I Write This With Absolutely No Agenda.

Let me start by clarifying that I write this with absolutely no agenda, no hidden motives, no ulterior plan to advance myself or my interests. You know how other people would say one thing and actually mean another? Say, they’ll praise what you’re wearing while actually highlighting what displeases them about it, so your friends can see it clearly and snigger in their heads—that’s what this piece is not.

See, I stick to the truth like a hardened nose gum on a bed post. When I talk about things, I describe them objectively with a dogged tenacity to uphold positivism. There are no gray areas with me or any room for suggestions, allusions, and metaphorical expressions of the like. When I use figures of speech, such as in the opening sentence of this paragraph, I use them to aid elucidation and not hint on another latent meaning, which the reader should unlock in order to unravel the true purpose of the writing. I consider such a task terribly tedious and a tragic turn in literary culture. Though, I must say, I do not care at all about literature because literature is basically a socially exalted exercise in lying. In fact, I literally mean everything that I say and mean them in a very limited way with a clearly defined scope.

There’s no beating around the bush, ignoring the elephant in the room, or walking on eggshells with me. I don’t avoid the real subject at hand or try to deceive the audience by discussing misleadingly. Satire is not in my vocabulary—only science.

This is who I am, writing or speaking—even in nonverbal actions. When I engage in an activity, I do it just for the sake of doing it without trying to follow leaps of logic that would necessarily give me new angles and opportunities to criticize it in the larger scheme of things or from a fresh perspective. For example, when I drink coffee in Starbucks, I drink it for the sole purpose of digesting caffeine and enjoying the multiple ways sugar is used in the concoction. I never think of anything else regarding my purchase or the company that sold it to me.

This is precisely why, I believe, my friends appreciate my company because they can rely on me to convey information without bias. So if one of my friends asks me, “Does this dress make me look fat?” I tell them nonchalantly, “Yes, visually, that dress, brings attention to the roundness of your body and tricks the eye to make you seem even larger than you truly are.” That or “No, it does not.” But it makes no matter if he or she is my friend, an acquaintance or a total stranger. I treat everyone the same.

Unlike others, my Facebook posts are void of vagueness and are crisp in clarity. “Busy day in the office,” I’d post or “The boss spends around 4 hours every day watching YouTube.” True, my propensity to talk only in facts gets me in a bit of trouble quite regularly and encourages people to call me negative things like “an obnoxious socially incompetent know-it-all” or a “sociopath in the making” but it hasn’t stopped me from being who I am. To behave otherwise would be a betrayal of not just myself but the Truth.

For if a man only speaks in undeniable facts, then isn’t it true that he stops being a man? He becomes not just the symbol of Truth, but its very mouthpiece—and thus, Truth itself. Let me use another metaphor here to illustrate the point: isn’t the Word of God not only a means of divine expression but God Himself?

And from where I’m standing, I can see how people have miserably failed in walking the narrow but just path to total neutrality and impartiality. Everyone aside from me is double-tongued, two-faced, self-serving, and a liar through and through. Some have even so thoroughly gotten into the habit of misguiding others that they have effectively fooled themselves. But I do not judge their ultimate worth, only their capacity to be different from me.

Yes, I truly am convinced—no, I assert—that I am the Truth. No bullshit.

“Everything’s Gonna Be All Right.”

There was this woman in a motel who said I thought too much about everything. I don’t know how she could tell that just by looking at my face.

She said “Stop thinking. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

That kinda struck me, so from then on I carried that all the time and eagerly handed out the advice to everyone who seemed a bit too uptight.

I always said “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Like this one time, over bottles of beer, another girl told me about the uncertainty of her future.

I told her, “Well, don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

She said, “Except you don’t know that for sure.”

And I really didn’t know what to say to that.

She was kinda right.

But anyway, I moved on.

Every day I would wake up and start thinking about my credit card debt. And when I would think about my credit card debt, I would think about my job. And when I would ponder my job, I would ponder about aging. And when I wondered about aging, I’d wonder about dying. And when I would think about dying, I would think about the cost of dying. And when I’d consider money, I’d remember my credit card debt.

It’s fortunate that at some point my brain would stop itself and say,

“Forget it. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

It’s a motto I secretly repeat in my head whenever I encountered something dire.

“Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Like when this girl cruelly turned me down because I’m no George Clooney. She hasn’t had a boyfriend for so long, I truly believe she was waiting for George Clooney.

“F that,” I said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Or when I almost ended up broke because I bought too much beer for people I didn’t know in a club. See, I was trying to impress them because they were white.

When I saw the ridiculous bill I just laughed and said, “Ha! Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Or when my bag got snatched by a man on a speeding motorcycle on my way to the office.

I shouted at the motherfucker and said, “Fuck you! Merry Christmas! Everything’s gonna be all right!”

Or that time our pit bull bit my leg and mauled my arm when I stepped on its tail as I stumbled drunk toward the door.

That one hurt like a bitch but I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled, “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

The morning after I found out my bed was soaked in blood from those wounds but I didn’t even notice I was leaking because I was too wasted.

My mother was shrieking in horror, so I calmed her down and whispered, “Hush, mother. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Every single day I walked that compromised leg to and fro, worked that disfigured arm like it was nothing, wincing but smiling, cringing but enduring, stumbling but getting up.

People would look at me with quizzical expressions on their faces, I’d yell at them, “Bugger off! Everything’s gonna be all right!”

A week passed and the leg and the arm had grown the size of a tree trunk. Finally let my pride ease up a bit and took myself to the doctor. Doctor said infection’s seeped into the bone.

He said, “Sir, the infection’s seeped into the bone.”

I told that good doctor, “But doc, everything’s gonna be all right. Right?”

“Well, some things will be all right… but not everything.”

I was incredulous! I said, “But that can’t be right. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

He said, “Sir, there are maggots in your left humerus and tibia. I’ll have to saw them off.”

I said, “What?! You’re cutting off my arm and leg?”

He said, “Exactly, Sir. I’ll cut off the left if—you want everything to be all right.”

“But how can you be so calm telling me about hacking off my arm and leg? These are my goddamn arm and leg for Christ’s sake! They’ve been with me for 29 years!”

“It’s my job, Sir,” he told me. “I tell patients to calm down. And that everything’s gonna be all right.”

He was impossible! I told that good doctor, “Doc, what you intend to do is bad. Without my left arm and leg, not everything’s gonna be all right.”

He said with a smirk, “Actually, Sir, without your left arm and leg, all you’ll have are the ones on the right…

Then and only then will everything about you be all right.”

A Hard Man to Please

No, I am not impressed. Not in the slightest bit. I’m a hard man to please, you see? You can try your best showing off your fancy vacations in faraway destinations and wild drunken night-outs with awesome-looking people, but I am not impressed at all. You think you can get my seal of approval, oral or virtual in the form of a Facebook Like, just because you’re eating a juicy steak in an elite corner of the city I have never been to? You wish! You assume I like your taste in music, movies, or desserts? You presume too much! None of your humanitarian, environmental, or religious efforts make me feel one way or another; and no perfectly framed literary quote makes me wonder. I am not affected, fascinated or dazzled in any way shape or form by your romantic dinners with your partner or cheerful meet-ups with friends. I don’t feel a sliver of envy when you’re climbing mountains, riding zip lines, or scuba diving with dolphins. No eloquently put political opinion sparks my imagination, and all your witty one-liners land with a dull thud in my ears. Because I am the personification of indifference. The Buddha of lukewarm apathy. I am numb. Cold. Hard. To me, your money is as common as dried leaves on the street and your cars are as interesting as bricks off a torn building. You think I’m excited? I am unconcerned and undisturbed. Your hobbies put me in a stable mood of nonchalance incapable of producing any graspable emotion in my countenance. I casually view your activities like I do the pavement. What’s that? Denying that I’m impressed actually confirms that I’m impressed? Preposterous! Is this the same as when a person says he doesn’t care, he most certainly cares? Does that mean that my only recourse to express my uncaring attitude about your life is to stay silent about it forever? Well, that’s never going to be good enough for me! I demand to clarify my unenthusiastic, uninvolved disposition through a lengthy exposition of my neutral feelings about any matter whatsoever involving you. No, I am not impressed. Not in the slightest bit. I’m a hard man to please, you see?

Christmas Elf Can’t Believe It’s Christmas Time Again; Quits Job in Emotional, Tell-All Letter to Santa Claus

Christmas elf angry

The following letter was retrieved inside a box of Thomas & Friends toy train dumped in a trash bin in the North Pole:

Dear Santa / Boss / Big Man / Big Red / Head Ho-Ho-Honcho,

I regret to inform you that I would like to tender my resignation as Senior Quality Assurance Plaything Officer from November 4, 2014. I hereby give one month notice to leave Santa’s Workshop.

I made this decision not because I’m unhappy with the opportunities you’ve presented but as a strategic career move…

Oh frack it.

Of course I’m unhappy. It’s CHRISTMAS FREAKIN’ TIME AGAIN.

Let me say that one more time in case you missed it despite the all caps. IT’S CHRISTMAS FREAKIN’ TIME AGAIN.

Son of a mother trucker!

I mean–good grief! How could this crapola be possible? I remember last Christmas like it was yesterday! Heck I still haven’t vomited the last of that expired gingerbread you passed around your overworked, underpaid “little friends” as a “treat” for working overtimes!

Wasn’t it just yesterday that that poor elf from the doll assembly line “accidentally” stitched his nose to a Taylor Swift Singing Doll’s gown because word was that he worked for 34 hours straight to make enough Taylor Swifts before Christmas Eve?

And wasn’t it just yesterday that you–in recognition and compensation for his actions you described in a memo as “worthy of emulation”–gave that elf five boxes of Taylor Swift Singing Dolls (the exact same ones he makes) to give to his daughters?

Way to go with battling alienation with corporate social responsibility, Boss!

But you’re not fooling me anymore. IT’S CHRISTMAS TIME AGAIN and I know you have a dirty hand in this monkey business!

We always say time flies around this sweatshop–sorry, I mean workshop–but it’s crazy how it’s been zooming like Rudolph on steroids these past few years!

Boss, I know you have some magical powers (not much but I know you have a few tricks otherwise you couldn’t have made that sweet woman Mrs. Claus fall for a ginormous, unshaven, basement dweller like you), so tell me–did you tinker with time?

It makes perfect sense for you and your sponsors financially. After all, you only fill your coffers during Christmastime, so who’s to say you didn’t do any hocus-pocus to make time go faster, so you could amass more wealth from this infantile culture you’ve nourished and thus become as fat and rich as humanly possible in whatever span of time you have left in this world?

My buddies and I like to joke behind your back that you’re in a tight race with George RR Martin for the next stop (newsflash: I hope it’s you who wins because I still want to know what happens to Arya Stark–my favorite vengeful character). Continue reading Christmas Elf Can’t Believe It’s Christmas Time Again; Quits Job in Emotional, Tell-All Letter to Santa Claus

Why It’s Better to Be Buried than to Be Cremated

Buried bones

With All Souls Day coming, my office friends and I got to talking about how it’s best to be laid to rest because of course everyone thinks about such a stupid topic every once in a while when one nears middle age where one’s finally halfway done.

It was such a lively discussion about dying that I thought it best to continue an exposition of my opinions here on why it’s still better to be buried than to be cremated. It’s admittedly a very old argument like coffee vs tea, dogs vs cats, ice cream vs cake, or Brad Pitt vs Tom Cruise–timeless as it were and as old as there have been insufferable idiots in the world.

But enough with the introduction. I say it’s better for a person to be buried than to be cremated not because of any real religious reasons but because it’s what he or she deserves.

Get this: the best way to assess the value of most things in life is to quantify the human labor involved in producing them.

Thus, a hand-crafted car is way more expensive than your regular cookie cutter because there’s just so much more sweat and skill expended to create the commodity. To me, the same logic makes it very clear which between burying and cremation is ultimately and transcendentally more valuable.

With burying, you have a whole bunch of people worrying about which coffin to buy (and if there’s still something available your size without the funeral director having to hack away your legs to make you fit), an entire drama regarding the piece of land to purchase for your final resting place, and between those two just a crowd of people getting severely disrupted in their busy lives to do one thing or another with your lifeless body which doesn’t give a flying squirrel’s ass what’s happening around it.

With cremation, you get a guy cooking you. That’s about it. Continue reading Why It’s Better to Be Buried than to Be Cremated

Box of Fries Starts Movement to Stop “Barbaric” Fastfood Patrons from Eating Fries Straight from the Counter

Box of fries

In the news today, Frenchy, who’s a box of French fries, called a press conference to declare that IT’S HAD ENOUGH.

“People eating me even when I’m still on the fast food counter–I can’t do this anymore!” Frenchy exclaimed on national television.

“You don’t know how it feels to be shamelessly picked and eaten even before everybody has properly sat at a table. Burgers don’t get this treatment neither does chicken. Or spaghetti. It’s just us French fries that have to put up with this double standard!”

Frenchy is just the latest among disgruntled french fries who have recently come out to criticize fast food diners for being unjust. Last week, Patty Potato also drew the attention of hungry junkfood eaters as it picketted around a popular foodchain with the slogan “Sit Before You Eat!”

“To be a box of french fries is to live in constant fear of being a victim of undisciplined gastric urges. I mean, why can’t you hold off for a few more minutes? How have we allowed this barbaric culture to spread unchecked?” Patty said.

Meanwhile, to bring more attention to its newfound cause, Frenchy has started a blog showing pictures of fast food patrons “revealing their true colors” and eating straight from the tray on the counter. The blog–which has already gathered 400 followers as of press time–is entitled “Fryinism.”

“This is just the beginning of a wider movement to right what is wrong in the world we’re living in. With my fellow fries, we’ll bring attention to other common indecencies, like dipping fries in ice cream and inserting them inside burgers. Eww.”

A quick poll conducted by us found out 95.9% of fast food eaters think this advocacy is totally original and that it might lead to a full-blown revolution in fast food counter etiquette. But our French fry issue poll being unscientific, please take this with a grain of salt.

Artful Obfuscation Vol. 1

And now for a round of artful obfuscation where we render normal sentences and phrases completely unintelligible and therefore unmistakeably deep by replacing the final word or phrase with something random the reader does not expect. For clarity of the current venture, we will put the last term in bold and all caps.

Let us begin:

Your face is bright as the morning BIRD PLUMAGE.

And when I looked into her eyes, I knew that I have fallen in love with CHIAROSCURO.

Woke up this morning with a sense of THE THIRD REICH.

He couldn’t tell what she was thinking because she’s a MISSED TRAIN STOP.

There’s nothing here for us because we’re KIDS EATING WORMS IN THE PLAYGROUND.

I thought I had it but the world isn’t MOTHER’S HORRIBLY BLAND CHICKEN SOUP.

You and I both know it’s either here or THE OILY KEYS ON A LAPTOP.

I swear I won’t talk about love but it’s A LAB FULL OF DEAD RATS CRAWLING.


How could I resist when she’s sitting there A RIPPED PAGE OF AN OLD CATALOG FOR FAKE JEWELRY?


They’ll try to catch us from now until PAUL MCCARTNEY PUTS ON HIS SUNDAY TROUSERS.

He’d like a slice of pizza. She’d like a TISSUE WITH EMILY’S NUMBER ON IT.

It’s great to live but it’s better to PLUCK OUT A GIANT TADPOLE’S EYE.

And that’s it for this round of artful obfuscation. ‘Til next time, EXPIRED CANS OF MUSHROOMS!

A Guy Who Tried His Best

Have you heard about that guy who tried his best? He had his game face on and brought his A game when D Day arrived. Failure was not an option but he nevertheless put it all on the line. Left no stone unturned and took no prisoners. Word is he put his very soul into it then bet his life when the stakes and the odds against him piled up high. He said shoot for the stars and land on the moon. Screamed never say never and never say die. They told him it’s useless and thought him a fool but he clung to hope and fought a losing battle just the same. Tooth and nail he went down fighting. Have you heard about that guy? That guy’s name was John. In the end, there was a Facebook post about him.

Discourse Analysis

The art of conversation is the discipline of discussing things other than the matter at hand that begs to be discussed. Nobody should ever mention or even hint at the stinky elephant in the room unless it’s a matter of life and death at the heels of that elephant. It’s just propriety and respect towards the other person who rightly expects your darndest to beat around the bush and essentially obfuscate any information that points to the T word.

So. If I like to talk about how your presence makes me feel real uncomfortable, I’ll probably just kick off a conversation about today’s traffic. Or if you’re the kind of person who I honestly can’t connect with on any genuine level, I think I’ll just have a little chat about your job.

When I’m thinking your mole is sucking in the entire universe, prepare to hear something about the cloudy weather.

And if one of these days, I get truly tempted to say you actually post the same angle of your face too much on Facebook, anticipate a tangential topic along the lines of–Have you seen that funny video of a sombrero-wearing cat riding a bicycle?

Your boyfriend reminds me of a rotating spit of kebab–Where’s the best place to eat Persian?

Bother You

So who did you bother today? Did you wake up and bother your roommate or your mother (because you’re still living with her) when you couldn’t find the coffee? Stepped out of the house to step on your sleeping dog, bothered it out of its magical dog dreams, howling, cursing you with its morning dog breath? You probably have one, too, and it’s been bothering people without you knowing for far too long (I mean the dog breath). But that’s ok because bothering is the real relationship mesh that binds society, keeps it doing what it’s supposed to be doing even while it in no way agrees with the terms. Why the biggest bothersome boatload of bull of all is work but you do it anyway since it’s necessary–a truly bothering bit of banal observation right there. And in your free time when your boss isn’t bothering you with business bollocks that you and him honestly do not care about, you, of course, hit Facebook and decide to bother somebody with a little chat truly lacking of purpose or intelligent direction. “What up?” “How are you?” “Hi!” Again–that’s completely ok ’cause the other party totally expects you or someone else bothering her or him that day; give or take a couple of minutes you bothered that person with predictable precision. So enough with the “So sorry to bother you” formality because believe me you’ll be bothering the bugger out of everyone until you can’t be bothered to breathe your last.