Insults

As August and I discovered last year, the most effective way to win an argument is simply to mimic, in an inaccurately high-pitched voice, whatever your opponent has just finished saying. Is that’s only moderately successful, you should probably add effeminate hand gestures, too. Example:

OPPONENT: I’m afraid your position on the role of the Delian League in the Peloponnesian War is grossly overstated and rejected by all leading scholars in the field.

YOU: (Flailing limp wrists and prancing around the room) I’m afraid your position on the role of the Delian League in the Peloponnesian War is grossly overstated and rejected by leading scholars in the field and I’m a huge homo nerd and love to touch my genitals with pliers, wah-wah-wah. Look at me, I’m a baby and I like to whine about everything and hide my contributions to pederasty advocacy groups. Look at me, everybody, I’m an huge fucking idiotface.

Oh yes, start ad libbing insults about the person’s intelligence and sexual orientation once you get the ball rolling. Not only will you win the argument, you’ll also humiliate your adversary, and, don’t hide that smile, it feels so damn good to be rocking at the top of the social ladder. This tactic works so well, in fact, that even if you’re belligerent and completely unfamiliar with the topic of conversation, you will still trounce anyone who tries to correct you on anything.

I developed the thematic basis for this approach in my early high school years when, to the suppressed frustration of a given person a room, I played The Narration Game. This activity would commence by focusing on the given person, we’ll just call him Jayden, and narrating his every action in the most flippant and demeaning way possible. This, by the way, is exceptionally gratifying for anyone who enjoyed agitating others via “copying” but was outwitted when the copy-ee ended the fun by refusing to speak. Here, on the other hand, Jayden’s silence is a new opportunity for mirth. “Look at me, my name is Jayden, I’m not going to talk. Nope, no talking, just sitting. Hmm, I think I’ll show everyone how mature I am by ignoring Dave. I am so mature, because there’s no talking, no talking for me. Just sitting … and scratching my neck. Ooo, man, that was big itch. Woweee. Boy, do I love a good scratch. Ahhh, so much better…”

While this may be the most obnoxious act I’ve ever practiced on a regular to basis to get attention, Jayden has only my parents to blame. They, I’m assuming, named me David knowing full well that people would sing “Daveeeeeeey, Davey Crockett, king of the wild frontier” to me whenever they learned (and confirmed through secret order) the rarity of my first name. Or maybe, (Bible reference!), my parents thought I wouldn’t ever kill a urinating Israeli in a cave. Anyway, this was ridiculous, because its not like they were getting outright cruel and calling me Josh Blue or something. But come on, this is fucking Davey Crockett. He built Tennessee without his shirt and maimed some assholes when he could have killed them as everyone watched him do it.

This confusion I felt about the nature of the insult reminds me of an experience I had at the grocery store last week. Specifically, I was in the deli section looking at exotic cheeses and thinking about how impressed I would be if they had a wart hog in the display case instead of a shitty old farm pig. Anyway, this couple walks up beside me and begins to discuss, among other things, their meat selection.. “Look, honey,” the man said, gesturing at a black store employee. “I didn’t know Martin Luther King Jr. was going to be here.”

Unicyclist

I was turning down an alley when a foreign shape passed my car with neither slowing nor aggression and the thing, (the spectre?), gave me a feeling like I was night swimming in a restricted area. “That spectre looks like its the part of something,” I thought. “But it’s moving on its own.”

It wasn’t a spectre, unfortunately, but it was the other two things and here’s how: (1) The part of the something it was a part of was a bike and (2) the way it was being moved was by manual human force. This human force, to be specific, was a unicyclist.

“Oh it’s a unicyclist,” I thought. “Huh, what do you know?”

“No,” I thought. “No. That does not warrant a casual observance. That warrants action. That kind of shit needs to be out there, and people need to know it. This guy needs to be known. This needs to be known … wait, I said that already. Anyway, but that doesn’t change anything of what I’m going to do or that nothing’s going to stop me from putting that shit out there — in the most outest of theres.”

Look, this is 11:30 p.m. on Wednesday by a major intersection and a unicyclist dressed in cyclist clothes is just pedalling along like he’s on his way to work in a world where people ride to work on unicycles at 11:30 at night.

Then I got mad at him in my head. “Ah! What are you? Like, the socially-conscious bachelor ex-president of an internet company who makes people feel awkward by doing dumb shit and playing it out as nonconformist? (Or something like that?) Get away from here, go on, with your elevated self. Get on, get on. Scat.”

I say he’s a bachelor because no woman, especially one who would go out of her way to marry a wealthy businessman, would let her husband ride a unicycle in public. If she saw him doing so, the unicyclist would be confronted immediately about the fact that he was riding a unicycle in public and, if he had a question of why that was a problem, she would return to her earlier statement that he was riding a fucking a unicycle in public or simply tell him not to do that ever again. Ever. “You just don’t do that,” she might add.

And I know this wasn’t his first time. My brother said he saw the unicyclist earlier this week riding around a couple blocks north of where I spotted him. But this time — oh-ho, this time — he was unicycling and reading a book at the same time. I understand that simultaneously reading and walking on a treadmill is difficult for me personally, but this is fresh fat stack of bullshit. “Me? What? … Oh, I’m sorry, what did you ask? Unicycling. Yes, unicycling … Ohhh. What am I reading. Sorry, I didn’t hear you at first. I was too engrossed in my book. The sound of a single wheel rotating through traffic just puts my mind at ease.” Fuck that. Not even the unicycling champion of North America — (how would you get to that level?) — could concentrate on a book and unicycle down the street at the same time.

Jesus, this city has the strangest forms of assholes.

(No, that’s what I said to your mom.)

Optometry

I passed out drunk on my girlfriend’s bathroom floor yesterday. This wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it wasn’t 1 in the afternoon and my girlfriend’s bathroom floor wasn’t located in the basement of her parent’s house.

I blame my optometrist. I do this because he can’t hear me right now. I also do this because he and other optometrists are running a racket on people who have defective eyes and are too vain to wear glasses. Earlier this week, I called his secretary to tell her I needed to pick up another order of contact lenses. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be with you in one moment … David?” Yes, I said. “One moment, David,” she said. (Muzak interlude.) I stayed on the phone for five minutes trying to figure out something productive I could do within a 3-foot radius of a phone jack. I then slowly counted to 20 and hung up the phone.

I took a shower and called back. “David?” She had some news for me. I had to get my eyes checked because, apparently, you have to renew your lens prescription annually. “But I don’t want a prescription,” I said. “I just want to get some more contacts. I have a copy of my prescription right here. It’s working fine, really.” She apologized insincerely and said she couldn’t do anything. I had to get my eyes checked if I wanted contacts. “It’s just $75,” she said.

So yesterday morning I went in and confronted the secretary by saying, “I’m here for my 10 o’clock appointment. The name’s David Frank.” As aggressive as this stream of obscenities was, I was even more gratified to see she was in a tanning war with her 21-year-old daughter. She also seemed to be wearing the girl’s hand-me-downs. I tried to figure out what she looked like. She stood up. I looked harder. Hmmm. I had it — a potato wedge wrapped in a wash cloth. “Take a seat … David,” she said, looking at a post-it note. “Dr. Whatzitsfuck will be with you in a moment.”

Thankfully, I had brought a book. I was thankful for this because (a) I wanted people to know I’d attended college and (b) optometrists have more time on their hands than a room full of clocks in a circle jerk. Anyway, I read only a few sentences because I was eavesdropping on my optometrist and another patient to see if they’d begun exchanging farewell cliches. They had, so when he called me into his office I was prepared to look like I was reading.

When I walked in, I realized the offices of optometrists never fail to be somewhat disconcerting. They’re too much like corridors or basements or firing ranges and the chairs in them seem equipped for, at minimum, disembowelment. But Dr. Whatzitsfuck put me at ease with light conversation and, having seen me reading a book, he felt comfortable enough to discuss current events. “I know it’s against practice to openly entertain such matters, but the young man appears to be educated,” he thought.

“That Iraq War sure is a mess,” he said, placing a metallic breast structure in front of my face. “Yes?” I said. I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic. “You see, I originally supported the war because of the seemingly imminent threat but something that deeply concerns me now …” He went on. And I let him. I let him because (a) what else am I supposed to do and (b) I thought maybe he would let me talk about politics, too. Not until it was too late, I’m afraid, did I realize he was pausing only for me to confirm his opinions. But when he did pause, my empty additions and questions were generally well-received. A few of my comments, however, were a little too anti-interventionist for him.

“Damnit, that’s where you pacifists have it wrong,” he said, stretching my eyelids apart.

“Oh shit,” I thought.

“That’s where you have it wrong,” he repeated.

“Oh shit,” I thought. “This guy’s getting jittery. And this, no … this is no time for jitters.”

“Not the time for jitters!” I yelled with appeasingly pleasant body language.

But I’d forgotten. No one will get more pissed at you for an idea than someone who used to believe in that idea. “I used to believe in that idea,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Finally, the examination was over. His potato wedge secretary came in to give me my new pair of contacts and a certificate. “A certificate? Hey, I must be doing something right. Wait, why did they give me a certificate?” I read it. It was a “certificate of recommendation” for me to also buy a new pair of glasses that day.

Thanks, potato wedge.

I went home after that and tried not to touch my eyes along the way because Dr. Whatzitsfuck put in some of those yellow numbing drops. Supposedly, it’s easy to scratch your corneas when they are numb, and a scratched cornea just sounds like somepainful-ass shit.

But when I got home, I remembered I was supposed to go over to my girlfriend’s house and help her paint and I thought I should put on my glasses though for eye protection. After I put on my glasses, however, I realized I’d taken out my contacts and probably touched my eyes in the process. Fuck, and my nails were looking a little long. But, calm down, my eyes didn’t hurt. My eyes didn’t hurt! … But, of course not, they’re numb! Ah!!! Wait, maybe they do hurt. Yes. I can feel kind of a stinging … is that what that is? No, it couldn’t be. My eyes are numb. But maybe, maybe, the cut in my cornea is so deep that it’s penetrated the inner eye nervous system and I’m going to be too fucked up even to wear an eye patch!?!?

Shit, I need a drink.

Beef

I was at the grocery story this weekend because they were giving out free samples wine and roast beef in their parking lot. They also had beer and Gouda and pizza and lattes, but I mention the roast beef in particular because it was so delicious that I was confused about how many samples I would have to eat before the chef behind the fold-out table would make a non-joke joke which would cause me either to feel ashamed or, at least, know next time I took a roast beef sample he would make a non-joke without putting on the fake joke coating.

“Whoaaa, we’re going to have to ban this guy from tent, aren’t we?” Damnit. I knew I should have let myself get into a conversation with that drunk local brewer about the target market of he dreams up in his office by the airport.

Guy: Alright, alright. Now, before you take the first sip, you have to remember to forget that first taste.

Me: Okay.

Guy: You know why you have to do that, right?

Me: No.

Guy: You just got to.

Me: Okay.

Guy: Okay, okay. I know you said you like strong beer, but this is beer for non-beer drinkers.

Me: Oh.

Guy: See, you’re one percent of the market–

Me: Hmm.

Guy: –and non-beer drinkers, that like 40 percent of the market.

Me: Oh. Wait. For beer?

Guy: Yes.

Me: But… (takes sip of beer)

Guy: Wait. Wait!

Me: (raises eyebrows for instructions)

Guy: Before you take a second sip, you have to wait ten seconds.

Me: (swallowing) Okay, ten seconds.

Guy: Alright… one, two, three, four…

Me: (counting along) five, six, seven, eight…

Guy: …nine, ten. Drink!

Me: (drinking, expressionless).

Guy: So? What’d you think? Bet you’re glad you waited that ten seconds.

Me: Yeah.

Guy: Yeah. See? That way the flavor was really… (waiting for me to finish his sentence) …

Me: … It was really … subtle?

Guy: Subtle. Subtle! That’s exactly right. Quality beer without the beer taste. That’s 40 percent of the market.

Me: Yeah, it didn’t really have a taste.

Guy: A beer taste.

Me: Yeah.

Anyway, the grocery store has deigned this roast beef and other top meat selections (snicker) to be of their quality “sterling silver” cuts. “Customers! Come try our exclusive fine quality sterling silver meat!” Okay, I will. However, don’t you want to set the bar [sports analogy alert!] a little higher? Grocery Store? How about “gold” or, this sounds pretentious, “diamond” quality meat?

I don’t know, maybe even platinum quality meat. Platinum, I was just informed the other day, is actually more valuable than gold. Needless to say, I was incensed by this assessment. “More valuable than gold? Pfffffffff. Wait. What? Wait. Are you retarded? …  Okay, let’s assume for a moment, as difficult as this may be, that you are correct. But, but!, you must grant me the courtesty of a thought experiement. Think of the most precious metal in the world after I reach ten right in ten seconds just now … 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 … GOLD!!! If, for the love of Christ’s sack, you thought gold then you are cor-rect … No, shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up! You did not think platinum. Why would you think platinum? Oh, wait, that’s right. I forgot. For hundreds of years America and Europe were on the “platinum” standard. And, woop-a-dee-fucking-doo, maybe on your birthday I’ll get you a “platinum” bracelet … Really? No. No. Of course not. That was a thought experiement. Remember? No, not gold either.”

So, after the beer and wine and cheese and latte and whipped cream on top, we went inside to buy some ground beef and hamburger buns. Luckily, more samples, particularly pastries, were located throughout the store. “I’ll never go hungry again!” I thought. “Where the hell is all this free shit coming from?” I also thought. “Oh, it’s Cancer Day,” I noted.

Cancer Day, for all of you who are not vaguely familier with Cancer Day like I am, is the two (2) days set aside in the year where you are “given the opportunity” to donate money to a local cancer organization at the check-out counter. It works like this: you buy a whole lot of shit you probably don’t need and they ask for your change. Less specifically, you get your total, say $71.48, and they — “they” being the cashier — ask you if you — “you” being you — would like to “round-up” your purchase to help fight cancer. If “you” agree, they will take that 52 cents and give it to the cancer place. Or whatever.

When they asked us, we, of course, complied. Fifty-two cents? Sure, take it. It’s the Dave and Melinda Gates Foundation over here. What I was wondering, though: do people ever say no? “Your total is $24.05, sir.” Okay. “And would you like to round up your purchase?” $24.05? “Yes.” $24.05. Well… wow. I mean, if it was $24.73 or something like that, sure. But $24.05, ohhh. That’s a tough call. I got a family, you know. I mean… Come on, why did you have to ask me that. There’s people behind me, and… Jesus! Can’t a man have a family to feed?”

I actually proposed that scenario to our cashier. She kind of just smiled like she was instructed not to respond if someone asked a question like that. My girlfriend was also annoyed. I, however, was full of sterling silver roast beef and had no room for hamburgers in my stomach but ate two anyway.

Redefined!

Geoff Moore and The Distance, “Evolution: Redefined!” (lyrics)

I remember watching this video circa 6th grade in “The Asylum” youth center of the upper-middle class Baptist church my family, who converted to wine-Eucharist Protestantism five years ago, still will defend on the grounds that there they “made some close friends”. Aside from this video, The Asylum also offered young disciples of the Lord a chance to pass around sign-up sheets, pledge abstinence, play foosball and roleplay potential evangelical scenarios. But videos were the best because they mustered a faint stirring of rebellion. “Christians can rock, too!”, we were reminded. “Oh yes they can,” we responded through simple non-gyrating dances.

After a time of exposure to secular music and puberty, Adam, my (one) friend, and I began to realize every other kid in the room was, without relation to gender, a dick or a cunt. So,  rebelling as best I could, I started attending a non-denominational youth group and the weekend retreats they passed around sign-up sheets for.

Anyway, a few notes on this video:

1. The Alicia Silverstone-looking girl is bathed in a heavenly light.
2. The professor gives evolution a pantheistic spin, making it even more repulsive to evangelicals. “All life is a continuum. All living things despite their awesome diversity
   are related to each other.” Hey Wordsworth, get your vinyl-pants sorcery at the house of the Lord!
3. I don’t understand how Geoff Moore just shows up in black and white in her biology book. He needs to be zapped into her book by Jesus or something. Wait, of course! That little photographic trick foreshadows the objectivity he is about to relay through song. No explanation needed.
4. I like how Geoff shakes his head at her while the professor is lecturing like, “No, fuck that. Seriously.”
5. Whoever wrote the professor’s speech obviously used a thesaurus. Phrases that don’t quite make sense in the context: “imminent service”, “miraculous interposition”.
6. It seems like a of cheap shot to cue the monkey noises while the camera is focusing on the deranged professor.
7. Geoff, dressed as an 18th-century Pauly Shore, begins by relating to the audience’s teenage apathy: “I was staring at the blackboard trying to keep from sleeping.” Me too, Geoff. We both don’t give a fuck … for Christ.
8. Wait, Geoff switches back and forth between two looks in the same jungle book set: the rocking 18th-century Pauly Shore look and the hooded t-shirt/ flirting with Alicia look.
9. The guitar player with the red barrette is amazing … as is his solo.
   
10. “I couldn’t my believe my ears/ this is what you looked like back a million years/ Your uncle was a monkey, he was swinging through the trees/ he lived on green bananas, and his arms swung to his knees/ He spoke with such conviction, it really made me think/ Maybe my teacher, he’s the missing link!” Oh-ho, third-degree burn! Man, people will make up all kinds of crazy shit to try to get God out of our schools!
11. Why green bananas?
12. Is he flirting with Alicia?
13. Yes, and he was in his early 30s at the time. Interestingly, two youth pastors from the Baptist church I mentioned ran off with high school girls and created a poorly-handled contrversy.
14. I like the “therefore, Cro-Magnon man” professor-to-Geoff video morph part.
15. Alicia keeps looking around in jungle book land, but I’m not sure at what. Oh, I see. Only there she can truly search for the Word of God (as they did in the Garden of Eden).
    
16. I always wanted to sing “fart” instead of “heart” at the end of “Now you can wait a million years and hope that nature does it’s part/ but it only takes a moment, for God to change a heart.”
17. Geoff is the only guy with short hair. I guess he needs the shades/ leather jacket combo to keep up with the rock.
18. The video’s cinematographer is all about zoom-outs.
19. I didn’t notice until the bridge that he has leather tassels on the arms of his jacket.
    
20. The bridge is also the heartfelt witness part of the song where he reveals his own wayward path and puts a fatalistic spin on evolution. “I used to trust in natural selection/ My survival was all I could see/ My evolving to perfection/ started when God rescued me.”
    
21. I think the arm-march dance the students are doing, besides mocking evolution, also is some sort of séance to unlock the age-old secret to release Geoff Moore and The Distance from the jungle book.
22. In the very last shot of the book, please note that one of the monkeys has a flat top.
23. The outro morph seals the message. Evolution, yeah, I guess … REDEFINED!

Boobs

Dave Frank and Erwin Bumpus snap up and down a conveyor belt. The line slows after a few minutes and Erwin looks into one of the boxes like a 49er who’s seen a light in the river.

Erwin Bumpus: Oh yeah!

Dave Frank: What?

Erwin Bumpus: (holding up a book) The Ultimate Secrets of Sex.

Dave Frank: Oh.

Erwin Bumpus: Hell yes!

Dave Frank: Um…

Erwin Bumpus: Let me tell you something, brother. This job fucking sucks, even if I ‘m not thinking about it, sure enough does. I’m not saying anything against that.

Dave Frank: Neither would I.

Erwin Bumpus: But it’s got its perks. That’s for certain, it sure does.

Dave Frank: Like what?

Erwin Bumpus: Well, it’s not everywhere you get to see a boob during the middle of your shift.

Dave Frank: When did you see a boob?

Erwin Bumpus: Right here. Just right now — in this book.

Dave Frank: Fantastic.

Erwin Bumpus: I know, man.

Dave Frank: Didn’t you say you had a girlfriend or wife or or fiancee or someone?

Erwin Bumpus: Got both. But my wife’s not speaking to me at this moment in time. And my girlfriend, well, she’s pregnant. I’m going to be a daddy, brother!

Dave Frank: You’ve told me that, but I don’t think it’s dangerous for women to have sex while they’re pregnant.

Erwin Bumpus: It ain’t, but she said she’s got to get the results from her cervix exam back before we can do anything.

Dave Frank: Why would you … oh.

Erwin Bumpus: I don’t know, man. I just know what I ain’t getting.

Dave Frank: Fair enough.

Erwin Bumpus: No it ain’t, brother. But a man’s got to respect a woman.

Dave Frank: Don’t you have the internet? There’s lots of boobs there.

Erwin Bumpus: Yeah, but I can’t be looking at that with eight kids running around the house.

Dave Frank: Maybe you could barricade yourself in the computer room.

Erwin Bumpus: Naw. Then you couldn’t get to the kitchen, and she’s got to get to the kitchen.

Dave Frank: Eating is always a bonus.

Erwin Bumpus: A bonus? Nope, I’ll tell you what eating is. That’s a necessity.

Dave Frank: Always.

Erwin Bumpus: Yeah, but once that test get back, I’m going to be one happy man and one happy man real quick.

Dave Frank: I can only imagine.

Erwin Bumpus: You don’t want to, brother. I’ll just go up to her and tell her, “Don’t worry, baby, I still love you when you’re all big like that.”

Dave Frank: That’s nice.

Erwin Bumpus: Yeah, that’s going to be some ultimate sex right there.

Dave Frank: Sure is.

Erwin Bumpus: Hey, don’t you think about that, that’s between me and my lady.

Dave Frank: Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean…

Erwin Bumpus: I’m just messing with your head, man. Don’t worry about it.

Dave Frank: Okay.

Erwin Bumpus: Well, you going to look or not?

Dave Frank: (suspiciously) At what?

Erwin Bumpus: At what? The boob, brother. The boob.