To My Unborn Child:
Relax, for if things go according to plan, I will not be conceiving you tonight. Now don’t get upset, as it’s nothing personal. What would have been your mother and I have been drinking a bit tonight, and we both just need a little responsible release here. How much have we been drinking, you would like to ask? Enough so that we hired a taxi service to drive us home tonight, enough so that we played quite a bit of slap and tickle in the backseat of this hired taxi service’s cab, enough so that we’re both busting at the seams and sweating profusely with pure carnal desire, but NOT so much that we are completely oblivious to what could be the consequences of rolling in the sheets without first taking the proper precautions. Which explains why I, what would have been your father, am walking to the nearest CVS pharmacy at 2:15 in the morning to purchase prophylactics.
Sure, buying prophylactics isn’t such a big deal for most people, but that’s because most people buying prophylactics aren't married men. Yet here I am, stumbling through the aisles of the drug store, comparing prices and doing clumsy math in my inebriated mind, trying to find out which box of condoms provides the best comfort with the greatest number of units at the lowest possible cost while still guaranteeing no seepage. I select the 36 pack of Ultra Ribbed Lubricated Latex Trojans, and proceed to the register. Why the 36 pack, you would like to ask? Because I didn’t make this trip for nothing, and you better believe that I’m not about to return home to what would have been your mother and have one or two or three of these suckers snap instantaneously as alcohol and excitement cause me to lose focus and get all careless, thereby leaving me with only one choice…walking straight back to CVS to buy another pack of prophylactics. If I plan on not conceiving you tonight, then I’m going to do it right.
So it’s off to the register, where CVS cashiers find sheer terror in drunken married men buying a 36 pack of Trojans at two in the morning. Perhaps they see my ring and assume I’m an adulterer, and then think of having me tailed to see which hussy’s house I return to, and then following me home when I’m done so that the next time I leave my house they can tell my wife about the pig she’s married to. And then when I arrive back at home, my wife would tell me the story, and the two of us would laugh over the presumptions of such suspicious people. It's the kind of story we'd love to share with our children one day, which of course will not include you, should tonight go according to plan.
"But why," you'd like to ask, "would a married couple need condoms in the first place? Why isn't what would have been my mother simply on the pill?" Well, genius, ever hear of something called an antibiotic? And do you know what happens when a woman on the pill takes antibiotics? Little mistakes like you, that's what! "Well, then, if you don't want to have a kid, and the pill is ineffective, why don't you just partake in oral stimulation or mutual masturbation," you'd like to ask? First off, what difference would it make to you? Whether it's intercourse or not, you're not going to be making it through to the other side. Furthermore, we're married professionals, not young dumb nineteen year old amateurs, meaning that oral and mutual are tools of foreplay meant to tease and titillate before the main event. Were you even paying attention earlier? This whole thing started with a little slap and tickle in the backseat of a cab, so it's certainly not going to end with more slap and tickle in the bedroom. Are all gametes this dense? If so, it's no wonder no one gives you a second thought, not even God, because the last time I checked, He's not even letting you into Limbo.
Walking home from CVS, I think of all of the things you will never have the chance to do with me. I will never play a game of catch with you. I will never teach you how to ride a bike or drive a car. I will never teach you about the facts of life. I will never take you to Disney World, or even Branson. I will never dress up as Santa Clause at Christmas or the Easter Bunny at Easter to nurture your childlike wonder. I will never teach you how to diagram a sentence or solve for linear equations. I will never break my bones to send you away to a university just so that you can piss away my savings by getting drunk and stoned everyday, inevitably leading to your academic dismissal. I will never leave you in jail overnight to teach you one of life's several valuable lessons. I will never teach you how to kill wildlife with your bare hands. I will never teach you to fear homosexuals by signing you up for the Boy Scouts. I will never teach you the Three Laws of Robotics created by the late Isaac Asimov. I will never introduce you to your mother.
I could go on, but I just returned home, and what would have been your mother did not pass out while I was away at CVS, which means it's time I wrap this up. That's called a double entendre. You'll never get the chance to know what that means. Unless you're reading this, in which case, Surprise! You're our little miracle boy, you defied all odds, you are what your mother is referencing whenever she says "the only safe sex is no sex." Please don't resent me. You could have been aborted. But alas, your mother might be a hypocritical Catholic, but she's not that hypocritical of a Catholic. Oh, and if you're a girl, please disregard all of this. You are my little princess, an angel descended upon Earth, and I will irrationally protect your so-called virtue and honor by threatening the lives of prepubescent boys, and heedlessly purchasing and bragging about my handgun.
Sincerely Yours,
Nicholas J Perez
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A Complete Guide to Chicago Living
First and foremost, the utmost apologies to my loyal readers for my failure to produce any writing last week. I was recently commissioned by the city of Chicago to create an introductory welcome pamphlet for new city residents, with the intent of targeting Caucasians from the ages of 18-35. Working under a strict deadline to complete this project, I spent the past week and a half frantically pounding away at my keyboard, repeatedly researching, editing and revising. Regardless of if the city uses this piece or not, I am damn proud of it, and wish to share it in the hopes that it will lead to a few of you considering a move to this fine metropolitan area. Without further ado, here is The Complete Guide to Chicago Living.
Greetings, and Welcome to Chicago!
First things first. While we know you are anxious to settle in and explore all of the beauty and wonder that our fine city has to offer, we cannot allow you to begin without first looking the part. Therefore we kindly ask you to place this pamphlet to the side, and briefly take the time to thumb through the provided North Face catalog. We will continue with this guide to Chicago once you have selected and obtained each of the following: (1) a minimum of one North Face jacket, preferably in the Triclimate style; (2) a minimum of two North Face accessories, of which we recommend the North Face Ear Gear and the North Face E-Tip Glove; and, (3) a minimum of three North Face Shirts and Sweaters, two of which must be of the 1/4 zip style. Begin.
Greetings, and we welcome you once again to fine city of Chicago! Now that you have selected the proper urban attire, expect indoctrination to run smoother and with more haste here in the City of Neighborhoods. Which brings us to your next step, choosing the neighborhood you will now call home. Selecting a neighborhood will open the doors to nearly every conversation you can expect to engage in with fellow Chicagoans, as common introductory meetings consist of defining the nearest major intersections to your home, your specific neighborhood, and where it lies in relation to every other neighborhood within the city and its adjacent suburbs. Once you have made a choice, take pride in your neighborhood. Keep a running list of each of the local businesses that give your neighborhood character, that provide it with flavor, and then support these businesses through window shopping and browsing, making sure to thank any and all proprietors for allowing you to look at their merchandise. Once neigborhood pride has been obtained, reward yourself with a trip to the nearest Target or SuperTarget and load up on the savings!
After an average of four months of living in your new neighborhood, you will more than likely receive a congratulatory letter in the mail, assuming it doesn't get delivered elsewhere or discarded by your mail carrier. This letter will notify you that you have graduated to a new level of residential status, and you will be rewarded with the "Self-Righteous Hypocrisy" card, in which you are now allowed to complain about how the neighborhood isn't what it used to be since all of these stupid Yuppies started moving in and gentrifying the area. Celebrate with the right to never again disclose how long you have lived in the 'hood and a Grande Peppermint Mocha Twist Frappuchino from the local Starbucks.
At this point you should be accustomed enough to your new surroundings to have properly decorated your humble abode, yet we will go over the basics in case you either need assistance or have simply done things wrong. Most wall hangings qualify as acceptable art in the city of Chicago, so allow your personality to shine through when you can. Yet there are a few requirements, so keep these in mind when shopping to fill those walls. One must hang each of the following: (1) A Panoramic view of the city's skyline, preferably at night, extra points awarded if said photograph captures lightening striking; (2) A map of the city's neighborhoods, so that when company arrives, you can use the index finger of one hand to point to your neighborhood while simultaneously using the index finger of the opposite hand to point to each guest's respective neighborhood, and then analyze the found data; (3) Any reminder of "Old Chicago," whether it be a series of black and white photographs from the early part of the 20th century, a vintage poster featuring an advertisement for Chicago tourism, or a light up Old Style sign. Under no circumstances will you be permitted to hang artwork by Thomas Kinkade or Anne Gedes. All furniture should be black to counterbalance the lack of African Americans now residing in your area. Whenever and wherever possible, place photos of you and your friends doing very Chicago things. Accent by placing clues of your college educated yet nonconformist attitude haphazardly throughout the apartment, such as unread copies of the Chicago Reader, a dog-eared Jack Kerouac novel, the jewel case to the latest avant garde jazz fusion sensation CD, and rolled up signed and limited edition silkscreen concert bills from 2002.
Next buy a dog. Leave the dog in cramped conditions at most times. Walk the dog sparingly, so that when you leave the house, it jumps all over oncoming strangers. Allow the dog to own the sidewalk, forcing those passing by into the grass. Occasionally pick up the dog's droppings. Stop and talk to other people out walking dogs. Allow the dogs to sniff one another. Explain to the other dog walkers about your dog's personality, and then allow them to tell you about theirs. Exchange humorous dog stories. Return home and keep your dog inside for several more days. Repeat. On days in which you leave the dog inside to bark and remind your neighbors of his/her existence, take up a hobby, of which there's only one option. Jogging. Jog in the morning. Jog in the afternoon. Jog in the late hours of the evening. Jog at times that cause everyone who sees you jogging to wonder what your occupation is that allows you the freedom of jogging at 7:20 in the morning, at 2:45 in the afternoon, at 9:30 at night. Jog and think about sports, because picking a team is your next step to being a Chicagoan.
Picking a favorite Chicago sports team is a long and arduous process. Expect little return on your loyalty investment. While you may root for all Chicago sports teams, expressing so without actually selecting a favorite will ostracize you from most social situations, essentially forcing you to move out to Oak Park. If you are unsure about which team to pick, allow us to assist you in making your choice. If you refuse to see the correlation between extended skin exposure to below freezing temperatures and the contracting of hypothermia, dream of a world in which a man can marry a never ending supply of nacho cheese, believe we have yet to see the last of mustaches, and spend more hours obsessing over the status of Brett Favre rather than the status of your team, then you would love rooting for the Chicago Bears. If you are afraid of commitment and yearn for the days when white guys named Larry ruled the world, cheer for the Chicago Bulls. There are two things to remember if you are going to be a Bulls fan. (1) The NBA hasn't been worth watching since Michael "Air" Jordan left the game. (2) Possess no knowledge of how to argue for this case. This means do not learn the names of any current NBA players, do not follow the game until your team is winning, and when watching, claim that every third ball possession contains at least two travels, one double dribble, and seven "thugs." If you claim that alcohol can only make you drunk while on the North Side of Chicago, root for the Chicago White Sox. Carry an attitude of you against the world, take greater pleasure in a Cubs loss than in a Sox win, and forever bask in the glory of that one year of your life when everything fell into place and you got lucky. Become a Cubs fan if you want to know how disappointment really feels again and again and again. Throw the words "hope" and "tradition" around as if they actually bear any meaning. Philosophize over your team representing the greater struggle of man. Tie yourself to the train tracks of 100 years of history and then feel the weight of it all as your bones are crushed by a steam engine named Reality. Pick yourself up and pretend it never happened. Or root for the Blackhawks. It's kind of like being an indie rock fan, in which you can pretty much tell people anything and they'll have no way of knowing if it's true or not. Jonathon Toews, Bob Mould, Steve Albini, Chris Chelios, Bobby Hull and J Masics might be six of the all-time great Blackhawks, or they might be the latest incarnation of the Melvins. Who really knows?
Finally, it's time to explore the night life of Chicago. You need to pick a bar. That's it. Pick one. Pick a bar based on how undesirable the crowd is, and then hold it over your friends' heads when they don't want to go there. Pick a bar in which you may walk into it with two kidneys. Pick a bar that has swill for beer, and then claim anyone not drinking the PBR/Schlitz/Blatz, etc. on special is a white collar piece of shit. Or pick a bar that talks about beer in terms of hops and IPAs and stouts and looks down their noses at anyone that dares to desire a domestic. Pick a bar and pick a seat. Claim that seat. Then bitch about how you can't smoke in that damn seat anymore. Then bitch about Mayor Daley, not so much about the blatant cycle of nepotism, but rather about the price increases on parking meters and mass transit. Then bitch about the Olympics. We should have them. No we shouldn't. Sit in that seat and tell stories about your grandparents, about how they use to be bootleggers or buy from bootleggers or get shaken down by bootleggers, pepper these stories with terms like "distilleries" and "mafia" and "capone" and "hooch" and "tommy guns." Sit in that seat and get to know the bartenders, sit in that seat and sing along to the jukebox, sit in that seat and bitch again about how you can't smoke in that seat anymore, sit in that seat and fall asleep, sit in that seat and wake up and teach them kids new slurs for minorities, sit in that seat and enjoy.
The city of Chicago covers a wide geographical distance and has a wide variety of interests to appeal to a wide variety of people. Once you realize that most of the people and places aren't for you, you can begin narrowing your options of places to go and shrinking your circle of people to know. Once again, welcome to Chicago! We know you're going to love it here!
Greetings, and Welcome to Chicago!
First things first. While we know you are anxious to settle in and explore all of the beauty and wonder that our fine city has to offer, we cannot allow you to begin without first looking the part. Therefore we kindly ask you to place this pamphlet to the side, and briefly take the time to thumb through the provided North Face catalog. We will continue with this guide to Chicago once you have selected and obtained each of the following: (1) a minimum of one North Face jacket, preferably in the Triclimate style; (2) a minimum of two North Face accessories, of which we recommend the North Face Ear Gear and the North Face E-Tip Glove; and, (3) a minimum of three North Face Shirts and Sweaters, two of which must be of the 1/4 zip style. Begin.
Greetings, and we welcome you once again to fine city of Chicago! Now that you have selected the proper urban attire, expect indoctrination to run smoother and with more haste here in the City of Neighborhoods. Which brings us to your next step, choosing the neighborhood you will now call home. Selecting a neighborhood will open the doors to nearly every conversation you can expect to engage in with fellow Chicagoans, as common introductory meetings consist of defining the nearest major intersections to your home, your specific neighborhood, and where it lies in relation to every other neighborhood within the city and its adjacent suburbs. Once you have made a choice, take pride in your neighborhood. Keep a running list of each of the local businesses that give your neighborhood character, that provide it with flavor, and then support these businesses through window shopping and browsing, making sure to thank any and all proprietors for allowing you to look at their merchandise. Once neigborhood pride has been obtained, reward yourself with a trip to the nearest Target or SuperTarget and load up on the savings!
After an average of four months of living in your new neighborhood, you will more than likely receive a congratulatory letter in the mail, assuming it doesn't get delivered elsewhere or discarded by your mail carrier. This letter will notify you that you have graduated to a new level of residential status, and you will be rewarded with the "Self-Righteous Hypocrisy" card, in which you are now allowed to complain about how the neighborhood isn't what it used to be since all of these stupid Yuppies started moving in and gentrifying the area. Celebrate with the right to never again disclose how long you have lived in the 'hood and a Grande Peppermint Mocha Twist Frappuchino from the local Starbucks.
At this point you should be accustomed enough to your new surroundings to have properly decorated your humble abode, yet we will go over the basics in case you either need assistance or have simply done things wrong. Most wall hangings qualify as acceptable art in the city of Chicago, so allow your personality to shine through when you can. Yet there are a few requirements, so keep these in mind when shopping to fill those walls. One must hang each of the following: (1) A Panoramic view of the city's skyline, preferably at night, extra points awarded if said photograph captures lightening striking; (2) A map of the city's neighborhoods, so that when company arrives, you can use the index finger of one hand to point to your neighborhood while simultaneously using the index finger of the opposite hand to point to each guest's respective neighborhood, and then analyze the found data; (3) Any reminder of "Old Chicago," whether it be a series of black and white photographs from the early part of the 20th century, a vintage poster featuring an advertisement for Chicago tourism, or a light up Old Style sign. Under no circumstances will you be permitted to hang artwork by Thomas Kinkade or Anne Gedes. All furniture should be black to counterbalance the lack of African Americans now residing in your area. Whenever and wherever possible, place photos of you and your friends doing very Chicago things. Accent by placing clues of your college educated yet nonconformist attitude haphazardly throughout the apartment, such as unread copies of the Chicago Reader, a dog-eared Jack Kerouac novel, the jewel case to the latest avant garde jazz fusion sensation CD, and rolled up signed and limited edition silkscreen concert bills from 2002.
Next buy a dog. Leave the dog in cramped conditions at most times. Walk the dog sparingly, so that when you leave the house, it jumps all over oncoming strangers. Allow the dog to own the sidewalk, forcing those passing by into the grass. Occasionally pick up the dog's droppings. Stop and talk to other people out walking dogs. Allow the dogs to sniff one another. Explain to the other dog walkers about your dog's personality, and then allow them to tell you about theirs. Exchange humorous dog stories. Return home and keep your dog inside for several more days. Repeat. On days in which you leave the dog inside to bark and remind your neighbors of his/her existence, take up a hobby, of which there's only one option. Jogging. Jog in the morning. Jog in the afternoon. Jog in the late hours of the evening. Jog at times that cause everyone who sees you jogging to wonder what your occupation is that allows you the freedom of jogging at 7:20 in the morning, at 2:45 in the afternoon, at 9:30 at night. Jog and think about sports, because picking a team is your next step to being a Chicagoan.
Picking a favorite Chicago sports team is a long and arduous process. Expect little return on your loyalty investment. While you may root for all Chicago sports teams, expressing so without actually selecting a favorite will ostracize you from most social situations, essentially forcing you to move out to Oak Park. If you are unsure about which team to pick, allow us to assist you in making your choice. If you refuse to see the correlation between extended skin exposure to below freezing temperatures and the contracting of hypothermia, dream of a world in which a man can marry a never ending supply of nacho cheese, believe we have yet to see the last of mustaches, and spend more hours obsessing over the status of Brett Favre rather than the status of your team, then you would love rooting for the Chicago Bears. If you are afraid of commitment and yearn for the days when white guys named Larry ruled the world, cheer for the Chicago Bulls. There are two things to remember if you are going to be a Bulls fan. (1) The NBA hasn't been worth watching since Michael "Air" Jordan left the game. (2) Possess no knowledge of how to argue for this case. This means do not learn the names of any current NBA players, do not follow the game until your team is winning, and when watching, claim that every third ball possession contains at least two travels, one double dribble, and seven "thugs." If you claim that alcohol can only make you drunk while on the North Side of Chicago, root for the Chicago White Sox. Carry an attitude of you against the world, take greater pleasure in a Cubs loss than in a Sox win, and forever bask in the glory of that one year of your life when everything fell into place and you got lucky. Become a Cubs fan if you want to know how disappointment really feels again and again and again. Throw the words "hope" and "tradition" around as if they actually bear any meaning. Philosophize over your team representing the greater struggle of man. Tie yourself to the train tracks of 100 years of history and then feel the weight of it all as your bones are crushed by a steam engine named Reality. Pick yourself up and pretend it never happened. Or root for the Blackhawks. It's kind of like being an indie rock fan, in which you can pretty much tell people anything and they'll have no way of knowing if it's true or not. Jonathon Toews, Bob Mould, Steve Albini, Chris Chelios, Bobby Hull and J Masics might be six of the all-time great Blackhawks, or they might be the latest incarnation of the Melvins. Who really knows?
Finally, it's time to explore the night life of Chicago. You need to pick a bar. That's it. Pick one. Pick a bar based on how undesirable the crowd is, and then hold it over your friends' heads when they don't want to go there. Pick a bar in which you may walk into it with two kidneys. Pick a bar that has swill for beer, and then claim anyone not drinking the PBR/Schlitz/Blatz, etc. on special is a white collar piece of shit. Or pick a bar that talks about beer in terms of hops and IPAs and stouts and looks down their noses at anyone that dares to desire a domestic. Pick a bar and pick a seat. Claim that seat. Then bitch about how you can't smoke in that damn seat anymore. Then bitch about Mayor Daley, not so much about the blatant cycle of nepotism, but rather about the price increases on parking meters and mass transit. Then bitch about the Olympics. We should have them. No we shouldn't. Sit in that seat and tell stories about your grandparents, about how they use to be bootleggers or buy from bootleggers or get shaken down by bootleggers, pepper these stories with terms like "distilleries" and "mafia" and "capone" and "hooch" and "tommy guns." Sit in that seat and get to know the bartenders, sit in that seat and sing along to the jukebox, sit in that seat and bitch again about how you can't smoke in that seat anymore, sit in that seat and fall asleep, sit in that seat and wake up and teach them kids new slurs for minorities, sit in that seat and enjoy.
The city of Chicago covers a wide geographical distance and has a wide variety of interests to appeal to a wide variety of people. Once you realize that most of the people and places aren't for you, you can begin narrowing your options of places to go and shrinking your circle of people to know. Once again, welcome to Chicago! We know you're going to love it here!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Defining Yourself in 21st Century America
Let's face the facts. Every one of man's great ideas has already been thought up and said. Plato introduced us to the Socratic method of inquiry and debate; Descartes argued that thought proves existence; Shakespeare transformed language to reintroduce age old paradoxes. Einstein and relativity, Copernicus' heliocentric model, Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, Marx and Engels Communist Manifesto, Abraham, Christ, Mohammad, Lao Tzu, Mahatma Gandhi, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Hume, Hegel, Freud, Darwin, Nietzsche, Galileo, Chaucer, King Jr, Henry VIII, X, ad infinitum. Such brilliant minds can seem overwhelming while living in 21st century America, a culture saturated in dreams and notions of defining the individual, of nurturing the growth and development of one's personality, of celebrating that each and every person is unique and special in his or her own unique and special way. In what manner do you separate yourself and make your mark on the world when everyone else is trying to do the same amidst a history in which everything has already been done? The answer may be easier than you think.Buy a t-shirt, get a tattoo, and express yourself, man!
T-shirts are perhaps the simplest way to express yourself without having to say anything at all. Designs and logos exist for an infinite number of personality indicators. There are t-shirts for the bands you love, t-shirts for the sports teams you root for, t-shirts for the soda or beer you prefer to drink, t-shirts for the auto maker that makes the auto you love or would love to drive, t-shirts with an image of your favorite animal printed on your favorite color, t-shirts for your school, church, town, city and state. And that's just the beginning of t-shirts, just a mere scratch on the surface of what makes you you. Buy a t-shirt with political rhetoric on it, and others will assume that you have a head full of arguments to support your stated position, that you've really thought this idea through, that you are not the man to mess with when it comes to abortion/race relations/the NRA/workers' rights, etc. Having trouble selling people on your sense of humor? Find yourself a t-shirt with a clever pun, something along the lines of "If aviation is wrong then I don't want to be Wright," or "Don't Mess with Tetris" with tetris blocks creating a silhouette of the state of Texas, or "Don't Blame Me, I Voted Bull Moose." Perhaps you were a total dickhead 15 years ago, and you struggle with the fact that you're still a total dickhead, only it's been 15 years and you have no true friends, no calling in life, no prospects and no plan on how to obtain any; each morning begins with looking at yourself in the mirror, despising what you see looking back at you, and you find this to be the fault of the queers, blacks and Jews. A voice from within haunts you, saying that if only you could transfer your thoughts from pen to paper, some sort of beautifully tragic Kafkaesque prose would flow forth, but then you realize the voice must be the voice of Satan, as you forgot what Kafkaesque meant 12 years ago after huffing gas from the tailpipe of your ATV. Git-r-done t-shirts say all of this and more!
Yet t-shirts don't come without their critics. The biggest argument against the t-shirt is its lasting effect. Sure it gives someone a quick glance into the inner workings of your mind, but it is only temporary, as according to hand, make and thread count, a t-shirt will generally last anywhere from one to seven years on average. A wardrobe overhaul allows the wearer to formulate new ideas and tastes every time a snag on a nail, moth infestation, or normal wear and tear may occur. While there is a certain amount of validity to the notion that man should always be open to change, that to be set in his ways signals the end of questioning, and thereby the end of debate, t-shirt opponents see the garment's lifespan as an excuse to live a non-committed lifestyle, to abandon one idea once the newer, sexier one comes along, and therefore to thwart human progress.
Enter the tattoo. Tattoos give personality permanence. There's no backing out from your thoughts, expressionism is eternal. Naturally, therefore, tattoos depict the stronger creeds of an individual, and no one ever regrets a tat. Allow me to give some common examples of killer ideas in ink. People have been known to have their child's name or face tattooed onto their bodies, most commonly on the wrist or over the heart, showing the world that they are proud to give in to their carnal desires, that they laugh in the face of the chaste and celibate, that they encourage and nurture creative flow by dreaming up a name for their child. Some tattoo marks of cultural pride, testaments to their ability to observe fickle differences. Often tattoos are expressed in an Asiatic language, a nod to centuries of philosophical questioning, a declaration of expressing without truly understanding what it is that's being expressed. Barbed wire to let your brute strength do the talking, lower back stamps signifying sexual trampdom, military insignia for letting others express for you, sports teams, bands, products from your youth, bar codes, crosses, James Joyce quotes, a coat-of-arms from the country that oppressed your great grandparents and forced them to flee in hopes of a better life in America, every clue that was inked onto the guy from Memento because perception is reality, a magic eight ball because you think you know what it implies, something like a dolphin on the foot because animals rule, a wedding ring around your ring finger because you gamble a lot.
Yet what if you like the look of the tattoo, but also prefer the feel and temporary nature of the t-shirt? Lucky for you this idea has been thought up, and for the cost of an overpriced t-shirt, you can style yourself in Ed Hardy attire. Ed Hardy screams personality. It screams I'm somewhat traditional, but I'm young, and phases totally kick ass. It screams I admire intricate patterns that look great on my upper left shoulder. It screams Luther nailing his 95 theses to cathedral walls, it screams Columbus dreaming the world is round, it screams Jeffersonian appeasements to pass a declaration. Ed Hardy screams "It's Saturday night, I got a pocketful of roofies, an eyeful of hoochies and an open tab at the bar on my dad's American Express, and you better believe I'll be the first in line for communion tomorrow morning."
Here in 21st century America, if you cannot find a voice in t-shirts, tattoos or Ed Hardy, your options for expression are limited to four choices. (1) Become the most influential Professor of History at the most influential university in the nation and formulate an argument declaring that the Enlightenment was highly overrated. (2) Wait with eager anticipation for an Orwellian future to become reality and become the director of the Thought Police. (3) Get married. Nobody cares what a married man thinks, not even the married man. (4) Blame science. It's worked for thoughtless individuals for the past 500 years--who's to say it can't work for another 500?
T-shirts are perhaps the simplest way to express yourself without having to say anything at all. Designs and logos exist for an infinite number of personality indicators. There are t-shirts for the bands you love, t-shirts for the sports teams you root for, t-shirts for the soda or beer you prefer to drink, t-shirts for the auto maker that makes the auto you love or would love to drive, t-shirts with an image of your favorite animal printed on your favorite color, t-shirts for your school, church, town, city and state. And that's just the beginning of t-shirts, just a mere scratch on the surface of what makes you you. Buy a t-shirt with political rhetoric on it, and others will assume that you have a head full of arguments to support your stated position, that you've really thought this idea through, that you are not the man to mess with when it comes to abortion/race relations/the NRA/workers' rights, etc. Having trouble selling people on your sense of humor? Find yourself a t-shirt with a clever pun, something along the lines of "If aviation is wrong then I don't want to be Wright," or "Don't Mess with Tetris" with tetris blocks creating a silhouette of the state of Texas, or "Don't Blame Me, I Voted Bull Moose." Perhaps you were a total dickhead 15 years ago, and you struggle with the fact that you're still a total dickhead, only it's been 15 years and you have no true friends, no calling in life, no prospects and no plan on how to obtain any; each morning begins with looking at yourself in the mirror, despising what you see looking back at you, and you find this to be the fault of the queers, blacks and Jews. A voice from within haunts you, saying that if only you could transfer your thoughts from pen to paper, some sort of beautifully tragic Kafkaesque prose would flow forth, but then you realize the voice must be the voice of Satan, as you forgot what Kafkaesque meant 12 years ago after huffing gas from the tailpipe of your ATV. Git-r-done t-shirts say all of this and more!
Yet t-shirts don't come without their critics. The biggest argument against the t-shirt is its lasting effect. Sure it gives someone a quick glance into the inner workings of your mind, but it is only temporary, as according to hand, make and thread count, a t-shirt will generally last anywhere from one to seven years on average. A wardrobe overhaul allows the wearer to formulate new ideas and tastes every time a snag on a nail, moth infestation, or normal wear and tear may occur. While there is a certain amount of validity to the notion that man should always be open to change, that to be set in his ways signals the end of questioning, and thereby the end of debate, t-shirt opponents see the garment's lifespan as an excuse to live a non-committed lifestyle, to abandon one idea once the newer, sexier one comes along, and therefore to thwart human progress.
Enter the tattoo. Tattoos give personality permanence. There's no backing out from your thoughts, expressionism is eternal. Naturally, therefore, tattoos depict the stronger creeds of an individual, and no one ever regrets a tat. Allow me to give some common examples of killer ideas in ink. People have been known to have their child's name or face tattooed onto their bodies, most commonly on the wrist or over the heart, showing the world that they are proud to give in to their carnal desires, that they laugh in the face of the chaste and celibate, that they encourage and nurture creative flow by dreaming up a name for their child. Some tattoo marks of cultural pride, testaments to their ability to observe fickle differences. Often tattoos are expressed in an Asiatic language, a nod to centuries of philosophical questioning, a declaration of expressing without truly understanding what it is that's being expressed. Barbed wire to let your brute strength do the talking, lower back stamps signifying sexual trampdom, military insignia for letting others express for you, sports teams, bands, products from your youth, bar codes, crosses, James Joyce quotes, a coat-of-arms from the country that oppressed your great grandparents and forced them to flee in hopes of a better life in America, every clue that was inked onto the guy from Memento because perception is reality, a magic eight ball because you think you know what it implies, something like a dolphin on the foot because animals rule, a wedding ring around your ring finger because you gamble a lot.
Yet what if you like the look of the tattoo, but also prefer the feel and temporary nature of the t-shirt? Lucky for you this idea has been thought up, and for the cost of an overpriced t-shirt, you can style yourself in Ed Hardy attire. Ed Hardy screams personality. It screams I'm somewhat traditional, but I'm young, and phases totally kick ass. It screams I admire intricate patterns that look great on my upper left shoulder. It screams Luther nailing his 95 theses to cathedral walls, it screams Columbus dreaming the world is round, it screams Jeffersonian appeasements to pass a declaration. Ed Hardy screams "It's Saturday night, I got a pocketful of roofies, an eyeful of hoochies and an open tab at the bar on my dad's American Express, and you better believe I'll be the first in line for communion tomorrow morning."
Here in 21st century America, if you cannot find a voice in t-shirts, tattoos or Ed Hardy, your options for expression are limited to four choices. (1) Become the most influential Professor of History at the most influential university in the nation and formulate an argument declaring that the Enlightenment was highly overrated. (2) Wait with eager anticipation for an Orwellian future to become reality and become the director of the Thought Police. (3) Get married. Nobody cares what a married man thinks, not even the married man. (4) Blame science. It's worked for thoughtless individuals for the past 500 years--who's to say it can't work for another 500?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Political Impact of Children
"I'M VOTING FOR KIDS," reads the sticker on the front door of the house I pass by on foot each day on my way home from work. Something about this sticker stirs up emotions within me that I cannot quite place a finger upon, whether it's patriotism, personal pride, or simple logic and the rationale of knowing what is right and what is wrong. Whatever the explanation, upon each pass I become incredibly compelled to walk up the steps of the front porch, ring the door bell, and have a friendly, and informative, conversation with the owner of the house. If he/she is simply being facetious, that's one thing, but if not, then someone badly needs to inform this person that children, even if placed on a ballot, cannot hold public office.
Now I won't pretend to be above falling for such misconceptions. I've done it myself. It just takes one of those heart-warming commercials with absolutely adorable kids dressed as adults acting out in very adult manners to convince you that such a world might not be a bad place. Picture it. Boys in three piece suits, patent leather wing tip shoes, argyle socks, stainless steel coffee mug in one hand and brief case in the other. Or girls.Young girls in power suits, two inch high heels, power vests, a Blackberry touch screen in one hand, the handle to one of those travel suitcases on wheels in the other. Boardrooms filled with kids spinning round and round in swivel chairs. Naps being taken on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Office furniture made from Lego. Business cards with a heart over the "i" or a properly placed backwards "e." Kids taking blue tooth phone calls from their mothers in New Havensbrook while furiously stuck in rush hour traffic. Kids trading tales of the days Bears and Bulls over a couple of dry martinis during happy hour. Kids picking up their kids from daycare and dropping them off at Little League practice.
It sounds too cute for words, doesn't it? Of course it does. But this is the regular business world I'm describing, and not the world of politics. Do you really want a child in charge of the Department of Health and Human Services? Children are crawling with diseases. They're despicable little germ traps. How can you trust someone who hates baths, never washes his hands, and regularly ingests items such as glue, dirt and less frightening insects to head up what is essentially the nation's hygiene program? Or how about the Department of Transportation? Imagine how much of the taxpayers' money would go to waist funding programs to build rocket cars. The department of defense would be up in arms figuring out ways to defend against Decepticons and Lord Voldemort, while the Department of Agriculture would be busy playing Farm each and every day, alternating between whose turn it is to play the angry farmer and who gets to play the spunky and lovable barnyard animals that soften his hardened heart. Don't get me started on the damage that would be done to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, as lil' sheriffs, young deputies and renegade posse leaders take control and reverse the already slow progress of civil rights and land appropriations to our nation's indigenous by opting to hunt down all Injuns.
What about other government sponsored programs? It breaks my heart picturing a court room full of crying jurors, lawyers and judges over their bitter disappointment when breaking for recess isn't as literal as they'd hope. Criminals would be virtually unstoppable as police officers in pursuit merely yell "FREEZE!", point their finger at the perpetrator and shout out "BANG! BANG!" (pause, pause, pause) "BANG BANG BANG!" Tax audits in shambles because the auditors forgot to carry the one. Medicaid distributed on a bully versus bullied basis, welfare handed out to those deemed the coolest, the state lottery commission forced to deal with hissy fits as each losing participant cries that he/she has been cheated, the military allowing only one girl per unit, and even then only because she's someone's cousin so it's okay. The DMV most likely will run a little smoother.
Sounds pretty scary, huh? So why don't I ever ring this person's door to warn them of the dangers of voting for an all children's government?Posted to the left of the "I'M VOTING FOR KIDS" sticker on the front door is another sign, this one reading MAIL SLOT with an arrow pointing down, just above the actual mail slot. Now I can draw a few conclusions from this. First, any person who feels the need to insult a postal worker's intelligence by labeling the clearly visible mail slot with a sign saying MAIL SLOT clearly has issues, and perhaps it'd be best to let those issues be resolved by the postal worker. Second, maybe the owner of the house is convinced that a children's government is already in place, as unintelligent postal workers would be the byproduct of a generation educated by child teachers. Third, and perhaps scariest of all, is that the owner is a prophet of some sort, awaiting a children's revolution, fearful of the future leaders and the havoc they will bestow upon an insubordinate citizen. Sure such a government would never bear any legality, but if there's one thing kids' love it's pissing and pissing hard on the constitution.
Now I won't pretend to be above falling for such misconceptions. I've done it myself. It just takes one of those heart-warming commercials with absolutely adorable kids dressed as adults acting out in very adult manners to convince you that such a world might not be a bad place. Picture it. Boys in three piece suits, patent leather wing tip shoes, argyle socks, stainless steel coffee mug in one hand and brief case in the other. Or girls.Young girls in power suits, two inch high heels, power vests, a Blackberry touch screen in one hand, the handle to one of those travel suitcases on wheels in the other. Boardrooms filled with kids spinning round and round in swivel chairs. Naps being taken on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Office furniture made from Lego. Business cards with a heart over the "i" or a properly placed backwards "e." Kids taking blue tooth phone calls from their mothers in New Havensbrook while furiously stuck in rush hour traffic. Kids trading tales of the days Bears and Bulls over a couple of dry martinis during happy hour. Kids picking up their kids from daycare and dropping them off at Little League practice.
It sounds too cute for words, doesn't it? Of course it does. But this is the regular business world I'm describing, and not the world of politics. Do you really want a child in charge of the Department of Health and Human Services? Children are crawling with diseases. They're despicable little germ traps. How can you trust someone who hates baths, never washes his hands, and regularly ingests items such as glue, dirt and less frightening insects to head up what is essentially the nation's hygiene program? Or how about the Department of Transportation? Imagine how much of the taxpayers' money would go to waist funding programs to build rocket cars. The department of defense would be up in arms figuring out ways to defend against Decepticons and Lord Voldemort, while the Department of Agriculture would be busy playing Farm each and every day, alternating between whose turn it is to play the angry farmer and who gets to play the spunky and lovable barnyard animals that soften his hardened heart. Don't get me started on the damage that would be done to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, as lil' sheriffs, young deputies and renegade posse leaders take control and reverse the already slow progress of civil rights and land appropriations to our nation's indigenous by opting to hunt down all Injuns.
What about other government sponsored programs? It breaks my heart picturing a court room full of crying jurors, lawyers and judges over their bitter disappointment when breaking for recess isn't as literal as they'd hope. Criminals would be virtually unstoppable as police officers in pursuit merely yell "FREEZE!", point their finger at the perpetrator and shout out "BANG! BANG!" (pause, pause, pause) "BANG BANG BANG!" Tax audits in shambles because the auditors forgot to carry the one. Medicaid distributed on a bully versus bullied basis, welfare handed out to those deemed the coolest, the state lottery commission forced to deal with hissy fits as each losing participant cries that he/she has been cheated, the military allowing only one girl per unit, and even then only because she's someone's cousin so it's okay. The DMV most likely will run a little smoother.
Sounds pretty scary, huh? So why don't I ever ring this person's door to warn them of the dangers of voting for an all children's government?Posted to the left of the "I'M VOTING FOR KIDS" sticker on the front door is another sign, this one reading MAIL SLOT with an arrow pointing down, just above the actual mail slot. Now I can draw a few conclusions from this. First, any person who feels the need to insult a postal worker's intelligence by labeling the clearly visible mail slot with a sign saying MAIL SLOT clearly has issues, and perhaps it'd be best to let those issues be resolved by the postal worker. Second, maybe the owner of the house is convinced that a children's government is already in place, as unintelligent postal workers would be the byproduct of a generation educated by child teachers. Third, and perhaps scariest of all, is that the owner is a prophet of some sort, awaiting a children's revolution, fearful of the future leaders and the havoc they will bestow upon an insubordinate citizen. Sure such a government would never bear any legality, but if there's one thing kids' love it's pissing and pissing hard on the constitution.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
An Open Letter to the Guy Who Writes Crossword Puzzles for a Living
Dear Guy who writes crossword puzzles for a living:
I have a series of questions for you, of which I request that you answer in chronological order.
How does one become a crossword puzzle creator? Is there a specific college or secondary school program that one must graduate from? And if so, do numerous colleges possess accreditation, or are a student's options fairly limited when choosing a university? Is the coursework rigorous? Is the program conservative, liberal, or a steady diet of the two? Would you consider the program to be more cut throat or fraternal? And if there is no specified program, then what types of classes should one take independently to prepare for his/her career?
Did you always aspire to create crosswords for a living? Did your parents try to steer you away from your path, or were they overall encouraging and supportive of your dreams? If the former, then have they since come to accept your lifestyle? Or are they embarrassed by your choice? Do they think you're just going through a phase? And are they accurate with such an assumption? Do they tell lies to friends and family about your vocation? Do they simply say, "Oh, _____, he works for the papers, but I still don't completely understand what he does there, even after he's explained it to me a thousand times," or are they more elaborate in their evasions, perhaps placing you far away from the media industry or ignoring the question altogether?
Is there such a thing as crossword writer's block? Is the pressure to meet deadlines overwhelming at times? Do you ever pull all-nighters? Do you ever cheat to meet deadlines? How so? By reusing answers from previous puzzles? By plagiarizing the works of others? By lying about the definition of a word? By changing a word's standarized spelling and then convincing the public that they are wrong about it? Do you occassionally blow your respective paycheck on vast amounts of cocaine to keep the ideas coming, to allow the narcotic's sweet nectar to satiate and unleash the muse from within? Who is your muse? And if you don't use cocaine, then what is your drug of choice? Marijuana to relax you from the pressure? Heroin to numb you from the puzzle, to distance yourself emotiioanlly from your work, to allow the puzzle to become what it was meant to become rather than forcing your own personal agenda upon it? Hallucinogens to allow your mind to expand and explore all possible options, to envision the puzzle right before your very eyes, to test the boundaries of what it means to be crossword? Crystal meth to score soccer moms, as you work for a community newspaper? Ecstasy to take pleasure in all of the sensations and feelings that a crossword puzzle can provide?
What do you think of Soduku? Are you any good at it?
Is there a hierarchical order to the crossword puzzle creators' world? Are there movers and shakers, outcasts and losers? Were there creators you looked up to as a child? Any you aspired to be? Are you ever blown away by someone else's work? Do you look down upon a fellow creator if you easily solve their puzzle? Are you jealous of one if you cannot solve the puzzle? Does some young blood inevitably come along every few years that makes you think perhaps it's time to throw in the towel? Are your colleagues initally awed by this whipper snapper, causing you to feel disposable and that your life was, after all, insignificant? Do the two of you battle it out by any means necessary for a significant amount of time, until Eureka!, there's lessons that you can learn from him and there's lessons that he can learn from you, and it takes some profound moment to transform the two of you into lifelong friends? Isn't that a bit cliched? Are there any sort of hazing rituals that one should expect when becomming a rookie crossword puzzle creator? Does the hazing involve some sort of snipe hunt for crossworders, in which the new creator is convinced that somewhere out there lies a clue for the snipe to be the answer, and he cannot garner any respect until he finds that definition?
Are there any Freudian undertones to your work? Is creating a puzzle with longer or multiple word answers seen as compensating for inferior sexual prowess?Are puzzles with greater emphasis on vertical answers considered phallic? Do you date? If so, how quickly into a relationship do you disclose your profession? Are there crossword pickup lines? Do they usually contain crude references to filling in her boxes for her? Or are such lines deemed hackneyed and trite? Do you ever compare and contrast the ideas expressed in author Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, wherein the Holy Grail becomes a metaphor for the vessel, or womb, that carries the blood of Christ, with your predominantly horizontal puzzles and their relationship to oediapl complexes? Why or why not?
Is there anything you don't know? What? How would you describe your fan base? Do you receive more fan mail or hate mail? Or no mail at all? Do you suffer, or fear that one day you may suffer, from Carpal Tunnel's Syndrome? Is there a vast difference between working for a rural paper versus an urban one? Are answers that refer to Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection barred from appearing in the Kansas City Star? Do you work with a PC or a Mac? Is there a template on your computer that you use to cut and paste your answers into? Or do you not even use a computer? Then do you write the old-fashioned way, hammering out puzzles on your ever trustworthy Remington Rand electric typewriter? Are you adequately prepared for the transition to a predominantly paperless media? What diseases, if any, are you more susceptible to? Did the crossword puzzle that appeared in the Chicago Tribune on November 3, 1948 follow suit to the day's headline, having the clue for number 34 across state something along the lines of "US President whose chronological rank matches this clue's number," with Dewey as the answer? If so, is the puzzle considered a collector's item? And is it deemed more valuable if the answer has or has not been filled in? Are you capable of love? Can you place all of your answers in the form of a crossword puzzle itself? If not, why? Are you not good enough to? Not up for the challenge? Then why did you become a crossword puzzle creator in the first place, huh?
Thank you for your time and consideration, as I eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
Nicholas Jon Perez
I have a series of questions for you, of which I request that you answer in chronological order.
How does one become a crossword puzzle creator? Is there a specific college or secondary school program that one must graduate from? And if so, do numerous colleges possess accreditation, or are a student's options fairly limited when choosing a university? Is the coursework rigorous? Is the program conservative, liberal, or a steady diet of the two? Would you consider the program to be more cut throat or fraternal? And if there is no specified program, then what types of classes should one take independently to prepare for his/her career?
Did you always aspire to create crosswords for a living? Did your parents try to steer you away from your path, or were they overall encouraging and supportive of your dreams? If the former, then have they since come to accept your lifestyle? Or are they embarrassed by your choice? Do they think you're just going through a phase? And are they accurate with such an assumption? Do they tell lies to friends and family about your vocation? Do they simply say, "Oh, _____, he works for the papers, but I still don't completely understand what he does there, even after he's explained it to me a thousand times," or are they more elaborate in their evasions, perhaps placing you far away from the media industry or ignoring the question altogether?
Is there such a thing as crossword writer's block? Is the pressure to meet deadlines overwhelming at times? Do you ever pull all-nighters? Do you ever cheat to meet deadlines? How so? By reusing answers from previous puzzles? By plagiarizing the works of others? By lying about the definition of a word? By changing a word's standarized spelling and then convincing the public that they are wrong about it? Do you occassionally blow your respective paycheck on vast amounts of cocaine to keep the ideas coming, to allow the narcotic's sweet nectar to satiate and unleash the muse from within? Who is your muse? And if you don't use cocaine, then what is your drug of choice? Marijuana to relax you from the pressure? Heroin to numb you from the puzzle, to distance yourself emotiioanlly from your work, to allow the puzzle to become what it was meant to become rather than forcing your own personal agenda upon it? Hallucinogens to allow your mind to expand and explore all possible options, to envision the puzzle right before your very eyes, to test the boundaries of what it means to be crossword? Crystal meth to score soccer moms, as you work for a community newspaper? Ecstasy to take pleasure in all of the sensations and feelings that a crossword puzzle can provide?
What do you think of Soduku? Are you any good at it?
Is there a hierarchical order to the crossword puzzle creators' world? Are there movers and shakers, outcasts and losers? Were there creators you looked up to as a child? Any you aspired to be? Are you ever blown away by someone else's work? Do you look down upon a fellow creator if you easily solve their puzzle? Are you jealous of one if you cannot solve the puzzle? Does some young blood inevitably come along every few years that makes you think perhaps it's time to throw in the towel? Are your colleagues initally awed by this whipper snapper, causing you to feel disposable and that your life was, after all, insignificant? Do the two of you battle it out by any means necessary for a significant amount of time, until Eureka!, there's lessons that you can learn from him and there's lessons that he can learn from you, and it takes some profound moment to transform the two of you into lifelong friends? Isn't that a bit cliched? Are there any sort of hazing rituals that one should expect when becomming a rookie crossword puzzle creator? Does the hazing involve some sort of snipe hunt for crossworders, in which the new creator is convinced that somewhere out there lies a clue for the snipe to be the answer, and he cannot garner any respect until he finds that definition?
Are there any Freudian undertones to your work? Is creating a puzzle with longer or multiple word answers seen as compensating for inferior sexual prowess?Are puzzles with greater emphasis on vertical answers considered phallic? Do you date? If so, how quickly into a relationship do you disclose your profession? Are there crossword pickup lines? Do they usually contain crude references to filling in her boxes for her? Or are such lines deemed hackneyed and trite? Do you ever compare and contrast the ideas expressed in author Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, wherein the Holy Grail becomes a metaphor for the vessel, or womb, that carries the blood of Christ, with your predominantly horizontal puzzles and their relationship to oediapl complexes? Why or why not?
Is there anything you don't know? What? How would you describe your fan base? Do you receive more fan mail or hate mail? Or no mail at all? Do you suffer, or fear that one day you may suffer, from Carpal Tunnel's Syndrome? Is there a vast difference between working for a rural paper versus an urban one? Are answers that refer to Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution by Natural Selection barred from appearing in the Kansas City Star? Do you work with a PC or a Mac? Is there a template on your computer that you use to cut and paste your answers into? Or do you not even use a computer? Then do you write the old-fashioned way, hammering out puzzles on your ever trustworthy Remington Rand electric typewriter? Are you adequately prepared for the transition to a predominantly paperless media? What diseases, if any, are you more susceptible to? Did the crossword puzzle that appeared in the Chicago Tribune on November 3, 1948 follow suit to the day's headline, having the clue for number 34 across state something along the lines of "US President whose chronological rank matches this clue's number," with Dewey as the answer? If so, is the puzzle considered a collector's item? And is it deemed more valuable if the answer has or has not been filled in? Are you capable of love? Can you place all of your answers in the form of a crossword puzzle itself? If not, why? Are you not good enough to? Not up for the challenge? Then why did you become a crossword puzzle creator in the first place, huh?
Thank you for your time and consideration, as I eagerly await your response.
Sincerely,
Nicholas Jon Perez
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Battle Between the Brianas and the Briannas
Brianas don't like Briannas, and Briannas absolutely abhor Brianas. Ask them why, and you'll be sorry you ever did. Whether it's a Briana telling you the shortcomings of a Brianna, or a Brianna setting you straight on the inferiority of a Briana, you won't be given many opportunities to ask questions regarding this matter. Instead you'll suffer from the following afflictions: slight inflammation of the ears due to the rapid speed at which a series of meaningless and undecipherable words travel through their passageways; dry mouth from a bottom lip left dangling in disbelief, anxiously awaiting for a breath to be taken so you can throw out just one of the 68 cents that you compiled in the past 68 seconds; and motion sickness from the rapid darting of your eyes, both orbitals searching for each alternative outlet within the surrounding area that could provide greater interest than this cursed conversation.
Your initial impression is more than likely that the hatred exists because of the difference in spelling bewteen Briana and Brianna. The truth is, though, that that may just be a mere trick of the writer here, as no one, Brianas and Briannas aside, even knows if such a difference does in fact exist. I've only included the variation in spellings so that the reader does not become confused when I say that Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas, and instead think that Briannas possess a greater hate for their counterpart. (For example, the sentence Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas would, without the provided variant, read as Briannas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Briannas.)
The real issue that causes such disparity between the two parties is over the slight difference in pronunciation. Brianna is pronounced traditionally (which I'm sure will upset some Brianas upon reading this, while making the more prideful one even prouder), with the last syllable being spoken in the same manner as the name Anna. Briana, however, stresses the latter syllable, producing a Bree-on-uh. In the Germanic tongue, this would simply be the difference between possessing an umlaut and not possessing an umlaut. But alas, Brianas and Briannas sadly hate each other too much to be bothered with thinking about umlauts or the Germanic tribes of the world and how they realte to the matter at hand.
Brianas become extremely offended by a commoner referring to them as a Brianna, and will quickly retort with the corrected pronunciation, highly exaggerating the stress that should have been placed on the "on" portion. They will not tolerate this mistake more than three times from any one individual, as such an offense results in banishment from any future conversation. Brianas view themselves as superior to Briannas, and if they sense that these slips of the tongue are being done in jest, they are not afraid to have some dude named Blake or Chaz threaten to kick your ass if such disrespect persists. Furthermore, if a Brianna is even in the same room as a Briana, the Briana will refuse to make eye contact with her out of fear that it may in fact transform her into a sniveling, grovelling, unrefined whore of a Brianna.
Such self-righteousness from Brianas explains the previous statement that Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas. Briannas resent the feeling of superiority held by Brianas, seeing it as an attempt to distance themselves from the plight experienced by all girls nicknamed Bree that has existed for ages. Briannas hope for a movement in which all Brees worldwide create a common front and unite against the adolescent males of the world that fail to distinguish between the two parties, opting instead to sit behind either one in a high school biology classroom in an effort to accumulate a new record of spitwads in the grips of their layered haircuts while simultaneously dropping pencils and pens in hopes of catching a glimpse up their skirts. Briannas recognize that Brianas view themselves as the only victims of this daily atrocity, and thus see them as traitors to the Bree namesake.
So what can be learned from this ongoing dilemma, which seems to have no end to its cycle of hatred and despair in the forseeable future? Researchers from every field have been gathering data, performing experiments and tests and postulating theories over the relationship between the causations of this quandary as well as possible outcomes that may derive if and when a truce is ever established. Their findings are shocking. From the deabte between religious fundamentalists and gay rights activists, to the divide bewteen proponents of pro-life and pro-choice, to advocates for and against funding for stem-cell research, all the way down to economy involving recent debates over big box companies--not a single dispute on the face of this globe would change at all if Brianas and Briannas decided to put their differences aside. Because while Brianas and Briannas spend countless hours attacking and villifying, sabotaging and mud-slinging, hating one another to the grave, everyone else in the world can't stand either one of them.
Your initial impression is more than likely that the hatred exists because of the difference in spelling bewteen Briana and Brianna. The truth is, though, that that may just be a mere trick of the writer here, as no one, Brianas and Briannas aside, even knows if such a difference does in fact exist. I've only included the variation in spellings so that the reader does not become confused when I say that Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas, and instead think that Briannas possess a greater hate for their counterpart. (For example, the sentence Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas would, without the provided variant, read as Briannas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Briannas.)
The real issue that causes such disparity between the two parties is over the slight difference in pronunciation. Brianna is pronounced traditionally (which I'm sure will upset some Brianas upon reading this, while making the more prideful one even prouder), with the last syllable being spoken in the same manner as the name Anna. Briana, however, stresses the latter syllable, producing a Bree-on-uh. In the Germanic tongue, this would simply be the difference between possessing an umlaut and not possessing an umlaut. But alas, Brianas and Briannas sadly hate each other too much to be bothered with thinking about umlauts or the Germanic tribes of the world and how they realte to the matter at hand.
Brianas become extremely offended by a commoner referring to them as a Brianna, and will quickly retort with the corrected pronunciation, highly exaggerating the stress that should have been placed on the "on" portion. They will not tolerate this mistake more than three times from any one individual, as such an offense results in banishment from any future conversation. Brianas view themselves as superior to Briannas, and if they sense that these slips of the tongue are being done in jest, they are not afraid to have some dude named Blake or Chaz threaten to kick your ass if such disrespect persists. Furthermore, if a Brianna is even in the same room as a Briana, the Briana will refuse to make eye contact with her out of fear that it may in fact transform her into a sniveling, grovelling, unrefined whore of a Brianna.
Such self-righteousness from Brianas explains the previous statement that Brianas loathe Briannas more than Briannas do Brianas. Briannas resent the feeling of superiority held by Brianas, seeing it as an attempt to distance themselves from the plight experienced by all girls nicknamed Bree that has existed for ages. Briannas hope for a movement in which all Brees worldwide create a common front and unite against the adolescent males of the world that fail to distinguish between the two parties, opting instead to sit behind either one in a high school biology classroom in an effort to accumulate a new record of spitwads in the grips of their layered haircuts while simultaneously dropping pencils and pens in hopes of catching a glimpse up their skirts. Briannas recognize that Brianas view themselves as the only victims of this daily atrocity, and thus see them as traitors to the Bree namesake.
So what can be learned from this ongoing dilemma, which seems to have no end to its cycle of hatred and despair in the forseeable future? Researchers from every field have been gathering data, performing experiments and tests and postulating theories over the relationship between the causations of this quandary as well as possible outcomes that may derive if and when a truce is ever established. Their findings are shocking. From the deabte between religious fundamentalists and gay rights activists, to the divide bewteen proponents of pro-life and pro-choice, to advocates for and against funding for stem-cell research, all the way down to economy involving recent debates over big box companies--not a single dispute on the face of this globe would change at all if Brianas and Briannas decided to put their differences aside. Because while Brianas and Briannas spend countless hours attacking and villifying, sabotaging and mud-slinging, hating one another to the grave, everyone else in the world can't stand either one of them.
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