2 Minutes in Heaven...

I don't know why I chose a somewhat "inappropriate" title, but I suppose it will get some attention for an unrelated post. I feel bad not contributing my "curried" thoughts to the blog recently, but unlike rishb I don't reveal anything too personal about myself at work so my post wouldn't have been that intriguing. I recall that the spamming topic started because of my rant to rishb about a phone scandal, but it's too late to post something on that topic too. What's going on in my life that will spark a 2 minute story...about heaven? Well, I do love to laugh... so for those that know me pretty well, or even random strangers probably know that I have occasional "laugh attacks." It's a condition that is triggered by completely random things that happen in every day life, but I suppose it keeps me looking young.

The most recent incident occurred after I had my Impala checked for fluids and tire pressure. Standard procedure right? Well...this time was a bit different. I went to our local Jiffy Lube and asked the boys to do a quick check up before I jumped on to the freeway. They opened the hood, checked the oil, and filled up more wiper fluid. After that, one of the mechanics put his gloves on and and started cleaning some stuff out of my hood. I assumed it might have been leaves so I was half paying attention to what he was cleaning out. One of the mechanics that was helping him said, "There's a lot of chicken wings in here." I didn't know he was talking to me, but I looked up and noticed that he had two fists full of bones and skin. I looked at the guy who said this and he didn't say anything else so it was even more confusing. They closed the hood, and the third mechanic said I'm all set so they opened the garage door and I left. In my confusion and curiosity, I pulled over and opened the hood. To my surprise, I found potato wedges, chicken skin, and bits of cat food on top of my engine. Chuckling to myself I cleaned out the rest of the food pieces and called my mom to tell this story. At first I assumed some drunk wolverines opened up my hood and stuffed this food in some form of drunken protest because of my MSU license plate. When I told her about the food, all she had to say was,

"Oh right, your dad and I have been eating a lot of chicken wings and potatoes recently."

"WTF...what do you mean? You guys put the food in there?"

"No no...maybe mice or some kind of animal was eating in your car because you kept it in the garage for a couple of days right?"

"Ohh...right. Ok haha see ya."

After hanging up the phone I was thinking about how ridiculous it was and just had to tell someone so I called up rishb. As I was telling him the story I realized even more how ridiculous the story was. And so started the attack...

"I have to tell you a funny story"
"Ok cool"
"I went to get my tire pressure checked and...haha, and there were chicken wings...!!...on the engine"
"What?"
"Yeahh...hahha, the mechanic pulled out some wings...hahahahhh"

And the conversation really went no where so I had to hang up. It really isn't that funny of a story, but the lesson of the day to take home is to check under your hood in the winter because the mice like the warmth of the engine while gobbling chicken and potato wedges.

Greesh's 2 Minute Music-Shimmy

My first CD ever was Red Hot Chili Pepper's Californication. I listened to that thing all the time on a Walkman CD Player that I thought was so cool because it had G-Force something on it which meant it wouldn't stop if it fell or was shaken. But apparently the only thing G-Force can't stop is falling down stairs.

I bought The Beatles Number One US Hits CD and after that I decided to give music a shot. Never really cared much for it after my favorite radio station, 93.1, fired all its DJs. I don't know why I cared about that so much but it meant that 95.5 was the only pop station anywhere.

Which is fine I guess. Look at me, caring about radio politics. But yeah, The Beatles brought me into the music scene. Cliche but whatever, it's special to me and that's all that matters.

Then a bunch of my Michigan State University boys introduced me to the world of music-snobbery which led me to The Strokes, The Libertines, and others I can't recall. Fun times but music-snobbery does not lead to many friends. And I'm extremely needy so you can see where there would be a problem. Anyway, I'm MUCH more mature than that now and I'll only raise my nose at you, and shift my scarf and fedora hat at you, if you enjoy the works of Nickelback and Pink. Which is understandable ain't it?

2 minutes of the only thing I care about. Me and my muzak. Fun fact: After family and girlfriend and blah blah, the thing I care about most is my external hard-drive which has all my music. All 9,869 of my songs.

Two Minutes, Five Months, One Week and Five Days

My heart hurts. I want to draw what I’ve felt like the past three days. It’s so much more painful this time around.

The drawing would look like two colorful, sticky blobs of goo that are stuck together. Then they both separate, with tiny strands of globule from one glob sticking to the other. When the two globs are ripped apart, the one who was trying to stick together becomes inflamed.

That’s what I feel like. Inflamed as in ‘hurt,’ not 'angry.'

I love her more than anyone else I’ve ever loved and am wondering if this decision is a mistake.

But I know the opposite decision would be a mistake for me. At least, that’s what I know now. What people know changes as time goes on, though.

Good to keep things in perspective, I guess:

Two Minute Cold

So I've have a cold. Or the flu. Either way, I have pressure in my head, my throat hurts, and the stuff I keep coughing up and blowing out my nose is a combination of green Gak (remember that?) and really old chocolate fudge sauce. Tasty, right?

Anyway, I have a part-time job where I do a late-shift at a radio station (Because of the position and current events, I can't exactly promote it in other media sources. Let's just say I work at a station that's public for all, somewhere in the Central Michigan region. Somewhere around a university), and I have a shift this Thursday morning.

There's no way in Hell I'll be able to go on air, and part of the reason is that I currently sound like a mixture of Peter Steele and Kermit the Frog.

Now, being the metalhead I am, I'd love to sound like Peter Steele all the time. But that stupid Kermit the Frog part is ruining the one thing I could enjoy about being sick. I have kind of a deep voice already, and it is kind of nasally, but how often is it that I have the opportunity to sound like a Goth/Doom metal singer without trying to change my voice? Very rare, my friends, very rare indeed.

Enjoy these two links: One's a video of Peter Steele's band Type O Negative's "Love You To Death," and the other is of Kermit being, well, a singing frog. Mash 'em up together, and you'll know how I sound. Plus, add dripping snot and the sound of mucus being coughed up, and you'll be on point. Enjoy!

When I Suggested the Topic I was Thinking About A Scene in Arrested Development When Gob says, "I Fear I've Said Too Much"

You guys all know me pretty well. They say don't think coworkers are your friends because it's all competitive and there's nothing holding you guys together besides the fact that you're all working together. Well, even though I know the advice "They" have given, every place I work at I forget "They"'s important council and bare my soul to all my coworkers. I need to stop this because coworkers either smell bad or they can't stop smiling.

I've done it all, man. I've sang in front of my coworkers, I've air-guitared in front of my coworkers, I told my coworkers/managers I smoke dope, and I told my supervisor he's "hot" right to his face. I did all this in one day at a hotel job I had. I need to stop this because I've just started to realize the importance of references and what's my hotel boss going to say? "Oh yeah, he knows the guitar solo to Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll." First off, who doesn't? Second of all, I worked at this place for almost a year and I can't list them as a reference. Well, I have a girlfriend now so I can bug her with my neediness. Thee end

Professional Office Etiquette

I work in an office. We office workers have strange customs.

We don't talk to people; we "reach out" to people, like technological beggars who will just be so mad if we don't get that document.

We don't think logically about the way things work; we "process model out" a "flowchart."

And we don't leave the office at 5PM; we work until "2AM."

We're a skiddish bunch and we hold to our reverse-Sharia norms (no beards allowed!) like heroin addicts hold to their heroin. Anything out of our ordinary frightens us.

So I probably told my coworkers too much when I said that I murdered their families.

A fictitious story about a fictitious event with fictitious people

I am writing this story from my writing room, in the drawing wing of my Tudor house (I am not really writing this from there, it's all fiction).  As I look out over the meadows of evergreen grass and the slow moving clouds in the crisp blue sky I think deeply into a moment, an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year.  It was when I was younger, probably.   The thought of it still haunts me today.  It haunts me like Casper haunted that house and Christina Ricci in that movie, Casper. Shivers are running down my spine as I type this (yours too, probably, because writing), and I wonder whether to divulge this moment, this deep dark past that I have locked far back in the recesses of the swing wing of my Tudor house. It must come out, I decided. It must be heard.  I must tell the story about that time when I feared I told my coworkers too much.

Cue Intro.


I was a stable boy for a flower shop back then.  I remember old Mr. Hutchins would yell, 'You boy, Jenkins, stable these daisies.'  And I would say back to him, 'Yessir Mr. Hutchins. Right away sir.'  Or something like that.  My memory fails me often these days.  I'm not as fresh of mind as I once was, I'm afraid. Yes, the days at Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were some of the best and most carefree days of my life.  And by carefree I mean extremely stressful and angst-ridden, for I had a secret.  A secret so great that I will waste no time in telling you what it is.  I will not build it up to unworthy proportions.  Make it seem that this secret may change the face of history or time. Or will I drag it out only to lead to an unsavory reveal that could be labeled anti-climatic or disappointing.  I will do the opposite of that.  So more like Snakes on a Plane than The Sixth Sense.  Or more like Eat, Pray, Love than Murder on the Orient Express.  So I'll just reveal my secret now, to get it over with and out there and then I can move on with my story. My name wasn't Jenkins. And I was a CIA agent, or something cool like that. And my real name was Brad Pitt. And I was also really wealthy so I didn't really need to be a stable boy at a flower shop, I just did it for some reason that I can't think of right now.  Probably because I was in the CIA.  Yeah, it definitely had to do with the CIA, and being Brad Pitt.  All of these things together were my secrets.

Cue Midtro.


So one day at my work where I had a secret, I was stabling the flowers when I heard Old Mr. Hutchins and Old Mr. Blueberry hatching plans to take over the world or something close to that. It could also have been like, we should take over that ward on the corner (the one on 82nd and 1th).  But I swore I heard world.  So anyway I took one my coworkers, Diane, and I took her into this supply room that was filled with fertilizer!  And for a second I was like they are going to bomb the world (!), and then I was like no they probably are going to use it on the flowers because there wasn't that much fertilizer. So Diane and I had been having this crazy on again, off again, will they? won't they? sort of deal and I pushed her up against the flower fertilizer and I said, 'Diane! Listen to me. Don't you understand?  My name isn't Roscoe Jenkins. And I am no ordinary stable boy. What I am about to tell you will change the face of history or time.' And then I told her all that stuff that I said like 10 sentences ago. And she was totally like OMG, but this was before OMG was a thing and I was all like iknowright? but this was before iknowright? was a thing, so our facebook statuses were like it's complicated, but this was before facebook. After that she ran out of the room screaming, probably because we just invented the internet and we both knew we were going to become super duper rich and famous.  And then right then I was all like, 'I fear I told my co-workers too much.'  Because if I hadn't I could've invented the internet all by myself and I wouldn't have to split all the money in the world with stupid Diane.

Cue Outro.


So that's it. That's my story. That's my secret and I have to admit it feels good to get that off my chest.  I never figured out if Hutchins, Montgomery, Blueberry, and Ross Flower and Apiary Symposium Incorporated, A Subsidiary of Glemco, a joint venture of StrongArm Oil & Chemical and Glemmings Diamond Consilidated were going to take over the world.  It still haunts me a little bit to this day.  But what do I care? I am extremely wealthy, and work for the CIA or something, and I am Brad Pitt, and I live in a Tudor House.  So I think I am doing pretty good, pretty pretty good.

Cue Explosion.

Spam ME?! How DARE You

Mr. Hacker; Sir Hack-a-lot; can you, like, put some effort into it?

So you P me O by replying to my email, a reply to a job-ad on Craigslist, with an email that is so obviously fake. Which company, organization, institution, cooperative, group, non-profit, for-profit, would give an applicant an online quiz to complete? So I'm already frustrated that an ad promising riches and good times is fake, but then you insult me by thinking I'm THAT gullible?! I'll have you know I am a college graduate. I know things, kay? And for you to think I'm just going to fall into this trap by clicking on your link-kuh, is downright absurd. And a link to a quiz? What is this, freaking Jeopardy? And who the holy bologna are you to mislead the growing number of unemployed people in America? You have the gall to fake spam as an opportunity for employment when mothers, fathers, college graduates are out there looking for hope; and you reply to them with an email saying, "oh yeah, let's set up an appointment but hey can I make you feel like a dildo and click on this link to do a quiz?"

Well Mr. Hacker, I just have one thing to say to you.....that woman in the ad at the left side of your website is kinda hot. Good day to you SIR, HARUMPH!

Viroids and Infections

Spam. It ruins lives, costs money and ravages digestive tracts. No, I’m not referring to canned “meat” product.

[Laughs]

Boy, I haven’t laughed that hard in a while [laughs].

Internet viroids and email infections are no laughing matter. Since the Internet’s birth, there have been at least 281 spam attacks on unsuspecting surfers. Today, “hacking” a person’s information requires little knowledge about computers and more about human behavior.

We’ve all heard the stories:

Enter Tricia, an office worker. She receives an email notifying her that she won the UK lottery. Though Tricia never entered any lottery and lives in America, she instantly imagines how she will improve her life – quitting her job, shopping at Whole Foods, traveling to South Carolina.

Tricia excitedly replies to the “UK Loterry Commission” with her bank account information, only to return home that day and find a trail of blood soaked carpet leading to her decapitated children’s heads resting in her husband’s freshly disemboweled chest cavity.

As tears stream down Tricia’s shocked face, she notices a cup on the living room table filled with blood, ice cubes and her husband’s eyeballs.

Photograph courtesy of Flickr user Kash_if

Don’t let Tricia’s terrible tragedy happen to you. Take steps to protect yourself now:

1. Meet face-to-face instead of replying to emails
2. Buy guns instead of computers
3. Read street signs and posters instead of blogs
4. Imagine your co-workers and family naked instead of watching Internet porn
5. Sign up for our spam-protecting service by commenting on this post with your bank account and routing numbers^
6. Close your eyes.

^We will use your account information to verify your identity before initiating a service fee. After all, we wouldn’t want to be spammed ourselves.

Remember Who You Are

You are my son, and someday every piece of land the light touches will be yours.

Why The Lion King reference you ask? I don't know. I just know that racism is never going to go away as long as there are different coloured (woah, BRITISH!) people all over the world. And since there will always be different coloured (heh) people all over the world, pending the 2050 tanning scientists have predicted, we might as well learn to live with it.

We all stereotype and whether or not you let it out is your own decision. But aren't racist jokes the best jokes? I mean, if not for racism then there would be no successful comedian of colour. Chris Rock, Russel Peters, Richard Pryor; the list goes on and on. These comedians are funny because they REMEMBER WHO THEY ARE, maybe a little too much, but they are known for their uncovering of the unspoken conventions many people have and it's gee-golly-hilarious to hear it.

It's okay to laugh. It's okay to have biases. Just understand, Bobby Covert Racist, if you hurt a peoples or if you rub someone the wrong way, you're going to get kicked in the nuts. And coloured people, it's okay to kick Bobby Covert Racist in the nuts. Because if you don't, then they'll go around town spreading their covertly racist gospel. And I won't have that, not in my house. And one more thing Bobby Covert Racist: Don't come into my house telling me about all the Indian people you know. I don't give a shit. Thanks

P.S: Please feel free to kick me in the nuts, black peoples

Racists: Victims of Intolerance?

You might hear my opponents say, "Racism is bad," or "Racists are stupid."

Or my personal favorite: "Being racist indicates you are of a primitive, almost infantile mindset where you attribute false stereotypes to an individual simply based on the pigmentation of his or her skin, thus, preventing you from understanding said individual per his or her own merit."

If you agree with the aforementioned sentiments, you're nothing but a racismist. A dirty, rotten, good-for-nothing racismist.

Take a long, pensive look in the mirror and ask yourself, "Who is truly intolerant? The racists towards colored folk - or me, towards racists?"

Being truly tolerant (as in, Jesus-like tolerant) means you must accept a person with all of his flaws. His skin cells may generate a certain pigmentation or his brain cells my generate a certain demeanor.

If you racismists are as high-minded and accepting as you would have us believe you are, then you would welcome the next Star-of-David-eating, black-person-freezing Klan member you see with open, tolerant arms.

Next week we'll discuss an even bigger but under-reported problem: racismismists.



Jump ahead to 2:53 to see the good work of a non-profit organization mistaken for racism, usually by racismists!

Too Bad, 'Cause Love is Blind....

As beautifully stated by my girl Alicia Keys in Love is Blind, there are some ideas that cannot overpower the heart. I only say that racism is an idea because it has become a condition of some that is sadly still present today. It has proven to have stayed within society because of public violent acts or a quiet racial comment when it's assumed that no one is listening. It is also an idea because interracial couples, thankfully, still exist. There are not that many stories documented years ago to prove interracial dating and marriages, but I just have one that (sadly) only happened a few years ago…

While arriving back in Detroit, MI from San Diego, CA with my parents in 2007, we had a late and interesting flight. Once the plane touched down in Detroit, and the “seat belts on” light was off, everyone stood up to get their bags to get off the plane. As the crowds started to disperse towards our section in the back of coach, I noticed there were two cute little kids, a boy and a girl, that ran toward the front of the plane because they were excited that it was their turn to leave. In a panic, their mom, an Indian girl, ran and yelled after them to slow down. She just had a purse around her shoulder so I assumed her husband would be right behind her. I looked back and noticed the husband was getting another bag from a top compartment so I didn’t move out into the isle yet…but everyone else around me started to move into the isle assuming he wasn’t with them. At that moment…I didn’t really say, “Hey, the dad is right there, we should probably let him through,” but it also occurred to me that maybe they assumed he wasn’t the dad because he was black. I still to this day believe that the passengers in my section didn’t assume he was the dad because looking at the facts, if a mom runs after a couple kids without any bags, and there is another gentleman rushing to get a couple bags out of the top compartments behind them…is putting two and two together so difficult?

It is difficult to be in an interracial couple these days because of the idea of racism. Family, friends, and the media are what influence and help it spread. Heck, maybe more people should get ready and do the un-thinkable and get rid of prejudice.

I think that the first step to getting rid of racism is to blend all of these colors and cultures together. It’s not such a bad thing right? Let’s make more mixed kids like Halle Berry, President Barack Obama, Wentworth Miller, Alicia Keys, Jessica Alba, Vanessa Williams, Jason Kidd, Bob Marley, Mariah Carey, Lenny Kravitz, Keanu Reeves, Sean Paul, and Tina Turner (whew..to name a few of the famous ones) to make this world more beautiful. Since love is blind, and you cannot help who you fall for…it is just an eventual thing.

We Can Poop It Out, We Can Poop It Out

Are the stresses of your day getting to your head? Is the built up tension and chaos inside of you fit to burst? Well, you can poop it out. It's true.

Story time!:

So I'm applying to grad school and the applications have been really getting to me, especially getting the reference letters. On top of that I've been having problems at work and my lack of a degree-related job was just really pissing me off. So while I was waiting for letters to come in I decided to get a head-start on essays. Boy, what a headache that is . I mean, 1500 words about MYSELF? Yikes man, I can spin an essay on just about anything besides myself.

this paragraph uses the word "can" 6 times

So this is all what was spinning around in my head one morning. I hadn't been eating good breakfasts because of early work shifts and I hadn't been working out regularly. I was just feeling like poop. Well wouldn't you know it, after I had an amazing breakfast with a cup of amazing coffee, I had to visit the can. Now I don't know what miracle was taking place that day in the can but, man, my delivery to the can had pent up tensions and anxieties tied along with it. After I left the can-holding-station (or bathroom) I realized I had subconsciously made a to-do-list for myself for the day while I was in there, the room that has the can. This helped me face the day's disappointments with my head held high and my hopes held higher, since my visit to the can went so well.

Moral of the story?

We all have to relieve ourselves from stress to get by. There's just no other way. And for all of you hee-haws (yeah that's right, hee-haws) who claim you just don't have the time to make time for yourself, you're going to be going to the can anyway. Why not make the most of it? Bring The Times in there with you. Take your ipod. Call your friends. Invite your friends. Go and grab that cup of coffee or that chai-latte but I hope you realize caffeine is a natural diarrhetic. Why not plan ahead for that can-holding-station your cup of coffee is eventually going to take you to? I associate my dump with the dump of problems I have. Associate your dump with your in-laws, or your gambling problems, or your alcohol addiction, or your annoying taste of annoying women. I guarantee you you'll see life in a whole new light once you learn to POOP IT OUT (damn, isn't that in the title?)

You Know What I Just Realized...

...since we are all acknowledging our own bowel movements, there is another thing to point out too: women poop. The reason to bring it up is that it is supposedly an urban legend that women do anything of the sort. But, it’s true gentlemen, and animals…we do indeed, poop. Even the hot ones. You think that the hottie at the bar just goes home, passes out, and wakes up with a big smile after having those 10 tequila shots? Nope. She has a huge margarita dump in the morning and laughs about it…but by herself. Not many conversations between girls last very long about poop because the “ew”s start to catch on after a few seconds. I guess a visit to a female doctor would count, but it’s not like that happens often enough to say it’s part of everyday gossip. There have been literary breakthroughs like the popular children’s novel, Everyone Poops by Tarō Gomi, to teach kids at an early age but somehow it has been forgotten. I don’t think I’ve met one boy that hasn’t talked about his own poop, or even interrupted a conversation just to poop. As long as we can all start to admit it, the sooner the smell in the bathroom can be blamed on someone else besides the only boy present.

Although, I will miss the pointing and the “ew”s so maybe it can be a slow, gradual change…




Steve Carell knows.

"Theodore" or "Fecasualty: How I learned to stop hating the world and love myself"

I float in this ocean of white alabaster
Bobbing for what seems like eternity, alone
Unable to move, unable to speak
I sit, patiently
As the the snow falls in sheets atop of me
I stare up at the darkened sky
Blinded by a bright light
Before I am sucked asunder
The one bright shining moment of my existence
Before permanent blackness

Bowel Movement is...

...Important.

Go ahead. Squeeze out all of your giggles and finish thinking about whatever sexual things you were thinking about. Flush it all out of your system so that we can have a real discussion.

BM is IMportant. You know it to be true.

As part of kicking 2011's ASS, two days ago I made and drank three homemade smoothies consisting of orange juice, apples, blackberries, kiwi, broccoli, spinach and carrots. And wouldn’t you know, the results were nearly instant! The mixed cocktail of those fibrous foods made my every single trip to the shitpot a delight.

I enjoy a good poop.

And you do too. There’s nothing like it. When it’s a joy to poop - meaning no trouble at all, save a gentle push - a dark day can brighten. I feel healthy. I feel healthier than I know my stallmates feel, per the machine-gun sounds of their movements.

Mostly, I feel proud. Proud for having done something I wanted to do and then actually witnessing the fruits of my labor.

And the fruits of my smoothie.

Coming out the other end.