To A Frenemy:

Frenemy

That game we play, you always win.

No matter how skilled, how talented, how strong I am, I always accept defeat. Your rules are bent to serve you. Our limits are meant to serve you.

Even if your habit is to broadcast your victories as loudly as possible and make them known as far as you can; from here to the opposite side of the world, still my wins are visible in the sheer volume, the abundance of them. Call them yours or not. You may have the guns, but I have the numbers.

No matter how often my standards are voiced, you shout them down to boost your sub-standards. It’s like a really loud garage band, insisting that their every note is a sold-out concert. I get it. You want that reality so bad, you have to say you can see it before you actually see it. Package your rage before it escapes. It might not return.

Returns aren’t what we’re after though, we’re after retorts. We’re after witty verbal slaps and creating the fictional character traits we call ourselves. We’re into creating the fake faults, so we can continue the fake insults. You and I take each other seriously as long as we’re creating imaginary worlds of hurt and offense.

Watch as I tear your false reality down. Watch as your alternate reality crumbles, and then, like always, I forgive you and let you build it up again. All for the sake of the game.

Who Do You Trust?

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This is my “I don’t believe you” look.

They’re everywhere. Ads that catch your attention and try to draw you in to visit a web site so they can sell you more things. The initial sensationalism is meant to upset your belief system or your sense of security enough to have you searching for answers. Answers are not what you’ll find of course.

It would be interesting to do an article on the variety, and the most ridiculous of these sensational “click bait” advertisements. For now though, I wanted to just take notes about one of them. It told me that my beard was filthier than an alley cat.

My first thought was not: “I must know more about my filthy beard.” My first thought was: “That’s no way to start a conversation.” Do you know anyone who tells you your beard is dirty? This is insulting if you’re a man. If you’re a woman it’s doubly insulting.

Rude! But this ain’t no trick. It’s for real! Some scientists actually did a study. And then they published their discoveries, not in medical journals, not in science magazines, not even on collegiate sites. They had the wisdom to post their scientific brilliance on a site concerned with such contemporary dilemmas as whether your 5G is performing the way it should, and whether plastic grocery bags mess with your reproductive system, and whether dying your hair makes you look younger.

All of these are important issues, I’m sure. The most important of all though is whether my cat knows he’s 100 times cleaner than the hair on my face.

Flip Flops

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Ten things you can do with flip flops:

  1. Go to the beach.
  2. Use a public shower without worrying about fungus.
  3. Take it easy.
  4. Show off your toenail polish.
  5. Wear them with socks and sport the ninja look.
  6. Take them off and save your place in the line at the pharmacy while you sit.
  7. Feel the breeze on your toes.
  8. Cool your feet by walking through a stream, stepping in a wading pool, or turning on a hose.
  9. Sing along with Jimmy Buffett. (“Margaritaville!”)
  10. Take one off and slap somebody with it.

 

Ten things you probably shouldn’t do with flip flops:

  1. Go to the beach and try to hide your wallet in them.
  2. Mining.
  3. Ride a bike.
  4. Walk through a cow pasture.
  5. Climb a tree.
  6. Traffic court appearance.
  7. Welding.
  8. Lawn darts.
  9. Space exploration.
  10. Mow the lawn.

 

Eye Heard

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Every wear I Luke icy Miss Steaks. How wood any won reed it if it was sew must up? I knead two order a way cup call four the mourning—the best thyme for editing. Know one can dew it fore me. Know one can fined the Miss Steaks in a man you script quite as well as yours truly. Bee sides, who maid awl the tie Poes, punk chew Asian errors, and ox ford dramas? He who spelt it, bot it. That’s how the sane goes. Or so eye heard.

The Bacon/America Theory

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There was a time in America when bacon was only bacon.

It was found occasionally on pizza, and when it was found as a topping on pizza it was called “Canadian”. It was also found with eggs in breakfasts of the older generation.

Then came the eleventh of September, 2001 A.D.

Someone took control of American passenger airplanes and forced those planes to crash into some prominent buildings. Everyone in the world wanted to know who the mastermind of this operation was. Who was this madman who wanted Americans dead in big explosions and falling buildings? Who wanted the American capitalist system broken?

In bits and pieces the reports came to the people. The madman was hiding in Afghanistan, no…Iraq, no…Iran. He was named Osama and he was of Islam. His manifesto claimed the American people took too much when they took oil from his homeland. The manifesto claimed the privilege of Jihad, a sort of holy war, the wrath of a god named Allah. To claim Jihad was no small matter. Reports came in to the people that some of Osama’s followers disagreed with him invoking the Jihad.

The President of the United States promised to bring the criminal Osama to justice, though he never said what that justice looked like. Time passed. Osama was not found. Islamic followers in America were subject to prejudice. Some were taunted. Many were bullied.

The American President couldn’t find Osama, so he went after a tyrant of another country, and captured the other one alive. Americans weren’t interested. What about Osama? Was he Shiite or Suunite? Was he hiding in a cave? Enquiring minds wanted to know.

While America waited, they learned some things about the Allah-worshipping religion. It was started when two brothers were swapped in the birthright order. Esau and Jacob were twins, the older being Esau. Since Esau was the eldest, he had the right to his father’s riches, an inheritance, and authority through the priesthood. According to the histories, Esau sold his birthright for a meal, but also Jacob tricked his father into transferring the birthright. This created a rift, a schism, a bifurcation of Christianity to create the Nation of Islam. Mohammed was a descendant of Esau and felt very strongly that the birthright could not be transferred to Jacob, nor could the authority. Mohammed kept many of the traditions of early Christianity, one of which was the tradition of not eating the flesh of beasts with cloven feet, such as pigs.

Americans ranted about this. They were still angry.

Somewhere between anger and hunger, the internet-meme was born. Internet-memes are essentially a poster, a short succinct phrase over a still picture. The first few internet-memes were about cats and sometimes dogs, but soon they took on a more subtle punch. Memes started to focus on BACON. Not Kevin, either, but the flesh of swine called “bacon”. Memes didn’t just sell bacon, they turned it into worship.

People in America started mouthing the words they found in these memes. They practically chanted. In a trance, the same chanters went to restaurants and demanded bacon, great greasy piles of bacon. Bacon cheeseburgers were in high demand. BLTs regained popularity. Bacon with eggs in the morning was no longer a staple of the older generation. It was hip, cool, sweet even, to like bacon.

And did it end with pizza? No.

Soon, donuts with maple frosting were decorated with bits of bacon. Cupcakes were decorated the same way. Birthday cakes were layered with strips of bacon inside.

Was this seen as a kick in the teeth to Osama? Or was it the Jihad he ordered? Was love of bacon the mocking laughter of the American people, a sort of anti-kosher revenge? Or was Osama’s Jihad decree a slow, arterial-clogging death?

Time may tell.