April 2011 Archives

john the trough

In a week in which I've felt utterly exploited, even sleazily betrayed, by friends, I did not particularly need this.

Lynn called. We've talked a lot more often since Sue's death. Lynn is taking it pretty hard. "Promise me we'll get together for our birthdays this year," she asked during one sober conversation.

"Of course."

Unspoken here is that I will, as I have for years, pay for her trip. Neither Sue nor Lynn had much money, so we all grew accustomed to my paying for their airfare and picking up checks. For her part, Sue always felt guilty, which of course delighted me. "Here, Sue, order an even more expensive steak you won't finish," I would say graciously.

Lynn and I traditionally get together between our birthdays, the first week of July. I noted that the 4th is a Monday and suggested that she come out then. She said she'd get back to me.

This week, she got back to me. "Where does it say that we have to do it between our birthdays?" she said. "Let's to it Memorial Day weekend!"

Awesome, I said. As a bonus, we can pick up my new puppy on our way home from the airport.

"Ah. Yeah. Except Suzie will be picking me up from the airport. I'll be staying with her the first few days while we go to the annual competition."

Lynn comes here every year for this event. I recoiled from the phone as she continued.

"So anyway, I have flights picked out. Do you have a pen?"

And this, gentle reader, is why I'm getting another dog.

this simply must stop

I finally pulled up to the drive-through. At this point I'd cleaned all my windows and memorized all the bumper stickers on the cars in front of me.

"Hi, welcome to Jack in the Box. How are you today?"

Awesomeness. An open-ended essay question. Because the Jack in the Box drive-through simply. Wasn't. Slow. Enough. Before.

"You have got to be kidding."


Well, that's easily enough resolved. I just won't go to Jack in the Box anymore. A week or so later, I was at McDonald's, and the adbot crackled out of the speaker before my forward momentum had nearly arrested.


Fine. How about yourself? Caked in grease and dried cow blood and generally miserable? Good, good. Say, speaking of cows, how about a fucking burger?

OK, I get it, I'm a misanthrope. This hug-a-fatty outreach program is clearly not intended to appeal to me. So please, would the person who wants a relationship with the dried cow blood person please identify yourself? Because I'm reasonably certain you don't exist.

the bachelorette party

The exact opposite of the carnal Katrina's shoes incident is nigh.

"I want to have my third bachelorette party at your house and we all spend the night there!" Flo texted me.

I added the "third" part. Pardon my indulgence. You gotta love serial marryers who indulge in the pomp each time.

"Whadya think?" she added when my response was insufficiently fast.

"Sure," I replied. "Do I have to be there?"

"YES!" Flo went on. "And dude, you TOTALLY OWE ME for this!"

Ah yes. A bunch of surly middle-aged women drinking my booze, trashing my house, and celebrating Flo's marriage du jour in my home, where quite against my will the relationship was originally consummated.

I owe her.

stupidest arguments: the mix cd

Over the next week, I'm going to recount the absolute stupidest arguments I've ever had with girlfriends. Today's looks long, but it's a breezy read. Trust me.

•   •   •

The day Mason died, my still-just-a-friend Olive showed up at my door to comfort me. She spent the evening listening to my survivor's guilt and generally being swell. She also gave me a mix CD.

Notably, this was a scant few days before she hopped into my bed and invited me to follow her. In that context, the mix CD became a point of contention that would last through our entire relationship.

Her: there was no subtext in my musical choices

Me: right

Her: get over yourself

I leave it to you, gentle reader. You tell me.

And you're walking away
But where to go to?
And you're walking alone,
But how to get through?
It's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in hard
it's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in hard
It's coming
It's coming in-

"Staring at the Sun"
your mouth is open wide
the lover is inside
and all the tumults done
collided with the sign
you're staring at the sun
you're standing in the sea
your body's over me

"On Call"
If you call me now baby, I'd come running
I'm on call to be there, one and all to be there
I'll be there waiting to be there, to be there
I'm on call to be there, one and all to be there
When I fall to pieces, no I don't know
I'll be there waiting

I'd come a-running
I'd come a-running
I'd come a-running

To be there, to be there
I'm on call to be there
I'm on call to be there
I'm on call to be there
I'm on call to be there

"Such Great Heights"
I am thinking it's a sign
That the freckles in our eyes
Are mirror images and when we kiss
They're perfectly aligned

And I have to speculate
That God himself did make us
Into corresponding shapes
Like puzzle pieces from the clay

And true it may seem like a stretch
But it's thoughts like this that catch
My troubled head when you're away
When I am missing you to death

When you are out there on the road
For several weeks of shows
And when you scan the radio
I hope this song will guide you home

They will see us waving from such great heights
Come down now, they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away
Come down now but we'll stay

"The Greatest"
Lower me down
Pin me in

"I'll Be Your Lover, Too"
And you'll look at me
With eyes that see
And melt into each others arms
And so I come
To be the one
Who's always standing next to you

Reach out for me
So I can be
The one who's always reaching out for you
Yes I will, Yes I will
You'll be my queen
I'll be your king
And I'll be your lover too.

I Learned To Love You
Baby for I called
Honey for I Called Your Name
I Wouldn't Trade Your Love For Money
Honey You Are My Warm Heart, Baby You Are
My Warm Heart's Flame

It's coming up
It's coming up
It's coming up
It's coming up
It's coming up
It's coming up
It's coming up
It's dare

You've got to press it on you
You just think it
That's what you do, baby
Hold it down, DARE

"Lady Don't Tekno"
She got a natural way, her hips sway furious, yet luxurious
Carries herself like the cutest most purdiest
Thing you've seen, this side of the bay
Go about her business so purposefully
She got razor sharp wit and she just won't quit
Flauntin it, body built like a house made outta bricks
She got the smile, the style and finesse
And bounded with the blessed and profound intellect
Select few have ever seen her butt naked

"Can You Get to That"
Yeah, get to that!
Can you get (I wanna know)
I want to know if you can get to that (hey!) (get to that!)
Can you get (can you get to that)(I wanna know)
I want to know if you can get to that (x3)

I want some contact contact
I want some contact contact
I want some contact contact
Contact contact
Only because my life depends on it

There is a white breast
Waiting for you here
Between the superheroes
And the electric blanket is warm

I could be sweet
I could be young, and fresh
If I weren't so old and used
and wet and wet, I am wet

I try not to ruin the moment
Tell me all your secrets and your torments
You're delicious, you're delicious
Send me on a quest for lullabies and more

What would it take for you to see
What I have got?
I've got more than you know

Oh, but she wasn't done. Here was her grand finale, the utterly charming "Whisper Song." For your maximum appreciation, I have included both a link and the complete lyrics:

Hey how you doin lil mama? lemme whisper in your ear
Tell you sumthing that you might like to hear
You got a sexy ass body and your ass look soft
Mind if I touch it? and see if its soft
Naw I'm jus playin' unless you say I can
And im known to be a real nasty man
And they say a closed mouth don't get fed
So I don't mind asking for head
You heard what I said, we need to make our way to the bed
And you can start usin' yo head
You like to fuck, have yo legs open all in da butt
Do it up slappin ass cuz the sex gets rough
Switch the positions and ready to get down to business
So you can see what you've been missin'
You might had some but you never had none like this
Just wait til you see my dick

(Chorus) Hey bitch! wait til you see my dick
Wait til you see my dick
Hey bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat pussy up
Hey bitch! wait til you see my dick
Wait you see my dick
Hey bitch! wait til you see my dick
Imma beat dat pussy up
Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy up, Beat da pussy
Up, Beat da pussy up

You fine, but I aint gone sweat ya
See I wanna fuck, tell me whats up
Walk around the club with yo thumb in ya mouth
Put my dick in, take your thumb out
There might be a lil kosher to deal with
Wet fat hoe's they dont spill shit
I keep a hoe hot when I'm puttin' in work
Wanna skeet skeet you bout to get your feelin's hurt
Cuz I'll beat dat cat with a dog
And knock da walls of a broad til she scrawl
Like (OOOOOH!)
Yea something like that, but it depends on the swing of the baseball bat
Fuck a bitch on da counter make the
Plates fall Back
On the floor she aint screamin she a nut so they crack
Fuck that bend over imma give you a smack

(Chorus again. Just in case the point was too subtle.)

The prosecution rests.

a use for the ohio state university?

Fallout from this presentation in February continues unabated.

The same executive flew into town yesterday to ask me to write marketing materials. Why ask a technical writer who can't write marketing shit at gunpoint to write marketing materials? That's a very good question. Nevertheless, here I am. I tried not to be.

"Uh, you know I have, like, zero experience or aptitude for this, right?"

"Exactly!" he beamed. "I want a fresh take. If I went to one of the marketing morons, they would just spit back something straight out of Harvard Business School."

I considered this. "Well, if you're looking for the exact opposite of a Harvard education," I told him later, "I'm your man."


Perhaps you've heard about the Miley Cirus inflatable sex doll, "Finally Mylie" (Amazon). I've heard about it four times now, which is probably more a testament to the sorts of podcasts I listen to than the ubiquitousness of this fine, fine product.

The Amazon reviews run the gamut. Specifically they run the gamut from why we love the web to why the web makes us want to kill ourselves.

Guess which this is.

marvin cantbe tamed lopez
Amazon Verified Purchase
This review is from: Finally Mylie! Love Doll (Health and Beauty)
Dont buy this, its a waste of your money. when i bought it i was expecting the doll to look like whats on the box. but its not . they just use a look a like to seel this product. no resemblence whatso ever. its just a regular sex doll . no resemblence to her wat so ever. waste of my 50 bucks. it would be better if it was 5 bucks as a gag gift. but imo this product is a 1 star . waste of ur money. trust me imo

katrina's shoes

Once upon a time, long long ago, Katrina came over and we watched a movie. She was wearing dress shoes, which she kicked off and replaced with sneakers.

• • •

In the same timeframe, I was plying my way into the affections of an admin assistant at work. Toward that end, I volunteered my house for some admin-only functions. I was just trying to get to know Lori better; I didn't really think things through. If I had, I would have realized that being the only guy amidst hot, drunk, hypercompetitive 20-28 year old golddiggers was a fortuitous environment indeed.

I'm a gentleman, so I will leave the details to your imagination. God knows they're permanently seared in mine.

Everything was normal until Lori's hot assistant discovered Katrina's forgotten shoes. "WHOSE SHOES ARE THESE?!" she shrieked, as though she were my wife of 17 years. And all the women rushed to examine them. They spat bitterly about their teeniness. They hypothesized about their owner and my relationship with her. And for perhaps the first time in my life, I knew exactly what to say to women: absolutely nothing.

Yes, it was because the truth was uninteresting. And yes, my silence drove them insane.

Within an hour, Lori and her assistant were wrestling me to the ground.

Within two hours, Lori was dancing on my coffee table, throwing me her bra.

Within four hours, there were admins in various stages of consciousness in every room of my house, afraid that they would forfeit...I'm not sure what, exactly...if they left.

But like I said, a gentleman doesn't tell. More.

• • •

Postscript: My dog, Ed, chewed the shoes to ribbons. Thanks, Katrina!

delightfully bitter

This sign was posted in the door of a Borders bookstore, closing due to bankruptcy.


I wouldn't wish job losses on anyone, but it's really hard to feel sorry for the supermegacorporate bookstores that just 15 years ago put neighborhood bookstores out of business. What went around, came around.

i was never this young

Young protege Darcy has recently begun the long, slow slog of real life. Grad school is a few months behind her, now. Unable to land the glamorous six-figure job in London advertising she'd promised herself, she's slunk back to Seattle and taken more menial jobs a couple miles from her high school. She'd been at one of the jobs a month when she emailed me from her cubicle. Importantly, at that moment I hadn't had a weekend in two months.

"I've worked 8 hours a day for the last 3 weeks," she wrote. "How do you manage it? I feel like I'm going to die."

Here, let me help you with the dying, sweetheart.

made in heaven

Former boss Flo is newly engaged. In the manner of women half her age who haven't been twice divorced, she now talks about little else and uses "my fiance" as a pronoun. "I was talking with my fiance this morning, and I told my fiance to stop bogarting the Valtrax and to get me some when my fiance gets my fiance's self some."

In the manner of me, I roll my eyes and tolerate it.

"Do you want to be my made of honor?!" she chatted me.

An eternity went by without my responding, so she chatted again: "Wow! I actually made John speechless! That's a first."

Then I told her what I'm telling you: I spent that minute staring at the word "made" and thinking about funny pseudo-Latin scientific names.

moronus extremus maximus

Continued from here

mortimer.jpgClass 10
(Moronus extremus maximus)

This species thinks that the consensus of morons constitutes evidence. If he agrees with a fellow moron's premise, this species believes, this premise somehow becomes more factual. Two morons can't possibly be wrong, goes their thinking, because together we have a 137 IQ. That's near genius!

Extremus maximus are an infinitive loop of stupidity. They cite and support one another vigorously, thinking this endless and incestuous circle-jerk strengthens reason instead of corrupting it. By the early 21st century, virtually all human discourse had become polluted by their anti-intellectual debris. They are the most primitive life form still capable of wiping its own ass with any degree of precision.

Examples: "You don't know the FACTS. Do us all a favor and go read (wildly one-sided, monosyllabic book that validates what he claims is true) and educate yourself."

Anyone who seeks medical advice from former Playboy bunnies.

• • •

And with that, my non-moronic reader, I'm done with this effort. By which I mean I'm tired of writing these, so I've moved them to the permanent home, where I will continue to add to them. You can find them under Categories at top right.

morons forever

Continued from here

Class 8
(Brandom fandom)

whole-foods.jpgThis person's every last thought is bought and paid for. He emotionally invests in brands as though they were sports teams. He has no identity outside of these brands—be they candidates, products, fads or religions—so he is constantly presenting them as his face.

Example: Guy X has got his iPhone charging in his Prius (adorned with a "Yes We Can!" bumper sticker) while he drives to the soccer match after his organic sommelier class. If he deigned to go to Wal-Mart, he would see his arch enemy. Gal Y is carrying a placard protesting the war. Her holiday is under attack! Cashiers must wish Jews, atheists, etc. a Merry Christmas. She drives American, swears there's a gargantuan difference between Coke and Pepsi, buys more perishable items at Costco than she can possibly eat (in order to save money), and calls the First Lady "fat" yet thinks anyone who criticizes Sarah Palin is sexist.

Question either X or Y, and they will attack you by labeling you the other.

Summary: X = Y

Class 9
(Itso facto)

This class believes that facts fulfill wishes. By simply stating and restating that x is a fact, they truly believe this makes x any more of a fact. Anytime you hear someone declare "It's a FACT," you are very likely dealing with a Class 9 moron. People citing actual facts don't need to label them such any more than I need to explain that Dex is a dog.

douche1.jpgWhereas Class 9s are quick to brand any fanciful bullshit a fact, they are curiously quick to deride scientific theories as being less than hypotheses supported by such a strong body of evidence, they've become accepted.

Examples: "It's a FACT that Bush bombed the trade center so he could invade Iraq." "It's a known FACT that Satan put dinosaur bones in the ground just to test our belief in the Creation story. And evolution? It's just a theory."

morons, part 4

Continued from here

Class 6 Moron
(Highschooldropoutim vociferor)

By far the most attractive moron, Class 6 could not pass a sophomore civics test yet tells the public how to vote. They didn't stay in school long enough to take physics—a modeling career beckoned—yet they are quoted experts on climate change and alternative energies. Notably, they were not born impaired. They stopped developing intellectually at puberty, at which point they began confusing being constantly told how smart, well-read and witty they are with actually being smart, well-read and witty.

Example: George Clooney's humble and gracious acceptance speech—"I would say that, you know, we are a little bit out of touch in Hollywood every once in a while, I think, it's probably a good thing. Um, we're the ones who talk about AIDS when it was just being whispered. And we talked about civil rights when it wasn't really popular. And we, uh, you know, we bring up subjects…we are the ones…this Academy, this group of people gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar in 1939 when blacks were still sitting in the backs of theaters. I'm proud to be a part of this Academy. I'm proud to be part of this community. I'm proud to be out of touch. And I thank you so much."


Class 7 Moron
(Evidencia circumvenio)

One phrase defines this class: "you just don't understand."

Example: A gay man and black man are discussing their experiences as minorities. Being good Americans, the gay man claims greater victim status, and the black man disagrees. "Push comes to shove," the black man points out, "You can choose to blend in and disappear. I can't pretend not to be black whenever it conveniences me." An irrefutable difference to which the gay man responds with a mock-pitying sigh: "You're not gay. You just couldn't understand." He considers the point won, in a rout. As do I. By the other guy.

flatearth.pngEarthers: [Greeting Juan Sebastián Elcano at the dock] "I know you think you just circumnavigated the Earth, what with your sailing West yet arriving from the East, but you just don't understand. You couldn't possibly."

morons, part 3

Continued from here

Class 4 Moron
(Labelus makem)

Job #1 with this guy isn't to articulate a point. It isn't even to refute yours. Nope. Where others use premises in support of an argument, he lazily applies labels to people in the hopes that people smarter than him will fill in the blanks and construct an argument for him.

Example: Among Microsoft wives, I'm known as an Apple "fanboy." This is because I own an iPad instead of the vastly superior Microsoft tablet that doesn't exist yet. Meanwhile, at work, Apple users call me a "hater" because I pointed out that Macs are causing compatibility problems. This is the elegance of Labelus makin: I am both a fanboy and a hater; I am whatever conveniences them at the time.

Earther: "The circumnavigators are modern day Nazis."

Class 5 Moron
(Pointis absentis)

The even more witless cousin of Class 4, he substitutes trite, meaningless dismissals for substance.

Examples: "Who cares?" "Wake up!" "I have to laugh!" "I hate to say it, but..."

Earther: "Stay classy, Columbus."


morons, part 2

Continued from here

Class 2 Moron
(Ax infinitus)

ax.pngNo conversation is too irrelevant for this species to inject its agenda into. Just try to stop him. Everyone and everything affirms his agenda. Question him? This affirms his agenda. Disagree with him? Affirms his agenda. Prove beyond all doubt that he's wrong? That really affirms his agenda.

Example argument: At a buffet, we tired of waiting for the server to refill our drinks and decided to do it ourselves. Self-satisfied, one Ax infinitus semi-hominid pronounced "Now see, there's the difference between conservatives and librils* right there. A libril will just sit around and wait to be helped." This man now enters his fifth year of unemployment, working only occasionally, under the table, so that he may collect federal benefits. I'm sure he's protesting Obama's Kenyan Nazi socialist something or other.

*For authenticity, I preserved the Ax infinitus dialect.

Earther: [When struggling to push a car] "Yeah, the Earth is REALLY round, isn't it? What a crock THAT is."

Class 3 Moron
(Jacknicholsus truthhandlus)

truth.pngWhen overwhelmed by the forces of superior intellect, which is often, this guy abandons all pretext of marshaling evidence in support of an argument. He instead attacks the emotional integrity of intellect itself. This requires no evidence but a fair amount of mind-reading.

Example: You there. Yeah, you. You with all the evidence and the elitist books and fancy-pants college degrees and more than five minutes' thought about this topic. You know what your problem is? You can't handle the truth. I'm just being honest, here.

Earther: [when shown photos of the Earth from space] "This is just more of the same tired old rhetoric. I'm glad I'm not afraid of the truth."

next week: moron taxonomy

All right, kids. I'm going to devote next week to assembling a long-planned uberpost. I'm going to undertake classifying the different species of morons. The end goal? Being able to tell someone "You're a Class 12 moron" and send them a link.

So here's your homework. This weekend, start thinking about the different classes of morons. Surely you're related to a few. Start with them. I'll get this party started with an old Stank favorite.

"Earther" stands for "Flat-Earther." This feature helps us place each moron class in a historical context.


Class 1 Moron

(Manglus insultus)

This web denizen misspells his insults of others' intelligence. He is characterized by a blissful lack of understanding of why this is utterly hilarious. He responds to gales of mocking laughter by deriding it as coming from "grammer police."

Flat-Earther: "Columbus, your a stupid looser."

moron taxonomy
stupid church signs
super bowl xl officiating
percy chronicles

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