Yo, Everest College...Y'all Don't Know Me

Look.

The next time some crooked-hat slacker yokel starts yelling at me from one of the four channels i get on my TV about how my life is passing me by because I haven't spent a small fortune to sit in an uncomfortable chair in the classroom of some half-assed, new-age DeVry where the only bit of amusement or stimulation i can find comes from my internal giggle at the stammering professer's chalk-covered eddie bauer sport coat i'm going to elvis the fuck up and bust-a-cap-in-that-glass like it was broadcasting robert goulet in a post-coital scene beside my own mother.

deep breath.

I worked all god damned day. I was on my feet for 9 and a half hours, just like i was the previous 4 days. I come home and i want to take off my boots and loosen my tie a bit (but not so much that it doesn't remain to look fiercely stylish on me). If i choose to sit down on the couch that I OWN, and watch the tv that I OWN for a minute so i can catch some jeopardy and stimulate my mind before i become another of the countless middle-class drones of the barely-veiled slavery doctrine that in one way and another and another lines the pockets of 10% of the population who use that money to further become the bane of our culture, the embarrassment of our species, and the destroyer of all life.

A 20,000 dollar piece of paper that says i'm qualified (paid) in (from their actual website) "Medical Insurance Billing and Coding" is going to put me right back here, on my couch, soaking my proverbial bunions to the soothingly endless card-read knowledge of alex trebek. After working the same amount of hours in a day, for the same amount of money, in a field that is so far from medical insurance billing and coding that it might as well just mean i have a degree in Life Fucking Up Via Massive Debt and Terrible Decisions (made at the exact moment i would ever have considered ANYTHING the TV tried to yell at me in the first place).

School is for learning. The workforce is for careers and applied knowledge.

Take your father's credit card down to the hallmark shop and buy him an apology note for all those nights you spent hitting the bong in front of family guy re-runs at your everest dorm room, where, ironically, you cheered every time that outdated-facial-hair-30-something-portraying-20-something-pop-collared-spokesbro popped up on the screen.

p.

Wheatgrass is good for you,

Of course its good for you!

It tastes like the pureed asshole of that guy you know that is so fucking fat he often wakes up with chicken fingers on his chest and eats them between apnea ridden periods of sleep in which the sound he makes is so frightening that you don't think you'll ever sleep again.

On top of that, the same fat motherfucking loaf of moldy shit is simutaneously getting royalty checks from some backwards faux-japanese knockoff horror movie that sampled the sound and freaked out a generation of tweens who are old enough to wanna fuck but not old enough to wanna drink beforehand so they spend their friday nights at the movies with little cocktease fucking 13 year old whores who just learned that their tits alone can get them a night out on the town, all expenses paid.

Thats why i understand why the stripjoint exists. Theres no ambiguity. No bullshitting around the bush. Its a simple transaction; "heres too much money, let me see your boobs and think you might wanna touch my leg."

Its very convenient for hustle/bustle type guys on the go.

But i'm not hustle/bustle. I'm not even bustle. Maybe because i was as much onto this bullshit at the age of 13 that i am at the age of 27 is why i always feel uncomfortable in the strip joint.

The only way i'd ever pay to see tits would involve eating pizza three times a day for a year while i sit around doing so with my shirt off. Eventually, i will realize how much money it cost me at the same time that i realize theres a pair of weird tits within my reach that will not object to my hands. Unfortunately, those tits would be mine.

Come to think of it...all that pizza kind of makes it sound worth it.

p,

Comfort v. Embarassment

I write to you, vacuous void that is the internet, because i have yet another poignant beef with some every day item that is oftentimes over looked (i've become so predictable).

This time the subject of my skewering happens to be the vinyl toilet seat. You know what i'm talking about. Your grandparents probably have one. You've definitely experienced many of them in your day, and probably have even noted its higher comfort level when compared to your regular, run-of-the-mill plastic joints.

I suppose it IS more comfortable, like a little cushion to make that early-morning-after-a-blurry-night-of-weird-drugs-and-drinking-anus-inverting-and-dipping-into-the-water-like-an-elephant-trunk-deposit a little bit more bearable. However, i have a serious issue with these seats, and i find that the increased comfort is not worth the hassle. Let me tell you why.

First off, ladies, you can go do something right now. Y'all is sitting all the time weather it be a number one, a number two, or a number 3 (don't ask). You're getting the full advantage of the softer vinyl commode. For the 50% of the world that is phallus-endowed however, its a different story. We have to put that shit up when we're standing to drain our main vein (terrible terribe euphemism, i know). Almost every time i have done this, the seat has fallen back down to its lowered position, interrupting the stream like and un-willing set of breasts to a girls gone wild super-soaker. This can make a mess, as much of the interruption can be strewn about the bathroom floor (not to be cleaned up anytime soon).

I know you're saying: "well hey, thats not so bad, why don't you just keep the seat down and try to aim a bit better". Well, i'll tell you. Its not that easy. I don't know why...it should be, but aiming that stream into the commode without touching the sides is comparable to removing the bread basket in a game of Operation. Red light, buzzer city. The problem lies in the fact that when a forceful (i have a strong prostate) stream of urine collides with these vinyl seats, it makes a pattering noise so loud that every single person in the house can hear it, and will know exactly what it is. The only option we're left with is sitting down, and frankly, thats not very emasculating.

So what to do? Hold the seat up with one hand, aiming with the other? Thats gonna throw the balance way off, and your floor is gonna get pissed on anyways. God knows i ain't leaving it down for y'all to hear how bad my eyesight and dick-eye coordination really is. The only option is to eliminate vinyl toilet seats (unless you live on the island of Lesbos, and no irresponsible dirtbag men will be using your lavatory). We need to start putting urinals in homes. Thus eliminating this entire rant from any weird relevance it may have. Its time.

p. (get it?)

STOP

Stop using the phrase 'rocket surgery'. You're not funny.

p.

I'm back.

i know it seems like a serious hip-hop thing to just up and say i'm peace-ing only to come back to whatever it was i was quitting in the first place. Well i do happen to be an MC (seriously: http://www.myspace.com/rustydarts) so go fuck yourself. Uh! One.

Anyways, while performing moderately back-straining light labour this past evening, i came to a realization. Any time something is invented, that is an improvement of an existing product or idea, the original one should be eradicated immediately.

For instance, i give you the classic dustpan:




Invented in whatever-hundred-and-who-gives-a-fuck, everyone is familiar with the dustpan. Anyone who has swept up after themselves at any point in their life has likely utilized one to the exact and direct purpose for which it was created. Its a very handy everyday item that serves a purpose and serves it moderately well. The problem i have is that somebody decided to invent a re-imagined dustpan of the not-so-distant-future:



They put an elongated handle on the regular dustpan, thus eliminating possible strain on the spine that could eventually lead to serious back problems later on in life (especially if you're one of those weirdo clean-freaks who sweeps their house 800 times a day to keep their mind of their failing marriage and inability to connect with their own children).

The human species is shaping and hindering the evolution of ourselves by not embracing its fundamental rules of natural selection. If we were talking about nature here, the regular dustpan would have came first, and evolved (through a series of mutations, and over a period of time not easily imaginable) an elongated stick handle, that would be CHOSEN over its outdated rival, due to its ease of use and virtually eliminated physical strain. But this is human nature. Human nature's version of "natural selection" or "survival of the fittest" is ass backwards because most households today still use the original style dustpan, even though it is obviously inferior and bad for your health. In fact, i don't believe i can even recall a common household that featured a handled dustpan.

We need to start acting and believing in the laws of the universe and the world (and richard dawkins' snooty and long-winded tirades). If we help the things we create to evolve on a similar, albeit much more expeditious level, pretty soon we'll all have some awesome fucking stuff. But no, people continue to use the shitty dustpan.

In summation...

Old dustpan - back injuries, more work, less ability to sweep, suicide over not being able to support your clean-freak addiction.

New dustpan - more practical, easy on the spine, keeps your weirdo OCD intact.

This is just an example...

p.