Funniness Negates Wrongness
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Stick Man
Hi, my name is Timmy. I'm very, very sick and my mommy is typing this for me because I can't type because I'm so sick. My mommy is crying. Please, mommy, don't cry. She said it wasn't my fault that I'm sick and I asked her if it was God's fault and she didn't answer me. She just started crying. I was born without a body and it doesn't hurt too much except when I go to sleep. My made me a body out of sticks and a mulch-filled gunny sack. The sack is very nice. It's a Johnson Feed Company sack and it used to belong to my grampa who carried his fiddle around in it. Grampa is my hero because he is also disabled. He doesn't have a leg because he said the goddamn japs blew it off with a mortar round in a war called double-you double-you eye eye. I think that's a funny name for a war. Instead of a leg, grampa has a wooden leg made out of sticks, just like my body has sticks in it. Sometimes the sticks in my body get termites and my mommy--stop crying mommy--my mommy has to call the Orkin man and he comes to our house in a white van and puts on this mask that kind of looks like Darth Vader and sprays my body with this funny-smelling stuff that comes out of a tank on the Orkin man's back. He also wears a funny white hat. It looks like the braves cap I got last year at the children's hospital when the baseball players came and visited us kids, but it's not soft--it's hard! Who ever heard of a hard baseball cap? That's so funny. Sometimes I get centipedes inside my body because my mommy says that they like the mulch. Once every few months, I get to go with my mommy and daddy to Home Depot and pick out a new mulch to put inside my gunny sack. One time we accidentally got peat moss...that was so funny. I started to go to school this year. I go to George McGovern Elementary School here in lynchville. The school has a nice man that pushes my wheelchair around for me and takes me to the bathroom and sometimes helps me change my clothes. His name is charlie and he drives a blue van with lots of rust on it. It's not as nice as the Orkin man's van, but it's got a bunch of pillows and a video camera and a tv and a nintendo in the back. He must collect duck tape, because I've never seen so much duck tapes in my whole life. I like charlie. The other day I found out he's kind of like me! He was helping me change my clothes in the back of his van and he was also changing his clothes and he showed me the stick that he has between his legs. It's a lot like the sticks in my body, but he can do some neat tricks with it. He showed me how it could make mayonaise just by rubbing on it. It's really neat. I wish my sticks would make mayonaise or maybe mustard. I like mustard. Especially on hot dogs. Charlie's stick between his legs looks a lot like a hot dog. I like to watch TV too. My favorite show is nascar racing, or at least that's what daddy tells me my favoritetest show is. Sometimes I don't feel like watching my favoritetest show though and I want to change the channel, but daddy won't let me and sometimes he hits me for not wanting to watch nascar show and one time he accidentally broke a couple of the sticks that are part of my body and I had to go see my doctor to get them replaced. It took forever for my doctor to whittle three new ribs for me but he did it and put them inside me and then a couple of days later a nice lady came to the house named rebecca. Rebecca said she was from a place called social services and she took me to live with a nice family called the evans. After two weeks I got to go home back to my mommy and daddy's house. Mommy cried when I got home and daddy was mad because he wasn't allowed to drink beer anymore and his favorite thing in the whole world to drink is beer and he likes a beer called Keystone. Sometimes he used to just drink twelve cans of beer instead of eating dinner. I like dinner. My favorite food is pasketti. The noodles look like the worms that were in my peat moss that one time I got peat moss instead of mulch for my gunny sack. My mommy makes pasketti every sunday afternoon right after we get home from church and she uses a sauce called ragoo with tomatoes and garlic in it. We go to church everyweek. My daddy used to not go because he had to sleep late on sunday but after I came back from the evans, he goes everyweek. Just like every tuesday night he goes to that meeting at the high school called AA. Mommy says his AA meetings make him a better daddy, but he always smells like the bingo hall over at the catholic church when he comes home. We go to the baptist church and reverend tom is really nice. Every week he makes all the people in the church pray that one day I'll get a real body and be able to play baseball and football and work at the mill. My daddy used to work at the mill, but then they closed part of it down and let daddy have a really long vacation that has a special name called a furlough or something like that. On his really long vacation, daddy sits on the couch and plays playstation and watches TV a lot. I hope that we get to go somewhere while daddy's on vacation because that's what you do on vacation. Last year, mommy and I gotted to go to Disney World with a nice man from the Make a Wish Foundation. I always wanted to go to disney World ever since I saw it on my gramma's favorite show roseanne. Gramma watches roseanne because she said that show reminds her of us, except roseanne and her family don't have to live in a trailer park and they get to live in a house that doesn't have wheels on it. Can you imagine having a house that you can't move anywhere? That's crazy! What if you didn't want to live in your town anymore and instead wanted to live in a big city like Mobile? How would you move there? Mommy says that one day we might get to move to another trailer park because the government says there's too much lead and something called CFCs or something like that in our trailer park and that it could cause something called "berfdefex" or something like that. I think it would be scary to have something called berfdefex. It's scary enough to have been born without a body. I don't think I could get any sicker. Then I might die. Mommy says that if I die, I get to go to heaven and meet God and Jesus and a bunch of angels and they'll give me a halo and a harp and my very own body! Dying sounds like it would be really neat because I'd have a body and wings that I could fly with. And maybe I could fly to disney world or silver dollar city whenever I wanted! That would be so much fun. But mommy says that if I died, I wouldn't be able to see her or daddy anymore, but that I would get to see my aunt lucy and uncle joe. I haven't seen them since they fell asleep in the garage while working on their pickup truck. Uncle joe was souping up his truck by putting something called exhaust headers on it to make it go faster. I miss him and aunt lucy because they used to take me to Dairy Queen sometimes and they would buy me a blizzard with M&Ms in it and I liked it a lot, even if it made my head hurt when I ate it too fast. It's getting late and I have to go, but I really enjoyed telling everyone at my favorite website all about me. Good bye!
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Bigoted Bastards
Like many people in this great land of ours, I am bigoted. Well, not really. I mean, it's not like I've ever cut holes in my 400-threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets and worn them to a good old-fashioned cross burning. But I have, on occasion, empathized with Archie Bunker. The thing is--and I think this is a constant across races and lifestyles--we, as humans, like to laugh at those different from us. And I think laughing at people different than us is certainly different than hating them.

A recent experience highlighted this for me. It was a typical Saturday night in Dallas. Summer was upon us and the eve was sultry. Sweat ran down our brows like we were working the cotton fields of Mississippi. I'd decided to go to the local bastion of unadulterated capitalistic evil--Starbucks. Despite what those hippie freaks that start fires outside of World Trade Organization conferences say, I have no problem with total world domination of a business sector by one corporation. So, yay Starbucks. Yay Wal-Mart. Yay McDonald's. If Robocop taught us anything, everything is for the best when one corporation runs everything, such as illustrated by the film's fictional OmniCorp. As I sipped my venti mocha and worked on my magna opus Moaner, I chatted with my friend Jordan, who is a barista (Italian for coffee-slinging wage slave) at said Starbucks. We noted that there were a large number of Asians in the store that evening, though it was Saturday. Normally, Sunday night is Asian night at Starbucks--it's the only night they serve MSG Lattes. Except we didn't call them Asians. We called them Kim. Why? It's an expansion of a naming scheme created by PennyLane which allows you to talk freely about people of other races in their presence without them knowing about it. Originally, it was confined to black people, and they were known as "James". Thus you could say things like "Did you notice how big James' nose was?" without fear of reprisal at the business end of a 9mm. We've since expanded this linguistic convention as follows:

Mexicans - Carl
Arabs - Amy
Indians - Sam
American Indians - Jeff
Asians - the aforementioned Kim

That night, it was decided that we'd get drinks after Jordan got off of work at midnight--a mere two hours to get smashed (figuratively, it was hoped). Our first choice of an inebriation venue in Valley Ranch is Rocky's (where, incidentally, I ranked #8 in the US and Canada on NTN Trivia last night). We traveled there only to find that it was crowded beyond comprehension. Of all the bars and dives in the DFW Metroplex, why would most of the people in the city want to come here. We regrouped and decided to go up to Yucatan--a quasi Mexican-themed bar/outdoor funitarium on Beltline. As we approached the doors of the establishment, the strained chords of a shitty band reached our ears. The doorman greeted us, asking that we pay a $5 cover charge for the right to spend more money to drink and have our ears assaulted at the same time. We decided it was best that we didn't enter this evil place and instead travel over to the Flying Saucer in Addison.

The Flying Saucer, for the uninitiated, is beer heaven. Well over a hundred beers are available on tap and drunken fun is but a few glassfuls away. Unfortunately, there was also a cover charge here. "Fuck this cover charge shit," we thought aloud and, since time was waning, decided to just walk across the parking lot to the pseudo-Irish pub/restaurant Bennigan's. We sauntered into the place to find it deserted, save for a couple of James folk in a corner booth. We sat at the bar, greeted by a bartender who reminded me a lot of the Agador Spartacus character in The Birdcage. While flaming, it wasn't entirely clear whether or not this Mexican barkeep was actually gay. In order to most efficiently ensure our inebriation, we ordered Long Island Iced Teas. While ordering the second round, I asked "Carl" (the bartender was Mexican, remember?) how much the LIITs were.

"$6.95. But for you, $3," was his answer.

That sealed it for me...I was 99% sure he was gay.

As we sat there, drinking. Jordan asked me "So, do you think Carl is gay?" to which I replied, "I don't know. I guess we could ask him." Jordan replied, "We could, but if Carl's not, it might be embarassing."

All during this exchange, the bartender was semi-listening to our conversation and laughing at our predicament. We continued to drink, remarking on our concern about Carl's sexuality. Finally, it was closing time and I paid our tab. On the way out, the bartender said, "Have a nice night, guys." I couldn't help myself and replied "you have a nice night, too, Carl."

I wonder if he heard me call him Carl. I wonder if he made the connection. I wonder if he'll remember me the next time I'm there and give me $3 drinks. Probably not.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Hippie Propaganda
Way back in the days of yore, I attended Texas A&M University. Every year around October or November, it was fashionable for us Aggies to travel to Plantersville and mock the freaks and geeks at the Texas Renaissance Festival. On on of my journeys to said RenFest, I acquired a flute from a long-haired freaky flutemaker. With his ware, came the following pamphlet, which I recently rediscovered and laughed heartily at. Enjoy!

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Monday, May 24, 2004
Inexplicable Email
We received this message today from our contact page:

I have 2 electric typewriters, with cases, almost new, correction tape, memory, need to sell. Where can I sell these? I live in Massachusetts

Thank you.

What the fuck? I didn't realize that we wear operating an electronic swap meet here at SSW. Is there a logo at the top of our site that says "eBay"? Is this "TRADIO" on AM 600? Is Dr. Dre at the Slauson Swap Meet looking for old Olivettis and Remingtons?

Looking through our site logs, I have figured out where this person found SSW. They searched MSN with the term: sell typewriters, massachusetts and MSN returned this page of the site. Specifically these parts:

1 - Obtain 1,000,000 monkeys and 1,000,000 typewriters through subterfuge. Sell typewriters for $100 each and become fabulously wealthy. Keep monkeys because having a million monkeys would be cool, especially if one new the entire works of Shakespeare.


10 - Build a log cabin by a small pond in a north-eastern state, such as Massachusetts, move there and live like a hermit and write about transcendental environmentalism.

Now while that page does indeed mention typewriters and Massachusetts, it doesn't ever say I'm interested in buying typewriters. In face, it says I want to obtain them through subterfuge, then turn around and sell them myself. If I had to buy the typewriters before I could sell them, the profit margin would be too low to actually be worth it. Plus, I don't have to capital to buy 1,000,000 typewriters right now.

I guess I could buy this person's typewriters to enable me to write about transcendental environmentalism, but I was, believe it or not, being sarcastic when I said that. I'm a registered Republican--I don't give a shit about the environment. Or maybe it's that I shit on the environment. Either way, I just don't care enough to spend a significant amount of time huddled over a typewriter in a cabin that I built next to a pond. Mainly because I know that I have no construction skills--my cabin would probably resemble something found in a Mexican shanty town--plywood and corrugated metal--except there wouldn't be naked and dirty Mexican kids running around playing in raw sewage and medical waste. After all, it would be hard to be inspired into writing about the raw beauty of the pond if there were syringes, used maxi-pads and raw excrement floating around.

So, where can you sell your used typewriters? Don't. Instead, buy a couple of monkeys and maybe after a few years, one of them will produce a treatise on transcendental environmentalism. Or the next Al Franken book.