Night of the Inane Comment III

What with the fact that my blog is now open to my parents perusal, I went through my old posts to find out, what, exactly, I've written here. That being done, there's two things I'd like to make clear:
1) I do not swear as much in real life as I do on my blog.
2) I do not drink as much in real life as I do on my blog.
Just so's we're clear on that.

Now that we've got that straightened out, I think it may be time for one of my favorite episodes....That's right, it's about:

Night of the Inane Comment: Return of the Night

Let's start with someone else's life, shall we? Surrey Memorial sucks. Doctor White (?) is a fucking moron. My friends C. and B. have spent the last week at the hospital with their three year old daughter, stressed out, unable to leave, with a bored, tweaking out pre-schooler to entertain, and for what? Most of the week was spent waiting for....test results. To find out that she had pneumonia, which C. and B. could probably have told you before they walked in the door. And which the doctor's at the Royal Columbian did tell them before sending them to Surrey for their week of waiting.
Couple of points that really piss me off here:
1) If you're gonna tell parents that they can leave "as soon as the test results are back," you might want to let them know that the results won't be back for a couple of days. That may be one of those pertinent little pieces of info that some parents may find important. "Oh yeah, soon as the blood work comes back, she'll be discharged. No worries, honey, you go home. Call your profs, tell them you'll get right on those papers. Make dinner reservations, hell book a vacation. I'll be home with our daughter in five....."
2) Where is the cost savings in not having a lab in Surrey? Because if you won't release patients without the lab results, and you, what, mail that shit with Canada Post, then keep patients for an extra three days waiting for results, I'm guessing the cost of that bed is a little more than having a lab. Maybe this is a one time thing, and most patients are released without needing their lab results, but somehow I don't think this is the only kid in Surrey to have ever gotten pneumonia. Or to have needed blood work done.

The Yeah Yeah Yeah's 'Maps' is not a good song to listen to on an MP3 player. At least not if your a sing-a-long kinda person. Without the backup, Maps is one of those songs that makes you really sound like an ass. Take it off that playlist, right now. Only play it at home, or in the car, or anywhere where people can hear the tune over your singing. Not your MP3 player. Trust me on this one.
On the music theme, I think I love any band who's name starts with "The". The band could suck, I don't care. Hell, maybe they haven't even written a song yet, but throw the word "the" in there, and I love them.
Same theme? I think I kinda hate Metric.

My cat ate my brownie.
My cat ate my Christmas present.
My cat's goin' down, whenever I can catch her off guard.

Someone threw their pills in an ashtray in the smoke pit at school. Funny thing about it is there's about ten pills missing, then four still in the pack, then two missing, then two more in the pack, then two more missing....you get my drift. Yeah, if those are the odds your working with girl, it's probably best you admit defeat.
Though I gotta say I empathize. Does anyone actually remember to take the pill every single day? I'm working with the whole pill thing here, and let me tell you, if I was actually relying on this as a birth control method, I'd have bred an army five times over by now.
Wait, I may be on something here....
Shadow, it's gonna happen. You've got the mission statement, I'll produce the cannon fodder. You babysit, I'll procreate us up the necessary masses.
Long live the rebellion!


The Kid's eyes have turned green. They used to be blue, but for the last month now, they've been this deep sort of mossy green. I'm wicked jealous. Wicked jealous.

Taking the ferry from the mainland in Greece to Santorini Island, I went out for some fresh air. Found a spot on the deck, pulled out a book, and read. (I think the book was something by V.C. Andrews. I was twelve at the time. That could explain a lot about me right there.) Next thing you know, there's some guy plunked down next to me, and he's pretty stoked to have met a fellow Canadian. He's a university student, from Alberta. He's sitting real close to me. He says I have 'angel eyes.' He's shitfaced.
Don't get me wrong, I do have angel eyes. If you make the correlation that is: angel = innocent = naive = stupid. I've got me a fine pair of blank, cow like eyes. The vacant, vacuous look gets me out of sayin' shit when I don't feel like tossing in an opinion, anyways.
But guess what? Angel eyes or no, I was twelve, and not so keen on getting hit on by some shit-faced Albertan. Down right terrified is what I was. I hid in our bunks for the rest of the trip. When I told them about it, my parents thought the whole episode was hilarious. Yeah, hahaha. Great sense of humor. Wait 'till the next time you walk into a pole, or some drunk guy pukes on you. Then we'll see who's laughing, won't we?
(The answer is me. I'll be laughing. I'm the one.)

"Women's" magazines, like Cosmo and all that shite, always have these articles on body language, how to read it, and how to wrap a rich old man around you're finger and convince him to give you all the contents of his bank account merely by pursing your lips in just the right way. One of the things they always say is that when someone mimics you, they're attracted to you. As any good conversationalist can tell you, that's bullshit. Language is (waxing poetic here) an art form, closely linked to music. (You know, sound and all that jazz.) Sometimes you just get a great conversational theme goin' on, and the theme's not just in the topic, it's in the speech mannerisms.
Adopting someone's speech/gestures is the same as borrowing a shirt from them. Just because you don't own it doesn't mean it doesn't fit you, or isn't you're style. It's just the song of the moment. (Mixed the shit out of my metaphors there. Figure that one out.)
So yeah, it always amuses me when I catch people picking up on my shit. Because I may be the closest thing you can get to multiple personality without actually being multiple personality. Which means when someone mimics me, they're already a week behind.
But maybe I just see that because I've grown accustomed enough to anything that's continuous in me not to notice it anymore. Maybe I only notice the disparities, not the regularities. Maybe I'm actually one of the most predictable people you'll ever meet. (Or not, you may never meet me.) Who knows?

So, is it immoral of me to use it, and abuse it, if someone is actually scared of me, despite the fact that they have no reason to be? I say no. The way I figure it, I'm me. Sure, I'd love to kick your ass, but I'll forget what my mission is halfway across the room. Not to mention, I'm five feet, ten inches of bone topped off with a thin layer of lard. I don't have a muscle on my body. And I sure as hell don't have co-ordination. Or the ability to stand up for extended periods of time without gravity getting the best of me.
If you're scared of me, well that just makes you a big fat pansy. And not just a physical pansy. I'm all over physical pansyhood. I'm a pansy. But if you're scared of me, you're a mental pansy to boot. And that, I've got no respect for. So by being scared of me, you deserve to be scared of me. And then you just need one big fat ass kicking.
From someone who's far less of a pansy than I.

This Night of the Inane Comment is somewhat lacking in chutzpah. I'm just not morose tonight. No sad tales of woe, no past transgressions to regress on. No kicker. I suppose I could pull something out of my hat, but I'm not really into that structured writing shit. I'd rather just go with the me. And the me is a little redundant tonight.

Okay, now I'm choked. Motherfuckers keep stealing my shit. First it was the proliferation of vanilla, then Starfuckers endorsement of the coffee diet, then the New York Times stealing my huppies and turning them into indie yuppies, and now this. Ain't nobody allowed to steal my 'on' unless your name is Mill. And if your name is Mill? You can't sue me, cause your dead. Sucks to be you, asshole.

On "Promises I Can Keep : Why Poor Women Put Motherhood Before Marriage": This book provides the most insightful and comprehensive account I have read of the reasons why many low-income women postpone marriage but don't postpone childbearing. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing meaning of marriage in American society.--Andrew Cherlin, author of Public and Private Families
The fact that someone needs to write a book about this shit pisses me right the fuck off. See this here? This is me, fucking infuriated. Guess what, you self-righteous, arrogant fucktard: getting pregnant isn't an accident. Not getting pregnant, that's an accident. Condom's break. The shot? It's crap. Hormones fuck with hormones, then they don't work. Sperm swims, eggs swallow.
So as to the "Why" of why poor women should choose to have children without choosing marriage? Well, you find me an orgasm that'll create a descent man, and maybe you'll be working with equal variables in your little statistical analysis. Stats aren't about the answers, they're about the questions. So here's a new one for you:
This book provides a new means of defining how these strong, independent women who choose to have children (despite the fact that their boyfriends turned out to be fucked up incompetent little shitheads), can make their way in society. Edin and Kefalas do an excellent job of illuminating the changing societal perceptions of single parenting, and the shift in public policy which is making it easier for low income parents to pursue the education or goals that they are striving for.
There. Was that so hard? Do we really need a book telling us why marriage is harder to make than children? Wouldn't it be more fun to make a book which accepts the fact that a) sex makes babies and therefore b) the fact that you got pregnant does not make you any different from any one else therefore c) you cannot be treated as a statistical anomaly therefore d) we should be writing a book on how facilitate the personal, social, and economic growth of perfectly fucking normal, competent and potentially productive member's of society.
Guess what? Being a single parent is not some kind of rare, incurable, deadly disease. It's kinda like being a married parent, except without the marriage. Or like being single, except with a child.

Oh, and Fuck You.