Women like to feel safe, protected, secure. That’s why the other night, when me and my girl were sitting in a dark parking lot enjoying some gas station sandwiches, I gazed into her eyes, took her hand in mine, and told her, in all seriousness, “I’m not going to kill you.”
That’s the most reassuring thing you can tell your significant other. Well, one of the most reassuring things. Once, when we were sifting through garbage looking for dumpster donuts, the alley light reflected just right off a pool of a homeless man’s urine, and I couldn’t help but let her know: “Your eyes are so beautiful. There’s no way I would ever spend my nights and weekends modifying my vacuum cleaner’s motor to give it enough power to suck those gorgeous spheres right out of your head and then display them in a jar of formaldehyde on a shelf next to my bed, leaving you as an eyeless freak.”
Because, you see, most women don’t want to be tortured either. It’s important to remind them that you don’t plan on putting them through that.
I can recall another time, shortly after we were digging through that dumpster, when we went to the actual dump itself, in search of the mother lode. You see, the top layer of junk preserves any foodstuffs below quite immaculately, makin’ for good eatin’, if you’ve got a free afternoon for siftin’ and pickin’. But I digress. So there we were, having one of those romantic trash fights you see in movies. As I was about to slam an old toilet seat over her back, the curves of her body were caught in silhouette against the flames of the incinerator. “You have such an amazing body,” I said. “If I were some sort of psychopath, I would be salivating right now, thinking of how I could chop you up into little pieces, dump them off at a hog farm in Wisconsin, and be back in time for breakfast. But I’m NOT going to do that.”
For a relationship to survive, the woman needs to know these things. These ladies, they lay awake nights, sweating, staring at the ceiling, wondering to themselves: “I really like this guy, but I really want to know if he’s going to lock me in a basement for a week, only feeding me dog food and rainwater, while he wears my clothes and tells me how stupid they look. If only he would tell me that he isn’t going to do any of that.”
This is why heartbreak the world over exists in such large volumes. If lovers would just speak from the heart, and let their partner know their true feelings, we could all be happier. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go call my girlfriend to let her know that I will NOT be making a stir fry out of her calf muscles and all the vegetables sitting on my counter.
I remember turning ten and thinking, “Wow, double digits. Things are really gonna change around here.”
Nothing really changed. Then I turned thirteen, and people were like, “You’re a teenager now.” I still felt the same as when I was twelve.
Then I hit twenty, and realized I wasn’t a teenager anymore. But I still felt like one.
My twenties officially ended a few days back, but there has been no obvious change.
So, since I turned ten, I haven’t really felt anything happen during any of my birthdays, which makes me basically the same person I was then. A child, but now with the body of a man. A manchild.
Kelly Clarkson. Singer. Songwriter. Woman. Idolized by Americans. Daughter of somebody. Friend to someone else. Philanthropist. And, after poring over the written content of her music, millimeters short of lyrical genius.
The quotation in question comes from the song Stronger, the titular track from Clarkson’s fifth album. During the chorus, Kelly states “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s inspiring and hot.
It really made me think. I envisioned all those people with herpes, syphilis, gonorrhea, dealing with their afflictions on a daily basis, achieving superhuman levels of strength. The heroin addicts in that shantytown near downtown St. Paul, tying off, shooting up, and stepping forward into a new dimension of puissance that I can’t even fathom. But something wasn’t right.
What if, and I’m not talking about myself here, someone with an insatiable appetite for blood, an individual with some bizarre sexual fascination involving the suffering of others, were to amputate Clarkson’s arms and legs? What if a real sicko, not me of course, who can’t sleep at night unless they have knowingly harmed another human being, just chopped off all her limbs, while maintaining a sterile operating procedure so that infection is prevented? Because without arms and legs, that’s what, like 80% of the body’s muscle mass?
Someone missing that many limbs can’t be that strong. Even if before the amputation, her max bench press was at 60 lbs., immediately after it would drop right to zero. In my book, someone who can bench press zero lbs. isn’t strong, they’re weak.
Now, I do realize that Clarkson herself did not pen the song. But I expect someone of her status to at least look at what is being presented, explore the various philosophical meanings that can be taken away, and only then agree to record. Quite frankly, I’m embarrassed for Kelly. What an enormous oversight.
From the Sports Desk:
This past Sunday, thousands of Minnesotans let the impotent performance of a man in tight purple clothing ruin their day. For some, the baffling emotional connection to fully mature adults toting a piece of dead animal over lines painted on grass is so strong that their mental health will be in jeopardy for the entire week, and most likely the next four months.
“Ponder will be lucky if he turns out to be an average quarterback. He’s inconsistent. He frequently underthrows receivers,” said Teddy Bloat, a man whose most recent job performance review contained the phrases “below average,” “inconsistent,” and “frequently underperforms.”
Roger Mexico, an obese man who resides in Minneapolis, believes he could do better. “Put me out there, even I could hit Jennings in stride,” he claimed. “Terry—think fast!” Mexico shouted as he threw a small rubber ball at his friend across the room, who was completely and utterly stationary in a recliner. The ball bounced off the wall four feet above Terry’s head, hit a plate of nachos on the coffee table, scattering the popular snack everywhere, and finally settled under the couch next to a similar sphere that had come to rest there two years ago when Mexico was comparing his abilities to those of Donovan McNabb’s.
“I thought they said he was smart. He’s no smarter than a steaming pile of octogenarian,” said Laszlo Jamf, who works as a low-level data entry clerk deep in the bowels of a large corporation. “It’s funny, because ‘octogenarian’ literally means ‘octopus shit.’ So what I’m saying is that Ponder has less intelligence than the fecal matter of a cephalopod.”
Kurt Mondaugen, a German mystic, had this to say: “I think what we learned from this article is that everyone, everywhere, is good at their job, and everyone who isn’t that person sucks at their job.”