Tips and Tricks

As someone who grew up in a racist household, I feel I'm in a unique position to help ease the Hunger Games' racist fans' suffering. I can only imagine how disappointing, how deceiving it must have felt to watch a movie made from the beloved book series and find--gasp!--all the "good roles" occupied by black people! Huddle up and take a knee. Since you can't whitewash your movies like you can your books, I have some tips and tricks so this doesn't happen again. Let's start with the obvious:

1. You don't have to be a racist.

Yep. It's true. You really don't. Perhaps if you correlate racism to shitting in your own mouth it will help? I realize visualization doesn't work for everyone, so if you fall into that category, think about it this way: When you announce what you're about to say is racist and say it anyway, you're a fucking asshole. Which brings me to my second tip:

2. You don't have to be a fucking asshole.

Seriously. The world already has Rick Santorum and he owns that MO. But seeing how you despise a number of the world's population, being a fucking asshole may not bother you. And that's okay. So let's try this: If you let the sun darken your lily white skin you can't hold prejudices towards people with dark skin.

3. Don't be a hypocrite.

You don't know what that word means? Never mind. Let's move to my fourth tip: 

4. Read more books. 

I don't mean the Bible. Get a library card, clear a Saturday, and, I know this will be hard, check out books that sound lame. Maybe start with To Kill A Mockingbird. You're thinking it sounds kind of cool? Wait, wait, wait. It's not about hunting. Which brings me to my fifth and final tip:

5. Always understand what you're getting into.

Unless you can be absolutely certain the world you're stepping into is a white one, don't leave the house.

I care about you. I really do. And I'm sorry to throw in a spoiler alert, but there are going to be people of color in the sequels. You might want to start thinking about implementing one or two of these tips and tricks so the subsequent movies won't be so difficult to watch. But if you can't get past the blackness, stick with tip number five. There's no shame in staying at home and watching Two and a Half Men.

Making Faces

Last night my wife leaned over me, her lips on the verge of kissing me goodnight, when her head suddenly changed direction and landed on my shoulder. As I considered being offended, her body started shaking from...crying? No, she was giggling. Uncontrollably. When she looked at me again--red faced and teary eyed--I made a face. She laughed even harder. She kept looking away and I kept making faces. (Such a simple thing, making faces.) It was the funniest thing we'd done all day.

We might need to get out more.

Oftentimes the simple things get me thinking. When my wife walked around the bed to turn out the lights, and the happiness of our life together surged in my chest, I couldn't help thinking how one day we're going to end. Not because one of us stops loving the other, but because one of us, if not both, will die.

I know how this sounds. Doomsday much? But seriously, sometimes I can't help picturing our wrinkled bodies spooning on our Craftmatic adjustable bed. I can't help seeing us moving towards each other--so much slower than in our youthful years!--but moving towards each other nonetheless. And I can't help feeling our wrinkled hands desperately holding on to each other as one of us is on the edge of expiring.

Whoa. I thought this was supposed to be some funny, sarcastic shit, not a reminder we're all going to die! I should have kept it to myself, huh? It's so goddamn depressing, right? Yeah, I know. Only I'm under no illusion that my moments of extreme happiness will spare me from experiencing extreme devastation.

With all that in mind, I still can't help smiling, for my life is full of love and random acts of silliness.

Such a simple thing, making faces.

Lazy Bastard

For the past fifteen days my butt has basically left the comfortable confines of my sofa for two reasons:

1. Peeing
2. Pooping

I drink a lot of water so I've gotten off the sofa more than one might think. Still, when I'm standing my butt feels weird, like it's lacking major support. When I'm standing, the sofa looks like something is missing. Something invaluable, irreplaceable. Something only I can offer.

I've allowed my butt and sofa to develop a deep, meaningful relationship.

Some might even call it love.

I like to pretend it happened separately from me, without my involvement or knowledge, but I cannot deceive myself so easily. I know I joyfully brought them together. Not once did I turn away when my butt gratefully sank into the comforting arms of the sofa. Never did I blush, scramble to find something else to do, when the sofa, ever so gently, lovingly, caressed my butt. No. I heralded their joining of forces. I encouraged it.

Tomorrow, I'll be a contemptible bastard. Butt and sofa will blame me for letting them spend so much time together only to tear them apart. I'll return to work; they'll return to being weekend lovers. I like to pretend it won't bother me, ripping two lovers apart so suddenly, but I know myself. It will hurt me, too. All I can give them is one unforgettable last day. A day I'll keep my liquid intake low.

Hail Mary

The clock strikes the two minute warning. Cameras pan to the Denver Broncos' sidelines. There, in his Jesus crouch, is Tim Tebow; eyes earnestly closed in prayer, lips moving.

In all fairness, I have no idea what Tebow is saying. He could be pleading for the return of our troops in Afghanistan, or for the violence in Syria to stop. But seeing how Denver is down by four points with two minutes to go, I'll bet my kingdom in Heaven he's not asking for anything outside himself. Praying for strength, or guts and glory so your football team can go to the playoffs makes you look like a douche, Tim. I don't care how much money you make; you're goals aren't that important. Jesus has a lot on his plate. There's no way your playoff hopes are even warming in His oven. 

Lean in, Tim. Let me tell you something. If you put half the effort into studying pictures of defenses, talking with the offensive coordinator, rallying receivers, patting the offensive line on the back than you do praying, maybe you'd have scored more than three points. Besides, where is the praying getting you? A soon to be nice spot on your season-ending sofa is where. Jesus doesn't belong to a fantasy league, Tim. He could care about your little game's outcome. But Satan? I hear he runs a fantasy league worth billions.

With all your look-at-me-sincerely-praying-even-though-I'm-not-stuck-on-a-roof-after-a-hurricane-or-in-a-burning-building, I like the idea that the Devil is fucking with you.

Huh?

Last night I dreamt Lady Gaga and I were dating. While the details of the dream are plentiful, what stands out the most, besides her body being even more incredible in "real life", is Stef--yes, we are so close I not only call Lady Gaga by her real name but condense it--told me I am weird.

Huh? Come again? Lady Gaga and I are dating and I'm the weird one?

But really, LG didn't tell me anything. My subconscious, obviously up to something, told me I am weird. I went to bed thinking I lacked unusual qualities. I woke up wondering if I'm mistaken. So I confronted my subconscious, and the findings?

I want to bake myself inside a cake so I can eat my way out of it, but would settle for wearing a dress made out of cake.

I prefer to keep dildos safely tucked inside socks in the closet, but come vacation time, if there isn't enough room in my luggage, I'll consider using them as the heels of my shoes.

I have no desire to ride around in an egg, but I will sail in one if it takes me to Bora Bora.

I have never seen a smoke machine nor worn a full-body latex suit in a music video, but riding my bike behind the mosquito fogging truck wearing a pair of terrycloth shorts feels like a close second.

When I use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I can't look in the mirror because I think I'll see (little) monsters with their paws up, waiting to kill me.

I passionately play the piano but it sounds like a box of dead birds being dumped over the keys.

Huh. Wonder what I'll learn about myself tonight.

Holiday Haiku: Rick Perry

Memorization
Haunts even the best of minds
You are really screwed.

Unless you're wearing
a pancake breast plate, hugging
syrup is plain weird.

It's Caining (Wo)Men, Hallelujah

This is a joke, right? A man, running for a presidential bid, has women popping up and claiming he was sexually inappropriate with them, and the women are to blame? Their pasts are being combed over? Awesome. That's the kind of unbiased news I can sink my teeth into. 

What does Herman Cain have to do for his popularity to go down? Have an abortion?

Actually, yes. In his party, that's exactly what he'll have to do.  

Look, I know Herman talks like your neighbor who still can't figure out why all the Occupy Wall Street protesters aren't wearing Birkenstocks, a neighbor you admire, but if you keep ignoring the red flags, the regret you'll feel come this time next year is going to keep you from enjoying the Super Bowl.

Please, don't do this. Don't support a stupid, sexist blowhard to run our nation. This is a country! There won't be a hostess greeting our nation's problems at the door, asking if they want a booth or a table, because she quit after tearily explaining to her mother that Herman put his hand on her ass, squeezed, and said he had a saucy surprise for her, but she'd have to search his pants to find it.

In the restaurant business, this type of behavior is called "charming".

I know this is all a huge misunderstanding, Herman. The women "coming after you" misunderstood they were supposed to keep their mouths shut and take it.

Real Americans

A man, sitting behind a foldout table, was trying to get people to sign up for something or trying to sell them something, maybe shotguns seeing how one was laid out across the table.

A shotgun. In a grocery store.

Awesome.

My wife and I knew we didn't "belong" when we pulled into the parking lot. Well-used, massive pick-up trucks clustered at one end of it, hauling trailers containing ATVs, fishing poles, and stained coolers.

Never trust a parking lot without a Subaru.  

It was obvious the residents in the tiny agricultural town had never seen a real-life African American before. Maybe they thought "those kinds" of people only lived in the TV. Women with fuzzy hair stared intently as my wife, and I, passed their rusted shopping carts. A group of men, no doubt belonging to the trucks in the parking lot, all with the same sized rotund stomachs peeking out of camouflaged jackets and sticking out over dusty dungarees, whispered to each other while standing in line behind us. Their mesh, foam-fronted, stiff-billed hats bounced atop their heads as they loudly laughed. I didn't need to hear what they were saying to know they were talking about the biracial lesbian couple who dared infiltrate their Real America. I could feel their scorn shaving off my skin in thin layers.

My wife had seen a redneck before. She knew what she was getting into when we pulled into the parking lot. I did, too, which was why we sat in the car and discussed whether we should go in or not. But we lived in the United States of America, the land of the free, and we could go anywhere we pleased. And my wife wanted apple juice!

People who think they own places, go out of their way to make anyone different feel uncomfortable, think using their calloused hands to shoot animals makes them Real Americans strike me as ignorant cowards. My wife and I have a right to be here as much as anyone else. At least we have the guts to leave our bubble and explore different places. That's a Real American.

Caution: Dumbass on Board

I found my target: a four-door sedan, low to the ground, driving the speed limit in the right hand lane. The turn signal tick-tocked while I made my way into the left lane. My foot put pressure on the gas pedal. My bumper was inches away from side swiping the sedan when I saw a small, yellow sign hanging in the rear driver's side window that read Caution: Baby on Board.

Well, shit. Now what to do? I couldn't side swipe the car and force it into a ditch now. There was a baby on board. A baby!

Here's a newsflash, dumbass: you had me at Human Driving on Board. Now that there's a baby on board I'm supposed to, what? Put a spotlight on your car so it shines in a heavenly light? Your baby on board is spitting up all over its Onesie, shitting in its pants, and crying for reasons you can only guess. You have bigger fish frying than worrying if I'm going to come along and t-bone your car because I'm looking for something to fill in my day.

The sign is more about bragging rights, isn't it? You think because you created the "miracle of life"--it's no more a miracle than my having a good hair day--you're entitled over those of us who don't have a baby on board? You want to rub it in? Say, hey world, look what I did? A dick stuffed a vagina, sperm fertilized an egg, and I have a baby on board?

You want to make a statement? Fuck the sign. Tape your baby to the window. Let everyone see your Baby on Board. A sign is just a sign, but when one is faced with a baby drooling down a window, one is going to slow down. I promise.

Depending on Stupid

I had a discussion with a young man about natural resources. We eventually landed on shortages of water. He told me if there wasn't any water he would drink milk.

What scared me most about our talk was he was look-me-dead-in-the-eye serious. 

I shouldn't have needed to explain to him that without water cows would die. Seriously. How do people like him exist? Why do so many people in the world fail to realize everything is connected? Why is embracing ignorance the new pink?

It's because of Palin, isn't it?

It probably has more to do with people thinking the sun, oceans, animals, and Facebook revolves around them. What do polluted rivers, dirty air, melting polar icecaps, and animals going extinct have to do with them buying an alarm clock and a family sized Kraft Macaroni and Cheese from Walmart while posting the riveting details of their trip on Facebook?

I like to think those beating their chests while spouting their ignorance is their way of saving face. Being proud of being stupid keeps people from having to face up to the impact they're having on the Earth and others. Being proud of being ignorant keeps people from feeling too much about their fellow man and creatures. Being proud of not knowing anything lets Michael Bay keep making Transformer movies. 

Knowing how water and cows, melting polar icecaps and hurricanes, bees and crops, animal life and human life, Madonna and Lady Gaga relate to one other is important, regardless if stupid cares about it or not. So how about we strike a deal? I'll go see the next Transformer movie if stupid actually looks out its window instead of staring at its reflection in it. For the love of humanity, please, take the deal.

Our survival depends on you, Stupid.