Archive for the 'Rants' Category

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The Commander

I was the third generation of my family to go to our eye doctor, Dr. Bradley. A Navy man! Old Commander Bradley! He’ll fix you right up.

He worked on my grandparents, their kids, and then we hit my generation and his one time humble office had turned into a bustling, popular practice with four locations around the area. This eventually morphed into a sort of teaching practice, and he’d wander around with a gaggle of eye doctor students hanging on his every word whilst his optometrist peons slavishly worked away, seemingly too terrified of the great master to even speak to the patients.
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Get in there, boy!

The question asked one happy hour was: If you could go back and give your 18 year old self one piece of advice, what would it be?

Everyone had the usual answers like invest in Google or whatever. I think that’s the 40 year old in all of us talking. I think we should pause and take a look at what makes life worth living.

I would tell my 18 year old self to get snipped. Then fuck absolutely everything possible.
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The Nice Guy

There was this girl from high school who was extraordinarily beautiful. Blonde, blue eyed, tall, built like a super model. And I mean built like a super model the way you think a super model is built, not the weird Auschwitz giraffes they are when you see them live. The way you think Christie Brinkley circa 1983 looked. Except better, because there was always something sinister about Brinkley…

Anyway, I digress. The point is: Great tits.

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Dead by 25

I was fool enough at a New Year’s party to ask a group of friends where, 20 years ago, they imagined they would be in 2013. Most folks had an answer, the usual stuff, and, as we went around the circle and my turn approached, I realized that I thought I’d be dead long before now. So, I said as much.
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Holidays

It’s the music, right? I’ve been in a S.A.D. crash since the 20th and I blame the Peanuts Christmas soundtrack playing at top volume everywhere I go. The bar, the deli, the guy next to me on the bus, and now at a friend’s house. When I ask if we can turn it off, I get blank looks. Like, “Turn what off?  We have always been listening to the Peanuts Christmas soundtrack…”
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Vanquishing Seasonal Depression

I’ve long suffered from seasonal depression, and written desperately about it here, but, this year, I actually feel pretty good about the holidays. Christmas is around the corner and I’m just fine.

How’d I do this? Simple. I’ve spent the past 20 years embracing a culture of hate and anger and I’ve ostracized my entire family, creating irreparable rifts between all of us.

And, before you say how sad that sounds, remember that this is the family that tried to keep my mom’s lover 100 feet from her coffin during the funeral and actively sought legal reps to get all that in place while I sat there stunned and grieving. The family that condemned me when I was 12 merely because I resembled my father. And that’s all just the very tip of the iceberg. That’s, like, the tamest stuff.
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The Strokes

I read the other day that dolphins are the only other animals on earth that masturbate for pleasure. Which sort of put a whole new spin on “sailor’s best friend,” eh? There you are bobbing in the ocean as your ship goes down and here comes a dolphin — kikikiki — and the dolphin lets you grab on as it takes you to safety. Maybe you flop onto a piece of wreckage, or even find land. Then, exhausted, chest heaving, you lay there staring into the stormy skies and…the dolphin jacks off onto your stomach and then swims away. Kikikikikiki!

It wouldn’t be common knowledge, of course. I, for one, wouldn’t share that tidbit when retelling my “saved by a dolphin” story to the local paper.
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The voice across the line

A couple of friends have recently told me that I need to talk about my problems. All the childhood madness, all the fears, all the things that cripple me emotionally. If I talk about these things, then they’ll have no power over me.

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Tommy the Poop Man

When I was a kid, I used to think there was a little man in my stomach who was responsible for handling all of the poop. Day after day, there he was, at the bottom of my stomach, surrounded by vats of bubbling acid, endlessly shoveling poop down a little hole that led to my intestines. Sometimes the hole would get stuffed up and he’d have to jump on the poop to force it through.
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Beautiful Things

Since I now only write articles so that I can keep the GS Kindle subscription active and, therefore, make my precious $3 a month from subscribers who mistakenly think this is a porn site for some reason, I should probably angle towards more light-hearted fare.
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