Father Knows Best Is Only Above Walker, Texas Ranger Because Of Chronology

At work the other day, Saran wrap had a real problem with me. It was not my best friend. It took me several tries to successfully wrap up old BBQ pork. Saran wrap was my enemy; I wrapped it up and tossed it in the trash several times as evidence of my hatred for it. Fuck you, Saran wrap. Fuck you a lot. I hate you, inanimate object. You ruin my life.

Actually, Saran wrap is not out to get me. This is really just an example of an already apparent general issue I have with myself: I fail at things that you should not be able to fail at. Who the fuck thinks twice about Saran wrap? It is a boring subject, not to be thought about twice. You wrap your shit up and move on. There really ought not to be a thought process involved. But I'm me, and being me, I fail at the little aspects of life to a ridiculous degree. I can't cook. I can't drive. I can't relay directions to another. I can't unlock my door in less than five minutes. When I was a kid it took me what seemed like my whole life to ride a bike. All the real basic things a human being should simply know how to do and not have to think about, I am awful at. I get embarrassed when around other human beings, because they all know how to do basic shit and they don't comprehend another human being who doesn't. I am a beautiful anamoly, a man of basic intelligence who is barely self-reliant.

I hate myself. This is not new. I've never been a fan of myself. When you hang out with the same guy for 21 years, he starts to get on your nerves. Every time I look in the mirror I see that guy who I suppose represents me to the world. Fuck that guy.

I, like those who live with having lost an arm or something, live with it. I am depressed and have poor self-esteem. There it is, you're gonna have to live a life. It's something that is always on the backburner, but I try my best to not bring it to the forefront. These little failures help remind me of how much I dislike this fellow that I am. Yes, you are a failure. Here's proof. You can't ignore it any longer. I get so pissed off at little shit like Saran wrap and when my CD player skips and dumb shit like that because it represents a larger picture of self-loathing. What I really despise is when people call me on it, a "You don't know how to [blank]" or "Haven't you ever [blanked] before?". My roommate last year was insufferable to this regard, and so have been several assholes I've encountered. Thanks for telling me what I already know.

My sadness and anger at myself only helps make me more sad because I know it's dumb. Why are so down on yourself, idiot? If Saran wrap is the worst of my problems, I'm doing pretty well. It's such an American, privleged thing to draw attention to the insignificant like that. My problems are petty and unimportant, which only serves to make me more pissed at myself about even drawing attention to them.

Whatever. Depression is the lamest thing in the world, and I'll try not to talk about it anymore.

Next time: Scatological humor! I promise!

Syndicated And Daily Television Chronicles #2: Dick Enrico Is Slowly Going Insane

A decent enough proposal, to be sure: Really, why should one buy new when slightly used will do? What a novel concept. Suddenly I'm swayed forever: Dick Enrico, you have shown me the light. There is no reason to purchase new products when used products are just as damn good. Wow. Inspiring words from a quasi-inspiring man.

2nd Wind Exercises supposedly was built from the ground up, by one overweight man with nothing better to do (as all decent business operations ought to be). Someone who knows the simple reality of exercise equipment: Nobody uses it. Tony Little can shove his ponytail up his likely-quaft asshole, thinking half the people who buy his shit are gonna act like a god-damn kangaroo on skis in order to get those tasty abs. So Mr. Enirco opens up a store to sell these used clothes hangers back to you for less price. Being only slightly used, they will do, and you will subsequently realize the futility and hubris of buying new. All's well and good, sure. Business picks up, things are getting more steady, you're needing to expand. You open up more stores and begin to shift your motto a little bit: "Why buy new when slightly used will do, (slight pause for dramatic effect, signifying a breach, if you will between the original saying and the tacked on second half), except when the deals are this good! Damn, nice. Stay true the character of the original but inform old hats and new skullies of the upgraded concept. I salute you, sir. Let it not be said you are not a skillful businessman. No question there.

However, suddenly you've got the need for an advertising campaign in the local area. In case I actually need to remind anyone, advertising is seething evil cancer set to destroy the human soul. Get it involved in anything and it will literally suck the humanity right form your bones. Dick, I don't blame you whatsoever for beginning to air local commercials. It was in your best interest. But you're playing with a petri dish my friend, one which could contain a DNA-destroying mechavirus. Careful.

It begins simple enough. Dick is a somewhat congenial character, personable and oddly genuine in his approach. It's always nice to actually see the head of the company tell you something. You can call them on their bullshit. You can see the yellow in their eyes and find how black their very heart is. Dick was one of us, it seemed, bringing the local-flavor aspect to it, working with low budgets rather than against. A simple bing-bang here's-what-we-do kinda approach. But again, you, Dick Enrico, were a character. It is never quite so simple once a camera is involved, is it? Suddenly we have a face to fit the... whatever the fuck. This man was 2nd Wind Exercising. Almost a local celebrity in a way.

Commercials became more and more Dick-centric. Dick-tagious, if you will. The iconic poofy hair and mustache became transposed in more and more new situations, culminating in what I consider to be one of the creepiest billboards I have ever seen. I got the most horrible feeling whenever I passed by it. I believe this is when I first noticed it: Dick Enrico must be going mad.

As you may be able to tell from this billboard chronology, 2nd Wind gradually got odder and odder marketing techniques. Beyond the creepy Hitler-child-abuse agenda was the reoccurence of skeletons in suits pushin tin from beyond the grave. I mean, come on. No bones about it? You went way out of your way to make a crappy pun there. It doesn't even make sense: Your store has nothing to with bones in any capacity. Where did you possibly come up with that? How that association was even realized... I shudder to think. Dick Enrico on the teevee seemed more and more in your face, like a polite guy trying way too hard to get your attention. But his appearance has a strange context for me now: Who is this sicko pushing babies on me asking me to "start 'em young"? What in gods name are you talking about? Don't you sell exercise equipment? Are you going to steal my child if I enter your store? Are you running a child labor scheme, or is this some sick psycho-sexual role-playing of hot Dick on Baby Dick action? Perhaps it was I going mad and not Dick.

The most recent "anniversary" commercial involves Dick Enrico's floating head transposed onto the members of a barbershop quartet, who yell at me with piano accompaniment for 30 seconds. Suddenly a Dick Enrico head on a bodybuilders body leaves me with a warped mind for the rest of the commercial break. This commercial is evidence of insanity. Dick Enrico went down a difficult road: Local commercials can afford a little bit of unprofessionalism and certainly quirkiness, but these recent efforts are a bit frightening. Maybe Mr. Enrico lost creative control, maybe he never had it. But he's got to be at least a little off his rocker to pose for and approve of pictures of him lording over an infant he has forced a fake mustache on. I hope this doesn't descend any further. Last thing we need is another Menards guy.

I'll Bet Hitler Got A Lot Of Bongs For Birthday Presents

I am used to being dicked around at work. Lately it has seemed as though the sole purpose of having a job is so that one can be consistently and thoroughly dicked around. When I just today received news that my hours at the cafe at which I work, these hours currently grand-totalling the delightfully poignant example of prior moments of being dicked around at a walloping three, would have to be cut because they just weren't pulling in enough sales. Okay. So the pathetically insignificant three hours I was working is going to be downgraded to the literally-holds-no-significance total of zero? Bitchin'! I don't need money anyway! I've really been enjoying living off of stolen saltine packets these past few weeks! I mean, this would be tantamount to being fired had I not begun picking up hours at the golf course as well, which is under the same behemoth-like and archetypally incompetent management of the big-bitch known as University Dining Services. Rather, it is a simple but effective dick-around in the middle of my already stressful day.

I sometimes feel that beyond the obvious reasons for being dicked around at work, ie mismanagement, idiotic higher-ups, general spirit-crushing inherent in any job, that the people who do the dicking genuinely enjoy it. There seems to be an art to it, even. My boss at Northrop Auditorium went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to dicking me around. Beyond the simple berating and "can we talk?"'s (of which there were plenty), a slew of minute but obscenely effective dick-arounds were thrust upon me like so much green slime on Nickelodeon. Not that I didn't deserve what befell, me, heavens no; I was certainly not a model employee. I was fired on grounds of incompetence; though that specific word was not used exactly, it was danced around like so many swaddled swan-maidens. I am not trying to come off as some blameless victim in this case. Merely, I relate to you of how I got dicked around. Before second semester started, I set my schedule up so I could get more hours at work. I wanted to work a lot more than I was because I was (am, ever shall be) poor. So I took classes on Tuesday and Thursday primarily, leaving my Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and weekends almost entirely open. I turn my schedule into my boss, who swiftly responds with "How would you like to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays?". Uh... I suppose... You know, I'll just be on campus from NINE O'CLOCK TO NINE O'CLOCK WITH A ONE HOUR BREAK AT FIVE PM is all. Yeah, no that works fine. I'll piss myself lazy on those FIVE FUCKING GOD DAMN DAYS I HAVE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OPEN while I shit myself stressed on the T days! Fine! Sure! Yeah! Great! Perfect! FUCKING DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY GONNA BE A BRIGHT SUNSHINY DAY LOLLIPOPS AND RAINBOWS I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS KEEBLER ELVES MAKE HAPPY YUM COOKIE BLAH BLAH PIXIES!!!!! My world is a god damned ray of sunlight dancing to the dew of spring! Fuck you! From there it was all snide talking to's and little "See me after works" until I finally caught on that I was the redheaded child of this office. On one schedule that went up, every other employee other than me was working a particular ballet show. I, uh, wasn't needed, or something. Fie. Eventually I began to feel the axe dangling above me, despite my best efforts to improve my performance. The ultimate slpa in my face was the day I was fired. The schedule for the next two weeks was put up and I was scheduled up through the end of it. Then I get the "Jack, come talk to me after work" schpiel. I got that feeling you get when your mom yells that at you from two floors below while you're watching internet porn. We talked, and I was "let go". Fine, your hands had been seeming awfully clammy lately anyhow. I didn't really mind being let go so much; I was pretty tired of being dicked around by those dicks that whole time. But what got me was the fact that they had me fill out a ten page personal workmanship review earlier in my shift. They knew I was getting fired at the end of that shift. Don't try to pretend like I wasn't. Everyone got these reviews to fill out, but everyone else kept their job after they walked out of there that day. I filled out this big long review for absolutely no reason, and they knew it. Assholes. That's some prime rib fuck you. Fuck 'em. Don't play house with bears with boners, that's what I always say.

The annoying thing is that these aren't even real jobs yet. All the jobs I've ever held have been the quintessential "you're in college or high school" jobs; once I start embarking upon the real, hardcore soul-crushing, suicide-rate increasing, deathly empty and depraving jobs of adulthood, I don't know that I'll have the stamina to make it out alive. Being dicked around sucks, being jerked around sucks, being pushed around will hurt, being sodomized around is a level I hope never to get to. But I will: The more "adult" and "actual" a job you have, the more cold-cocking penises there are going to be prodding you every direction until your very self is no more. I do not look forward to real life.

But! Fuck all that! I GET TO DRIVE A GOD DAMN GOLF CART WHILE LISTENING TO MASTODON. I couldn't possibly care less about any instances of being dicked around or how shitty my day is or how fucking bothersome all my customers are or any of that shit when I am blazing down the sidewalk at 15 miles per hour rocking out to the supple sounds of the boys from Atlanta. Oh my goodness. What a time. It's so synchonistic and pleasurable that I would dare to say all the piss I wind up taking in a day is worth it. I wonder if Mastodon knows they've crafted the perfect music to listen to while careening about in a golf cart (Perhaps I am not the best judge here; for me, Mastodon is like Sriracha: It goes with everything). What a beautiful, wonderful feeling. I have been wanting to steal a cart and go on a joyride around town with my boombox blasting Remission like you wouldn't believe. Somebody stop me, the joy is such that I would quit my job and shit on my clean record just for those precious minutes before I get mowed down by police. My god. I can't help but smile.

Please, find what makes you happy and do it. It almost makes this life worth the dick.

Syndicated And Daily Television Chronicles #1: John O'Hurley Ought To Stop Acting

[Advance warning: This new series I plan to embark on, which will chronicle my thoughts on the rather uninteresting bits of local television, may not interest those not in the Twin Cities, or anyone for that manner. I hope that if I mention something about the Menards guy, people will either know who he is and what I'm talking about, or have some sort of local equivalent that is comprable. If not, my apologies for a potentially very lame series of posts. This is, however, preciesly what I find incredibly interesting, and I'm gonna write about it because, all in all, this blog is here to amuse me. Piss off.]

You know, there is no rule anywhere that says you have to stay an actor your whole life. When people get fired from the logging company, they don't necessarily go back into logging. It may be all you know, but I feel like in the case of acting it's more of a desire to stay famous as opposed to staying employed. Gary Coleman had the right idea. He is now a security guard, and is employed. To continue acting would seem foolish; all he'd ever get are guest spots on Family Guy mocking his previous efforts. You become a joke after a while in the business, why continue? Gary Coleman didn't ever seem like a classically trained Shakespearian actor who was so inspired by the craft that he couldn't imagine giving it up. Mr. Coleman, I'm going to tell you something that you may not have heard before: I respect you. Congratulations on your new vocation, I wish you the very best.

John O'Hurley, take note.

You had a pretty good thing going when Seinfeld was still on the air. You were a mere guest star, one of hundreds, keep in mind, who got popular enough to be brought back several times. You were in 25 episodes and were even incorporated into a few of the main storylines. You were a high point of the series, you added a very humorous element to the show with your unique voice and overly dramatic lines. Many of your phrases became especially memorable parts of the series, for which I'm sure you constantly get recognition from fans on the street. Kudos.

The thing is, though... Seinfeld is over. What was a blessing for many at one time appears to have been a curse in the aftermath. KKKramer is likely to never work again, every spin-off has failed (miserably I might add), and most of the major guest stars have but a ghost on the screen, appearing hear and there to a mostly "Wait, I recognize that guy" reaction. And from, what I've seen, you can't really play much else than Mr. Peterman. Which is fine, as it seems to have gotten you a few jobs from places that want that exact charecter. The issue is though, those people are mainly insurance companies or embarresingly piss-poor animated children's shows. You live off that while you can, but judging from your slow down in work it ain't terribly long. Patrick Wharburton got into voice acting but is able to pull it off because not only does he have a larger range than you do, but he doesn't feel the need to pepper it with on-screen appearances. He has accepted where he fits now, why can't you?

No ill will, obviously, everybody's gotta eat. But fucking Family Feud? Are you really terribly proud to be filling Louie god-damned Anderson's shoes? Jesus, man, hosting Family Feud is just about as sad as it gets. Why do that to yourself? I didn't even know that show was still on the air. You cavort about the screen playing J. Peterman to the umpteenth power, likely supressing your urge to slip a revolver between your tonsils after each episode. C'mon man, how does it feel really to get paid to ask people to name things that dogs can eat? If I ever had to say "Show me Mother-In-Laws!" or whatever the fuck on national television, I would slink home in shame every night to my new best friends, being Jack Daniels and valium. You weren't a big enough star to pull this "falling from the top" shit, man, you could've easily, much much more easily than Jason Alexander or Julia Louis-Dryfus can, simply disappeared into obscurity and never be seen again. Five years down the line from any big hit show, the main charecters get mocked on reference-dependent shows like Family Guy, while the smaller charecters can go on to either bigger and better things or a real job. Why cull up the same tired shit to keep in the public eye? Being on-screen isn't everything, especially if that means being where you are now.

Go get a new job. Do something else that interests you. If acting truly interests you, you can't possibly be interested in Family Feud. I know you're doing Spamalot and potentially fulfilling shit like that, but don't delude yourself. You're in the same boat as Gary: one-note. Accept it and move on. There's nothing wrong with not being in the industry anymore. You are not less of a man, nor does your early work suffer whatsoever, from changing occupations. You may find something new to be far more interesting than acting ever was. There's a world of options out there. Quit digging the fucking hole.

Cuz, come on, Family fucking Feud? Hosting that show causes impotence.

ZQFMGB

So this person handed me some kinda slip of paper meant to signify some sort of something or whatever I dunno. I tend not to pay attention to shit people hand me on account of it is usually some ad for some bank or something. But this one had candy on it! A bribe! Yay! I dug into the Smarties with joy. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, thus it is always good to eat chalk-flavored sugar at 10 in the morning as your first meal.

The issue was that this candy was quite difficult to open as it it was taped to the slip of paper and the tape was covering the opening. I had to pry and rip and get angry. The candy was unsatisfying, and I didn't even eat the whole thing cuz I was frustrated with it.

This is a terrible business decision.

If you want folks to not ignore your little slip of paper, candy is a good attention getter. But in this case it backfired because you dickholes don't know shit about candy you bastards. Don't you know if that shit is taped shut it becomes damn near impossible to open up? Bastards just slapped that shit on without a thought. I deliberately ignored the little Free Taco or Credit Reports or Need More Spam In Your E-Mail? or whatever the fuck thing it was, ignored it with a vengeance. I was planning on just regularly ignoring it, but you forced my hand. This candy business was annoying, and thus I shall ignore with passion, an ignorance ten times more devastating than straight up not paying attention. Fuck you.