Thursday, September 28, 2017

Who?

“Jedediah Bila is Leaving The View” the headline blared on Facebook. 

Oh no! Someone I’ve never heard of is leaving a show I don’t watch!

What will I do? How will I wake up tomorrow knowing something happened that I don’t give a shit about?

Will the Sun still be yellow and send trillions of photons of light hurtling toward earth at 186,000 miles/sec? Or will there be an enormous grapefruit in the sky squirting us with gallons of citric acid? Will a year still last for 365 days or will it feel unending, like watching an episode of Dr. Phil?

Will dogs still bark or will they now make high-pitched vocalizations that sound like “glub-glub, cooka-cooka”? What about chickens? Will we as a society still cook delicious chicken breasts in 2000 different ways or will we suddenly be eating broasted prairie dog while chickens now sit on school boards and city councils discussing redistricting or adopting a new history textbook?

And what about the other hosts of The View. Will they be the same insufferable hags doling out life advice from their ivory towers and pandering with clich├ęd interviews of other pompous celebrities? Or will they have changed?

What if, instead of just thinking they shit rose petals, they actually do? And they demonstrate on air. What if, instead of just believing they’re better than you, they actually are? What if they’ve grown taller, stronger and with perfect dental hygiene? What if you asked them a politically charged question and they answered in a way that satisfied evangelical conservatives, tree-hugging liberals and hard-line communists at the same time?

Now imagine it changes in the other way. What if they’re worse? What if watching an episode of The View goes beyond the brain-cell destroying anathema to quality and intelligence it has always been and becomes a monster so heinous even Maury Povich shouts “They’ve gone too far!” while hiding in a closet with three of his unwed mother guests telling them stories about when people respected him.

Then again, none of this will probably happen just because someone I didn’t know existed has decided not to do a show I didn’t know they were on for reasons I don’t care about. And it will not change my feelings about The View which is I would rather you rub my eyes with a Q-tip soaked in ghost pepper hot sauce than watch that wet pile of elephant dung of a show. With or without the person whose leaving that I didn’t know was an actual person until yesterday.

Monday, July 17, 2017

Narcissus Goes to Yard Sales

Seemingly on a daily basis I come in contact with a certain kind of person that believes they are the only person on Earth, so therefore they can do whatever they want. Their actions have no effect on other people because they are alone on the planet.

I was at some yard sales this weekend and had another encounter with such a person. I don’t know this man’s name so I will refer to him as “Asshole” for the remainder of my tirade. My story begins now:

It was an ethereal morning. Sunlight beamed down like a stairway to Heaven, birds sang madrigals of love and prosperity. Lawns were verdant. Men stood hale and hearty alongside their women whose skin carried the ruby blush of health and vitality.

Having finished my perusing at one yard sale I was walking to another just up the street when the ground shook and the sky was choked with black smoke. I turned just as a goliath pick-up truck passed by. Each wheel taller than a man, made of rubber the color of night, the tread baring teeth covered in the flesh of its victims.

This truck was so large it blotted out the sun as it rumbled by. People in the neighborhood cried out believing the world was ending, the Apocalypse upon us. I glanced into the cab and saw a family of 6 living in the back seat. Grandmother was cooking breakfast for the children while mother did laundry and father mulched a grove of Larch trees planted in the truck bed.

The next yard sale was set up in the home’s driveway. It turned out that the Asshole driving the 2017 Ford Overcompensation was going to the same sale. His tiny penis pulled his behemoth over to the side of the road and instead of parking next to the house’s yard, Asshole parks directly in front of the driveway, thus cutting off access to the yard sale from anyone else. To get there myself I had to put on heavy boots, carve a walking staff and hike around Asshole’s truck. Thankfully I made it ok, but my Sherpa wasn’t so lucky.

I can’t stand this type of narcissism. There were dozens of people walking the neighborhood from sale to sale, enjoying a nice summer day, but only one magnificent Asshole driving his manhood and parking it front and center for all to see. He might as well have walked pants-less into the middle of the road and yelled “Hey everybody, look at my dick. Ain’t it purty?”


So be careful. These zombies of self-involvement are everywhere and as far as they’re concerned, everyone wants to see their junk.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Everything is Out to Get Me

Kellyanne Conway said over the weekend that former president Obama spied on Donald Trump through a microwave. At first this seemed ridiculous and I scoffed with a hearty “That bitch is crazy.”

But I’m re-thinking my position. I’ve taken a hard look at my own microwave and my suspicions have grown like mold on meat sold out of the back of a pick-up truck.

Why does the light come on while cooking something? Is that a signal to a passing satellite? Is the NSA bugging the photons of light to collect data on how I live? Do they know I dance to Abba in chaps made of Italian cold cuts?

I haven’t used my microwave in days because I no longer trust it. When I open the door I’m sure I hear voices:

“Begin data dump now.”
“Why is he cooking fish sticks in the microwave? They come out chewy this way.”
“Not Dancing Queen again.”

I also realized if they’re tapping my microwave then my can opener can’t be safe either. That whirring sound as the can spins around could contain my bank account information, my H&R Block password or my secret security questions into the Captain Jean-Luc Picard Fan Fiction Club, I-95 corridor chapter.

I’m starting to get really paranoid. The light bulb in the living room lamp is flickering. Is that a signal between the CIA and the DOD? Is NCIS Los Angeles feeding the contents of my medicine cabinet to NCIS New Orleans (note: the fungal cream that was prescribed was a misunderstanding)? Does MLB now know I prefer the NFL and what about my complete disinterest in the NHL and MLS?

This is getting serious. I’m not sleeping, all the lights are off. I was going to cook something in the oven but I’m sure I saw a satellite dish coming out of the propane tank outside. The light in the refrigerator snapped my picture as I reached for a soda and the box of baking soda told me to have water instead.

I think I’ll go talk to the cat for a while and calm down. Wait, did she always have those faint stripes in her fur or are those implants installed by an agent of the shadow government that’s living in my underwear drawer?

Monday, February 13, 2017

Lost and Found

It’s ok everyone, I found them. They had fallen behind the couch. 


I want to thank everyone who had suggestions on where my keys were, although not to Dan from Sheboygan who said to look up my butt. Very funny Dan.

Sheila from Niagara Falls was closest when she guessed they were under my fainting couch. I got rid of that though once my case of the vapors cleared up with my program of outdoor activities and pure thoughts.

Gary from New Mexico seemed to think a badger ate them. I don’t even have time to start with you Gary.

Jenny from South Dakota, along with 456 others said they didn’t care where my keys were. Well, that’s really nice. I was just asking for suggestions. I didn’t expect you to fly to my state, rent a car, drive to my home and physically join in the search. And if you had, I would have provided a selection of pepper jack cheeses, cured meats and gift bags filled with hand crafted soaps. So you all missed out.

Roman from Ocean City Maryland, about your suggestion that I dropped my keys into the “vast, crude-oil black skin of eternal nothingness that is life on this rotting planet”, uh . . . maybe you need to get outside more buddy. Get some vitamin D flowing through your system, have a Snicker’s bar, stop listening to Albert Camus books-on-tape, miss a meeting or two of the Nietzsche Admiration Society. Just a few ideas.

Stacey from Washington DC I think you had a typo. I think you meant “re-trace” your steps but it said “re-brace” your steps so I spent the entire weekend building a complicated system of cross-arms and footers for my staircase. Looks nice though.

Anyway, thanks again for helping me find my keys. Now if you have any thoughts on why I enjoy watching baseball, let me know.