Friday, April 23, 2010

Fake Orgies and The People They F Over

I have often thought taking me seriously makes as much sense as a fat homeless person. But in today's blog-centric, Google-driven world...it seems things have changed.

For every light-hearted blog (mine, for example), you get idiots who use the internet to post fake-orgy ads when feuding with a neighbor (I couldn't make this shit up if I tried).

Words, of course, have power, and the thin veil of the internet allows millions of people to voice their ideas, often quite rudely, and often without fear of repercussion. I mean, how much more likely is a person to comment on a blog "I hate you, you f'ing, asshole," than say those words to a person's face? I have done the math. It is much more likely. Like at least three times more likely squared.

What gets me, though, is satire gone wrong...or should I say, satire misinterpreted.

Case in point, I was actually legally threatened this year because of my blog. I got "a letter" from "a lawyer" who demanded I "cease and desist" my "libelous" and "slanderous" accusations regarding "his client."

Are you fucking kidding me? Have you read this blog? A blog in which I claim Eva Longoria is ugly. A blog in which I discuss, in depth mind you, the defecation habits of my dogs. A blog where if my tongue were any further in cheek, I might look like this guy:



The thing is, with the growing "popularity" (if that is even the right word) of this blog, and the ability to easily find content on the internet...I have fallen victim to the cyber plague of the 21st Century:

People are chicken shits.

They hide behind lawyers, HOAs, HR reps, agents, assistants, in fact, any middleman to do their dirty work.

The internet has not only shielded these chicken shits, it has propagated the issue to such an extreme, that some people have lost the ability to have face-to-face discussions about even the slightest disagreement.

Too many one-way, asynchronous conversations have people believing that "to talk something through" is taboo. I'll just have my lawyer take care of that for me has removed the ability for some people to look another person in the eye and say, with conviction, "Hey...asshole...you suck."

Let's keep things in perspective, here. There is a dramatic difference between calling for a "gang-bang on a bored soccer mom" and claiming "Mylie Cyrus sucks."

If anyone has an issue with this, let's talk about it...

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Thinking About Thinking

Something interesting happens when in the middle of an endurance sport. You are alone. With your thoughts. And your thoughts. Well, they are alone. With you.

Now, normally, this isn't such a bad thing. Many times into a three-hour ride, I finally figure out what the heck I am going to do with one of my classes...two years from now....cuz, that's important. Hmm...

I have to say, though, "what do you think about" is almost one of my favorite questions when asked about training for triathlons. Some other common (and not nearly as interesting) questions are:

Doesn't your butt start to hurt?

What is a triathlon?

Is that the Ironman?

What order are the events in?

Is that like that thing like in Hawaii?

and

How far is it?

(These, again, are the most common questions. Please don't confuse these with the most common statements: "I could/would never do that" or "I lose my breath walking up stairs" [sometimes heard as "around the block" or "down the street"] or "You are crazy.")

***

Honestly, the real question here isn't "WHAT do I think about?" The more pertinent question is "WHY do I think about the things I think about?" For example, many times when over an hour into swimming/biking/running, I start singing JLO songs. I'm not kidding. JLO.

WAITING FOR TONIGHT. OHHHHHHHHHH

BAM...again and again and again. Now the what in this instance is clearly gay and embarrassing...but the why...the WHY is what gets me.

Why am I singing a JLO song?
Why am I singing THIS JLO song?
Why am I changing the words of the song from:

Waiting for tonight, oh
When you would be here in my arms
Waiting for tonight, oh
I've dreamed of this love for so long


to

Waiting to take a poo, oh
It will be there in the bowl.
Waiting to take a poo, oh
I've dreamed of this poo for so long


Clearly, this is not normal, but something about the rhythm of the song and the word "poo" (which always makes me laugh), keeps me going. I guess that's my why?

Another song that I am apt to sing is the California Drinking Song Now the why here is tricky.

Part of me thinks I sing this song because it's long, and I can never remember all the words. Consequently, I sing it again and again in my head, taking up gobs of time...berating myself for my lack of memory...and completely forgetting about what I'm doing.

I also think that maybe, deep within my brain, I start burning off some cells from when I used to be an alcoholic in college..and as these cells die...they sing me a little song in tribute. You never know.

***

So, it seems, some of my why's are for comic relief, some are for distraction, and others are clearly more scientific in nature.

I also may just have some sort of deep passion for JLO and drinking.

And, of course, I guess I also could be gay.

I'll keep thinking about it...perhaps tonight...with a beer...ohhhhh

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Motorists: An Open Letter

Dear Motorists (meaning all motorists, not just certain minorities or certain genders that are sometimes certainly stereotyped as "bad drivers"):

Now, I know that you may realize this...you are very smart after all, but a bike tis not a car. Keeping this pertinent info in mind, please refrain from the following:

(1) Do NOT honk at me...EVER. You see, no matter who is right or who is wrong in a particular situation when you may want to honk...if you refer back to the premise of my argument (the aforementioned a bike is not a car), honking does absolutely nothing but make a bad situation much, much worse.

For example, let's say we are "sharing" (did you notice the quotes there? I am quoting that because you are indeed supposed to share the road with me...but alas, usually, you do not) the road...and I run out of shoulder to ride upon. If I then leave a nonexistent bike lane and "share" a lane with you, I realize that you may want to honk to (a) let me know you are there (b) make me move over or (c) request me to speed up...whatever the case may be...do you remember the premise? Do you? I am not a car...and so I can do none of these things...and while you may scoff at my very existence..honking only makes bikers nervous and SWERVE...maybe MORE into your lane.

So...no honking.

(2) While you may very well be some sort of fashion consultant...Hell, you may be the Tim Gunn of Del Mar...that still gives you no right to comment on my attire...I mean, do you see me lean over at a red light and say "Nice sweatpants...is that velour? My...you look quite gay in those" to you? I'm sorry if my biking shorts (designed for both speed and comfort) somehow offend you...but I can tell you, wearing biking shorts does not a gay man make. Maybe it's the sight of a non-fat ass that is threatening to you...I don't know. Point being...shut it.

(3) We all love a good laugh. I know I do...I mean..look at your wife. I kid. I kid. You see...joking is part of everyone's life. But you know what isn't funny? Yelling out your car window things like:

-Hey buddy, you dropped your water bottle!

or

-You're going the wrong way!

or

-Can't you go any faster??!?!?!?!?.

You are not original. More to the point, you are not funny. I have heard these same things time and time again. If you were to come up with some NEW material, and wanted to try it out...then by all means...go for yours. Until then...no more yelling rehashed jokes.

(4) I gotta say...I don't understand parking and/or driving in the bike lane...this "stumps" me...but the glass? Why do you constantly throw glass bottles into my lane? Again...I am assuming that you are smart...and that you realize that when you throw a glass bottle out of your car...it will...what's the word I am looking for...BREAK. Yeah...it breaks! So why don't you keep all your glass, food, and used condoms IN YOUR CAR.

This is really all I had to say at the moment. I hope you understand my position. Let's work together on this...and way to go with those used condoms! You the man!

Sincerely:

Mark Manasse

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

I think what initially got me was the countdown. A countdown? For food? That's...that's...well that's genius!!

And as the day drew nigh, I knew that not only would I buy, but that I would love the new KFC Double Down.

For me, though, it ended up that the sandwich wasn't even half the story. You see, I had no idea that at 9:45 PM on a Wednesday night was when KFCs turned into some sort of quasi-reality...like a mix of Tim Burton and David Lynch films.

***

The Extras

The first thing I noticed upon entering the pit of despair was rhythmic chewing and scooping.

Dazed look...chew...chew...scoop...dazed look...chew...chew...scoop.

Each table's occupant was a little more...um...portly? than the last...and there were no smiles. None to be seen. Just scooping. And chewing. Mashed potatoes looked popular, though.

Bollywood Leads

As I made my way to the front of the restaurant, I was halted by two Indian men who were trying to complete their orders. I was amazed by them for two very important reasons:

(1) They were clearly at the KFC together when I thought this was a no-friend zone. The other patrons would look up from time-to-time confused at sounds that appeared unwelcomed or maybe just unusual to them...the sounds were of interpersonal communication.

(2) And I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I think I can use my personal experience as an ESOL instructor to comment upon this...these two guys had THE WORST ACCENTS I had ever heard in my life. The more normal of the two cashiers gave it a go...but this got a little old:

Yes..I wut likea pis of chikin plis.

Um...what?

Chikin plis

OK...how many pieces?

Are der wery meny en abuckeet?

A what?

Buckeet.

A bucket?

Yes, a buckeet.


Although only third in a line at a fast food place, I didn't get to order for about twenty minutes. This made me wery, wery, irritated.

Bill and Ted...Bundy

I already mentioned the more normal of the two cashiers, which actually is saying something. This "normal" guy was HIGH as a kite...higher than the two Indian guys...and higher than the scooper-chompers at the tables. His eyes were like a couple of bloody marys floating on his shit-eating-grin-of-a-face. But this guy was nothing...NOTHING...because about ten minutes into my time at KFC...I locked eyes (or eye) with Marty Feldman's grandson..and this guy didn't stop mad dogging me the rest of my stay.

Here's Mark...here's one of Marty's eyes. There's Mark...there's one of Marty's eyes.

Creepy...creepy stuff.

Will Somebody Please Think about the Children

But my favorite part of this entire evening had to be when the future McPoyle Brothers from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia came in with their mom??? and insisted on saying things such as the following:

Are you Mexican? to cashier #1

EWWWW, whoa to cashier #2

I want a BURRITOOOOOOOOOOOOOO to everyone?

Do you have hot sauce? How hot? Is it hot hot or just hot? I don't like hot hot...but I like hot. Mr., what's wrong with your eye?

And while clearly at least ten-years-old...and on amphetamines...their mom??? simply ignored them. To the best of my knowledge, she was deaf.

The Climax

After about fifteen minutes of sitting around and, I presume, someone going out back and slaughtering my chicken for me, I got my Double Down. What I thought would be a nice, little five-minute stop, ended up taking well over thirty minutes...

So, I walked out the door...slowly...while watched by an eye...and listening to some odd mashup of how wery gut the chicken wings were and cheese is good...CHEESE IS GOOD...CHEEEEEESE IS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD.

...and I was the only non-high person at the KFC

Friday, April 09, 2010

Ideas that Might Sound Good...but Actually Aren't

Combining the shows Survivor and Who Wants to be a Millionaire into: Who Wants to be a Survivor? filmed on location in Haiti.

Spending a ton of research money blindfolding dogs, putting an orange under their noses, but feeding them apples...and then asking them what they just ate: an orange or an apple? Dogs can't fucking talk. Duh.

Going to the wake of an old archenemy...walking up to the coffin and gently whispering in the corpse's ear "You're dead to me."

Playing the "My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad" game with the son of a trained assassin.

Ever saying "He wasn't THAT bad, was he?" when talking about Hitler to a Holocaust survivor.

Before the basketball season starts, opening a savings account labeled "LA Clippers Playoff Ticket Fund"

Bringing a knife to a gunfight. In fact, bringing a knife anywhere. They are sharp and might hurt someone.

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where do babies come from?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "Where's Daddy?"

Answering "Your mother's vagina" when asked "What's that smell?"

In fact, the phrase "Your mother's vagina" should be used sparingly, if at all.

Friday, April 02, 2010

A Tale of Two Puggies?

All apologies aside, the lack of blogging really has been YOUR fault...if you think about it.

But, seeing as how I am in the final moments of spring break, I believe it may be seen as some kind of "travesty" or "calamity" if I don't at least do one blog post this week.

So. Here I am.

And, as I type, I have a black pug leaning on my arm, lap, leg, doing whatever he can to nudge ever closer -- trying with all his might to somehow, someway be physically closer to me.

His name is Morrie.

***

Morrie is our third dog, but the second one who has been deemed lucky enough to live with us. Oh TJ, the bitch-ass Cavalier, didn't last long in the Manasse household. His fearing of life, his peeing at the sight of exercise balls, and his living under the couch when I would enter the room did him in. I wish I could say we did something awful to him...seeing as we lived in an emotional prison while he lived with us...but I can't. TJ got to go live on Coronado Island. Living the good life that I wish I could live...except I don't have 5 mil to buy a condo. Fucking TJ.

But Morrie...Morrie is different. He is our second Pug, and very different than Maggie, who I have written about time and time again. I find it hard to believe that these two are the same breed, considering how differently they act.

Morrie, who is now sleeping next to me as I type, snoring louder than a fighter jet, loves me in a way that I cannot fully encapsulate. At least, I assume his desire to step, lie, or pounce on my balls is some kind of love. He doesn't do this on purpose, I don't think, by his ability to have a homing device for my testicles is like nothing I have ever seen (or felt). I hope Tauni is reading this (KIDDING).

His head. It's too big for his body...and his tongue...it's too big for his mouth. I'm not sure how his mother birthed him, but I am assuming she didn't walk right for a few months after he was squeezed out....which is what makes his tongue that much more remarkable. I imagine it takes up about half his body weight, and while at rest, it hangs a few inches past his teeth. If there were such a thing as Puggy Porn...he would be the John Holmes of his kind.

While usually quiet and unassuming at home, he won't shut the hell up on trips to the park. Whining. Crying. Yelping. Dying? Time spent with Morrie in a car might be better spent having a root canal or prostrate exam. It's painful. His wide eyes and long tongue rhythmically bouncing as his sirens grow louder and louder the closer we get. He doesn't seem to understand "Morrie, be quiet." or "Morrie, SHHHHH" or "Morrie, SHUT THE HELL UP BEFORE I FUCKING RIP YOUR FACE OFF." Or maybe he does...but he just doesn't care.

It's hard to watch TV with him because he reacts to any dog on the screen with reckless abandon. He'll fly at the TV and try to meet his canine counterpart...and the fact that this 2D brethren ignores him, sends him into an even greater fury. Onto his hind legs he'll go, begging and talking to the screen...front paws dancing in time to his futile attempts to make a friend who doesn't know he is there. Such is life for Morrie, who spends most of his time walking on his rear legs when even the least bit excited. Is he the missing link? Does he contain the genetic code that will bridge the canine and human worlds? Or is he simply a spastic munchkin who is unable to bundle up his Puggy energy...so it bursts forth from his front legs, as they do a breast stroke while apparently dancing to YMCA? We call it "Swimming," as in "Morrie is swimming at the TV again," but we are really being nice...because it makes him look like a retard, as in "Morrie looks like a retard...AGAIN." Well, that and his tongue do. Man. He has a long-ass tongue.

I have said it many times while living with our new Pug. "Morrie, you make it hard to love you." He is like nothing I have ever experienced before...because he is his own man. I don't think he cares much for Maggie. And he loves Tauni...when she feeds him. But as I turn to my right, and look at him as I struggle to type, he leans on my arm, his tongue hanging out his mouth, his snores vibrating the couch, and I think to myself how lucky I am to have such a dog with such a deep capacity to love.

So I lean back into him...and type with my left hand. Letting him sleep on my right.

I don't want to disturb him. And I don't want him stepping on my balls.

And I want him to know...that I love him, too.