28 October 2007
24 October 2007
Not a Kitty, but a ...
While discussing Act II Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, I referred to Romeo as “a pussy.” This upset a woman in my class, and she told me so during our break. She began to tell me all about the strengths of the pussy and how I was wrong to use it like I did, and that I was degrading women.
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
23 October 2007
Worst. Hero. Ever.
I have the lamest superpower. Well, maybe not the lamest. I'm not Squirrel Girl, after all. But my power sucks, nonetheless.
I have the ability to subconsciously detect and woo virgin women. This power can extend to women who have never been in a "serious" relationship before, but it mostly applies to physical virginity. We date, fall in love, take care of business, and then she leaves me.
My hero name could be StarterMan, the guy you use to get ready for the real world. Or the Deflowerer, but that doesn't roll off the tongue very well.
Seriously, how many folks do you know that have a 70% virgin-non virgin ratio? I found two over 24. It's gotten to the point where if I find someone cute and interesting, chances are that there's a hymen involved.
It's like I have a V-Chip, but not the device Republicans and lazy parents love.
Is there a BBS or chatroom, a bathroom stall maybe, out there with my face and contact info, saying, "For a first time, call..."?
I would have no problem with having this power if only the stereotype that I had believed in for so long was true. It is the one about how a woman wants to marry the guy she first falls in love and has sex with. Clearly, looking at my track record, it only happens once in seven tries. And she still leaves.
Sweet Jesus, I don't want to find out if it's one in eight. Or nine. If I get to ten, I'm becoming a priest.
-Zeepdoggie
Yes, they really did come up with Squirrel Girl. My faith in comics is more often challenged than my faith in God.
-Z.
I have the ability to subconsciously detect and woo virgin women. This power can extend to women who have never been in a "serious" relationship before, but it mostly applies to physical virginity. We date, fall in love, take care of business, and then she leaves me.
My hero name could be StarterMan, the guy you use to get ready for the real world. Or the Deflowerer, but that doesn't roll off the tongue very well.
Seriously, how many folks do you know that have a 70% virgin-non virgin ratio? I found two over 24. It's gotten to the point where if I find someone cute and interesting, chances are that there's a hymen involved.
It's like I have a V-Chip, but not the device Republicans and lazy parents love.
Is there a BBS or chatroom, a bathroom stall maybe, out there with my face and contact info, saying, "For a first time, call..."?
I would have no problem with having this power if only the stereotype that I had believed in for so long was true. It is the one about how a woman wants to marry the guy she first falls in love and has sex with. Clearly, looking at my track record, it only happens once in seven tries. And she still leaves.
Sweet Jesus, I don't want to find out if it's one in eight. Or nine. If I get to ten, I'm becoming a priest.
-Zeepdoggie
Yes, they really did come up with Squirrel Girl. My faith in comics is more often challenged than my faith in God.
-Z.
14 October 2007
Cheers, Geeks!
A few random tidbits while out at the bar with several of my classmates:
“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”
B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”
B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”
“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”
Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”
We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.
-Zeepdoggie
“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”
B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”
B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”
“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”
Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”
We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.
-Zeepdoggie
13 October 2007
Breaking 1 and 2
One month ago, I was in bad shape. The world was looking more than usually fucked up. I had no place in it, I had no love for it; I was seriously considering if I should even be in it. All the things that I loved and enjoyed, like writing and school, were turning from deep and challenging to hollow and difficult. I didn’t know who to talk to about it, so I kept my mouth shut about it.
To get out of this funk, I got a new job. It’s a great job, and I love it. I work with really cool, diverse people who I can see becoming my friends; the work itself is autistic-monkey easy; and I am finally interacting with the public in a way that that is not inrusive or rude, like in Hell. A great change happening at a great time.
But it wasn’t enough. I was still off.
Then I got punched.
I was at Lizzie McNeil’s, an Irish pub on the River, and I was hanging with a few of my new co-workers and friends of theirs. I had come initially because it was my first invite to an after-work thing, and I was excited to participate. I was also going because a woman I met on the boats asked what I was doing that night, and said she would meet me there. Smiles all around!
At the pub there is a birthday celebration going on. As per standard, I buy the birthday boy a drink and wish him many happy returns. He is gleeful and gives me a hug. He is very, very drunk.
I have my one drink, and decide to see what is on the jukebox. Since I have only four drinks a month, I have more money to spend on jukeboxes at bars, which is a benefit that I did not expect but enjoy greatly. The juke’s got the new Dropkick Murphy’s album (at this time, it was “The Warrior’s Code”), which I had not heard but wanted to. If you don’t know about the Murphys, you should. Boston Irish Celtic Punk; what could go wrong? So I select three songs, and wait for the wonderful noise.
The second song has barely begun before Birthday Boy screams, “What is that shit?” I yell back, “It’s the Dropkick Murphys!” And he says, “That music fuckin’ sucks, man!” And I say, “Well, it’s punk, so it’ll be over in two minutes. You got two minutes worth of ‘ignore the music’ in you, don’tcha?” He rumbles for five more minutes (three minutes after the songs are over, by the by) about how punk and Irish music both suck. Guess he didn’t read the signs on the walls, above the door, or in the bathroom. I ignore him and enjoy my tunes.
Three hours later, as I am talking to the woman who I spoke to on the boat (totally gonna nail her, it was obvious to everybody there), I see one of my coworkers arguing with Birthday Boy. Another coworker and I go over to break it up. It turns out that Birthday Boy was insulted by the way my buddy wanted to shake his hand, and called him a faggot and an idiot. So I said, “Look pal, clearly the party is over for you and us. So we’ll just go to our corner of the bar, you go to your corner, and never shall our paths meet, okay?” He looks at me in the eyes (by the way he was staring, I must’ve had, like, twenty-three of them) and yells, “Fuck you and your stupid fuckin’ Irish music!” drunk finger providing syllabic punctuation all the way. I say, “Dude, do you even know where you are right now? For your sake, I’d shut up with the Irish bashing.” As I turn away, it happens. Thank God for it.
He punches me in the back of my head.
If you have never been hit, allow me to let you in on a secret; it feels like the shittiest day you’ve ever had. All the rainy days you’ve been dumped just after getting fired from your job have nothing on getting punched. It really, really sucks.
But then, the cobwebs clear, and that euphoria you feel about that day being over and GODDAMMIT YOU ARE STILL HERE! just charges right through you, and it makes you more alive than you ever felt before, including the best fucking of your entire life.
I turn and punch him, and he falls just like a sack of shit should.
Of course, the bouncer grabs me and takes me outside. I don’t resist, I just go. We get outside, and I say, “I’m sorry, but he hit me twice. I know I shouldn’t have hit him back. If you have to call the cops, I understand. I f you want me to go, just let me go inside and get my stuff and say goodbye to my people.” The bouncer looks at me and says, “Dude, don’t worry. We got you out here so we can mop up that sloppy fuck and get him out of there. You can go back in as soon as he leaves.”
The second bouncer comes outside and says that the guy is out cold, and his buddies are saying that I hit him in the face. I am not bragging at this point, because it is nothing to brag about. What follows is a statement of fact and nothing more: I have hit a lot of faces. Punching a face has a distinctive feel to it, like how you can tell corduroy from velvet. It didn’t feel like a face when I hit him; felt more like a neck or upper chest.
The bouncers get the guy and his friends out of the bar, and let me back in. A cute waitress is wiping up his blood. Maybe I did hit him in the face. So I go and wipe up the rest. Hey it’s my mess.
They called me “Drop Punch Murphy” for the rest of the night. And that woman did totally want to sleep with me, but she had a big ring on her left third finger, and Zeepdoggie doesn’t wreck a home unless he lives in it, so I put her in a cab and sent her to her hotel.
But not getting laid didn’t even register. I got in a fight.
I got in a fight.
-Zeepdoggie
To get out of this funk, I got a new job. It’s a great job, and I love it. I work with really cool, diverse people who I can see becoming my friends; the work itself is autistic-monkey easy; and I am finally interacting with the public in a way that that is not inrusive or rude, like in Hell. A great change happening at a great time.
But it wasn’t enough. I was still off.
Then I got punched.
I was at Lizzie McNeil’s, an Irish pub on the River, and I was hanging with a few of my new co-workers and friends of theirs. I had come initially because it was my first invite to an after-work thing, and I was excited to participate. I was also going because a woman I met on the boats asked what I was doing that night, and said she would meet me there. Smiles all around!
At the pub there is a birthday celebration going on. As per standard, I buy the birthday boy a drink and wish him many happy returns. He is gleeful and gives me a hug. He is very, very drunk.
I have my one drink, and decide to see what is on the jukebox. Since I have only four drinks a month, I have more money to spend on jukeboxes at bars, which is a benefit that I did not expect but enjoy greatly. The juke’s got the new Dropkick Murphy’s album (at this time, it was “The Warrior’s Code”), which I had not heard but wanted to. If you don’t know about the Murphys, you should. Boston Irish Celtic Punk; what could go wrong? So I select three songs, and wait for the wonderful noise.
The second song has barely begun before Birthday Boy screams, “What is that shit?” I yell back, “It’s the Dropkick Murphys!” And he says, “That music fuckin’ sucks, man!” And I say, “Well, it’s punk, so it’ll be over in two minutes. You got two minutes worth of ‘ignore the music’ in you, don’tcha?” He rumbles for five more minutes (three minutes after the songs are over, by the by) about how punk and Irish music both suck. Guess he didn’t read the signs on the walls, above the door, or in the bathroom. I ignore him and enjoy my tunes.
Three hours later, as I am talking to the woman who I spoke to on the boat (totally gonna nail her, it was obvious to everybody there), I see one of my coworkers arguing with Birthday Boy. Another coworker and I go over to break it up. It turns out that Birthday Boy was insulted by the way my buddy wanted to shake his hand, and called him a faggot and an idiot. So I said, “Look pal, clearly the party is over for you and us. So we’ll just go to our corner of the bar, you go to your corner, and never shall our paths meet, okay?” He looks at me in the eyes (by the way he was staring, I must’ve had, like, twenty-three of them) and yells, “Fuck you and your stupid fuckin’ Irish music!” drunk finger providing syllabic punctuation all the way. I say, “Dude, do you even know where you are right now? For your sake, I’d shut up with the Irish bashing.” As I turn away, it happens. Thank God for it.
He punches me in the back of my head.
If you have never been hit, allow me to let you in on a secret; it feels like the shittiest day you’ve ever had. All the rainy days you’ve been dumped just after getting fired from your job have nothing on getting punched. It really, really sucks.
But then, the cobwebs clear, and that euphoria you feel about that day being over and GODDAMMIT YOU ARE STILL HERE! just charges right through you, and it makes you more alive than you ever felt before, including the best fucking of your entire life.
I turn and punch him, and he falls just like a sack of shit should.
Of course, the bouncer grabs me and takes me outside. I don’t resist, I just go. We get outside, and I say, “I’m sorry, but he hit me twice. I know I shouldn’t have hit him back. If you have to call the cops, I understand. I f you want me to go, just let me go inside and get my stuff and say goodbye to my people.” The bouncer looks at me and says, “Dude, don’t worry. We got you out here so we can mop up that sloppy fuck and get him out of there. You can go back in as soon as he leaves.”
The second bouncer comes outside and says that the guy is out cold, and his buddies are saying that I hit him in the face. I am not bragging at this point, because it is nothing to brag about. What follows is a statement of fact and nothing more: I have hit a lot of faces. Punching a face has a distinctive feel to it, like how you can tell corduroy from velvet. It didn’t feel like a face when I hit him; felt more like a neck or upper chest.
The bouncers get the guy and his friends out of the bar, and let me back in. A cute waitress is wiping up his blood. Maybe I did hit him in the face. So I go and wipe up the rest. Hey it’s my mess.
They called me “Drop Punch Murphy” for the rest of the night. And that woman did totally want to sleep with me, but she had a big ring on her left third finger, and Zeepdoggie doesn’t wreck a home unless he lives in it, so I put her in a cab and sent her to her hotel.
But not getting laid didn’t even register. I got in a fight.
I got in a fight.
-Zeepdoggie
06 October 2007
Tidbits
Hey everybody! I have a few quick bites about what is in store for you, my loyal readers, in the coming days.
Peace and chicken grease,
-Zeepdoggie
- Future art teachers have no idea how many classes they have to teach in a day in high school. Zeepdoggie's prediction: none.
- Two future teachers did not know that FDR was crippled; one of them will be teaching history. Most of the students in this class I am enrolled in did not know how long FDR was in office.
- When did 'diverse classrooms' come to mean 'no white kids?'
- Something I did not really know until Thursday: for the current crop of 18-22 year-olds, it is very dangerous and frightening to have a strong opinion about anything.
- Remember that line in "Fight Club," where Ed says that it's really hard to start a fight with a total stranger?
Peace and chicken grease,
-Zeepdoggie
02 October 2007
Update
A huge entry from The GringO is on the way. Seriously, it's worth the wait. Until then, enjoy his special, homey rage brought to you by alcohol and bureaucracy.
MGMT.
Monday I encountered one of the most ridiculous policies ever. EVER.
It was Crippy's birthday and we stopped at a liquor store to buy some Jack and diet coke (gotta watch the figure right?). Due to my general level of poverty I don't usually provide all of the booze for occasions, so when I get to its kind of a big deal. I grabbed my liquid refreshments and stepped up to the counter, and this gem of an exchange ensued:
Liquor Lady: "Could I see some I.D. please?"
Me: "Of course." I pull out my wallet with my state identification card in a laminated sleeve.
Liquor Lady: "I need a license please."
Me: I raise my right eyebrow and lower the left and say "...so, you need to see it outside of the wallet?"
Liquor Lady: "No I need an actual driver's license not a State I.D."
Me: "What?"
Liquor Lady: "Its on these little signs right here..." as she points to a 5"x3" card at the register.
Me: "But I'm 21. Actually, I'm 23 so...."
Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to you unless you have a license."
Me: "So I guess I'll just get my friend out of his car to buy it then."
Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to either of you because you both have to have a license."
Me: "Wait, so, I can't buy alcohol unless I can drive?"
Liquor Lady: "Uh...."
Me: "Well great, so you basically want me to drink and drive, nice." I walked away.
Liquor Lady: "I don't encourage drinking and driving...."
End scene
So I may come off a little prickish, a little short in the temper, but that is why I mentioned my rare opportunity for buying drinks. It is important to me. Then I sat there feeling embarrassed and stupid because I couldn't buy drinks. The thing is that in my mind if you have a valid photo I.D. proving you are of age, why does it matter if it is a driver's license or not? I really do think it is extremely idiotic that you can't buy alcohol there unless you can drive away with it. Its like saying you can't buy bullets unless you have a gun...or...yeah.
Maybe I should just get a license, but I'd have to go to the damned Thompson Center downtown and wait in line to take the written test and get my photo taken and I generally have other things I would rather do on my day off. Like staple my fingers together, shave with broken glass, eat rancid milk (you know, because its moved to a chewable form after a while) or smear myself in honey and kick grizzly bears in the nuts.
::The GringO::
MGMT.
Monday I encountered one of the most ridiculous policies ever. EVER.
It was Crippy's birthday and we stopped at a liquor store to buy some Jack and diet coke (gotta watch the figure right?). Due to my general level of poverty I don't usually provide all of the booze for occasions, so when I get to its kind of a big deal. I grabbed my liquid refreshments and stepped up to the counter, and this gem of an exchange ensued:
Liquor Lady: "Could I see some I.D. please?"
Me: "Of course." I pull out my wallet with my state identification card in a laminated sleeve.
Liquor Lady: "I need a license please."
Me: I raise my right eyebrow and lower the left and say "...so, you need to see it outside of the wallet?"
Liquor Lady: "No I need an actual driver's license not a State I.D."
Me: "What?"
Liquor Lady: "Its on these little signs right here..." as she points to a 5"x3" card at the register.
Me: "But I'm 21. Actually, I'm 23 so...."
Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to you unless you have a license."
Me: "So I guess I'll just get my friend out of his car to buy it then."
Liquor Lady: "I can't sell to either of you because you both have to have a license."
Me: "Wait, so, I can't buy alcohol unless I can drive?"
Liquor Lady: "Uh...."
Me: "Well great, so you basically want me to drink and drive, nice." I walked away.
Liquor Lady: "I don't encourage drinking and driving...."
End scene
So I may come off a little prickish, a little short in the temper, but that is why I mentioned my rare opportunity for buying drinks. It is important to me. Then I sat there feeling embarrassed and stupid because I couldn't buy drinks. The thing is that in my mind if you have a valid photo I.D. proving you are of age, why does it matter if it is a driver's license or not? I really do think it is extremely idiotic that you can't buy alcohol there unless you can drive away with it. Its like saying you can't buy bullets unless you have a gun...or...yeah.
Maybe I should just get a license, but I'd have to go to the damned Thompson Center downtown and wait in line to take the written test and get my photo taken and I generally have other things I would rather do on my day off. Like staple my fingers together, shave with broken glass, eat rancid milk (you know, because its moved to a chewable form after a while) or smear myself in honey and kick grizzly bears in the nuts.
::The GringO::
01 October 2007
Today, and how it was...
...bad:
-Zeepdoggie
- I was awakened by another phone call for the student Steven Durell from his concerned schoolmasters; so concerned are they that they refuse to change the contact number for young Mr. Durell, who I can tell has a bright future in being a total drain on society, despite my repeated calls to inform them of the faulty intelligence. Perhaps the faulty intelligence is not with the information, but with those who utilize said information. Seriously, if anyone knows this taint's parents, let them know that he is not attending any classes, and that I think that is probably in his teachers' best interests. Get that boy a shirt with his name on it, cuz he's gonna need it.
- I got a letter saying I will not be receiving one of my grants, since the school lost my online FAFSA application, forcing me to reapply, making me ineligible due to the time constraints of funding the grant.
- I had to disclose to my professor why my placement at Clemente for observations would be a bad thing. Nothing like telling your professor that you feel that you couldn’t get any kind of work done knowing that at any moment you might just bump into the last woman you loved, and are probably still not totally over.
- My rent got raised after a two-hour long conversation with my landlord that got pretty heated pretty quickly, and didn’t die down until I was able to convince him that, should he raise the rent I may just die of malnourishment. After the scurvy incident, it’s a pretty fair card to play.
- I headed to UIC to print up class material, and the printers in the main lab for the East campus still cannot print from any one of the twelve Macs on the floor. The IT dude tells me I should use a PC. I yell, “Don’t tell me what to do, Poindexter! I don’t want to use a fucking PC, I want to use a Mac! There have been problems with the fucking Macs since the beginning of the fucking semester! What the fuck good does it do to have all of you fucking nerds working here if you can’t get even one of these fucking Macs to print?” Security was called, but they arrived well after I left.
- My hottie professor had to take today off because she wrenched her back. I knew this going into class, but it did not make it any easier to know that the one thing I can look forward to on Tuesdays isn’t going to happen. What happens when Zeepdoggie hopes for a surprise? He gets a disappointment.
- The five dogs downstairs have done nothing but bark loudly since I got home three hours ago; nobody is home down there, so there's no one to tell them to shut the fuck up. Every time I do it, they just bark louder.
- I got some new trade collections of some great comics in the mail, one of which, "Maintenance," I had never read before and it surprised me pleasantly.
- For dessert at lunch, I had cookies and milk.
- My rent did not get raised as much as was in the original plan.
- The looks on the kids faces in the computer lab as I completely wigged out were more than worth the potential arrest.
- I got to say "fuck" a lot in public in a loud voice, which is really its own reward.
-Zeepdoggie
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