Jesus, oh sweet, horsedicked Jesus Herbert Walker Christ, I have to go to work today? And tomorrow? And the next two days after that? Then I start up another dumb class? Ah fuck…My life is nothing more than and endless series of crappy exercises in barely holding it together while mouth breathing retards talk to me like I’m brain damaged. This is pretty much going on from the moment I leave my house until the moment I come home. You know how you talk to your dad and say something along the lines of “I hate my job,” and your dad gets all snarky and passive aggressive and says, unsympathetically, “Hey, that’s why they call it work. If it was fun, they’d call it something else.” Nice one, Dad. That’s the kind of shit I’m constantly dealing with. It’s like, they dumbed down the movie office space, because they thought that the bosses weren’t condescending enough, and then played it for everyone I’m around as a “how to deal with Brendan Kelly” instructional video. Thank you mom, boss, coworker, stranger, person at the fucking sandwich shop, for explaining to me what I can already CLEARLY SEE IS GOING ON!!!!!!! Where in the world do these people get the idea that I’m so dumb that THEY could illuminate the situation that I’m currently in? Hey, boss, thanks for explaining the importance of clocking in and out. Thanks for telling me how crucial it is to get the money in the register. Is that what drives this business? Money and time? Holy shit. I thought this bar was pretty much kept afloat by dildo swordfights and shitty world music. Who knew the money was also important? Wow, learn something new every day, I guess.
And, jack-off bar patron, I know it seems like you have to talk to me like I’m six, but I promise, I know what’s up. I’m just trying very hard to be nice to you. That’s why I look retarded. My brain is eating itself to prevent me from jumping across the bar and stuffing that chocolate martini up your ass.
In an only tangentially related story, my friend Dan and I were getting high in his room once. This was back in highschool, and his dad walked in. we had stashed the bong, and his dad, despite having a rather pronounced honker, was a heavy smoker, so we weren’t worried about him smelling the weed. “Hey, what’s up, Mr. A?” I said, casually contemplating putting a ho-ho in a hot dog bun and microwaving it.
So, you get the idea. Things were cool. Then suddenly, Dan’s dad gets crazy angry.
“What the hell is this?”
Our eyes got big. What the fuck was he talking about? Did we leave a chunk of weed on the carpet or something?
He reached into the garbage can and pulled out some pennies.
“What’s this? Dan, I’m talking to you. You rich enough to throw away money now? Man, I wish I was rich enough to throw away money!”
It just went on and on like this.
Dads are funny about money and jobs. Take me, for example. I’m a dad, and I’ve barely got a job or money. Isn’t that hilarious? Short answer: yes. I guess I’ve gotta get some of these little maxims in place though, so when my kid bitches about working, or forgets to respect the value of a dollar, I can hit him with a little sound byte that he can cherish forever, and someday use on my grandkids.
Okay, almost time to go. So quickly, someone wanted to know how they could make sure they stayed punk in the face of a grown up world. Listen, no offense, but this is not worth worrying about. How can I advise you? Uh, just stay punk, man. Listen, whatever you do is fine. Back before all this hairspray started filling up the room, punk rock was about a lack of rules, not strict adherence to a new set. So get a job, worry about money (everyone does) and listen to the bands you want to listen to and have the friends you want to have, and carve out your own identity that’s flexible enough to allow you to live, and to enjoy the things you want to enjoy. I hesitate to use the phrase “that’s punk” because who am I? Only loudmouth buttcracks like Henry Rollins hand down judgment on what is and isn’t punk. I tell you what. Telling me what to do, or how to live so I can fit in your subculture…I don’t know what that is, but I don’t think that’s too punk. So, in conclusion: Grow a nutsack and quit worrying about this bullshit. There’s a lot of real shit out there to worry about. Thanks for playing. Next up! What are the traits of a good woman, or conversely what are the traits to avoid that a bad woman possesses? Also, what do women find attractive in men? I’m going to make three lists, which I want you all to laminate and keep in your wallets/purses. These are definitive, anyone who tells you anything that’s not on one of these lists is a liar and a communist.
Kay, here goes.
Traits of a good woman:
She’ll put up with your bullshit and act like it’s what she loves about you.
Traits of a bad woman:
She has a penis.
She talks about astrology. God I hate this. “Yeah, well, I’m a pisces, so that makes me really impulsive!” No, it doesn’t. Stuff it up your ass. Don’t explain your actions to me by way of some dumb chart based on stars and birthdays. Here’s one “well, I was born on a Tuesday, so I’m quite meticulous.” See how stupid that sounds? It’s the same thing, lady. Sheesh.
Things women find attractive in men:
So glad you asked this, because this is a universal truth. There is one, ONE!!!!!, I cannot stress this enough, one and only one trait that all women find irresistible, from your grandma to Foxy Brown and everyone in between. That’s confidence, people. People say it’s money. Nope, it’s the confidence that comes from having money. People say looks, again, nope, it’s the confidence that good looking guys have. Status? Nope, the confidence that having status gives you. This is not a joke. In fact, along with gravity, it’s one of the only universal truths.
Okay, get out there and fuck each other’s brains out.
I gotta go to work. Sigh….