Twenty One Reasons “28 Reasons Why You’re Better Off Not Having Kids” Is Fucking Stupid.

A response to Adam Ellis’s Buzzfeed post “28 Reasons Why You’re Better Off Not Having Kids”

1. If an individual is to argue the validity of an idea, a skeleton structure is of no means a tangible source of announcing the argument; i.e. by listing “Twenty Eight Reasons Why Blank,” such an individual would have sundered off any researchable insight which should be included when developing an argument. One should not merely state, but provide pertinent data that substantiates their claim. This is not to say the individual who presents such a thesis must academically research the topic for two years or more, but you can’t spell your name without at least having fucking read it prior.

2. The fact that I’m beginning a list in order to communicate though a lower means for an audience I may believe is incapable of foddering for mental stimulation because of a growing epidemic of digital media trends pathetically understands in some relative means, is beginning to elevate my blood-pressure and really annoy the fuck out of me.

3. To state you know “twenty eight reasons why your life will be better off without children” is to state as well “I am a selfish individual of the global human condition and rather than understand my basic biology, I will transcend this traditional trend of existence and live by my own misguided conscious understanding.” If you don’t wish to have children, this is fine; all individuals are entitled to their own free will* interpretations and engage on the linear details to follow in a sentient existence. However by not integrating oneself into the cycle of childbirth, an individual has severed their self from the perpetual growth of the human race. However, this statement does discount the argument of biological inadequacies amongst effected individuals. By not integrating also means by not solving problems involved with childbearing, leading to argument number four.

4. Though the basic biology of a human being is to procreate and reproduce, there are genetic and biological differences and abnormalities that can prevent certain individuals from fully integrating into the cycle of childbirth, e.g.: endometriosis, genetic mutations, sterile and/or infertile, etc. Individuals suffering from such complexities have a multitude of options available to solve the above issues, such as fucking adoptions.

5. Reasons number one and two in the article are not distinct, different reasons. Reason two regarding the idea of embarking on naps freely is in direct correlation to the argument of sleep cycle regulations in regards to aligning with children. Sleep schedules are of utmost importance in order to maintain a proper homeostasis and health, and yes, newborn babies have a very radical sleeping cycle in the first months following birth, but this actually counter argues the idea of napping freely. Newborn children after the first two-three months according to a study by the American Academy of Pediatrics on the consolidation of newborn sleep patterns, were reported to have slept well through the night and regulated quicker to the conveniently standard 10:00pm–6:00am schedule (Jacqueline M. T. Henderson). Furthermore, because many newborns up until toddler age require daily naps for proper development, this greatly increases the chances of an adult or participating in the same activity. By “napping freely” an individual has the greater chance or affecting an actual nights sleep thereby altering a natural sleep cycle and effecting healthy states of existence. See the arguments of Free Will for further interpretation.

6. Reason three can be interpreted as an individual may curse freely around the house but not indicate the means as to why an individual would do such. Further parameters must be detailed to fully understand the context of this argument. Does the individual have a lack of communicative skills or suffer from some speech disorder? Does the individual lack the abilities to obtain an extensive vocabulary? Furthermore, what defines curse words, societal norms?**

7. Reason four in regarding the argument of depression associated with parenting I ask readers to investigate this article as opposed to the WebMD source provided:
http://www.jad-journal.com/article/S0165-0327(10)00674-9/abstract
an alternative link:
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21112641

8. Reason number five is a valid argument under false pretenses.
Stress causes agony.
Childbirth causes stress.
Therefore childbirth is agony.
Childbirth causes the body to explode.
Explosions are caused by an immediate release of stored energy.
Therefor childbirth is a nuclear reactor.
Logically this is incorrect because the body is a self-maintaining organism. The author in this case may be argued furthermore as a “fucking idiot.”

9. Reason number six argues against the sole purpose of reason for the article. Why would another individuals children remain “fun and cute” if the purpose of the article is to argue against the means of any individual integrating themselves into parenting? Are some children better than others? Are some individuals intended to have children against others? What qualifies these parameters?

10. Reasons number seven states an individual with children can never have a drink of white wine during NighttimeTM. Author is unclear about the trademark value of “nighttime” thereby inciting a fury of further investigative questions. No conclusive studies can be found with a simple internet search to substantiate this claim.

11. Reason number eight is correlated with the stress of raising children. See arguments against reason number four in argument number seven of this publication.

12. Reason number nine does not state if whether the ends of the means of private defecation are inclusive to only parents with children. What about adults who may be in an environment surrounded by children not of their own? What about adults surrounded by other adults? What about adults surrounded by animals? Clarification needed.

13. Reasons ten, eleven, and twelve are not distinct separate arguments, and all correlate with the idea of a published article provided by the author. The author failed to interpret that there are thousands of factors that could greatly affect the monetary requirements of raising a child and assumes all individuals reading the article have acquired the monetary means to afford such extravagant actions. Again see the argument of Free-Will.

14. Reason number thirteen suggests all readers either participate in the application Seamless or suffer from raging tantrums. Does the author believe individuals are incapable of adhering to a mature mindset in which they mentally and physically cannot control outbursts caused from an emotional disapproval of an action?

15. Reason number fourteen should be omitted. Any human existing on this planet can easily come in contact with a bodily fluid on a microscopic scale on a daily basis. One must assume the author doesn’t go outside much.

16. Reasons fifteen and sixteen are not distinct and directly correlate with one another. Author also assumes that if a reader has owns, or possess a desire to obtain such furniture. Furthermore the author assumes the reader is incapable of simply acquiring cleaning tools in an effort to rid extravagant furniture from “smudgy prints.” The author also failed to include fingerprints and dust left behind by the adult themselves on their furniture.

17. Reason number seventeen argues there is no such thing as a washing machine or a surplus of clothing available.

18. Are you, the author a “fucking idiot”? Why would you even fucking think of something like that when you’re poor when there are hundreds of other things to consider? Health-care, food, housing, transportation, work, etc.

19. Reason number nineteen believes the adoption of a pet (or a houseplant, really? Are you that fucking stupid?) can help solve loneliness. Loneliness can be contributed as a symptom of depression, which should be taken into serious consideration; regardless of being a parent or not. An individual experiencing symptoms of loneliness should consult a doctor to find treatment options and prevent any further developments of depression.

20. Reason twenty is in direct correlation to reason number six and argument number nine of this publication.

21. Reasons twenty-one through twenty-eight are all such pathetic attempts at justifying the point of the article that the author failed to incite one valid argument; the nature of the universe.

The universe operates on a scale of rules that are, for a greater portion, unfathomable to humans. Are basic biology is for the reproduction of the species. Given the grandeur of the universe itself, to argue the purpose of humanities existence is to itself attempt to argue the purpose of the universe. Because no purpose can be solidified, one must assume that all attempts to identify a solid reasoning are futile given the outstanding operations of the universe itself. Therefor, having children is pointless. Even if humanity manages to escape the planet and the death of the Sun, its safe to say that humanity would only prolong the inevitable death that lies ahead of everything. However to argue in such a way is to also argue against the sole basic composition of our humanity, growth. By not integrating oneself in the childbirth cycle, you are hindering not only humanities growth, but also your own. We are a social species and we cannot survive on selfishness. Same theory applies to the universe.

*This idea of free-will can be argued a thousand times over. For example, Hard-Determinist could argue against the ideas of free-will with casual determinism, the idea that cause is effect, thereby rendering an agent a subject of their own actions. Logical determinism (my personal favorite) states that all events of an agent are either true or false regardless of the measurements of time (past, present, future), thus allowing a mathematical equation to validate any moment of existence. All measurements of the future could only be concluded by measurements equated from the past and present. However on the other side you have Metaphysical Libertarians arguing theories such as the Non-causal theories in that an agent must act, or cause volition in order for events to start. E.g.: Is the Big Bang caused by kinetic developments of grand amounts of energy, or did someone(thing) hit a light switch and start all this bullshit?
**An interesting argument about curse words lies in the constructs of language itself. Words are compositions of letters constructed to allow for an immediate association of phonetic sounds. The word “fuck” for example can be interpreted as an association with sexual intercourse or to intensify selected statements, however if a new publication of the English dictionary were to simply interpret it as a means to intensify phrasing and only as such, then the profanity that lies behind the term is rendered useless. Thereby saying a phrase such as “the author of Twenty Eight Reasons Why You’re Better Off Never Having Kids is a fucking idiot,” cannot be interpreted as a slanderous term, but rather a scripted effort to intensify the idea that the author of the stated article is more than simply an idiot.

Statue of Liberty Biggest Whore in Nation.

Why don’t they ever look me in the eyes?

Yesterday brought forth the exciting new iPhone app WhoreRatio where men across the country can rate the women they’ve dated in their lives and view potential hookups. The more men the woman has “hooked up with,” the higher her Whore-Ratio will be. Of course it’s of no surprise that among the top three are my ex-girlfriend and Paris Hilton, but the one with the highest Whore-Ratio of all is in fact The Statue of Liberty.

After a century plus of opening up to impoverished men (and women…and children), the Statue of Liberty is sure to have caught something by now. This would explain the change in her complexion and color over the years, and why she is always pushing people away to “fix” herself.

“She used to have such bronze skin. Now she looks sickly pale and green,” said Arizona native Pat.

“After seeing her ratio was 76,” (the scale only goes up to 10 by the way); “I thought, Hey, what the hell, she can’t be that bad? But its long distance and I know it would never work if she keeps letting shitty people influence her life.”

Pat is right as the Statue of Liberty’s apartment isn’t far from Wall Street and who knows what kind of American psycho’s she may be bringing home each night.

WhoreRatio comes in response the very controversial iPhone app known as Lulu, released just a few months ago. With a proper Facebook account, women from across the country found a place to start gossiping on a digital realm about the privy parts of the shallow personalities of the men in their lives. Any woman can login with a valid Facebook account and start posting comments and ratings about the relationship and encounters with men, as well as view other women’s responses. In order to access the account or post anything though, your account must state your gender is female, making it very hard for men to create fake accounts in order to view their own scores.

Just last week though, in an effort to not single out fellas sweating over their pathetic packages, Lulu released LuluDude so men everywhere could check their scores and try to improve upon them if they so wished. It has been shown though that women are more likely to change their image regarding their Whore-Ratio to better themselves, whereas men have been known to just call her a whore any time she says something bad about him.

With so many bad things to say about the men who run this country, it’s no surprise The Statue of Liberty is the biggest whore of them all.

Operation: We’re Going to Bang You.

Freedom Mother Fucker!

Today U.S. Military instillation’s are preparing for the largest attack ever reported. Sources state that a global offensive with joint cooperation from multiple agencies willing to chip in beer money, but mostly headed by the NSA, will be launch on July 3rd at exactly 11:59 pm. From the halls of bases in central Europe, to the shores of the Persian Gulf, mobile rocket launch systems are being prepared for the largest artillery raid of fireworks that nations across the world will have ever seen. Skies across the world will light up from Fourth of July Freedom Fireworks.

“We’re calling this Operation We’re Going to Bang the Shit Out of You, and we’re lighting the skies up with freedom,” stated Four Star General Keith B. Alexander, director of the National Security Agency. “We’re hoping to send the world into a euphoric, orgasmic frenzy as we light up the skies with freedom fireworks in celebration of our nations Independence Day.”

Rather than apologize to the American people for overlooking basic privacy rights, invading social media networks and collecting cell phone data in a propaganda fueled hunt for terrorists and control, Alexander and his agency have decided to show the world that we still know how to party. The assumption is that if U.S. armed forces “get it retarded up in here” then everyone will forget about General Alexander for being such a dick a few weeks ago.

“We fear nations across the world will potentially attack the U.S. cyber security systems and possibly cause a national catastrophe that would distract from Kardashian family breaking news. They happen to be a main contributor of gossip at patriotic barbecues,” states Gen. Alexander. “We have attacked Iranian nuclear plants with physically damaging malware and we’re afraid they will attempt to pathetically use technologies we already sold them against us.”

Militant officials plans are to “woo” foreign nations with a marvelous fireworks display that’s borderlines romantic, while feeding you beers all day on an empty stomach so they can lay you down and touch your private parts.

Many Americans believe that rather than addressing the issues regarding national security and individual privacy rights, the population assumes that if we can party hard with the world while pulling off the most orgasmic fireworks display this side of Disney, then perhaps we won’t have to worry about any national threats because they’ll be too scared we won’t invite them back next year.

Meanwhile on the front lines, military personnel are setting up grills and putting on the highest U.V. protecting sunglasses available in preparation for the world’s largest wiener roast. While waiting in line for spicy brown mustard, we asked an Iraqi citizen if he was excited for the fireworks show tonight. We couldn’t understand a single word he was saying and assumed he was condemning us to a Jihad. So we shot a few firework at him, baptizing him in freedom trails of potassium nitrate. He went out with a bang and so will our rights but we’re not too worried if the NSA doesn’t call us back. They’ll see in our text messages to our girlfriends how small they were compared to last year’s hookup in Cozumel.

NSA, FBI, & CIA Form Super Group, Arrest Sarcastic Terrorist Plotter.

At approximately 11:09 a.m. eastern standard time, on June 12th, within the confines of a Mimi’s Café dining room located in one of the Southern states of the U.S., four young men were seized and arrested by government officials for what law officials are stating as “threats against the nation.”

“The four young men were very nice,” says innocent bystander Gretchen, who for her personal safety will not be fully named. “They all said excuse me when they walked by and kept the swearing down. My old ears don’t work well, but they do hear dirty words.”

Gretchen wasn’t the only hag in the restaurant when police officials entered through the rear of the famous French-style café. Many law enforcement officers were wearing full riot gear and were armed to the T with tear gas and full body shields. A few officers even sported French paper-thin mustaches to blend into the scenery while standing in black body armor along the pewter shade walls and empty wine bottles.

The four young men are currently being held at a high-security prison with no bail and are under arrest for using the word terrorist in a text message.

With the current whistleblower situation over the NSA, and the highly anticipated release of the Xbox One, many people in the general public speculate that programs like PRISM, along with the government’s ability to access personal internet data freely, and the use of the Kinect motion sensor as a stealth camera to spy on anyone stupid enough to sit in front of their television, allowed for the successful arrest and apprehension of the four suspects.

 

The Setup

According to an anonymous law official who headed up the investigation, multiple agencies were involved with the arrests of the four young men. The FBI, CIA, and select NSA agents helped coordinate the highly complex and successful investigation that lead to the arrests.  The program known as PRISM was also used in pinpointing the four men in making the arrest as well as finding an extensive porn browsing history to allow for blackmail in court.

“It took multiple agencies to set this up properly and I would like to thank all agencies that were involved. Including, but not excluding all internet data companies that allowed us to infiltrate the young men’s internet history.  Thank you Google, thank you Facebook, and thank you Verizon.  We’re all bros here.”

Inquiry first started when NSA officials first intercepted a text message through an automated filtering program operated under a joint CIA coalition of monitoring incoming cell phone data.

The intercepted conversation follows below:

 

“The key word was Terrorist here,” said a random FBI official. “This is what we looked for in our searching of CIA computers to make sure there were no internal threats. Upon finding this text message in the CIA internal databases, we then initiated a joint task venture with the NSA to infiltrate CIA headquarters and find the source of the message.”

However when FBI officials showed up, NSA officials had then learned that the text message had been filtered through and found in FBI servers upon hearing CIA officials had first intercepted the message.

“We just got tired of pointing fingers and decided to act together, finally,” spoke an individual with common sense who is a receptionist at the NSA. “I was asked to get coffee and denied access to the investigation when I told everyone they could work together.”

Once the three agencies finally agreed to apprehend the suspects together, they informed local law enforcement official who then supplied them the man power over the coordinated arrests.

 

The Investigation

Initially all three agencies had no idea what to do. A joint task coalition was then formed to allow for the three agencies to successfully communicate with one another to plan.

“We knew the suspects were going to eat brunch, but we weren’t sure where. After hours of investigation and paper trail following, we gained access to the two young men’s Facebook accounts to find out what they liked,” said the head of the NSCFBIA (the National Security Central Federal Intelligence Agency) coalition team who will remain anonymous to ensure public safety.

“We noticed they like the Miami Heat, Call of Duty, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell Movies. The two actors have been taken into questioning as well while we plan the investigation for trial. However after gaining access, we still were unable to determine where the young men would be ‘meeting’ for brunch or what ‘brunch’ would exactly entail. Based off of Foursquare, Twitter, and Instagram accounts, we assumed they would meet at World of Beer and that Mimi’s was just another terrible incident of what is known as damn you autocorrect.”

With dozens of World of Beer’s spanning across the country, no one was still sure where the two men would be meeting.

 

The Breakthrough

Thanks in great part to the success of PRISM, federal agents were finally able to pinpoint where the young men were finally going to meet for brunch.

Lead CIA investigator to the Coalition of Investigating on behalf of the NSA had this to say at the press conference that followed:

“Because of programs like PRISM, we were able to access the suspect’s phone and internet data without a warrant or any form of due process. What we found was the suspect had a complicated search history of wonderful POV pornography, ‘rape-sloth’ meme’s, PS4 release prices, and a Google search of directions to Mimi’s Café. This fast break allowed us to quickly infiltrate the correct restaurant, and refrain from making a grave investigation error.”

As soon as the young men parked, law enforcement official began surrounding the building in anticipation of a firefight.

“They used a dangerous word that threatens the safety of the nation in a standard text message. We took all necessary steps in aims to prevent any kind of extreme catastrophe,” said the Police Chief who recently tore off the letter A from his America patch located on his uniform.

Shortly after ordering coffee, it’s understood that one of the suspects confirmed the text message to a fellow assailant who was already waiting with another friend for the two investigated suspects to show up. How this slipped past Federal agents is mind boggling and begs to ask if security laws are strong enough and should be less transparent.

“When the suspect stated “brah, the terrorist joke,” all agents and officials were given the green light to intercept and make the arrest. Four officers, who will be anonymously distinguished, each individually drop kicked the suspects, then apprehended them for the arrest,” said NSA guy number 137.

***UPDATE***

During the press conference, when Federal Lead Agent of the NSCFBIA spoke the word terrorist to reporters, he was then drop kicked and arrested by local law officials who arrested him on charges of “threats against the nation.”

“After gaining access of his blackberry and email accounts, we were able to intercept a press conference speech his assistant typed up. We are now searching for the assistant to bring him into custody for questioning,” stated local Police Chief, ‘Merica as he liked to be called.

First Contact

Do your best to hold your composure. Do not appear awkward; do not show a sign of discomfort or unease as you approach the bench. It’s merely an airport gate and you’re not a terrorist. Wait right there, clasp your balmy palms into the warm canyon of your thighs. Not forgetting to pull the hood of the thick cotton sweater over your head, MCO is freezing and flip-flops, though important for Florida, are stupid in central air-conditioning. You’re roommate is about to land, and so is reality. You are leaving. You are leaving the comfort and confides of your home.

It’s only 30 miles to see mommy and daddy when things swelter from stress and agitation.

It’s only 25 minutes in heavy traffic to a steady job where everyone knows, and loves you. There is a steady paycheck. A steady stream of interactions with beautiful people.

It’s only 15 minutes to your favorite bar. They know what you like. And they keep a week long tab for you, because they know, you’re struggling.

It’s only 10 steps to the small open rooms of your best friends. Every worry, left at the inviting doors, and every care tossed out the window as you toke up and vaporize your concerns into a minuscule smaller than oblivion.
This is your home. You love to hate it.

Yet you’re taking one giant leap. You’re strapped into a mechanical nightmare. At liftoff, every stretching inch of your feeble skin will wear off as your shaking bones remain. You are launching to the moon. You are making one small step, but is it that giant leap you desire?

Think you’re clever? Think posting pictures of the lines of your favorite authors will motivate you? Follow the feng shui of a career-driven energy and hang scenic views of the two most beautiful cities for achievement: Los Angeles & New York.

But your door is cracking. The splinters are fine, invisible to the naked eye. Felt only once your vision is pierced. No ghostly light or aura flows through the seams, but a vast darkness of fear pulls you in. Now you’re floating endlessly in the depths of space, begging for some primordial object to bump you in the right direction. Suddenly the realization sets over the sun and the light of hope extinguishes in a cool breath.

In twenty days, you’ll wake up and take a step you never imagined taking. Will you be able to come back down to earth; or will you find yourself running off a lunar crater and swimming towards an asteroid belt?

***

I’m leaving for L.A. in a few weeks. I’m waiting for Justin to walk off his arriving flight from Denver and I start counting the days I have until I takeoff from MCO, and start a new chapter of my life. I almost want to put the book on the shelf, make a note of where I left off, promise I’ll finish it this weekend. But then ultimately I’ll throw the book away while moving, regretting the toss and having to buy it again. I look sketchy sitting on a polished wood bench. I don’t look like who I emulate in writing, nor do I look like the talented individual I dream I am. I look like every average individual walking off that plane; a mere tourist of the waking life.

I spot Justin at the tail end of the herd and flag him down.

“Dude, I did not want to come back to Florida.”

He tells me this. No “hello” or “hey man;” a complete statement. I feel this is how any person returning home may feel though at some point. We walk to get his luggage and he starts telling me about the beauties of the Rockies, the warmth of a city in the cold, and the nature of an urban dream come true.

I fear I’ll go to L.A. and be 3,000 miles away from everything I define as home. Yet when I board the plane, I’ll want to strap a rocket to back of the engine and ignite my way into the stars.

I fear I’ll try so hard, I’ll skip the moon, forgetting about an extra step. I’ll get out there and I’ll never come down. Floating aimlessly like salt in the sea, then sink to an unimaginable depth.

I fear I won’t come home. I’ll love it so much, I’ll hate it.

Memorial Day and the Mexicans

Sugar Skull Vader. Whoever designed this, rules.

It’s Memorial Day, and the good, freedom enduring nation America (also known as ‘Merica, Uh’Merica, & Freedom Cock Fighters) is doing what is does best—taking a massive vacation from white collar tasks and enlarging their beer bellies while near some body of water. Even the folks of Nebraska have found some way to dislodge their flyover communities from Tornado Ally, and cruise on down the Pacific Coast.

“What we do is just pray to our nation’s freedom loving Lord, God, and he builds us a sea to float our Bud Light cans in. We feel very blessed,” said Omaha native Jim. Not to be confused with any other Jim, Jimmy’s, James, Jamies, or Teds from the area.

However, Jim is not too pleased when rumors started to announce that neighboring nations, Canada and Mexico were also partaking in the festivities as well.

“This is ‘Merica’s day. We are supposed to remember and memorialize being a patriot! They didn’t fight the good wars we fought.”

When asked what the Good Wars were, Jim fell into an epileptic fit, while foaming at the mouth and repeating the word “terror” in seven different tongues. The pastor of his local church, who also happens to be his nieghbor proceeded to keep the demons at bay while trying to help calm the rabid local from seccumbing to what is known as a freedom shock; or when an individual is full of so much patriotism, their mind shuts down from the stress of having to comprehend an opposing viewpoint. His pastor comforted, and while gracefully petting his head, state that “All wars are bad warsm, unless we win. Then it’s just God’s work, and God is Good.” Ergo, Good War.

Jim is right about this though. Mexico fights their own drug war while holding our economy hostage by taking American Jobs. And Canada only supplies bacon and maple syrup to American troops fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, so they’re really only fighting to feed hungry mouths. Because of this, many individuals are finding offense to the news that our neighbors are inviting themselves over to our barbeques and drinking all the beer that was on sale.

May is a wonderful month in this nation, and if not for Roman mythology, many Americans would have changed this to Hangover Month, or Hungtember. However the homosexual community found this to be confusing because Disney’s Gay Day’s usually occurs in the begining of June. Many Gay communities state that this will become too confusing, but they wish not to be anal about it. May however is still littered with holidays such as Memorial Day, Mother’s Day, Cinco De Mayo, Graduation Day—and has recently added two new holidays; May the Fourth and Revenge of the Sixth. These two days share the weekend with the long honored American made Mexican themed holiday to honor the great Sith Lord, Darth Vader.

The month originally was just a way to continue to boost floral sales after Valentine’s Day in February, all the birthdays in March, and then Easter in April. Mother’s Day was instituted and spring floral arranging has become quite the steady career choice, even allowing executives to give their employees Memorial Day off with paid time off. A collective in this nation however decided that the best way to honor Mothers even more was to honor their dead sons and daughters who served their country, promoting freedom with every eagle engraving fist punch.

“We forgot that this Great Nation originally instituted this day in remembrance of all the soldiers who died fighting their brethren in the Civil War, and of course all their distant global cousins in the wars to follow; and we decided that something should be done,” says Congressional Representative Paul Ryan, who earlier last year thought he could be Vice President.

“We don’t really take off for Mother’s day, and seeing as we don’t really have a federal day off in May yet, we decided that dead soldier would justify this decision. It’s truly a wonderful way to give our citizens a day off, while honoring something cool at the same time,” Ryan went on to add as he clicked out of Wikipedia during the interview.

Although the reasons Ryan stated are shared across the nation, except in liberal loving areas like Portland, Brooklyn, and Austin; civilians of this nation aren’t very contempt on the idea of Guacamole being mixed with our hot dogs and burgers.

“What the hell is an Avahcahdough?” stated Dallas native Billy Roberts. “Last time I checked the only thing green on a burger is lettuce and pickles, and freedom.”

When asked if he knew about the California burger, he was shocked to learn that southern California wasn’t actually a part of Mexico or the parking lot of Home Depot. Billy however did not suffer a freedom shock.

Jimmy, Paul, and Billy however all share a general consensus about American values. It’s safe to argue that no one is really pleased to hear that the Mexican nation, along with Canada, has taken the holiday known as Memorial Day, and turned it into an excuse to party holiday. Many Americans are convinced that the original intentions of the holiday will get convoluted amongst the empty red plastic cups, once full of hope, liquor, and beer.

Mexican native and American citizen, Pedro had this to say when asked why he celebrates Memorial Day:

“Well my brother served in Afghanistan. He was in the Army and was going to serve so he could pay for college when he gets out. He thought risking his life was a good trade off for free tuition.”

Unfortunately the trade off didn’t pay off and his brother, Jorge was killed last summer by a malfunctioning drone attack. Pedro goes on to add:

“Yeah he was killed by a freak insurgent attack. No one’s really sure what happened. They saw a seagull in the desert, thought it was weird, and then I think they saw their coffins. Either way, we all knew he wasn’t really cut out for homework or tests anyways.”

Pedro’s mother sits at the family dinner table and prepares her son’s favorite dish—spaghetti, in honor of his memory. The family gathers, says a prayer, and discusses all the memories that have of their lost family member.

When asked if he knew what his brother fought for (freedom, of course) Pedro had this to say:
“You know, I’m not really sure.”

Answers like this outrage true patriots like Paul Ryan, and Billy Roberts of Dallas, Texas who had this to say. Worries overcame the staff that more freedom shock would occur, but no such happened as Ryan responded while flipping a burger patty in Billabong Swim trunks:

“How dare a citizen of this nation take a holiday completely out of context and not understand its original intentions. It sickens me to think that these individuals, who did nothing to earn such heritage or freedom, could make a mockery of it and enjoy the benefits of eight hours paid time off, Miller Genuine Draft, and a chlorine cleaned pool. That is just pathetic.”

His sunglasses almost fell off, but luckily they were strapped to a piece of cloth suburban white men found popular in 1986. We’re still not sure how such an artifact was preserved in such fine quality.

We asked Pedro if this sounded contradictory in regards to Cinco De Mayo and the tequila shots lining the streets of all American bar strips alongside Coronas and he had this say:

“We don’t really celebrate Cinco De Mayo. Mexican Independence Day is September 16th, but I think we’re just going to change it to July 4th for less of a hassle.”

Men can’t be whores, right? Part 1

I read this purity blog post and I felt very, indifferent.  Not only was she outstandingly bias in some cases, it made me think more of how an individual should approach some fire igniting topics.  I started writing a rebuttal and soon realized this piece had more reflection than point.

Before I even begin, I want to proclaim a few statements first.  I want to declare that I am for equal sexual rights, I empathize with gender confusion, and that romance only exists in Antarctica.  Yet I am a man, and I want to fulfill my role as a man.  But how the fuck do I do that?  What essentially constructs the definition of a man?  How can I be labeled a man and not something else?

I am a male (go figure).  I am almost twenty seven years old and I have come to a crossroads in my life; fifty years ago societal standards expressed that I should be at least married, in the process of establishing a nuclear family, and have made steps to securing a time worthy career.  Guess what— I’m reaching thirty with no intentions of getting married or having children.  Oh, my career?  Forget it.  I still have to finish my undergrad then bounce off to a graduate program.  I’m really in no rush.  So then, what is the role of a male when the roles of society are ever changing?  Who am I essentially meant to be?

This isn’t because I want to enjoy my bachelor youth by living out the ideals of a sexually dominate god on the continuous prowl for action I know all men secretly wish to be; I couldn’t be that lucky.  Hell, I consider myself moderately attractive.  I’m less than six foot, awkwardly skinny, and not as clever as I hope to be.  I’m humble in nature, arrogant, and I float responsibility with a thick layer of charm.  I get by, I’m not happy about it, and I’m sure if women threw themselves on me I wouldn’t hesitate to dig right in.  Waking up alone enough can be worse than waking up with regrets, at least that vindicates living.

I am in a very confusing point in my life.  I should have been doing this college thing when I first graduated high school but I’ve always been a late bloomer.  Cliché, but the truth.  Now I sit in classrooms full of “peers” who just started buying their first legal drinks.  It distances me farther than the moon.  Here is a playground of socializing at my fingertips.  A world I can get down and dirty with whoever is willing to join me.  I’m outnumbered by females in my degree; it’s awesome, yet very intimidating.  Biologically every glance spurs off a chain reaction of carnal thoughts and desires for every distinct woman in my classes.  I kid you not—every male will have this creep and consume their mind.  I am not unique.  Society did not tell me to think like this.  When that chromosome decided to change and those balls decided to fall, so did the blood in my brain when the ovaries walked through that door.  The tall blond with glasses gets a finger banging at the top of the lecture hall.  The brunette busting at the seams takes me to her dorm room and none of her roommates are home.  The creamy pale redhead knows a quiet place in the park where she can scream.  Then I zone back to reality and realize were still talking about character development.

So let’s say all this does happen.  I level the playing field with my seed.  I’m glowing I’m so fucking desirable and women are throwing themselves at me without hesitation, without once questioning my sexual history, health, mental state, or consenting commitment.  I replay these stories and my gender declares me powerful, dominating, while secretly loathing my success.  The shame is not that society has built this up, but because men are hardwired to think like this.  We have an unlimited supply of semen and we are not afraid to spill it.  Our cups are always refilling.  The more women a man conquers, the more locks his key opens, the higher his chance at reproducing and passing on his genes.  This is how he survives.

Whatever you may believe to be the purpose of life—God, love, wealth, power, wisdom; it’s all trivial compared to a human beings basic concept of existence; to fornicate and instill the continued survival of the species.  Only the strongest genes will survive.  Still I find myself unsure of my purpose.  This is my basic setup and I should embrace it, right?  Pull that phallic hammer out and start building a future son.  Sculpt society with your seed and seduce the weakening knees with your shear physical structure.  Monogamy is only a recent invention amongst human beings given our long history and our similar behavioral standards like apes.  So the way males and females are engineered for sexual reproduction is completely opposite.  Ironic considering all humans start off as females in the womb.  So in reality, should I not embrace this standard?  Is this why men can never be frowned upon for being promiscuous in a vast array?  Society claims higher conscious existence must embrace culture to ensure survival in a savage world, but sex?  Who cares, he’s just doing what a man was supposed to do.  What the fuck, I’m so confused and I feel guilty for not calling her back.  But Saturday night is more promising and wearing a shorter dress, so I’ll soon forget.  Can you blame me?

Women only have so many eggs.  Men, well we all know how to fill up a cup on a daily basis.  Therefor it logically makes sense to understand why certain connotations and titles designated to a gender based on their promiscuity have evolved in such a way.  Here’s the bigger kick too, science has evolved farther and beyond the capabilities of physical evolution in just the past 75 years.  Condoms, birth control, Plan B, and safer abortion techniques have allowed women to enter the playground with a whole new set of tools and identity.  It’s pissed off males beyond all control, and really helped to benefit some (me).  I can begin to take bat in this game of sexual intercourse without having to worry about the responsibilities of impregnating every girl I rest inside.  Am I cheating the concept of higher society by cheating the laws of nature?  What kind of loophole is this if any?  Is it even fair to be so selfish?  Even though a “whore” has the advantage is this day and age, can they ethically be justified when compared to monogamy?

So now we have a society that can simply just override patriarchal standards that have been in place since before the Bible and Christ himself and it’s the best thing to happen to the human race, period.  Yet, not only is monogamy safer, but psychologically better for both sides of the relationship, as well as the strongest tactic when raising children.  This is not an argument against homosexuals though; I should point this out now.  I want to argue monogamy for all, because it works.

What isn’t working is the idea of ‘smuttiness,’ but that’s a cry and shame because I know for a fact that I, as an intelligent man, will not just settle down with an extremely promiscuous woman without investigating her history first.  Not because they’re a whore, I’m sure I could fall in love with a porn star, but because I need an equal; a counterpart that is relatively as critical as I am and in which someone I can trust, well with trust.  Biologically I need a partner who resembles the traits I find strong for sexual reproduction and is healthy.  Psychologically, I need a partner whose understanding, responsible, and can critically think.  Now that sounds somewhat vague, and a bit too scientific, but when you get down to the details, I think this is what anyone wants on either side of the spectrum.

Where is the line drawn though?  Who is allowed to act like this and for what reasons?  What is their justification?  Why can a man?  Why can’t a woman?  Why can’t I look at her in a different light and not a red one?  Why do I believe this?  Her skin is glowing, yet if she were to shine as I should, then society would tear her limb from limb until she is nothing but pieces on the headrest she nicked a notch in.

So what if someone is a whore?  Male or Female.  They are experiencing their world sexually.  I personally find it tremendously tedious to spit game consistently and dating is just the most frustrating god damn thing in the world.  I think I’ve gone above the average goal for men when searching for partners, but that’s not the point, at least not in modern society, right?  Is that what makes a man superior?  Is this the modern man, or is this idea the appendix that still dwindles thousands of years later, serving no purpose but to eventually cause us more health problems.  But why not surpass this goal, after all you’re accomplishing a biological goal that’s engraved in your genetics; impossible to override.  Fuck it, double that goal, or even triple the average.  Hell, why not multiply that by 100?  That’s fine.  That’s terrific.  You’ve lain down with a hundred naked women and have left nothing but scared uteruses and bed stains in your wake.  If that is the world you as a person choose to exist in, then by all means, orgasm your way to the death bed.  But exploring sexuality is different and labeling sexually promiscuous individuals as whores is ignorant and wrong.  Whores get paid after all.

Logically you’re doing it wrong.  The idea of having sex with anyone and everyone is a great pleasure principle, but with the advances of technology, women can be the sexual conquerors just like men.  It’s great, there is nothing more promising then knowing that a woman can jump on the train without having to worry about whether or not she’s going to be lugging around a carry-on for nine months.

Example A:  Eddie if you grind your way through a sea of women, how many of these women do you think may wake up in the morning and think different about their lives after that day?  How many will become attached?  How many will just leave in the morning with no notes?  How many will declare it the best?  The worst?  It was so-so?  Who is clean?  Who was worth remembering?  Who was the mistake?  Who was the one that got away?  Who’s next? Who’s up for round two?  Who’s sober?  Who wasn’t in their right mind?  Who did you take advantage of?  Who scared you?  Who seduced you?  Who is that person underneath that stretch of skin?

Now imagine you’re one of those women consumed by any one of those questions.  How is your day to be affected by such?

Now to my point to the argument brought up in this semi-viral blog post: I don’t think anyone should be whores.  I think it defaming our society beyond a level of control and really doing nothing to progress people at all.

I think though that people should still be sexual, and by all means embrace your sexual nature.  Women should shave those legs and men shouldn’t shave their beards.  I think gender roles is a whole other argument, and I’ve exhausted myself on this topic.

Consider this part one while I contemplate gender roles and explore my thoughts about how a Man should be constructed in the light of a reign of women exploring sexual independence.

Monsters

I hate scary movies.  I think they’re boring and a waste of time.  Highly predictable and full of the corniest archetypes Jung could ever concept.  Thanks to my ex I repeat her fathers theory; “they are bad for the soul.”

Yet I will go to sticky theaters and cover my finger tips with warm butter and giggle while anyone who I attend a showing with clinches in fear.  It’s the easiest way to manipulate a date into grabbing you.  If you fake a sigh, appear to be more concerned than frightened, making the first move will seem chivalrous.  Or if you’ve tagged along with roommates and friends who live for the thrill of being terrified, it’s the easiest way to laugh.  You seem brave and as fluid as a mountain while they shake like the rapids cutting through a canyon.

It’s so predictable.  I’d rather just watch a PIXAR movie.

Yet here I sit, looking at a monster drawing I created a few years ago.  Every stroke of the pencil and crayon is a feeling of terror, a hindered sense of fear I could not communicate.

Is this a self portrait?

Probably.  How predictable.

I spend my days thinking of past mistakes, regrets, obstacles that keep me from wanting to enjoy the moments before and after leaving the theater.  I read the news on the internet and then I have to spend thirty minutes looking up pictures of puppies and adorable smooshed faces to assure myself that we’re not all going to hell.  Surely we just live in it.  This is how I can fall asleep easily at night when my date decides to go home and all my friends are tucked away.  The ideas of evil are bigger than me and yet I try to relate to them  as if they’re just fog while my head floats in the clouds.  I try to stay grounded.  I argue that’s why my mattress rests solely on the ground withing a wooden boxed frame.  Or perhaps its because all the worst bedtime stories start with monsters under the bed.

So without further adieu  here is a flash fiction piece.  Enjoy and sleep easy.  Find your warmth, your comfort.

Lullaby

There is a monster underneath all our beds.  Causing a commotion, he stirs beneath our dreams.  The monster needs the bread and butter on the dinner table; we are not the only ones who must fill hungry mouths or festering families.

Hesitantly, he (or she) punches in on their time card, and then ducks down to wait.  Their sharp horns don’t poke through the mattresses, or uncoil the springs we rest upon, but as they reach their thick furry hands out from under and grasp onto our sleeping skin, if feels as though we’ve only begun to walk on carpet.  Down the stairs, skipping on cold tile floor, then out the door and into fresh air we go.

The monster is eager for the day to end and to meet leisure time face to face.  They know what it looks like, but can never remember a detail if you ask.  A lunch packed with commodities commemorating capitalism, its critical crescendo; they are living the American dream.

Then they go home.

The nuclear family waits beyond the doorsteps of a cookie-cutter house.  It’s a good neighborhood.  White picket fences are replaced by tiny yards of St. Augustine grass that stain the children’s denim.  Junior and Little Miss are breaking the seams of their attire as they skyrocket to the clouds; splitting legs and fractions while building an allowance in their bellies.

The monsters under our beds cook, clean, compromise and collaborate with their significant others over meal times, school times, soccer practice times, and leisure times.  Friday nights are reserved for love making.  The monster and their significant other get dirty and clean their piping.  They don’t plan on falling asleep from the half empty bottle of merlot, but they down it so they can muster the courage to flirt with each other again.

Then the kids come home.

Milking the weekend, Monday comes faster.  Mundane monstrosities is what we have now.  401k’s. Stock option purchase plans.  Healthcare.  Mortgage.  Insurance.  Credit.  Debt.  Retirement at the age of 60/65.  10,950 days later and each day was the same 9-5 with its highlights.

The raise with option to cash out on paid vacation days never taken.

The significant other says she’s getting a promotion.

Junior got good grades.

Little Miss sang in the recital, with beauty and class.

But then the monster gets another promotion.  Upper management.  How else can he secure the nightmare that is the American dream?

The significant other has doubts.  Second honeymoon?  Maybe.  But after all, that would be dipping into the savings.  What if someone gets sick?  What about college?  What if?  What if?  What if?

Junior started drinking.  It’s hereditary.  An individual’s chances are seven times higher if the parents drink.  But it was always one scotch to unwind from paper pushing all day, never an ism.

Little Miss found a bad boy.  He had filthy tattoos and played in a rock band.  They look for men who have the same qualities as their father.  When she’s crying up all night it’s because he’s not there.

Then everyone leaves the home.

Sitting at his oak office table, the monster contemplates.  The promotion took him out of the cubicle and earned him a panoramic view of the city.  He watched all the ants scurry below him, frying and eviscerating their existence under the wavy heat rays of the sun.  Their shadows were burned into the sidewalk.  A fire started in the streets and the smoke billowed up into the tower.  The fresh air was too clean and the office chose asphyxiation and emphysema instead.  But they have a decent HMO.  A good life plan payout is included in the benefits package.

The significant other found strong pectorals to grace her withering fingers across.  She felt young again when time found her sexy once more through the years.

Junior smashed face first into a light pole but survived only to stutter on his t’s.  He thinks the mother betrayed them, so he and the monster finally become best friends.  They drink scotch together and he tries not to mess up his new management position given to him at the tower.

Little Miss got pregnant from the bad boy.  He has filthy tattoos.  She sends the monster pictures of a budding beast, his fury little head.  My goodness, they grow so fast.  She blames the monster, gets jealous at the abs the significant other dribbles her nails across, then bitches about Junior’s stumbling.  But she gets Single Mother of the Year awarded to her by her second grade son’s macaroni painting.

Here’s the midlife crisis, addressed as a memo on the desk.  Buy a sports car to feel younger, weigh down those wilting eye lids and roll into a ditch; like son, like father.  Or just blow your brains out over the cover letter so your boss sees how you truly bleed for the company?  On the desk is a picture of a little gremlin the monster barely visits, but wishes he could.  He is an artist Little Miss shushes at night.  She tucks him tightly into his bed and reads Where the Wild Things Are and Shel Silverstein poems.  The munchkin is petrified of the monsters under his bed.

Dogs

This is pinnacle,—finite.

This is a momentary lapse of reason. This is beyond the first breath taken, one of clarity and utmost importance; when you comprehend anxiety and justify it. You will stand across a human, opposite in so many ways, they have become befitting. Staring into what is supposed to be them, the pupils foreground bloodshot eyes. If you feel at home, then this is that moment.

Now collide.

This moment is the excitement of wanting to come, yet the desire to make a split second last forever. It’s suppression, avoidance of guilt. The things a woman can do to a man.

I have stood on a stage in front of hundreds. With a Fender Mustang molding into my body I expressed my existence to thirsty souls. Their mouths were agape from the desire to simply drown. They we’re so wet with excitement they collapsed on the floor and a sea of one idea flooded the land. I turned to my amp, a 6 foot mecca of human engineering. Coils released audible dissonance and the waves of sound penetrated the pit of standing people. A bead of sweat dripped from nose, onto my hand, and I strummed an open note for texture. C#. The hoard toppled.

I looked over to see Gerald panting on his drum set, sweat raining onto his snare. He stared into his toms, lost in the measurement. Towering over his kick he began to arch back in anticipation. He was anticipating his body for an impact. Every limb would rise into the air and careen down like a dead body with a severed head. The kit would barely survive. The audience dug their jaws into the floorboards.

Nikk collapsed down onto his pedal. He only had a brief period to regain control. He threw his guitar to the side and began twisting nobs on his pedal board, and pulling chords; the chaos actually gave him clarity. The sound waves convulsed in such a way and collided with ferocity. Unimaginable noises and disgusting effects would swell in the air forcing the machine to reset itself. Nikk prayed for the seizure not to end. He stood to face God and began to lift off the ground.

Ryan floated. He didn’t walk. He graced his body towards the back of the house and rested one foot on Gerald’s kick drum. This would be the final time he would drop the mic onto the stage floor. He raised his arms as a martyr. He didn’t beg for forgiveness or for the good Lord to take him away. He embraced the final moment and smiled back as though he himself had defied God. He stretched that smile into Nikk and I, who stood on opposite ends of the stage, then laughed at Gerald. He prepared to catapult.

I turned back into my amp and sunk into the open note. This is the last time I would play this note after five years of hammering it. I thought of my existence. What was it? How could I occupy such space, such dimensions and understand it? I was lost in my own moment. I thought of thinking, then thought of not thinking; what it meant to truly be alive and living. I couldn’t remember the past hour. What kind of man I was before hand or what my intentions were after. Who would I become? What I had planned for myself? I only knew what was.
Christ in his last breath.
My father when he first held me.
The first time I drilled into her.
The moment I didn’t want to give into her, but did.
Every time I saw a dead body.

Lying on my death-bed I will have achieved nothing ever comprehensible. I will ask whoever may be there, next to me, to play this song. Will it be my son? Wife? A simple nurse? I do not know. I do not know if my life will flash before my eyes and I think I would prefer it if it didn’t. It seems pointless to exist for selfish reasons and it’s selfish to desire to exist forever. I will let the song build, and build it will to this point. I anticipate this moment every time, and when it finally arrives I feel only ecstasy;
The THC clouding the brain.
The heroin creeping up the arm.
The focus from cocaine.
The booze numbing the senses.
The feeling of a woman’s skin on mine.
The last note of a song.

When it hits this point in the song, pull the plug. Smash my skull into oblivion. Shoot me in the face or sever my spinal cord from the rest of the body. Do not try to save me, or prolong my vegetable state. Do not welcome me to the machine or encourage immortality. Just let the song play and at 14:08, end my existence. Let that feeling be the last thing I comprehend. I demand it.

On the stage all four of us jump up into the air and we have become that moment. We have built five years of joy, prosperity, hardship, heartache, failure, friendship and success into an hour-long set of hits. We had to relive everything in that moment and in that moment was our immortality. Now we were to make our final statement. The last hit, of the last song, of the last show. Coming down is the hardest part.

To define the first line.

Let us begin to clarify that the Walrus is not a villain.

John Lennon is more than an idol.  Can I be a child who lays on his stomach begging for comfort?  Can the words “aspiration” be the gentle hands only a mother can possess?  They will grace my back, send signals through the spine and systematically syncopate a splendid sleeping pattern.  Let that not be a dream, but a reality.  Let us then begin to understand what John Lennon is.

Beyond his physical state of existence or his conscious grasp of the sensory overload we all endure as sentient beings; let us appreciate the legacy of John Lennon.  Let us begin to understand that his death, his murder, the bullet have now become a holy trinity in my perplexing existence.

I am the Walrus, goo-goo-g’joob.

You cannot live until you die.  You cannot die until you live.  So then logically, I am the Walrus!  Goo-goo-g’fucking-joob.

So the man dies.  He is the first in the pact to perish and he is the first to be named.  To go down in history?  Well down he went.  Down with his guts mingling on the pavement.  His wife holds him while the rest of the world blames her for breaking up their new derived faith in mankind.  Little do they know that she was the snake in the garden.  She made the man act and forever curse the man to rain sweat off his back.  She is neither the eggman or the walrus.

So goo-goo-g’joob all over her paisty chest.

But that does not make me a villain.  The walrus eats too many oysters.  He eats them, but feels bad.  This makes Alice like him.  But then another man tells her what to think, tells her a different side of the story.  Notice the order.  So then Alice changes her mind.  Goo-goo-go fucking figure!  These shoes are not the right shade of orange.  So now she likes the carpenter more.  One wears a suit, the other has bandages over his hand.  One feels bad, the other feels exhausted, full.

But what does Alice know?  This is a man’s world.  But it ain’t nothing…

Alice knows the Walrus.  She knows (well now knows) he hid his truth behind something.  A façade.  Did he have what the carpenter had, or did he have more?

I am the son of a carpenter.  I cried as a baby, my back was scratched to put me to sleep.  Too many blondes tripping down the rabbit hole have scratched my back; besides, I prefer brunettes.  I don’t hide this from the carpenter, the eggman.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.

So I am the son of a carpenter.  He made sure his genetic copy knew John Lennon.  I am the son of a mother who comforts.  She made sure her baby boy fell asleep peacefully.  I am the Walrus.  I am not a villain.  But I have had more than my fill.

And no one will know.

So let them figure this one out mister “give peace a chance.”  Ooh, you’re so cool with your “philosophy” and “philanthropy” and Asian wife.  I’ll find peace.  A piece.  When I sleep and she is scratching my back.