Saturday, March 19, 2011

The Humble Fly

As the sun warms our little spot on this mostly blue planet, I'm reminded of the tiny bugs and insects scrambling to survive. I've always fought for the plight of the our minuscule comrades, as far back as fourth grade.

Ah yes, I remember the first time I realized the quiet majesty of these creatures when two house fly decided to land on my leg and mate. It was during one of my fourth grade teacher's numerous lectures.

I sat there stunned as these two bugs went at it on my knee. I dared not swoosh them away, because even at that tender age I knew that what was happening on my knee was beautiful.

Like a child seeing his parent's wrestle for the first time, I was confused, and unsure of what to do. I decided to recruit the assistance of my teacher. I raised my hand...

"Mrs. Cuff, these flies are mating on my leg".

"Well, just swap them, Daniel."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't!"

From that moment on I realized that all creatures were just like me. Just trying to survive, and get some ass whenever possible. Those mightily humble creatures had enough to worry about in their short lives. Who was I to ruin, what could have been, the happiest moments of those bugs' lives?

And now, today, I try to let bugs live their life. When I play basketball I take care not to crush the little ants scurrying about the court. When swimming I go to great lengths to save drowning bugs. I save bugs and insects from certain death at the multiple hands of spiders.

In fact when I see a spider trying to eat a hapless bug I try to show the spider that it doesn't need to suck the life force out of other animals. I try to show the spider that it can survive on tofu and strawberries.

The world is a harsh place for these little creatures. Why must we add to their growing list of problems?

Oh and fuck mosquitoes, those things are bastards.

Friday, March 18, 2011

And I'm the Asshole?

So here I am suffering from some sort of plague, and so-called medical professionals won't go off script, listen to me, and help my sorry-immune-deficient ass. So I decide to go to the grocery store pharmacy and self-medicate.

Now I'm a pro at self-medicating, but usually my ailments are more emotional in nature, and instead of going to a pharmacy, I go to a bar. But with my new found maturity, after turning 27, I decided that I was wise enough to medicate my physical ailments as well.

So there I am, lingering in the cold and flu aisle, darting from one box to another trying to find which brand has a remedy for my symptoms. I must have looked absolutely lost because out of nowhere this blubbery woman with unkempt hair, acne and reeking of cigarette smoke goes, "do you need any help? I'm a CNA".

"Fuck. A Certified Nursing Assistant," I say to myself, "this isn't going to end well". But I figure, despite being a CNA, she may have some valuable information, so I lay out my symptoms in the most medically accurate way. I mean, I don't want to be talked down to twice in one day by wannabe medical professionals.

Well she starts out saying, "[i]n my expert opinion..."

"Expert opinion? I'm sorry, but unless CNA stands for something else, the only things you could have an expert opinion on is how to bathe an old guy with Alzheimer, or how to put a blood pressure cuff on someone. I'm cool if you want to tell me if any of these worked for you first-hand, but don't think you're an expert for a second. The only thing you are is a medical janitor."

So there's some hurumphing and she leaves in a huff, as if she held the cure to the Common Cold. Surely I overreacted, but I didn't feel like being lectured about classical immunology by someone who has a fucking certificate from some lame-ass community college, and someone who clearly smokes a dozen packs a day. Sorry if I don't value the medical opinion Jo-Anne Camel.

Sigh, and I'm the asshole?

Well I must have been, because when I get out to my car the front driver's side tire is as flat as Keira Knightly, or Kate Hudson, or Selma Blair. Whatever, you get the picture. Normal people would probably whine and call for help. Not this guy.

The trunk of my car is its own emergency response mobile command center/dead hooker transport carrier. I'm a man with the plan for all of life's foibles. My trunk is my Swiss Army knife.

So I just inflate my tire, pray to the Goodyear prayer to my personal Homeboy Jesus, and set sail for home.

That's right. Karma tried to get me, but I got Tiger Blood and I'm Winning, duh. There's no stopping this rock star from Mars...

Oh shit... I think the fevers back.

Me vs. Women and Dudes that Like Feminists

Being a sick male is very hard. Harder than being a sick female, it seems. You see when a man is sick he requires additional attention, and is too weak or sickly to do basic tasks. Tasks like changing the television channel, making hot soup, and bathing himself.

Women, on the other hand, seem to be afflicted with illnesses that sap their energy to a lesser extent. They are able to change the channel, make soup, and nag, just as they normally would do when healthy.

I'm not sure why cold, flu and allergy symptoms in men are worse than females, but I can only guess it's because we men do so much more than women. Simply our immune systems are so taxed that the illnesses we catch are much more severe than a woman's.

A man's day is spent doing manly things, like cutting logs, thinking about man things like sports and politics, and going to the moon on rocket ships. A woman's day is spent mostly bitching, eating chocolate, and watching reality television.

We men are always going to suffer more severe symptoms until women start pulling their weight (and losing some of that weight) and stop nagging and help men do their manly things. How can a woman help? It wouldn't hurt to have the pot roast ready by the time I get home from logging the moon.

It'll take a long time for women to step up to the plate and help their male counterparts. Women are a vindictive, vengeful beast, if fashion magazines have taught me anything about them. Indeed women will probably prove my point by writing vengeful things in the comment section, and sending me hateful e-mails.

But, by golly, I think this note is worth it if just one woman will get that remote that lies just inches away from my finger tips.

Finding E.T.

I'm tired of reading headlines like, "NASA Scientist Claims Evidence of Alien Life on Meteorite", especially when the alien life is just bacteria.

Listen, I understand finding living bacteria, or micro-fossils of bacteria on stuff in space is cool, and worthwhile to the scientific community. I get that. But they aren't aliens, at least not the colloquial definition of alien.

When I think about an alien I think skinny, clammy, gray things probing your bung-hole, mutilating cattle, and scorching corn fields. I think tentacled beasts in mile wide ships blowing up the White House, getting punched in the face by Will Smith.

I do not think of bacteria.

Until you guys find a planet (or asteroid) filled with a bunch of gerbil-sized or larger beings, don't bother me with these misleading headlines.

I'm an Old Ol' Fox

I recently turned 27 years old, and I think I can safely say I'm incredibly old. Now I know 27 isn't chronologically that old, but I'm basing me feelings of "oldness" on how I feel. And frankly I feel as old as fossilized prokaryote shit.

I've resigned myself to being old, and have taken up cross word puzzles, purchased a month's supply of V8 vegetable juice and started catching up on old episodes of Matlock. I've begun eating more sensibly, skipping a cornerstone food group from my more youthful days (cake). Why I even turned down eating lettuce, because it's too rough on my bowels, and tastes too damn sweet.

As many of you know I've always been a little cranky towards those younger than me, but now it seems those views have been ratcheted up ten-fold. This morning I told a 3 year old to "cut [his] damn hair" because I felt he looked like a girl. When I was told the 3 year old was a girl, I called his teenage mother a hussy. People who were too young to remember 9/11 shouldn't be having kids yet.

I was reading People, and caught myself wondering why there was no mention of Clark Gable and his affair with Loretta Young. For a moment I though Lady Gaga was the name of some bizarre moving sculpture. Justin Bieber made me feel uncomfortable.

My youth has left me. I'm no longer the exuberant, ironic t-shirt wearing unshaven delinquent I once was. I savor my malt-o-meal, look for toothpaste coupons, and I prefer a tall glass of cold tap water over beer. I'm starting to see the value in fat girls (I believe they're what keeps the earth from floating towards the sun) and I'm starting to get riled up when Denny's charges me too much for a damn omelet. If only they cut down the portions sizes, the omelets too big.

I guess I should embrace my quiet fade into the sunset. We elderly are a prickly bunch, a fraternity of gents who've seen better days, but can still take advantage of these waning hours of our twilight years. In fact I grabbed a girl's bottom, and pretended I was senile. Tee hee. She just gave me my vitamins, tousled my hair, and said "oh Mr. Samuelson, you old fox".

You old fox indeed.