Thursday, August 25, 2011

An Ode to Roommates by Dean Rice



Back in June, I wrote about some of my favorite wall posters. After I posted this, my old college roommate commented that I forgot one very important piece we hung in our apartment.

Although back in the day we did not know the author of this great essay on roommates, I found it was a writer named Dean Rice on a satirical website called Effenheimer.com. Sadly, that site has since closed although the essay is posted on Everything2. Because it was so important to us, I figured I would re-post the essay here for prosperity. Everything below is Rice's work. If he ever finds this, I hope he doesn't mind.

Roommates

by Dean Rice

I swear to god, every time I go home, my roommate has touched my shit.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not all about possessions, but it would be nice if the guy would have the goddamn common courtesy to get my con permiso, if you know what I mean.

I didn't spend three years in the Navy with no privacy sleeping four guys to a bunk so I could go to college and have my stuff fucked with by some sickly, pale looking socialist from Shaker Heights, I tell you what.

For example, I don't know if you are picky about this shit, but when I watch a porno, I want the god damn thing left where I stopped the tape, am I wrong?

There is nothing more frustrating than coming home from a night at the bar, finding no one home and your favorite spank tape has been forwarded to some part where they're just talking about how "these car repairs are gonna cost more than I thought" and shit. You've got precious few minutes to yourself when you share a dorm room and when you need a good whack, the last thing you need to be doing is scanning for the next doggy style when you left it cued up to the best one. Is this just me? Am I on the wrong track? Am I crazy? What country is this anyway?

Another thing I can't fucking stand is when the guy leaves his fucking water bottle in MY dorm fridge. There ain't hardly enough room in there for my sixer of Bud Ice and a chicken pot pie or two for when I come home from the bar and want a salty snack.

Get a drink out of the goddamn fountain you yuppie prick! Comes right out of the fountain colder'n shit. You telling me you need to keep water in my fridge 24-hours a day just in case you need a sip of cold H2O you fucking gel-haired puss?

I was in the Navy for four years before I came to school and I never needed ice-cold water and I WORKED for a living defending my country from barnacles and waxy build-up, you pussy college boy.

I came home from the bar one night and grabbed a potpie and the damn thing was mushy. I thought, "Oh, fuck, my fucking fridge is fucking fucked up!"

Then I checked and the fucking thing was turned down to "6." I clearly remember setting it on "7" when I got the damn thing specifically to freeze my potpies and snickers. I never turned it down. So I asked my roommate what the fuck he thought happened... he tells me he had ice in his water so he turned the temp on my fridge down.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

So I told him all calm and rational that if he had ice in his bottled water, he might try letting it sit out on his fucking desk like a normal human fucking being! Then I told him he owed me 63 cents for the fucked up pie. It was only 49 cents, but I figured what the fuck, I might as well get him to pay me for a good one.

And he uses my hand towel. That's just not hygienic and I should know since I was in the Navy for three years with some of the most unhygienic specimens of humanity before they kicked me out for smoking weed on the flight deck.

I tell you, the next time that scrawny wussy boy jacks around with anything of mine, I'm gonna beat him like a bitch and throw his ass out in the hall.

Am I wrong? Am I over-reacting? Has the train left the station without any passengers?

Does John Denver shit in the woods? This is America, right? This isn't communist Russia?

I didn't get on the wrong bus back in Appleton and end up in Canada with the lumberjacks, did I?

I didn't fucking think so!

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Hunting versus Sniping



I was talking to a friend of mine the other night and the subject of hunting came up. I am not a hunter, nor have I ever hunted. I am not against hunting per se, but I do have a little problem with what most people call "hunting".

From what I know of hunting, most people sit in "deer stands" and other strategic positions and wait for their prey to mosey across their path. That's not hunting.

That's sniping.

There is no sport to waiting for your target to pass before blowing their brains out.

Hunting should be sporty. There should be a certain chance the prey could live. Hunters should have to track down their prey like the old Indian trackers of yesteryear. I'd like to see hunters have to pass a certain block of tests before donning their camo and rocking their rifles.

They should have to do at least some of the following:

- They should be able to identify animals by their feces.

- They should be able to hear the ground and tell when an animal - any animal - is within 100 yards.

- They should be able to differentiate between the tracks of the male and female species of the animals in which they want to hunt.

- They should be able to walk for 5 miles. If golfers can walk, so can hunters. As a matter of fact, the only activity with less activity than some hunting is fishing, which is basically aquatic sniping.

- They should be able to identify which type of weapon is most effective to kill an certain type of animal.

Or if they do want to stay in one place and snipe their prey, they shouldn't be able to shoot anything until they are in their position for at least five days. They should have to lay in the mud and wallow in their own waste.

They should have to have to prove they really want that turkey.

Also in the same conversation with the same friend, he told me there are people who purposefully hunt bear with a pistol. And then they complain they had to shoot the bear repeatedly before it dies or they brag about how they outran a pissed off bear with a bullet hole.

Seriously.

Kinda like John Candy's "Bald Ass Bear" in "The Great Outdoors".

There is no point for that.

Either pick the weapon you need or leave the damn bear alone.

Personally, if I was hunting bear, I would use something automatic or a rocket launcher. And if I missed, I'd call in an air strike.

Perhaps even a napalm strike like in "We Were Soldiers". I'd burn Smokey and the rest of the bears before I let one bear chase me.

Maybe that's why I don't hunt. Not only am I unwilling to smell turkey poop, but I don't have any napalm.

You know, maybe that's why I usually don't have good mornings.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Ghosts from the isles and the Isles of Personality



Another night of talking about something neat I found online:

Over at a blog called Under the Saltire Flag, Kei Miller writes about the strange pattern of Caribbean ghosts. According to folk lore, in order to prevent many spooks in Trinidad, Jamaica, and Guyana from disrupting the sleep of grown-ups and children, you are supposed to leave out something for them to count, such as rice or even the words of the Bible.

Miller speculates that the ghosts suffer from OCD.

Then, over at CultureBy.com, anthropologist Grant McCracken discusses the idea of people segmenting their lives to fit different sections of their life. McCracken writes about writer Brit Marling, who went from an analyst at Goldman Sachs to writing, staring, and producing for a show called "Earth 2". Surely, she did not use the same skill set in both careers. As McCracken postulates, she had to transform and skip from one Earth to her own personal "Earth 2". I also like the term "isle of personality" to describe this phenomenon.

Sort of like I have done with "Jordi Scrubbings". My traits have to live on different isles. It would be cool to do a thing that would bring them all to bear, but if not, I will pick and choose the tools I need to be successful in the work place.

The goal overall is not to "be" my job. I'm personally trying to avoid falling into the life of The Wizard in the cinematic classic Taxi Driver.
Look at it this way. A man takes a job, you know? And that job - I mean, like that - That becomes what he is. You know, like - You do a thing and that's what you are. Like I've been a cabbie for thirteen years. Ten years at night. I still don't own my own cab. You know why? Because I don't want to. That must be what I want. To be on the night shift drivin' somebody else's cab. You understand? I mean, you become - You get a job, you become the job. One guy lives in Brooklyn. One guy lives in Sutton Place. You got a lawyer. Another guy's a doctor. Another guy dies. Another guy gets well. People are born, y'know? I envy you, your youth. Go on, get laid, get drunk. Do anything. You got no choice, anyway. I mean, we're all fucked. More or less, ya know.
So taxi drivers are going to drive or shoot pimps because it is who they are, ghosts are going to count rice because it's who they are, and I am going to be who I am. Although considering I need a job, I am flexible. But like Meatloaf, I won't do that.

Whatever the hell that was.