My friend Sean, host of the "look how cool technology and the future and shit is" website (http://hubber.blogspot.com/) is often sharing fanciful stories of the future with me. No, he's not a science fiction writer, start trek geek or scientologist, he works for this pseudo think tank like place called Institute For The Future, or Institute of Tomorrow, or Place where guys smoke dope and talk about what’s to come. Many of these stories are not products of his over active imagination, but rather factual accounts of other people's work. He has his finger on the pulse of the future or up the nose of the future or, I'm pretty sure, scratching the ass of the future. But he knows things and some of these things he tells me. For example, I was sad to find out he does not think cars will fly, that we won't have jet packs, and there's no foreseeable cure for the Irish Curse in the near future. But what will the future hold? Sean told me that some sick bastard is developing technology so that humans can speak with dogs and cats. Which makes sense - in an age of rapidly growing poverty, civil unrest, genocide and overall stupidity how can science better contribute to the world then making it possible for us to speak with our dogs?
Now I'm sure the people at PETA are all excited about this prospect so that the little four legged furry critters they've been devoting their lives to can finally turn around and say "thanks, thanks for all you've done." And I hope, just a little bit, that our grateful canines also manage a "now that I can speak for myself maybe you should go and, I don't know, grab a shower, get a haircut, save yourself." No, no, no, I'm not here to rail on PETA people, I think most of what they do is good and sound and in light with God's plan or Man's plan or someone's plan that I as of yet have not been made privy to. But I'm all for the ethical treatment of animals, of plants, and in some cases people. I do, of course, have issues with fanatics. Fanatics of any cause be it animal or vegetable or mineral. Thus, if a vegetarian chooses to be as such for ethical or health or celebrity reasons I'm fine with that, I'm just not a big fan of being persecuted for eating a hamburger. Maybe I shouldn't eat a hamburger, maybe I should try a veggie burger, or maybe just not eat. Maybe I should try and get such burger from a farm that treats its animals with dignity before they kill them, perhaps giving them a 21 gun salute before cracking their skulls. But don't try and tell me that its just flat out wrong to eat animals. Here's the thing, if you can show me a Lion on the Serengeti opting for a bean patty over a tasty gazelle maybe, MAYBE, I'll buy the "animals shouldn't be food" argument.
But holy crap I'm getting off topic. Allow me ...
So yeah, someone's inventing a Dr. Doolittle machine. Not sure its the actual name of the invention or "process" or "system" but it works for me. This is a frightening prospect isn't it? Now if this invention will merely monitor, calibrate and then "explain" the vocal sounds and behaviors of animals, translating them into likely commands or expressions .. as in "I'm hungry," "I'm thirsty," "I just shit on your bed," then it makes sense. Doesn't make sense that one would spend the time and money on such an invention cause, despite the increasing prevalence of animal therapists I think dogs and to a lesser degree cats are fairly easy to comprehend. But, BUT, BUUUT, if this invention could somehow allow animals and humans to communicate like, well, like humans .. well then prepare yourselves my children cause the end of the world is near.
Its a difficult concept to comprehend, but then again so is the celebrity of Ryan Seacrest. The fact is, lets allow ourselves to believe it COULD happen. Believe that animals could communicate with us, that we could communicate with them, that we could understand each other. Sure, sure, most animals have tiny little brains and would be unable to handle the higher functions of reason, deliberation and complex communication. Perhaps those animals could run for political office, star on a reality show or keep Paris Hilton company. But assuming they could talk .. really ...REALLY TALK .. well for fuck's sake I'd think that pretty much proves there is no God. Why? Cause what's the next step? Animal equality? Animal suffrage? Maybe, maybe .. but what's worse .. WORSE ... bestiality would take center stage on the world consciousness.
Now come on, I know your thinking .. "gross, now your just trying to get a rise out of me." And I agree, it is gross, its ungodly, its unspeakable. But if discussing bestiality gets a rise out of you, get help, go to a therapist, stay the fuck away from my dog. But think about it, THINK ABOUT IT. Those who practice bestiality, those who think about practicing bestiality, those who can't get human dates, would start fighting to legalize it. Their argument ... "IT WAS CONSENSUAL."
I know, I know, its sick and twisted and wrong but you know, YOU KNOW, some backwater, white trash, troubled soul will be exploring his options with the neighbors dog on some lonely, hot, sticky summer night and convincing himself that the dog was totally into it cause in his opinion, be they dog or human, "no really means yes."
And why stop there .. why stop with the disgusting concept of animal human sexual congress, lets go further to animal/human love, animal/human marriage, animal/humans in the baby carriage. I don't think anyone wants that, and if they do, excuse me for saying so, they should be put down like Old Yeller. But they'll be out there, forced underground (though not forced underground by the sweet and swift hand of death) to form sad, sick membership organizations such as NAMALA - The North American Man Animal Love Association. Groups that, lets be honest, deserve to hold their meetings at ground zero on a nuclear test site. And despite how awful their desires, how grotesque their dreams, how offensive their mission statement, the ACLU will be right behind them, defending their asses in court.
So, yeah, the Dr. Doolittle machine, maybe that shouldn't happen.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
TAG I'M IT
I've been tagged. No, a savvy street punk hasn't snuck up to me in ninja fashion, brandishing a spray paint can rather than a lethal dagger, and used my body or my possessions as a canvas for some new truly inspiring depiction of his or her name or "handle" or whatever the hell they call themselves. I've been tagged, as in "TAG YOUR IT." Thing is, I wasn't playing TAG as far as I can remember. I haven't played that game in quite a long time. As a child I was never fond of it. And by "it" I mean the game as well as being "it." Cause what "it" is or was or is supposed to be was never really explained. All I knew is that I had to avoid the person who was "it," if that person did in fact touch me I then became "it," everyone would avoid me like the plague and the only way I could get rid of such plague was to tag someone else, making them "it," then running away - completing and perpetuating the viscous circle of "it"edness which never, never ends.
Despite my clear distaste for the game, today I have been tagged. Via cyberspace. Through a blog, of all things. I had been working up my own theories as to why blogs, in and of themselves are evil, and now, NOW I have proof. My dear friend decided to tag me, blind-sided me, "called me out" so to speak. Here she is ...http://myysocalledlife.blogspot.com/ ... with friends like this ...
So here's the deal, I'm supposed to reveal 7 secrets about myself, then tag 7 other people (preferably bloggers) so that they can continue to spread this personal information virus. What will happen if I don't do this? Will some creepy, pale black and white preadolescent emerge from the image of a well on my tv screen and inexplicably kill me before I say "how can you emerge from such a shitty movie?" if I don't tag someone else in 7 days? I don't think so. Will I be subject to the scorn of little miss "my so called life" - prolly, but likely not much more scorn than I already deserve. But hey, as she said, I need some new material, and I aim to please. I especially aim to please attractive women. Some may say I aim to please, sometimes hit the mark, only setting my self up to serve as a major disappointment to those attractive women in the sometimes far, sometimes near, always inevitable future. So here I go.
Who will i tag? Don't know lots of bloggers, but it seems that everyone on MYSPACE likes to prattle on endlessly about their lives, their loves, their overwhelming need to expose those things best left private - so I'll tag a couple of them. In fact, they should be reading this .. so here's the tag for the following persons ....
EDEN, MICHAEL, ALICIA, CHLOE, MARISA, MICHAEL O, and BEANSIE who also happens to have a blog linked here .. THE PITTS CREW .. my dear friends - enjoy yourselves. Let the circle of the game of life of tag or something or other continue bringing us all within its downward spiral as it creates a giant sucking vacuum of information bound to unite the entire cyber universe in one big gigantic digital yawn.
MY SEVEN SECRETS
(1) I am not wearing pants. That is not true, I am actually wearing pants, I just like to say "I'm not wearing pants." Making such a statement is really only effective on the telephone or at the computer when the recipient of such message has no way of knowing whether you are actually wearing pants. Of course, the statement is somewhat effective if told in person, but usually only if the speaker is, in fact, not wearing pants. Truth be told, if that's the case, saying your not wearing pants when you are not wearing pants is fairly pointless, since most discerning eyes could or at least should perceive another's pant less or non-pant less wearing nature. So if I am wearing pants, what's the secret? The secret is I like to prattle on about nonsense. If you know me, then you know this is not really a secret.
(2) I have a wedding gown in my closet. Again, if you know me, you prolly know this already. So you know I was engaged to be married .. strangely enough I was engaged to be married on JUNE 19, 2005 - two years ago today .. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. You also know that I called off the wedding. You also may know that what I did was the right thing, unless you happen to be of the school of thought that "the right thing" is getting married to the wrong person, trying to tough it out, then hiring a divorce attorney to make all that ugly bad marriage stuff go away. Not me. Anyhoo, I have a wedding gown in my closet. Actually the closet in the office, the spare room. Spare room, spare wedding gown. The real secret may be - why the hell I still have it? I'm not sure. I may use it in a show I'm writing. I may keep it as a trophy. I may keep it so I can try it on if I ever reach my target weight (ok, that's a lie, she was a size 1 people). So what's The Secret? Besides a book and video by some Aussie woman that gives easy to swallow pat answers for the question "how can I have everything I want without working for it?" .. no this secret is, I don't know why I still have her wedding gown in my closet.
(3) I'm not nearly as confident as I appear. I know, you've read my blog .. surprise to surprise.
(4) I will always see myself as the fat kid. Yea, you may see me as that too. Damn those last 5 to 10 lbs. They follow me around like they're on my ass. And if you know me, you know they are not on my ass, because I'm Irish and as an Irish man I have no ass. It drops off like the continental shelf only its not as firm, its not as deep, and it is not nearly as interesting. But I was a fat kid - wait ok not true. Not compared to kids today who are on the verge of morbid obesity. I was neither obese nor morbid - hell I was desperately afraid of death .. I thought the Paul McCartney tune "LIVE AND LET DIE" was actually "LIVING MEN DIE" and it scared the hell out of me, as well it should, cause it is a true statement. So no, I wasn't obese, I was chubby. I was stocky. I wore husky pants. HUSKY PANTS. My pant size was neither large nor extra large, it was DOG. And while I seem to be of average size (keep the Irish/penis size jokes to yourselves) I'm softer than I'd like to be, something I work on, but I'd be stretching it to call me fat - in the realistic, living in the now, obeying the laws of physics and gravity sense. But in my mind, yeah, fatty fat fat.
(5) I'm a pussy. It's true. My therapist called me a pussy last week. Now, mind you, he meant it as a compliment. So yes, I paid a man $120 to call me a pussy in an effort to make me feel good. Sounds wrong doesn't it? In his defense or my defense or the defense of something, I called myself a pussy first. He tried to use it as a compliment, meaning that I am sensitive. I'm a sensitive guy. The problem is, or the good thing is, or hell the thing is ... I'm partly sensitive and partly alpha male or insensitive or an asshole, however you wanna describe it. And sometimes these two sides of me battle it out and the insensitive side calls the sensitive side a pussy and the only way I can handle the inevitable fall out is to pay $120 to some beverly hills therapist to tell me, I am not insane. I don't know, perhaps if I was sane I wouldn't need to pay someone to tell me that.
(6) I've recently realized that my parents aren't and weren't perfect. Now there's a lot of you out there who rebelled as children, always questioned your parents, railed against the machine. Not me. I was a good boy. I was a smart boy. I was a momma's boy. Clean cut and polite and smiling in my Husky sized pants. Now, through the help of the therapy described above and the benefits of time, I realize my parents weren't and aren't perfect. There are things they did regarding the creation, educating and molding of the questionable piece of art known as ME that I wish they would have done differently. They couldn't, of course, because they are who they are and were who they were. But its odd to sit back and reflect on the job your parents did, when the job they did was you, and think .. "oh yeah, you fucked that up just a little."
(7) OK, here's the big one, the big secret, the big confession:
I play .. well I've been known to play ... Ok this is hard to say, don't judge me, shit here we go ... I play World of Warcraft. There, I said it. I'm ashamed.
There you go gang. More than you prolly needed to know about me. Here I lie exposed awaiting your judgment, and scorn. I also await your own deep dark secrets. Upon reading those secrets I will excitedly await the next time I see you in person so I can embrace you for the total, complete, HUMAN human being that you are - and while I embrace you, you will know that I truly know you, that I truly love you, and that I am totally mocking you behind your back.
Despite my clear distaste for the game, today I have been tagged. Via cyberspace. Through a blog, of all things. I had been working up my own theories as to why blogs, in and of themselves are evil, and now, NOW I have proof. My dear friend decided to tag me, blind-sided me, "called me out" so to speak. Here she is ...http://myysocalledlife.blogspot.com/ ... with friends like this ...
So here's the deal, I'm supposed to reveal 7 secrets about myself, then tag 7 other people (preferably bloggers) so that they can continue to spread this personal information virus. What will happen if I don't do this? Will some creepy, pale black and white preadolescent emerge from the image of a well on my tv screen and inexplicably kill me before I say "how can you emerge from such a shitty movie?" if I don't tag someone else in 7 days? I don't think so. Will I be subject to the scorn of little miss "my so called life" - prolly, but likely not much more scorn than I already deserve. But hey, as she said, I need some new material, and I aim to please. I especially aim to please attractive women. Some may say I aim to please, sometimes hit the mark, only setting my self up to serve as a major disappointment to those attractive women in the sometimes far, sometimes near, always inevitable future. So here I go.
Who will i tag? Don't know lots of bloggers, but it seems that everyone on MYSPACE likes to prattle on endlessly about their lives, their loves, their overwhelming need to expose those things best left private - so I'll tag a couple of them. In fact, they should be reading this .. so here's the tag for the following persons ....
EDEN, MICHAEL, ALICIA, CHLOE, MARISA, MICHAEL O, and BEANSIE who also happens to have a blog linked here .. THE PITTS CREW .. my dear friends - enjoy yourselves. Let the circle of the game of life of tag or something or other continue bringing us all within its downward spiral as it creates a giant sucking vacuum of information bound to unite the entire cyber universe in one big gigantic digital yawn.
MY SEVEN SECRETS
(1) I am not wearing pants. That is not true, I am actually wearing pants, I just like to say "I'm not wearing pants." Making such a statement is really only effective on the telephone or at the computer when the recipient of such message has no way of knowing whether you are actually wearing pants. Of course, the statement is somewhat effective if told in person, but usually only if the speaker is, in fact, not wearing pants. Truth be told, if that's the case, saying your not wearing pants when you are not wearing pants is fairly pointless, since most discerning eyes could or at least should perceive another's pant less or non-pant less wearing nature. So if I am wearing pants, what's the secret? The secret is I like to prattle on about nonsense. If you know me, then you know this is not really a secret.
(2) I have a wedding gown in my closet. Again, if you know me, you prolly know this already. So you know I was engaged to be married .. strangely enough I was engaged to be married on JUNE 19, 2005 - two years ago today .. HAPPY ANNIVERSARY. You also know that I called off the wedding. You also may know that what I did was the right thing, unless you happen to be of the school of thought that "the right thing" is getting married to the wrong person, trying to tough it out, then hiring a divorce attorney to make all that ugly bad marriage stuff go away. Not me. Anyhoo, I have a wedding gown in my closet. Actually the closet in the office, the spare room. Spare room, spare wedding gown. The real secret may be - why the hell I still have it? I'm not sure. I may use it in a show I'm writing. I may keep it as a trophy. I may keep it so I can try it on if I ever reach my target weight (ok, that's a lie, she was a size 1 people). So what's The Secret? Besides a book and video by some Aussie woman that gives easy to swallow pat answers for the question "how can I have everything I want without working for it?" .. no this secret is, I don't know why I still have her wedding gown in my closet.
(3) I'm not nearly as confident as I appear. I know, you've read my blog .. surprise to surprise.
(4) I will always see myself as the fat kid. Yea, you may see me as that too. Damn those last 5 to 10 lbs. They follow me around like they're on my ass. And if you know me, you know they are not on my ass, because I'm Irish and as an Irish man I have no ass. It drops off like the continental shelf only its not as firm, its not as deep, and it is not nearly as interesting. But I was a fat kid - wait ok not true. Not compared to kids today who are on the verge of morbid obesity. I was neither obese nor morbid - hell I was desperately afraid of death .. I thought the Paul McCartney tune "LIVE AND LET DIE" was actually "LIVING MEN DIE" and it scared the hell out of me, as well it should, cause it is a true statement. So no, I wasn't obese, I was chubby. I was stocky. I wore husky pants. HUSKY PANTS. My pant size was neither large nor extra large, it was DOG. And while I seem to be of average size (keep the Irish/penis size jokes to yourselves) I'm softer than I'd like to be, something I work on, but I'd be stretching it to call me fat - in the realistic, living in the now, obeying the laws of physics and gravity sense. But in my mind, yeah, fatty fat fat.
(5) I'm a pussy. It's true. My therapist called me a pussy last week. Now, mind you, he meant it as a compliment. So yes, I paid a man $120 to call me a pussy in an effort to make me feel good. Sounds wrong doesn't it? In his defense or my defense or the defense of something, I called myself a pussy first. He tried to use it as a compliment, meaning that I am sensitive. I'm a sensitive guy. The problem is, or the good thing is, or hell the thing is ... I'm partly sensitive and partly alpha male or insensitive or an asshole, however you wanna describe it. And sometimes these two sides of me battle it out and the insensitive side calls the sensitive side a pussy and the only way I can handle the inevitable fall out is to pay $120 to some beverly hills therapist to tell me, I am not insane. I don't know, perhaps if I was sane I wouldn't need to pay someone to tell me that.
(6) I've recently realized that my parents aren't and weren't perfect. Now there's a lot of you out there who rebelled as children, always questioned your parents, railed against the machine. Not me. I was a good boy. I was a smart boy. I was a momma's boy. Clean cut and polite and smiling in my Husky sized pants. Now, through the help of the therapy described above and the benefits of time, I realize my parents weren't and aren't perfect. There are things they did regarding the creation, educating and molding of the questionable piece of art known as ME that I wish they would have done differently. They couldn't, of course, because they are who they are and were who they were. But its odd to sit back and reflect on the job your parents did, when the job they did was you, and think .. "oh yeah, you fucked that up just a little."
(7) OK, here's the big one, the big secret, the big confession:
I play .. well I've been known to play ... Ok this is hard to say, don't judge me, shit here we go ... I play World of Warcraft. There, I said it. I'm ashamed.
There you go gang. More than you prolly needed to know about me. Here I lie exposed awaiting your judgment, and scorn. I also await your own deep dark secrets. Upon reading those secrets I will excitedly await the next time I see you in person so I can embrace you for the total, complete, HUMAN human being that you are - and while I embrace you, you will know that I truly know you, that I truly love you, and that I am totally mocking you behind your back.
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