Women are Noise Pollution

You know, I’m not a religious man. I’ve never been baptized or gone out of my way to go to church or even took time to study the Bible. I know I’m probably the exception rather than the rule, but I’m ok with that. I’m pretty sure that if there was a God in Heaven, and He did love me, then the world would be a much different place. Namely, women would come with a volume control as a standard feature.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that there isn’t a God up there, because, well, there very well might be. What I am saying, is that if He does indeed exist, then He most definitely does not have much love for me. If you know anything about me, then you know that women have always been, and will always be, the bane of my existence.

I enjoy the company of women just like any other man. What can I say? Women are fun creatures given the right circumstances. However, they are evil and vile mortals that want only to drink from men’s souls. They don’t mean to be, it’s just part of their being. It is some sort of inbred genetic code that science and modern technology have yet to crack. And I’m willing to bet that they never will. Such malevolence cannot be undone by mere science.

But I did not want to talk to you to day about the dark arts of the woman. No, today I merely wanted to discuss the reasons they are annoying. Yes, I believe we can all agree that those female creatures are annoying. Even women are aggravated by most of their kind. Foremost among the irritating mannerisms of the womenfolk, is the excessive abuse of the human languages. In other word, women like to talk.

Or to be more precise, for some strange reason, women really like to hear themselves talk. I don’t know what the compulsion is behind this, but it must stop. As I have said before, if there was a just and loving God, He would have put a volume control on every woman born. But since God has left mankind wanting in that regard, I have decided to step up and “fix” that particular feminine problem.

I have come up with an invention so daring, so utterly ingenious that it cannot hope to do anything but succeed. And by that I mean that it will most likely fail miserably. Let’s be honest with ourselves here, I don’t exactly have an endorsing track record here. Have no fear, however, as I still have faith in myself. I may not have faith in my contraption or my abilities, but I do have faith in myself, for what that’s worth.

I could draw you a sophisticated diagram showing off my work and how to replicate it, but I fear that would be a waste of time and paper. It would be much easier to put into words. A picture is worth a thousand words, yes, but it will take just a scant few to relay the ingenious device that I have devised. Please, read on.

Basically, all you have to do is to find an old volume dial from a decrepit television. I’d really much prefer the dial so you can easily and quickly turn to the desired noise level, rather than the much more recent volume +\- buttons that take longer to attune. Once you have found your dial take it, and weld it to the back of your woman. And, well, that’s pretty much it.

Once you have done that, you now have a volume control for your woman that you can use anytime. In reality you can weld it to any part of her body, but I suggest the middle of her back. That way, it does not deform any of the more redeeming physical qualities of the female. And let’s be honest, they can be quite attractive if they ever took the time and inclination to shut up. As far as I’m concerned, women should be seen and not heard.

Now I know there is one fatal flaw in my design. Just because you weld a volume dial to something doesn’t mean that the dial will turn and actually control the variation of noise. This is true. However, I assume that if you’re determined enough (or crazy enough) to forcibly connect a piece of metal into your beloved’s back, then you most likely capable of doing other, more insidious things to her. I know I don’t give women much credit for their smarts, but I do believe they are intelligent enough to know that a man who welds a volume control to her back, he is pretty damned serious when he tells her to be quiet, or else. I think women are smart enough to shut up at that point.

Then again, I’ve known girls who, for some reason or another, just can’t seem to shut themselves up. They continue to talk even when it’s in their best interest to stop. What can I do? I am but one man. I cannot “help” every woman out there. But then again, I’ve never been much help to women. My priorities lie with helping my fellow man. And this is what I have attempted to do here today.

So I beg of you, all of you women out there. Please try not to talk as much. Lower the volume, talk softer and less often. It is not just for me that I ask, but for you as well. Truth be told, women are much more beautiful when they keep their silence. Sure there are a handful of women in the world that actually become more attractive when they talk, but I can assure you that you are not one of them. You belong to the vast majority of women that, although attractive at first sight, instantly lose their physical appeal when that oral organ begins to move and sounds fly out.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Women should be seen and not heard. This is the universal truth that I live my life behind. Sure, there are other, more respectable causes to champion, but I like my ideals just fine. Hey, somebody has to do it. If not for me raising the banner and battle cry for men’s rights, who would?

I realize that women are not mere objects meant for men’s possession, but I’m allowed to fantasize of this dream, right? Guys need to know that sometimes it’s ok to be a man. Most of our lives we melt around the fairer sex and bend to their wills. But you know what, sometimes it’s perfectly all right to sit down, drink a cold frosty beer, watch some football, and tell your woman to shut up. Seriously, it’s ok. You can tell her I said so.

Meat, It’s What’s for Dinner

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful Steak and Blow-job Day last week. I know mine left a little something to be desired; namely, I didn’t eat a steak and I didn’t receive a blow-job. But you know what? That’s ok. If you know anything about Steak and Blow-job Day and my personal feelings towards the other holidays, then you’ll know why I didn’t get any of the good stuff.

But what is Steak and Blow-job Day? It is a holiday with very recent origins. It takes place every year on March 14th, exactly one month after Valentine’s Day. You see, on Valentine’s Day men get the privilege of treating the special lady in their life to a wonderful evening full of flowers, chocolates, romantic dinners, and many other thoughtful and wallet emptying devices. Some people think it’s unfair for women to have a special day like that while men don’t.

Thus, Steak and Blow-job Day was born. Its founder, Tom Birdsey, explains how the holiday works: “No cards, no flowers, no special nights on the town; the name of the holiday explains it all, just a steak and a BJ. That's it.” We all know how much women love to be fawned over in romantic fashion. The candlelight dinners, the thoughtful gifts, these are the things that make women feel special. Guys are slightly different creatures. The only things we need to feel special are a steak and a blow job. Preferably not at the same time.

I know most women reading this probably think the entire holiday is sexist. Let me put your fears to rest right now, it is 100% completely sexist. Hey, guys have to listen to your whining and complaining all year long and pretend to still love you for it. The very least you could do is to cook him up a nice juicy steak (Outback does curbside take out, if you haven’t mastered the cuisine arts as of yet) and give him one blow job. Trust me, it’s not going to kill you.

I think the problem with this holiday is that it’s not getting enough exposure. Nobody knows about it. I have yet to see a calendar with the venerable Steak and BJ Day clearly marked. This is a momentous problem. How are we supposed to spread the good word about this holiday if we can’t even get it printed in calendars? Well, I for one pledge to not stop for fare or quarter in my eternal efforts to get Steak and Blow-job Day on every calendar in this country!

I figure that it’s can’t be too hard. I mean, every calendar I have ever owned (read: every Anna Kournikova calendar ever made) has included Boxing Day in its winter holiday repertoire. And do you celebrate Boxing Day? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Now, I don’t really know a whole lot about Boxing Day, but I do know that it originated in Great Britain and is still celebrated in Canada today. What are those crazy Canadians celebrating and why is it the day after Christmas? I honestly have no idea.

As a general rule, I don’t like to question our neighbors to the North. I mean, they speak French up there. And that just scares me. Although I have to admit, the Canadians have always been trustworthy allies in times of need. Sure I may poke fun of them every now and then, but in all honesty, the Canucks are all right. I mean, they invented hockey, so they have to be ok. And I’ve always enjoyed their beer.

Back to the matter at hand, however: how to get a new holiday accepted by the masses. I’ve been running a few ideas through my head, and I think I’m on to something. The Cattleman’s Beef Promotion and Research Board might just be interested in a new holiday that revolves around steak. I mean, the US turkey industry would only be a fraction of the size it is today without Thanksgiving. Just think of how much more beef they could sell if only half of every couple in the America bought just one steak on Steak and BJ Day. Now that’s a lot of beef.

I think I can hear cattle produces across the country lining their pockets with our money already. And you know what, I’m ok with that. They provide a valuable service to the community. I mean, they make steak. And steak is good. There is no denying the absolute goodness of steak. So meaty, so juicy, and so yummy… I like steak. Steak, it’s what’s for dinner.

But steak is only half of the holiday. The other half is 100% free of charge. That is, as long as your female partner doesn’t mind giving out the oral components of sex. But, if your woman for some strange reason doesn’t like to go down on you, or refuses to give you a blow-job, then it is perfectly acceptable for her to hire a prostitute as a fill in for this holiday tradition. I’d just like to point out that unless you live in Las Vegas, prostitution is illegal.

I’m beginning to think that Sin City is going to become the US capital for Steak and Blow-job Day celebrations. And when you think about it, that’s not a bad idea. The city could put on a large parade. I could be kind of like St. Patrick’s Day, but with more steak… and more blow-jobs. Hey, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

Interestingly, Steak and Blow-job Day occurs on the same date as White Day in Japan. See, in the Far East, Valentine’s Day is celebrated by women giving gifts of chocolate or other goodies to men. In fact, a guy could receive gifts from three or four different girls on this one special day. Now, before you all start packing your bags to move to the Land of the Rising Sun, let me explain White Day.

On White Day, one month after Valentine’s Day (March 14th), guys have to give gifts to each and every woman that gave them something in the prior month. Beyond that, the men are expected to spend at least three times as much on the ladies as they did on him. So as you can see, with possibly more than just one woman to spend money on, this could be a very expensive venture.

With that in mind, I think Steak and Blow-job Day fills a necessity in the US. The roles may be reversed in the Japanese holidays, but the theory is the same, and it is sound. I think this is a very important holiday that we all need to jump on as quickly as possible. And it’s not just for the benefit of the men out there. The American economy survives off consumerism. I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again. The fact that you spend all of your hard earned cash each and every holiday is what keeps our economy moving along.

Steak and Blow-job Day extends that holiday period for an entire month. That means more spending, more unabashed consumerism, and more growth for the economy. Remember, the beef industry needs your dollars just as much, if not more, than you do. So it’s time to get this holiday in full swing.

I expect that next year we will have a much larger following for the august Steak and Blow-job Day. I, for one, will not rest until all of America has accepted this holiday. I realize that this is an uphill battle, but for the sake of our economy (not to mention men everywhere) I must not fail. I’m sure that with a little help from the Beef Board and the city of Las Vegas, I will persevere. And please, do your part to make next March 14th the best Steak and Blow-job Day ever!

Real Men Have Big Cables

So the other day I did the unthinkable. I went to Wal-Mart. Now don’t get me wrong, Wal-Mart has a very large selection of goods at very low prices. There’s nothing questionable about that. I just don’t particularly care to go to the discount super center. It just seems to me that it is much more of a hassle than it is worth.

Even when I try to go during off-peak hours, there still are far too many crowds of people at the local Wal-Mart. This bothers me seeing as I have an absolute disdain for people in general. In addition, they can be even more annoying when I’m shopping. When I’m in a store, I’m on a mission. I’m not there to peruse the stocked items; I’m there to pick up exactly what I need then get out so I can get back to playing video games. I’ve got the mentality of a 14 year old, so sue me.

Now I don’t hate people just because they’re human. I generally just dislike large groups of people. For some reason, when people are large groups, whether it’s planned or not, they tend to act like idiots. I’m not sure if there’s some sort of psychological reason this happens, I never did put much stock in that Freud guy. But I do know that this generalization seems to get worse when people shop. I don’t know why, I don’t want to know why; I just wish people would avoid me when they feel the idiocy about to sting them.

So you may be asking yourself why I would willingly go to Wal-Mart when I hate shopping so much. Well, if you must know, I finally got off my lazy rear end and went to pick up an adapter for my TV. I’m sure most of you have one of those fancy new HDTV’s with about 18 different audio and video inputs available. My television, however, is a piece of shit. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. Well, no I don’t, my TV sucks.

In addition to all of the other things that I’m not overly fond of about it, the TV in my living room has only one input for the audio/video cables. A few months before, that wasn’t a problem. The cable box connects to the cable jack and my DVD player hooked in fine with the familiar yellow, red, and white wires. However, just before Thanksgiving I was lucky enough to snag a brand new Nintendo Wii at its initial release. So then I had to unplug my DVD player just to play with my Wii and conversely, I had to disable the Nintendo in order to watch a DVD. This was clearly unacceptable.

I could duplicate the setup that I have in my bedroom, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely sure how I managed to get everything to work in there. I’ll just give you a quick run down of my bedroom set-up: I have a mini-fridge that is used to chill refreshing beverages as well as act as a mini-entertainment center. On top of the fridge is my small TV. On top of that lays my Nintendo Gamecube and my Playstaion 2 (new version, much smaller than the original). The space between the fridge and the futon is home to the SNES, some sort of adapter, the cable modem, and a power strip that is probably overloaded far in excess of its safety parameters. How I got the cable and three game systems on an old Sony TV is anyone’s guess. There’s far too many lines back there for me come to any sane conclusion.

I’m sure you know how much trouble it can be to get back there and start fooling around with wires and cables and all that nonsense. It is a veritable jungle behind the mini-fridge with its own ecosystem entirely independent from the rest of the apartment. I’m fairly certain whole species of new creatures have been borne and gone extinct within these myriads of wires, dust, and electrical current.

So this past weekend, I finally relinquished my laziness, broke down, and bought an adapter that allows four separate devices to be hooked into it and then hooks individually into my living room TV. Oh, and it’s fancy too. I don’t even have to press any buttons to choose between using the DVD player or the Nintendo. The adapter automatically recognizes which device is on and will switch to that device without my input.

I know, it’s impressive. So impressive, in fact, that the adapter didn’t come with any cables of its own. It didn’t come with the audio/video cables I needed to hook the adapter into my TV nor (and more importantly) did it come with a power cable. Of course, I didn’t realize it was without the required AC adapter until I started setting it up. I don’t know who thought up the bright idea of making a unit such as that without a readily available means of acquiring electricity from my wall, but whatever person made that decision, they just reaffirmed my beliefs in humanity’s constant idiocy.

Luckily for me, I tend to be a pack rat when it comes to electronical things (and yes, I do realize I just made that word up). I have at least two boxes full of old cables and batteries and all sorts of electronic parts whose origins elude me. Amidst the UCB cables and speaker wire I did find the AC adapter from my old and now defunct laptop computer, as well as another cable to link my TV to the new adapter. In a sense, I was victorious.

So take that corporate America! I realize that you vend your wires and connecters separately so you can charge more and milk us plebeians for our hard earned wages. But as for me, I do not need to additionally purchase your independently packaged wares. I am free of your artificial price gouging. And this isn’t the first time I have escaped your vile clutches either.

When I bought my printer almost a year ago, I was pretty happy since I got it on sale. It’s one of those multi-tasking printers. In addition to putting words on a sheet of paper, it also scans, copies, faxes, fires “Patriot” surface to air missiles, wards my office from the undead, and eats dead orphans. I didn’t exactly ask for that last bit of functionality, it just… um, came with the whole package. What didn’t come in the deal, however, was the USB cable that was needed to connect the printer to my computing machine. This cable is, well, it’s pretty damned important. The printer won’t print, or do any of its various other tasks, without this cable. Oh, and Best Buy charges somewhere around $30 a foot for the stupid cable. Yeah, that’s almost as much as the whole printer cost me. And does the cable eat dead orphans? I think not.

Once again, my pack ratting skills came into play. (Did I just make up another word there?) At the time, I had two unused USB cables lying in a box in my closet. For some strange reason I felt like I had abused the system by not paying an exorbitant rate for a brand new piece of wire to go with my new ultra functional printer. And you know what, it felt good.

With all of those cables hooked up and lying about, it’s no small wonder my apartment has yet to go up in flames. I wonder if my renter’s insurance policy covers electrical fires of gross incompetence. I should probably read over that. But in the meantime, please keep any live orphans away from my printer. The owner’s manual states that it expressly consumes the dead kind of orphans. But I think in this case it’s best to not take any chances.

I’m Such a Wreck, I’m Such a Mess

I am I horrible, horrible person. But hopefully you already knew that. I’ve been a lazy good for nothing slouch for the past week, and I missed putting up something new last Wednesday. But hey, I have a really good reason for being lazy. I was pretty busy last week. Well, busy for a person who most likely resembles the three-toed sloth rather than a common homo-sapiens.

Last Tuesday I wound up at a friends place playing poker and having a few drinks. Now, if you’ve ever gambled before then you might already know that drinking and betting money is a really bad idea. Trust me, I’ve lost plenty of money that way. Luckily I’m the kind of guy who learns from his mistakes. This time around I only had one drink. And then I still lost all my money. In all honestly, I had a feeling it was all going to end badly. The very first hand I played I folded, but had I stayed in I would have had a full house (twos over threes). So yeah, it was pretty much all down hill after that. Suffice it to say that you won’t be seeing me on the World Series of Poker any time soon.

After playing poker, a few of us ended up heading out to Waffle House for some late night food. And I use the word “food” very loosely here. I’m pretty sure everything on the Waffle House’s menu is comprised mainly of lard fried in bacon grease. And it’s just the most scrumptious cuisine you would ever want to partake in. As far as I’m concerned, it beats the pants off of IHOP. Seriously, if you don’t live in the South, you’re missing out. I mean, White Castle is good and all, but do they stay open 24 hours a day? I think not.

Unfortunately, I was carpooling with one of the other guys, and after getting out of Waffle House in the wee early hours of Wednesday morning, we were actually much closer to his place than to mine. So, I ended up crashing at his place that night (for a grand total of four hours of sleep) and he drove me back home bright and early in the morning. So I left my apartment around 10:30pm Tuesday night and didn’t return until almost 9:30am Wednesday morning. As you may have noticed, I’m a bad, bad boy (and on a school night!).

Honestly, that would normally be ok. The only real thing I have to worry about on Wednesdays is getting to my hockey game at night. Playing hockey is truly the highlight of my week, and I look forward to it each and every time. But, well, this time I kind of screwed up. And by “kind of,” I mean I really and truly did screw up. I did mention that I’m a horrible person, didn’t I?

For some strange reason, I thought that our game was at 10:30pm that night, when in reality it was at 9pm. These are the only two times that we play, so I had an actualized 50% chance to get it right. And if you didn’t already figure things out from my poker playing ability (or lack thereof) my luck wasn’t all that great this past week. Fortunately, I did check the schedule at the last second (although why I never checked earlier in the day baffles me to no end), which put on the ice ten minutes into the first period, with my team already down two goals.

Needless to say, we ended up losing that game. I still say that if I was there from the start we would have won. I mean, I’m allowed to keep my delusions, right? I’m pretty sure there’s no way you can prove me wrong on this, so I’m going to go ahead and keep being delusional. I think I’ve earned it.

Now we’re on to Thursday. Thursday night was windy, pouring down rain, and generally not a nice night to be outside. And for some strange reason I thought it’d be a good idea to go out and run in that kind of weather. For the record, I am not a masochist. I’m merely an idiot.

Well, see, I have been trying to convince myself to get in better shape for over two months now. I had finally worked up the courage to go running, so I went out despite the weather. Hey, that kind of willpower doesn’t come to me very often, so I have to use it when I get it. I might be inclined to think my willpower needs better timing though. Luckily, I got through a whole three miles without too much of a problem. I guess playing hockey every week has helped out more than I thought.

But then I woke up the next morning. And for some reason, my legs no longer worked. The legs were sore and completely unresponsive. My every attempt to get out of bed was met with utter rebellion by the lower half of my body. Let me tell you, this was a huge problem. It was early in the morning, and I desperately needed to use the restroom. Interestingly enough, there’s a window right next to my bed. After several moments though (and trust me, I did think about it), I finally convinced the legs to get in gear and get moving. I fell down three times during the 13 foot trip to my bathroom. All in all, I would call that a success.

Friday was boring, I’ll admit it, so we can skip that. Saturday on the other hand, that was something else. A good friend of mine turned 21 this past Saturday. And, like the awesome pal that I am, I accompanied her to Thee Doll House, an upper class strip club in Raleigh. Yes, that’s right, my friend is a female. It is possible for me to hang out with women and not anger them. Well, it’s possible for me to sometimes hang out with women without pissing them off. And for the record, the birthday girl’s name is Whitney. And also for the record, going to Thee Doll House was her idea, not mine.

So, I’m having a drink, watching a fight on the big screen TV, and watching topless girls dancing while sitting next to a newly 21 year old female. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night. I’d just like to say that I didn’t get a chance to buy Whitney a lap dance, her boyfriend bought her plenty of them. Heck, she even bought herself a few (she was really enjoying herself). I’d also like to say that I didn’t buy myself a lap dance. It’s not my prerogative to spend a bunch of money on a simple tease. Whitney, on the other hand, definitely bought me a lap dance. And yes, it was enjoyable. Very enjoyable.

At the end of the night I went home to be by myself. Number one, it was late. Number two, I’m not going home with a stripper. And number three, I needed a cold shower.

So, what have we learned here today? I’m a horrible, bad person, but I’m sure you already knew that. I’m also very lazy, but again, I’m convinced you could have figured that out on your own. I love playing hockey, a fact which is also widely known. And lastly, I have a female friend that drags me to a strip club on her birthday and then buys me a lap dance to make sure I’m having fun. Translation: my life rocks.