Wisdom

Don’t be that guy who reminds people in the middle ice cream headaches that ice cream headaches come from eating ice cream too fast. This is neither the time nor the place to share your familiarity with conventional wisdom. Everyone already knows how ice cream headaches occur, there’s no mystery solved here mothers the world over hadn’t explained years ago (sorry, orphans).
It comes down to this, ice cream is delicious and I’m taking the goddamn risk.
Example of the ice cream-eating subconscious: “I know eating ice cream too fast will give me an ice cream headache but how do you [Ego] expect me to just leisurely approach a half gallon of cherry moose tracks?”
(note 1: The people who came up with the name “moose tracks” really dropped the ball.)
(note 2: When I worked at an ice cream shop in high school, a woman with long hair and a vest came in once and ordered a half gallon of butter pecan, asked for a spoon, and proceeded to eat the whole fucking bucket at the counter.)

The remission of an ice cream headache, on the other hand, is one of those things that makes question the nature of pleasure. All is well and all is possible simply because the pain in question has subsided. Other pleasures that could fit into this category: shitting, sex, victory, sleep, eating, killing, moving, death. And, of course, eating more ice cream.

Gotcha

-”If your hand is bigger as your face you have cancer.”
-Slap.

Note: this childhood prank occasionally revived during young to mid adulthood isn’t really a joke because you’re really just punching someone in the face. That their hand is part of the whole operation is really irrelevant to the overall precedings. It’d be like giving someone a stick and then pushing against it to make them fall over. “Haha! Gotcha stickshit!”
Returning to the repressed memory at hand, if somehow when they went to check their hand-to-face ratio they ended up hitting themselves, that would be relatively acceptable because, WHOOPS, didn’t see that coming.
Or at least give the assault a set up–like the ol’ Bangkok joke. Then they’ll have to respect your craftiness. “Oooooouhhhhhhehhhh, you got me…I’m going to vomit my nuts through my pores, but you got me.”
Mmm, I’m trying to think of a set up for the cancer joke. Maybe, “Has your face been hand-checked for cancer?” Or, “Can I see if my hand is bigger than your face real quick?” Or….no, those are both good.
The worst thing about that (unmodified) joke was that the joke teller would always treat you like an idiot. “Gotcha, dumbass!” Yeah, you’re right. I should have anticipated you unexpectedly hitting me in the face. I’ll make sure to be on my toes next time.

At least now we have more sophisticated excuses for assaulting people–like class jealousy, unfamiliar eye contact, and your pick of inferiority complexes.

Notified

I just downloaded the Gmail Notifier which I now regret doing because apparently I check my email not to check my email but to waste time in between what may be considered relevant activities. “I need to bring back this library book that I’ve renewed four times and still not read…but, oooooo, that would be a three minute drive and who knows what urgent email I might receive from shit-knows-who during that time. Alright, I checked it twenty seconds ago, but let’s be practical here.”
This is why even receiving solicitations for virility medication are consoling. (1) You get to waste time deleting the message and (2) you give yourself the satisfaction of clearing your inbox for a much more important email you assure yourself will arrive at any minute.
Anyway, the Gmail Notifier taskbar icon will light up whenever you get a new email. This, however, means it–sitting cruel and static at the bottom of your screen–will remind you of your insignificance to the world whenever you at on your computer. This, of course, forces you into the pathetic situation of doubting the operating speed of the Gmail Notifier, i.e. “maybe I’ve got an email and the Gmail Notifier just hasn’t seen it yet…come on, I don’t have time for that possible two second delay (which I know exists). I gotta see this shit right now.”
So thanks to the good and omnipresent people at Google for creating a program by which consumers can gage exactly who much they suck.

Cowboys

I saw a small dog running around a big dog and pictured the small dog wearing a cowboy hat and the big dog saddled and apathetic and thought of some more rider/steed relationships I’d like to see in the animal kingdom, if at all possible.

Rider - Steed

Chipmunk – Squirrel

Lion – Giraffe

Kitten – Falcon

Capybara – Rhinoceros

Loris – Manta Ray

Koala – Panda

Merman – Narwhal

Shrew – Wallaby

Raccoon – Llama

Piglet – Tortoise

Badger – Ram

Mole – Hawk

Indri – Elephant

Chimp – Caiman

Gnome – Fox

Clint

At a counter with my hands folded.

Me: Hey, could I get a glass…cup of water?

Clint: Ice?

Me: Yeah…(actually considering question) Yes.

Clint: Absolutely, dude.

Me: (marginally thrown) Cool.

Clint: (speaking into headset) Welcome to Starbucks, this is Clint–what can I rock out for you today?

Me: (turning around to find a someone to share this moment with)

Clint: …and could I get you Rocky Blueberry Blast Muffin? No? Alright, please pull around, sir.

Me: (becoming frustrated I haven’t yet caught someone’s eye)

Clint: (to me) Here you are, my man–one cup of ice water.

Me: Yep.

Clint: Oh yeah, there you are.

Me: Uh-uh, thanks…(hesitantly) man.

Clint: No problem (chuckle), no problem at all.

Me: (immediately reconsidering the following word choice) Good.

Clint: (returning to headset) Welcome to Starbucks…

Wave

I just asked the desk lady for a wake up call but I felt kind of like a dick because, as a hotel employee, I don’t know how I would handle that task. “Uh, hey there. Just calling to wake you up. It’s your wake up call. The one you asked for….bye.” Actually, I wouldn’t say “bye”, I would probably say “talk to you later” and this would compound the problem because when the person walked by the front desk I would do one of those half-wave things and bite my lips. Fuck, I would so do that.
Well, waves suck anyway because they are usually directed at people you don’t want to talk to but feel an obligation to recognize, and, through it all, you’re thinking, “Goddamnit, I knew I shouldn’t have talked them that one time at the party.” Especially now because you have to reference that one semi-entertaining joke/happening every time you might actually speak and this realization is carried in the wave and immediate diversion of the eyes.
What’s worse is when you incorrectly anticipate a wave and find yourself fucked over by that needless preemtive gesture because then you realize they don’t want to talk to you either which sucks because, sure, you don’t want to them but it’s not like you don’t want them not wanting to talk to you. You’re awesome. Of course they want to talk to you and you rightly need to be reminded of this.
Waves also make you pretend like your busy when all you really want to do is not talk to the person you’re waving at. “Look at me waving. Wave, wave, wave. Nope, no time to talk–just wave. Really busy. Waaaaaave.” This is probably really obvious to the person being waved at, though, because as soon as your eyes met you started acting shifting and walking fast.
Later. Gotta go. Work to do, people to wave at.

Directions

Almost getting lost driving to North Carolina I’ve discovered several ways to appear informed when asking for directions without actually knowing if you could find your car in the parking lot of the establishment where you are asking directions.

1. Request the “best way” to get somewhere. Example: “(scrutinizing the map) Excuse me, I have a question, (suddenly taking a casual ‘you know how it is’ tone) what would you say is the best way to get back on I-40?” This lets the direction-giver know there is no need to be condescending because you are more or less a native of the area–all you are looking for is that extra little reminder and, shit, this just slipped your mind. Geez Louise! Note: after retrieving the desired information, thank the person in a “I’m so sorry I had to ask you something that someone who had no idea where they were would ask you but I’m so not that person” manner.
2. Nod and finish the direction-giver’s sentences. Example: “(nodding)…take a left, uh-huh. (nodding, concerned)…veer onto 5a, yeah. (nodding at the now completely obvious)…and then just keep going straight, yes, yes.” You might think finishing a sentence in this context would be difficult–the context being you don’t know what the hell the person is going to say in the next four seconds and you’re going to try to say that something along with them–but, no worries, you do this all the time. Think of the last time you listened to a song you had heard once or twice before and really liked. “I got the right temperature t.. sh…ER you f-fROM THE STORM. Oh lord, gal I got the right eehhhhh to TURN YOU ON, AND GIRL, I wanna be the ppppAPA you…(dancing with fists) CAN BE THE MA..OH-OH!”
3. Pretend like you’re asking directions to appease your girlfriend. Example: “(sauntering up to the counter with an annoyed look on your face) Uh (slapping the map with the back of your hand to indicate its worthlessness to a road master like yourself), I–my girlfriend (stressed with a superior but good-natured tone)–was wondering how…” If the perspective direction-giver is female, see example one. If you, the direction-asker, are female, send your in your boyfriend.

If all else fails, keep driving with a concentrated look on your face–making sure, of course, to take credit for the information your passengers gather for you as something you basically already knew.
Thanks, I guess. Pfff.

Predators

I’d like to take a moment to condemn sex offenders.
Condemn.
I’d also like to applaud local, state, and federal laws mandating appropriately lengthy prison sentences for these criminals.
Applaud.
With that entirely unique sentiment expressed, I’m also concerned with our nation’s treatment of people who sexually abuse and exploit minors. Not that abusing/exploiting adults is terrific, but we’re pretty used to that.
Anyway, this troubling attitude toward the resident creepy uncle was unintentionally fleshed out on the recent Dateline special “To Catch a Predator“. It works like this: Dateline, Perveted-Justice, and the Fort Myers’ PD stake out a house while the volunteers from Perveted-Justice enter internet chatrooms–posing as 14-year-old girls. They talk dirty to some guy, get him to say/send something incriminating, and eventually convince him to drive over to the house. A 19-year-old who looks like a 14-year-old then lures him into the house with her 14-year-old voice and a tempting plate of chocolate chip cookies.
“I’ll be down in a second,” she says.
Woh-ho, not so.
You got MSNBC’s Chris Hansen coming out of the kitchen to greet the guy instead. “So what are you doing here?” Chis asks. “Um,” says the guy still chewing his cookie. “I was just coming over to…say hi?”
Wrong! The audience shouts.
“Try again,” Chris Hansen says pushing a chat log before him.
Occasionally the potential statutory rapist will bolt, but most of the time he’ll try to explain himself to blue-blazer-tough-cop Chris Hansen. Chris will almost always get them to admit to something before telling them who he is and that they’ll be appearing on national television. The cameras then come out and we are treated to the facial expression of a man who realizes his life is completely over.
Slam!
After this, however, Chris will apparently grant them clemency as he says, “You are free to go now.”
Oooooo, not the case, Middle-Aged Man in Dirty White Tank Top. Chris knows the police are actually waiting outside to tackle your lecherous ass.
“Freeze, don’t move!” the police shout running full-speed-guns-out at the terrified yet compliant man who they handcuff and lead off to a police car.
Did I say “handcuff and lead off to a police car”? Oh, what I meant was “strike, trip, and throw face first on the sidewalk”.
Hi-five! At least someone has been watching Law & Order SVU.

So once again we have a case of society convincing itself a certain group of a people really aren’t people and that it’s okay to do brutalize them in way no one else is allowed to be.
But, then again, how could allowing the government to use a human GPS tracking system go wrong?

Irish

Mock-debating over a coffee selection. Bemused employees.

Talitha: Well?

Me: Yes, I was wondering if you had something not meant for the dirty Irish.

Talitha: (sigh).

Michelle: Dave Frank.

Me: Yes?

Michelle: I think I might miss you next year.

Talitha: What!?

Me: It’s because she’s a woman.

Michelle: Probably not.

Me: Liar.

Talitha: How can you say that?

Me: Say what?

Talitha: The woman thing.

Me: Hmm.

Talitha: Well?

Me: (grieved) It’s no use reasoning with your kind.

Editorial

Here’s an editorial I wrote for The Hillsdale Collegian that wasn’t published because I was too lazy to edit it:

As I read over the Hillsdale College Student Pledge, it becomes increasingly clear that the inception of this document resulted from a question raised in a cigar-filled administrative meeting and that this question went something like this: “Gentlemen, while we are doing are best to exclude minorities, liberals, homosexuals, and young people of differing religious and political beliefs, are we, however, doing enough?”

“No!” was the resounding answer.

“Ah, as I thought,” responded the speaker. “Hand me a pen.”

Okay, maybe these weren’t the exact chain of events, but the braggadocio our regularly personable Cap’n has put behind this literarily and intellectually offensive ideological compact makes you wonder.

All perspective freshmen are now required to sign the pledge—however it was created—if they hope to part of the illustrious 82% of students accepted to the college.

If you would, please turn with me now to this piece of philosophical xenophobia reprinted in the back of your student planners.

My two primary contentions with the pledge itself are repeated affirmations of a belief in (1) platonic forms and (2) God. The pledge contains three references to either seeking or loving “the good” and two explicit shout-outs to the Almighty.

Principled students who are atheistic, agnostic, Buddhist, and polytheistic would object to the references concerning a vague Masonic deity, and students—well-read, Christian, or otherwise—might object to the ideological nods to antiquity’s favorite pederast.

Who’s left? Conveniently enough, it’s tight-lipped Republican Party hacks the administration would love to usher in under this umbrella of fat empty civil religion.

What’s worse, it excludes our best professors and finest while demanding discoursive stagnation from the remainders.

Even more repugnant to the idea of a liberal arts institution is the school’s requirement that incoming students sign an ideological statement of any kind. What’s the point of college if not to meditate on such gravely important issues as the existence of God and the order of the cosmos? If you’ve got it already figured out, try writing a book for the wayward students rejected by Hillsdale’s new admission policy.

If all this paints the intentions of the administration as insidious, I am pleased. The reason for the existence of this ceremony is a mixture of the falling reasons:

1. To extract money from donors with a document these unfortunates might incorrectly misconstrue as meaningful.
2. To increase the percentage of rich white boring conservatives attending the college.

This is not what any college, especially ours, should be about. Politics and religion should be studied as academic fields—not perverted for the personal gain of a few undeservingly powerful men at this potentially great institution.

Hillsdale, it’s time to let go of the coattails of Tony Snow and clean house.