Sunday, May 1, 2016

In Which I Pass the Buck

I passed the buck today. I mean that very literally. Let me explain:

Yesterday, as I was walking to the bar (because let's face it, that's what I do), I saw a dude staggering towards me. He was bronzed, wearing jeans and flip flops, and very obviously drunk. I thought, "oh, goody. A shirtless douche."  I was about to eat my thoughts.

As I passed him, limping and cringing (because I just fucked up my heel), he held his leathery paw out for a fist bump. I was relieved that he hadn't asked me for spare change, because that's what I was expecting, and obliged. Because, fuck it, a fist bump is free, and kindness matters. This dude, who was indeed drunk, but also not a shirtless douche so much as just a happy, Mexican surfer, lit up. He beamed. And it was contagious.

I beamed. For no reason.

He unleashed a stream of Spanglish that I didn't understand a solitary lick of, but his smile spoke volumes, in just that moment.

As we parted, he whistled and called to me. I didn't even revisit my concern about him asking me for change, because he uplifted my mood so much that I'd have thrown him a buck for a forty if he wanted it.

Do you know what he did?

He dug into his pocket, and handed me a dollar.

For no reason.

Now, I've gotten to the point that I very rarely need this kind of help, and yesterday, I certainly didn't, but something in this man's heart made him want to give me a buck. He told me it was "from the heavens." He said, "I got it. I share it. Now you got it." And kissed his fingers, then held them to the sky.

Then we bumped fists again, as I burst into laughter.

As most of you know, I'm an atheist. Die-hard. I do not believe this buck came from the heavens. I don't believe I was magically entitled to it, or that I'd mysteriously need it soon.

I do, however, believe in that Mexican surfer dude's kindness. I believe in the inherent kindness of people. I believe kindness matters.

And I do believe I've lost too much of mine lately.

I decided that that buck wasn't mine. I was just carrying it. I decided I wouldn't spend it, but keep it with me for the next time someone asked if I had any spare change.

Today, that happened.

Moments ago, I passed the buck.

And I hope that kindness, and that joy, and that positivity follows it.

Friday, April 22, 2016

A Bone to Pick...

I have a bone to pick with all you assholes who insist that transgender folks have to use the bathroom that fits the gender they were born with, and it's not what you think.

In fact, I strongly suspect it's something you haven't thought about at all.

You are going to further confuse your kids. All this fussing and fighting about your kids' well-being... all this bullshit concern, because you seem to associate transgender with pedophile... is going to blow up in your face like a bukkake party.

Curious why?

Because what you haven't thought about is that you're going to have to explain to your little whelps that the man in the girls' bathroom is really a woman, and the woman in the boys' bathroom is really a man.

And we all know how subtle and compliant toddlers can be.

Especially when you tell them the opposite of what they can see.

I would love to be a fly on the wall when you have to sit through an hour long temper tantrum, arguing with your little ankle-biter - loudly, and in public - about why that man is wearing a dress, why he has boobies, or why he's in the ladies' room.

It may actually force you, for once in your myopic, shitty life, to stop and think.

Of, course, the alternative is to just let people piss in whichever toilet they feel comfortable with, and stop trying to legislate morality.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

In Which I Give You Five Reasons to Worry About It.

So here's the thing:

Recently, there's been a terrible fuss about gender. Specifically, gender identity. More specifically - if you can believe it - which genders are allowed to use which bathrooms.

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick...


Let people piss wherever they want. Get with the times, and make public restrooms unisex. Ally McBeal solved this problem a long damn time ago.

Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the more important issue of why all those cutesy Buzzfeed videos showing you how to tell if someone's male or female, and subsequently offering "don't worry about it" as the ubiquitous answer are complete and utter bullshit.

It does matter. It matters a lot, actually.


1) Biological Imperative.

If you happen to be single and looking, and you're one of those weirdos that goes around interacting with others of your ilk in public, it matters. In this situation, everyone you meet has to pass what I'll call (for my own amusement) the "can I fuck that" test. If you're on the prowl for a new mate (in the biological sense, not the U.K. English chummy sense, but we'll get to that), you have to know whether or not it's a viable match, and since most of you are mortal beings, time is a factor. Ergo, you have to worry about it. It matters.

2) Sympathy

Not in the sarcastic, patronizing way. Not pity. Actual sympathy. Being able to understand where someone might be coming from, or what struggles they may have endured often requires some measure of parallelism. I can't fully understand the perspective a straight woman has on a given situation because I'm not one. If she and I are faced with the same problem, we're instinctively going to attack it from different angles because of our different experiences, and part of that is directly related to the fact that we were born with different naughty bits. If, in this situation, we were to attempt working together to tackle said problem, my sympathy for her perspective (and hers for mine) would be limited. Because it matters. This leads right to the next one.

3) Empathy

You should have seen that coming. When sympathy is limited, or not an option, we've got to rely on empathy. In order to know whether or not to sympathize or empathize, we need to know how much parallelism is present. Since gender is one of the most drastic differences or similarities between any two people, it fucking matters.

4) Camaraderie

I don't necessarily need to know what's in your pants to determine whether or not we can be friends, but it is a factor. I'll give you an example:
I see someone wearing a Trump 2016 shirt. After an initial recoil, I look again, because I'm a glutton for punishment, and these people fascinate me. If I see that the wearer is an old fat dude chewing tobacco, and spitting it wherever he chooses, I know he's an entitled asshole who doesn't give a shit about the people around him. I steer clear. If, however, the person wearing this thing is a seemingly well put together grown woman... that boggles the mind. I have to know more. Is she wearing it ironically? What's going on here? Why? Given the differences between the sexes, and the extraordinarily different ways in which they're treated EVERY. SINGLE. DAY... It matters.

5) Situational Awareness

I know this is news (or possibly a major conspiracy) to some of you, but we humans... are animals. Animals look the way they look for one of two reasons: to attract mates, and ward off predators. A monarch butterfly doesn't look the way it looks because it's bored, and felt like dressing up. Its advertising. A chameleon doesn't change colors because green "was so last year." It needs to gain or divert attention. A poison dart frog doesn't look that way because it feels FABULOUS, it was born that way to tell possible mates "I'm sexy as fuck," and potential predators "if you eat me, I'll fucking kill you."

So, while "don't worry about it" is a nice sentiment, it's also complete bullshit (although, personally, I think "worry" isn't the right word here).

We have to think about these things.
Its hardwired into our DNA.
It does matter.

Because we are, after all, only human.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

In Which I Update, and Change the Words a Bit.

Hello readers, my old friends.
I've come to write for you again.
Because a fury softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision
That was planted in my brain
Still remains
With an air of

In restless dreams I walked alone.
Wand'ring streets of the unknown.
From the edges of complacence,
I've come back with a vengeance.

'Cause my mind was stabbed
By the flash of a neon light.
I thought I might,
But can't abide
The silence.

And on the internet, I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking.
People seeing without thinking.

People writing posts
That others shouldn't share.
'Cause no one dare
Question their own

"Fools! " said I, "you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
See my words that I might teach you
Read my thoughts that I might reach you."
May my words like thunderous knowledge fall
And destroy
All these walls
Of silence.

I've seen people bent and razed
By these phony gods they've praised.
May this blog flash out its warning,
See the thoughts that it is forming.

And the words say,
"The lies of your prophets
Are written on their Facebook walls
Like bathroom stalls."
And echo
in the mouths
o'th' mindless.

Thursday, July 16, 2015

Pondering Adultery

So here's something that hasn't changed:

The constant droning on of Christians telling my friends and I about how we're going to hell. Ironically, Christians I'm actually friends with (and yes, there are several) tend not to do this, but there are a shit ton that seem to come angrily out of the woodwork whenever I ask a question that would, by its nature, involve thinking.

For instance, "How can your god justify making adultery a sin if he is, himself, an adulterer?"

I get the whole parental "do as I say, not as I do" thing, but I think the overlord in the clouds takes it a bit far.

For one thing, the wages of sin is death, so...

If you nail another dude's 14 year old wife, both you and she are to be stoned to death by your peers just prior to being judged by the sky wizard and sent to a burning lake of fire for all eternity.

Because it's in the rules.

Except when he does it, in which case, it's divine. Then, we call it immaculate conception (because condoms and seed-wasting are also punishable by death).

Friday, July 10, 2015


It has been one year, to the day, since I made the decision to suspend this endeavor in favour of completing The Icarus Project.

It was a difficult decision to make.
It was painstaking.
It was an error.

In the past 525,600 minutes, I've had one hell of a ride. A lot of changes have occurred. Some were necessary, some were not.

Some things haven't changed at all; nor, as I've come to accept, should they...

Some things ought not to have changed.

I've come to realize that this is an integral part of who I am. Without it, a piece of me is flapping in the breeze unsecured, and it fucks me up. It cracks my focus.

So much so, that The Icarus Project remains incomplete. I'm not certain if it will ever be finished, but I can't dwell on that and rush it, or it will be an inauthentic tome of dreck.

And I can't have that.

I need to get a few things back. I need to reclaim a few pieces of myself. I need to dust off some things I'd put on a shelf, and tried to forget about.

Writing is part of who I am.
Sarcasm, misanthropy, and acerbic observations are my stock and trade.

...And I now have a surplus.

I'd like to come back, if you'll have me.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

The Final Frontier

First, the bad news (as is always the case, because the good news alleviates the pain):

The top tier domain name, "," has expired.

I know, my lovelies, I know... but fret not.

When I started this blog several years ago, I was a little pissy to say the least. When my friend decided to register the name last year for my birthday, it was a beautiful thing and I diligently updated the site with enough vitriol to make Rush Limbaugh look like the harmless old three-legged, twice-neutered pussycat he is. Some 30,000 views later, this blog has wound down. I watch less news these days. I have a fucking amazing support system. I have dreams, aspirations, and one hell of a woman on my six.

I'm pursuing a project twenty years in the making, and it requires my full attention (minus, of course, that which I give to Slightly Evolved).

So, while this has been (and will again be) a tremendous amount of fun, I must bid "" adieu. There will be the occasional rant (for that is my nature), but they will be sparse.

Hear comes the good news:

I am, as you read this with a tear in your eye, compiling these rants, and others that haven't yet been published here, and binding them into a small, rectangular object, called a "book."

This will be available very fucking soon through Amazon, and I hope the extra bells and whistles, and nostalgia you feel as you flip through the pages is enough to soothe your aching soul as you wait with bated breath for the release of The Icarus Project.

Should you be so inclined, you can donate to the publication of The Icarus Project here:

Thank you. Every last one of you. I'll see you in a bit.