Shorts

Existential Crisis

You’re going to die. Don’t worry, I will too. Everyone is going to die. Would it change how you live if you knew when, where and why? Sometimes I go through a philosophical crisis of being and ask questions like that; questions that have no real answer. Sure you could answer it, but how do you know that’s how you’d react? We don’t know ourselves nearly as much as we think or wish to. Sometimes I find myself wondering who the hell that guy in the mirror is, because I sure don’t recognize him from ten years ago. Ten years used to seem like a long ass time too, and now, it’s nothing. I guess time really is relative. He’s one nasty relative at that; the kind that you don’t see forever and then shows up at your Grandmother’s funeral and calls you fat. This philosophy is tiring, I know. You’re probably bored and wish I’d write some rant about babies first birthday or the latest thing that has pissed me off. But kids, life isn’t all rainbows and unicorn farts. Sometimes life sucks and no matter how much you poke fun at it, it still scares the hell out of you.

Have a Nice Day...

And the appropriate response to that would be? A blank stair as if confused by the sentence? A nasty frown? No response at all because you where too busy flapping your lips into the cell phone to hear me or give a rats ass that I just did all your work for you because your too stupid/lazy to fill out some simple forms all on your own? I understand only one of us is being paid to be nice. I’m pretty sure if I weren’t paid I probably wouldn’t be either, but come on people! What is going on in this world? Why can’t people be nice? What happened to thank you and you’re welcome? We have invented a million new insults that mostly make no sense but it’s too hard to force “Thanks” out of your fat, greasy, fast food smelling mouth!

Mail

I got a letter in the mail the other day from Dish Network. The letter stated it was from Dish’s CEO and was addressed to: Our Neighbor. My neighbor is the redneck hill jack who has ten barking dogs and three trucks that sound like Vesuvius when he fires them up; proving to all of us his wiener is indeed as big as the sound implies. He uses stray cats as target practice. His home décor can be described as a cross between outdoorsman and Apocalypse Now. On occasion Budweiser Corp comes by for some blood tests to see what an all beer diet will actually do to a person. You’re telling me that guy is the CEO of Dish Network and expect me to want to join up? A thousand channels all playing Bonanza and Dallas all day? No thanks, I’ll stick with my cable. Not like I need another item attached to my house to catch all the bird shit. I already have three cars for that.

Cell Phones

Cell phones, oh lord, cell phones! Cell phones at lunch, cell phones at dinner; cell phones at work, cell phones at play. Cell phones before, during and after sex. Cell phones at the movies! I’m so sick of cell phones. People just love their damned cell phones. Maybe someday they will be able to install them directly into our bodies. You know, the receiver will be up in the ear and they can place the key pad somewhere in your arm. I think if they let you pick where the key pad goes I’ll have them put it on my penis. That way whenever I have to call someone I’ll have to whip it out and people will be like:

“Hey, Daniel, um, you should probably put that thing away.” And I’ll be like.

“No, it’s cool. I’m just calling my wife.” I’ll probably keep the ringer on vibrate most of the time, although occasionally it’d be funny to turn it to loud so when people call my crotch starts singing Baby Got Back. Or maybe I’ll make my ring tone some Michael Jackson song so when I answer I can grab myself and yell. It sure would change the meaning of playing Angry Birds.