Potato

Jacob stooped down and picked up a small, earthen object from the floor, in front of the chair where he normally eats.

He thought, non-verbally, “is this a part of a potato, or like, a leaf?”

He felt a strong desire to put the object in his mouth, to test whether it was a traditional food.  He fought this urge, with the object moving closer and further from his mouth, intermittently, for the next five steps, where he threw the object in a trash can.

How to Provide 30 Days Notice (and Prepare to Stab Your Landlord with a Ski Pole in a Perceived Need for Self-Defense)

Send an email to your landlord on Tuesday, May 21, 2013, explaining that you would like to terminate your month-to-month lease effective June 30, as you intend to move to Reno.

Imagine yourself making friends with people who have tattoos in Reno’s equivalent of a hipster neighborhood.

Feel content that you are making changes in your life.
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Ram Dass: Spacesuit

The audio is an excerpt from Cultivating the Heart of Compassion by Ram Dass.  Here’s a link to the Ram Dass foundation.  Here’s a link to the full lecture on YouTube.  All images that do not contain Ram Dass were found via a creative commons database search, and links are within the description of the video and in annotations (that can be hidden).

yolo vs golden handcuffs paradox

returned from bathroom.

noted other financial analyst not wearing jeans.

felt strange that other financial analyst has not worn jeans since dress code officially relaxed.

wondered if i would dress better regardless of dress code if i had four or more kids to feed.

felt comforted by the crinkling sound of the wrapper that the other financial analyst’s breakfast came from.

thought: he’s like, goddamned 37 and practically eating frosted flakes.

other financial analyst said: “did you have to bust out the dog sled team to get down the mountain this morning?”

he says this every time it snows.

he smiles every time he says it.

he probably said this and smiled 42 days last year.
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War Cries in the Porcelain Jungle

When I wrote this, I had the voice of Ira Glass (from This American Life) stuck in my head.  I greatly suggest reading the below in his voice / style if possible — Don

I work in a huge office building where people are forced to keep to themselves.  Small talk is not just frowned upon, it typically results in termination or, worse, you might make a friend.  Instead, we of the 35th floor spend our days looking at computer screens and yelling into speakerphones at people who we are not certain are real.  The hallways are filled with zombies who stare at their shoes as they shuffle coffee and items from the printer back to their offices.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually dead or dreaming or maybe the subject of someone else’s boring dream.  It’s at times like that, when I feel myself losing hope, that I turn to the bathroom.

The bathroom is a completely different scene.  My floor only has one men’s bathroom to serve the exactly 463 dudes who call the floor home.  This absurd ratio of men constantly ingesting coffee and donuts and all natural cane sugar sweetened kombucha to bathrooms ensures that the bathroom is never empty.  Never.

But our bathroom isn’t home to the typical mundane bowel movements and hand washing that you’re probably imagining, either.  Our bathroom is predators and prey, coming and going all day.  When we enter that bathroom we are able to cast off the chains of our office jobs and finally be men again.  And sometimes, for the briefest of moments, we can become something greater than men: we become free.

What makes our bathroom special is the fact that we compete at stuff like taking leaks and dropping turds.  Between the guttural war cries from the gladiators of the sink to the constant echo of farts the place is all man.  I have literally never seen a woman in the men’s bathroom.

I’ve also never been in another men’s bathroom like the one on my floor.

 

Competition 1: Pissing the Loudest at the Urinal

My friend Jack once told me he didn’t trust people who peed quietly.  That was the day he became my best friend Jack.  A weak urine stream is a sign of bladder shyness, a narrow urethra, penis cancer, or something worse.  All of these are decidedly unmanly.

So the object of this competition is simple, you just have to make more noise using your flow than the guy next to you.  Your manliness is a direct reflection of the volume you’re able to produce.  While seemingly pretty straightforward, this is probably the most hotly debated competition in the bathroom.  There are two basic camps: those who piss onto the back of the urinal and those fucking asshole cheaters who piss into the water.  There’s also a grey area of people who aim right at the edge of the water making a weird fizzy noise, but those kind of people are just cowards.  No one likes them.

The righteous back of the urinal pissers believe that the cackling of their flow as it smashes into porcelain is what God intended.  It’s natural.  It’s a level playing field where the pressure a man is able to produce is the only important factor in determining his volume.  I’ve heard claims that this aerates the urine and causes that sour smell to linger in the bathroom, but it was a woman who told me that so I was all like “what the fuck do you know about it?” to her and she didn’t say anything else.

Those who jet directly into the water are clearly trying to hide something.  They’ll often attempt other things to distract you too like spitting into the urinal, clearing their throats, or whistling.  The weakest men will even attempt to talk to you, looking in your direction even though they know that eye contact between two men who are peeing instantly turns them both gay.

I mostly just piss on the floor because I got bad blood with the cleaning lady.

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Duncan Trussell: Uber Capitalist Marketing Genius Part II – Taste the Future With Monsanto

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Duncan Trussell: Uber Capitalist Marketing Genius Part I – Exposing That Little Orphan Annie

clicking on this run-on sentence will take you to duncan trussell’s website where you can find his podcast he is a stand-up comedian

i put images over a spoken-word commercial about sure design t-shirts

the parable of the hyper-intelligent dogs

two hyper-intelligent dogs got bored, so one of them got on top of the other and then the one on the bottom stood up on its hind legs. they formed a mega-dog.

the mega-dog put on a trench coat and a top hat. the upper dog shaved its face except the whiskers. they formed a person!

“now that we are people now,” they said to each other, “what should we do? dog things as people or people things as people?”

the answer was obvious.

they went online and got a degree in accounting from the university of notre dame. they opened a bank account. they got a job in accounts receivable at a ski resort. they worked for four weeks until they got paid twice (the second time being a direct deposit).

a third of their money went to the state as tribute. a third of their money went away as rent. two-tenths of their money went as student-loan payments. a tenth of their money went to the church because they were catholic now.

they walked to the grocery store. “we only have four-one-hundredths of our money left!” the dog that formed the lower-body said (it was he who carried the wallet).

“don’t worry i signed us up for a credit card. we can make online payments because it’s all through chase.”

the dog-people bought kombucha tea and ninety grass-fed steaks.

^^^

the two dogs grew depressed/fucked. they had conversations like this:

“why do you keep rotating your wrist?”

“you try dicking around with a mouse nine hours a day.”

“excuse me, you try having a dog sit on your shoulders ten hours a day as you walk to work and sit in a chair all day.”

“excuse me, you try staring at a computer screen nine hours a day. i think mine are going to bleed to the death.”

“this is pure satanism.”

“why don’t we just quit? all i want to do is chase car tires. it does not require money to chase car tires.”

“what about all of this debt? there is literally thousands of it.”

“repudiate it.”

“but what would people say? what would we eat? garbage? fucking bunnies? society will say, ‘now here before us, these are savages.’”
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Book Report: No Treason by Lysander Spooner

No Treason

 

No Treason

By Lysander Spooner

Published by the Author, 1867 – 1870

89 Pages

$7.94 Paperback from Amazon

$0.99 Kindle Edition from Amazon

$0.00 PDF from Freedomforallseasons.org

 

Lysander Spooner would be old as fuck if it weren’t for the fact that he is dead.  Though what is death, really?  I beseech thee to look at thou’s picture and tell me that a man with a beard like that could ever really die.

Spooner

Despite not quite meeting the legal qualifications, Spooner practiced law in Massachusetts by arguing that the government had no right to tell him he had to get a college degree to practice law.  Throughout his life, Spooner also acted upon opportunities to be a failed businessman, failed real estate developer, failed financier, failed inventor, failed pamphleteer, failed lover, and all around son of a bitch.  He died in poverty.  He died alone.

Spooner passed, physically, in 1887, but now that we’ve reached the age of the internet, his ideas will presumably live on forever.  He has been sanctioned and deified by the contemporary intellectual libertarian establishment, with Murray Rothbard calling No Treason, “the greatest case for anarchist political philosophy ever written.”

Having grown up in the North whilst attending public school, I don’t actually know anything about the Civil War.  I don’t remember ever talking about the Civil War in school.  I have no idea as to what age one is supposed to learn about the Civil War.

I have relied on two generally accepted gems of wisdom to interpret and judge the bloodiest war in American history for most of my life:

  1. The Confederate Flag is a symbol of racism
  2. Abraham Lincoln wanted to abolish slavery

But with the release of two recent films celebrating the American godhood of Abraham Lincoln (Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer, Lincoln), internet Civil War alt-historians have been speaking out, armed with quotes by Honest Abe himself:

 

“I will say then that I am not, nor ever have been in favor of bringing about in any way the social and political equality of the white and black races, [applause] — that I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, not to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will for ever forbid the two races living together on terms of social and political equality.”

-Abraham Lincoln, Lincoln vs. Douglas Debate, Sept. 18, 1858

 

“My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or to destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that. What I do about slavery, and the colored race, I do because I believe it helps to save the Union; and what I forbear, I forbear because I do not believe it would help to save the Union.”

-Abraham Lincoln, Letter to Horace Greeley, 1862

 
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kale salads alone in my car at the park

I had a pen in my hand and I underlined a sentence and I made the motion again but without pressing the pen down against the paper.  There were words in my head but they sounded like fluff.  I looked between the field goal trees at the mountain and the home highest up on the mountain and the spaces were there were no homes and less trees/bushes.

The words didn’t hold in my head because a figure was approaching that I didn’t want to turn to see and only wanted to feel walk behind and beyond me but it stopped short and my head juked back because a water bottle jumped up close to my lips.

“Que bieber hamber queso?”

I looked to my left but the body disappeared and I felt it sit down a few feet to my right at the very same park bench; the exact same park bench that I was sitting down on.  I tried to read the underlined sentence and looked at the mountain and tried to read again and looked to my right.

“Saludar/queso.”

I said hi and smiled and nodded my head.  I looked at the mountain as if it was supposed to tell me a really neat secret.  I pretended to read again this time all the way past the line and I turned a page and moved my eyes about at a believable pace.

The man stood up and patted his belly and said, “Chiquasa.”  He was probably in his late twenties.  He probably knew a trade.

“Hombrara?”  He asked and thrust the water bottle towards me.  I waved no.  He left.

 

$$$

 

The best part of eating a kale salad is when all the kale is gone and so is the rosemary ham from Trader Joe’s and the tomatoes and green peppers and mushrooms and all that’s left are the macadamia nuts and raisins/blueberries and/or dried cranberries.  I put the empty red Pyrex in my bag and started reading.

Someone was breathing and walking behind me and I prayed it was not who it probably was.  God proved he does not exist and/or does not like me.  The man with the burrito complexion sat down to my right again.  I looked between the field goal trees at the mountain, playing it real cool.  I think I thought if I could control my breathing nobody would be killing me that day.
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