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Birthdays – A Rated ‘R’ Post


Birthdays. Man I suck at them. I mean really suck. I have dozens of people that I love in my life and more that I like, and yet I remember like four birthdays. Five tops.

I have my reasons. Mostly that my birthday was never treated particularly special. It is two days after Christmas, and do you know who wants to party two days after Christmas? Fucking no one. Ever. And if they do or did, then they are never in town.

Christmas birthdays suck. If you know someone with one, go out of your way to make the day special. Or get used to those people not giving a flying shit about your middle of the year super well placed birthday.

Oh and fuck you for your luck.

I might be a little bitter.

Today’s one of the birthdays I remember, and I always will.

Happy Birthday, Love.

Oh and the ‘Fuck you’ doesn’t apply to you even though you have a good placement. There are always exceptions. I hope I can remember to make each of your birthdays as special as you are.

<3 ∞ +1

Image courtesy of Meredith Bell (, used under a Creative Commons license

Bad Days

Today was a good day, generally. I performed well enough at work. I was generally awake and well fed. I got along with my friends and family. I had some fun and created some stuff.

It was a good day.

But it wasn’t.

It was a bad day.

Today I couldn’t shake the feeling that I am out of place. I don’t belong. I’m not doing as well at my job as I should. I should be doing better. I haven’t written anything since Sunday, a week ago. I am not a good friend. I haven’t been a good husband. I made my daughter cry.

Yet those are all lies, and I know it. I do belong. Maybe I could be a better worker, friend, husband, and father. Yes I could be more dedicated to my writing. But in all honesty, I’m not doing so poorly at any one of those things that I should feel bad about it.

But I do.


Well today the feeling was pretty constant. I went to console my daughter for making her cry. But I didn’t really make her cry. She was crying because I told her the ugly truth of what happens when she doesn’t do her homework. She gets behind, and then she loses privileges until she gets caught up, including possibly losing her electronics for the entire weekend. I didn’t hit her. I didn’t scream or threaten her. I simply told her the truth, a truth she knew but did not want to face. And she cried some more.

Then I asked her if she wanted me to hold her like a baby and rock her. To my surprise she said, “yes.”

So I did.

And then we talked for thirty minutes about how we were going to 1) keep her from getting further behind 2) get caught up and 3) not fall behind again. This plan includes me writing while she does her homework. It also includes contingencies for what happens when we get behind. Then we had a plan. It was a simple plan, and it was good. That moment, that simple wonderful moment of knowing what was the problem and how we were going to fix it was a good thing. It was a single beautiful good thing, in a day that wasn’t bad, wasn’t ugly at all. Yet it made all the difference.

Today was a good day.

Drunk Destiny

I may not be the first person to play a video game while inebriated, but I can say that man, I’m having a ton of fun playing Destiny while drunk as shit.

I got progressively more and more drunk as I played the Trials of Osiris with my wife Raesmom05 and friend Chairslayer42. Both of these people are stand-up individuals for whom I’d give at least a kidney … maybe more … idk … it depends really.

Anyway, the level of enjoyment I received as a part of playing this FPS game with them was superior to the enjoyment that 300 ml (give or take) of Texas’s fines bourbon could give. Now when you add roughly 300 ml of Texas’s finest bourbon to an evening of FPS fun … well you have something really fine. And that’s what I enjoyed tonight.

So than you Chuck and wife for a fine evening of killing foo’s and getting killed ourselves because we certainly soaked up some bullets ourselves didn’t we?

~Drunk Joe … same as the regular Joe, just drunker.

You Take The Good With The Bad

During a recent conversation with my wife, I called and still contend, that the dormitory run by Ms. Garret in The Facts of Life was a half-way house for young girls. My wife was incredulous, but I think it is obvious. This is why.

In the dormitory run by Ms. Garret, you had four young women, all from different backgrounds, living under the same roof with a single parent figure. One of the young women was a rich socialite. Another young lady was a motorcycle riding, leather clad badass. The third was a spunky African American loud mouth from the tough side of middle-class America.  The final young lady was Natalie. The four had NOTHING in common. NOTHING! Except uteruses of which they had 3 between them which they swapped out on date night.

Hahahha… not really. After Season 1 Episode 2 their cycles would be synced so swapping uteruses was impractical Plus it was the 80’s and Uterine Swapping Technology had not been invented by Nichole Richie and Paris Hilton.

So why were these ladies living together? They were forced to live there. It was a half-way house. Blair was obviously a coke head. Jo beat a man to death with his own helmet, but he totally deserved it. Tuttie dealt weed. She didn’t use, she was way too smart for that, but she did invent vaping which increased her penetration into the college markets. Finally Natalie was a computer hacker in the vein of Matthew Broderick’s character in War Games. Either that or she ate her younger brother after being left alone with the tyke for three hours because the Twinkies were on a shelf higher than she could reach. Or something. Regardless they all ended up at Ms. Garrets for reprogramming rehabilitation.

Ms. Garret was an ex-Madam. She was caught, tried, and convicted, but since she had the goods on several highly-placed political figures, her time was reduced to community service. Twenty-three years of community service. Who better than an ex-Madam to “manage” four rambunctious teen girls with various issues? She knew how to keep a B. in line after all.

Now of course I’m sure that the original TV show didn’t support much of this, but I assume that was simply the network execs bowing down to the most conservative factions of our society. In this day and age however, I think my version of the show rocks socks. The New Facts of Life should be a Showtime or HBO production. The show would be like HBO’s Girls … but good. And it would have characters that are smarter than a four pound bag of bricks. You know, real girls who you can root for. Girls you don’t hope get hit by a random bus. Or maybe The New Facts of Life could be done like Game of Thrones. Ms Garret could be the Queen Regent, and each of the girls could be from different Houses vying for favor. Or maybe the show could have a Sucker Punch like ending where you find out that the entire show is Blair’s mental retreat into her own mind where she’s a rich socialite helping her friends overcome normal teenage problems while in reality she is a poor teenage runaway prostitute on Death Row for killing abusive johns.

If Hollywood is interested in any of my ideas, they are feel free to use them. Just mention me in the credits and pay to get me to the set a few times. I’ll take the good or the bad. Maybe I’ll take ’em both, and then I’ll have … umm … something. I’ll have something. Wouldn’t you know I’d forget what I was going to say. Now that is a fact of life!

Under Pressure

In my life, I have been lied to. Granted there’s nothing special about that as we’ve all be lied to at some point. But to me there seems to be one group of people for whom lying is just a matter of everyday business. And here’s the thing, I’m NOT talking about politicians! This group is large, diverse, and all seem to think they know what is best for you. Yup. I promise. I’m still NOT talking about politicians.

I’m talking doctors and their ilk. I swear they must all take the same class on the subject. It is probably something like, “Advanced Truth Telling 403” or some such.

My most recent pair of liars was my dentist and his assistant. I recently had a wisdom tooth extracted and like the fool I am I assumed I was man enough to experience the ordeal awake. Such a silly man I sometimes am. And apparently occasionally Yoda like in my speech patterns. Anyway, I digress. The lie I was told is one that I think most of you have been told. It was, “Now you’re going to feel a little pressure”. I didn’t feel pressure. I felt the sharp intrusion of a red hot needle being jabbed in and out of my jaw repeatedly. I should have paid for the anesthesia, but I’m cheap and would have felt the pressure in my pocket book instead. *Shudder*

Google tells me that “pressure” is:

  1. the continuous physical force exerted on or against an object by something in contact with it. “The slight extra pressure he applied to her hand”
  2. the use of persuasion, influence, or intimidation to make someone do something. “The proposals put pressure on Britain to drop its demand”

Neither of the above definitions is ever what someone means when they tell you that you might experience some pressure. What they mean to say is, “Now you’re going to feel a little pain”. For completeness, and to allow you, dear reader, the chance to compare and contrast the two definitions, here is Google’s definition of pain:

  1. physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. “She’s in great pain”. synonyms: suffering, agony, torture, torment, discomfort

Discomfort. That’s the real word that should be used in the majority of these situations. But as you can see above, discomfort is a synonym of pain. Looking again and I see that pressure is NOT. Why? Because nobody really wants to admit that in order to make you feel better, you are going to have to experience something worse first. I think this is because many people seem to feel more pain and discomfort if they know it is coming. But if this is the case, all that is really happening is that we are instead making people afraid of the word “pressure”. People will then start to expect actual pain and discomfort at the use of the word “pressure”. The pain I felt as the dentist extracted my tooth was completely different than the pressure I felt as his assistant took my blood pressure. The blood pressure cuff applied actual pressure to the arm. Ripping a tooth out of someone’s head causes pain or at the very least discomfort. Ya know, come to think of it, I didn’t get “pressure pills” prescribed to me, I got “pain pills“.

Of course there is the chance that our society is merging the two meanings, like we have LITERALLY done with the word literal. Some literal dumb asses have decided that so many people have used literal incorrectly to exaggerate a point that literal now has a new meaning on top of its literal meaning. And I’m literally not exaggerating.

This can be seen in Google’s “informal” definition of literal:

  1. formal: Taking words in their usual or most basic sense without metaphor or allegory. “Dreadful in its literal sense, full of dread”
    • informal: absolute (used to emphasize that a strong expression is deliberately chosen to convey one’s feelings). “Fifteen years of literal hell”

I’ll avoid digging into the bastardization of the word “absolute” as used in the example of the informal definition above. Let’s just say I hate the English language. Too bad I’m too lazy to learn a better one.

Thinking along these lines, I start to consider what happens if we start to misconstrue all uses of pressure to mean only pain or discomfort. If you suggest that you are feeling a lot of pressure at work, people might wonder about the type of work you do. Queen’s Under Pressure changes context. And high and low pressure fronts really start to make the weather report a lot more interesting.

Regardless I think doctors should say what they mean. Be frank! We can take it. I have yet to have one doctor tell me that I’m a fat ass and I need to diet. WTF people? We all know this! It should be talking point number one right after taking care of the emergency that drove me to your door. “So Niassne. I see you are bleeding profusely. While we are taking care of that, you should know that you are a giant fat ass. If you don’t lose weight we are going to start charging you more and demanding you come in for more frequent visits. If that doesn’t work, we’re going to start applying some ‘pressure’. We’ll start with the scrotum”.

Maybe the rest of us should start using the word “dollars” in place of the word “rocks”. That way when we pay a bill for a procedure that included some “pressure” we can pay with “dollars”.

I don’t know though. Following the rule of Unintended Consequences, if we started doing that I think in the long run we’d just be hurting strippers. (They’d start to feel a lot more “pressure” during their performances as “dollars” were thrown their way – if you didn’t follow).

Love in a Time of Zombies #1

The following is my first few pages of what I’m doing for NaNoWriMo. I’m six days behind now and it is only day eight. I hope to catch up some on the weekend. I probably won’t, but that said I’ll do something.

My original story was a super hero style story set in a fictional land that was part Russia, part USA, and part East Germany. I scrapped the whole thing because while I KNOW what I want to do, I don’t have a road map for it yet, and I want to treat it right. So instead I figured I’d write something funny, something in the line of my Zombie News Now posts. So what follows is that, the first (short) draft of the first short chapter of Love in a Time of Zombies. 


Rene cursed his parents for giving him a woman’s name, at least his middle name was manly, damn manly. His middle name was Sioux like the Native American tribe. For some reason however people always snickered when they found out his last name, snickered and beat the unholy bajeebus out of him. Nowadays Rene kept his middle name secret as it seemed the world was filled with racists.

“Rene August,” announced a bland administrative female voice over the installation’s PA system after a brief ear biting chirp, “please report to General Whoremonger”.

Geesh. What a great name, Whoremonger. Now THAT was a manly name. Rene secretly believed that as soon as they saw the name Whoremonger on an enlistment form, the Army gave the applicant the rank of General on the spot. Too bad General Whoremonger was a woman. Such a great name to be wasted on a woman.

Rene was no sexist really. He just thought that Whoremonger was an excellent man’s name. Occasionally he’d admit to himself that there would have to be SOME Whoremongers who were woman, namely those married to barrel chested mammoth men named Whoremonger. Said women would give many Whoremonger sons to their Whoremonger spouses to allow for more men to have such a terrific manly name. See? Rene was no sexist at all.

The General always hated to be left waiting so Rene stood from his desk chair in such haste, his right leg pushed his chair backward causing it to quickly roll back. The chair quickly stuck Rene’s foot locker with a thump, then bounced back violent to collide once again with Rene’s leg. Cursing his luck, Rene turned to see the chair tipping over and about to spill on the plan painted concrete floor. Rene bent over to grab the chair but took a bad step while shifting his weight and fell over the chair planting his face squarely into the floor.

Blood poured from Rene’s nose. It wasn’t the first time. It seemed to Rene that every time he met the General he somehow got a bloody nose, so while the fall was unexpected, the nose was not. Taking a clean but blood stained handkerchief from his pocket, Rene pressed it to his nose as he extracted himself from the tangle of chair, floor, and legs. He grabbed his lab coat from a hook on the wall next to the door and swapped the hand holding the handkerchief in place while getting the coat in place and buttoning it up.

The door to Rene’ incredibly small office/bunk opened inward. This forced Rene back against his desk turned slightly with handkerchief held to his face. Stepping out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him, Rene collided with Special Agent Kifah Ruben. Knowing Rene’s timing, the special agent was prepared for the collision and held them both in place as Rene caught his balance. Rene finally realized Special Agent Kifah held him upright, his eyes met hers. They were olive drab with flecks of orange and brown around the iris. The fluorescent lights sparkled within those organic spheroids. Why if Rene were to look long enough, he was certain he could see his own reflection. Yes. There it was. He smiled.

“Find your reflection again Mr. August,” asked the Special Agent. Rene finally realized he was in the arms of a woman and tried to step back. The Special Agent still had hold of Rene.

“Sorry about that Special Agent,” Rene stammered as he dabbed his nose, checking to see if the blood had yet abated. It had not.

“Don’t worry about it Rene,” Kifah purred, “I walk on this side of the hall for a reason”. Only then did Rene realize that in a twenty foot wide hallway, the Special Agent walked within inches of the wall and against the flow of normal traffic. Perhaps, he reasoned, she did that to get a different perspective of the people she was protecting and investigating.

When she finally did release Rene she made a quiet sound that was something between a sign and groan, but Rene was so focused on his bloody nose he didn’t notice. “Going to see the General as well?”

“Yes,” Kifah replied, “I received a text a minute or so ago”.

“Well your timing is impeccable. You kept be from falling for the second time today”.

Kifah stifled a laugh, “Three times it seems”.

“What?” Rene asked with a brief squint, “I must have missed one. Sorry. Thank you anyway. Will you accompany me to the General’s office?”

Kifah’s smile was so genuine that Rene seemed to notice her beauty for the first time. “I would be delighted,” she replied taking his arm and sliding hers into and around it.

Rene looked as if he knew he was missing something but wasn’t quite sure what. Regardless, “Is it proper for a Special Agent to be so, um, familiar with others?”

Seven steps, Kifah thought, I was happy for seven steps.

“Perhaps not,” Kifah replied, “but I’ve never been one for convention”. This reply gave Rene a few more seconds of confused thought.

“I would hate for you to lose face Special Agent. I think it best we walk at least ten inches apart. In this manner no one might get the wrong impression”.

Kifah sighed and separated from Rene. Sixteen more steps, she thought. Twenty three in all. A new record.

The two walked in silence save for the hollow echo of their steps in the massive hallway which disappeared in the distance behind and in front of them. Soon the whine of an electric motor and the occasional squeak of rubber could be heard. Kifah and Rene turned to look behind them and saw a Corporal in a golf cart. He pulled up beside the two.

“General is anxious. Get in.”

Kifah greeted the Corporal with an unamused tone as she took the seat behind the Corporal and hoping that Rene would take the other rear seat, “Nice to see you too Corporal Frank.”

Rene took the front seat and checked his bloody nose. It was a fountain again. “Aww.” Rene complained, “It had just stopped and now it is flowing again like it just happened”.

Corporal James Franklin glanced sideways at Rene, “Are you a hemophiliac, Mr. August?”

“No. I have never had an issue with bloody noses until working here,” Rene answered.

Corporal Franklin considered some more. “Perhaps it’s too dry here. Get yourself a humidifier”.

“Ha!” Rene barked, “And keep it where? My bunk is a shoe box barely large enough to be a bunk, AND I have to use it as my office too! I simply have no additional space. Besides I’m from Arizona and the temperature and humidity are both regulated tightly. Finally, this bloody nose is a result of …” Rene trailed off. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the general populace to know he tripped over his own chair and struck the floor – WITH HIS FACE all within the confines of his ridiculously small bunk slash office space. “Well this nose is the result of other circumstances”.

The Corporal was aware enough what kind of circumstances might give the lanky scientist a bloody nose. The first came from the General herself after she punched Rene after he first showed her the results of Project Fellhammer. For some reason the General denies it ever happened. Another time Rene, Kifah, and the Corporal were waiting for the General when a steam value burst thirty feet from where the trio stood striking Rene in the face. He awoke to the General staring down at him, his face a wreck of broken nose and blood. Another time the General was the last person to a meeting of egg heads which Rene was the eggiest. Rene had gotten up to open the door for the General when he noticed that the door knob was refusing to cooperate with her. She managed to force the door open just as Rene got his nose within range. Finally there was lunch two weeks ago. The Corporal just sat on the opposite side of the table as Rene in the mess hall when his nose began to bleed. The Corporal looked up to see the General enter the mess looking for Rene.

“Perhaps you are simply allergic to women,” the corporal suggested.

Kifah gave a short bark of a laugh from the back row of seats.

“No,” Rene replied. “Special Agent Ruben is a woman and I feel quite good around her,” he finished unaware of the significance of what he just said.

The Corporal uncharacteristically took his eyes from the road long enough to turn to look at the Special Agent who looked simply stunned. A slow smile spread between the two. The Corporal whistled and turned back to look straight ahead as regulations demanded. Kifah slid over in her seat to sit more directly behind Rene. Reaching up to take the bloody rag from Rene, she swatted his hands away and applied light pressure to sides of his nose.

“Let me do this. Despite being the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, you seem to have no idea what you are doing. Now just tilt your head back and we’ll get you presentable.”

Rene sighed and reclined his head backward. He admitted to himself that the Special Agent was more effective at stopping his bleeding. After a minute, Rene realized the cart was stopped and the Special Agent was wiping his face with a clean wet portion of his handkerchief.

“We’re here Mr. August,” Corporal Franklin announced. Rene noted that the Corporal had a curious half smile that on anyone wouldn’t qualify as anything more than a smirk. “For once it seems you are actually presentable for once”.

“Good,” Rene replied, “Thank you for your help Special Agent.” Rene then straightened his

Too Stupid To Be Racist

(OK before I start let me just say that the only reason ‘to’ in the title is not lower case is because I couldn’t remember if ‘be’ should be capitalized or not so I just made them all capitalized and said “to Hell With it”).

So a white friend of mine recently posted on Facebook that she wasn’t white. She’s Jewish. And I’m all, “?!?”. Really. That was my reaction. I guess somewhere along the way, I was supposed to get a memo or something about race that I missed. That’s very possible, because I grew up in a small town in Mississippi where everyone was either Black or White and someone might have assumed we all “got it” and threw out the memo. The small town I grew up in was about half and half of each. Several people in my class said that they were part Indian (Native American), but they all looked White to me. We didn’t have any interesting races, no Asian, Indian (continental), Middle Eastern, or Inuits. Heck we didn’t get our first Latino until I was in High School. I was jealous of him. He was popular and had a mustache. A mustache in High School! That’s better than a car. No really! At least half of  my senior class could give someone a car ride, but only one guy … well, you fill in the joke.

I’m half Portuguese, a quarter English, and a quarter Scotch Irish. I always thought Scotch Irish meant someone from Scotland met up with someone from Ireland and made little mixed-bloods. In reality though the Scotch Irish were Protestant settlers from Scotland sent to Protestant-ize Ireland by their English rulers (it didn’t work), but they later became persecuted themselves by England and many moved to America. None of that is relevant to my story ramble, but I though it was interesting. Anyway, what I mean to imply is that I’m white … in a swarthy kind of way. That’s important because I kinda see Latinos as like me. Granted I’m not from Latin America, and I don’t have any Native American blood mixed with my Portuguese, but other than speaking funny … they are me. Sorta. Once I was working in a mall and someone that looked a little bit like me came up and started speaking in Spanish at me. (At is the correct word. I could feel the words bouncing off me as the lady spoke them). So I know that at least to one little old Latino lady, until I open my mouth I might pass as Latino. Maybe it was the lighting in the mall, or maybe she knew someone there spoke Spanish and I was standing there, I don’t know.

Now, more than two decades after leaving my little town in Mississippi for college (also in Mississippi), then work (in slightly larger towns in Mississippi), and then a job in a big city (in Texas) I have come in contact with people from all walks of life and from all over the world. And let me tell you something. I can’t tell any of you people apart. I often work with people who’s ancestors originated from India, and if they dress the same as some from Latin America, there’s only about a 25% chance I could tell you they weren’t Latino. And as for most Latinos I have no idea if they are Spanish, Portuguese, Latino, or some generic White-mess. I have the same issue with folks from the Middle East, though I have about a 40% chance to tell they aren’t full on White. I have confused some lighter skinned Black folk with Whites and Latinos as well. When Hollywood casts a bunch of Anglos as Asians, I’m the ONE GUY in the theater going, “Wow. Authentic Asian actors. Finally!”

I’m too stupid to be racist. Or am I too racist that it is stupid? No, I don’t think so. At least I hope not. To me racism should really be intentional. I never really understood why race was important anyway. Honestly I never cared. I had Black friends growing up, and I probably could have had a Latino friend if I were cool enough. Now it seems that we live in an age of hyper sensitivity over who is what, and I kinda feel like people have drawn away from others simply because they look differently from each other. I thought America was a melting pot? Or at the very least a stew pot. Sure before you go in the pot you are a carrot, but when you get to the pot and mix around with the other ingredients you start to become something else, something better. You become stew! Not something called a Carrot-Stewian, but delicious stew.

Since I’m too stupid to be racist, AND since I feel everyone has to have a “thang” to help others define them, I’ve gone Full (Extended) Jingo! I am JINGO UNCHAINED!

USA! (and Mexico and Canada!) USA! (and Mexico and Canada!) USA! (and Mexico and Canada!) USA! (and Mexico and Canada!)

All About the Flow

I L-O-V-E, LOVE! the house my wife and I are currently renting. I really wish I owned more nice stuff to put into it. I kinda feel like the house is too big for us, and I’m a big guy. One thing that isn’t too big however is the downstairs half-bath toilet. It is a low-flush toilet. Additionally I think the flapper mechanism was designed to reduce flow ever more. Now I understand the desire that some folks have to reduce our water consumption, but a commode needs to actually work, and this downstairs one just simply doesn’t.

Not so long ago, toilets had capacities up to 13.5 liters (around 3.5 gallons), but today’s low flush toilets have a capacity of around 6 liters. If my math serves me, that’s less. Much less. Like … double less. And living in a part of the country where water is in short supply, that’s a significant improvement. If it worked. Occasionally I flush the commode in question four or five times. I’m often flushing a second or third time after my daughter uses the thing because the paper won’t flush. Sorry. I don’t like floaters even when it’s just paper after a tiny tinkle.

Now I could be wrong, but it seems like if I’m flushing at least twice to do the same work as flushing once in the old style thrones, I’m really not saving anything. I am generating frustration, but that has no real monetary value … that I know of. So to combat this insanity, I purpose a new solution. I call it, The Option.

The Option would be a standard flush toilet with a multi-function flapper mechanism. Basically the flapper would provide three flushing modes:

  1. A low volume flush to rinse the bowl, say for a number 1 or a tiny 2.
  2. A medium volume flush to fully flush the bowl, say for a normal number 2 or to be sure that spider NEVER COMES BACK AGAIN!!!! (You know in a low flusher, you’re flushing this thing at least twice, maybe three times just in case).
  3. A high volume flush to do what must be done, say for a Joe-2 after pizza, beer, and ice cream. It comes with a signed apology letter and an “I Survived the Deuce!” T-shirt for the next person to use the bathroom.

In this manner, responsible commode owners can conserve water more effectively. There will be fewer double or triple or gawd forbid quintuple flushes. (Yeah I know I skipped quadruple. If I have to go four, it’s at least a fiver!) Also, this device could make me a ton of money and be more libertarian (in the keep out of my business manner and not the I don’t want to pay taxes manner).

I say it’s a brilliant idea that I give to whomever did it already or to whomever will do it and give me 0.5% of the profits from the first ten years of use. I figure that will come to roughly eighty two million dollars, because everyone poops, and I want in on part of that action!

Wait, eww.

Miley Cyrus

Before August 25, 2013 Miley Cyrus was a young Pop and Country music star know best for her portrayal as Disney’s Hanna Montana. She’s also always been the daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus of Achy Breaky Heart fame.

Forgive me while a shudder slightly.
Thank you.

Well on August 25th, MTV hosted the Video Music Awards during which Miley … uh … “performed.” Yeah I put that in quotes because I think it is ironic to call what she did performing, but I have a poor grasp of what irony is. If it isn’t ironic then please assume I’m quoting another source and have forgotten to properly footnote it. Kai? Thx.


Where to begin.

Let’s just say that for someone who’s had a pretty “Disney” background, what Cyrus (Miley not Billy Ray) did was not very Disney at all. Follow this link if you have no idea what I’m talking about. So she shook her thang, stuck out her tongue … a lot … like a mentally challenged giraffe, and did things 16 year old me would have been very uncomfortable watching anywhere but alone.

I am not going to talk what she did, but rather what I observed from others.

So obviously there’s some backlash. People feel disgusted, offended, and maybe even a little betrayed by Cyrus’s (Miley not Billy Ray even though I’ve never forgiven him for ABH) performance. Yeah I know I totally cut that thought in two. Deal. I have some advice for these people. Grow up. Miely has. She’s twenty now. And although she cannot legally consume alcohol, she can die for her country, get married, have kids, and make more money than you will ever see at one time and then blow it on gas for her HUGE tour bus complete with an Olympic swimming pool and furnace that burns twenties. She’s no tween-ager or teenager anymore. It’s her life to destroy, not yours.

Oh and guess what? (Do I use a question mark or period? I mean that’s a command which should end in a period, but I feel like a question mark is more appropriate. Anyway …)

Oh and guess what? That dance didn’t happen over night. It was planned. For days. By people who KNEW what kind of reaction it would generate. Sure the choreographers were probably interested in the 16-year-old-Joe crowd, but they were really interested in ruffling the feathers of those who for so long held Miley up as a Disney style princess. They, they all from Cyrus’s manager to the choreographers, to the promoters and producers of the VMAs, to Cyrus herself wanted to shock you. They wanted you to go to Facebook, to your local Starbucks, and to your Moms groups, and they wanted you to yell and to scream how horrible that, that … THING!! was. They are toying with you, with your emotions, and they want you to be offended because it makes them more money.

So stop it.

The next time someone does something stupid like this, ignore it. No publicity means you’re dead in pop culture, so kill this trite crap by not giving it the time of day or a second thought. It will take a little self control, but isn’t that what we’re really disgusted at Cyrus for? Her apparent lack of self control? Wait no … she pranced around like a whore. That’s not the same thing. REGARDLESS, self control folks. Use it.

To this point it may seem like I’m really only upset with the people who got upset with the whole thing, but that’s not the case. I am also annoyed by the people who reacted in a negative manner to the people I outline above.


Well for one, they are being played too. Over reaction to someone’s over reaction is AWESOME for the tools that design this kind of stuff. It keeps that engine of gossip and water cooler banter flowing. It generates Facebook comments and memes and revenue OH MY! Also, if I am describing you, SHAME on you for not realizing that these people are being played, and SHAME on you for not having any sympathy. They can’t pick on only one group or crowd of people to shock. It gets old. Pretty soon it is going to be your turn. Someone is going to boil your blood over something petty. So have a bit of humanity for your fellow man and let it go.

Also, some people were BORN to be offended. I’m not talking about normal people with standards and maybe a stricter sense of morality than you may have, I’m talking about people who weep for the trees or who think the physics term Black Hole is racist. Maybe this is someone who immediately thinks that if you don’t think the way they do politically that you must be the devil out to eat babies or pollute the world. CAPTAIN PLANET!!!!!

Ah hem. Sorry.

Don’t feed any of these people the attention they crave. It only encourages them and makes it worse for everyone else.

I’ve Got Nothing

So I’m trying to write more. Needless to say it has been a while. So to that extent I’ve decided to reward myself every time I do post. I really couldn’t figure out what would inspire me. Then it struck me. I want to go to GenCon. Badly. I missed 2013. There were simply too many bills and not enough time to prepare. Mostly because I suck at saving money. So if I were able to raise the money over the course of the next year, I could certainly go. I could go to GenCon. OMG! GENCON! Notice the total geeking out there.

I have two blogs. One that I’ve been neglecting, and another I’ve been neglecting horribly. Additionally I have this thing I’ve been wanting to do for the past several years, creating T-Shirt designs on Cafepress. So I’ve decided to pay myself for each blog post and each successful session of T-Shirt design (meaning at least one new design uploaded). Each success and I will pay myself $20. One post a week per blog + new design per week = $60 per week. $60 per week x 50 weeks = $3000. That’s a damn good start for a trip to GenCon. Might pay for the rooms and tickets. w00t!

So here I am with my first post. $20. Ding!

Now I just need to figure out what to post Thrusday and what do draw Saturday. Check out JoeGamer.Net for my next brilliant post. I’m sure it will be awesome.