The first part of the title to this post has very little to do with the actual content of the installment, but I really like it and it's my blog so I'll write whatever the fuck I want and you can choose of your own free will to read it or not to read it.
Because that's what Murrika is all about: choices. You can choose to be a whiny twatdrip who complains about every tiny thing that you feel is wrong with this society, while doing fuck all to actually fix the problem or by simply acknowledging that some things that you don't like are intrinsic parts of human behavior and will never change unless the population of Earth is reduced to three or less people.
Or you can choose to accept that a large majority of the world's populace are self absorbed dick-sores who will never change because they are convinced that no matter what, they are right and nothing you can say or do will demonstrate to them otherwise.
On this preface, let me dive right into something that I find so annoying and repugnant about today's USA that I can scarcely even write about it without feeling intense rage and loathing. I'm not even going to sugarcoat it or call it something it isn't, I'm just going to call it what it is:
Faking A Fucking Allergy
Just because you don't like something doesn't mean your allergic to it. Yet in today's everyone-gets-a-trophy culture, it's totally fine to say your allergic to anything you want to be allergic to and everyone somehow must buy into your bullshit or be a horrible person.
By claiming you're allergic to anything merely because you don't like it, you're demeaning and marginalizing all those poor bastards who actually ARE allergic to it and by extrapolation, making their lives more difficult as a cultural backlash against false claims of allergies leads to everyone just assuming that people with real afflictions are just fucking lying.
This is a despicable practice and it drives me bat-rape crazy. Case in point; I hate the smell and taste of cloves. I believe they are the fossilized turds of tiny demons. But I would never even consider telling anyone I'm allergic to them because it would be self serving bullshit. I'm sure there are folks out there who are indeed adversely affected by cloves, but I'm not one of them. I just hate everything about cloves and can't understand why we didn't wipe them out when we had the chance.
Lest you think I'm ranting needlessly, let me cite you two examples of this detestable behavior.
A) Lilly, a friend's wife who is allergic to tobacco smoke. When I first met Lilly, within 10 minutes she mentions how she is allergic to cigarette smoke. I refrained from telling her that she is therefore likely to die tonight in my apartment because both her husband and I like to drink and when we drink we really like to smoke.
Despite her crippling allergy, Lilly managed to not only survive being trapped in a small room with zero ventilation with two almost chain-smoking drunks, she miraculously exhibited zero signs of life threatening trauma, displayed no adverse affects from numerous cigs and, in fact, didn't even cough or mention said allergy again even once in six fucking hours.
Given the data, I could only come up with two conclusions about her alleged allergy:
A) She was fucking lying. Or,
B) She was fucking making it up.
But in today's Murrikan reality, it's apparently acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything you don't like and it's somehow expected that everyone plays along without questioning anything, no matter how absurd, or be labeled a fascist asshole.
That's what I call Social Justice.
B) I know a guy named Ray, which sounds like the start of a limerick, but isn't. A couple of years after he stopped smoking pot, Ray decided to become allergic to it. I say decided because Ray didn't quit drinking, he only quit smoking weed, at which point I might add, his drinking got really out of control.
So one day there were a bunch of us camping and we all liked to drink and toke some bud. Except Ray, who kept reminding us that he had recently opted to become deathly allergic to marijuana smoke. So, out of deference to his claims, whenever we lit up, we'd politely moved a safe 50 yards out into the woods. You know, so Ray wouldn't die and whatnot.
Anyway the night progressed and we all got really hammered and much fun was had. As it got really late and we were all sitting around the fire because it had become windy and crisp, I lit up a whopper joint I had rolled up earlier in the night and had been saving for an inadvisable time.
Ray didn't even notice until it came around to him and when it did he started freaking out. "Arrgh! My throat's closing up" he gasped making really cunty choking sounds and manufacturing a big deal out of it. I waited until the doob had come full circle back to me and right before I took a huge hit, I looked Ray in the eye and said,
"FUCK YOU, RAY."
I said this not because I'm a soulless, unfeeling prick who doesn't care about invisible afflictions other people may be plagued with, I said it because Ray was upwind from everyone else in the circle. A steady 8-9 MPH wind was blowing directly on his back and there isn't the slightest chance in Hell that any smoke from the joint or our mouths was getting anywhere near him. Certainly not in any sort of concentration that might've been harmful to anyone with an actual allergy to pot smoke.
That was 13 years ago and it was my first run-in with a fake allergy declaration and it pissed me off. What's worse is that nowadays it seems culturally acceptable to just declare yourself allergic to anything that bothers you, whether or not it will harm you in any way.
But enough about that. Let's talk about "real" women, shall we?
What triggered this for me is an incident that happened a few weeks ago. I say 'incident' when I really mean I overheard a conversation between a drunk, dumpy female patron and my manager, Sir Wombat Vagitorius Von PrickenLance XII.
The conversation went something like this, although I'm going to shorten it extensively because it was mostly reiteration on her part:
Dumpy Drunk Bitch: "I really like your club. I had a good time. But howcuz you guys don't have any real girls working here? I mean, you know, like 'real' women?"
Sir Wombat: "What are you talking about? All of these dancers have vaginas. I checked."
I'm wildly exaggerating at this point. I couldn't really hear what Sir Wombat had to say because he mumbles a lot, frequently while walking away from you. What bothered me about this exchange was the Dumpy Drunk Bitch's point of view, mainly that somehow, because a dancer had a gorgeous body and a face that 90-some percent of the male population of this planet would say was "hot", that somehow she couldn't possibly be a 'real' woman.
I'm sorry, but isn't that the height of misogyny? That somehow a female that a vast majority of the human population would regard as 'attractive' couldn't possibly be 'real'? Whatever 'real' means...
To me a 'real' woman is someone who started out life without a penis. Hell, even a post-op transsexual is a de facto woman, if not 'real'. To me, Dumpy Drunk Bitch was suggesting that unless you happened to be a cheery, overweight hobbit clad in inappropriate shorts, there was no chance you were a 'real' female.
I don't get offended about anything, so I don't care one way or another. But this points to a specific prejudice that is obviously a female bias, i.e. hot chicks aren't REAL. To men, hot chicks are real as fuck. So real that some dudes get all creepy and stalky, perfectly willing to hand over their wallets if it might mean a whiff of their panties.
But to some gals who aren't "conventionally" attractive, it's open season on hotties because they are somehow less than human.
Way to go, feminists!
The last couple of things I'm gonna do like vignettes. Short and sweet.
-Junkies die a lot: we lost another girl this week to overdose. She wasn't a good tipper so I didn't allow myself to care, but somewhere deep inside I feel bad for her family. I'm sure they tried everything possible to get her off the horse, but nothing they could do would save her.
That's fucking sad.
But despite the sadness of it all I still maintain that the world is always a better place with one less junkie in it.
Just the way I feel.
I'm allergic to junkies....
-The definition of comedy: watching five wasted 21 year old girls try to negotiate cab fare to a faraway town with an obstinate Nigerian unlicensed cabbie.
It should be a Reality Show.
Possible names for said show could be:
1) 'You Pay Dearly, White Suburban Bitch'
2) 'I'm Slightly Less Scary Than The Next Cabbie'
3) 'Run Like Gazelle, Giselle'
4) 'Cute Girls Should Ride For Free Because We're Cute'
-The Mercedes curse: If you're a stripper or have been considering becoming a stripper, don't choose the stage name Mercedes. It's a cursed name. Trust me on this. Not even going to justify my statement, just take my word for it.
Avoid also: Melanie, any variation with "gold" in it, Lexus, most luxury car brands, Amber, Stephanie, royal titles and any name with four or more syallables that isn't 'Anastasia'.
Well I'm done writing for tonight. I realize I haven't been consistent with pictures and their horridly amusing captions lately, but then again, fuck you.
It's my blog.
See Dick run. Dick run fast.
Rage ala Carte,