I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is

List of Thoughts.

What would it be like to take a bath in Indian food?

I always thought the Grinch was misunderstood – the story was depressing to me because an interesting person became monotonous and un-unique.

T-shirts make really decent towels.

I like using exciting adverbs to accent dull adjectives. I find it awesomely reasonable.

What about a reversible fedora?

The realization that you are going to have a sore throat is way worse than the actual sore throat.

I love hating individual minutes.

Why didn’t we breed really big dogs so that we could ride them?

I don’t say “Merry Christmas.” It doesn’t mean I’m offended when you wish me “Merry Christmas,” it just means that I don’t want you to be offended when I don’t reciprocate.

I am offended by “Happy Holidays.”

If I were to have a threesome with any male and female from history the male would be Jesus so that I didn’t seem so skinny and he would be generous.

Everybody wants me to buy boots. I want everybody to deal with cold ankles better.

I keep meaning to rank spices, but instead I do other things.

I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is

How I Got Fired

What does it mean when you wake up at 6am after going to sleep at 9pm and then watch 3 and a half hours of Veronica Mars?

Let’s put aside the fact that I’m sick. That my head is pounding and my nostrils feel as though I’ve been trying to snort flubber. That my back doesn’t have muscles that aren’t in knots anymore. That I really need to do laundry today.

Let’s put aside the fact that Veronica Mars made me cry. Twice.

Let’s focus on what’s important. That I was illegally terminated (2c)* from a job that I was good at and passionate about.

Let’s focus on the fact that two days ago I gave a 16 year old my bracelet pretending that it had no emotional significance to me just because I had used the bracelet as a distracting device throughout our sessions, and by allowing her to wear it I was giving her a tool that will help her do better on the ACT, yet I was forced out of my only substantial income because of this blog. Because this blog is somehow so outlandishly offensive that I cannot appropriately teach children.

Defending the validity of my writing’s social and political value is something I could do in my sleep, so I won’t bore myself by doing it awake, but rather I will discuss our society’s unfathomable obsession with forcing people to fit into a box.

“It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with the love affair I have with my penis. People hate my love affair. People don’t want to like the relationship I have with my penis – they want to think it’s clichéd and annoying and that I just want to gross everyone out.” This was one quote specifically pulled out as inappropriate “for an educator working with teenagers.” This quote is from a blog entry about being uncomfortable. About how making people uncomfortable through art is important because we need to be more comfortable being uncomfortable. Because being uncomfortable is holding us back.

You don’t have to agree. Neither does the mother whose daughter I was supposed to teach before she called in the tutoring agency and demanded my termination. That’s okay.

Mr. Rush was my theater teacher in High School. He both considers himself a Christian and was one of the best teachers I had. Do I agree with the fact that he believes in some magical drunk Jew who thinks he can walk on water? No. Does it matter? No. He wasn’t teaching me how to think, he was teaching me how to read Shakespeare – and he knew a lot about reading Shakespeare. My job as an educator was to teach test prep and math. I am great at both of those. I taught a kid who was counting on his fingers in order to add two plus three to do eight digit long division in 3 one-hour sessions. Does the fact that I struggle with masculinity affect that ability to teach? No.

I’ve been asking a lot of rhetorical questions that I’ve been answering for you with the simple sentence of “No.” Is that because I don’t think you know the answer? Maybe. I worry because I’ve lost complete faith in humanity. I’ve lost all ability to trust that people are good and that they can judge circumstances with reason. I’ve taught in some form or another for 6 years. Sometimes for good money, sometimes for no money, sometimes for very little money – always because I care deeply and passionately about education. Because I didn’t necessarily get the education I thought I deserved because teachers were too quick to judge my lack of note-taking or my curiosity. Also because I was a bratty little child who got easily pissed off when teachers judged me and started judging them back. As I said, I’ve been working with children for 6 years and have never had a complaint about the way I dealt with children. I have received many compliments and thankful letters, but never a single complaint. Now I have. From a person who I never taught. From some woman who derailed my entire life because she made the assumption that writing about feminism through a male perspective (which will necessarily include references to my penis) says more about my ability to teach children than the 6 years I’ve spent teaching children.

I haven’t told my parents because I don’t want them to worry, and in reality they need not because I’m white in America with a college degree. I’ll be fine. I’ll get another job and in 4 to 5 months I’ll be back to teaching enough to pay rent. But I shouldn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have to hide one thing I do in order to do another. They have absolutely nothing to do with each other. I’ve never ranted about masculinity in the midst of teaching derivatives. There’s no reason to. I’m not hired to discuss my penis. I’m hired to discus math.

I’ve always said that safety and privacy are the two things we worry about far too much. We fight wars for “safety” and only end up killing more than we are saving. We demand constant “privacy” despite the fact that the only reason we are embarrassed is because of the person who is judging us, not because we are actually ashamed of what we do (and if you are actually ashamed then you shouldn’t be doing it).

Our world is changing and information about people is far more easily accessible. We have to adapt to this change because we can no longer hide in the dark and pretend that all people in positions of authority have perfectly clean lives that agree with all of your sensibilities. Does the guy who gives you your morning bagel agree with your position on gay marriage? You don’t know? Why not?

I understand that teaching is different because you are trusting this person to take care of your child, but as I said before I’ve been teaching for six years and that should far outweigh the fact that I make jokes about my dick when I’m on stage in front of a bunch of drunk college kids.

At this point I feel like I’m going in circles because I’m too mad. I don’t get mad. I typically get passionate. The two things I will get passionate about at the mere mention of the subject are comedy’s place in society as a method of broadening our understanding of the human condition and teaching.

Am I not allowed to do the two things I’m passionate about? I guess this is one more rhetorical question to which the answer is “No.”

*Thanks Daniel

Attention Whoring, comedy, I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is, Selfish

Me: In Others

I can’t believe my roommate is taking this couch. I mean, she bought it, but I sit on it most. Doesn’t that mean something?

The coffee table/bench is also on it’s way out. Another thing that I use most. Another thing I feel like I have the most emotional connection to.

I sit on my couch with my feet up on the bench reading blogs and shit. I’m gonna make fun of other peoples blogs now.

Ok, Lara: Love is sooooooo hard. Companionship is soooooooo fun. Gross. I hate companionship. It’s just a synonym for obligation mixed with someone else’s desires that contradict yours. And I don’t care that you just saw Maggie Gillie. I’m not jealous because at least I’m not immature enough to strive for love. Fuck, it’s not immaturity, it’s that you are a moron who places importance on things that aren’t important. I’m not talking about your misplaced love of weird gyrating sounds that are annoying to listen to, I’m talking about your misplaced love of boys who are willing to talk to you.

Yeah Ben: you fail at rap because you are white. There’s an original stance to take. Oh wait, no, you like the same rap that black people like. Oh, you are more cultured and understanding than other white boys who pretend to like rap because you don’t need to analyze it for its content, message, and intellectuality. But you could. You totally could because you aren’t stupid, you just choose not to because you aren’t pretentious. Yeah, you aren’t pretentious. Sure.

Whoa Dan: To forgive is to shut people up, and yet it is not divine? What is wrong with you? Shutting people up is divine. You should shut up. That would be divine. Especially about how big your weiner is. Look, it was cute and all when you started using weiner as your term for dick-shlong, but now it’s just a catchphrase. As is “House It.” As is literally everything you write. Let me try to write a blog entry for you: Hey I got high off of lots of blunts and laughed at poop. I have a girlfriend, weird, right? Girls should do more so that I can stick my big weiner in them. In their mouths, let’s be clear because I’m still a little frightened of vaginas. House it. Editors Note: I don’t really have anything worthwhile to say, but I feel another need to reference both my shit and my penis so I just thought of a new phrase: WeinerDoodie. It means when you fuck a pile of shit with your limp penis. It’s funny because it involves the same things I’ve made jokes about for the past 6 years and it says them using words that 8 year olds use. Do you get it yet? Do I need to make another editor’s note despite the fact that calling myself an editor of my own blog is both narcissistic and inaccurate.

Cool Grace: You have an opinion on facebook places??!!?!? WHAT?!!? OMG stop the presses, stop my dick, it needs to leave mid penetration to read this fucking fascinating article on how invasion of privacy is blah blah blah. I didn’t even finish reading this because I’m sure I understand the conclusion: I don’t want people to know what I’m doing, that’s why I publish it constantly on the internet via this blog.

Oooooh Paul: Look at me, I can draw and be earnest in my childish endeavors into coloring. Everybody is gonna think this is cool an hip. It’s not it’s just that Paul is a fucking child who can’t grow up because he doesn’t have to because his parents buy him all the root beer he needs. Could you not resist coloring in your own drawing Paul? Why don’t you not resist working on the project we’re working on together instead of playing in coloring books like a fucking four year old?

Wowza Scott: I’m Scott, I don’t have anything interesting to say. I just spend all my time focusing on what others say and repeating them. I actually genuinely respect your laziness, but I hate your non-fear of death. That’s stupid. Death is scary. Don’t be dumb.

Sarah??: “Nice guy from Turkmenistan.” Really? That’s your description? Really? … We all know turkmenisties are fuckwads.

mmm Syreeta: Look at how cultured I am! Look at how much i don’t think about being in America! Look at my boring apartment with nothing in it but my loneliness!

Duh Sara: Tristan is a dude’s name. Also, great job copyrighting your little tidbits. Everybody is trying to steal them.

Yeah Brad: Y’know who’s the jerk? You. You’re the jerk. And you know who you got your genetic material from? Not your pretty aunt, but your ugly mother. That’s why you are such a jerk, because you are bitter that everybody thinks you are soooo ugly. Well, too bad, this is the real world and some people are ugly and some people are beautiful. You are ugly, deal with it. And, whoopdifuckingdoo, you got to talk about your childhood again and all the great shows you are doing with great lineups. Try something new, like not putting weird pictures in your posts that only serve to confuse me as to what message you are presenting and take up a lot of space so that you don’t have to write that much.

Wahoo Girl who commented on my blog and now I’ve started reading hers because I’m lonely and I tend to really enjoy it for the most part: You got on stage and liked it. Wow! Revelation alert!!! You enjoy talking about yourself enough to start a blog about it and now you are realizing that you like talking about yourself too?! Holy shit! Wait, before we move on, let’s talk about how embarrassing it was for you to have a 4.0 in middle school. Nobody had a 4.0 in middle school. And it doesn’t matter if your mom mentioned it. You did. Right now. You are bragging. Stupidly. Like someone who got a 2.0 in middle school. I would have given you strait Cs in 4th grade.

Here we go, Me: You are too jealous of everyone else’s success to comment on the fact that you have a depressing life that mostly revolves around your judgement of others in similar boats to you. Maybe if you laced those boats together you could make a big cruise ship, but you’d rather take a dump in everybody else’s boat because you are so full of shit. Also, trim your beard it looks gross.

I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is

I Dreamt About our Policy on Afghanistan? Or Maybe on a Midlife Crisis

I just took a nap on the couch I just blogged about and had the weirdest fucking dream. I tried to scribe it as quickly as possible so that I wouldn’t forget it and you could all understand what goes on in my fucked up subconscious.

We lived in an apartment that looked like this:

The ocean emptied into our apartment so the beds became islands that we swam between and played. It was fun. Then Orcas started showing up. At first this was fine. At first we escaped the ocean and sat on our beds – we were content to separate our playtime into water and dry; based on the orca schedule. Then we got greedy. We thought we should not be scared of these Orcas. These killer whales. We got hammers and mallets. Some of us attacked the Orcas, whose vision wasn’t great by pummeling them while we swam with them in water. But they were strong and they could fight through it and we were weak swimmers who could not build up enough momentum to smash them hard enough. At first we felt guilty, but then it felt necessary.

We went back up on our beds but now they were attacking us. We would escape to refuge of others’ beds but the Orcas would build up speed and jump up onto our dry land. This was our chance. We smashed their heads in with sledgehammers. We beat them with golf clubs. The tide started going out and our rooms began emptying of water. The Orcas had to take chances to flop around on bare wood floors snapping at us as we swung at them with baseball bats and 2 by 4s. Because this was a dream the Orcas transformed into Sharks. A shark came screaming up out of the water and I heard screams in the next room. When I arrived someone had managed to duct tape the shark high on the ceiling and it was now my job to bash the brains in with my golf club. It still was flopping around trying to get to water or peopleblood, whichever came first. People from the lofted bed were yelling advice on where I should hit it next. Most advice was stick with the head or “go for the testicles” as though the shark’s balls were some weak spot on an evil robot in a cartoon that needed only to be hit once in this specific point to be destroyed. As I whined that I couldn’t hit it hard enough, someone else finally hit the shark in the head and body with enough force that it died. All the water had emptied out of our rooms but we were still fearful of the last shark/Orca that we knew was out there. It was angry and we knew it could come up on our hardwood floor with patterned rugs and hanging wall art.

He jumped up into our room, transforming midair into a lion. We screamed like girls in horror movies and someone smacked him in the face with a shovel. The guy who had been the most manly this whole dream came running in from another room and started pummeling the lion’s snout with a ball-peen hammer as it pawed and growled at our supple, delicious bodies. Then a little goth girl whose character had been introduced earlier in the story but seemed inconsequential walked in slowly and gently, pushed a chainsaw into the lion’s face, and from its kingofthejungle mane shot out blood all over us. We looked at her guiltily and said thanks, she said no problem, and I woke up.

I have no idea what this means, but my friend, Will, just described it as sounding like if Quentin Tarantino directed the Chronicles of Narnia and I like that. I dream about gruesome Christian propaganda.