Black & White Issue

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I’ve been frequenting a local open mic on Thursday nights for the raucous affair known as Open Mic Stand Up Comedy. It ain’t much so don’t go clearing your calendars. Just a bunch of girls talking about their vaginas, guys talking about their dicks, and black people talking about white people; the standard, predictable, underhandedly-pitched topics when you’re playing in the minor leagues of stand-up comedy I guess.

One observation I’ve made is that most black comics at some point start to riff on white people, but NEVER vice versa. The black comic gets on stage and within 30 seconds he’s told 7 jokes about “white people bein’ all like ________” while every white in the crowd claps & cackles like some glue-huffing cartoons.  All of them. Nervously laughing at jokes made at their own expense …to not laugh would be somehow racist perhaps?

Not quite. It’s far simpler than that folks… it’s because caucasians think every black person can kick the shit out of them.

It’s true. 100% of caucasians surveyed would say a black Steven Hawking could probably kick the shit out of a white Shaquille O’Neil, guaranteed. I think it’s a common misconception lumped in with the psychology of white guilt. This idea must’ve gained traction in the early days of 1950’s basketball, when white dudes ran back and forth falling all over the court like they were playing on ice.  When every shot was a desperate jump shot directly under the basket, hitting the rim and causing the ball to ricochet back at their stupid heads. Back then, white basketball players had slightly more athletic ability than the clarinet section of the marching band. 4 quarters of this nonsense.  Then along comes the black guy. An actual athlete who can miraculously run up the court without tripping over his clumsy white teammates OR his fucking shoelaces and still manage to lay up a nice fluid basket. Miracle!

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The Custodian

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The custodian in the Hospital cafeteria thinks pretty highly of himself. He shuffles around chest out, shoulders back, over-confidently pretending to wipe tables his whole shift. Any human being without a traumatic brain injury would notice the tables smell far worse than before he wiped them. It’s called mildew stupid. Mildew happens when you stow your wet rag in a manner that it cannot dry out. That bottom of the hamper smell; somewhere between zoo animal and football stadium urinal. The ‘tard probably stuffs the rag in his locker everyday, next to his pristine SF Giants hat and $300 Nikes. He no doubt sleeps under a bridge, but rest assured he’s got the latest Jordans. Stupidity works that way. Like an ape that knows how to peel a banana but forgets the next step and ends up starving to death.

Morning Mishap

My lovely grayed and angry parents are in San Francisco visiting for the week so heavy drinking and masturbating are off the to-do list. Even though their hotel room is several blocks away, with my luck I’d get the urge to tug the a.m. wood at the exact moment they decide to “drop in” with coffee and bagels for a surprise breakfast.

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I can see it now: hot coffee hitting the floor, followed by bagels, followed by my fainting mother. Dad working himself into a huge huff, somehow blaming the whole situation on Obama’s second term, all while I’m thrashing around trying to cover up the crime scene.

No thanks, I’d rather be horny than hated.

Calm Down There, Astronaut

I’m trying to watch this otherwise wonderful documentary on the cosmos but every time they cut to this one Astronomer Philip, he starts giving his Hollywood scripted doomsday scenarios about an asteroid hitting Earth, or the Sun exploding like a Supernova… Christ Almighty Philip! Can I just learn about space without all the Hollywood shtick?

And of course they’ve got CGI special effects to illustrate his wild scenarios in full detail – because learning about the Universe isn’t fascinating enough without footage of NYC getting blown the fuck up by an angry Quasar. In fact, if they took out all the scenes of recognizable landmarks being vaporized, the documentary would be nothing but intro credits and one hour of Astro-Philip talking to himself in the dark. Now that the shuttle program is grounded, I’m sure he just sits around mission control all day, calculating how far a Pulsar could flip a school bus or something.

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I can assume his bosses in Houston won’t let him on the space station either. He’s a little too buggy-eyed to be trusted up there – I’m sure he’d try snorting Adderall off of the control panel and end up steering it towards the Sun. That’s probably why he’s on the Discovery channel instead of in orbit; it keeps him occupied when he’s not scraping the rust off of old shuttle parts.

Please Listen Carefully

What the hell is up with every business in America changing their phone menu options?

“Please listen carefully as some of our menu options have recently changed.”

What they’re really saying is, don’t call us up thinking you’re hot shit just because you called last week and remembered that option #4 was billing …because THIS week… option #4 is Sandy Lawton’s desk. And Sandy’s 14 year old son has been doing some shady shit recently, like skipping school and masturbating into every towel in the house and she is stressed out enough already without you just randomly dialing her desk because you didn’t listen carefully.

 

On the Engine

I’m currently a firefighter intern stationed at Engine 3 in downtown San Francisco. They are the busiest engine company in the entire country averaging over 10,000 calls per year. Our primary coverage area is a squalid 50 square block neighborhood called the Tenderloin; the largest drug ghetto in the United States. Crack. Feces. Meth. Vomit. Needles. Stabbings. Blood. Shootings. Alcoholics. Urine. Bodies. Glass. Noise. Mayhem. As much as you can handle.

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We never get a call to rescue a group of swollen titty’d sorority chicks stuck in an elevator. No way. We only get patients whose sex is a mystery until you cut off their piss-soaked pants with trauma shears. Patients rotting from the inside out from a lifetime’s worth of drugs, booze and stupidity. They stand on the corner all day shooting up and assaulting each other, and when one of them drops, we get the call.

Monday morning we ran 17 calls before lunch. Most departments are considered busy if they run that many in a week. I had chugged a Monster Energy drink before we pulled out of the engine bay on our first run. 5 back-to-back calls later – I had that nagging pain in the abdomen, where if I knelt down too quickly I’d leak a little. My angry bladder eventually found relief – lesson learned. The medic I work along side tells me to never kneel down beside a patient as I had done earlier, “around here you’ll end up with a syringe in your kneecap”. Two lessons learned.

The day progresses: I’m crawling into the back of a smashed up sedan to stabilize a driver’s neck, Naloxone vaporized into the nostrils to revive a heroin overdose, pouring water into the eyes of a pepper-sprayed, spitting tranny. Alcohol poisoning, chest pains, pediatric seizure, sliced fingers, allergic reaction… never a dull moment.

Some apartments we’re called to, you literally have to shovel your way through garbage just to get to them. Yesterday this old codger fell in his apartment and had been laying there for almost 2 days, he owned a huge tropical parrot caged in the corner. During the fall, his dentures must have flown out of his mouth and into an adjacent flower pot filled of dead stems and dirt… or that’s where he keeps them. the crew doesn’t miss a beat.  Get a set of vitals, put him on a stretcher, feed the bird, away we go.

Another call was a DOA (dead on arrival) – that is to say, if we had arrived 4 days ago. He had started to decompose around his face, blood pooling in the extremities, the apartment was rank with biology; his patient little dog sat confused by his side while we hooked up EKG leads. The TV still on, broadcasting the Olympics. We notify the coroner, call PD, call animal control, on to the next. Unfortunately, these eerie scenes will probably replace fond memories of being on a beautiful beach in Ko Chang with my lady or something. The brain is just like the bladder, it can only hold in so much before it causes pain. You’ve gotta find a release or go crazy. Writing is like kneeling down – leaking a little.

Primates: An Owner’s Manual

 

Considering a pet? Consider a monkey. Owning a monkey can be very rewarding and will save you tons of time and energy with the proper training. Here is a quick overview of some basic monkey care & maintenance:

  • First, your monkey will have to be fed a strict vegetarian diet to simplify the management of it’s fecal output. Potty training is necessary, as keeping a diaper on a monkey is like boiling pasta with the lid on. Monkeys tend to be more comfortable than humans when handling feces, therefore owners must be diligent about performing daily spot checks under couch cushions and behind appliances.
  • Care for your monkey without making it feel loved or needed. A primate is not like a dog that will innocently hump your leg when it’s horny. A monkey will violently take that ass if it so desires.
  • Keep the monkey’s fingernails neatly trimmed. Risk of infection increases tenfold if the monkey chooses to scratch you with the same hand it juggles poop with. Also, be sure to comb the debris out of its hair… maybe rub its shoulders if it had a long day cleaning your apartment.
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Trust must be earned. Until then, install a webcam to monitor the monkey’s behavior while you are away.

  • Assign the monkey a series of simple tasks such as replacing toilet paper rolls or setting the dinner table. Next, work your way up to having it draw you a bath or stealing your neighbor’s fed-ex packages.
  • In captivity, a monkey’s sex drive can be explosive and unpredictable – I suggest providing a pillow with a hole cut into it or a carnival-sized stuffed animal for the monkey to twerk on.
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    Some species are not advised for those with children, elderly in-laws or small pets.

  • You will need to choose a monkey large enough to intimidate an adversary, yet not so strong that you couldn’t overpower it. If it happens to get drunk or out of line you must be willing to punch it in the neck and establish dominance early on, otherwise if your monkey senses fear it will not hesitate to rape you or a loved one for sport. Reprimand your monkey without fear of retaliation. Virtually all bronze package gym memberships provide owners with enough cardio and strength training to overpower a sober 40lb. monkey.

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Over time, a strong platonic bond should form between you and your monkey. This will allow you the freedom to ask it for increasingly laborious favors without it catching on to your scheme or rebelling too violently. This will take some time though, you can not rush things such as attrition.