An Incomplete Guide to Relationships

There are a number of complexities we deal with through the daily drama of life. The biggest of these are relationships with others. To make this easier for you fellows less omnipotent than myself, I have jotted down some of my thoughts and experiences with relationships.

I'll start by talking about women: ?

I think that that that single character, ?, summarizes what I know about women in a way that is both astonishingly brief and surprisingly accurate. I doubt that any man understands women. I often doubt that any woman understands them either. They just pretend. Unfortunately guys aren't quite so good at faking it and can't tell when a woman is. (I'm proud of myself for how smoothly I integrated that particular unfair sexual reference.) I mean, come on! What's with their big facination with shoes? It's not that long of a walk between the bedroom and the kitchen. Having established already that I know nothing about women, I shall proceed to ramble on about them anyway in my normal fashion tempered with ignorance. Women focus on all of the most unimortant things possible. Like passing up the perfect guy for her to instead date the recently-released-from-prison bike-riding, tattooed, puppy-kicking bad boy--and then proceed to attempt to unsuccessfully change him into the man that she just passed up at the beginning of this abnormally lengthy sentence. Of course we can't forget their constant insistence on insider trading. Which gets them sent to jail. And know what? None of these women do anything that will help them in post-apocalyptic Earth, which will be obviously inevitable after a rampaging virus turns he majority of the population into zombies. Come on, are you going to beat a zombie to death with a scrapbook? Or shame it into submission by making a better flower arrangement than it could ever hope to sculpt?

Now I shall speak of men: I think that husbands are like clothing. If you're going to spend money on them, then you need to shop around, occasionally trying them on in a private room to make sure they look good and everything fits and is the right...length.

Women tend to wonder why all of the perfect men for them are gay--while gays wonder why all the perfect men for them are on magazine covers. That's the problem with all of my exes: They're gay. The problem with gays is that they should be kicked. In the face. Especially my exes. Marriage is awesome, but not for everyone. Especially my exes. Dying lonely and miserable from an extended illness is more for them. Luckily for me they are gay and so they can't get married before me. HAH! (I'm not bitter. Really. Believe me. My bitterness level is not OVER 9000!)

One of my exes is the type of person that still believes the outdated mantra that "The Customer is Always Right." We have since evolved and casually come to understand the much harder truth: Customers are rarely correct. In fact, more often than not they are blithering idiots that do a disservice to society by procreating. And it kinda makes me wonder why they do it in the first place. Don't be a fool, wrap your tool. Use a wrapper before you attack her. If you think she's spunky, cover your monkey. That's what Brian Boitano'd do. Seriously, people seem to have a bad habit of popping out more babies than they can afford. It seems like a foreign concept to some people, but maybe if you can't afford to feed and clothe yourself then maybe you should get a hobby other than poking your girl...

Another one of my exes is dead. That's how much he just sucked at life. Seriously.

I would have to say upon review that this all boils down to the following: Your hand is a much cheaper and fulfilling date. And they don't yell back. And you can even use them to fend off the zombies.

Quote of the Day: "It's hard to have second dates....or even first dates...when you indiscriminately hate everyone."

Breaking the Big Rule

Okay so the big rule is that people aren't supposed to write blogs about where they work and actually mention the name of the place they work. So I went up to my supervisor and just informed him that I was writing this blog and told him to just not read it. And he told me it was a bad idea. I can't mention the name of where I work. In fact, I don't even think I'm allowed to tell you that it rhymes with 'Blarget'. So I won't.

I have to mention that ever since I was little my biggest pet peeve was people leaving carts in parking spaces. And by some cruel act of divine intervention by the wrathful deity above, every job I have I somehow end up as cart attendant. Since working here my pet peeve has changed though. Now my biggest annoyance is when people talk to me. That's why I kick people. And then laugh.

Seriously though, 'Blarget' is a pretty cool place, marked by community and diversity. We have working with us people that are not black, people that are not gay, people that are not women and even people that aren't Jews! Like I said, diverse. Though occasionally there's a glitch in hiring and we hire someone who IS one of the forementioned persons...at least until the cleansing. After all, they hired me. Twice. Those fools.

But I work with some awesome people, like Mallory and Cheyenne the Would-Be Porn Star...both of whom are prettier than each other (I say nervously, trying to keep from encountering the scorn of either of them). And I like scheming and just generally being racist with Robert. There's also Heather the Mexican girl who wouldn't marry me (se blog 'Rejection'). And of course I can't forget to mention my coworker who helps me fight everyday stupidity: The Pair of Talking Breasts (we call them Lauren). Okay, I'm seriously going to get hurt for that one...

But there's definitely a lot of stupidity that we fight together. Seriously. I had this one lady who purchased sixty bucks worth of dollar items and in her astonishment she said, 'How is it at $60 already?'

'Well,' I replied, 'You've selected $60 worth of items.' She didn't believe me. So I counted them out and showed her each of the sixty things as her small daughter was getting really bored. I love to see people teaching their kids to be consumer whores as early as possible. And still she was trying to figure out the math in her head. I really need the power to veto people's right to breed. But the vengeful deity instead just keeps me pushing carts so I'm resigned to merely sharing my tales with The Pair of Talking Breasts.

I love working customer service though, mostly because I get to go through the list of recalled items. 'Blarget' sells some of the best stuff. Like the two-person bicycle that snaps in the middle and becomes a one-person-with-an-injured-friend bicycle. And the carseat that keeps the baby tightly secured...unless one gets in an accident at which point the baby transforms into a rather amusing and temporarily noisy projectile. My favorite ones however are the action figures that 'may cause intestinal perforation.' Seriously, don't ask.

I told my supervisor not to read this, so I'm sure he won't.  But just in case he does, I'm NOT the one laundering money from the company because laundering money from the company is just the kind of thing I would NOT do.  To everyone else:  Hey guys!  I found a cool new way to launder money from my employer!

Quote of the Day:  "Yo mama is so fat that when she walked outside someone said....uhhh....'That lady is too big. In fact.....ummm...she bigger than a person should reasonably be."

Jail and Bail

I knew I didn't like Kansas, even before driving back through it before returning from Colorado. But I went anyway and this is what transpired:

On may way I did something absolutely unthinkable (besides signing to the Mama Mia! soundrack)--I was speeding. On the interstate. Monstrous, I know. Through an act of divine intervention, flashing lights appeared behind my car and I pulled over and rolled down my window while the cop shouted at me to get out of my car, hands over my head. And then, in his divine sense of justice put me in handcuffs. I think he was too busy being an asshole to give me my Miranda Rights, which was disappointing because I was wondering what they were. He tells me that because of the downpour (which wasn't enough for my windshield wipers to even be on) that I was 'driving recklessly' by speeding. So he gave me two tickets: One for speeding and one for speeding in the rain. I was told that I could be bonded out with 500 bucks. What. The. Hell. Surely he's not allowed to do that--taking my Mama Mia! sountrack away from me has to be covered under the 'Cruel and Unusual Punishment' clause. From his car I could see the reason I was being put behind bars: a squigley rainbow sticker on the back of my car.

I made sure to try and introduce myself to everyone at the police station and offer my hand or shaking at anytime they weren't handcuffed, which wasn't often. But that's okay, whenever I did so the people woud just look at me and walk away anyway. Not a particularly friendly crowd. After smiling big for my picture it was time for paperwork. My booking officer wasn't happy when I signed my documents as 'Lord Master Jason the Amazing'. It's okay though, he was even less happy when I pulled out my 'Get Out of Jail Free' card that I keep stored in my wallet for just such an emergency. Still though, he refused to take it, at which time I told him to pretend that I was yelling and throwing a fit, though I actually didn't because I try to not do that sort of thing. Then they cut off a bike chain I wore around my wrist, saying that I can cause some damage if I hit someone with it. 'More damage than if I kicked them in the nuts with my shoe?' I asked curiously. They took away my shoes. Good thing I didn't use biting as my example......

Instead of placing me in a three-man cell like they had been planning, they shuffled people around so I could have my own--they thought I was going to get myself killed if I came in contact with a real person. Once I was in with my stunning orange jumpsuit that complimented my hair nicely, they gave me my effects. A towel, bed sheets, and a cup with a toothbrush, some shampoo, a bar of soap and Maximum Security Toothpaste. I suppose that they don't want the toothpaste to escape the tube... When I used the bathroom, I had to use a toilet that was in sight of the guards, to remove any shred of dignity I might have left. So, in spite, I peed with all the dignity I could muster! I think the guard just thought I was weird.

That's when my montage began. It was like in the movies, you know, when they show all of the heroic little clips of personal growth and such. I alternately watched cable TV, exercized, read a book and paced my cell. Only instead of taking place all in about 20 seconds, it was hour after hour after hour. And there was no music during my extended extended montage sequence, since they had taken my Mama Mia! soundtrack (I was not a Dancing Queen.). Fortunately, I still had my own voice and an endless repitoire of camp songs. Very, very annoying camp songs. And so I sang them. All of them. To be fair, I was respectful to all officers, I addressed them with respect and politely did whatever I was asked. They just never had the sense to ask me to shut the hell up.

Word of my imprisonment got around and a particularly generous relative of mine spent $700 to spring me from my cell. But they made me wait in the lobby for several hours before I got a ride to my car in the impound lot and finally got back to my Mama Mia!soundtrack. While I was waiting I looked at a huge wall poster detailing crimes and punishments in Kansas. I figured I should share my favorites with you, to be sure that you can keep yourself out of my position:

1. Damaging Something by Throwing it Off a Bridge: I just thought this one was funny.

2. Healing Acts: What the hell?

3. Aiding a Child in an Act of Misconduct: Good thing I was never caught helping my bother color on the walls.

4. Eavesdropping: Punishable with a fine of up to $2,500 or 1 year in prison. Seriously.

5. Fossil Hunting: This would be another 'What the hell?'

6. Illegal Bingo: This was my favorite. I can just imagine the SWAT tem busting in on fourty old ladies with their little cards arresting them all. Oddly though, it had the same punishment as sexual battery and a hit-and-run that involves a death. I guess they don't like Bingo in Kansas....that's okay, neither do I.

I had demanded a lot of changes during my stay with them, from uniforms to room service. I think they'll bend to my will, though I don't plan on going back to any place that desn't take 'Get Out of Jail Free' cards. So I guess that the moral I'm really trying to get at is this: Don't Drive Gay.

Quote of the Day: "If I were a walking brillo pad, I'd be the pink one."

So-Called "Role Models"

Well folks, I've been working for the Boy Scouts for the past couple months, teaching all of them about animals and nature. I generally begin by informing them that I don't like animals OR nature. I take a unique approach with teaching: Honesty. Which is why I also tell the scouts that I don't like them. Besides, I figure that they should learn early that nobody really cares about them. Just like the Ethiopians. Well, look at where the information is coming from, I've been kicked out of my troop and out of the house--I blame the economy. Could be worse though, I could be a grungy door-to-door used shoe salesman. Or a lawyer. Or gay. Wait......

Looking back now, it's no wonder that I turned out to be such a rapscallion. I mean, look at the cartoon "role models" I had to watch for eighteen years. At the top of the list is Smokey Bear with his overquoted mantra, "Only YOU can prevent forest fires." Seriously man, get off your lazy ass and start preventing fires yourself, maybe then you won't be so blasted fat. And speaking of bears, what's up with Yogi? "It's okay to steal things from people as long as you smile and frustrate the law while doing it!" What the hell kind of lesson is that to be teaching kids?!? And then there's Mr. Kool-Aid, always partying with his red "punch" and destroying houses and everything else. Let me tell you, when a party ends in rampant destruction then it's not kool-aid that people are drinking. Then there's Super-Man showing off (Why walk around when I can LEAP THE BUILDING IN A SINGLE BOUND?). Don't let me even get started on that harlot Betty-Boop and Hello Kitty (have you ever seen her working? Of course not, she's always standing around on a street corner in a pink dress...not much mystery why.)

And then there's that racist prick The Grinch. And don't give me that "his heart swelled up three times" nonsense, I know a sleeper agent when I see one. I just know he's going to hide razorblades the the who-kid's candy on Halloween. Racist son-of-a-pheasant. And on a separate note, I don't like the smurfs either, stupid blue theives. Never trust someone with blue skin unless you're choking them. It'd be more helpful if Smokey started telling kids that for a change.

Quote of the Day:  "Your mom's face is your mom's face....or......whatever."

Rejection

Okay, so broken hearts really do hurt more than being stabbed with a thousand tiny shards of glass and then bathing in refreshingly ripe lemon juice.  I'm assuming.  I've never actually done all that...but my heart has been broken.  Just tonight.

A bride and groom came through my line today at work, still dressed up and all.  My first thought was that maybe they simultaneously left each other at the altar to run away with each other, but then I realized that that made no sense--they must have been done with the whole altar part all together.  And being the helpful advice-giver I am, I let them know that as nice as it may be, Target is not the best possible honeymoon destination.  They would probably more enjoy Academy Sports&Outdoors or IKEA or Barbados.  But not France.  They told me that they were on their way to their actual honeymoon location, but they had been given a gift card to Target and were just using it as a pitstop.  And that got me thinking....I want people to give me things.

At Target, we have people frequently register for gifts on the occasions of babies and marriages.  Seeing as though it would be quite difficult to impregnate myself (not to mention painful), I decided to get married.  And then I looked over to a delightful Mexican coworker and I asked her to marry me.  And I even smiled while I did it to maybe persuade her decision just a little bit.

And she said no.  Rejected.  It had been my dream for over twenty seconds...she said it was because I'm gay.  Why do people have to discriminate against me?  The world would be better if we could just all get along and marry one another for financial gain.  It's something I'll fix when I'm President.

So then I explained to her that I wanted lots of free things.  and then there's the honeymoon to an exotic location (like Barbados or Academy Sports&Outdoors)--and I was sure to let her know that she didn't even have to go if she didn't want to.  This, of course, flattered her greatly.  Then I added that we could just get divorced--nobody would think much of it.  People do it all the time.  Sometimes twice a week.  But I was sure to add that if we did get divorced, we'd have to make sure everyone knew that it was me who broke up with her face--I don't want to lose face in front of the people who'd have given me free stuff for getting married in the first place.  She still said no.

So I told her that it would even get her American citizenship.  Then she hit me.  And that kinda hurt more than being rejected.  So I suppose that rejection doesn't hurt more than being stabbed with a thousand tiny shards of glass and then bathing in refreshingly ripe lemon juice after all.

Quote of the Day:  "Would it turn you on if I threw you off the stairs?"

In Memoriam: Jason Dean Brantley

I first stumbled across Jason while he was in jail for the third year.  We became penpals and fast friends.  He had lived a very extravagant life—as well as a very dangerous one.  He lived a life of dark alleys and drugs.  Expensive cars and fancy labels.  He lived just as he had meant to.  As the law caught up to him, he did his time.  That's when I began to know him.  He told me about his plans to change his life, get a job and a home of his own.  Legitimately.  Legally.  He wanted to return as a productive member of society.

He was released this summer and we became very close friends.  We learned a lot from each other.  One of the things I learned was a phrase he and another friend of his used a lot, I tried to understand it in context but that proved impossible.  I couldn't tell if the words "going through" meant becoming drunk, engaging in general merriment or fighting.  As it turns out, it's all of them.  He taught me that it's following one's actions and one's convictions to the fullest extent; it's going through to the end.

Through his recovery from a number of serious drugs, he was gripped by alcohol.  He considered it an innocent strand of his former life.  He was also in a lot of pain, and it helped him to cope.  I don't agree with it.

In fact, I differed from him in a number of aspects and even though I didn't agree with him, I understood him.  I understood his motivations, his desires.  His dreams.  And in that way, I loved him as I love myself—for I found that they were the same as my own.  He and I followed different paths to the same end.

However, Jason's end came to an early and tragic halt.  It was a car accident at night.  It was something that could have happened to anyone.  I regret that this sudden end came a mere 6 months after his release for I know that he would lament the impact this has on his mother, but for himself he would not weep because he felt that he had a life worth living. He lived exactly as he had meant to.

This is my memorial to Jason Brantley, someone who went through as he lived.