Unclean! Unclean!

I work in a large, enclosed office, you see. That's the problem.

I'm currently typing away on my computer at work, wearing rubber gloves, my jacket, and one of those face masks that painters wear to protect themselves from fumes. Now, to deflect those of you whose knee-jerk reaction would be to yell, "Freak!" let me assure you: I am indeed a freak. But this isn't why. This is a safety measure

See, my boss came to work today with a red, swollen eye, saying he felt like crap. He would have called in sick, but he’s out of Personal Time Off (that’s our twisted, New Age version of Sick time, Vacation hours, and holidays all rolled into one. Glee.) So, since he doesn’t get paid unless he’s here, he’s here…and possibly with PINKEYE!

So, great, I think to myself. He can’t leave because he’s got to get paid. I can’t leave because the ladies in our finance department would laugh themselves sick while docking my pay if I told them I was leaving because my BOSS was sick. So, I grab the sterile gear, and I figure I’m good to go.

Not so much. As it turned out, my face mask that painters use to protect themselves from fumes turned out to be really useful, because they painted the halls this morning and the whole place stinks like, well…I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Anyway, maintenance decides that the solution to this problem is to air the place out, so they open ALL the doors to the outside to create a nice breeze throughout the place. However, they have failed to remember that this means that all the warm air will be blown out, too, making it nice and chilly all through the first floor. Their offices are on the second floor, though, so they’ve been able to keep the matter in perspective all day while I freeze. This means I had to wear my huge, heavy trench coat to ward off the chill and a black handkerchief on my head to keep the wind from blowing my hair all over God’s creation.

Let’s recap. Black do-rag, black Trench coat, rubber gloves, and a facemask. I can’t decide whether this ensemble screams “paranoid hypochondriac” or “sociopaths serial killer.” Either way, when the head of our public relations department came into my office and said, “Josh, I’d like you to meet the new PR intern, Melissa,” I did not make a good first impression. In fact, I think I scared her to death. I personally think I peeled off the gloves with some degree of grace and removed the facemask with some level of dignity, but she still treated my handshake like someone had suggested she pet a dead cat.

Wow. And to think, I came to work freshly shaved, groomed, and attired. Obviously.

Nice Guys are WHINY PUSSIES

Greetings, fellow cosmic travelers. So, I just had a long discussion with my friend Joe. We've been talking about nice guys (like us,) women (that's the nicer shaped half of you readers,) and assholes (the kids that picked on me in grade school, people who kick puppies, guys who the women mostly date, anyone with the last name "Bush," etc.) As a result of this discussion, I have come to two inescapable conclusions:

1) I should have played Grand Theft Auto: Vice City instead, as I had originally planned, and...

2) We "nice guys" are WHINY PUSSIES who deserve a good, swift kick in the ass.

Not really what you were expecting, is it? Now, I'd say I was as surprised as you at the results of my introspection, but that would be a, say it with me now, FILTHY LIE.

For years, I've bitched, whined, and griped about how all the girls I know would rather go out with puppy-kickers that told them they were fat, as opposed to nice, gentle, handsome men who cared about their feelings (which is to say, of course, me.) The sad fact is that I was wrong, wrong, WRONG. Girls do not prefer assholes. They go out with guys that ask them out.

Gasp!

Concept!

Sweet Zombie Christ, who knew?

Guys (that's you other, not-so pleasantly shaped half of my readers,) this is the sad fact: she is not going to get struck in the head by lightning, undergo a radical personality change, leave the jerk she's with, magically decide that she loves only you, and proceed to shower you with home-cooked meals and passionate, frighteningly fantastic sex until the day you die while miraculously keeping her figure the whole time.

What she will do is avail herself of your friendship, appreciate your respect and concern for her needs and wishes, want to spend time with you doing fun things, and so forth. Basically, she wants to do the same things with you as she does with all her OTHER gay male friends, only she wants to have sex with you less. Much less.

The assholes get all the dates, not because they're more confident (which they're not,) or they have more to offer (which they don't,) or even because you're less handsome (which, in all fairness, you are.) They get more dates because THEY ASK THE GIRLS OUT. It's that simple.

I'm really quite annoyed, you know. Coming to this epiphany has now cost me one of my more cherished illusions, which SUCKS. Being accountable for your own problems is no fun, especially when there are convenient scapegoats on which to pin the blame. However, life's not fair, and anyone who tells you differently has watched "The Princess Bride" too many times.

Still, for all its unfairness, life is good. For instance, I have a HUGE bowl of fried rice and General Tsao's chicken, a pair of cool chopsticks, a bottle of Southern Comfort's "Southern Twist" Stonefruit Liqueur, and the entire "Red Dragon/Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal" trilogy on newly-acquired DVD. I'm not sure what, but I'll figure SOMETHING out.

((Final note: The author IN NO WAY endorses the kicking of puppies.))

Big Men Are Better

It is truth. It is fact. It is law. Four words that cannot be disputed by any rational person, once they are considered in totality. Ladies, take notes.

Don’t be surprised if you weren’t aware of this simple, eternal truth. Shockingly few people are, and many of them struggle against it. Most only learn it after years of hard experience, and a tragically high number of people will simply never come to this realization.

Big men are better. That’s all it is.

Now, as many of you know, the realization of a truth is nothing without knowing the “why” behind it. Oh, sure, you could just realize one day that big men are the way to go, or that you want to be a big man, without ever wondering why, and let’s be very clear: That’s perfectly OK. Your life will still be enriched by your newfound, if unexamined, wisdom. One needs not know the statistics on how many lives seat belts save a year in order to be just as protected by wearing one.

But why? Why is this the case? The first thing you must do is clarify “big.” Now, let’s face it, there are a lot of places where size matters (No, Karen, you dirty-minded pervert, that’s not one of them. Well…not entirely one of them. But I digress.) However, there are three critical areas where bigness is critical.

First, a big man must be BIG OF BODY. Tall, broad men are the way to go, ladies. Big men are better able to carry stuff, lift heavy things, open jars, haul loads, and pick you up and carry you, should the situation call for it. Their height gives them an advantage in lifting, reaching, peering over crowds, and fetching things from high shelves. They’re a better deterrent against harassment in public, and usually serve as better space heaters in private.

Now, for all this utility, it may surprise some of you to know that this is, while still critical, the least important of the categories of bigness. Still, all things being equal, take the man that shops at “Big & Tall Men’s” over the skinny midget at “Structure” any day.

Second, a big man must be BIG OF MIND. Physical size is not enough. While a big man is growing to his full physical dimensions, he should also be expanding his mind, making it grow in scope and breadth. One who is big of mind should process information constantly, reading fine literature, studying his environment, making himself more knowledgeable about the world he lives in.

More importantly, though, big of mind also means open-minded. The man who is big of mind will entertain other viewpoints than his own. He has room in his mind to consider new ideas, new concepts, new ways of thinking. He may be better at quoting Shakespeare, or solving mathematical equations, but the man who is truly big of mind recognizes the value of both. He does not shy away from learning, and is willing, or better yet, eager, to listen to others say their peace and absorb what wisdom they have to share. The truly big-minded man grows more curious and more eager for knowledge the more he acquires. There are far too many man that may be very smart, but don’t have room in their head for someone else’s idea. These men are small-minded, and to be avoided like the plague.

Lastly, and most importantly, a big man must be BIG OF HEART. This is essential. The truly big man must have a vast capacity to love. He can be a bit of a curmudgeon; many big men have a vast capacity to love only a few people, and as long as you’re one of them, it’s all good. The man who is big of heart is caring, sensitive, and will love you for who you truly are, not what you are on the outside, or what you might one day be. He will find no joy in harming others, and will oppose it whenever and however he can. The man truly big of heart will constantly strive to be a good man, even if he fails now and again. Patience, forgiveness, and compassion will always rest in him heart, and he won’t hold grudges for long.

Of course, many big men must conceal this aspect of themselves. Big men gain a certain credibility and awe for fostering reputations of being aggressive, mean-tempered, and prone to violence. A good number of big men actively try to appear as assholes, but the man who is truly big of heart cannot maintain this façade under scrutiny for long. Inevitably, his true nature will betray him.

Big of body, big of mind, and big of heart. Some men fulfill the spirit of these qualities, but far short in stature. Two of my very good friends, John and Kyle, barely top five feet. However, in their heart of hearts, they are big men, so they are acceptable if no truly large men are to be found, but one really should aim for all three. I keep suggesting that they should grow some more, but they refuse to listen. I don’t blame them…the truly large man must forgive others their…ah…shortcomings.

All right…time to head home. Be good, readers, stay safe, and have fun. And just remember:

Big men are better.

(The management would like to remind the reading audience that this journal is not to be taken entirely seriously, and that the author is prone to sarcasm and bouts of (presumed) wit.)
(The author refuses to confirm whether he is a large man, and categorically denies any and all rumors that he is, himself, a nice guy. He also wishes to remind the readers that the management is a foul group of morally bankrupt midgets.)

C`thulhu fhtagn

((Read the previous post first.  It'll make more sense.))

"...and from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost unpronounceable jumble of letters..."

Happy New Years.

Climbing out of the fog of semi-consciousness some call sleep at or after a wild party is a singular experience, one that cannot be comprehended by those that have not done so.

Imagine you are laid out, semi-conscious, on a mattress on the floor, a blanket thrown over you, as the party continues around you. You flop and twitch, rolling back and forth on the lumpy pillow as your neck twists and turns. Suddenly, your eyes open, and instead of any earthly vista presented before you, you waken in a dark set of rooms, with no regular set of walls around you, and through the dim lighting, forms twist and writhe before you, their sometimes shining skin reflecting bits and pieces of luminescence while the rest of them remains cloaked in a wraith-like shadow. A beat fills the room as the spectres cavort back and forth, a beat that pulls at your consciousness, a beat that cannot be reconciled as music by your addled senses, yet cannot be ignored in its volume. You lay there, hoping against hope and praying to an apathetic deity that this scene you are witnessing will make sense, that you will no longer feel like an outcaste trapped in some alien nightmare. You lay there for what seems like an interminable amount of time, but you remain a prisoner in your own mind, trapped in a C'thonic nightmare with towering deities and non-Euclidean angles.

Eventually, after what was probably a much shorter time than it seemed to you, things gradually begin to make sense, and you feel comfortable drifting back to sleep...unfortunately, that hard-won comprehension deserts you by the time you come awake ten minutes later. Now, imagine you do this, say, three or four times, and each time seems stranger and more twisted than the last.

This is why I ended up sleeping in the car. We won't talk about what I felt when I woke up THERE this morning.

It WAS a great party, and a Happy New Year, indeed.

I resolve to NEVER do that again.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the Advil bottle is saying stuff about my mother, and I should really discuss that with it.