Christmas is supposed to be Jesus’ birthday. No offense to presents, trees, decorations, holiday anger, and that great sweater that lights up your Grandmother gave you, but it’s really supposed to be all about Senor Christ. Admit it: on the surface, that’s boring as hell. I don’t remember a birthday I’ve ever had where the entire world (regardless of religion) decorates their homes and yards, purchases gifts for each other, and gets so stoked for my birthday that they trample over pregnant women and the common Wal-Mart employee.
The point is, you are all going through a lot of unnecessary hardships to celebrate each other instead of Jesus. “Some dead guy’s birthday?” you exclaim while trimming your tree. “That’s boring. I celebrate my family and friends instead.”
What if, instead of all your family and friends celebrating you on their birthday, they celebrated each other? How fucking pissed would you be? You know that Jesus was pissed when you gave your little cousin that talking Elmo 8 years ago and not him. Everyone knows that Jesus loves Sesame Street and that Elmo is the most holy character on that show.
It‘s like your father coming to you and saying, “Sorry son, I didn’t get you that bike you wanted for your birthday. Instead, I decided to get a coworker a $25 gift card for Outback Steakhouse. He love those bloomin’ onions.” This man died for your sins…so you can go to the Outback Steakhouse with your girlfriend and save $25 on a $40 meal that’s really only worth $10, and that’s including the drinks because, if you’re taking the lady friend to Outback, you know she loves herself some Bud Light and is not a Vodka Tonic kind of girl.
But that’s ok, because Jesus will get his revenge and eat your brains.
“What?!” you say with your Santa hat dangling from your head and the scent of cookies wafting through your house. “You’re definitely going to hell. How can you, Jason Nauman, a non religious person, come on the Al Gore created internet and start talking about Jesus and how we all should focus on him more instead of each other? I mean, why would Jesus want to take out any sort of revenge on us?”
Easy. Jesus was the first zombie.
It’s really simple if you think about it. Jesus died. This is a fact. Now, according to the Bible, Jesus also rose from the dead a few days later. Let’s do the math:
Dead person + rising from the dead = zombie
Also, it’s important to note the Zombie Pythagorean theorem where:
Zombies squared + Pointless anger squared = You without brains…squared
Meaning if you are given any combination of two out of the three above mentioned things, you can solve for the other. Do you have zombies and you’re missing your brain? Chances are, lots of pointless anger is involved. If there are zombies around and you know they are pissed for no good reason, you can safely come to the conclusion you will be losing your brain soon. Do you sense lots of pointless anger and are missing your brain? Zombies HAVE to be involved. It’s a mathematical fact.
So, by the use of both of these mathematical equations, Jesus is clearly a zombie. And, as far as I’m concerned, there is nothing worse than a zombie Jesus busting through your boarded up windows on Christmas morning, hungry for brains and destruction. That’s why I always ask for a shotgun for Christmas.
Also, please remember that zombies did not come about until AFTER the death of Christ. Coincidence?
This is me, clearly, defending Christmas from Zombie Jesus with my squirt gun and 3D glasses.
Let’s look into this a little further. I used Wikipedia, because it is the most authoritative source on everything ever created, to do more research. If you Wikipedia “zombie,”here’s what you get: “A zombie is a reanimated human corpse. Stories of zombies originated in the Afro-Caribbean spiritual belief system of Vodou, which told of the people being controlled as workers by a powerful sorcerer.” God seems like a pretty damn powerful sorcerer to me and, while not exactly Africa, Jesus did die pretty close (work with me here) to Africa and the supposed first humans were in Africa. The first to live are the first to die, which also makes them first in line to turn into zombies. Furthermore, Africa is home to Egypt. Everyone always ponders how the Egyptians built all of those insane pyramids and structures. Well, if God was a powerful sorcerer controlling Egyptian worker zombies to create awesome looking tombs, then suddenly we have an answer to not only one of the worlds biggest mysteries (how the pyramids were built) but also if Jesus actually rose from the dead (yes, he did, because God would not let his son rise into heaven without having a little zombie fun on Earth first. His gift to his son every Christmas is getting to go back to Earth for one day, as a zombie, and wreck havoc on the families that forgot it’s his birthday.)
A little further down the Wikipedia page is this juicy morsel of fact: “‘Zombi’ is also another name of the Vodou snake god Damballah Wedo, of Niger-Congo origin; it is akin to the Kongo word nzambi, which means ‘god.’” So this would make God the head zombie and would mean Jesus has zombie in his blood. No one said zombies can’t reproduce.
Never doubt the powers and knowledge of Wikipedia. Not a credible source for information my ass. It took me 5 minutes on Wikipedia to figure out things that you bastards have been pondering for thousands of years. Sometimes, the right answer is the simplest one, and in this case, it’s that Jesus is a zombie.
At this point, the evidence is almost overwhelming and you are surely running to your local gun shop or Wal-Mart to purchase a shotgun. After that, it’s off to Home Depot to buy some lumber so you can board up your windows, because everyone knows that zombies love windows. Go after Christmas though, because there are always sales for the survivors of a Zombie Jesus rampage. Insert your own “slashing prices” pun here.
But just in case you still don’t think Jesus is a zombie out for mindless revenge because you overlooked his birthday, let’s just look at what Wikipedia has to say about the philosophy behind zombies, shall we?
“In philosophy of mind, zombies are hypothetical persons who lack full consciousness but have the biology or behavior of a normal human being; they are often used in thought experiments which make arguments against the identity of the mind and the brain.”
The great thing about Jesus is he would make the perfect politician: he’s an ordinary looking guy who can do some extraordinary things. So, while Jesus looks like a normal person, he clearly had a different level of consciousness than we did because, really, I can think about turning water into wine all I want, but I can’t actually do it. I also can’t rise from the dead. Jesus could.
And do you know what Jesus’ biggest enemy is?
Sin coming from the Devil.
Where does Beelzebub live?
What’s in hell?
What kills zombies? Flamethrowers.
You need no more convincing.
So at least get Jesus a birthday card or something this year. Maybe even one of those McDonald’s gift certificates for those 10 piece nugget combos I always hear about on commercials. I mean, unless you want to spend the better part of Christmas morning making molotov cocktails and defending your house that you slaved over decorating for the past month from the pissed off son of God.
Yes, I‘m going to hell, but I’m going to hell with a $25 coupon for some fucking bloomin’ onions.
Merry Christmas from Eat Your Pets!
(Thanks to Ted, J.R., and Jake [I think his name is Jake?] for killing Xbox zombies and having the conversation that sparked this idea)
Zombies Ate My Neighbors
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas is supposed to be Jesus’ birthday. No offense to presents, trees, decorations, holiday anger, and that great sweater that lights up your Grandmother gave you, but it’s really supposed to be all about Senor Christ. Admit it: on the surface, that’s boring as hell. I don’t remember a birthday I’ve ever had where the entire world (regardless of religion) decorates their homes and yards, purchases gifts for each other, and gets so stoked for my birthday that they trample over pregnant women and the common Wal-Mart employee.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
I was going to write something new about Christmas, but before I do, I wanted to re-post what I wrote in 2006 on the old website. I didn't edit this or anything, so excuse any of the horrendous grammatical errors. I had to look at this before I wrote a new piece because I would hate to repeat myself, but I probably will and use the same three jokes to carry the article. Enjoy the trip down memory lane...
(From January 5th, 2006)
I realized something this year: Christmas is all in your head. That’s right, this Christmas cheer shit is exactly that: shit. We are all brought up to think that Christmas is this mystical holiday where everyone is nice to everyone and everything is happy and works out. I mean, how can we be wrong? There are songs constantly bombarding us on the radio about spreading good will and cheer to our fellow man. No, it’s never that way. I’m always thinking, “Oh fuck, I HAVE to be nice to you…because it’s fucking Christmas,” or “Oh, I have to buy a present/card for this person because…I have too.” I have to be this person I’m not on the mere fact that it is Christmas. I think during Christmas, I want to slaughter my fellow men, because they are all full of shit and annoying. I hate how Christmas brings out the faux attitude in everyone you meet (except mothers in shopping malls, they’re just viscous). There’s this magical standard everyone must meet from the day after Thanksgiving until the New Year. And it sucks. I hate people wishing me a Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays, or whatever just because they think it’s the nice thing to do. The nice thing to do is call me on the phone and ask me how I’m doing and if I want to come hang out with you. The nice thing to do is smile and say, “hope you get through this Christmas without slitting your wrists in the middle of Macy’s.” The nice thing to do is actually care about me, not give me some bullshit line that everyone says just because it’s Christmas. The old adage “actions speak louder than words” applies here.
People that feel this way about Halloween are the ones that place razor blades in apples. That will teach those little bastards to dress like Power Rangers.
First of all, Christmas is a Christian holiday celebrating that Jesus guy who did some stuff. That’s fine. I’m cool with that. What I’m not cool with is (if you are below the age of 10, stop reading now) that all of Christmas is based on a lie. I’m talking about Santa the Claus. Every child gets lied to by their parents from ages 0 to 9ish that this “Santa Claus” exists and brings you gifts. He has reindeer, a magical sack, and has a cookie fetish.
WHO THE FUCK CAME UP WITH THAT?!
Who actually sat around a table with a group of other businessmen at Hallmark and said, “You know, let’s make up this Santa Claus character. Hell, let’s make him too good to be true. So good, in fact, that we will tell parents to lie to their children every year about this Santa Claus coming down their chimney every year and giving you gifts.” Lying to your children every year…what a great idea. Good job Hallmark.
CNN and the Weather Channel both had a “Santa Tracking” deal. What? So now even the Weather Channel (who is, of course, never wrong) is lying to me? The Weather Channel doesn’t lie…well…except constantly about the weather. The Weather Channel serves no purpose except to fuck with your mind. But, I’m getting off topic. When CNN has a fucking Santa watch, you know this shit is serious. CNN tells me when wars are going down, when people die, and when the president gets his dick sucked. The fact that they are wasting precious oral sex high school rumor time to tell me about Santa Claus coming is a big deal (pun totally intended).
Everyone’s in on the lie. It’s pathetic.
The entire idea of Santa is retarded. It’s something only a young child could comprehend, because when I was 5, I was convinced that Ninja Turtles lived in sewers, fought crime, and were taught Ninjitsu by a large rat. I also believed in a bunny that brought me candy (when bunnies CLEARLY only eat vegetables and know jack shit about candy), a magical fairy (it’s not spelled faery. Sorry. It’s just not. Get over it.) that came in the middle of the night and wanted my teeth in exchange for a dollar, and that a large fat man can do the following:
-Deliver gifts to all the children in the world, even the non-Christians who don’t even celebrate Christmas, in one night.
-Be super obese and somehow enter every house via chimney and NOT suffer 1st degree burns or inhale excess carbon dioxide, which, last time I checked, is dangerous. And what of the age old question, “How does Santa get to houses without chimneys?” I, Jason Nauman, have the true, be all end all answer to this: He breaks down your door with a shotgun and/or battering ram, eats all your cookies, rapes your mother, sets fire to your fake tree, and leaves you a new Barbie for your trouble. That’s right, Santa is an evil son of a bitch. And he listens to Mudvayne.
-He rides in a sleigh. With reindeer. 9 to be exact, counting Rudolph. Rudolph was first and foremost a coke addict before he was a reliable reindeer. Also, 9 FLYING reindeer or not, if Santa is this huge obese man with an inordinate amount of gifts to take to all these children, there’s no fucking way those “tiny reindeer” can pull that sleigh. All the cars with bows on them plus Santa alone are too preposterous to try to rationalize. Flying reindeer. Come on…how the hell do they have the ability to fly? Where in “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” does the explanation come where Rudolph gains the ability to fly? Oh sure, he’s got a shiny nose, but so do coke addicts and that sick dude on the Puffs commercial. Shiny nose does not equal flight skills.
-Why the cookie fetish? And what about those healthy vegetarians? Do they leave Santa carb free cookies? Santa must hate vegans…Santa doesn’t want celery, he wants your fucking Chips Ahoy all in his face piece. Do not deny a hardworking man the one thing he loves. Why give the man a great desire for cookies? I think that Santa is the reason America is getting so fat. “Oh look, Santa is fat, and he is jolly all the time and EVERYONE loves him. I can be fat too, no big deal.” Mrs. Claus is no catch herself. In porn, oh yeah, Mrs. Claus is a hot piece of ass…but Hallmark runs the porn industry too. You didn’t know that? Oh yeah, I mean, I’d show you the back of the magazines I have, but they’re all stuck together.
We need New Years to survive. If people didn’t get shitfaced on New Years, then all the pressure built up through out the holidays would just continue to build up. New Years is an excuse to drink until you’re stupid and be yourself for the first time in a month.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Back in the day (when the women were just as hairy as the men and the closest thing to lingerie you were going to get as a birthday present was a new loincloth fashioned from the finest bison) if you were a man that could hunt, you were considered more viable amongst the females. Now, I actually live right next to a grocery store. This means I should be getting more ass than anyone else in San Diego. I’m a provider! Look at how close to a major food source I am! And watch my amazing skills of going downstairs, grabbing a cart, and “hunting” the food. I even have men to bag up my kill for me. God, I am so awesome.
Do you have good looks? A sense of humor? Are you intelligent and well read? Are you loaded and attract women with your money? Yeah, fuck that, I live next to a grocery store. Just give up now, because I’m going to sleep with your girlfriend.
Your Girlfriend: Oh Jason, you’re so awesome. I mean, you brought me coffee and cereal this morning, then you ran out to get deli meat for lunch, and then, for dinner, you hunted down some steak from the freezer.
Me: Yeah, I know, I am awesome.
Your Girlfriend: You’re a real man that can provide for a lady, not like my boyfriend who has a good job, intelligence, good looks, and drives a nice car. I mean, he lives in a gated community. How am I supposed to find hazelnut coffee if I’m trapped behind a gate?
Me: You know what else I got at the grocery store?
Your Girlfriend: What?
Your Girlfriend: Oh Jason, I love you and your proximity to the grocery store!
We are all still animals at heart, and the simple fact that I can provide for women better than you will catapult me into Hugh Heffner-esque glory. Actually, I’m pretty sure there is a grocery store right next to the Playboy Mansion. What happens after lots of sex and photo shoots all day? Models have to eat…wait…never mind, I just killed my own point there. But do you think Mr. Heffner has a ton of women because he is rich, lives in a mansion, and owns an empire? Fuck no, it’s because he lives next to a grocery store, or at the very a least, a 7-11.
Do you know why being a hippie vegan, vegetarian, or “cheating vegetarian**” means that you don’t have a lot of sex? Because they only make use of ONE AILSE in the grocery store: the produce aisle/section. Without using the entire grocery store, they fail to realize their ultimate attractiveness potential. Therefore, vegans aren’t sexy. (And remember guys, as the great saying goes: She’s not a vegetarian if she sucks dick. Tiffany has slapped me for saying this. It was worth every finger mark left on my face) Hear that vegans? Start eating meat, or else you’re not getting laid. Be human for fuck’s sake. We don’t have sharp pointed teeth so we can chew lettuce like a fucking cow, we have them so we can nibble on nipples, ears, and other fleshy parts before, during, and after sex….but, since you’re a vegan, you wouldn’t know anything about that. Enjoy your salad.
**Cheating Vegetarians are the Little John of the vegan world. Little John proclaims himself to be a “rapper,” yet, I don’t think he has ever actually rapped. He has only said “YEAH!!!” and “OK!!!!” on a few tracks. So, occasionally deciding to not eat meat because you are proclaiming yourself to be a vegetarian makes you suck as much at life as Little John. Do you not eat meat? “YEAH!!!!!” How do you feel about salad? “OK!!!!!” And yes, I know I have multiple friends that do this. I still love them, but I love meat more**
Furthermore, because I live next to a grocery store, I can’t just buy the same thing every time and be satisfied. I need variety and changes of pace in my life. Ramen every night for dinner gets old, so that’s why I’ve branched out to Hamburger Helper. My dynamic quality of constantly living on the edge will drive women crazy.
Your Girlfriend: Beef, Chicken, and SHRIMP flavored Ramen?! Wow…did I tell you earlier how good you look?
Me: No. Did I tell you earlier about my assortment of Hamburger AND Chicken Helper?
Your Girlfriend: *Squeal of joy as she takes off my belt*
Also, when a single man is shopping by himself in a grocery store, women immediately take notice. Never underestimate the power of a case of beer in one hand and a basket filled with cereal, bread, and peanut butter in the other. “Sure, he’s cheap,” they’ll think, “but he is clearly a young professional. All the money he is saving at the grocery store he can use to take me out on dates, start a family, buy me something shiny, etc.” Girls, listen up, cheap beer in mass amounts = commitment. Just because I like to drink Natty Light at 23 does not make me an alcoholic, it makes me a responsible man who is planning for the future, where I will use the money I saved on beer to take care of the woman I plan to spend the rest of my life with…so stop giving me shit and drink watered down beer with me. I’m only doing this because I love you…and maybe Natty Light, too.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say. “You woo women with Natty Light and your shitty apartment next to the grocery store?”
I have a place to live and fornicate.
I have beer.
I live next to a place where you can get food until midnight.
I have more beer.
Try it. No one thought the Vatican was anything special, until one day the Catholics came up with this whole “Jesus turned water into wine” stuff and everyone got to drink wine at church. Next thing you know, catholic school girls the world over are visiting the Vatican. What’s next to the Vatican?
Yep, a grocery store. Actually…TWO grocery stores:
“Near the Vatican Museums, this market in Via Andrea Doria is inexpensive. Metro A: Ottaviano. Quite near to it is the market in Via delle Milizie, past the intersection with Viale Angelico (bus 490, 495, first stop after the intersection with Viale Angelico). You can also walk from the Vatican to both markets.”
Suddenly…the Pope looks kind of sexy, doesn’t he?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
You: What happened to you, man? You used to be cool. Actually, no, you never were cool. You were just a half way decent thing to do to pass the time (also an opinion shared by my ex girlfriends). Sure, every now and then you said something intelligent, but mostly, I just came to this site to remember that I can thank God every day that I am not you; instead, I am a sane individual with a life, dreams, and the decency to not care if that semi colon I just used was correct or not. The fact that your trivial bullshit exists makes me feel better. Write something so I can feel superior to someone else again!
So, here we are: Ladies, Gentlemen, Groundhogs, Naughty America, Maverick, Avril Lavigne, Girls who like Coco Channel, Jeff Cook, Pyramid Schemers, Faux Pirates, Cheese Specialists, my EN 404 Professor/Pimp, that chick responsible for my worst first date ever, the bitch that signed me up for speed dating, possibly a few family members, and whoever else has decided to join the party. From the East Coast, to the West Coast, to
It’s been about 7 months since I’ve written anything new. I’ve been on a long and difficult journey called “Making a Career out of a BA in English.” Let’s bring everyone up to speed, shall we?
My plans to write the great American novel went to hell after I realized that A) it wouldn’t make me enough money to live on in
Writers die. It’s a known fact. The minute you try to write a book for money, you come down with some disease like alcoholism, nicotine addiction, or, my favorite, caffeine-a-holic. Name a famous writer who is rich AND alive. Chick Lit and anything involving pants that traverse the universe do not count, because they must be writers who have something interesting to say and can tell a story about something more than throbbing members, how my ass looks in a pair of jeans, and orgasms. Trust me, each one of those put into its own context can be amazing, but put the topic of orgasms into a chick lit book, and its like hearing your senile Grandfather telling you that boring story about how he just can’t reach the cookie jar at the top of the cabinet and he thinks the Devil did it on purpose. It’s great at first, it makes you think the Keebler elf is the Devil, but then you realize, ok, we get it, you think men suck at sex. We don’t need to hear you berate the point over and over about faking orgasms and baking me cookies afterward because I’m crying. (Note to self: Actually write worthwhile women's magazine with things women need to hear, not shit they want to hear).
Anyway, so pointless literature aside, who’s left? Salinger is around, but he started to feel the icy hand of death on his shoulder and got the fuck out of dodge, stopped writing, and currently resides somewhere in America with his family. Vonnegut? Guess again, he died too. The artists from The Lost Generation are all dead. Why? Because they thought being a writer was a decent way to make a living.
So, I chose to continue living at the frail age of 23 and press on and cease my pursuit of writing the Great American Novel until an age where death seems more feasible. Maybe I’ll write two endings, a la Great Expectations and have fans debate forever which is the correct one. Maybe there should be a debate over whether I still have, or ever had, or ever will have fans. Shortest debate ever: “No.”
After realizing I had no fans, I quickly turned to the food industry to revive my tattered life, but that only lead to a life of working for a Nazi Sous Chef and a Faux pirate Head Chef. Then there was the Pyramid Scheme Incident, one of the lower points in my life that I really, honestly, try to forget about.
While all of this traipsing from job to job was going on, I was being a two-timing job whore and working part time at a fancy liquor store called Beverages and More (BevMo! for you West Coast kids), which is essentially the Wal Mart of liquor stores, in terms of volume.
BevMo was awesome, but I got far too many, “You have a college degree? Why are you working here?” looks for me to consider staying there for very long. Talking about booze all day with hot, older women is fun, but when they consider you nothing but a stock boy, you start to reconsider your priorities in life. You also recommend the shittiest, most expensive wine you can think of for all occasions.
Then came my current job. I’m an Assistant Buyer for a company whose name I will leave out, because the last time I wrote about a company, they found this site and said mature things like, “My job is still better than yours” and wrote inter-office emails about me talking shit on their head interview lady. (For the record: when your closing argument is “I still have a better job than you,” it doesn’t speak much for your maturity, intelligence, or personality. It just screams that you are insecure, embarrassed and started making fun of me like the popular girl in middle school because I made you look foolish. But instead of pointing out my failings for the job, you went straight for the “I’m better than you” argument. I mean, if we were 12, this would have been perfectly acceptable, but I guess I anticipated a little bit of class and tact from the woman who interviewed me. Clearly, I expected a little too much out of the porn industry. Enjoy being a washed up whore who was only good enough to write the porn and not act in it. Oh, and learn to take a joke. Also, if the editor happens to read this, thanks for the compliments. From one writer to another, I appreciate it more than you can imagine. P.S. I actually wrote a semi-apology letter to her trying to set things straight, because, even though it was the truth, it was meant as joke and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She responded by circulating the email around the office and further making fun of me in a childish manner. I’ll write about all of this one day to divulge the true ridiculousness of the situation).
Anyway, so I buy toys, CDs, DVDs, and rocks for a company in
However, this comes with actually having to be quasi-professional. 23 year old me wants to go out and drink on weeknights and not give a fuck what the man says. However, my work is dominated by A) a ton of older people (I’m the youngest one there by a good 5-6 years) and B) a lot of tasks that require me to keep my head on straight. It’s not like in college where I could show up hungover, half ass my notes, and still get an A; I actually have to be with it for 8-9 hours of the day. It’s a give and take (I get paid, but I have to stay sober…oh the consequences of getting older).
There are actually quite a few “professional” things I want to comment on and write about that happen at work, but that’s for a later time when I know that my office is not reading this. If they do happen to stumble across it though, so be it. Hey, someone has to read this shit.
So, no creepy lady, I still don't want to be a Cheese Specialist, no Naughty America girl, your job is not better than mine, and no Stone Brewery, I don't miss getting raped for 8 hours a day; I'm finally happy in California. I ended that on a serious, happy, not sarcastic note. Damnit.
Monday, May 5, 2008
I was bored the other day and stumbled across something I wrote 2 years ago (February 22, 2006). I decided that, in lieu of anything new, I should throw this up here. It's clearly a younger me writing but, whatever, it will have to hold you over until I get more time.
Technically, I never finished the article...but, oh well. If I didn't say anything, you probably wouldn't notice..
"Come On Mav! Do Some of That Pilot Shit!"
Before he was a Samurai, back when the sky didn’t have a flavor, before he was reporting on minorities, and before there was some war between worlds, there was a man who danced in his underwear, was a bartender, and drove stockcars. Tom Cruise’s early career made him one of the hottest actors in
Pete “Maverick” Mitchell
There is no man on this planet cooler than Maverick, no questions asked. Chuck Norris is tougher, Stifler is funnier, Bill Cosby is blacker, and Alf is furrier, but no one was as cool as Maverick. Sesame Street taught me manners, Barney taught me that singing repetitious songs about false love will lull many small children to sleep at the same time, and my Father taught me that slutty women were in the Bible too, but it was Maverick that makes me want to approach girls with this:
Me: (looking at a girl) Ted…I think she’s lost something
Ted: Oh no, Jason, don’t do it.
Me: She’s lost that lovin’ feeling.
And so, because of Maverick, I’ve always wanted to spontaneously break into song about a girl who cannot love in an attempt to make her love me. I embrace contradictions because of him.
I know what you might be thinking: “Jason, how do pointless scenes about playing volleyball and the emphasis of aviators make Maverick cool?”
Don’t you want to be so cool that you are playing volleyball, shirtless, for no good reason, other than you are just that cool? I know I do. And, as for aviators, he’s a pilot of a plane that will blow the fuck out of your neighborhood. I wouldn’t critique a man’s choice of shades with that much power behind him. Take your raised trucks, tricked out Honda Civics, and other penis compensating vehicles and go fuck off; until you are driving your F-150 and can contemplate “Am I too close for missiles?” than your vehicle is just another useless piece of steel that you wasted all your money on trying to get laid.
Maverick piloted an F-14 and made astronauts look like pussies. Tom Hanks in Apollo 13 has nothing on Maverick pulling 9 Gs and “I’m gonna hit the brakes, he’ll fly right by.” Maverick knew his shit. He also knew how to make his copilot flip out.
Goose was awesome in his own right. In fact, there’s a good chance he could have been the coolest man in that movie except for one problem: He was assigned the horrible task of having to bone Meg Ryan. You can not be cool in a movie or in real life if your wife is Meg Ryan. Meg Ryan is not attractive. She is also a terrible actress (save When Harry Met Sally). I’m sure guys have woken up next to girls after one night stands and thought, “Damn…what was I thinking? Well..at least she’s not Meg Ryan.” If lesbians could patent a hair cut, it would definitely be after the style Ms. Ryan has in her movie roles. I mean yeah, I’d take Meg Ryan over a fat girl, but seriously, when will I ever have to make that decision? That’s right…in hell, where all women either look like Meg Ryan or are fat. Hell is terrible place. The attractiveness of women in heaven as opposed to hell could be debated for some time. I won’t go into that…it’s too complicated.
And seriously, who has the call sign Goose? He’s surrounded by kick ass names like Iceman, Cougar, Merlin, Maverick, and Jester, there’s no room for waterfowl in the cockpit of an F-14.
Some people think Iceman was clearly the cooler of the pilots in Top Gun. Val Kilmer will never be cool. He will be “decent,” but never cool. He plays a good badass, but that by no means makes him cool. Who ends an insult, in a locker room full of men and penis, with a solid teeth chomp? The chomping of the teeth destroyed any coolness factor Iceman may have had going for him. And don’t forget, he pusses out at the end and Maverick had to save his ass.
Maverick taught me what a flyby was, and in turn, taught me to swear for the first time. The man that teaches me my first swear words is a great man. I remember being 3 years old and reciting lines of Top Gun as they were said. There’s one part where Maverick does his first flyby with Goose, and the control tower dude says something to the effect of “Damn that guy.” I repeated this line. My mother heard me and told me to never use that kind of language again. I told her I was sorry, but I am going to go to hell because I lied to my mother. Maverick was such a cool man, that he induced my first swear words. Whoever is responsible for your first 4 letter obscenity is a God. Maverick, thank you for giving me the sailor-esque mouth I own today, you fucking badass.
Yeah, so Maverick drove a motorcycle, wore aviators, and was threatened with having to fly planes full of rubber dog shit to
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
La Profesora: Your grades are slipping, Brody. If you don’t bring them up, then I’m going to have to fail you and you won’t get credit for this class.
Brody: But Profesora, if I don’t pass this class, then I won’t be able to graduate.
La Profesora: Well you see, Brody, I can’t just pass you. You haven’t done enough work in this class to warrant a good grade.
Brody: What if I do some sort of extra credit? Is there any way we can work this out?
La Profesora: [undoing the top buttons of her blouse] Oh…I’m sure we could work something out.
Now, I want to ask you: do you think that when porn producers make these movies that they just come up with a bunch of cliché scenes and say, “Hey, actor and actress (or multiples of each, depending on the situation), just say some stupid shit to each other and then get to the sexin’ and screamin’”? No. In fact, they have an entire staff of writers that come up with the 3-5 minute skits that set the premise for the half an hour of hardcore sex to follow. You know Brody Horsecock is going to rail La Profesora…but you need to know why he intends to rail her.
Desire. It is the single most important thing in any writer’s repertoire. If you can’t create the desire to read/watch more of a piece, then it’s destroyed. Even in the world of porn, there are occasions where we want to use our imaginations and live out that fantasy that somewhere there is a horny, undersexed, mid 20s house wife who will jump the first man that says hi to her. As men, we dream of that moment. Hitting on women in awkward public mediums (the mall, car to car, street corners) in such a direct fashion never works. You can’t go up to a woman and have the following conversation ensue:
Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Woman: “Oh, alright. I’m just here at the mall because my husband’s gone all day. He never pays attention to me at home.”
Me: “Oh really? That’s tragic.”
Woman: “Hey, do you want to get out of here and have lots of hardcore sex?”
Me: “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
That will never, ever happen in your or my lifetime. However, every man hopes that it will.
Porn changes all of this. In the fantastical world of porn, every woman will have sex with you in a moment’s notice and every man has a ginormous penis that makes them appear to me a half man, half horse hybrid. Sort of like a Centaur gone horribly, horribly wrong.
Now, especially if you are my mother and reading this, you are probably wondering “Why the fuck is Jason talking about porn and porn fantasies? Does this have a point? Is he just doing a self referential journey into why men love porn?”
Ladies and Gentlemen, those writers who come up with those 3-5 minute skits to establish these fantasies, prior to bumping uglies? I interviewed to be one of those writers the other day.
Wrong. Very wrong.
Not only does it take a writer to come up with these ideas, it takes an entire team of writers, both male and female. Actually, the person who was the director of the writing staff and interviewed me was a woman. (No, we did not have sex. We were both professionals…except when I smirked when she asked if I was “comfortable with adult content.”) This did not surprise me at all, because studies show that women are much more in tune with the story telling part of sex. When’s the last time a bunch of guys went into every detail of their night with their girlfriend? Exactly. But this also means that she too likes porn. She also had a lot of trouble holding eye contact with me. Her eyes were fluttering all over the room. I’ll touch on this later.
So I interviewed to be part of this writing team. She explained the job to me in greater detail. The morning would start in the meeting room, watching and reviewing other porn that has been done recently; gathering ideas and seeing where the industry is progressing and modeling our story lines to accommodate this. The writing staff would then throw ideas around for different scenes and situations. Then, the director of the writing staff (girl who interviewed me) would assign each writer 3-4 assignments covering any number of the fetishes they have. The rest of the day would be spent writing these scenes and watching more porn movies that were recently finished, serving a post production role (in her words: making sure there’s not a foot where there shouldn’t be a foot).
So all day I would be watching, writing, and thinking about sex. I get to think about sex all day, but I don’t get to have any. How fucking depressing is that? The amount of sexual frustration I would experience everyday would be mind blowing (haha…blowing).
Why couldn’t the interviewer make eye contact with me? Because she was too God damn preoccupied thinking about sex that she just went into a robotic description of porn and what the company does.
Do the writers just have a big orgy at the end of every day? Do the porn stars come in and “ease the stress” of our days? Do I get a private office with an abundance of hand lotion and tissues? What does the janitor of this place think when he comes in the evening to clean everything? Is the lonely secretary waiting for him at night? Do they have sex? Should I apply to be the janitor of the building and have the greatest janitorial job ever?
Hardly. It’s difficult to imagine telling my friends, family, future acquaintances and employers that I worked in the porn industry. Really kids, that’s what I’m getting in to here: The Porn Industry. I always joked when I was younger that, if times get tough, “I’ll just go into porn.” Now, here I am, staring the porn industry right in the face (fully clothed).
Through all of this I have to stop and ask myself, “Is this my life?” Even though I’ve been a job slut, going through one shitty job after another, thinking it will get me somewhere, I’ve been doing it all in San Diego. While I’m sure this “living on the West Coast” thing is going to leave me financially fucked, it has most definitely been an adventure. And somehow I wound up in Naughty America’s office, interviewing to be the writer that gives these porn stars the witty and intelligent (HA) dialogue they are known for. I would get to tell porn stars what to say. Awesome.
Sadly, I had to decline this position because, while it would be pretty awesome to tell everyone that I write porn scripts, it won’t be funny to my next employer who certainly doesn’t want to hire me, since I’ll be tainted by sex. Sigh…the sad reality of things you have to consider when growing up.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Before you do anything else in your life, you need to visit this website.
It is the official site of the Punxsutawney Groundhog Club. First of all, you know there are 15 year olds listening to “punx” music there in Punxsutawney and calling themselves “punx” because they think it’s a witty play on words. If it were anywhere else in the world, I would tell them to shut the hell up, because saying they are “punks” requires one more letter and they're are just being retarded and lazy, however, I believe these special 15 year olds have earned the right to use this pun because of their unique regional situation. Second of all: Dude…there’s an ENTIRE WEBSITE devoted to Groundhog Day, and I don’t mean the Bill Murray film.
Look, normally the only holiday I hate on is Christmas (and, occasionally, Valentine’s Day), but Groundhog Day I usually dismiss as being a harmless holiday. But today I realized that Groundhog Day is far superior to Christmas. Let’s break this down:
1) A jolly, fat man comes down your chimney and brings you presents.
2) Christmas carols
4) Annoying relatives, mall goers, and Hallmark employees
5) Christ’s Birthday
1) A furry, pissed off creature pops out of his hole to bring you the depressing news that it’s going to be cold for the next 6 weeks.
2) Traditional Scottish poems. So that means…
4) A dirty rodent that does not possess the skill A) Sing, dance, or perform magic or B) Train turtles to be ninjas or C) Be a Rescue Ranger
5) A day to celebrate the mystical Groundhog
This is a tough call, because they both have their ups and downs. Groundhog Day has whiskey and Christmas has presents…but…come on! Groundhog Day has whiskey! You can cuddle up in that nice knitted sweater your Aunt gave you, or you can drink some whiskey and be warmer and happier. Whiskey > Sweaters, so I’m going with Groundhog Day.
Also, Santa may have his reindeer and elves, but he doesn’t have an inner circle. Basically, a Groundhog Mafia (which sounds like the name of a ska band) exists for Phil to command. Look at these intense names: “Cloud Builder,” “Fog Spinner,” and my personal favorite, “Stump Warden.” There’s a very Godfather-ish feel to this whole Groundhog Day thing. Look at how they’re dressed in their suits, top hats, and shit eating grins.
It’s called Gobbler’s Knob for fuck’s sake!!! I mean, insert your own phallic groundhog joke there. It’s a bunch of dudes…who are a secret society…with a groundhog…standing at Gobbler’s Knob…seriously?!
Friendly looking fellows, aren’t they? Yeah, but OJ Simpson was a pretty friendly looking guy too. However, he’s usually found holding a 7 iron at 1am, not a gopher…I mean groundhog. Insert your own Caddy Shack joke there. I don’t really see a tiny elf leaving a horse head at the foot of my bed any time soon.
Perhaps Groundhog Day is something we don’t give enough credit too, like the Canadian-American war and Don Johnson’s acting skills. Christmas is like the Tom Cruise of holidays, it gets all the hype because it’s Christmas and it’s given us lots of good memories. But, when the day actually comes, it’s too much shiny packaging and not enough of the true, whimsical emotions we think we’re supposed getting out of Christmas. For example: see any Tom Cruise movie after Mission Impossible (the first one. The 3rd Mission Impossible gets a pass here, but so does that Christmas from two years ago when you girlfriend gave you beer on the couch all day, while wearing lingerie, as your Christmas gift. However, that’s a poor example, because at no time during
As far as the power that each holiday has, Christmas can make or break you for a week or so. Maybe you don’t get what you want or someone in your family forgot (read: disowned) you. You’re over it in a week. G-Hog Day has the ability to fuck you up for 6 weeks. For you Math Majors out there, that’s SIX TIMES the power of Christmas. Suddenly, not only had G-Hog Day surpassed Jolly Fat Man/Jesus Day (Jesus gets 2nd billing here, you know he’s pissed), but it is slowly giving Halloween a run for its money.
Henceforth, Groundhog Day, in Mathematics, will be referred to as the “G-Hog power of 6.” Suck on that Pythagoras.
In fact, what’s Easter? Celebrating the resurrection of Bugs Bunny…I mean Jesus. Everyone remembers Jesus and all the Jesus-like stuff he did for a day.
The Groundhog laughs at this. He far surpasses Jesus in awesomeness, because he resurrects himself every year from his burrow, unlike Jesus only rose once. Pansy. The “G-Hog Power of 6” is in full effect here.
I know I’m going to hell after that last statement. Priests are being accused of touching little alter boys, people are questioning their faith and the purpose of the church, and Priests are struggling everyday to keep their followers; and here I am saying that a Groundhog is far superior to Jesus.
Thankfully, Halloween will always be the greatest holiday ever. On no other day can you be rowdy, look ridiculous/slutty, eat a shitload of candy, and get away with it. Those are the morals that Halloween is founded on, and not even a little Groundhog that comes out of the ground can upend the stranglehold of awesomeness Halloween has on holidays.
Unless…you know…people start dressing up like groundhogs, girls find a way to make dressing up like a groundhog look sexy, and we all drink heavily to support this new Groundhog Day.
Sexy New Groundhog Day > Whiskey > Top Gun > Sweaters
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
A brief overview of my interview for Synergy Marketing Concepts...
Boss: So, you will be hired as an independent distributor, selling the products of our clients business to business.
Me: So I’m a salesman?
Boss: No, we don’t hire sales people. We hire independent distributors.
Me: What’s the difference?
Boss: Well, you see, by telling you that you aren’t a salesman, while you are clearly performing the duties of a salesman, you get to sleep well at night knowing that you aren’t a sleazy bag of douche.
Me: But if I’m essentially a salesman, won’t I essentially be a salesman?
Boss: Have I mentioned that people are making around $800 a week here starting off? If you go to
Me: Well…shit…for that kind of money, I could handle being a nuisance to everyone I meet.
Boss: Did I mention we work with the Dodgers, Padres, Chargers, Raiders, Red Sox, and Orioles, just to name a few? Oh wait, I’m just name dropping clients that we pretend to have, but you’ll never know it through the work you’re doing.
Me: So do I get to work with them?
Boss: No, you’ll be selling this awesome DARE book! You remember DARE, right?
Me: So…let me get this straight: I went to college so I could walk around for 10 hours a day trying to sell a book that is targeted at parents to keep 5th graders from smoking cigarettes that they will inevitably smoke in college anyway?
Boss: Yes! And make lots of money while doing it!
He left out the part where you are constantly exhausted, have no time to yourself, and are miserable 7 days a week, even though you only work 5 but are SUPPOSED to work 6. Do the math there. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that it all equates to feeling horrible about your life every single day.
He also left out the part where it’s all commission based and really, really hard to make that much money…unless, you know, you’re cool with everyone that you see hating your presence for 10-12 hours each day.
Ladies and Gentleman, I am a sucker. You’re probably wondering to yourself why the hell I took a job doing this when I have solid academic credentials. Easy: I got sweet talked; sweet talked into a pyramid scheme that isn’t really a pyramid scheme but still sort of is a pyramid scheme. They promised me things like quick promotions, team building, opening my own office, and making a 6 figure income within a year…just to train more people to do the same thing so they could open their own office. Something doesn’t add up there. And, judging by the dingy looking office and the half-assed way everything was run, I’m guessing I was standing in a room full of naïve people just like me.
During my interviews, I was frequently complimented on my resume and my social skills. Little did I know, Synergy Marketing Concepts just wanted to get me drunk so they could get into my pants. Oh sure, they would tell me they loved me and wanted to see me again, but really, they just wanted me to be a blind sheep.
Allow me to explain: Synergy Marketing Concepts (official owners of the Eat Your Pets Worst Website Ever Award, check out this garbage. It's like someone just threw a bunch of poorly made flash up there and mixed it with some text [that you sometimes CAN'T EVEN SEE because of the excessive flash]. Really, the site says nothing important and whoever made it should be shot) brings in new employees at entry level, has them build a team, and eventually open their own office to serve, basically, the same companies they worked with at entry level. The company “needs to grow because there is such a high demand for them right now.” So they need a bunch of leaders, right away. Insert where they sweet talk me with dreams of being rich within a year. Doesn’t sound bad, does it?
But then you have to think about things like, if this guy running the place is loaded, why does the office look like a roach infested hell hole? Ok, it was a roach infested hell hole with an HD TV to distract everyone from the shittiness that was the rest of the office. If there are offices already all across the country, where are we going to be able to open more? And what happens when we reach and office capacity? Will the rest of the entry level be left as salesman? IS THERE A COMPANY OVERLOOKING ALL OF THESE COMPANIES? A MAIN BRANCH? SOMEONE THAT IS GIVING ORDERS TO EVERYONE ELSE?!
No. But there is a surplus of false hope that you too will be rich soon!
So here I was, working from 7:30am to about 7:00pm, hating my life because I would have to go business to business (and that means all the little hole in the wall places. Anything with a door and people) trying to sell this DARE book to people. DARE is apparently being pulled out of school systems, and I’m out there telling people to spend $20 for this god damn book to help put it back in schools. What do they get in return? Coupons. NOBODY USES THE FUCKING THINGS!!!!! Name three people you know that routinely use coupons. Not buy coupon books, but actually use them. Maybe you came up with two, and they’re probably both over the age of 60.
It’s all a pyramid scheme. Little people, like me, work for older, more disgusting people, trying to make them more money, all for the idea that I too will one day be a disgusting person asking a bunch of youth to make me a lot of money.
I got stuck in a real life chain letter. Send a dollar to these 5 people, and then get 5 more people to send you a dollar, and pretty soon you’ll be rich! Or, you know, fucked. Same thing.
And every place you go into, within a second, they know you’re in there selling something. No one wants to talk to that guy. They just want them to go away so they can go back to work. And then I had to stand there and give them reasons to listen to me. I felt like a sperm, constantly trying to wiggle myself into businesses to get people to listen to me and buy this lame book.
And you know what they tell sperm? They tell them all that they will one day be the brave soldier to make it to the egg. They don’t tell them that they could die moments after being released, that the vagina doesn’t really want them there, or that they could waste two weeks of their life listening to a sperm captain that doesn’t really exist instead of finding a real job that pays you money so you can afford rent, groceries, and other things.
Hopefully, when I’m ready to have kids, my sperm will have a salesman’s mentality. Until then, they need to get a job and start paying rent, because they’re useless right now. Fucking slackers!!!!!
Friday, December 7, 2007
I know everyone loves pirates; whether it be the Pirates movies or the fact that pirates are swashbuckling badasses, our culture is enamored with these bearded individuals. But, really, have any of you actually met a real pirate? No, you haven’t. You hide in your little fantasy world, thinking pirates are the greatest thing since ninjas (don’t get me started on that Pirates vs. Ninjas stuff on Facebook. I’m better than all of you. I’m a Ninjrate: a Ninja Pirate. You can’t fuck with me, ever, because I have a hook and stealth capabilities).
However, I work with a pirate, or the closest thing to a pirate
A little background info: I’m a cook at
When I interviewed for the job, I met the head chef, Jeff. He seemed like a nice guy. He smiled, shook my hand in a manly fashion, and seemed to genuinely care about people and the business which he helps run. I didn’t think much of his earrings in each ear and huge figure. He was a tall dude with some earrings and a solid handshake. No worries.
Then, I started to work with him.
The first day in the kitchen I was shown around and introduced to the rest of the staff. The people seemed normal enough, but what caught my eye was the very large pirate flag hanging above the prep sinks. “Whatever,” I thought, “So they’re into pirates. Who isn’t? It’s not like pirates actually exist or anything.”
Then the head chef came in to cook. His bald head was covered with a pirate bandanna. His stud earring was replaced with a bolder, danglier, more piratey earring. He sported a pair of black boots (read: ass kicking boots) and bright red pants. His tall figure now seemed to loom over everyone in the room.
He was a pirate and he was there to fuck your day up. If your food sucked, you would be pillaged and raped. Do you know what it’s like to be intimidated by a MAN WHO WEARS A DANGLY EARRING?! It sucks. I’m scared shitless of the man. Even when he’s joking, he sounds like he’s about to eat your firstborn child. And when he’s pissed, it’s like the entire world is crashing down around you. Some guys fear their girlfriend’s angry wrath if they do something against her wishes (talking to other girls, checking out their sister, come home smelling like the strip club), but I assure you, the wrath of a thousand psycho, angry girlfriends is nothing compared to this man’s yelling.
The word “fuck” loses all meaning. The other day, he said someone had “Fucked him in the anal asshole.” I hope you were sitting down when you read that, otherwise you might pass out from the sheer absurdity of that sentence. He specified that it was the “anal” asshole, insinuating that more than one asshole exists. Which brings me to the following hypothesis: This man is so angry, he possesses multiple assholes. Surely, we normal one-assed folk cannot understand the troubled life he leads. (I can’t believe I just wrote that)
Verbatim: “What the fuck am I going to do with 6 turkeys? I can't feed 300 fucking people with 6 frozen fucking turkeys!! She (the girl that they place food orders with) fucked me. She fucked me hard. She fucked me in the anal asshole."
The rest of the kitchen froze in fear. I giggled to myself because, really, a man that intimidating saying something that ridiculous must be laughed at.
So this means that I not only work for a Pirate, but a multiple assholed Pirate. Sure, Johnny Depp played the mysterious, hot pirate, and Black Beard killed a bunch of people and was just an all around badass, but neither of them had more than one asshole. I did my research, trust me.
If the kitchen was the Pequod, the insane Head Chef-Multiple Assholed Pirate Man would clearly be Ahab, as their insanity rivals one another. He stands in the middle of the kitchen, watching everyone and everything, as if he is about to explode with rage at the moment something goes wrong. You could be in another room, he will still sense your fear and yell at you. He constantly hunts men, food, and birds to feed his hunger for power.
I am a Pip/Starbuck hybrid. I drink too much coffee and am commonly overlooked in the kitchen because I did not go to culinary school (I’m the only person in the kitchen that possesses a college degree that did not involve using a knife and wearing an apron) and am so small, in comparison to the Head Chef, that he usually passes by me without noticing I am even there. Perhaps he thinks that I am some sort of parasite that infects his kitchen, eating his food while simultaneously producing it. I’m a kickass parasite. I also sing and dance, using kitchen utensils as instruments. True story.
That’s right, I just made Moby Dick references. Deal with it.
Anyway, so I can’t wait to quit. I have some other things lined up. I’ll end up writing a whole article on the hilarious story that has been my job search. One phone interview I had went as so:
Woman: So, this is the most important question I’m going to ask you.
Me: Ok…*prepares for insanely involved question*
Woman: Do you like dogs?
Me: WHAT?! THAT’S the most important question?!
Over a month later, even though I hate this job, Pirate Man, and stupid interview questions, I’m still glad I didn’t take that fucking cheese job.