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!