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Black Friday Comes But Once A Year

Too much focus has been put on the consumerism surrounding Thanksgiving week in recent years. The holiday is a time for family. For food. For fellowship. For football. No one should have to leave their gathering and go to work at eight in the evening on Thanksgiving just to get ready for a midnight Black Friday sale, unless, of course, that person works at the store selling the sick 72 inch TV I need in my garage.

Doctors work at hospitals on holidays. Pushing logically forward, this means that those in retail should always be available so that we can buy Stuff whenever we want, for without Stuff, we are nothing more than wild animals. Would you like to be a wild animal, living outdoors, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps of a shredded rabbit carcass, or a human being, shopping inside, biting and scratching and fighting for the scraps at the bottom of a DVD bargain bin? In nature, when that carcass is gone, it’s gone, but on Black Friday, we have people who were forced to abandon their families that will replenish that dumpster full of NCIS DVDs while you push your thumb deep into a fellow Mark Harmon fan’s eye.

Police and paramedics are available every day of the year, too, so why do you think you shouldn’t have to clock in for a twelve-hour overnight shift, Mr. I-don’t-want-to-work-holidays-retail-guy-who-is-being-paid-almost-ten-dollars-an-hour? Just imagine if the police didn’t feel like working on Black Friday. Who would quell the riots that Black Friday causes?

Anyways, the first Thanksgiving was nothing more than a prelude to massive land theft and genocide. Is that what we want to celebrate? Methinks not! Erase the pain and terrible memories of Manifest Destiny by giving your money to a large corporation in the middle of the night! Exercise civility and engage in hand-to-hand combat with your fellow man (preferably of the same race) on the way into Walmart and then pay for the ensuing spoils. Time was, you would’ve given that same man a blanket dosed with smallpox and then turned his ancestral homeland into a tobacco farm. Being a part of Black Friday is being a part of the evolution of mankind.

It’s also one of those neat times where you can go plum wild, and no one can get mad at you.

For instance, on what other day of the year can I drink coffee all night and have seven hours of shopping in before the sun rises? When else is it perfectly acceptable to ram your shopping cart into the nuts of yuppies and vagrants alike, whether they’re stumbling around with a 75 lb. case of upscale dog food, or simply trying to get out of the cold? In June, why is it not OK for me to trample a seven year-old child that is standing where I want to be, but the day after Thanksgiving, people form a circle and cheer me on? On Black Friday, even people in wheelchairs aren’t off-limits, because who’s to say it’s not just a wily disguise to get preferential treatment? How can I be so thankful for what I have on Thanksgiving, but when midnight strikes, my face becomes disfigured, I let out an otherworldly howl, and I become a ravenous beast that needs to buy things that have been available every other day of the year during normal waking hours?

Hell, I don’t know. Probably some instinctual hangover from our Neanderthal days. If only those ancestors could see me now, belittling retail workers, breathing in the sweaty farts of strangers, and replacing the great sadness I feel inside with Stuff.

The One Thing I Hate About People Who Don’t Speak English

Hot damn, was I on fire today. A raunchy one-liner here, an edgy anecdote there, a hilarious observation about someone on the street (I totally burned some broad wearing a purple faux-velvet bodysuit) — I pitched the proverbial “perfect game.” It was ricockulous. I literally didn’t say one stupid thing.

This other-wordly performance came at a savagely ironic cost: it fell on Spanish ears. The only person blessed enough to be within earshot of me didn’t understand one word I said. We were just ridin’ around in the work truck all day, and he had no clue what was unfolding before him, the beauty of it. He was just over there starin’ at me like I was speaking Chinese. What if only the blind were allowed in art museums? What if only the deaf were allowed to experience music? It’s like I travelled back in time to the mid-’90’s, made love all over Elizabeth Hurley, then set off a chain of events that led to me erasing my own existence before I could come back to the present and tell all my friends.

And that is the one thing I hate about people who don’t speak English. They’re missing out on all the amazing things I have to say.

Blong. Here is the Robert Goulet All-Holiday special.

The Blog: Bustin’ Chops in 2011

That’s right baby. Unlike 2010, when it was all about biting hookers and shooting stray dogs, this Blog is totally all about bustin’ chops in 2011. No more layin’ back and takin’ the high, hard one from society. If you mess with this Blog in 2011, please believe you have an earful headed your way. An earful of foot, that is. Because I’m going to kick you in the head. No more of this “Hey Sean, can you help me move this weekend?” Uh, how ’bout this pal, HiiiiiiiiiiiiYAAAAAAAAAAAAA! You just got B’d in the C (busted in the chop, obviously). Nobody likes helping people move! No way buddy! This here is 2011! Consider your chops……… BUSTED! Or as our French counterparts would say, “Le chopé es la büested.” The Language of Love can’t even stop me now! In 2011, I shall henceforth be known as “The Resident Expert on Busted Chops.” If you wake up in the morning, and you find some chops strewn all askew about your living room floor, why don’t you go ahead and give me a call. I’ll come over, for a nominal consultation fee of course, and be like “MmmHmm. I’ve seen it a million times. Your chops have definitely been busted. Ain’t nothin’ I can do ’bout it.” Then I’m out. I’ve got things to do, more important chops to bust. Not my problem if you alligned yourself with a situation where you got your chops busted. Your living room carpet isn’t my main priority, not this year! No way! I’ve got “real jobs” to apply for! In 2010, it was nothing but rejection, but this is a new year! Next time I hear “Your resume looked good, but we’re looking for someone with more experience,” well, that’s when the real chop busting begins! Are they prepared for me to show up, topless, wielding my various chop busting implements, and say, “So it’s experience you want, eh? Well, have you ever experienced me giving you a noogie for three hours?” Then I’ll probably kick-punch a desk or something. Authority displayed. Chops. Busted. ‘Cause you see, all these desk-jockeys want to hear is the old company line, but what if I switch it up, and toss some real life in their face? Stuff like, “Hey, I can bring a new, youthful exuberance to this company! See, it’s all here is this Excel spreadsheet, detailing dates, times, and quantities of chops busted.” and “I’ll have you know, I could bust your chops faster than two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Do you even know what that means?! Oh, you do? I actually don’t. Could we put aside our differences for a moment so you could tell me?” Stuff like that. Then, in a tornado of flesh and gumption, I shall distribute a chop-busting that they will not soon forget.

Then, I’m just assuming they’ll shoot me down again. No big deal. This is what everyone told me would happen. I bust a mean chop, and that’s all I need to know. If someone decides to pass on my chop-bustiness in 2011, good, ’cause that saves me precious chop-busting time for all these other cocky chops. You’re not the only one with chops to bust pal! You ain’t special! I’ve busted far less appealing chops for far, far less! You’re no different! People might as well just toss their chops to me right now and let me get to bustin’, ‘cuz we both know I’m gonna get ’em eventually. Nothin’ but chop bustery in 2011.

I Am Writing a Feature-Length Book

September 15, 2010 5 comments

According to the heading up there, I am in fact in the process of writing a book. A book full of words, possibly some helpful illustrations, and a plethora of knowledge that will undoubtedly cut a swath of inspiration betwixt your lethargic psyche and the unbearable ennui of everyday living. “So who is this guy, and what the crap is he qualified to write a book about?”, you might be asking yourself. Well, I took notice that this character Steven R. Covey has sold like 15 MILLION copies of something called “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.” (I would like to note that, according to the book, personal hygiene is not one of the habits of highly effective people, nor is drinking water or eating. The lack of stinky, slovenly dressed, malnourished successful people in my community leads me to believe that Covey is full of horse poo.) And then there’s this other clown, Dale Carnegie, who produced the quite unbearable “How to Win Friends and Influence People” back in the dirty 30’s. Although I wouldn’t actually give him credit for writing it, since Carnegie basically quotes other people for the entirety of the book. What is this, Bartlett’s? And since reading Carnegie’s book, I haven’t even made one new friend! Which brings us to the purpose of my book: it’s a self-help book, on how to write a self-help book. If Covey and Carnegie can do it, why can’t I? How delectable the irony that the wandering, laborious means with which they delivered their ideas inspired me to actually want to do the same, in an even more wandering, laborious manner! The student becomes the teacher. Possible working titles for the book include, but are not limited to:

Help Yourself: A Self-Help Guide on How to Help Others, All While Being Helpful to Yourself and Helping Others Help Themselves

The Three Fundamental Layers of the Five Pillars of Synergy: A Core Examination of the Seven Tiers of Leadership, With a Brief Explanation of the Nine Pedastals of the Six Sigma Lifestyle

Maximize Your Earning Potential: A Repository Guide on How to Think So Far Outside of the Box, You Won’t Even Be Able to See the Box Anymore, Thus Forgetting There Was a Box in the First Place, Thus Enabling You to Think Even More Outside of the Box That You Aren’t Even Thinking About Anymore

H.E.L.P.P.: Helping Everyone Learn. And Oh Yeah, there’s a Pizza Party after you Help Everyone Learn!

Win-Win: How to Beat Your Opponent Into Submission With Raw Will and a Cast Iron Skillet, And Then Use The Skillet To Cook a Delicious Breakfast for Both of You, All While Explaining to Your Opponent Why Beating Him And Then Feeding Him Eggs Helped Both of You Win

Benchmarks of Success: How to Max out Your 401K, Raise Healthy Children, and Love Your Spouse, All While Maintaining an Intricate Web of Lies and a Mistress on the Side

Well, that’s gonna do it for me, folks. Tomorrow I will be featuring an excerpt from the first chapter of the book.

Blong. Chemical Brothers.

Hey Sibley County, Please Don’t Arrest Me!

On May 29, 2010, I was cited for speeding on Highway 19 in Sibley County. I was scheduled to appear in court or pay the $125 fine by July 29. Much to my chagrin, and possibly the chagrin of the Sibley County District Court, and maybe even the chagrin of the ticketing officer, I failed to do either. A whole lot of chagrinnin’ goin’ on. Since a warrant for my arrest will be issued in approximately eight days, turning me into a fugitive from the law, I mailed the following letter this morning.

Greetings, esteemed Constabulary!
I am writing in regards to your letter of 8/3/10. I realize that I did miss my court date of 7/29/10 and failed to pay the nominal fine that was issued me due to the ill-fated events of 5/29/10. This correspondence is to verify that neither negligence nor naked temerity were the cause of my absence. Never one to play the scofflaw, I do intend to pay the fine in full. It just may take a little while. You see, the money, I just don’t have it. In order to show my intention to settle my balance with the County of Sibley, I have attached a check for 10 dollars, American. Hopefully that will put me in good enough standing with the reverential District Court long enough for me to accrue the funds needed for the remaining $115. Or perhaps we could work out some sort of community service option? I would gladly spend an afternoon on the ravishing boulevards of Gaylord, cleaning up the noisy riff-raff of cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and other miscellanea that result from the apathy of the town’s citizenry. That option would also allow me to make a much-overdue visit to the local nursing home to play Wii with my grandmother, who ironically worked for many years at the very courthouse that I have now become entangled in this fiscal snafu with. I apologize for driving with such unbridled alacrity through your County, and hope we can work something out, as I plan on utilizing your highway infrastructure for many years to come.
Sincerely,

(My signature)

<End of Letter>

Blong. The Beatles. Hey Sibley County, we can work it out!

The Association of American Physicians and Surgeons

The following piece is for a creative writing class, with the assignment being, quote, “Riff on these monkeys.” The monkeys being the Association of American Physicians and Surgeons. I went ahead and created some southern redneck named Jed to come in and talk to you about the group. He’s terribly ignorant. And yes, I realize the irony that by using stereotypes of rednecks I have learned from television, it does in fact highlight my own ignorance. That’s what makes this so fun! And if you don’t figure it out from the spelling, you are supposed to read this using a thick, red-necky accent.

(Banjo music wafting from a distant stoop)

Howdy! Jed here! At least that’s wut muh wife-cuzzin-auntie calls me! Say, have you fellers heard of this? Our prey-suh-dent, Bayrock Hew-sain O-bamm-uh, has been accused of using nay-row-ling…new-roll…lang-guhz-tic…(Editor’s note – he is trying to say neuro-linguistic programming) nee-ro…..dang-nabbit! Wut I’m a-tryin’ to tells ya is that O-bamm-uh is brain-warshin’ us! Well not me, bee-cuzz they says that its only wurks on the yung and hawly edu-cay-tud. But that gits me really wurried about muh bruther-nephew-uncle, cuz he was all-ways the brainiest nut in the turd. He’s by-gum all-most finushed read-un Jeff Foworthy’s book!  But any-haw, as a re-prey-zentative of the Ay-Ay-Pay-Ess (AAPS), I gots more stuff to git yur thanker clankin’. For in-stunce – you know that aborshun causes boo-bay lumps? (We believe that means breast cancer – ed.) That’s why when muh grahmaw-niece-2nd cuzzin done git prey-nunt when she were the ripe ol’ age of 12, I dun two thangs – 1) vowed to find out who thuh bas-tuhd wuz, and give him thuh spankun’ of a lifetime (it turned out it wuz muh cuzzin-daddy, so I let ’em off thuh hook) and 2) made her prom-us to keep that bay-bay. Cuz you know wut? I could use anuther uncle-cuzzin, cuz muh uh-thur one just don’t seem right some days. And if I wanna see anuther abortion scar on a lay-day, well I’ll just mosey on down to the local new-dee bar with muh bruh-ther-nephew. And hows about this? You know that in too-thousand-and five, immigrunts caused a leprosy outbreak? It was on the news! Now I don’t know about you, but I’s been hear-un a whole lot of aye-span-yol bein’ habla’d in muh barrio (We think this means, “Spanish being spoken in my neighborhood – ed.), if yuh catch muh drift. I don’t care if they’s got laygitumut jobs, and took sum stoo-pid test, this hur’s A-may-ree-kuh! We speak anglish! Wut’s that you sayin’? This here’s a meltin’ pot? Well I gots a question for you, mister smarty-pants! When you cookin’ squirrel over a garbage fire, you just gunna let it sit in there forever? I tried it, ain’t no good! We gots ta get this meltin’ pot off the stove bee-fore it burns!  Ary-thang that gunna melt dad-gum shoulda melted by now! And now muh hard-earned muffler-farmin’ income is goin’ to help people that cain’t afford new-fangled doctorin’ techniques? Well paint me green and call me a bullfrog! That wood actually help muh family a great deal, but may-bee O-bamm-uh’s nacho-lingus-program (Again, neuro-linguistic programming – ed.) is workin’ on me after all. And you know wut O-bamm-uh stands fur, right? One Bigg Ass Mistake, A-mur-ah-ka! Pay-lun in 2012!!!! Now, lookee here, if she wuz ree-lay-tud to me, I’d done kick mah boots off an’ (Alright! We’re gonna cut Jed off right there – ed.)

The Blong for today is “The Ballad of Jed Clampett.”

The Six Month Itch, Part 1

Dear Abby,

I’ve never written into your esteemed publication before, but I have nowhere left to turn as my relationship continues to spiral out of control, leaving me flummoxed and desperate for help. About six months ago, I began a passionate affair with a voluptuous, curvaceous Blog, (these curves are so curvaceous that they could be classified as “dangerous”) an affair so passionate, in fact, it could be argued that it rivaled the greatest lustful trysts of recent memory (J-Lo and Ben, Brangelina, etc.). It began innocent enough, just two kids lookin’ for a good time. Is that so wrong?  But then, something bizarre happened: I began to connect with the Blog on a non-physical plane. It was as if a whole other dimension of feeling welled up deep within my loins, a feeling I had never experienced.  For about five days, I freaked out. I neglected my friends and family. I would wake up sweating in the middle of the night, pondering, wondering, yearning, to realize what this thing was so deep inside of me.  It all came to a head when finally I showed up at the Blog’s door at 4am on a Sunday, and as it stood there, confused in its silky nègligèe, with that look on its face that no doubt many men have fallen prey to before, I boldly proclaimed “I love you.” Now they say that hindsight is 20/20, and if I could travel back in time and take back those words, would I? I honestly do not know. The reason I am writing you, Dearest Abby, is that I can’t help but think that I’ve made a monumental mistake.  Things are changing.  As the months grind on, I’ve been noticing a little extra paunch around the Blog’s midsection. I know it sounds shallow, but would it kill someone to do some yoga a few times a week?  My constant witty quips barely muster a weak chuckle out if it anymore. And while we still supposedly maintain separate residences, I’m beginning to suspect that the Blog has opted out of its lease and is now a full time dweller of my apartment. I eat breakfast, the Blog is there. I come home at night, the Blog is there. I try to sneak out for a peaceful evening walk, you better believe the Blog is right there. It’s like, “Where is there time for Sean in this whole thing?” I have needs too, and they don’t all revolve around the Blog.  I don’t need to spend my whole Saturday at Macy’s, waiting for the Blog to find the right pair of clogs. And lately I’ve noticed, the Blog doesn’t even look me in the eyes when I’m typing it anymore!  Arguments have become more frequent. I want to try some new, exotic Blogging techniques that I’ve been learning, but the Blog insists that we play it safe, and not try anything that is too “out there.”  And this morning, I’m pretty sure it tried to poison me! Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw it slip some sort of gelatinous powder into my morning apple juice.  This suspicion is rapidly solidifying into a belief, as I now write to you from minute #47 on the toilet (I luckily grabbed a scrap piece of paper and pen as I sprinted through the kitchen. They were later properly disposed of after the writings were transcribed to the computer.) So, Dear Abby, what I would like to know is, am I being an immature imbecile with this whole thing, or should I run to the hills as fast as I can?

Hope you can help,

BlggrInMnnpls

(Abby’s response will appear within 55 hours.)

Blong. A living legend. B.B. King. Ain’t nuthin wrong with people born on September 16.

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