I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
The book in front of me at this moment is titled Nothing In This Book Is True, But It’s Exactly How Things Are. It’s by Bob Frissell. Interesting guy.
So, what I have done is compiled a few of Mr. F’s claims, beliefs, opinions, whatever you would like to call them, and plugged them into the poll below. I have entered one of my own into the mix. Simply click on the one you think is mine.
“Controlling the mind is a more effective means of social control than punishing the body.” —Michel Foucault
I’ve come up with a way to batter both someone’s mind and body.
Here’s a ‘your daddy’ joke I wrote.
“Your daddy’s so dumb he tells ‘your momma’ jokes. To you.”
That is just rich.
Unless, of course, you plan on telling it to an individual who hails from a dysfunctional home, and the father really does treat the woman whom he impregnated with disrespect. So a word of caution: before presenting this humdinger to some ragamuffin you really think has it coming, take a moment to brush up on that person’s background. Nothing too personal, just ask what the situation was like at home growing up, were they rich, is either parent in prison, etc. Then quickly size up your mark. Is this a person that can take a joke? Does he or she have a violent temper? If they sat on you, would it hurt?
It would be wise to take a few basic martial arts courses beforehand. Also wear something hard around your neck, as the trachea is becoming one of the more trendy spots to blast in an attack. But make sure the thing protecting your neck matches your flesh, so people think that it’s uncovered, and when they punch it, then, well, let’s just say you’ll be able to use this next joke on them:
“Your daddy’s so dumb he raised a person who can’t even tell when another person is wearing a skin-camouflaged neck protecting device.”
You can probably lay off the jokes at this point, having provided both psychological and physical damage to the loser with the stupid dad. Go get lunch. You earned it.
Hey everyone, listen up: I genuinely enjoy sautéing mushrooms. The activity is exciting to me. I could do it for 3-5 hours a day if I really wanted to. Late last night, I even brought up the ‘General Settings’ page on WordPress, clicked into the ‘Site Title’ bar, and typed The Mushroom Sautéing Blog, erased it, then punched in The #1 Blog For Everything Involving Sautéing Mushrooms.
I paused there.
Then I thought, ‘Wait, I recently sautéed some other vegetable, which I can’t quite think of right now, and that was also enjoyable. Not as fun as mushrooms, though.’
This opened up a veritable Pandora’s Box of sauté-related issues for me—if I enjoy sautéing mushrooms this much, then there must exist a vast amount of other items that I would also enjoy dousing in olive/soybean/peanut oil—the strain of oil to be used as sautéing agent could be a topic for another post—and poking around on a hot surface as caramelization occurs.
I can tell right now that I would enjoy garlic.
Carrots too, though probably not as much as garlic.
Why stop at vegetables? Beef…..chicken….the pop of meat in a skillet is gratifying, no matter what delicious animal it comes from.
That’s all I’ve got.
It’s onions that I really enjoy sautéing, not mushrooms. Mushrooms are my second favorite.
I was watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this past weekend. As a herd of centaurs galloped across the screen, my gaze wandered down. The junction of horse and human occurs just above where the groin of the man would be and fuses into the area near the horse-half’s front shoulders.
I got confused. Where are the genitals on these things? Roving scientific interest—my desktop wallpaper is definitely not a picture of a centaur—anymore—filled a time slot I had open on Saturday afternoon. Do the mythical beast’s reproductive organs rest where they would on the anatomy of the human, or near the back, like a horse?
I had to take into account that the film is PG-13, so there was a chance that if any private areas were in fact located near the front, the filmmakers might have opted not to bump up to an R, or even NC-17 rating by having the turgid penis of a made-up animal flopping around on the big screen, thereby outlawing a sizeable chunk of the ticket-buying demographic from gaining access to theaters.
I took it to Googolplex. This website, authored by a German doctor, is the centaur equivalent of Gray’s Anatomy, and even brought up another interesting point—how does the spinal system work, being that the bodily fusion creates a 90-degree angle? I couldn’t be bothered with that, though—it wasn’t what I came for, and I feared I would be sucked further into an already dubious rabbit hole.
Then this came up:
Not only did I find the genitals, it looks as though we’ve been using the wrong phrase all this time—horses are hung like centaurs. This interpretation may prove unreliable, though. The issue of the spinal cord, for instance—it appears to curve into the lung cavity, and disappear, which would render the entire back half of this man-horse paralyzed. There may be better drawings out there, but please understand that while I do have the time to find a better one, I don’t want to. Googling centaur penis has more than likely already landed me on a ‘person of interest’ list somewhere, and next time I move I’m going to have to go around and tell all my new neighbors ‘hey, could you sign this thing saying that I told you I’m a pervert, blah blah blah, it’s just a formality, yada yada, I’ve changed my ways, bing bang boom.’
So I’ll just believe what this drawing says.
As was recently discussed, I quit my job, and got a different one. I can’t describe how joyous this was. Yes, the robotic management was one reason, but also, this: I almost became a pill smurf*. I was on the verge of throwing out my back, running in front of a forklift, or starting a fight with an immigrant, all on purpose, for profit.
Reason number one was to get time off work.
Reason # two(2)—>When many of your coworkers are addicted to a spread of pharm productions—uppers, downers, screamers, laughers—is there a better way to make extra money, a LOT of extra money, while dealing with the trivialities of something so minor as vertebral subluxation, forklift tire-marks on your flattened leg, or a shattered eye socket from a staged fight with good ol’ Magdaleno (Mags, for short)?
Answer: there is no better way. These guys are paying top dollar per ‘milly’ (milligram) for all the big names in painkilling. Let’s say I plant the warehouse manager’s skullet-comb in Magdaleno’s car and tell him he’s going to be fired for stealing. So he punches my lights out in front of the coffee machine. My face hurts. I go to the doctor. I score a Vicodin prescription. When the doctor gives me that slip of paper, he might as well be dropping a bar of gold in my lap.
That bottle of pills would have been a winning Powerball ticket in there. A month or two ago, a guy broke his leg. If he’s willing to deal with the fractured femur drug-free, and manages the sudden influx of cash responsibly, he might never have to go back to work.
If only I had the balls to do something hardcore like that, I could have auctioned those V pills off, and they would have sold like toilet paper at a butt party. Butt (pun) I didn’t. I stayed healthy, like a sucker.
Well, I’ve been screwed again, this time by my own conscience.
*I heard Jesse Pinkman say he had ‘smurfs’ buying Sudafed for him in Breaking Bad. I don’t even know if the term applies to what I’m talking about here.
I don’t tell people this, but before we were branded here as ‘The Philosophunculist,’ the alternate name was to be ‘The 420 Boner Fart Blog.’ How did such a fork erupt?
Some internal force is telling me to mature. It’s telling me to settle down, have a child. I’ve been told it’s the greatest feeling in the world, and I can imagine it—sitting down with my son, buying him his first cigarette. Teaching him that yes, everyone is equal, we are all human. Except those in the service industry—you must never make eye contact with them. And people who have to sell plasma to make ends meet. Also, anyone with more or less than one total job. If you don’t have one, you are society’s burden, if you have more than one, why are you taking up all the jobs? The general guideline, I guess, is this: don’t look at anyone with less money than you. These are the people who are technically ‘equal,’ but not really.
But then I asked myself, why should I have to buy my son his first cigarette? Go get a job as a busboy and buy your own, kid. Of course, then all eye contact would be banished between us. Life isn’t fair.
Once I stop looking at my own son, I’m assuming it would develop one of those pill problems that you get from all the head doctors out there. The pharmaceuticals, coupled with the strife of my shunning, would then serve as the fuel that drives him to write a bestselling novel or Grammy-winning album. So now the son is making more money than me and hogging all the cigarettes. But the joke’s on him—I don’t need cigarettes! And I can look at him again, but he can’t look at me. I now have a rich, estranged son who smokes. Dangerous combo there. He’s headed for an early, watery grave (He always loved canoeing. And popping pills. At the same time.).
Guess who’s number one on the inheritance list? Me.
But I thought the kid hated you. He did. Yet because he made so much money from his book or album or reality show he literally had no one to look at, and mine was the only name he could remember. Chaaaaaaaaa-ching!
Reading back over this, the wise course of action would be to get a vasectomy. And change the title bar to the 420 Boner Fart Blog.