Remember when people wore yellow ribbon pins to raise awareness of AIDS?
Then came ribbon pins of other colors for other causes.
Red for this.
Green for that.
White for some other thing.
I don’t remember all the colors and their meanings.
So, I stopped wearing any ribbon pins.
“Don’t you care anymore?” people would scream at me.
“It’s bullshit,” I said.
So, they gave me a hemp ribbon for Bullshit Awareness.
Well, not as much a ribbon, as a rope.
A hangman’s noose.
And they put it around my neck.
The other end just went over a tree branch.
Tag: commentary
Galactispeak
Galactispeak is a dialect of Ancient Varadne.
There is no Modern Varadne. All life on Varadne was exterminated in a planetary civil war many centuries ago.
The species may be gone, but archaeologists and xenoanthropologists pieced together the culture as best they could.
Their language was revealed to be amazingly flexible, descriptive, and efficient.
It is also incredibly easy to learn and master in a short amount of time.
So easy, Varadne spread like a virus across the galaxy, replacing almost all other languages.
We call it Galactispeak.
And we shout it as we fight each other to the death.
Huevos
I thought about making up my own religion, but decided that it was easier to just corrupt an existing one.
So, I found a small town in Ecuador and, through trickery and technological sorcery, convinced the people that the Easter Bunny was real, and he demanded painted eggs as sacrifices.
Any home without decorated eggs gets a visit from the bunny, and he steals the testicles of all the men.
After a few years, I went back to the town.
All the men had painted their balls bright colors.
Next time, I hire a professional translator instead of using Google.
Zymurgist
Due to budget cutbacks, the school district laid off all the guidance counselors. They were replaced with hats that contained strips of paper with the names of careers written on them.
Students line up, pick a career name out of a hat, and then pick classes based on the skill requirements of that job.
They used to flip through a book and stick their finger on a page to pick out a career.
But the book was in alphabetical order, and word spread fast that the last career in the book was Zymurgist.
Speaking of which, care for another beer?
The Long Distance Kiss Goodbye
The first time you needed help, I helped you.
And you thanked me.
But when I needed help, where were you?
“I’m busy,” you said.
Busy.
I got through it on my own, but it hurt. A lot.
You live, you learn.
And you remember these things.
Now you’re back, all bloody and begging for help again.
No.
Don’t spit in my face and tell me it’s a long-distance kiss, baby.
I know the difference.
And you know the difference.
It takes a lot of strength to put the past behind us.
I slowly close the door, and whisper “Goodbye.”
Shampoopoo
Every week, shampoo manufacturers come up with a new formula that incorporates some obscure and absurd natural ingredient like monkeypuzzle tree oil or himalayan yak scrotum shavings.
Sure, the supermodels in the commercials are practically orgasmic over their shiny and bouncy full hair, but all I ever want is to shed less dandruff and not smell like a flower shop.
Nope. It’s impossible to get shampoo without this wacky Amazonian rainforest crap in it anymore. I’m stuck with hyacinth pollen extract reviving my roots and Mongolian rose elbows on my split ends.
No wonder why Bruce Willis shaves his head.
Fighting
I heard a scream through the wall.
My apartment neighbors are fighting again.
I put on my headphones.
As loud as the music is, I still hear the screams.
Should I go over there to see what they’re doing?
Nah.
Instead, I call the pizzeria down the street and order a pizza for them.
Yeah, this won’t help the situation at all.
Good.
The sooner they kill each other, the quicker I can get my friend to move in next door.
It’s a thousand bucks for a referral.
Maybe I shouldn’t do this…
I call again.
Ten pizzas.
That’ll work!
The asshole in the past
If I had a time machine, I’d go back in time to when I was 20 years old and slap myself silly for being such an asshole.
Of course, back then I was such an asshole, I’d shoot anybody that threatened me. So I’d have shot anyone slapping me around.
Right. Wear a bulletproof vest?
No. I’d shoot the dude in the face. A bulletproof vest doesn’t cover the face.
Wait… shooting the dude in the face?
The dude is me.
Well, future me.
Maybe I shouldn’t do the time machine thing.
And just leave that asshole in the past.
Balancing Act
The flight to Portland is full, and all the overheads are full of cruelty-free carbon-neutral backpacks.
“You’ll need to check your roll-on,” says the gate attendant.
I walk to my seat, but a bearded hipster is already in it.
“Dude,” he growls.
The stewardess apologizes and guides me to another seat.
“We had to move passengers around to balance the sarcasm and irony.”
I sit down, stuck between two reeking natives too cool for deodorant.
Forget flotation device. Can a seat be used as a gas mask?
An alarm goes off.
The stewardess says I’ve set off the sarcasm alarm.
Apology
I check my mail.
She asks me to accept her apology again.
What apology?
I don’t accept apologies that aren’t genuine. And I don’t accept them when the person won’t admit that they made a mistake.
“I’m sorry that you feel hurt by this” is how they usually start things off.
That’s not an apology. That’s an attempt to blame you for catching them doing you wrong.
Don’t accept that bullshit. Tell them no. And don’t trust or forgive them until they get their shit straight, and they set things right.
And never, ever apologize for demanding a real apology.