December 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 20

Merry Christmas, all.

I can finally utter those despicable words after a six-pack, and a bottle of wine.

Oh, and two days late, for those who didn't take note.

When I was a child, I used to look forward to Christmas. I remember the last three weeks venturing up to the holiday going so slow, it was if they were dragging behind them a trailer full of all of the snow that had been left upon the ground. I couldn't wake up in the morning without hoping and wishing that somehow or another, someone had jumped up-and-down on that gigantic fast-forward button that every other kid on planet Earth was unable to find.

I guess that's the beauty of being a child. The wondrous beauty of being completely oblivious as to everything that goes into planning a joyous Christmas occasion. After all, the only direction you have at that time is to tear open the gifts that have your name spelled out across the cute, Santa signed tag.

At what point in time did the holiday that was supposed to be the most beloved, become the most stressful, and feared?

You've gotta be kidding me? I thought I was coming home, to spend time with the people I hold dearest to my heart. Of course I would bring with me gifts for the "grandchildren," and hugs for Grandma and Grandpa? But, at what point in time did it become right for a 30 year-old's parent's to hound him/her about a Christmas list? I don't need anything.

Fuck commerce, and everything that has pushed Christmas into the simplistic holiday of gift-giving and buying. Has it really taken away our time that we get to spend with our families, and loved ones?

Cheers.

December 8th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 19

You've got be kidding me?

I had three dear friends get laid off today. These three individuals were three of the hardest working, most knowledge hungry people I've ever known. And I do know. I worked with all three of them during my career. 

Unfortunately, I can't lend my opinion to all three of their situations, however, two of them I can. I can because they were just released from a company I left a short time ago; a firm in which I know they continued to work for. 

These two particular individuals worked on accounts that I worked on. Accounts that I helped build. They regularly had clients screaming their names while bent over the conference room table, in excitement of what they were about to potentially do for their brand. These two weren't hacks. And they weren't "let go" because of their work ethic, experience, or their general demeanor. 

I can tell you why they were fired. 

They were fired because the principal wasn't at all attracted to either one of them. The interesting thing is, one was male, and the other, female. My ex-principal is one of the most shallow people I've ever met. He cares for nothing other than what he looks like. And his staff is representative of that. This was solidified in my mind today, when he fired two very qualified, and talented people, who have been in the business for 2-4 years, and kept one junior employee with five months experience. 

Why? The anonymity of this blog prohibits me from posting a picture of this woman's body. Let's just say even Chuck Norris felt a little pre-cum in his pants when he looked at her picture. 

Fuck you, ex-principal. Need I say more?

Oh, and I hope you read this.

Cheers.

November 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 18

In observance of today's wonderful holiday, I'm going to tell you all about the nicest drive-thru attendant on planet Earth. I met him yesterday.

As I pulled into the drive-thru of the Wendy's restaurant just down the street from my domicile, I expected what every American expects; a pimple-faced teenager stoned to the bejesus belt, who could care less about whether or not he/she gets my order correct.

This was not the case yesterday. After ordering my two 1/4 Double Stacks, with cheese, ketchup, mayonnaise and lettuce, he repeated my order back to me verbatim. I replied with a simple, "perfect." Much to my surprise, the "gentleman" fired back a, "thank you, I'll have your total at the window."

Dumbfounded, shocked and stunned, I shifted into first gear and pulled my car to the window where he was waiting. He shared with me the amount of money I owed the restaurant. After relinquishing the $2.19, he proceeded to inquire as to how my evening was going. 

"My evening is going well, thanks for asking," I replied. "And yours?"

"Can't complain," he said.  "It's the day before a wonderful holiday, and so I'm off early."

Our conversation continued for a brief moment, and as he handed me the bag containing my prized cheeseburgers, he bid me farewell by telling me to get home safe.

For those of you who weren't paying attention in the beginning of this post, I was in the drive-thru of a Wendy's. I wasn't at Ruth's Chris. This guy wasn't yanking my chain in an effort to increase the gratuity I was going to leave him. This was a genuine and sincere young man who seemingly cared how my well-being was at the time. 

And did I mention my order was cooked, and topped to perfection?

I'll reserve a fuck you for another time.

Thank you, Wendy's drive-thru attendant. Thank you for providing me with the hope that there are still a few good souls out there; individuals who care for their fellow humans.

Happy Thanksgiving, world, and as always;

Cheers.

November 24th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 17

Sometimes, I feel like I want to leave this place for good. No, no, not the Earth. I would have a harder time taking my own life, than the Denver police department would have figuring out who took Jon Benet's. I'm talking about this God awful city. This city can turn the most beautiful people into the fakest, greediest, and most self-absorbed schmucks. Something in the air causes people to care about two things; money, and how many red-lights they can run during their one-hour lunch break. The latter being a truly awesome phenomenon. 

In the four years that I have lived here on the face of the sun, I've seen three good friends come to inhabit this city, only to watch it suck every bit of decency out of their bodies. Three friends of mixed sex and race, who were once good, genuine, and caring people. Three people who have in one way or another, had a very positive affect on my life. Now, I sit back, and watch as they destroy themselves, their careers, and worst of all, their souls. I've watched this city suck the life-force right from their very being. Video tape an apricot sitting in a dehydrator for eight hours, put it into an editing suite, and apply a time-lapse filter to it. Then, watch it. You'll see a pretty good representation of what I am talking about.

But why? 

It is such a beautiful city. And the weather? Aside from the three months a year you dowse yourself in Gold Bond hoping to feel some sort of cool sensation, this place is paradise.

Who knows?! 

I've been trying to figure this out for quite some time now, and quite frankly, I've become exhausted while doing so. If anyone has any idea, please, help me out.

For now, I'll just chalk it up as fuck you number 17.

Fuck this city. Fuck you, Phoenix, Arizona, and your ability to lift your leg and piss on us all, like we're fire hydrants placed strategically among your busy streets.

Cheers. 

November 18th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 16

First and foremost, I would like to apologize for how long it has taken me in between posts as of late. I've been slacking, greatly. I am well aware of this, and for that, I apologize. I'll try not to let it happen again.

That being said, I will have you all know (the three of you who emailed me to tell me of my literary drought) that I HAVE been using my time wisely. Since my last post, I've consumed a quantity of whiskey known to be fatal to most Shetland ponies, and explored the seemingly uncharted territory between an anonymous beautiful blonde's legs. And I did it all while smoking enough cigarettes to bitch-slap the Marlboro man.

But enough about me. Now you know what I've been doing with my time in the last week, until this afternoon.

This afternoon I sat on hold with my cable company for an unacceptable amount of time. I don't recall the exact amount of time that I sat here on the phone, so I've devised a scheme that will assist us in deducing how much of my time I gave to, [Meatpoles] communications. 

Let us look at what we know. 

I spent way too much fucking time on hold today. 

We know that. How do we know that? I'll tell you how we know that.

We know that based on this simple equation (feel free to use it, it works): 

Time spent on hold is ≥ Number of times you wrap the duct-tape around your head securing your phone to your ear  X  Number of suicide attempts to end the conversation

There you have it. Simple as that. Try it out, I guarantee your outcome to be correct and accurate.

Fuck hold times. Fuck the complete and utter lack of customer service we have in our society today. 

Cheers.

November 10th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 15

What is the point of telling a person a little "white-lie?" Is there some sort of satisfaction that I'm apparently unaware of, for spreading these ridiculous, untrue tales? Is there a point to flat-out lying to someone? Maybe this is something I will never understand, but I feel like it is easier, and more beneficial to everyone to simply speak the truth.

As I was walking through the airport today en route back to my lovely (and when I say lovely, I really mean wretched) home, I overheard two gentlemen discussing the recent Monday night football game played between the Colts, and the Titans. As I scanned the electronic board of departures for my flight, I heard one man tell the other he was beating his Fantasy Football opponent 370-something, to 100, and that he still had to tally the points that Peyton Manning would inevitably score during this game.

False. And, false.

I've taken part in my fair share of Fantasy Football endeavors, across an array of different Fantasy Football providers. CBS Sportline, ESPN, Yahoo; they all work roughly the same. And for a person to score 370-something points in any given week, is an outright lie. Even if you were playing with a bunch of trained gorillas, who allowed you to stack your team with the Peyton Mannings, and the Larry Fitzgeralds, while they took Kerry Collins and Wayne Chrebet (does he even play any longer?), it would still take everything short of a miracle to score 370 points.

Sorry dude. Not buying it. And what did you get out of it? Your buddy looked at you and said, "No WAY!" So you received a minor erection for approximately 20 seconds, until he looked at you with that, "Wait a minute, I'm not that stupid, you're out of your fucking mind look."

Fuck dishonesty. Fuck the compulsion to feel like you need to fill others with crap, in order for you to feel a little better about your current situation.

Cheers.

November 4th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 14

Last night after watching Two and a Half Men, I was reading through the art card at the end of the program provided by my main man, Chuck Lorre. For those of you who are without a Tivo-like digital television recorder, I highly suggest acquiring one, or at least visiting the man's thoughts here...Chuck Lorre's Vanity Cards

Last night's was absolutely priceless.

Some people say there's no god. I disagree. I think there're actually four gods: The god of money, the god of medicine, the god of war and the god of technology. Like it or not, these are the gods that rock our world. I mean, when stuff goes seriously wrong who do you call? Your priest or your lawyer? Your rabbi or your doctor? Your minister or a cop? Your monk or the smug little geek who set up your home entertainment system? But while the gods of tech, medicine, guns and money give us the illusion of being safe, they don't give our lives meaning. For that we need other gods. And who are these other gods? Well, look around. They're sports stars, movie stars, rock stars, the occasional political and business figures, cute chicks who become princesses, and rich chicks who don't seem to require food. These are the deities who connect us with our abandoned inner selves. Their joy is our joy, their suffering is our suffering. We love and fear them, and occasionally crucify them. 

Thank you for that Chuck. Thank you.

Cheers.

October 31st, 2008 - Fuck You Number 13

First and foremost, Happy Halloween all.

Now, for the matter at hand.

I was reading over my cellphone plan yesterday, and I saw that I spend $20 a month for the capability to send an unlimited number of text messages. Really?

One more time.

Unlimited texting capabilities. What the hell is wrong with me? Do you know what that phrase means? It means, that from here on out, if I never want to speak to another human being over the phone, I don't have to.

This is absolutely unacceptable.

I have essentially become what I ultimately hate about our society. I've become too lazy to pick up a telephone and dial seven, or Christ help me, ten digits. I have come to a point where I will send, "I love you," to my sister on the other line. Really? I've resulted to sending short, concise, and often unintelligent sentences and thoughts. I've become a part of this rapidly declining roller-coaster plummeting toward the fiery depths of hell. When I get to the point of writing, "LOL," or worse yet, "LMAO," shoot me.

Why do we text? Why do we subject ourselves to such incredibly impersonal forms of communication? I can understand the concept of an email. I can write as little, or as much as my little heart desires. Hell, I can even attach other messages and letters to it, if I so choose.

But texting. Wow. What a terribly disrespectful way to communicate. In so many words, we're telling the recipient of the text message, that they're not important enough to call.

Fuck text messaging. Fuck the fact I am allowed to write more than a simple, "yes, or no" in this ridiculous form of communication.

Cheers.

October 28th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 12

Okay, so, please read my previous post. Let's get it clear people. You have to READ the post. You have to understand the words in the context of the sentence they are used in.

For example, if I was to say, "I love this thing, more than life itself," I'm not really suggesting that I love the object in question here more than life itself. That, would be absurd. Life, even in a society characterized by capitalistic schmucks, is better than not-life.

Read into it people. It's the clothing. A metaphor, if you will. I speak of the way we've all begun to take less respect in our appearance. Largely in part to our laziness. There once was a time when we as a society would wear our Sunday's finest out to Wrigley Field to consume hot-dogs, while watching America's finest baseball team lay pine-to-leather in America's most famed ballpark. 

The point is, care for your appearance. Some people can pull the "hipster" look off, because they live the lifestyle, and simply look cool doing it. Shit, Axl Rose wore leather every day of the week...I'm guessing those that followed in his footsteps aren't sitting in on any, "board of directors" meetings. For the rest, dress in a way that's gonna allow you to interact with others on a more personal level. Whatever garb you decide to throw over your head, make sure it's fitting, and it makes you feel comfortable. You'll feel better about yourself, which in turn will allow our society to grow.

After all America, that's my only purpose to composing these posts, to facilitate America's positive growth.

Fuck those people who try to find something to complain about (whoops, kinda me). Seriously, read through it, and try to find the underlying meaning of things. You'll learn more.

Cheers.

October 27th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 11

I sit here in Denver, Colorado. A beautiful city, indeed. So beautiful, it's hard for me to find something to gripe about.

But, fear not, I might have something. What's with the new "hipster" thing? Am I getting this old? I don't know when it became the "in" thing to paint on your jeans, find the oldest pair of Chuck Taylors, and comb your slicked-black hair down in front of your eyes so no one can recognize you. Honestly, this is "cool" now? Our forefathers would be infuriated. 

I don't think a person could look any less respectable. 

Now, I'm not discrediting these individuals as humans. I'm sure that there are quite a few personable, and good-natured persons beneath all of that rubbish, but I wouldn't know, as I'm immediately turned-off by their bizarre appearances. 

I suck. I know. And I might be a little judgmental. 

Sue me.

Fuck hipster dress. Fuck the fact that looking like you're off to a funeral for Glenn Danzig is seemingly cool in the eyes of our ever-failing society.

Cheers.

October 26th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 10

When someone holds a door open for your as you're rushing into the convenience store to get that much needed Diet Coke, do you take note of it? When you're standing in line at the grocery store and the woman standing in front of you lets you checkout first because you are only buying a roll of paper towels, do you see this and thank her? When someone does something out of the ordinary, do you say to yourself, "Wow, that doesn't happen everyday?" More importantly, do YOU do any of these things for others? Do you go out of your way to brighten someone's day, if even for a moment? When was the last time you held the elevator door open for the person jogging through the lobby, even though you were late for work?

These little things don't happen all that often. They're becoming somewhat of a rarity. It's too bad too, because it is these little things we're missing out on everyday, that help our society flourish. It is these small acts of kindness that make people realize that despite the wars throughout the world, and the crime riddled neighborhoods we drive through, humans are still good. We are still here to make this world better.

It is these little acts of kindness that we need to bring back to this world. These unselfish, pure, and genuine acts that let the person next to you know you're aware of the fact that there are other humans you share this planet with.

That's the word. Sharing. Something we're taught at a very young age. Share, America. Share the world with one another.

Fuck selfishness. Fuck this perpetual need to want anything and everything that you see.

Cheers.

October 24th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 9

As I sit here in the airport waiting to board my flight to lovely Denver, Colorado, I look around and notice our society in one of it's most splendid presentations. This place is one of the last places on planet Earth where you can see humans treating their fellow humans with love and benevolence. You can still see the independence and individuality of each unique person, yet a beautiful harmony still exists among the scurrying travelers.

Next time you're in the airport, take note of the hugs and kisses for and from our loved ones as we enter and exit the terminals. Try to recall the smiles and sparkling eyes from each airport employee you come into contact with. It will happen. You'll see it.

It's amazing.

Today I won't say fuck you, as I'm actually witnessing something I approve of, and appreciate.

Today, I will say, "good work, society."

Cheers.

October 21st, 2008 - Fuck You Number 7

What gives?

This morning on my way into the office, I approached a traffic light that was green, giving ME the right of way. I noticed that there were cars in the lanes adjacent to me slowing down, so I copied their actions, and began to apply pressure to the pedal on the left. As I nearly came to a stop, I emerged from the cars on each side of me, and I saw the obstruction that was prohibiting traffic from moving in the direction in which it should have been. A silver Prius sat in the middle of the intersection waiting to turn left. His light was red. He’d been sitting there as I drove up to the light, for at least 30 seconds, while multiple cars made their feelings known to him. Once all of the traffic in the intersection had come to a halt, this almighty man made a left hand turn into my lane.

I looked to my left and right and saw my fellow drivers shaking their heads erratically, some of them pumping their fists in the air and screaming obscenities behind the glass windows of their vehicles. One thing was for certain; from here on out, I was going to be driving amidst a sea of extremely pissed-off motorists.

Sure enough, as I flipped on my blinker to signal to the drivers behind me that I would be merging into the lane on my right, I was greeted by the middle-finger of the driver behind me. What a lovely man. As I nudged my Mazda across the white line separating the two lanes, the driver behind me veered into the left lane and immediately applied the weight of a thousand men onto his accelerator. He was apparently extremely inconvenienced by my vehicle's necessity to occupy the lane from which I’d be turning in a few short moments. I received yet another friendly gesture coupled with the blaring of his horn as he sped by me.

Fuck road-rage. Fuck that fat son-of-a-bitch in the white Escalade whose day was seemingly ruined when he had to unexpectedly stop at a light which was instructing him he could move forward.

Cheers

October 18th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 6

I have a younger sister, 26 years-old. She's a beautiful woman. Smart too. She has everything going for her. But for some reason, she is more interested in Brangelina than the upcoming presidential election. She would rather know where Lindsay Lohan was last seen belligerently flailing about, than where our current economic situation is heading. 

I blame the three publications she receives on a regular basis, People, US Weekly, and InTouch. In the name of everything that is holy, why are we still wasting our natural resources printing these god-awful journals. 

Seriously.

Has there ever been one intelligent thought put into these three "should be used for toilet paper" publications? Honestly, occasionally People will publish a semi-compelling story about a woman who lost 60 pounds after she overcame her urge to uncontrollably shove hotdogs in her mouth. But, is it newsworthy? Is any of the ink on the pages in InTouch newsworthy? US Weekly has a section called, Just Like Us. This section is dedicated to showing celebrities in "real world" situations, like Macaulay Culkin walking his dog down a busy Melrose street. Or Nelly Furtado eating ice-cream. 

Holy shit. Stop the press. Literally. Nelly Furtado eats ice-cream? You've got to be kidding me? She's like, a star, or something. She, like, couldn't eat ice-cream.

Fuck celebrity tabloids. Fuck the editors of these magazines for pounding this inconsequential information into our brains.

Cheers.

October 17th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 5

I hope during your lifetime you find it in you to better yourself physically, and preferably sooner, than later. Head out to the nearest mountain and go on a hike, or jump on your bike with your dog and give the poor mutt a good run, while you yourself get some well-deserved cardio. Whatever you decide to do, do it. We're becoming rather pathetic, America. 

Look up and down our streets. Look at the coworker sitting at the desk ten feet to your left. Look at the children walking through the mall with their mother or father; or better yet (and God forbid in today's society), mother AND father. What do you see? Correct. You see that society I spoke of in a recent post. A society plagued by Burger Kings, BlackBerries, and the internet (I still can't wait to get to this one).

You see twelve year-olds, who instead of coming home with a knee that could use a good spritz of hydrogen-peroxide, come walking through the door with a PSP in one hand, a cell-phone in the other, and a chocolate-covered, Krispy Kreme long-john hanging from their mouth by a strand of creme-filling. And hell, its not only the twelve year-olds. Yesterday at lunch I watched my 19 year-old daughter's boyfriend eat enough food, to feed the entire population that actually find relevant information within Sarah Palin's speeches.

Growing boy my ass.

Seriously, I'm not here to tell you to head to the gym and begin throwing around iron, like Hulk Hogan throws around the word, "brother." And I'm not insisting that you find your nearest YMCA pool and try to achieve "Calista Flockhart skinniness." Just get some blood flowing here and there. 

Oh, and just to clarify one thing, I'm talking about obesity. Not the Alec Baldwin gut, or the Beyonce thighs...and ladies, come on, they're big. I'm talking about Gilbert Grape's mom type shit. 

  

And yep, that shit.

Fuck obesity. Fuck the gadgets and ideas society continues to promote to provoke laziness.

Cheers.

October 15th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 4

I have a friend...wait, no, let's call them an acquaintance. We don't regularly see each other. In fact, the only time we really communicate is via IM or email while we're both sitting in front of these so-called technological devices that have turned into nothing more than four-figure masturbation assistants. Though somewhat convenient, I'll touch upon my extreme disdain for the personal computer in a future post. At any rate, I digress. The main purpose of this first paragraph is to illustrate the importance (or lack thereof) of the relationship between my acquaintance and I. [Pat] and I went to the same university. We both majored in information technology. And believe it or not, we both (separately) at one point in time shared bodily fluids with the same person. We have similar interests, and in all honesty if I needed something, Pat would probably be there for me. So why does Pat feel the constant urge to be perceived as better than everyone? Why after being told of a recent success in the workplace does Pat find the need to inform me of a success of equal or greater magnitude? 

It’s simple.

Pat is what I like to call, a big-timer. You know them. We all know them. Big-timers make up a part of the world’s population that I try my hardest to avoid. I fear that if put in a situation where I am being big-timed by one of these lowlife individuals, the probability of someone’s fist being put through the back of someone else’s face is very, very high. 

And I would have done just this, if our method of communication hadn't been over the information super-highway. Why couldn't Pat have just given me an old-fashioned, "Congratulations."

Fuck big-timers. Fuck those participants in our society who tear us down, just to build themselves up.

Cheers.

October 10th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 3

In a world plagued by Burger Kings, Blackberries, and the internet, it is no wonder at all we are becoming increasingly intolerant of wait lines; apparently wherever we come into contact with them. Sometimes, they're a line at the grocery store. Sometimes, you will encounter them when on the phone. And every-so-often, a wait line will present itself in the form of a little old lady wheeling herself across the street while you are waiting to make a left-hand turn.

Recently I was standing on the balcony of my downtown condominium with a high-ball of Crown Royal in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other. There was a slight chill to the air as I inhaled, and the moon had begun to peek out from behind a neighboring building, like the nipples of a braless woman in a meat locker. As I peered down onto the street from above, I noticed an elderly woman staring at the illuminated red hand instructing her that it was not her time to cross. Right then, it flipped to the glowing white man, and she began to push her wheelchair and herself through the river of asphalt. She worked those wheels, diligently, and with great haste. It was obvious that despite her age, she was alert enough to recognize she had a limited amount of time to reach the curb on the other side.

Approximately halfway through her journey, I heard the sound of a car horn. A tremor shot through the woman, nearly paralyzing her with fear. I looked fifteen feet to her immediate right, and there sat a Mexican man, maybe thirty-something, in his shimmering black SUV waiting to turn into the lane presently occupied by the woman and her chair. The sound of the horn stopped, and the man began yelling at the woman, like an officer trying to project his voice over the top of gun-fire, and hand grenades. Screaming at her to increase her speed.

I was appalled. 

Fuck you, impatience. Fuck feeling like you have to have anything and everything, whenever, and wherever you want it.

Cheers.

October 9th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 2

I was sitting at a stop-light yesterday on my lunch break. The new album from the Cool Kids echoed the words, "I, I, I'm Mikey, I, I, I rock this," and the half-cracked window let escape the smoke from the cigarette I was sucking on like a whore giving a blow-job. I looked across the intersection through the traffic, and I swear to you I saw Honesty and Integrity strolling out of a Starbucks. 

Impossible. 

They were seemingly banished from society several, several years ago. If memory serves, the last time I ran into them was when I was slipping out of my mom's uterus covered in my own after-birth and fecal matter. Now, I'd be lying to you if I told you I remember how enamored my mother and father were at this moment in time, but I know my parents; I'd bet you their faces were filled with more trust and real love, than Mother Teresa's ever was. I'd also bet that too was the last time you saw Honesty and Integrity.

What happened to doing what you said you were going to do? Where is the person who would tell you what was on their mind knowing very well it might not be what you want to hear? Why are we unable to give without expecting something in return? What a conniving and disrespectful ball of water and rock we're turning into.

We've become an army of ants stopping at nothing to reach the top, and the queen. We step on one another in the halls of high-rises. We lie to one another in the rooms of hospitals. We publicly humiliate [willing] human beings on the extravagant Hollywood stages of inexplicable reality-television shows. We do all this, for our own enjoyment and monetary gain. All to get an extra buck, because we've been shown happiness is directly correlated to the number of zeros in the far right column of our checkbook registry. 

Can all of this distress and all of this pain and all of this deceitful behavior be attributed to money? Why can't we treat each other with the dignity and respect we all deserve as people? 

Fuck you, greed. Fuck the voice that has been placed in our minds telling us we'll be happier if we can only get more of that proverbial, "cheddar". 

Cheers.

October 8th, 2008 - Fuck You Number 1

It's no secret the human race is hurling downhill faster than an overweight twelve-year-old on a toboggan, drooling butter out of the corner of his mouth. I'm one to talk. I work for an advertising agency in one of the three Southernmost states in the good old USA. My job is somewhat unethical, immoral, and downright despicable; but enjoyable nonetheless. My sole duty is to perpetuate peoples' false wants and needs. 

For instance, just yesterday I paced back-and-forth at the front of a conference room convincing the CEO of a major ice cream company the demographic they're trying to capture is a 27 year-old female. That might be true if that female I had portrayed was a hefty broad scraping by on her food stamps. Instead, I used a pampered and primped blonde with fake tits, who just finished performing cunnilingus on an Asian woman for giving her what she thought was the "Sistine Chapel" of pedicures. You know her, the woman who injects substances into her brow for that extra boost of confidence.

There's something wrong in that second paragraph? Many would think the language used to describe the plastic blonde's act of burying her face in between the nail technician's legs to be inappropriate. Others would argue I was wrong in tricking this corporate big-wig into believing these women shoving their fingers down each others' throats would actually indulge in these delicious 2,000 calorie treats. No, no. The major concern at hand here is the image we as a society have ingrained in our minds as being right. In this case, the woman who feels a $100 debit transaction to have her nails painted pink will somehow help how the public views her.

The diets. The surgeries. The air-brushed centerfold. The tabloid photograph that praises Nicole Richie for looking like a piece of Barilla angel hair ready to be dropped into a pot of boiling water. It's repulsive. Someone let these women know they're beautiful. Someone let all humans know they are beautiful.

Fuck you, insecurities. Fuck these irrational and unrealistic portraits society has painted in our minds. 

And thus begins my 365 day rant directed toward the character flaws society has provided us to help destroy each other.

Cheers.