Not that broke-ass game Americans call football, which oddly enough is played with your hands. But i digress.

So I was watching the Home Run Derby, and I realized something. The Home Run Derby is basically just a game of Golf in which you don't get to drive a cool little cart around everywhere you go. Honestly, I think that makes Home Run Derby a little less interesting, but hey, I've always loved go-karts. Again, I digress. My apologies.

Here's how I see the two games:

Home Run Derby: A game played involving a stick and a ball in which you use the stick to send the ball towards a given target or goal.

Golf: A game played involving a stick and a ball in which you use the stick to send the ball towards a given target or goal.

I tried pretty hard to come up with a few solid differences between the two games, but all I could muster was this:

The only difference between Home Run Derby and Golf is that in the Home Run Derby, they supply you with clothing that makes you look like a jackass. In Golf, it's a competition to see who can dress like the biggest idiot on his or her own.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Missing Elderly

I was driving down IH-10 the other day, as I have been doing quite frequently recently hopping from San Antonio to Houston, then back again, when I saw a sign that read "Missing Elderly" and then gave a description of his or her vehicle along with a license plate number.

It was at this time that I realized I see that sign a lot. On almost every drive, those billboards almost always have some sort of description of an old person that got lost.

I have a few questions about this:

First, is it just one elderly person that keeps getting lost, or is it a different one every time? They are always getting lost in a red Chevy SUV or something very similar. Last I checked, old people only drive cars from the 1960's. When did they start driving SUV's? That just doesn't seem safe. Their bones are very weak. If they were to get in a crash in some broke-ass American SUV they are pretty much dead.

Second, how do we keep losing these old people? Are they really even lost, or did some paranoid parent just wake up one day and call their parents and when they didn't pick up because they are out on a fishing trip they chose not to tell their adult child about, the person freaks out and calls the police. They can't all be senile old men who can't remember their way home. I mean, IH-10 is a straight line! Either you're going one way, or you're going the other. How hard is that? I know toddlers that can figure that shit out!

Third, why are people letting these old people drive if they can't find their way home on a two way road? If they can't figure out after 100 miles that they are going the wrong way, they probably shouldn't be driving. Unless they are escaping from an old people's home, then they have no excuse. If they are, then go for it! Drive like hell Missing Elderly! You run your ass off!

Shouldn't we be more worried about missing kids than missing old people?

Love Me, No Matter What.

Have you ever heard anyone say the words "I'll love you, no matter what"? I have. In fact, I was watching TV last night and someone said it on a show I was watching. It got me thinking, could I ever love someone no matter what? Would I ever want someone to love me no matter what?

Definitely not.

Think about it. Loving someone no matter what they do, no matter what they say, no matter where they go. Completely unconditional love and devotion. Dogs don't even have that kind of loyalty, and we look at them as the most loving creatures in the world. I don't think I could handle being with someone who let me get away with everything. Where's the fun in that?

And yet for some reason, people consider those words romantic. I'll love you honey, no matter what. It makes people smile, puts butterflies into the stomachs of millions. But they are words of failure. To love somebody no matter what allows them to do anything, to you and to themselves. It's sort of stupid.

I think we need to start thinking about what we say. So, I've got a new one for you. How about from now on we say this: "I'll never love you forever. I'll love you as long as you continue to make me smile, you stay by my side, and you always put me first." But then, that's sort of long. How about this:

"I'll love you until you fuck up."

200th post

Well, this is my 200th post. I did have an interesting topic to discuss, but now I think I'll just comment on my achievement. I have written 200 different pieces of nonsense on this blog. I hope you have enjoyed them.

As I said before, let's go for 100 more!

Friday, July 3, 2009

Capri Sun

You're at the pool, you're young, you want a cool and refreshing beverage? Why not bust out a box drink? Well what could be better than a box drink? How about a beverage in an aluminum-plastic case that's soft, cools easily, and has a unique way to open it? How about a Capri Sun!

No.

Capri Suns are quite simply the worst idea for kids of all times. First of all, all the flavours are completely artificial. But hey, kids like artificial flavouring. Also, it doesn't matter what flavour the Capri Sun may be, it's still going to come out clear. Kids don't like that.

No, the true problem with a Capri Sun is this: There are only two (2) possible outcomes for opening a Capri Sun.

1) You shove the straw in while squeezing the stupid container, and the juice comes right out and squirts you in the face.

2) You don't sqeeze the container for fear of being squirted in the face, and instead shove the straw into the aluminium-plastic just to have it come straight out the other side.

I just don't understand how Capri Suns made it so big when they hate kids.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Tug-Boat Piracy

New story printed on the Mitchener Chronicles titled Tug-Boat Piracy.

Go check it out!

http://mitchenerchronicles.blogspot.com/