Declaration Day!

     Well here we are, friends and neighbors, right smack dab in the middle of the two biggest holidays this country has. That's right, I said two biggest. Don't give me that balderdash about Easter or St. Valentine's day, either. They don't even come close, and you know it. People are still trying to get the turkey and gravy out of their veins, and many people are already getting stabbed in their feet from pine needles that have fallen off the trees that for some archaic reason are now sitting in the living room.  Commercials have reached their yearly peak of sugar coated pleas for us to express our love monetarily, and the music - which is inescapable- gets emptier than a... Hm. You know, I really hate the music, so I'm going to have to think about this for a bit, and then we'll get back to it.
     Anyway, the problem with all the holiday stuff, as I see it and thus it must be, lies not with the errant pine needles, nor with the fact that pumpkin is in everything. For some of us, in fact, having pumpkin in everything is delightful, because pumpkin is delicious, and even people who claim otherwise know they are mistaken in their hearts. No, the problem we face at this time of year, aside from the music -for which I will find an appropriate simile- is the forced cheer.
     You know what I mean, right? Yeah, you know what I mean. Everyone says some version of "Happy Holidays" even if they don't know the person to whom they are speaking, the ugliest sweaters in existence appear in droves from the backs of closets, smelling of mothballs and last years' rum fueled acts of shame. Jewelers remind us incessantly what letter the word 'kiss' always beings with, and retailers attempt to convince us that their greed is nothing more than a deep and passionate concern that our relatives know we love them, and in order to help us, have discounted all the merchandise they have thus far failed to sell.
     They do it out of love, you guys. Love.
     Now, I know that very recently I made a plea to take back Thanksgiving. That, I realize, was a very tall order, and not one I'm likely to see filled. So I have another idea, and I think it's just what we need (obviously.) It is not an attempt to reclaim Christmas, because let's face it, the origins of that holiday are murky at best, and whatever meaning it may have once had is so dried out and decrepit that we might as well just put it on a boat, set it out to sea, and light it on fire with arrows as it floats away.
     At least that way the War On Christmas would be over, and the persecution finished.
     Here again I speak of the music.
     I propose that, instead of reclaiming an existing holiday, we make up a new one, one that takes place on the twelfth of December, which at the time of this writing is tomorrow. It shall be know as Declaration Day, and here's how it works:
     There are no gifts, no big meals, no plants to decorate or songs to sing. There is no affiliated religion or deity to worship (though I'd be willing to listen to some prayers, as long as they are juicy), and there are no special outfits. All you must do to participate is tell one, just one,  person you care about a real, honest thing. No sugar coating, just plain simple truth.
     And it can't be something easy, like telling a spouse "I love you", or telling a best friend he or she is really important to you. Tell them something you wouldn't normally tell them.
     Now, just a couple of rules, which I get to make, because I invented the holiday (hence the earlier implication that prayers be sent to me.)
     1) This truth cannot be conveyed via text, email, or any other medium which makes use of terms such as 'LOL' or 'OMG'. The point of this holiday is accurate, honest, real communication, and I have learned over the years that most people are not as adept at conveying tone through the written word as one would hope. So in order to help prevent mistakes, face to face is best. An actual phone call or video chat is permitted if circumstances require it.
     2) Any person to whom a truth is delivered is automatically allowed to dispense a truth in return. So, if your decision is to finally tell that coworker he smells, he will be allowed to tell you that everyone knows you wear a wig, provided both statements are true. This provision is in place not to keep one from expressing an honest opinion, but only to maintain balance. No one wants some dummy just walking around telling people what's wrong with them. Also, bear in mind, if you decide to only convey the, let's say, unkind thoughts in your head, people are going to notice, and eventualy you'll end up with less people in your life to complain about than you might want, left with only your misery for company.
     So try not to be a jerk about it. Just take a little brain power away from who on your gift list would like that neat-o pair of Christmas socks (no one wants those), try not to think about what to wear to the office holiday party (skip it. Just skip it; who even cares?) and let your mind come up with something you can tell someone that really, really matters. Anything, for anyone, as long as it's not a commercial for diamonds or toys.
     Good luck with it, and as a show of faith, I'll even start us off with an early one:
     When I tell people about this blog, I usually play it off as a sort of throwaway exercise to keep my writing muscles in shape, and act like I don't care if anyone reads it. The truth is, I couldn't be happier that even a few people bother to check this thing out when I manage to write it, and every repost, or conversational mention, or forwarded link, pleases me to no end. Of course I know that putting this in writing not only exposes me as a sap, but also breaks the second rule of Declaration Day, but there's no way I have time to call every one of you up and tell you, so cut me a little slack, how about?
     Hopefully this means that at least for one day, right when we need it most, everyone will get a real, if sometimes harsh, dose of honesty. I believe, I really do, that in the long run, it will help us all stay a little grounded and better focused in a time of year when we are encouraged on all sides to indulge every temptation that strikes us, and distractions are every- EMPTIER THAN A BAG OF THE DEVIL'S PROMISES!
     Jeez, that was really weighing on me. For real.
-John

Giving Thanks Like There's No Tomorrow

     This is a busy week for everyone, myself included, so perhaps we should just get to it. Most of us have work for at least part of the week, and there is (if you're lucky) some kind of gathering or another with friends and\or family happening as well. Or, failing that, perhaps a bottle of wine, a warm blanket, and your favorite television and movie streaming service. So really, I don't intend to keep you long. Of course, I rarely do, but then I get myself caught up in tangents (like this one) and then, before you know it, an entire introduction is written and I haven't even mentioned yet that I intend to talk about how Thanksgiving is quickly being turned from a meaningful Holiday into the biggest time of year for people to be coerced into buying a bunch of heavily discounted stuff.
     Now don't get me wrong, friends and neighbors, I like stuff, and have no shortage of it. I've got books, I've got a desk painted to look like the Gotham City skyline (go on, laugh, but your jaw would drop if you saw it, and that I promise), I've got small plastic disks that when put into the proper receptacle are capable of playing entire movies in 3D. I also have said proper receptacle, and it additionally serves as a typewriter, file cabinet, television, and digital portal to the entire rest of the world.
     Believe me, I've got the stuff.
     What I don't have is the desire to get more of it by literally stepping on and over other people like I'm in some Clockwork Orange Price is Right, even if it is way cheaper than normal.
     When I was a child, I was told by a person whom I then believed (and in many ways, still believe) to be the wisest person in my world that Thanksgiving was one of the only holidays that had a truly holy origin, because it was created solely to give thanks to a chosen deity for allowing most of a people to survive. Other holidays, which I will not identify, were just mutations of pagan festivals that had been taken over in order to further promote religious conversion.
     By the way, a lot of those pagan festivals seem like way more fun, and I bet not one person sang "Santa Baby." But that's a different issue.
     Take another quick look at what Thanksgiving was originally about, just to get us back on track and not thinking about the fun of city wide pagan feasts and orgies and how much more fun that would be than all the silly pointless stuff we get have to-
      Hang on, I said we're not thinking about that. Okay, back on track, we're all busy adults here, and so on. Thanksgiving started out as a group of people giving thanks to their deities for not allowing all of them to die over the harsh and unforgiving winter. They didn't even all get to live, and still believed in being thankful for and sharing what they had. Yes, I understand that this feeling of brotherly love did not last, especially for the American Indian, but that's what makes the day itself so important. Letting go of the all consuming desire for more, and taking just a day to be grateful for what one has.
     Even for those of us who are not of a religious bent, gratitude for the better aspects of one's existence is an excellent notion to keep in one's head.
     Another thing I don't have, aside from a segue, is the desire to see anyone forced to work on Thanksgiving under the threat of being fired, because this holiday, as I may have vaguely discussed, is about being thankful for what you have, not being threatened with the loss of it.
     Look, I know none of this (except perhaps the list of junk I own and if I'm lucky one or two of the jokes) is new to anyone. We know the deal, and I have yet to meet anyone who is happy that more retail places are going to be open on Thanksgiving.  I also know that I can't change it, no matter how much I complain or vow to not visit any of them myself. I can't do anything about it, not really.
     But We can. How crazy would that be, if We -even a good sized number of Us- decided not to allow ourselves to be pulled into the madness that is turning this holiday of gratitude into a celebration of insatiability? We could get back some of our dignity as consumers, and perhaps even decide not to die over televisions and video game consoles.
     Remember that? People die at this thing. They die. At a sale. Who wants to die like that? Wouldn't you rather die in... you know what? I'm having a hard time picking a place, because every place seems like a better place to die in than a Wal-Mart.
     I know it's too late for Christmas, and Independence day has largely been taken over by car and hot dog manufacturers, and St. Valentines Day has been a joke since time out of mind, but I think We can still reclaim Thanksgiving. It would be so easy, too! Each one of Us would only have to do -literally- the least we could do, which is nothing. Not even leave the house. Stay home. Do nothing, Spend no money. We could totally do nothing, if we really tried, I bet. Not that I really expect it (someone's gotta get me that Roomba, after all.)
     I sure would be grateful though.
-John

Feminism... Oh, boy.

     There is a word, or perhaps a concept, or perhaps even a philosophy, that has been weighing on my mind more so than usual these last few weeks. For reasons that will hopefully become apparent as I explain them, I was going to keep it to myself, and instead let the fine folks at JohnCo. tell you all about their latest product (a smartphone app that erases your contact information from other people's phones.) Then, a recently made but respected acquaintance brought something to my attention that has forced me to alter this decision and do something that could very well come back to haunt me if I screw it up. It could do so immediately, and severely, and I don't mind telling you, it got me worried.
     Then I remembered that I've managed to get away with discussing controversial topics in the past, like how terrible cats and mayonnaise are, and how people shouldn't block doorways when having conversations, and how no one wants to hear about anyone else's god(s), so why not go ahead and make the same terrible mistake so many men have made before, and talk about feminism?
     Just typing that, by the way, before anyone else has even read it, made me feel like all the men I know just felt their butts clench up without knowing why. Unclench, fellas, and have a little more faith in me than I do.
     It is a feeling I can understand though, which is why I was going to keep my mouth shut (or fingers still, as it were) at first. I've never labeled myself as a feminist, really, preferring instead to aim for being an egalitarian, by which I mean that it is okay to make fun of everyone. Everyone should be made fun of a little. It's good for you. People make fun of me all the time, and just look at how happy and well-adjusted I am. You can tell by the way I complain about trivial things as though anyone listened or cared or agreed with me.
     So I was going to leave it alone, because it didn't really seem like a place I should go. Until two things happened, which I will discuss in reverse chronological order.
     First and most recently, I was made aware by the aforementioned recently acquired acquaintance whose name I have not obtained permission to print that Time magazine included the word 'feminist' in a list of words to be potentially banned. Their reason for doing so? Glad you asked:
                                          You have nothing against feminism itself, but when did it become a thing that every celebrity had to state their position on whether this word applies to them, like some politician declaring a party? Let's stick to the issues and quit throwing this label around like ticker tape at a Susan B. Anthony parade.
   
     First off, Time magazine, don't try and include me by using the word 'you' to start this thing. I neither need nor want you to tell me what I do or don't have against anything. Believe me, I am more than capable of providing my own diatribes against whatever I see fit. On that, you may bank. Further, celebrities stating their opinions has been a thing ever since a bunch of idiots (everyone) decided they were worth listening to, and one publication even started adorning some of them with lofty title, "Person (formerly Man) of the year." Stupid, I know, but it happened. The one thing celebrities have in common with everyone else is that they often say what they think.The fact that they are not significantly smarter than the people who put stock in their opinions is not the fault of the words they use. Also, by the way, there all kinds of things going on all over the world that evince how much of an issue the things discussed by feminism are. Limiting the words allowed to be used in a discussion puts limits on the discussion itself.
     Also on this list are the words 'bae,' which is not a word, and 'literally,' which the magazine proposes banning because people insist on using it wrong.
     Might I suggest that instead of banning words, we try to educate people on the proper use of them? I know an amenable saint I can put you in touch with, if you're interested. I should warn you though; he is considerably less forgiving than I am.
     The other thing, the thing that really weighed on my mind, happend a few weeks ago, and I'm sure most of you have heard about it already. It starts with a woman by the name of Mariam Al Mansouri, who is -check this out- the first female pilot for the United Arab Emirates Air Force. Not only that, but she recently led an airstrike against ISIS in Syria.
     This story, as told (I can't bring myself to use the word 'reported') by Fox News, began with Kimberly Guilfoyle talking about how glad she was that a woman was kicking the collective tail of ISIS. This was fair. It was also immediately undercut by two other television personalities (also can't use the words 'journalists' or 'reporters') by the names of Greg Gutfield and Eric Bolling. Gutfield responded to this story with "Problem is, after she bombed it, she couldn't park it." This was followed with Bolling's genius comment, "Would that be considered boobs on the ground or no?"
     Get it? Because women are bad at driving, and also have boobs!
     Don't get me wrong; boobs can be funny, same as butts and farts and burps, though none of them are anywhere near as funny as the penis. Just look at all the euphemisms for it, my personal favorite being 'Long Tom.'
     The thing here is that this is a human being who did something that requires a level of bravery not many people have, who put her life at some level of risk to do all the the things your network is constantly defining as patriotic and deserving of respect. But this human being has, as you so eloquently put it, "boobs," so you mocked her.
     What a couple of Long Toms.
     That, by the way, is a solid joke, with a setup and a punchline, and it mocks you, the two poorly behaved people, not your genders. You boobs.
     And as far the reference to her driving goes, let me tell you something, friends and neighbors. I spend a lot -A LOT- of time driving, and the simple truth is that everyone -and that includes everyone- is a much worse driver than they believe themselves to be (except me), and I've seen more bad parking jobs by men in trucks with unnecessarily large tires than any other kind of driver. Also, Prius drivers are pretty much all terrible, gender regardless.
     Oh, and before I wrap this up, remember that other story, where women were complaining about being harassed on the street, and some of these personalities - of both genders, by the way- responded by saying it was a compliment? Well, please feel free to take as a compliment the following statement:
     You are disgusting, and the fraudulence of your smiles is matched only by the barrennes that lives inside you. Insert whistle here.
     All in all, the reason I spoke (wrote?) up is because each of these things seems to be expressing a problem with the notion that feminism still exists, and I think they should instead be addressing the problem that it still needs to.
     In closing, I would like to add that I am fortunate to count a great number of strong, intelligent, funny, and when necessary fierce women of all ages as both relatives and friends, and offer this piece not as some utterly unnecessary and ill advised attempt at defense or protection or apology on behalf of men everyhwere, which would be an insult to all involved. It is instead hoped that this will be taken for what it is, merely an attempted contribution toward the goal of treating everyone as an equal, so I can make fun of all of us properly.
     Also, if I have gotten it wrong, don't worry. Those strong, fierce members of family and social circle will let me know all about it.
-John

Let's do something different... or at least the same as it used to be.

     As many of you -or so I'd like to imagine- noticed, it has once again been a while since last I arranged a selection of somewhat carefully chosen words to properly convey some not at all requested opinion of mine. This is because I have been thinking about the way we do things here, talking about the news and making fun of it and so on. I had a lengthy and rather verbose meeting with St. John The Amenable (patron saint of "Must you persist?") and our proud sponsor, JohnCo. (motto: We just want you to be better than you are!) and we have come to an agreement, which is as follows:
     There is, at this moment, an overabundance of news sources, and also plenty of sources one can go to see those sources mocked. This stuff is already on everyone's TV screen, computer monitor, and phone as it is, and one more, even if it's mine, isn't really what anyone needs. So, while I will still retain the services of St. John, and JohnCo. will continue to lend it's support, I'm going to leave the news stuff alone for a little while, and focus more on what brought me to this dance in the first place, which is, well, things like this:
     Can we please stop making everything bacon themed already? Look, I like bacon, okay? As a breakfast food, it goes with pretty much every other breakfast food. Put it on a burger? Excellent. Pizza? Oh, yes. Crumble it up into bits and mix it into a salad? Stop talking about it and get it done, will you?!
     Those things are all great, no doubt about it, and every red-blooded, problem solving American knows it. The problem is that bacon has, for whatever reason, been sucked up by our great and unrelenting need for some stupid trend we can all involve ourselves in so we can come together in our pretentiously cutesy little way. Like we did with mustaches. And irony.
     And it all leads to ruin, people, don't you see? Look at ranch dressing.
     Juuuuuuuuussst look at it.
     A lot of you may remember a time when ranch was not used on french fries instead of ketchup. A time when this terrible abomination was considered merely a salad dressing for people who don't like salad. Then, sometime in the nineties, I think, everything changed. Ranch was everywhere. And we all know how that ended, don't we? Don't we? Let me tell you how it ended; let me tell you what you did.
     It ended with me not being able to get gravy for my chicken strips, that's how it ended! Let me tell you, friends and neighbors, there was a time when I could walk into a restaurant and order myself a meal of chicken strips, or tenders, or fingers, secure in the knowledge that on that plate, or in that plastic basket, along with my deep fried strips of chicken and a pile of french fries, would be a small bowl or plastic container of white cream gravy, the one true and perfect dip for any chicken strip.
     Now? Oh no, sonny boy, you've got to ask for that, and there's a good chance they won't even have it, but sure as the book is better than the movie, you'll get either ranch dressing, that ridiculous and useless (USE! LESS! IT HAS NO USE!) excuse for a condiment known as honey mustard, or some attack on barbecue sauce from a bottle that tastes like ketchup and Red Vines.
     All because of what you (and I mean it when I say 'you', because for once, I had nothing to do with this) did with ranch dressing! And don't you, even for a minute, try and tell me something equally terrible won't happen with happen with bacon, because it will. We already have bacon flavored vodka, whipped cream, mayonnaise, and toothpaste. There are dresses and scarves and wallets and purses and who knows what else made to look as though they're made out of bacon. The Ranch plague never even made it this far, and it still killed something beautiful. The possibilities of terror here are unimaginable.
     Still unconvinced, are you? Then you try explaining to me how the flavors of maple and bacon have been combined and stuffed into a perfectly innocent doughnut without making it sound as though it is the End of Days. Don't tell me it tastes good, either. That's not food you're tasting, it's collective silliness. And it kills.
   It's a lot like what we did to vampires, a once proud monster of literature and film, now reduced to just being a plot device plugged by hack writers into whatever garbage thing they want. There aren't even any rules to it anymore, like, for example, zombies. Zombies can be fast, they can be slow. It can be a disease, it can be a curse, it can be caused by toxic chemicals. But the general rules still usually apply. They were once living people, they rose from the dead, their bite turns people into zombies, and killing the brain generally takes care of them.
     Not so for vampires, not anymore. They just are whatever people want them to be. Need them to function in the sunlight, once fatal to them? Just make it so they shine like a disco ball instead. Garlic and crosses, once powerful repellents? Nah, forget it. How would they coo sweet sounding but meaningless words to each other over pasta while nothing that could be mistaken for a story happens ever? Or maybe there is a story, but it's just a trashy and unoriginal love story? Make one of those trashy lovers a vampire. Who cares? All the rules are gone, which means people don't write vampire stories anymore, they just write whatever they want and throw vampires into it in the hopes that it will distract people from realizing how terrible and pointless the characters and plot are.
     The one red thread that many of these stories have in common is that vampires are especially prone to falling love with - or at least becoming sexually attracted to- their food. Which is all kinds of creepy, but somehow has managed to capture the libido of many a reader or viewer. This I simply cannot condone, anymore than I could condone a person trying to have sex with a bucket of fried chicken. That is just not what one does with a bucket of  fried chicken. The burns alone are reason enough, really.
     Now, don't get me wrong. I understand the need for our culture to continuously make things extremely popular for a period of time before forgetting about it completely. It's largely what fuels our economy. I know that, just as well as I know that shifting to a more worthwhile economy, one founded on actually making useful and necessary things is hard and thus unlikely. I just think that, eventually, these things need to be released from the spotlight before they die off due to our smothering obsession with them, like Beanie Babies, or the popularity of Meg Ryan. They need to be allowed to return to what they were originally meant to be.
     Thus, I say it's time we moved on to whatever the next thing is going to be, because not only can I not wait to see teenagers and lonely adults fall in love with, say, a mummy who can fly, or an abominable snowman that can hold it's breath for ten years at a time, thus permitting it to be with its one true mermaid love that is decades younger than the snowman, but also because I really don't want to lose bacon. Oh, and ranch dressing is the worst.
     The. Worst.
-John

Not a Repost

     We're all adults here, right? Difficult as it is to be certain about anything in this world, full as it is of illusion and lies, it seems safe enough to speculate that most, if not all, of the populace who count themselves as readers of this bizarre little thing have achieved some level of adulthood. Or, at the very least, have seen an 'R' rated movie or two, and almost definitely would describe themselves as being capable of making their own decisions, even if they dislike being held responsible for them.
     Which, to our collective dismay, we are. Each of us is sadly, regrettably, responsible for the decisions we make, because the best part of being an adult is also the worst:
     As an adult, no one can tell you what to do.
     Sure, some of us may have a boss, or an overbearing relative or significant other, but the decision to obey  lies ultimately with us. Admittedly, freedom from such things comes at a heavy price, one that often includes no small amount of aimlessness and loneliness, but for some unfortunate number of us, it nonetheless appeals as the superior path. Often as not, it's chosen primarily for the silence it provides, and the release from having to hear or consider the input or feelings of other people. People, as we all know, are widely regarded as being the worst, especially by those who operate motor vehicles. Which is why the incentive for interacting with them so eludes many of us.
     Said incentive, already rather an endangered species, is, I regret to inform you, now under a greater threat than ever before. Its already gasping existence is being, at this very moment, further throttled, by a once thought harmless adversary.
     It is known, friends and neighbors, as the Dreaded Repost, and it's day has dawned upon and through us, the unsuspecting masses. Fading in from the digital depths, the Repost is now overpowering the Original Post, abducting those who once wished only to tell the world about the inane minutiae of their day, and transforming them into people who believe they can change the world if they Repost something about how evil immigrants are, or how much fatter one country is than another, or how their glorious deity once carried them around on a beach. Or perhaps the unimportant rantings of a person who claims to desire solitude but constantly makes bids for attention through desperate attempts to disguise irrational anger as humor. I've heard some people do that.
     The Dreaded Repost brings this change about with seductive promises, Which are of course the most appealing sort. It promises us the righteousness of majority, it promises safety in numbers, it promises the satisfaction of successful change in our world. Unfortunately, these promises are false. Reposting does not make us activists, nor does it make us humanitarians, or comedians, or faithful disciples.
     The Dreaded Repost makes us unoriginal, is what it does, often telling us most people won't provide the Repost because of some sort of fear or lack of individuality.
     "Wait!" I can hear the choruses cry, "what about spreading awareness, smart guy?" the multitudes* call to me in unison, searching desperately to defend the Dreaded Repost.
     My reply comes in that longtime favorite and never irksome form of answering a question with a question.
     "What about it?" I say, and then realize I should probably explain. Which I will.
     Think about it for one second, and then read on because an explanation requires more than me just telling people to think about stuff. When a Dreaded Repost rears its ugly head, what do we do? Easy. If it's one we agree with, we give it that much sought after click, feeling reassured that our way is the right one, and quietly rejoicing in the Camaraderie of the Just. Otherwise, we at best ignore it, and at worse react to it negatively, furrowing our brows at the screen and thinking on what an insufferable fool the person who made this Repost must be, wondering why we even bother with them, before forgetting it and getting on with our lives, points of view intact and unchanged, the only awareness successfully spread being the already ubiquitous knowledge that everyone else is a nincompoop.
     I, for one, have even come to find myself longing for the days preceding the rise of the Dreaded Repost, even though they were so full of those once railed against pictures of what people were eating for dinner, or why their job in particular was terrible, or how some ex-significant needs to stop posting all their drama. So, I ask, I implore, I beg and beseech every person the world over, let's put an end to the reign of the Dreaded Repost, and return to a simpler time, one where everyone's idiocy was at least there own to claim.
     Repost if you agree.
-John
   

*Stupid multitudes. Always calling out in unison. How about a round, once in a while, Like "Row, Row, Row your boat?"
   

Ripsnorters and a Humdinger

     Well slap an alligator and run for your life, but it's been a depressing couple of weeks, hasn't it? Robin Williams, Lauren Bacall, Ferguson, bombing Iraq again, and on and on. I don't know about you, friends and neighbors, but I feel like I've been living in a world written by Raymond Carver and Edgar Allan Poe, and narrated by Eeyore the donkey. So what does one do, when confronted by all this weighty, soul dragging news? Give in? Let the world fade into that lifeless gray,drop one's gaze to the ground, and acknowledge that in the biggest of pictures, very little matters and all of it ends?
     Well, sure, eventually, that's what happens. It's called adulthood, and it's mostly defined as the slow process by which all dreams fade from consciousness and reality takes their place, proceeding to drain the mind and body like a parasite.
     But how about we don't do that today? How about if today, this one time, I go completely against type and we just have ourselves a good chuckle at this stupid, silly world we live in, and maybe decide to have a little fun together on this particular Friday? After all, you'll never see this day again (sorry, cheering people up is a new thing for me, this could be a little rocky), so let's spend it making some merry, shall we?
     Or I guess you could just stop reading right now, never knowing what words of joy lie beyond this sentence, doomed instead to a life devoid of inspirational whimsy and wholesome tomfoolery. Spoilsport.
     As for the rest of you, come along, and we'll have us a real ripsnorter of a good time.
     And we're going to start with the Ku Klux Klan.
     Bet you didn't see that one coming.
     Anyway, it turns out that the KKK has become fractured over a fundraiser started by one Charles Murray (who of course goes by Chuck) to support Darren Wilson, the (family friendly adjective not found) police officer in Ferguson who shot and killed Michael Brown. Turns out, ol' Chuck's fundraiser is so distinctly and disturbingly dreadful that the KKK has banished him. That's right, they didn't just take away his sheets and ID card, they full on banished him.
     Which goes to show, that even in organizations as stupid, as destructive, and as fueled by fear and hate, all is not lost. So smile, already.
     Unrelated tip: use the word 'ripsnorter,' or its variation, 'ripsnorting.' It's good for you, and no one does it anymore.
     Okay, let's do a little rapid fire headline and response, how about why not? That always cheers me up.
     Headline:
     "The most annoying thing parents do on planes"
     Response:
     Bring their kids. Don't you act like this wasn't your first thought, either. Even the parents among you thought it.
     Headline:
     "Pig That Menaced Children Seen Again in Maine"
     Response:
     That sounds like someone watched a humdinger of a bad horror movie for the second time. "The Pig That Menaced Children." Or, if you prefer, "Menace Pig."
     Headline:
     "Los Angeles Port Welcomes Massive Rubber Duck"
     Response:
     They'd better. You ever try stopping a massive rubber duck from docking when it has a mind to? You're better off trying to get a pig to stop menacing kids in Maine. Which never ends well in the movies, let me tell you.
     Headline:
     "Lucky Cat Survives 12-story Fall in New York City"
     Response:
     Of course it did, because cats are minions of the one true Satan, who doesn't so much allow his disciples to die as he does call them back to Hell for redeployment.
     And speaking of cats and bad segues, I have one last thing for all of my favorite people, also known as people who don't own or like cats. I know, I know, most of you are cat lovers, and at the start (well, not exactly at the start, but you know what I mean) of this piece I said I was going to cheer you all up, but here's the thing: cats are everywhere, all the time, including the entire internet, and those of us who aren't fans rarely get the opportunity to express ourselves on the subject without receiving shocked looks, remonstrations, and proclamations of feline adoration that often border on the absurd.
     So just this once, shut up and let us have our day. After it's over, you can go cuddle with your kitty and make yourself feel better. I'm sure it will have no true feelings about it either way.
     Because, as I said, they're demons. Here we go.
     First, and real quick, I saw an article that proposed to explain the three most common problems with cats, and how one might go about repairing said. I did not read the article, because I'd already found an answer, which leads to not only a better segue, but also the following.
     Police officers in Florida have captured a twelve foot long python thought to be responsible for a whole slew of missing cats. The python -or hero, perhaps, to some- is "the answer to so many questions," says resident Pamela Dinola, who lost five of her seven cats. Which is too many.
    The seven, I mean, not the five.
    Okay, it's over, you readers of 'Cat Fancy' magazine. Dry those eyes, and remind yourself that your cat is special, and it loves you.
     Even though it isn't, and it doesn't.
     Cheer up, everyone. As for me, I'm going to have a glass of wine and watch "Good Morning, Vietnam."
     Thanks, Robin.
-John

Surely, I Could At Least Steal A Better Python.

   
     I just read an article in which we, you and me and all the other people who live within the largely artificially created borders of these conglomerated states, were universally labeled as narcissists. Now, I feel I can pretty much speak for every other person who resides within said borders when I say, "What? ME? Well, maybe, but everyone else is way worse than me. I'm not that bad. Compared to some of these other people, I could be considered quite great. I mean, come on, I could go online and find a bunch of people way worse. Some of my favorite sites are pretty much only about how awful everyone else is."
      We could say that, and then we could go online and make ourselves feel better by mocking a bunch of people who have done or said or written terrible, stupid, or terribly stupid things. We could also turn on a few reality shows, and bask in the glory of how much better we are as viewers of it than they are as stars of it. Or, we could perhaps realize that doing such things benefits only the creators of them, and instead put in some energy transforming ourselves into the awe inspiring role models we already believe ourselves to be.
     Which sounds like an awful lot of work, and who wants to do that? I think it's easier, and thus obviously better, if we just insist on living our lives by comparing them to the lives of everyone else, because we can always find someone whose terrible deeds receive far more attention than our own.
     And speaking of professional athletes (rimshot!), I could spend an awful lot of digital ink and paper on the NFL alone, considering how its players, coaches, owners and whatnot seem get away with all kinds of nonsense. Spousal abuse, animal abuse, infidelity, drug abuse, even murder. Actually killing other people. Never mind the financial shenanigans, I'm not even going to get into those. But what difference would it make? It's a religion just as much as any other, and if you don't believe me, ask your favorite football fan when they last prayed. I bet you money it was when their team was losing. And yes, yelling at the screen counts, since it has about as much influence on any situation's outcome. We could actually make a real list of all the terrible stuff professional athletes and their management, and not just in the world of football, get away with, and people would still line up to spend insane amounts of money on tickets to games and replica jerseys and poster and autographs. The most we'd be likely to get is a muttered admission that things could be better, and then someone might get suspended for a game or two. And that's not going to make us feel better about us, is it? If we got caught doing most of this stuff, we'd probably go to prison, because we're clearly not as valuable to the world.
     So let's instead focus on some lower level people we can mock, shall we?
     For instance, how about those people who are getting myriad plastic surgeries to make themselves look more like Barbie and Ken dolls? Personally, I only just heard about the Ken doll guy, but after finding out about the so called "Living Barbie" a while back, I wasn't all that surprised. Now, friends and neighbors, this ought to make you feel pretty good about whatever physical imperfections you may be metaphorically or literally flagellating yourself over, because at least you haven't gone so far round that particular bend that you're trying to make yourself look like a toy.
     Thankfully, instead of ignoring these self obsessed people, we've given them news stories and websites, so they can finally get all that attention for which they've so deformed themselves. Even if it is just because of how weird we think they are.
     The only trouble here is that after you take a second to think on it, making fun of these people seems a little pointless, doesn't it? It's actually kind of sad that anyone's claim to fame is an odd obsession with appearance and plastic surgery. So let's try again.
     Oh, how about that woman in New York who crashed her Prius into a firehouse with a snake -which she apparently stole- wrapped around her neck. Right? Wait a minute though; it gets better. The article, after taking a moment to note that fire personnel who were on scene rendered first aid to the woman -remember where she crashed?- goes on to say that officials are uncertain if the crash was caused by intoxication or being strangled by the aforementioned stolen snake, but marijuana was found, because of course it was.
    Oh, and by the way, the woman was charged with reckless driving, driving while intoxicated, unlawful possession of marijuana, reckless endangerment in the second degree and petty larceny. She, and you knew this was coming, decided to plead not guilty.
     Now that makes me feel pretty good about me. There's no way I'd be stealing snakes and crashing Priuses (Priusi? Priusese? Priusts? I don't know, none of these are especially good. How about... Priusauruses, just because why not?) into firehouses. I'd take my Priusaurus (keeping it) and find myself something that needs to be run into by an intoxicated person being strangled by a stolen python.
    Like a spouse abusing professional athlete, for instance.
    Also, as a final detail, the article points out that small ball pythons are smaller and more docile than other types of pythons.It does not say why this is relevant, but I wanted to include it, because it gave me an idea for a title which I liked, and that made me feel pretty great.
-John
   

Food is Good, More is Better

     You know what's great? Food is great. And, by all that is wholly unnecessary, we here in the loosely unionized provinces of America do our best to make it greater, do we not? You bet your biscuits we do. And let me tell you something in exchange for nothing but the time it takes you to read it (which may be more of a bargain for me than it is for you, really,) I couldn't be happier about it. We took the English muffin and turned it into a breakfast sandwich bun, same with the croissant. We even turned pizza and doughnuts into sandwich buns, I've heard but unfortunately not experienced for myself.
     All good ideas, in my book, but I am here today to tell you, and should it listen, the world, that we do more for the culinary arts than just turn everything into a means by which we can consume food that does not necessitate the use of bothersome utensils and plates.
     For example, we can turn food into a receiver of passive aggression, a woman in Connecticut claims. She had a man arrested after he threateningly carved a watermelon at her, because she previously tried to get him arrested for marijuana possession. He was not arrested for said possession, but later, apparently, she found a watermelon on the counter with a knife stuck in it, and then the man came in the room and started carving it, which as everyone knows is a punishable offense. Oddly enough, the article doesn't say anything about their relationship outside of drug possession and fruit murder, leaving me and you (and perhaps the aforementioned world) to wonder whether he was generally allowed in the house in the first place. Perhaps this is truly a matter of domestic unrest, for which a juicy, delicious, innocent watermelon was forced to pay the ultimate price?
     I can't say. What I can say is that our culinary abilities, as a culture and a country, are not limited to violently venting our vexations on vine grown fruits and vegetables.
     We also excel at making foodstuffs way too big. Take for example the long adored and thoroughly treasured taco. You know who loves a taco, friends and neighbors? Every creature who has ever known love, every being who has faced the harshness of this world and managed to keep any quantum of hope intact, every vessel of consciousness that has ever had any honorably conceived notion of goodness and justice, loves a taco. So wait until I tell you that at Ranger's Stadium, in Arlington, Texas, you can purchase for yourself a taco that's two resplendent feet long.
     That's right. Two. Feet. Long. For the first time ever, I understand jealousy. I understand the true concept of envy, and I feel it in the depths of my soul for any and every person who has managed to convince themselves that watching Baseball is an enjoyable pastime. Believe me, if I had one wish now, it would be to join their ranks, so that I might one day myself partake of the myth made real, the Two Foot Taco. Alas, it is once again with great regret I realize that the pointless pastimes I have chosen come not with such rewards, but instead with an extensive knowledge of things that no right-minded person above the age of eight would give a poorly sewn stitch about.
     Woe, thy name is me. Wherever can a man go to salve these feelings of anguish?
     Funny I ask, because I've an answer. Taco Bell has announced its intentions to further push the shimmering, greasy envelope of what can be categorized as food, this time by unleashing upon us their protein packed "Cantina" menu. This, amidst ever increasing numbers of research findings about how high protein diets are surprisingly less healthy than all of those purveyors of proteins both bar and powder previously led us to believe. The fine folks at the Bell, famous creators of Fourth Meal, are even working on the "Cantina" breakfast menu, to go along with the astonishingly successful waffle taco (a sweaty masterpiece of appetence abuse if ever one existed.) It will, of course, include Greek yogurt, because this is a free country, and the health conscious Taco Bell customers deserve to have their trendy appetites sated as well.
     Now, when it comes time for us, as a nation, to stake our claim in the world of comestible innovations, I for one feel secure. I know that we are not the first to make food an art form, nor will we be the last. We are, however, never likely to be surpassed when it comes to making food a victim, making food monstrously big, or, in what is perhaps our greatest towering achievement, stuffing it with huge quantities of meat and calling it a healthier option.
     This, by the way, is what happens when I forget to eat before I sit down to write. Now, someone please get me a giant hamburger with giant tacos as the bun. For glory.
-John
   

Cthulu, who knthewlew?

   
     Brace yourselves, friends and neighbors, because I'm about to take a pretty controversial stance. One that a lot of people aren't going to like (which is why I employed the word 'controversial.') It may even spur some people to action, though admittedly I doubt it, as I haven't managed to do that ever before (still waiting on that Roomba money, you guys.) Okay, consider yourselves warned, because I'm about to get all kinds of in your face.
     To put it simply, I've had enough of this Cthulu business. I know, I can the murmurs of revolt even now, as people the world over simmer with rage at my proclamation.
     So, to put it less simply and thus provide further explanation, well, here is a sizable collection of words, put in a certain order so as to express a particular message.
     For those who have managed thus far to avoid learning of this Chtulu business, allow me to provide an abridged background. Cthulu is a fictional character created by one H.P. Lovecraft, a posthumously admired writer of fictional horror and owner of what is arguably the best name ever for a person who writes fictional horror. Cthulu is a gigantic, super old monster with an octopus like head, a humanoid body with scaly skin, big old scary claws, and of course, wings, because why wouldn't he have wings? If you were a giant fictional monster, you'd probably have wings.
     Anyway, Cthulu apparently lives trapped in an underwater city that isn't Atlantis, but is apparently some other fictional underwater city. It is popularly "believed" that Cthulu will some day return to wreak havoc and generally ruin everything.
     So, what's the problem? Why should I have an issue with some fictional, world ending monster? Well, since you read me asking, allow me to elucidate.
     The problem is that more and more people are using Cthulu as a deity for ironic worship, in order to, one assumes, to make fun of people who worship a deity with sincerity. Now, as anyone who has spoken or may speak to me for any length of time, or has heard or may hear stories in which I am involved, or has read or may read of me knows, I appreciate, to put it mildly, any and all skilled uses of sarcasm and satire. The problem is, that's not truly what transpires here.
     What this is, what it has turned into, is yet another opportunity for a group of people to wrap themselves in the same kind of smug condescension in which one often finds the truly devout enveloped. The self satisfied smirk of those in the know sits just as readily and agreeably on the faces of the Cthulu Praising Idolators of Irony as it does the Televangelists, or the Bible Thumping Homophobes, or the Celebrity Scientologists.
    Which is the problem. How long before the irony turns serious, and these self-contented supplicants of sardonicism expect us to take them seriously? Not as long as one might think, I'd wager. Just look at the aforementioned Scientology, eh? Even today's most prominent religions largely started out as minor theologies, their followers often mocked, ignored, or worse, before it managed to attain the lofty heights of overbearing cultural influence they now enjoy. Sure, sure, the disciples of Cthulu are seemingly less devoted, opting not to aggressively spread their beliefs by means of tracts, outspoken leaders, and occasional religiously justified violence, instead choosing to make and sell stickers, T-shirts, knit caps and the like over the internet, but that's how it all starts, people.
     No good ideology begins with consumer merchandise.
     Although, starting with the internet does seem a pretty good move, when you think about it.
     And what will the rest of us do, we chaste and charitable few, when a true manifesto appears? When some charismatic leader, clad in a reclaimed sweater, comfortable slacks and a bow tie (this part is particularly speculative)comes forth with a defined Dogma of the Church of Cthulu, which he or she will read from his or her holy tablet computer, almost certainly fit inside a case that makes it look like an old book, what then? How may steps is it from this to honest lobbying (well, maybe not honest exactly, but you know what I mean,) to weird little separatist communes?
     Realize and remember, things like this always start small, until what we may politely call a "visionary" takes control of it. And I, for one, have no interest in seeing what it looks like when people begin to expect to be taken seriously for their commitment to irony.
     Seriously.
-John

St. John the Amenable, Again(able)

     Again I return, after an extended excursion into the astral plain in search of justice and otherworldly virtue, and what do I, your patron saint of Must You Torment Me With This, find when I arrive? To what have I borne witness, despite all of my well intended and perfectly thought out suggestions from times gone by? Why, I find the world continuing on as though I'd never pointed out the dangers, nor illuminated the limitations placed on the minds of those who recalcitrantly refuse to refrain from utilizing nonsense vocalizations, such as 'totes' or 'yolo' or some other term I could only imagine in the darkest of horrors of my most harrowing dreams.
     Yet my resolve remains intact, friends and neighbors! I shall not capitulate to the demands of the dunces among us, simply because the have the majority! I shall not heed their arguments of "but it's easier to type on my phone," or "language is a living, growing thing, and new words come up all the time, and you should get over it, already."
    Nay, I declare, I will not "get over it, already!" I will not allow this living, growing thing, to be mangled so by the intellectual toxin known as "text speak." I will not have it! 'U' is not a substitute for 'you,' nor is 'R' the same as 'are' or 'our.' This path is one of linguistic putrefaction, and I would and do advise against it. All living things die, and thus our manner of communication must eventually whither away as well, most likely taken over by binary code, or simply eradicated along with the species that used it, but surely we can permit it to pass peacefully, can we not?
    Now that's settled, and we've all agreed to never use letters that are not words as words, we can move on to a few other items on my infinitely increasing index of things people do and say and think that your goodly saint wishes they wouldn't, and unfortunately I must revisit one or two things that I once believed we had, like Polio or Smallpox, mostly sent off, cast eternally from our collective compendium of communication.
     For example, if one is having an experience which they find to be droll, and from this experience they find instilled in themselves a measure of mirth, then said person is 'amused.' Now, if that same person, at presumably a different time, has an experience which, metaphorically speaking, knocks them about the head and face with a summer squash and subsequently asks them for a dollar, that same person could be said to be 'bemused.'
      As an aside, if this same individual was literally assaulted with a gourd of the summer months and then entreated for money, said individual would very likely not be amused, though they could be bemused, because these words mean two different things. Also, this person would probably press charges.
     Also, I feel the time for the phrase 'that's just no' has passed. It has been given ample time to prove its worth, and has failed to catch on, or attain any true place of respect. Besides, few things in this life are in fact, just no, and it largely remains fair for people to request reasons for one's beliefs and opinions.
     Now, because I am a benevolent saint, I have brought something from the ether for you all besides the usual tirade of belittling certain words and phrases simply because they lack credulity, or otherwise annoy me. I brought something fun.
     No, really. I did.
     As many of you know, I generally refrain from using what some people refer to as 'off color' language in this, my written rant. This is not... exactly... the case when I express myself aloud. Indeed, such language, which is also referred to as 'blue,' which makes yours truly wonder why blue is an off color, often finds gainful employment in my phraseology, but for reasons which are my own, they don't tend to show up here.
     I bring this up because I was recently reminded of how movies get censored for television, and the amazing lines that get substituted in. My two new favorites, and as such are officially sanctioned articulations, are "Who the hey are you?" and "Man the huck up!"
     I like former merely for the sweetness of its sonority. The latter, however, seems to me that one is being told stand up for what he or she believes in, as would Huckleberry Finn, albeit after some deliberation.
      So join me, won't you, whoever the hey you are, and release yourself from the confinement of shorthand typing and treating words with different definitions as identical and interchangeable items of intonation. Especially when they are literally not the same word. Man the huck up, and enjoy whichever language you speak with a little enthusiasm. I give you my holy guarantee, your endeavors will be met with many bemused looks, and every once in an epic while, you will literally see a look of amusement upon the face of a person who understands. It's lots of fun.
-St. John the Amenable, patron saint of That's Not What That Means!

Not a Lot Going On, Really...

     At first, I admit, I was having trouble finding an idea for this week. I really was. I thought about doing a thing about guns, because I've quite simply had enough of all this lead laden insanity. School shootings are happening so much that the even emotional vampires that pass themselves off as today's journalists can't seem to force their faces into that "frowning at tragedy" look they all get. Plus, we've got those open carry proponents, walking around with their guns out while they do their shopping and dining and whatever else most people do everyday without turning a deadly weapon into a fashion accessory. How carrying guns around and scaring everyone shows the world these people care about personal freedom is beyond me, because let me tell you something for nothing, friends and neighbors, any world where people feel the need to take a gun to buy their hot dogs and apple pies is not a free one.
     But what's the point in arguing with them? Why try and point out the hypocrisy? Seems a little too far gone, doesn't it? They've already committed themselves wholeheartedly to a viewpoint that insists the best way to keep people from getting shot is to give everyone a gun.
     So I decided not to get into it, and kept looking.
     Wanna know what I found? I found a bunch of stuff, and it ranges all over. Want an example? Here's an example: Gwyneth Paltrow says that negative words hurt water's feelings. For real. This was an article. In real life, written by an actual person. Which is when I thought about getting into how ridiculous celebrities are, but immediately realized that everyone knows that already, and who cares anyway? It's bad enough that some other poor soul had to write that article and put his or her name to it, no sense me dirtying myself with such inanity.
      Thus, onward I looked, searching for a spark of inspiration in the dark abyss of public consciousness.
      Soon, I came upon a group of headlines, and I noticed something odd. There was one, reading as follows: "P90X guy critiques Obama's form." This was right immediately above another one, namely "G7 leaders warn Moscow." To elucidate, for the unaware: the P90X is yet another in a long line of home exercise trends, and anyone known as "The P90X guy" should shut up about everything, because his life is already over. The G7 leaders are a group of the world's most powerful heads of state, and they were warning Moscow about all the weird stuff Russia seems to be up to these days.
      Hold on to that for a moment, dear reader, because more is on the way.
      I also saw a headline for an article about Mariah Carey's new album sales, right next to one about violence against women. Also on this list of interesting pairings I have included  "What Burgers and Baby Wipes Have in Common," which was saddled up next to "BP Oil Spill Could Happen again." And, just this morning, just this very morning, I say, without even trying, I find "Nick Diaz: 'Anderson Silva Should Fire His Trainer'" right above -above, mind you- "Woman Who Drove With Dying Man on Car Gets Prison."
     Now, I don't know who Nick Diaz is, or why he thinks Anderson Silva's trainer is doing a bad job of preparing Anderson Silva to do whatever it is Anderson Silva is training himself to do. Probably it's some sort of cage fighting thing, but for all I know or care he could be training up his ability to make water cry.
What I do know is I care about it a lot less than I do the about the story about the woman with a dying man on her car, or what the world plans to do with Russia, or the potential of another giant oil spill.
     So I thought to Myself -you might remember him-, "Hey, maybe I could write about how silly it is that all categories of news seem to be just melting together, and how the blurring up of all this stuff makes it all seem unimportant, and thus, in my opinion, is contributing to a less informed and less effective populace, one that could be more easily used and manipulated by the corrupt and powerful. What do you think?"
     To which Myself dutifully replied, "Well, it's an interesting point, and one I'm not, being you, inclined to disagree with. Although, My Favorite of All Champions Past, Present, and Future, Including But Not Limited To Hector, Hercules, Harrys both Potter and of 'Harry and the Hendersons' Fame, most people probably won't really care, so I recommend you just come up with a really long and mildly amusing nickname for yourself, and be done with it."
     This was, I found, a persuasive argument, and as I hadn't really come up with anything substantial anyway, I agreed.
     Tune in next week, as St. John returns!
-John

Unannounced and Unexpected Hiatus Over

   
   
     So, after what in our timeline has been just over two months, I have returned. Don't fret yourself about why I was gone, just be glad I'm back. (I have come to believe that the best way to ensure the gladness of others at one's return is to instruct said others to be so. Pretty sure it works.) Trouble is, I'm a little backlogged with the stuff of rambles over here. A lot has happened in the world, and I'm just all full of  fragments that need to get out before I my insides get all cut up and I keel over in the shredded pain of malcontention. So, here's what's going to happen:
    We, you and me and everyone you can bother enough to make them break down and read this so you can marvel at (or hate. Whichever.) it all in one another's company, are just going to rip through a bunch of stuff all at once. Call it a clearing of my mental house, some late spring cleaning, as it were. Or is. You pick. Wait, wait...let's call it.. The May Miscellany. Now it's a proper thing, and not just some gimmicky excuse for me not to have to build a bigger theme. What? No, I said it's not that. What's your favorite color?
     Okay quick, let's jump in before you realize what I've done!
     I think it's odd that the word 'overcompensate' pretty much only gets used in one context anymore, just because it's the only joke anyone bothered to come up with about guys who buy ridiculous vehicles.
     Next.
     Did you guys hear they found another most giant dinosaur ever a few weeks ago? In Argentina? Huge, they say. Huge. I know you've all heard about it, but I figured I'd bring it up anyway.
     Dinosaurs, you guys.
     Onward.
     They declared martial law in Thailand earlier this month, which is perhaps the most stark reminder I've heard recently that the whole world is still nuts. What I do like is that the populace is handling this situation by taking selfies ("Worst Word of 2013" winner, awarded by the Good Lord People Are Awful Committee, and one that my spell checking software still benevolently assures me is not a word) with the troops that have appeared at important Bangkok intersections. I love this story so much, for reasons I can't fully explain, that if it showed up and declared itself in charge of my life, I'd take a self portrait with it via the camera in my phone.
     Ahead we trudge, friends and neighbors, bound together through the honor in our intent.
    Can anyone tell me how these so called 'huggers' feel it's okay to disregard the feelings of those who prefer the handshake, or the now unheard of not touching me at all greeting. How did this happen? When was it agreed that if someone extends their hand, a hugger is allowed to say some inane thing, like "Sorry, I'm a hugger!" and seize me in such a manner?
     Look, I hug some people, okay? I hug my family, friends I haven't seen in a while, sure. But if this is, say the second time we've met, and I put that hand out there, you don't have the right to slap it out the way, pull me close, and hug me like I'm a flotation device and you're the lone survivor of an oceanic plane crash.
     It makes some people uncomfortable, and it's not okay for huggers to disregard that just because they're "so full of love" or whatever. If you're such a fan of people, maybe you ought to consider their feelings before you force your hug upon them.
     Perhaps we can compromise. Maybe the high five? I could make do with a high five. How much fun would that be? Say a big group of people is getting together all at once, instead of just a bunch of hugs and people standing around, you get to throw in a mix of high fives. It would add to the visual, I think, and put some texture in the overall audio buzz of the crowd.
     Just  a thought. Shall we proceed?
     I honestly don't care what political view a person takes. I really don't. Both the Red Staters and the Blue Staters do and say some pretty silly things when they get together and start bellowing out their virtues and patriotically prosaic platitudes, and anymore all I hear is what I expect the color gray to sound like.
     But I do think we, as a nation, should agree to be done with Karl Rove. Can we all board that boat, please? He's just a mean, mean human being, and seemingly believes all goals can be reached through personal attack and the sewing of discord. I try to keep my language clean (and if I can manage it, interesting) in this thing, but that guy... makes it tough. But I'm gonna save it, because someday, somehow, you never know, I might get the chance to say it to his face, and that's the kind of relish a guy can wait for.
     Oh! Hey! You know what you don't see a lot of? Air harmonica. Do you think it would be like when cartoon characters eat corn really fast?
     This is how my brain works, people. Lots of jumps.
     It seems like every other day now there's a news story on my homepage about professional wrestling. Either stock has fallen, or there's a new champion, or (today) there's an article about a wrestler who died years ago. What's going on here? I used to to watch professional wrestling, I admit it. But that doesn't explain why it's suddenly popping up in the news feed. And it's always an article from some site that claims to be a business site, which is just bonkers, is what that is.
     Though I admit it does a pretty good job of illustrating our wacky sense of culture.
     Okay, one last thing, and then it's back to the world with you:
     That Dinosaur from earlier? It's called a Titanosaur. You guys, it was huge.
-John

A Toast to Better Health

 
     Mercy on a rice cake, we're a fat country, aren't we? You know we are, because every couple of months or so, there's another new diet that everyone needs to get on. Not to mention all those people talking about how fat we are, and what they can do for us to help obatin that summer body we're all so desperately in need of but thoroughly incapable of obtaining for ourselves. I mean, it's been made pretty clear to all of us at this point that the only thing keeping us from true happiness, even keeping the planet from achieving universal harmony, is a flat stomach and a three minute mile, right?
     And it's not like we don't try. Acai berry smoothie after juice cleanse after cave man diet after legal versions of speed pills, we spend -and I actually looked this up- somewhere in the neighborhood of $35 billion a year on diet products. That's a lot of big tubs of powder with words like 'creatine' and 'mass' on them, right there. Unfortunately, none of it works, because sweaty people in workout clothes are always showing up on TV and letting us know that we're still too fat and generally terrible. Of course, their credibility is instantly ruined, because they always end up trying to sell us something with their picture on it. Sure, we still buy it, due to a need to support our economy along with moments of personal weakness, but we know by now that none of it works. In our clogged and suffering hearts, we know.
     But where does that leave us, the as yet overweight and thus isolated from true happiness general public? Whatever are we to do, if all provided options turn out to be worthless, and we have no recourse which we can undertake on our own?
     And here, friends and neighbors, is where we at JohnCo. ride in, shiny not with sweat from a hard work out, but with the knowledge of exactly what we all want, which is a fun and easy solution that requires surprisingly little effort.
     Oh yes, we've got an plan, and it just might be the answer to all of our prayers. It's something we've been developing for years, as have many of you, even though you may not have put it together just yet. Please, allow us here at JohnCo. to fill in those gaps, and then we can all finally, at long last, achieve that special nirvana reserved only for the physical fit.
     It's called the Hangover Weight Management System, and right about now many of you are beginning to understand exactly how you've already been working on it for years. Welcome aboard. Here's how it works:
     First, you have to start getting really drunk. Like really drunk. This is the fun part, so be sure to enjoy it. Watch out for walls though, both the metaphorical kind that runners hit, and actual walls. They get tricky sometimes. You are of course free to use any kind of alcohol to reach this state, but quantity is key here in order to reach maximum efficiency. Don't listen to that voice in your head -or behind the bar- telling you it's okay to slow down. This is the voice of laziness and defeat, the voice of cowardice. Ignore it.
     By now, if you've followed the instructions correctly, you are highly intoxicated. An unfortunate side effect of this is that you will want to eat things that are terrible. Fortunately, you will soon see that this diet plan contains a way to take care of that, so by all means, eat up. However, you must also consume at least three more beers. Beers in the Hangover Weight Management System are admittedly like those nutrition shakes in other so called 'diet plans' we won't mention by name, except unlike those diet shakes, beers work. Now, it's bed time. Get some rest, we'll see you in the morning, when the diet really kicks in.
     The first things you're going to notice in the morning are the unfortunate side effects. These are going to include severe headaches, like the ones that make people cry, a feeling of weakness throughout the body, a stubborn refusal on the part of your eyes to accept incoming light, and a general distaste for existence.
     By the way, we at JohnCo. acknowledge that these side effects are unappealing, but at least we're being honest about it, unlike some other companies. As an additional by the way, some of you may have noticed that vomiting and diarrhea are not listed in the side effects. That's because what we prefer to brand as "involuntary toxin expulsion" is not a side effect, but is in fact the next step in the Hangover Weight Management System.
     Involuntary Toxin Expulsion is the body's way of eliminating, sometimes with enthusiasm, those things it does not need to function. This will include the aforementioned late night feedings. This stage is where all the work gets done, and as promised, it will require little effort on your part, as it will happen regardless of  your willingness to take part. Though you may, as they say, "feel the burn." The time one spends in the Involuntary Toxin Expulsion stage depends directly on how much one commits to the first stage in the plan, with truly rewarding sessions sometimes lasting for multiple days.
     Once this is done, some -but by no means all- of the side effects may subside. However, we here at JohnCO. do not want to give you false hope -because unlike those other guys, we respect your intelligence and simply care too much to lie to you-, this is not a guarantee. Results will vary.
     At the end of this process, if it has been done correctly, your stomach, and indeed the very core of your being, will insist that you be extremely careful about what you eat. We refer to this as a state of 'Gastrointestinal  Paranoia,' or 'Gasanoia' for short. Keeping your body in a state of Gasanoia is the ultimate goal of the Hangover Weight Management System, and we here at JohnCo. know it can be maintained by a steady cycle of the previously discussed stages.
     We at JohnCo. would also like to wish you luck, as well as remind you that this system has not been approved by the FDA, but that does not make it illegal, which means it will probably work. Also, we are not liable for any terrible things that may happen, including impaired judgement, liver disease, waking up in strange places next to strange people, any and all instances of prematurely ceasing to be, as well as any previously mentioned side effects.
     Now, drink your way to a better you, as always, friends and neighbors, a sincere thank you from JohnCo., where all we want is for you to be better than you are.
-John
 

The Hairy, the Toothy, and the Black Beating Hearts

     Here we are again, friends and neighbors, and I welcome you one and  all. I think it's time to once again delve into the dark and strange business of weird and possibly funny stories, and boy, do I have some stuff for you. Some pretty good stuff, involving a controversial sculpture (which I did not sculpt) of Jesus, a unexpected tumor (which is not mine,) and a few other things that have very little to do with me, or you, most likely, but may interest you nonetheless.
     Or maybe they won't. But they might. Let's just say they will, that way everyone (me) wins. Fair?
     Fair like the maidens in the stories about yore.
     Okay, first we're gonna run through a few things real quick, because that's what I feel like doing.
     Hey, remember that one time when I wrote about how some science people were going to try to clone a Woolly Mammoth? Well, turns out they're still going to try and do it, and they (the science people) seem pretty sure they can. Which is why I'd like to remind everyone that my birthday is in June, and I could use a pet that doubles as the coolest thing a person could have.
     Also, speaking of presents and things I've written about before, still waiting on that Roomba money, people.
     Quick one the next, I found an article entitled 'The Science of the Selfie.' I didn't read it, because of course I didn't read it. Please forgive me if I refuse to think of everyone with a camera on their phone as a scientist. Next.
     I found an article entitled 'Shoot! NASA has More Bad News About Arctic Ice and Global Warming.' This was pretty much exactly what the title says it is, ice is melting and global warming is happening and is still bad for us. However, I don't see the word 'shoot' used as an exclamation in the title of a news article very often, and I thought it was worth mentioning.
     Also, global warming is bad. Cut it out.
     Final quick one, and then we get to tumors and Jesus. This one's called 'Red and Dead Galaxies Have Beating Black Hole "Hearts," Preventing Star Formation.' Now I won't go into specifics, but I will say if you like space stuff (which you should,) find it and read it. I just brought it up because the title is amazing.
     Beating black hole hearts? Come on.
     Okay, now we get to the meaty stuff, the really crazy stuff. First, the tumor. Check this out:
     Doctors in Maryland found a tumor in the brain of a four month old child. First things first, the tumor has been removed and the child is fine. But wait, as they say, there's more.
     The tumor had fully grown teeth in it.
     That's right, your eyes do not deceive you, and neither do I. Fully grown human teeth. In a tumor. In a brain. For real. On this planet. And everything.
     Screwy.
     Okay, last one, and it's about (as promised) Jesus. More accurately, it's about a sculpture of Jesus in South Carolina. Yet more accurately still, it's about a sculpture of Jesus, wrapped in a blanket, and sleeping on a park bench like a homeless person. The idea, which seems pretty clear to me, is to remind us that Jesus is on the side of the marginalized. You can get one, if you want, for a little under $3,000.
     But the real fun here is that the particular one in question, which lies (literally) in front of a church in South Carolina, has given some really outstanding people the chance to show us all that one doesn't need a brain full of teeth to have an interesting mind. One lady, who I just don't want to name because I don't, complained about this representation because, as she says, "Jesus is not a vagrant. Jesus is not a helpless person who needs our help. We need someone who is capable of meeting our needs, not someone who is also needy."
     Never mind the actual point of the sculpture, and never mind how she's clearly missed it, and never mind whatever personal insecurities she may or may not be (but definitely is) exposing here. What I want to know is how she can rationalize going on television to defend her savior by saying he doesn't need anyone's help? Is this what Selfie Science is? Did I misjudge that article?
     ...nah.
     Oh, she also mentions that the first time she saw it she called the police, because she thought it was a real homeless person. Which is beautiful.
     However, unlike the Jesus in question, she is not on her own and in need of assistance. There are other like minded individuals in the neighborhood, including one who wrote a letter to the local news website, in which he explained that  his objection was about people visiting this nice, pretty neighborhood and seeing an "ugly homeless person sleeping on a park bench. It is also about walking by this sculpture at night and (dig this) passing within a few inches of the grim reaper."
     Can you believe that? The grim reaper! Terrifying, indeed.
     But my favorite part of the letter is this part, which I will now relate to you, so it can be your favorite part as well: " I have stepped over actual homeless people sleeping on a sidewalk in New York City and not been as creeper out as I am walking past this sculpture."
     I put that in italics, I love it so.
     By the by, if you ever encounter anyone who has trouble understanding the concept of irony...
-John

Stuffed Bears and Such.

     So here we find ourselves yet again, friends and neighbors, on what is possibly the most grudgingly observed of holidays, with so many significant others running around trying to find some stuffed sort of fauna or collection of prearranged flora that will appropriately make up for the other 364 days of the year in which partners are taken for granted. It is indeed a time for "love," and if I could further emphasize the quote marks on that, perhaps capitalize them or something, you'd best believe I would. I, being unattached and thus with plenty of free time on this day, have decided to sit down and expound on something that isn't this day. I am, in fact, going in quite the opposite direction, as I intend to bring to your awareness a few people that seem to have made it their business to not deserve any of the aforementioned flora and fauna of love this year.
     Don't worry though (because I'm sure you were,) it'll still be fun. Now let's get to it!
     We begin, as we must, with Billy Ray Cyrus. I know, no one likes to begin with him, or finish with him, or put him somewhere in the middle. Unfortunately for us though, we must, because I already wrote it. Ol' Billy Ray, much to the world's mortification, has re-released his claim to fame, this time as a rap song.
     Just marinate on the concept for a second, and then we'll move along.
     Okay, onward.
      Now granted, it wasn't his idea, this gem instead being the brainchild of rapper Buck 22, but still. It happened, and there's a video, and ultimately the blame remains with Billy Ray, or as I like to call him, William Raymond. This is so because not only did he approve, he even appears in the video, getting beamed aboard a spaceship in order to party with the space ladies, who are dressed about like you would think. Not that I watched it, oh no. No no. I just read about it, I swear. Believe me, that's plenty, in my book.
     And before anyone starts harping on me about judging something before I actually put myself through it, take another second and think on it, wont' you? It's "Achy Breaky Heart" as a rap song, with William Raymond Cyrus at a party on a spaceship. I can't even force myself to watch that on an ironic level, and if you can, I think it may be time for you to shave your handlebar mustache, trade in your thick black framed glasses, and let this fad of only doing things for the sake of irony be done. Remember, we all eventually become the thing we mock most. And you do not want to be William Raymond ( I don't even know why, but that 'William Raymond' thing really gives me the chuckles.)
     Moving on.
     Next we've gotta talk about Drake, even though I really wish we didn't, but I picked this topic, so I guess I'm stuck with it. This fellow has done us all the favor of complaining vociferously about how he was booted from the cover of Rolling Stone, despite having given an interview and everything, which he claims he will never do again (oh how, oh how, oh how will we go on.) The reason Drake lost out on his coveted cover?
     Philip Seymour Hoffman died, and Rolling Stone put him on the cover instead, to go with a memorial article. Drake confessed to being "disgusted" with this turn of events, and declared the press to be evil.
     Though he did say, in that same tweet, "All respect due." and "R.I.P." So, you know, everything's okay, right? Boy, I sure do hope poor Drake has someone to help him through these times of tragedy and adversity. Maybe he'll use this pain, so wrongly inflicted on him, to fuel his next album, since he's at least alive to make one.
     And finally, because I always save my favorite piece of candy in the box for last, is the always entertaining and obviously honorable Senator Rand Paul, who has earned his spot here because of an article I read entitled "Rand Paul Leads Attack on Hilary Over Lewinsky Affair." In it, Senator Paul says that Democrats should return any money raised on their behalf by Bill Clinton, in order to protest the affair he had back before everyone had a cell phone. Otherwise, claiming to be the party of women's rights would be hypocritical. Because of his affair. I do like how this kind of highlights that Republicans don't make that claim themselves. This way they can keep any money raised by their adulterers without pretense, since they don't have any strong claims involving marriage.
     But that, as silly and desperate as it is, is really just another political attack, sure to be washed in the deluge as things ramp up for 2016. What's especially, jarringly, glaringly interesting here is that through a number of pieces of correspondence between Hilary and her then best friend, Diane Blair, the Honorable Senator of Kentucky and his equally distinguished colleagues are trying to paint Hilary as a ruthless and too politically ambitious human being.
     Talk about  hypocritical.
     The examples they're using, based on what I read, include things like Hilary making derogatory statements about Lewinsky, as well as taking some measure of enjoyment in the fact that at the time of the affair, it really irked some of her enemies that she and Bill didn't make any problems his affair caused their marriage a big crazy public spectacle. This apparently makes her cold and emotionless, because as we all know thanks to reality television, the only way a real person would behave when confronted with infidelity is to make the biggest scene possible, in order to get viewers.
     My disdain for Senator Paul after reading this article has grown immensely, to the point where instead of making a final joke about what a miserable and self destructive political maneuver this was, I'm just going to put a another quote from Hilary's correspondence used in this article:
     "I'm a proud woman." "I'm not stupid." I know I should do more to suck up to the press, and I know it confuses people when I change my hairdos. I know I should pretend not to have any opinions. But I'm just going to."
     Now that deserves some fluffy fauna and prearranged colorful flora, right there.
-John
   
     
   

The Return of St. John the Amenable!

     After many months abroad (one month,) and many more months of introspective laziness (many more than one,) the return of Saint John the Amenable, Patron Saint of This Kind of Behavior Makes Us All Look Bad and I Wish It Would Stop, is upon us, friends and neighbors. I have, you may have noticed (not that I'd bet money on it,) been absent from the public forum, leaving humanity to wallow in the linguistic blood of its insistent butchery, cleaving at the spoken and written word with the brutal precision that non-words like 'totes' and 'lolz' and the simply putrid 'yolo' provide. And I, humble and modest and forgiving as I am, had spoken not a word against it in some time, seeking instead my own personal solace (did not find.)
     No longer. No longer shall I feign my indifference, hiding behind gentle smiles of tolerance when I hear things like 'exspecially' and 'sherbert' and 'everyone should just speak english.' I have returned from my soul searching (meh) in the wilderness, all hairy and unkempt, like an angst-ridden superhero in the beginning of a cinematic reboot.
     So what has brought about my return, you ask? What has called me from my hermitage, to stand before you all, once again ready and willing to defy the darkness with my shining beacon of resolved refusal, punctilious persistence, and energy efficient light?
     Because Oxford Dictionaries chose the word 'selfie' as its word of the year, that's why.
     Now don't get me wrong; it's not, as has often been the case, because I object to the existence of the word. Verily, I do not. In fact, despite, or perhaps because of, how phonetically obnoxious it is, I find it one of the more useful new words to be created in recent years. This is because, and I believe I am not alone here, I find it hard to apply the more dignified term 'self portrait' to these photos, especially when so many of them have toilets in the background.
     So, as a word, it's appropriate enough, even though the necessity of it chafes a bit. Word of the year, though? Just because it's the word we choose to label the most ubiquitous display of human vanity we currently employ, does that mean it should be used to define the year? Surely, and for the sake of that self same vanity, we can find something that wouldn't expose us so fully, and with so little photo correction. So I went looking, and sure as geese love ganders, I found some things.
     First, I found that Merriam Webster had picked a word of the year as well, and that word was 'science.' At first I liked it, because hooray for science. My joy was quickly dissolved, however, because it turned out the Merry men and women of Merriam had made their selection because it had the greatest increase in look-ups. Coming from people that make their living off a book used for looking up words, that seems a tad too self-serving for a Saint such as myself. Self-serving 'science' serves no one in the end, people. Especially since so many people actually had to look it up.
     Meanwhile, over at Dictionary the Dot Com, the word of the year was designated to be 'privacy.' This is obviously right out as a serious contender, considering how little of it actually existed in its assigned year. Sorry, 'privacy,' maybe when people stop posting selfies and 'checking in' to any and every single place they happen to find themselves, you can try again.
     So we find ourselves once again stranded, I'm afraid. Lost little lambs, languishing and longing, lonely for legitimate locution. 'Selfie,' appropriately enough, doesn't quite leave enough to the imagination. 'Science,' as many of our faith based populace will enthusiastically tell you, is a bit too self-serving and biased. And choosing 'privacy' is just as ridiculous as demanding it via the internet. So, if the vanity of 'selfies,' the self service of 'science', and the disqualification of 'privacy' all get proposed, but ultimately fail, to wholly represent a year, what word should we use? Vanity, self-service, and a total lack of privacy... hmmm...
     Hey, I've got one! Yes, yes, I think I do, and I, as your (self-appointed) apocrisiary of articulation, shall provide it post-haste.
     I suggest the word 'tracasserie,' a noun, from the french, meaning "a turmoil; annoyance."
     I wonder how many people were expecting me to say 'internet.'
     I thought about it.
-St. John

The Contest You Probably Forgot About Returns!

    Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, frenemies and enemiends, it is time. Time once again for that not so long gone and not so annual and not so official or recognized by anyone and not so consistently named  Best Country on Earth Contest! We have, as always, previously narrowed our entries down to three and then selected our winner, based on the very strict rules put in place by and known only to the judges (the judges are me, and the rules are whatever I say.) So now, dearest of dear readers, and also everyone else, we shall waste no more time!
       For our second runner up, we travel to beautiful and hospitable Mexico, specifically to Michoacan, where civilian vigilantes have reportedly taken over another town, wrestling it from the hands of the Knights Templar, which is a drug trafficking gang, not an actual group of knights. That might have given them the win, based on the mental images alone. However, the interesting thing here is that the article, and subsequently I, used the word 'another' instead of the article 'a.' This is because vigilante groups have been doing this since February of 2013.
     Turns out, these vigilante groups claim that local authorities were either unable or unwilling to stop the Knights Templar (again: drug gang, not actual knights), so they (the civilian vigilantes) got all "Nah, son!" and started fighting back. The federal government has since stepped in to try and disarm the vigilante groups, with critics alleging a sponsorship from rival drug cartels, as well as possession of illegally obtained firearms.
     The militia groups, who have now taken around 20 towns, have yet to disarm, even though leadership has become somewhat divided over the issue. Either way, things are heating up, and could get pretty crazy. So, Mexico gets third prize, because vigilantism may be a dangerous and morally questionable thing, but movies prove it sure is entertaining, and crazy vigilantism even more so.
     Now then, on to our first runner up, that great big frozen bear of a mother, Russia. Host to the impending 2014 Winter Olympics, Russia has recently been searching for three women who are suspected of planning attacks on said competitive gaming event. This led to an article, which our judges were led to read, which led to Russia getting the number two spot in this glorious competition. That's how it works, in case that was somehow unclear.
    The article referred to these female terrorists as "black widows." It also went on to explain that Russia has quiet a history of female terrorist attacks, particularly in the field of suicide bombing, despite its high turnover rate. I, your humble host of this wondrous contest, will refrain from going into too much detail, because mostly it's kind of gory. I will note, however, that one of these bombs, from an incident that occurred a couple of years back, which was connected to a cell phone, went off early due to a spam text, proving once again that texting is awful.
     Admittedly, suicide bombing in and of itself is certainly not enough to earn one a spot on this list, but commendations must be made for an especially unique achievement in gender equality. Thus, second place.
     Finally, with bated breath and trembling fingers, we arrive at our champion. The shining light, the center of all, the one and only. Our winner, for an inaccurate and arbitrarily picked 137th time, is China!
     China! China! China!
     Fan favorite and odds-on choice in Vegas, China wins again. And not just because of the way they and Japan have been messing with each other in the news again, even going so far as to call each other Voldemort. Voldemort, that's right. These are government officials we're talking about, people, calling each other by the name of the main villain in a story about wizards and witches. Sure, it's an undeniably great story, and beloved the world over by adults and children alike, but can you even wrap your ever loving mind around the fact that people with actual authority are using it to insult each other on an international level?
     Sure, of course you can. A fact which is not without meaning.
     But never mind that for now, because as I said it's not why China wins. Think on that on your own time; consider it a literary after dinner mint, for which you are welcome.
     China wins for two reasons: One, a government official was recently sentenced to death for accepting over a million dollars in bribes. Now, the judges would like me to point out for them that the sentence is not the reason, but rather the successful prosecution of a corrupt official. They would also like me to remind you all that there is a second reason, even though I just mentioned that at the beginning of this paragraph. A fastidious group, these judges.
     The second reason China is and remains our World Champion of the World is because China is also prosecuting a man named Xu Zhiyong, who is a leading member of the "New Citizen's Movement," which is a group that advocates bringing about change by working withing the system. Among their goals is -here it comes- pressing officials to disclose their assets in an attempt to rid the government of corruption.
     For real. This is why China always wins this thing, you guys. Vigilante groups? Nice. Letting women take part in attacks on people? Gracious and egalitarian, sure. But having a government make an effort to root out corruption while simultaneously arresting and jailing people who are trying to get said government to do exactly that? That's a winning strategy if ever there was one.
     And there we have it! The judges would to thank you all for once again attending, as well as conducting yourselves in a relatively well behaved manner. Though they would like me to point out that this is traditionally a formal gathering, and in the future some of you may want dress more appropriately. You know who you are. I, as always, bid you a kind but not overly so farewell, and remain:
-John