Getting Rid of Gary

Our streets are crawling with parasites. They invade our homeland and devour our resources like a woodchuck gnawing on corn. They drink our water and breathe our air. We could have endless water slides and balloon animals if it weren’t for them. They shouldn’t be in this country. This land is our land, not theirs. 

It’s time for true citizens to rise up and deport this scum. Let’s get some rope and pitchforks and eject them once and for all. 

Let’s get rid of the Garys!

Is there anything more annoying than a guy named Gary? If my parents named me Gary, I’d smother them with an inflatable dolphin and call myself “Ahab Facejab.” I could just change my name and stop talking to them, but nobody would learn anything. It’s a known fact that people only learn lessons when somebody dies. Lessons are swiftly forgotten once a celebrity gets ass implants or wears blackface on Halloween. When that happens, attention is deflected from the Garys of the world and they are once again off the hook. 

If you’re reading this and your name is Gary, I’d like you to please go away. Get out of here and join the rest of the subhumans on Buzzfeed. This is a safe space and I don’t want you contaminating it. No Garys allowed. 

Garys are ruining the quality of life. Try saying “Gary” without wanting to burn down a hospital - it can’t be done. Gary sounds like an amalgamation of goiter and berry. Who would want to eat that?

Anything named Gary is bound to fail. There are roughly 10,000 abandoned buildings in Gary, IN. A large segment of the population has fled. Why do you think that is? Some people blame the economy; those people don’t know what they’re talking about. The former citizens of Gary, IN left because they could no longer stand living in a city named Gary. Who could blame them? I can’t imagine the sphincter-clenching terror of having your life shrouded in a fog of Gary. Never getting passed level Gary, no matter how many gold coins you collect, is worse than every war and infomercial combined. 

We should send a task force into Gary, IN and evacuate the remaining populace. They’re clearly being held hostage. Who would willingly live in a place named Gary? When they’re herded out, we’ll nuke the city until it’s a crater. We’ll fill it with sulphur and clown vomit before closing off the area with a giant electric fence. The city will be renamed “Not Gary, IN” and a sign will be posted, stating: 

“Danger! Do Not Enter! Former Gary Zone.” 

This is merely phase one of a multi-layered plan to eradicate the world of Gary. There are many forms of Gary and they’re all gag-inducing yawn factories. The most common Gary incarnation comes in the form of a boring, middle-aged man that wears Tommy Bahama shirts and listens to Jimmy Buffet. Jimmy Buffet’s music is so awful that I’m convinced that his real name is Gary. He probably changed it to hide his disease from the masses. Using deductive reasoning, we can conclude that all Garys are shitty music fans, but not all shitty music fans are Garys. 

Gary Heidnik abducted, tortured and raped six women in the mid to late 1980s. He killed two of them. His plan was to impregnate them and start a baby farm. He should’ve grown a pear tree. Pears look a lot like babies, but they don’t cry or soil themselves. Pears taste bland, so they’re great for lobbing at protesters - just like babies. 

Gary Condit stuffed and snuffed a federal intern. Even worse than drilling and killing his workplace subordinates was the fact that Condit was a Congressman, which is simply unforgivable. 

Gary Glitter sang “Do You Wanna Touch Me” to three underage girls between 1975 and 1980. They all said “no,” so he touched them instead. Incidentally, Glitter’s real name isn’t Gary - it’s Paul Gadd. He purposely changed his name to Gary. What a sick fuck. 

My thieving, slack-faced cockroach of a downstairs neighbor once tried to steal one of my UPS packages. His name is also Gary. 

Coincidence? I think not. 

So what’s to be done about the Gary problem? 

Deportation. 

There is no other way. And I don’t mean out of the country, I mean out of the atmosphere. In fact, I think we should blast them into the sun, just to be safe. If they survive on another planet, there’d be a whole planet of Garys. They’d probably name it Gary and we’d have a planet named Gary in our galaxy. 

But they won’t stop there. 

They’ll fly back to our planet in their Gary saucers and shoot us with Gary guns and exterminate us in Gary camps. They’ll knock down our once proud monuments and erect giant Garys. Earth will be renamed “New Gary.” Those of us who aren’t dead will be made into Gary slaves and we’ll be forced to speak the tongue of Gary. 

You can rot in your forced Gary existence if you want, but I’ll never be a Gary. It’s time to fight. The next time someone named Gary tries to talk to you, look them straight in the eye, point your finger in their face and yell “No!” We may have a fighting chance if enough people get with the program. 

If they don’t, we’ll be corralled into a soul-crushing void of Garydom, where it’s somehow possible to be a city-destroying, child-molesting, baby-farming rapist who steals packages and listens to godawful music while simultaneously being the most boring person on Earth. The laws of physics won’t be able to handle the contradiction and the space-time continuum will be put through a galactic paper shredder, all because you had to name your child Gary. You’re selfish and you should feel bad about it. 

Guffaw Denied

“Do you get it? Huh? Huh? It’s a joke! I was kidding.”

If you ever feel the need to tell me a joke, just gargle battery acid and swan dive down a flight of stairs instead. If you live, repeat as necessary until you’re dead and twitching. That’ll make me laugh for sure. I’ll totally titter over your mangled corpse and you can die with validation.  

What’s with all these people who think they’re funny? Is it a form of mass-hypnosis where they’re blind to how lame they are? Why would they embarrass themselves by talking? 

Every full moon or so, some random birth defect tries to make me laugh. What compels them to make contact? Can they not feel the invisible barrier I’ve manifested between us? They’re not funny, they never have been funny and they never will be funny. This doesn’t stop them from trying. 

What went wrong? Maybe they failed at being smart, interesting or skilled at anything. Maybe someone made the horrendous mistake of telling them they’re funny. Then they ran with it because they’re too stupid to know that other people’s opinions are worthless. People shouldn’t be allowed to speak in public. 

As always, human beings are the problem. Other people feel obligated to laugh whenever some unfunny clod belches out stupidity. It’s always the same laugh - heh, heh, heh. I refuse to be complacent with comedic failure. I stare them straight in the eye, not making a sound, until they get uncomfortable and leave. 

People get pissed when you don’t laugh at their vapid word dump. They act like you just raped their child with an oil drill. Stay firm and don’t substantiate their existence by speaking to them. Words are for intelligent lifeforms. The failed joke teller will leave after a moment of silence. It’s a scientific fact that stupid people are repelled by quiet environments. Silence gives them hives, radioactive eye inflammation and gargantuan anal tumors that eventually grow heads. 

I take extreme offense to them expecting me to laugh. Who are they to expect anything? What have they done for me? Knit me a glow-in-the-dark sombrero out of gummy worms and maybe we’ll talk. On second thought, we won’t talk. Just leave the hat and go away. 

I’m also offended, nay - morally outraged, that they would attempt to forge some type of camaraderie with me. Not only are they trying to pressure me into laughing at something that’s clearly not funny, they’re also trying to turn me into their giggle buddy. Do I look like I need a sidekick? If I wanted a friend, I’d imagine one. Admiral Wombat Paws, the imaginary three-eyed giant death cat, is funnier than you could ever hope to be. He also meows with lasers, so suck on that. 

“Geez, lighten up and get a sense of humor,” they say. 

Fuck you, doofus. Why don’t you darken up and get a brain transplant. I have a sense of humor, which is why I’m not mechanically chuckling at your idiotic brainarrhea. You can’t always describe why something is funny, but I’m pretty sure I can explain why what you said is NOT funny. 

To start, there’s usually no setup, punchline or delivery. It’s just some stupid observation spoken in a loud, annoying voice. Loud does not equal funny. “It’s a hot one!” Shut the fuck up, megaphone. Thermometers don’t need to talk. Stand outside and I’ll calculate the weather by how long it takes you to get a heat stroke. 

People are unoriginal. They use stock punchlines and expect you to chortle in your pants. Stock punchlines are disposable, mass-produced quips mindlessly affixed to any sentence. 

“Can I get that without cream, please?”

“That’s what she said!”

“Really? Because she told me that you slap your micropenis with a baby rattle and cry to ABBA songs.”

“Wha-huh?”

Don’t have a snappy retort? Go watch some more shitcoms. Be sure to take notes. You’ll find something else to rip off in no time. 

Or you can watch Jon Stewart. His whole comedy career is based on reacting to video clips. He’s like Bob Saget for pseudo-intellectuals. His style of comedy is so easy that it can be broken down into the following equation:

SPV (stupid person on video) + ER (exasperated reaction) = Political Satire

“OMG! Look how exasperated he is by what that moron said! That’s sooo funny! LOL!”

The video clip does all the work, but you get the comedic credit. It’s perfect turnkey humor for lazy attention whores. 

Still too much work? Try irony. Irony lets you feel clever without the hassle of being intelligent. Hipsters, art fags and trendy fuckwads everywhere squirt involuntarily at the mention of irony. When someone tells you how unfunny you are, just say that the point of the joke is actually how not funny the joke is and that’s what makes it funny. It’s not stupid, it’s ironic. 

Whatever path you choose, don’t try your tedious material on me. I’m sick of people lobbing their unsolicited shit humor in my direction. Nobody’s funny. Nothing makes me laugh anymore. Comedy is dead. I’m going to take everything seriously and start a blog about social issues. Then I’ll kill myself so there’s one less know-it-all cunt in the world. Feel free to make an internet meme of my death and LOL yourself into a permanent coma. 

Destroy All Managers

Is there anything more useless than a manager? That’s a rhetorical question. The answer is obviously, “No, of course not! What kind of stupid question is that? Why don’t you ask me what jelly-filled donuts are filled with while you’re at it?” Settle down sass bag, it was just a question. And you are correct, there is nothing in this world more worthless than a manager. 

A car with square wheels can be used to mix assorted nuts. A pocket with a hole makes for a great wrist warmer. Dead batteries can be hurled at hipsters. Empty beehives can be fashioned into turbans. And yet, a manager will always be a manager. They don’t have the potential to be anything else. How pathetic is that? It might be possible to feel sorry for them if they weren’t walking venereal diseases covered in elephant shit. 

Have you ever seen a manager improve anything? Have you ever witnessed a manager do anything? All I’ve seen managers do is meet with other managers to discuss managing, which they think is a lot to manage. It’s so much to manage that they can’t be bothered to do any actual work. Seriously, what do managers contribute to a company other than an unnecessary drain on the budget?

Employees, who have to validate their presence by actually doing something, tend to have at least a basic idea of what needs to be done on a daily basis. Managers don’t even know how gravity works. If they did, they’d realize they’re dead weight. All they do is get in the way. They expect smart answers to stupid questions. A manager once asked me why I don’t smile more at work. It took all of my self-control not to cut off her head, fill it with baking soda and roll it down a water slide. 

It’s a common misconception that managers earn their positions through intelligence and hard work. Just kidding. It’s not common at all. Managers are the only people who think their positions are the result of merit. All the managers I’ve encountered have been spineless parrots who ape upper management. A few years ago, I worked under a bespectacled seat-stain who had the voice of a llama on whippets. During one fateful meeting, his boss used the word “consolidate.” Like any pseudo-intellectual who discovers a word with more than three syllables, he recklessly threw it into every other sentence he spoke. 

“Hey Joe, we need to consolidate this inventory. It needs to go out tomorrow. These boxes also need to be consolidated”

“You mean put them on a single pallet?”

“Um...yeah, do that. As long as they’re consolidated”

Fucking idiot. Is this what “leadership” is? Mindlessly clucking buzzwords as though they’re a panacea for a limited vocabulary?

Leadership. 

If ever there was a word that made me want to smash someone’s face with a monkey wrench, it would be “leadership.” Managers love this word because it’s a sanitized, dressed-up synonym for “bossy pantload.” Last year, some wince-faced speech fascist started a campaign to “ban bossy” and replace it with “leader.” She even got a few line-readers and music industry puppets to pimp this idealogical snot rocket to the masses on her behalf. To my utter delight, her fumbling attempt at censorship was throughly laughed at by almost everyone. People who would ordinarily obey the feminist propaganda machine and self-censor with glee were unwilling to delete “bossy” from their databases. 

Not that I was surprised. The world is filled with people and institutions that would like nothing more than to stifle an individual’s freewill. As numerous as they may be, none of them are as tangible as a manager. You may hate governments, corporations, modern slave traders and celebrities, but none of them will sabotage your personal existence quite like your manager. When the time comes to vent your frustrations, you want as many words as possible in your arsenal. 

Most people have a boss and I’m quite sure most of them wish they didn’t. Self-described “leaders” are nothing more than pushy, passive-aggressive, micro-managing, credit-stealing overseers with delusions of grandeur. They lick the right heels and nod their heads at appropriate times. If done correctly, they’re given a title that they bandy about and wear with a sense of pride that borders on parody. At least when blowfish puff themselves up, they’re doing it for survival. Managers only do it to inflate their already bloated egos. 

Being a sycophantic blowhard is always justifiable under the banner of “leadership.” But what does it mean to be a leader? If you’re unfortunate enough to see the world through the eyes of a manager, it means:

• Scurrying like a petrified crawdad whenever upper management questions you about anything. 

• Reprimanding your staff for violating arbitrary company policies that you yourself violated less than an hour ago. 

• Finding the most trivial way to criticize your employee’s performance on a job that you can’t/won’t do. 

• Stealing credit for your staff’s ideas. Since they work under you, everything they do can magically be attributed to you (unless they fuck up, of course). 

• Convincing yourself that working hard means slithering out of your office once or twice a day to look over your employee’s shoulder and nit-pick everything they do. 

• Having three hour meetings (jerk off sessions) with other managers to talk about management, managing and managerial practices. 

• Speaking to your employees in a condescending tone because you know that honest communication about a project would reveal your lack of knowledge on the subject. 

• Believing that your staff are nothing more than tools for your will while denying that you are the biggest tool in the office. 

And they know you have to take it. Outsourcing jobs, hiring immigrants for slave wages and developing staff-reducing software does more than maximize profits. These “efficiency practices” also keep the workforce desperate and dependent. The market isn’t hospitable to any pursuit of happiness or job satisfaction. Your managers are well aware of the fact that you have nowhere else to go, which gives them the freedom to rule over you in such a nerve-grinding way. You think the economic crash and dwindling job market is an accident? The shadowy puppet masters at the top planned it this way to keep all the working stiffs in line. 

But don’t grab the noose and razor just yet. Despite it all, there is one thing you can do - declare war on your manager. To do this, you’ll have to be subtle and crafty. As joyous as it would be to slam chards of glass into your manager’s face, you’d be jailed before you could savor their thrashed neck hat. If you ruin your life in the pursuit of destroying theirs, you’ve lost the war. Remember - there are cameras everywhere. Not only that, but the company will always take the manager’s word over yours. 

If you want to win, you’ve got to analyze your work environment, your manager’s idiosyncrasies and all of the possible ways you can devastate their day without it being traced back to you or your motives. Reach into the office fridge for your lunch. Spread your palm and “accidentally” grind your manager’s sandwich into an inedible mess. If there’s an email that displays your manager’s incompetence, reply to it and cc their boss. When your frantic manager asks you why you included their boss on the email, tell them you thought you were saving them time since they have to report everything to upper management anyways. If possible, gradually mix dog shit into the soil of their potted plant. Pay a homeless guy to have sex with the door handle of their car. There are as many possibilities as there are drones in the sky. 

Above all, do not feel sympathy for them. They’ve been lowering the quality of your life for too long, so it’s only fitting that you should lower the quality of theirs. Make no mistake, they started this war and now it’s up to you to finish it. Rise to the occasion and consolidate their ineptitude into misery. Be a vessel for the chaos that flows throughout the universe and unleash it on that overbearing status addict. Two wrongs may not make a right, but the second wrong feels orgasmic and that’s reason enough to destroy their cringeworthy version of reality. The pleasure you get from rupturing their swollen sense of self-importance will surpass any promotion they could, but probably won’t, give you. 

If they can manage to hold back their tears, you’ve still got a ways to go. If not, feel free to high-five the remaining smug from their face and take an extended lunch break. You’ve earned it!

 

If I Only Had a Stump

Do you ever feel like certain things are holding you back in life? Of course you do. Why would you think otherwise? Accepting responsibility for your mediocre life accomplishes nothing. It’s everyone else’s fault. It always has been and always will be. But what if it’s not just other people stifling your growth? What if a part of yourself is getting in the way?

People with Body Integrity Identity Disorder (BIID) know the truth. Needless limbs are hampering our potential. Appendages are nothing more than extraterrestrial flanges meant to oppress us. Walking sucks. Who needs legs? Creating the wheel is pointless if we’re just going to plod around. The disabled don’t know how fortunate they are. Their treacherous limbs are removed for them through random good luck. The rest of us have to gallivant across the globe and consult a money-siphoning amputation specialist. 

Life would be so much better if I was gimped out. My id would be free to fulfill its desires. I’d introduce myself as “Dr Bob Knobblestub” to everyone I meet. Their uneasy glances would tingle my insides. I’d also insist that they shake my stump. Refusing to glad-hand my knob would illustrate their intolerance of the handicapped. Anyone who won’t shake a stump is clearly a misogynist. 

Besides being a great prop, my stump would also serve a practical purpose: guilt-tripping anyone who disagrees with me. I could make the most outlandish claims imaginable and people would have to comply. A few contrarians may challenge my assertions that cats can smell polkadots or that God speaks through microwave beeps, but they’d change their tune the second I held up my stump. My eyes would get as dewey as a dandelion field at dawn. My bottom lip would tremble like a tuning fork. Everyone would look at the would-be critic as though they had punched a baby. The naysayer would eventually hang their head in shame and forfeit the argument. Sympathy for the legless trumps logic in every debate. It’s a fact. 

Despite my condition, I wouldn’t hobble or ride a wheelchair; I’d go sidewalk rafting. A grocery cart would be my ship. A soiled mop would be my paddle. Pedestrians would be forced to dive out of my cart’s path as I sail the city. I’d sing off-key sea shanties down by the seashore in a falsetto voice, annoying everyone I come into contact with. My stainless steel vessel would be anchored in a public pool with a naval mine. I’d drop a line and fish for swimmers. I imagine I’d have to beat some of the livelier ones with an oar to keep them from flopping around on my imaginary poop deck. 

There are occasions when a shopping cart wouldn’t be appropriate, however. If I approached a staircase, I’d tumble out of the grocery schooner and onto the steps. Other people would have to wait patiently and politely as I flop my way up the stairs. Anyone who gets angry or feels uncomfortable is simply being intolerant. If somebody offers me assistance, I’ll scream at them for condescending to me. Don’t interrupt. My inner monkeyface prickleback is testing its land potential. And don’t suggest using a  handicapped ramp. Why would I want to make my own ascent easier when it means I can’t slow other people down?

Stump stamping wouldn’t require a cart either, but I would have to bounce around like a robotic pogo stick. The knot on my leg would be painted with various designs. Buildings, sidewalks, postal trucks and children’s faces would all be branded. I’d use glitter paint during my festive moods. One day I could emboss churches with purple dick prints and the next I could stamp glow in the dark tangerine swastikas on daycare centers. The world would be my canvass. Each stamp would be shit-quality graffiti made with minimal effort and produced by a crippled malcontent. Art fags would love it.

Naturally, I’d become a world-famous artist overnight. Fortune would follow once I agree to do a commercial for crotch fungal cream. Real artists prostitute themselves in TV and internet advertisements. I’d look down at my prestigious stump with pride. Part of me would want to give something back to my fellow cripples. That side of my personality would be swiftly murdered by the part of me that knows how to have fun. I may give my fellow nub-wigglers a pittance for good publicity, but that would be it. I’ve got better plans for that money. 

Golden stilts. 

My stump’s stilt would have to be longer to balance out the length discrepancy. I’ll dominate and control everyone once I learn to walk again. Who can resist the demands of a fifteen-foot-tall dictator with golden legs? Nobody, that’s who. A few dissenters may be tempted to disobey, but not because they’re rebelling against my tyranny. They just want the honor of being kicked by my golden foot and I’m happy to oblige. I do what I can to help the little people. 

And why stop at stilts? My newfound fortune could provide me with a litany of enhancing features. I’ll get testosterone injected directly into my eyeballs. This would allow me to kill living things just by glaring at them. Anyone who thinks otherwise will be glowered at until their internal organs rupture. Swords will be attached to my finger tips. They would be fashioned out of the strongest thermoplastic polymers in order to evade magnetic resistance from the alloy-mining mole people. Anyone wishing to avoid slaughter would have to stand on a stool and kiss my stump. 

Obviously, I’d be a god among men if it weren’t for my stupid, functional limbs. Like a rabid demigod on a meth binge, I’d stalk mortals for sport, destroy their cities rule everything around me. People would pray for safety as they avert their eyes from the golden-legged giant with buff eyes and razor-sharp claws forged from plastic. Plus, I’d be rich, which means I could buy the justice system. Not that I’d need to. Nobody would challenge me. I’d just want to use cops and judges as lawn darts. 

And I could, if I only had a stump. 

Unforgivable Neck Hat

You know it instantly. Looking at it invokes hatred. A tossed salad of genetics stares back at you. Stock footage of train wrecks play in your mind. Words tumble out of their mouths. It’s all babble. You can’t hear anything. It’s not just jumbled, cacophonous ear lard during group conversations. It’s always trivial blather, even when just one of them is talking. Maybe they have something important to say. Who cares? If they wanted to be taken seriously, they’d get facial reconstructive surgery. 

I hate people’s faces. 

This sentiment doesn’t just apply to ugly people. Have you ever noticed that when someone is ugly, yet they’re also nice and funny, they don’t seem ugly? Too bad pleasant individuals with a sense of humor are virtually nonexistent. Ugly people remain ugly. As for pretty people, their faces turn to shit immediately after they speak. Human physiognomy conforms to emotions and thoughts, assuming there are any. Most people wear a blank stare with an imaginary “Gone Fishing” sign on their foreheads. Sometimes you can see scheming, self-aggrandizing twaddle infinitely pursuing validation from others. They always look satisfied with themselves, which I find unacceptable.

Looking at people is self-abuse. Seeing their faces grinds my stomach, but I look regardless. In the past, I’d stare at the ground when I was out in public. Life became easier. The sea of bowel-clenching mugs was finally gone and I was discovering sidewalk treasure. What more could I ask for? A lot, it would seem. There was too much I was missing out on. Car accidents, illiterate graffiti and homeless tomfoolery were absent from my life. If I wanted entertainment, I’d have to look up. 

Besides, why should I have to gaze at the ground? It’s other people who have stupid-looking faces. Why should I be punished for that? They’re the ones with the problem. If they had any decency, they’d cover up. If I were emperor, people would have pictures of kittens hot glued to their faces. Not only would I have something pleasant to look at, but they’d finally be able to take a worthwhile selfie. Just kidding. There has never been nor will there ever be a worthwhile selfie. 

Eyes are the first attribute I notice when looking at someone’s neck vomit. The windows to most souls are blemished with smugness and desperation. Beady eyes are the worst. They look like they’re constantly squinting. People excuse their strabismus by saying they’re either blocking light or attempting to concentrate. Neither of these are sufficient justifications. Stare at the sun and take the retina damage like a trooper. As for concentrating, lobotomized jellyfish can focus harder than most of the people I see. Have you ever watched someone attempting to figure something out? It’s like seeing a turtle walk uphill. There is no excuse for pea-sized eyes. Put on a dark pair of sunglasses and stop ruining my day. 

And what’s the deal with upturned noses? It looks like the tip of the nose is trying to escape the rest of the face. Every time I see one it’s attached to some rich bitch. I’ve never met anyone below the poverty line who has an upturned nose. Why? I think it’s  evolution. The upturned flesh acts like the sight on a gun. It helps opulent twats aim properly when they look down on layaway shoppers. Evolution may endow creatures with greater functionality, but it never seems to make them photogenic. Just ask the anteater. Don’t ask someone with an upturned nose. Asking them would only make them talk and nobody wants that. 

When I see another person, I try to imagine them wearing a rotting walrus mask. It’s easier to look at than their actual face. Why bother with laws against nudity when people are allowed to flaunt their abominable head cheese? Have you seen their facial expressions? Fucking gross. Half of them look like they’re trying to keep their sphincter intact. The rest have gaping trough mouths that make a great nesting ground for insects. And they stare. Why do they always gawk at me when I’m trying not to look at them? I had a plan for this situation. It was to raise a mirror whenever I caught anyone staring. In theory, they’d see their own face, recoil with disgust and kill themselves out of shame. As with many great ideas, this scheme was proven unworkable by the internet. 

Let’s face it - the web has exacerbated the face problem. Symptoms of nausea, depression and erectile disfunction are common when a heaping mound of cranial waste appears in your image search. Everyone uploads pictures of their stupid faces because debate forums and genital torture porn aren’t making the internet ugly enough. Across the globe narcissistic skin bags fritter away every hour of everyday taking selfies and posting them online. I’m pretty sure so many selfies are taken from a downward angle because the self-absorbed rubes know I’m looking down on them. And they should be looked down upon. They’re ruining the internet in the same way that family portraits ruin shelves. Nothing has ever been improved by attaching a face. Missing persons flyers should have a vague description and nothing else. 

Even worse than having your eyes violated by online countenance abortions is seeing a face in person. The vacant deadness of their eyes vacuums into blank stupidity that stares back at you. Hearing wheezing breath puttering out of their noggin’s orifices doesn’t help either. Their drooling, flytrap muzzles salivate to a chorus of idiocy. I’m sick of seeing their noses wince and mouths curl. Plastic surgery may transform faces into rubber glory holes, but at least it paralyzes movement. If you don’t believe me, go to Beverly Hills and throw raisins at someone’s face. They may scream and flail their arms, but their ridiculous cartoon mask will remain perfectly still. 

God doesn’t want to see your face and neither do I. Religion may birth imbecilic attire like magic underwear and Catholic fun hats, but it did give us one redeemable article of clothing - the burqa. Men, women, children, transvestites, hermaphrodites and miscellaneous human byproducts should all be forced to wear burqas. Who cares if it turns people into religious extremists? A few national tragedies are worth not having to look at their skull meat. I could eat popcorn and watch explosions all day long, but I simply can’t regard a face for longer than ten seconds. It’s simply too horrible to contemplate. 

There may be other problems in the world, but they pale in comparison the facial vulgarity that parades itself so freely. Cover it up. Nobody wants to see your face. If you consider yourself a kind-hearted humanitarian, you’ll hide those ugly genitals dangling from your forehead. Think of the general welfare of those around you. Why do you insist on inflicting your face upon an unwilling public? It’s time to stop. Your face is making people sick and the free clinics only have so much room. Look in the mirror and tell yourself that you aren’t somebody. Don’t go outside. Put a blanket over your head and spend the rest of your life playing Scrabble. The world will thank you. 

Lick It

Is there anything people won’t lick?

Aside from putting their grubby hands on everything, people also feel the need to lick anything in sight. And I do mean anything. Humans think they’ve evolved beyond other mammals, but their numerous tongue escapades say otherwise. Make no mistake, everyone you encounter is a salivating predator itching to lick every part of your non-consenting epidermis. Everyone. And they won’t stop with you. They’ll lick any inanimate object and cover the world in tongue sludge. 

In 2012 a heel named Anthony was cruising for kiddie tootsies at a library in Rochester, NY. An employee saw him licking a young girl’s feet. Anthony was charged with two counts of sexual abuse and is suspected of five similar foot-licking occurrences in nearby areas. With a case like this, a lame excuse was sure to follow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he said that his tongue landed on the girl’s foot after he tripped. Fortunately, Anthony’s explanation was a lot more entertaining. While leaving court he claimed innocence and said he was being set up by the president and federal government. 

Despite common misconceptions, the government doesn’t kidnap targeted individuals and torture them. Don’t look at those tinted vans abducting homeless people; those are just nearsighted child abductors. When the government really wants to destroy its domestic enemies, it orchestrates events that portrays the target as a foot-licking weirdo. They harness the power of microwave beams to control a person’s cavity receptors and issue neurological impulses that command the subject to lick feet and make a spectacle of themselves. Look it up on Wikipedia. I haven’t, but I’m sure it’s there. 

Of course, things don’t always go right. Last week one of the government’s foot-licking drones malfunctioned and blew the whole operation. Alecia from Nashville tried to pull her neighbor’s pants down. When the neighbor ran to her apartment, Alecia followed. Once Alecia caught up to her, she began groping the woman and demanding access to her tongue-teasing feet. She also ordered the neighbor to fetch her five-year-old grandson so she could lick his feet too. The woman pushed Alecia out of her apartment. Alecia came back and smashed her neighbor’s window with a Lysol can. The feds obviously need to recalibrate their microwave signals. 

People don’t only lick things because their brain waves have been zapped by shadowy institutions. Some people let their tongues graze because they care. For example, Zhang, a zoo caretaker in China, saw a monkey suffering from constipation. Zhang would stop at nothing to remedy the pain. He did this by licking the monkey’s butthole. 

According to the story, visitors tossed the monkey a peanut. Since the primate was only three months old, it didn’t have a full set of teeth. It swallowed the peanut. Constipated, desperate and unable to medicate, there was only one thing to do. Zhang sprang into action and licked the monkey’s anus for over an hour. The peanut was finally defecated. Reality proves itself to be completely subjective everytime an animal’s life is saved by an interspecies rimjob.

Of course, not every tongue mutant licks for such noble causes. Across the sea from China, the Japanese have turned licking things into a series of fads. A few years ago, eye licking was all the rage. Large segments of Japanese youths were doing what teenagers do best - using their tongues for stupidity. Not surprisingly, this led to several cases of eye infections. Undeterred, eye-licking practitioners continued the act, claiming that it made them feel tingly and turned on. I’m left to assume they don’t have party drugs in Japan. Nonetheless, Japan does offer the world dancing robots and vending machines that sell used schoolgirl panties, so eye licking isn’t that unusual for them. 

At around the same time, another internet fad from the land of the rising tongue involved girls being photographed while licking doorknobs. Due to censorship, penises aren’t on display in Japanese porn. This is why logical substitutes like tentacles and doorknobs are used. Maybe knobs in the professional shoots were sanitized, but I doubt the girls posting knob-polishing selfies thought to clean them. Although, if you’re bobbing a knob, I doubt good hygiene is at the top of your priority list. If this results in a case of hairy tongue, beware. From what I understand, monster tentacle dicks hate rug burn. 

Since eyeballs and doorknobs aren’t tuna, I think the Japanese assumed they would be safe to lick. A few years before licking fads caught on, the Tokyo fish market had to temporarily ban tourists. Sightseers, no matter where they’re from and where they go, can always be counted on to act like brainless sunstroke victims on salvia. The incident that sent the fishmongers over the edge occurred when a British tourist licked the face of a tuna. 

Aw, the British. Is there anyone those food-boiling mushmouths can’t irritate? The ban was lifted shortly after the incident. Tourists are now educated with brochures on how to behave around tuna. Not that they should have to be told. Any heterosexual man can tell you nothing good comes from licking tuna. Lesbians seem to love it, which is baffling to say the least.

One pattern I’ve noticed is that most acts of tongue knavery are fueled by the accolades of uncaring peers seeking a cheap laugh. Sometimes it comes in the form of a girl’s sleepover. Despite popular mythology, girls don’t actually make out and have tickle fights. Young ladies today enrich their feminine bonds by daring each other to lick toilet seats. Every young girl realizes what true friendship is when her ovarian sisters convince her to tongue swirl the rim of a porcelain shitter.

But teenage tongue hijinks aren’t limited to girls. In 2012 a video of a boy licking a subway handrail in NYC spread like online chlamydia. Urged by the hurrahs of his idiot bromosexuals, the kid licked the handrail’s entire surface. It’s common knowledge that guys jerk off in subways, so I can only assume this lad was famished for secondhand dick. Or maybe it was the hefty bounty offered by his subway companions - a whopping $1.00. He has a promising future as a discount prostitute. 

As much as I would love to dismiss teenagers as hormonally-retarded troglodytes who’ll lick anything, the sad fact is that this behavior is learned. Older generations are leading by example. When your life instructors are Baby Boomers and Gen Xers, you’re probably not going to develop into an intelligent person. Although, you will get plenty of tutorials on how to squander every available resource and learn the art of whining about how hard life is. 

A four-year-old girl in El Paso, TX received a life lesson of sorts when she entered a public bathroom. She was immediately followed by Marcellous, a fifty-four-year-old homeless man. Marcellous exposed his unwashed stick and bindle to the girl and shook it at her. Maybe he wanted to put on a puppet show and couldn’t find a sock. That still wouldn’t explain why he licked the girl’s face and quickly left the bathroom. I’m not sure if you can become homeless from being exposed to transient saliva. For the girl’s sake, let’s hope not. You can’t pay for therapy sessions with a cup of loose change. 

Clearly, licking things that should go unlicked transcends generational gaps. Did you know it also travels beyond death? A couple of years ago, a Swedish woman was arrested for keeping human skeletons in her apartment. Police discovered photos of her licking the craniums. In one photo, she grazes her tongue across a skull’s exposed teeth. The woman kept images of her dome-licking dalliances on discs labeled “My necrophilia” and “My first experience.” Madame Skull Licker claimed that she bought the skeletons online. The web’s digital playground really does bring the world together. For some reason, people who romanticize the internet’s ability to connect humanity never mention necrophiliacs. 

Her story is so empowering. The “creepy” adjective is often thought to be cornered by men. It’s refreshing to see a woman come out and prove that being creepy knows no gender. A woman can inspire nausea just as well as any man. This woman is a hero for equality. You go girl!

Given all the evidence, it’s apparent that the human tongue is a disgusting abomination. It looks like a swollen clitoris after collagen injections. I’m almost certain mother nature was huffing computer duster when she designed it. Combine this filthy organ with mankind’s inability to control itself and you’ve got a recipe for an embarrassing disaster. It’s time that humans, as a whole, admit to themselves how terrible those moist flaps inside their mouths are and remove them en masse. No longer would anyone have to worry about being licked or having their property licked. Plus, I wouldn’t have to hear anyone speak and that would be pretty nifty.

India: Land of Frivolous Suicides

Suicide is like smoking PCP on a roller coaster. It’s your life and your choice, yet other people stick their noses in and offer unsolicited advice. If I wanted their opinions, I’d kill enough brain cells to think like them. Other people don’t know they’re the reason suicide is such a tempting alternative to living. 

As much as I don’t like people, I do enjoy using them for my entertainment. I don’t want to commit suicide, but if I did, I’d make it as memorable as possible. I’d rent four horses and take them to Knott’s Berry Farm. Once the steeds are fed a sufficient amount of amphetamines, I’d shove hooks into my flesh and chain them to the horses. Then I’d whip the foals in different directions, ripping my flesh off in the process. I’d sing and dance, delighting young and old alike with my skinless antics. Eventually, my organs would splatter on Snoopy’s feet and I’d die of massive blood loss. 

I understand why some people kill themselves. They’ve lived half their life, or more, and nothing has improved. In fact, everything gets worse everyday. Sounds become louder and more invasive. Their sense of taste is dulled to a faded layer of metallic film. Only their sense of smell gets stronger. Everything reeks of sweating bodies and rotting food. It enters their nostrils and destroys their brain. Everyone they meet is ugly, boring and they always have some passive-aggressive agenda. Every relationship is a nightmare. Every attempt at human contact is a failure. Nothing ever works out. Each day they slide further into poverty and isolation. Their minds have halted because trying is no longer worth the effort. Every sensation feels like it’s been smeared with novocain. Every muscle is nearly dead from atrophy. When there’s no point, there’s nothing worth hanging onto. 

Or maybe they commit suicide because dad wouldn’t let them take the bike out.  

This was the case of Jayant in Bangalore. He and his friends were all set to go to Wonder-la for a day of pubescent theme-park tomfoolery. Jayant’s dad, being a big, unreasonable meanie, told Jayant that he couldn’t take the two-wheeler out. Instead, he advised his son to take the bus to Wonder-la. Devastated by the injustice of such parental abuse, Jayant huffed and puffed and lynched himself from the ceiling fan. The real tragedy in this story is that he didn’t turn the fan on before croaking. If only he could’ve been discovered circling in midair. That would’ve made a great gif!

For some reason, India has a lot of frivolous suicides. Jayant’s case isn’t unique. In fact, it’s not even one in a few. It’s known that India has some of the world’s highest suicides rates, especially among teenagers. What’s not recognized is that many cases of self-annihilation in India are caused by minor inconveniences. When looking through world news, I’ll often see a story about a young Indian girl who hangs herself because she can’t by new clothes or because her dad told her not to watch TV. Sometimes, I’ll see a more interesting story, like the Indian guy who set himself on fire because of an argument he had with his wife over food preparation. The one thing these stories have in common is that they’re all caused by trivial events. 

At their worst, these cases represent unchecked sensitivity, entitlement and stupidity. Before anyone says it’s cheap and easy to make fun of someone who’s dead when they can’t defend themselves, I’d like to add that it’s also rewarding. I don’t have to hear their idiotic rebuttals, which makes it the perfect argument.

To be fair, India isn’t the only country with frivolous suicides. They just seem to have a lot more of them. Before proceeding with a buffet of featherbrained, dot-headed suicides, let’s take a brief look at vapid acts of self-destruction in other countries. 

England - Vanity Suicides

In 2013 a woman named Frances suffered from emotional turmoil so extreme that she hung herself. Her body was found eighty miles from town in the woods. So what set her off? A bad hair day, that’s what. Frances was convinced her hair was turning ginger. At least she didn’t live to see her face turn blue.

In 2013, Danny tried to off himself when he couldn’t take a perfect selfie. He spent his days at home, taking up to two hundred selfies a day. When he realized his fanatical dream of an idealized selfie was unattainable, he attempted to OD. His mom saved him, which means he failed at two things that day.  

United States - Partisan Suicides

In 2004 Mr. Veal, a philandering, liberal vegetarian, blew his head off at Ground Zero with a shotgun. He was so distraught over the reelection of G.W. Bushwhack that he drove to New York from Georgia and killed himself. That’s a lot of work and emotion to dish out for a mentally-challenged male cheerleader for shadowy world powers. 

In 2012 a gay, conservative tanning-salon owner in Florida killed himself because B.O. Barackus was reelected to the office of exalted figurehead. Hamilton intentionally overdosed on Xanax and Seroquel. He scrolled the message “Do not revive! Fuck Obama!” on his will. I wonder if it would’ve eased Hamilton’s anxiety to know that Obama is George W. Bush in blackface. 

Kenya - Soccer Suicides

In 2013 a man in Kenya jumped from the seventh story his apartment complex after his favorite soccer team lost a game. John Macharia, not realizing how boring of a sport soccer is, decided it was worth killing himself over. This wasn’t the fist soccer suicide in Nairobi. Another fan hung himself in 2009 when his favorite team lost. After the 2013 incident, Nairobi’s County Police Commander actually had to go on record and state that fans should not kill themselves over soccer matches. 

We’ve now established that India isn’t the only country with citizens attempting suicide over frivolous nonsense. They just have more of them. I can’t say if it’s the long hours of working tech support or being denied cheeseburgers that prods them into trivial suicides. Maybe it’s just the way their four-armed god fashioned them. Either way, they seem to have a low tolerance for life. In all fairness, if I thought I was coming back to live multiple lives, I’d probably kill myself just to get on with the show.

For Aditya in Sriramanagar, the show wasn’t permitted to go on. He had a song in his heart and a burning desire to belt it out, however, it was not meant to be. In 2011, the 21-year-old college student’s parents banned him from singing at a concert. If one can’t sing, it stands to reason that life is no longer worth living. Aditya went to his room and hung himself. He probably wouldn’t have made a good singer anyways. Good musicians don’t listen to their parents. 

Parents always try to ban everything. It’s like they want their kids to commit suicide. Just ask Aishwarya from Parbhani. Actually, you can’t. She’s dead. The 17-year-old knew that life was a waste when her passion was cruelly snatched away from her. Aish’s parents heartlessly banned her from using Facebook. Don’t they know that people need Facebook to escape their sad lives? Don’t they see how people rely on it to fabricate third party validations in the form of “likes”? Of course they don’t, which is why Aish hung herself. It’s unreported how “likes” her suicide got on Facebook.

Another girl from India hung herself in her bedroom because her mother told her to stop using Facebook. Many women and young girls in India kill themselves over Facebook. At first glance, it would seem that Facebook makes people retarded. The fact is, social media prolongs life. Sure, the quality of that life plummets faster than a suicide jumper, but it lasts longer. Who cares about quality? Bed pans, life support and Facebook - that’s what living is all about. 

But it’s not just Facebook. In general, parents are a bunch of killjoys who don’t know how to have a good time. That’s why they never kick down money for booze and drugs. In Delhi, a 22-year-old named Rakesh hung himself because his mother wouldn’t give him money to drink himself into a life-affirming stupor. In Mangalore, an 18-year-old named Sneha hung herself because her parents wouldn’t finance her drug habit. 

These two incidents leave me quite bewildered. Asking your parents for anti-sobriety funds and killing yourself when they refuse? When did it go out of style for addicts to suck dick for their fix?

If anyone could’ve benefited from putting their mouth to work, it was Narsingh. The congress leader from the Agar constituency should’ve realized that the only way to get ahead in politics is to give some head. But no, Nar was denied a poll ticket in the election, which lead him to swallow poison instead. He died in the hospital shortly after. Though he tried to lead in life, I think it’s death that will make him a true inspiration. If every politician followed his example, the world would be a much better place. 

The world would also be a better place if movies would get to the theatre on time. Vishnu could attest to that. Apparently, the four-armed god came to earth in the form of a 20-year-old construction worker. His purpose among mortals was a noble one - watching actor Vijay’s movies right when they hit the big screen. Unfortunately for the creator god turned mortal movie fanatic, the film was delayed screening because some protest group did what protest groups always do, which is whine about dumb shit and irritate anyone who actually tries to do something constructive with their lives. Distraught over not being able to see his favorite actor’s new film, Vishnu went home and hung himself. It was probably easier than having to slit all four of his wrists. 

When it seems the suicides can’t get more frivolous, a man kills himself because a crow sat on his head. Anand, a 23-year-old engineering student, poisoned himself because a crow sat on his head twice in the same day. Instead of celebrating his new flying hat, Anand freaked out and snuffed himself shortly after. As a Hindu, he saw the crow as a bad omen. Hindus believe that crows house the souls of people who’ve committed suicide. If an ominous, soul-imprisoning crow scares you, the most logical course of action is to commit suicide and become crow food. 

I’m not one of those life-affirming boners who goes around saying “Life is precious.” That’s because life isn’t precious for everyone. Some people have good reasons for committing suicide. And for the record, suicide is not “the coward’s way out.” There’s nothing cowardly about leaving behind familiarity to enter the unknown. However, if you do plan on ditching life, it may be worthwhile to have a good reason for it.

Or at least go out with some dignity. 

If someone killed themselves simply because they were bored with life, there would be nothing to make fun of, as long as they remained calm and composed during the process. Getting hysterical and offing yourself because you didn’t like dinner will ensure your last moments are reduced to a punchline. One would think this would be self-evident, but it obviously isn’t. For whatever reason, suicides inspired by triviality are on the rise in India. Maybe this pattern will peak hard enough to issue a decline. Or maybe its volume will spread to other countries. I’m not sure. What I do know is that if this trend continues, every suicide in India will be accompanied with a blooper reel and laugh track.