For those of you who read this site on a regular basis and have somehow avoided being put on an involuntary 72 hour psychiatric hold, you’ve no doubt noticed that I’ve
been mainlining printer toner taken a break from writing lately. Some people think that it’s easy to come up with a non-stop stream of libelous statements about Elton John and yak-felching, but it’s not. It takes hard work, dedication, and a metric shit-ton of Heineken to come up with that kind of brilliance gibberish, and lately I haven’t been free on bail feeling it, so I took a little break.
But I’m back and better than ever! All posts now have a 140% increase in fucking vulgarity, I’m twice as willing to share anecdotes about how drunk and stoned I used to get in college (very), and irrelevant digressions are way, way up. Don’t believe me? Well here’s a fucking digression about something that freaked me out more than the time I shotgunned a pint of tequila and Robitussin in college:
I was at the corner convenience store this morning, getting a cup of coffee, when I watched a grown woman pour herself a 44 ounce Coke, and then add ten packets of sugar to it. That’s not an exaggeration, she spent a full minute adding sugar, stirring it in there, trying to keep the foam down, getting more sugar, etc. And I couldn’t help but gawk because, I mean, seriously: You keep acting like that and you may as well just chop your fucking feet off right then and there and save diabetes the trouble.
And, of course, as I was gawking she looked over and saw me. Have you ever been caught watching someone do something really fucking stupid and have them get mad at you just for looking at them while they did it? That’s what happened. She got pissed at me for watching her add ten packets of sugar to a super-sized soda as if witnessing her was the ridiculous behavior in the equation.
Woman: (sees me looking at her, scowls)
Me: (gives her a surprised, what the fuck are you doing look)
Woman: Ummm, I… Uhhh.. I…
Me: Have a truckload of hypoglycemic children in the parking lot?
Woman: Screw you!
I never did figure out what the hell she was doing. I’d say that she probably had a good reason for doing it, but in a country where we sell pizza and cookies in the same fucking box, I just don’t have that sort of confidence.
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Greg, that’s all fine and good, but do you have any stories that involve you getting irrationally angry at Peter Cetera?” Of course not. Getting irrationally angry at Peter Cetera implies that Peter Cetera hasn’t done anything deserving of anger, which anyone who has seen this video can tell you is totally fucking ridiculous.
So you see, I am rationally angry at Peter Cetera because what the fuck? How the fuck do you come up with that concept?
Peter Cetera: Hey, I was wondering if there was any way that I could somehow make my music lamer than it is already.
Peter Cetera’s Agent: You could perform your songs dressed up like a douche. You know, put on a fruity red scarf…
Peter Cetera: I got it! I’ll add figure skaters to the show!
Peter Cetera’s Agent: I’ll alert the people at Guinness to get ready for a new world record in the category Most Ticket Refunds/Burned Down Amphitheaters.
Although Peter Cetera surely deserves
to be beaten with a sock full of D cell batteries his share of the blame here, I also blame Youtube for the above video because their recommendation engine (which brought that video to my attention) is a tool of the devil. Here’s how the Youtube recommendation engine works:
- You view a wonderfully awesome video on Youtube, like a guy driving a Lamborghini that shoots cheetahs at those assholes waving signs on street corners, and Youtube takes note of how many times you watch it based on the assumption that if you watch it a lot, you must like it.
- Youtube then recommends 87 different versions of the Karma Chameleon video because you watched that video once, while really high, 14 years ago.
- When you write a politely worded email to Youtube asking about the algorithm behind the recommendation, Youtube then sends you a snotty, taunting response including the words “incredible poof” and tomorrow you notice the Google Doodle includes a Photoshopped picture of you being ridden side-saddle by Boy George.
- Fucking Youtube.
That shit is fucking embarrassing, and does nothing to help me maintain a clean, child-appropriate computer in my home. I mean, it’s bad enough that my search results would make even the most hardened of pornographers cry, now I have to hide my Youtube recommendations? I swear, I need to put my computer in one of the Mission: Impossible-style safe-rooms to keep my kids innocence intact.
And you know what? I’d be ok with that if I’d done anything to deserve it. I mean, you watch a lot of German schiesse videos, you accept the fact that you need to live with the consequences. But I do nothing of the sort, and my computer is absolutely toxic to kids. Here’s an example of how that happens:
A while back, a certain someone wrote a post about a poor, unfortunate lass who fell face-first into a porta-potty, a story which makes one positively weep with sadness, or failing that, giggle uncontrollably until your ward attendant comes to check on you. Of course I, being the inquisitive type, wanted to learn more about this story so that I may learn exactly how mind-blowingly wasted you had to be in order to fall head first into a crap-hole and searched for the story. This caused two things to happen.
- I found that a photo accompanied the story
- The NSA, protecting American lives by monitoring my search history, contacted me to ask why in the world I would search for “girl face full of shit”, as well as querying whether or not a “sick bastard” like me wanted a “personal tour of Guantanamo”. And I haven’t received mail ever since.
Now what, I ask you, did I do wrong? Nothing, but now besides having the federal government add me to the Monumental Deviants list, I’ve got a search history that’s damn near impossible to explain to my kids.
Son: Daddy, why did you search for “girl fell into s-word”?
Me: Oh. Uh, well, I read a story about…
Son: And what does “I want to punch Peter Cetera in the f-word face” mean?
Me: Oh, haha, daddy doesn’t really want to punch anyone in the face…
Son: “Lindsay Lohan flaps in the wind?!?”
Me: That was research…
Son: What’s “penis reduction surgery”?
Me: That’s research too…
So fuck that, from now on I’m doing all my, errr, “sensitive” web searches at Best Buy which, to be honest about it, is the kind of thing I do anyway. Yes, I am the reason that big box stores password protect web browsers. For some funny reason they don’t see the humor in their giant, retina-display monitors displaying their capabilities on BigTittedStankHos.com. I also tune radios to Mexican salsa music and set them at maximum volume when turned on, and in the days of typewriters, I used to put a piece of paper in the typewriter and get really fucking weird:
If you’re reading this, please call the police as soon as possible. My name is Rodrigo Esteban Burro y Caliente, and I am being held against my will in the back room of this Best Buy along with 47 other Guatemalan workers. We came to this country seeking a better life, but instead find ourselves forced to shrink-wrap Kenny Chesney CD’s until we have gone insane, at which point we are elected to the Best Buy Board of Executives. Please ask the police to send help, and if this is not possible, ask Kenny Chesney to stop being such an incredible asshole.
(True story: I was once asked to leave a Best Buy for setting the home page on all the computers to Amazon.com.)
Anyway, where was I? Peter Cetera, being ridden side-saddle by Boy George, BigTittedStankHos.com… Oh yeah…