Frontier Airlines

Southwest Airlines normally gets crap in the frequent flyer communities for being what is referred to as "The Wal-Mart Airline". The reasoning behind this is because, much like shopping at Wal-Mart, flying on Southwest involves you being in very close proximity to the shallower ends of the gene pool, bodily fluids that are not your own, and a smell that you cannot describe but it lingers with you for the rest of the day.

To these snobs who are too proud to fly economy because they won first-class tickets on JetBlue once, therefore they think they know what the apex of airline comfort is, I say, Southwest isn't the Wal-Mart of Airlines, it's the Target of airlines, similar experience but you don't feel ashamed afterwards, no Frontier Airlines is the Wal-Mart of airlines.

I had the unfortunate experience of having to fly from Phoenix to Nashville on Frontier, and then fly back from Nashville to Denver then back to Phoenix, also on Frontier. Which if you're counting, is three too many times one person should have to fly Frontier.

First, after going through security which is always the same how-it-feels-to-be-a-prisoner-in-an-American-jail-expect-the-only-one-who's-going-to-be-in-your-butthole-is-the-guards experience no matter which airline you can afford to fly. This was the year before they started that TSA prescreening bullshit that I never qualify for. My guess is that since I've been out of the country thrice when I was two, four, and eight, I was deemed a possible threat, so hooray for all the Americans who have never experienced life outside our borders you must be so goddamn cultured, or they're going alphabetically and haven't gotten to the W's yet. In that case it's understandable.

Anyway, secondly I saw the plane, plane white, with a green tail with a big stock photo of an animal on it. You see Qantas has Kangaroos (I learned this when I was four while being trained as a sleeper agent for the Australian government, just in case they ever need to stage a coup d'état), Southwest has one Shamu plane, American Airlines has an eagle unfolding the French flag, and Frontier has whatever animal you can think of that lives in the exotic mid-west of the United States. So the craziest animal you'll get to see on a plane is a bobcat or a mountain lion. The saddest part is that the animals are staring directly straight forward and look incredibly miserable to be on the plane. For they know that their image is being used to entice people to fly on the worst think ever build to fly and without any royalties for the use of their image.

You see one of the big selling points of Frontier is that you pay for how much leg room you want, and luckily my parents, who decided to pay to put my sister and I on a flying bus that deifies the will of God via being powered by four constant explosions, put some extra cash in and got use the deluxe, economy, seating package, bullshit, thing. Which translated to my knees pushing against my lungs, as suppose to my knees replacing my lungs. For even though the average height of an American male is 6ft 1 inch, which is what I am, most things are still designed for those 5ft 6 inches tall, which I would like to point out is an inch shorter than the average American female.

I'm guessing those who never had that gross-spurt in high school that they were promised now run the transportation industry and want to get back at all of us who drank our milk as kids.

Just looked it up, the head of the TSA is about 5 foot 11 inches. He's just trying to get back at us for the lack of those two inches. (In his pants)

Anyway, learning to breath without the use of my diaphragm, the safety seminar started, and since I've heard this for seemingly my whole life to the point where I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat screaming "Please remain seated while the fasten your seat belt sign is lit!".

Which is one of the many, many reasons why I'm single, and why none of my friends or family want to share a hotel room with me. Or really be around me in general.

One of the many, many, many reasons.

So during the safety seminars which used to be called the "shut up and listen you pricks" talk back in 90's (things were different under Clinton, much more extreme and jazzy), I read the little laminated tri-folds in the back of the seats to see how much of what is being said is word-for-word what's in the book, thinking that it would save us a lot of time if we were just told to read the damn tri-fold, so whoever dies, died of laziness or illiteracy, ether way helps the species.

If they're really spot on with the wording and order of topics, I imagine an airline stewardship test, with all this stewards and stewardesses sitting in a DMV type building, desperately cramming last minute reading the tri-fold before their number is called. This normally leads through a long chain of unconnected thoughts until I get to the humorous image of a stewardess giving this speech to George W. Bush in his Air Force One bedroom like in Transformers, and he just lays back and when she's done he just says "Yeah I'll have some of those Ho-Ho's".

By the time my small dip into depression is over, caused by my realization that I remember a throw away joke about a guy who isn't even President any more in a movie that no one really remembers anyway other than Megan Fox's ass which is said to be only 17, which I don't remember and just have to take everyone else's word for it, the airplane is now in motion.

But first we were treated to a sound that sounded like a car failing to start. You know that hollow start-up sound as the crank shaft just spins a little bit without an engine ignition. Expect I was on a plane and not a 2007 Ford Focus. So the sound is a little concerning, but luckily a stewardess told everyone that the noise is perfectly normal.

Yeah planes still shouldn't sound like a car that's out of gas, they should sound like, you know, a plane.

Then I realized something, and I pulled out the tri-fold once again, and I confirmed my suspicion, we're flying in an Airbus.

You see Airbus is a European aircraft manufacturing company, and is widely considered to be the biggest international rival to Boeing an American aircraft company.

But you see unlike cars, Americans build planes better than anyone, so much like torque, don't buy imports.

I can prove this too you, because when you think Boeing, you think of a massive 747 carrying almost 500 people across the globe, when you think Airbus, you think of a plane that sounds like a car failing to start.

And as you know, your opinion based off of anecdotes that you may or may not have even been a part off, is always correct.

Realizing I'm now flying in a coffin made by some guy who fled from East Germany back in the 80's and has no real manufacturing skills (the Soviet Bloc build the Berlin Wall, and you can see how long that lasted), I started to pray to all of deities I could think of just to cover all the bases.

Then I realized that there's a little TV in front of me, and for six bucks, I could get cable for 3 hours.

Which I paid for, and then realized that this is cable TV in the early 2000-teens, and not the cable TV back in the good-ol late 90's early 2000's, I wasted six bucks.

We survived the trip to Nashville, and flew back weeks later while stopping at Denver.

And it was Denver, that I discovered that Frontier Airlines isn't what it is all cracked up to be, my boarding pass didn't have a gate number on it. Which is a problem when you really want to go home as fast as possible because flying Frontier is like going in for kidney stone treatment, you just have to get it over with.

So I found my way to the Frontier Customer Service desk, which I had to Google what gate it was located by, and in a twist of fate was actually the gate that the plane going to Phoenix was supposed to land at, and the line was out towards airlines that people actually wanted to fly on. I waited in line for about an hour, which only left me about five minutes to catch the plane that was suppose to be 30 feet away from me. Then right as I'm about to step up to the counter, a lady steps aside from behind it and says

"Who's all trying to get to Phoenix"

And everyone expect five people raised their hands, she then realized that she had to address the entire flight manifest of a fully booked flight, which is weird considering the plane that she knew wasn't there, wasn't there, and all the people who are suppose to be on the plane, are not on the plane.

So as she then threw a little personal hissy fit with herself for volunteering to talk to the customers who her company stranded in Denver, Colorado. (This was before the weed legalization if you need a reference) She finally told us that the plane isn't here.

Then a man, who is forever known as the personal hero of all the people on that flight to Phoenix said

"Oh really?"

The crowd cheered, and the lady, who I should mentioned walked into this situation thinking she'd be having an intimate conversation with like eight people, who weren't in desperate need to get home that day, didn't really seem to grasp the sarcasm and answered with

"Yes sir the plane which is suppose to be here, isn't here"

Like she was talking to a three-year-old about why Scrappy had to go to a farm upstate.

The crowd started on its angry incline towards angry mob, when we realized that the lady didn't answer the sarcasm with a condescending remark, she truly meant to talk to a middle aged man, who is with his wife and kids, like a small confused child. Which is not how one should talk to a crowd of angry Arizonians, for if there's two things that pulls us together as a state, we hate someone in authority trying to explain something to us, and the fact that we are always trying to get to Phoenix.

She then went on to explain that the plane in question had broken down during take off in Florida, which I should point out is like a five hour flight from Denver, so it's not like they had fair warning, and that a plane is flying with a spare part from California, which meant that we'd be stuck for about 12 hours.

This then almost caused a riot, but the lady caught us right before the uproar with

"But there's a plane leaving Mexico soon that has been redirected here, so you can fly out as soon as one of the two planes has landed and is refueled"

Our elected leader then asked,

"and how long will that take"

And the lady replied

"It will be here between 6 and 8pm"

Oh I forgot to mention, it's about 8am right now, so to put this in perspective we've been told that ether a plane has to fly across the country form one state ending in "ia" to another state ending in "ia" with a part to fix a plane that will then fly 3/4 of the way back will take 12 hours to do, versus our other option which is a plane in Mexico leaving at some point and flying North which will take about 10 or 12 hours.

So really the good news is, we now have a range for how long we get to spend stuck in Denver.

Now as we then started crafting spears and torches, the lady did tell us that other options may become available in the mean time, and that we may leave sooner than that. Our fair leader asked,

"So will you sent out an intercom telling us that a plane has arrived"

the lady replied

"No we're too busy here", gesturing to the now last person of the five people in line not trying to get back to Phoenix, as he walks away,

"You'll have to check back every half hour or so"

Our king then said "So you're telling us that we have to check back here, every half hour, for possibly the next twelve hours, or we don't get to go home"

The lady stared at him blankly, we all hoped that with his kind, wise words, our god-king as shown this woman the error of her ways and now she see that we are in fact human like her, but instead we found out that she was confused as to why he asked such a stupid question with her reply,

"Yes that's exactly what I'm saying"

She then walked off, done with us peasants, now that I think about it, she probably flies JetBlue.

As we lit the torches, she turned to us one last time and said,

"oh and the partnership most airlines have with most other airlines that allow you to fly on their flights with another airlines ticket if the original flight has been canceled, Frontier has no such partnership, though you are available to buy Southwest tickets at the entrance of the airport, also we cannot refund your tickets here, though if you call the number on our website we can terminate your ticket and then mail you a refund check within the next two weeks"

She literally told us to go suck a fat one and fly Southwest.

So I was stuck in Denver for possibly 10-12 hours, though I had to check every half-hour to make sure that was the case. And this was Denver in the summer, so a freezing 81 degrees with air-conditioing made me pull out my new jacket I had just stolen from my gay uncle's closest thinking it'll help me pick up chicks.

As it turns out the jacket only makes me attractive to homosexual, heterosexual and bisexual men. It actually seems like it makes girls hate me more, which I think is because they're jealous of their boyfriends hitting on me.

I walked around, looking like I have a severe skin condition, but in reality I think anything with moving cold air below 95 degrees is freezing, since that's like mid-Decemeber temperatures in Phoenix, which is where I was trying to go.

I sat, took a bunch of selfies of myself in my new jacket and texted them to all my female friends, and then cried when I got a bunch of selfies back of them flipping me off. Which is normal for when I text them, it just hurts the same every time.

Finally at 8:30pm a plane with a deer on the tail finally showed up.

We got on the plane, I learned to breath without my diaphragm again, and I cried about the Bush years once again.

We then had to sit on the runway so that the plane from Mexico could land, yes this was the broken plane from Florida and not the closer plane from Mexico, it actually delayed us more.

Finally the crank shaft turned again, I cursed the Nazis under my breath, and finally we were on our way back to Phoenix.

When we landed our beloved leader who stood up to the evils of customer service and brought us to the promised land after traveling for three long hours, made a speech, or at least he did in this imaginary part of this true story, and graciously handed his power over to us, his loyal subjects, and told us that we are now free to chose our own lives, and we all made a promise then never to fly Frontier again.

For the Roman senate elected one of their own to carry ultimate power in times of need, he then returned the power graciously when the time of crisis has been resolved. 

Four-Year-Olds

Children are literally the worse. If somehow I manage to breed and raise a child, and you happen to be the child in question who has somehow learned to read, let alone survived long enough to be able to read under my parenting, I want you to know, you're literally the worse.

You stole everything from me, my youth, my dreams, your mother's beauty (who may or may not be married to me, you never know), my money, my car (which you've probably scratched or will scratch you little/big shit), and everything else that has ever brought me even the slightest iota of joy in my life.

At least that's what my dad told me, and I feel like it's a tradition worth keeping in the family.

So yes, children are the worst things to ever happen to humanity since we all decided to stand-up right and grow big-ass brains.

Yes that put us on the moon, but that also gave us: existential crises, mortgages, student loans, war, Detroit, the deforestation of the Amazon rain forest, Chernobyl, a possible nuclear armageddon, the Transformers film franchise, complex emotions, realizing that we'll never live to see a day that humanity will truly understand the nature of the universe, painful childbirth caused by the shrinking of the birth canal when becoming bipedal combined with larger skulls in newborns due to an increase in brain size, the SAT test, World War 1, Hitler, and many other things that have claimed the lives of billions of people and animals around the world.

Other than diseases that's all Mother Nature's bizniz right there.

The worst of all though, children, specifically four-year-olds.

You see there comes two major points of childhood development between the 0-4 years of age. Other than the whole, walking, talking, pooping in the toilet, and all that other boring stuff.

Around the age of three, children learn how to lie, as in now they understand what the truth is (reality) and how they can give information to contrary (make believe reality), and possibly not get in trouble for something that happened in reality.

Then around the age of five children learn to disassociate make believe realties from actual reality, for it is now this point that children learn that every person that meet experiences life from another perspective from their own, and has access to information that they don't have, as well as they don't have access to information that the child does.

You see the problem here is, yes three-year-olds now what is true, and what is false, but they can't differentiate the two, so sometimes the make-believe reality overrides the true one, at least in the mind of the child.

Granted this only occurs for about two years or so, but it still carries over into the age of four, where children learn how to form complex ideas into sentences and start carrying actual conversations with their parents.

But being four, they don't really think of as other people as real "people". To them people other than themselves are more extensions of the environment they live in.

So to put this all together, we have this small child, who knows how to lie, and then starts believing the lie it tells, and is more or less a complete sociopath.

This being the reason why I hate four-year-olds.

They lie about everything on the slight chance they'll get in trouble if they tell the truth, they then deny everything to the contrary, and they don't even think of you as a person.

Essentially they're like little corporate lawyers or tiny internet and cable TV providers.

Actually considering how petty they always are about everything too, since the ability to distinguish what is one's own property versus what is someone else's property is something most humans don't learn until they've gotten into a car accident because they wouldn't let the guy ahead of them merge into their lane.

Really they're like little politicians, and not like the good ones that close corporate tax loop-holes, but the kinds that get bribed by lobbyist with cookies and candy.

Hey I'm so topical.

"But I don't want everyone to get affordable healthcare, because it has nothing to do with me, as a person who goes to a local health clinic in Washington DC, paid for by the taxpayers of America, and as person who gets paid $270,000, paid by the taxpayers of America, and as a person who doesn't have to pay for his own postage, since it's paid for by the taxpayers of America. Also where's my juice box?" 

-SHIT we got political today, let's not make it a habit.-

Twisty-Ties

You know, twisty-ties, the bane of any sliced-bread-lover’s existence. Those damn, aluminum or plastic or unnatural plastic metal combination that spits in the face of God, things.

The only explanation for them is something along the lines of technology that should stay out of the hands of man, or some sort of black magic birthed from the fire pits of Muspelheim.

The idea is, in theory, you twist the twisty-tie in one direction to undo the twist, or you twist in another direction to greaten the twist as you fall deeper into the trance made by the Old Ones for you to continue to do their bidding in preparation for the rise of R’lyeh, followed by the revival of the Great One Cthulhu for he will devour all of that which is humanity.

My point being, twisty-ties are proof that the universe is an uncaring environment, and shows that we are a small feeble race that does not belong among the stars and should stay on the small rock that we so desperately cling to.

You see the theory is, stressing the nonscientific usage of “theory”, that twisty-ties are simple machines in that there’s only two outcomes to their usage, one that loosens and one that tightens. But that’s never the case.

You, poor mewling human, are just trying to make yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which helped defeat the Axis Powers in WW2 by the way, look it up), and you face the embodiment of evil on the end of your bag of loaf of bread (awkward phrasing), you twist to the left, it tightens, you twist to the right, it tightens. Satan laughs at you. Back to the left, nothing, back to the right, still tightening, Prometheus, the damned one who brought the gift of knowledge to humanity against the wills of the gods, and is forever chained to a boulder as crows peck out and eat his liver which regrows everyday, thinks to himself “man it sucks to be that person”.

You frantically twist back in forth, the lizard aliens running the worlds’ governments watch the video feed from the hidden cameras in your house, laughing manically as truly their subjection of humanity as begun.

Finally, mentally, physically, emotionally, and a little bit sexually, exhausted and frustrated the twisty-tie comes loose, as the Illuminati have grown bored watching you dick around with a piece of unholy composite, and finally release your bread before returning to their board meeting with Beyoncé.

You make the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not feeling like it was quite worth it, for even the feeling of democracy’s victory over the evils of fascism in 1945 that comes over you whenever you bite in to a PB&J, can replace the part of your soul the twisty-tie had sucked down to Hades.

For evil truly exists, not the malevolent kind, but the apathetic. The kind that shows that we humans pretend to understand the universe around us, we pretend to be giants ruling our world, but in reality we are but small children lost in and infinite sandbox, whose parents have abandoned long ago, building sandcastles and naming themselves kings of an empire that will only last in a fraction, of a fraction, of a fraction, of fraction of a blink of an eye in the grand timescale of the universe.

We are all going to die on this ball of rock and water, and the twisty-ties will out live us all. For life is only a random chance, but time is the edge of the infinite and it does not care.

Do not mistake my apathy for hatred, for I do not quell myself with mere mortals.

The Fact That Nothing Can End Correctly

The problem with expanded media, like TV shows and movie franchises, is that the writers are so far up their own asses snorting cocaine that they can never end the series correctly.

Well scratch that, Buffy the Vampire Slayer had a good ending, but that’s because Joss Whedon isn’t human but a perfect transdimensional being gifted to us by some powerful omnipotent force, as long as we all forget about that one Alien movie he was involved with. You know the one, no you don’t. Don’t pretend too.

Also Dollhouse was kinda meh. But whatevs, here’s the major problem with how things end.

Pulling a Random Theme Out of No Where and Then Shoving It Down Everyone’s Throats Until It Comes Out the Other End Covered in Feces 

Let’s look at few infamous examples.

Lost, The story of how a bunch of survivors of a plane crash survived on an island full of mysteries, exploring the themes of what people will do if they were given the opportunity to reinvent themselves, and also the fine line between faith of religion and faith of reality, also how intertwined peoples lives are even though we live on a planet of billions. This somehow becomes about a magic cork holding in the evil red wine of the world, and also about how friendship over comes all challenges, even the afterlife. Or some shit.

Bad enough they had to make the island Literally magic. They could of just said the island is place where people can reimagine themselves or something cheesy, and then have all the survivors leave with a cutsey “where are they now” montage to Greenday’s “Hope You Had the Time of Your Life”. At least then the reaction to the finale would have been “well that was dumb and cheesy, but ultimately feels like they tried to finish the story in a somewhat logical conclusion”

as suppose to “Seriously a two hour finale, the length of feature film, and they fix all the problems with one roll of duct tape, and the good guy punches the bad guy for and hour and 45 minutes, then they all go hangout with Jesus. Really?”

Oh here’s another, the infamous Mass Effect 3 ending, a story involving racism, classism, prejudice, military spending, scientific discovery, cooperations of all peoples, the willpower of humanity, and other deep shit like that.

Yeah it’s all about ether you all become cavemen again, get killed by terminators, or become a sexier version of the Borg from Star Trek. All those themes you explored while making choices that would mentally cripple a human being if made in real-life; whole thing was about if are we going to become robots, or are the robots going to kill us.

That whole giant fleet you built up to face a threat that will wipe out all life in the galaxy, the fleet made up of thousands of aliens that you went around uniting under one flag to face a common foe. You settled all of their petty differences and showed them that there’s a bigger picture, and that as one we are weak, but together we are strong. And as you make your final offensive that could mean the end to everything if it fails. Oh also your ship is named the Normandy, almost as if they were going for some sort of reference to how World War 2 untied millions of people against one common foe that would have destroyed everything, or something.

Maybe I read too far into it, since it’s all about robots and shit.

Oh don’t think you can run away Assassin’s Creed III, you may thing you could pass some stupid-ass ending shit by the rest of the world, since apparently no one cares about the Desmond story. But guess what, I gave a shit about the Desmond story, and man was I engrossed in it. I cared about Lucy, Desmond, Shaun, Rebecca, and even goddamn Subject 16. If I could draw I would have drew them as the Scooby-Doo characters for that’s how endearing they were to me.

Notice how I wrote that whole paragraph in the past tense Ubisoft. Because randomly throwing out ideas of questioning religion because it might of all been space magic technology, was only hinted at throughout the series. Not to mention that played more to the themes of “Nothing is true, everything is permitted” which USED to be the motto for the series. Apparently now it’s all, “hey look new shit to do, FUN”.

These games had a story, and I cared about it.

So when you have the character push some random-ass button that will:

A) Channel the entire energy of a solar flare into the body of Desmond Miles, killing him

and

B) Revives a eons old godlike being to re-enslave humanity, unrelated to the whole killing Desmond thing

But don’t worry the game did present Desmond with a choice, ether die and doom humanity, or become Jesus in a world without technology. And he would literally become Jesus, as the screen shows images of him emerging from a cave with a large boulder blocking it, him wearing a torn up hoodie that looks like a robe now, and then how his name will be forgotten and then just remembered as “the Shepard”, which is also what Jesus is referred to as.

OH CIRCLING BACK TO MASS EFFECT, same damn thing, Commander Shepard is remembered as “the Shepard”, and he/she also makes a sacrifice to save all of the world from the sins of being organic and not robotic.

Point being we had two games that were bookending a trilogy with a lot of build up, and they both end with some Jesus allegory out of nowhere, and some commentary about how we rely on technology too much. Now that I think about it, I think the games want us to go to church and play outside more often.

Lost is still pretty inexcusable, other than those two writers only know how to write 2/3 of a story and never know how to finish it. Hence why they were also the brains behind the magic blood in Star Trek: Into Darkness.

Here’s how I imagined that conversation went:

“Hey we killed a major character off, and we need some reason for his heterosexual life partner to go capture the bad guy who inadvertently killed him and escaped simply because we have another 20 minutes of movie”

“Can we finish by making another hot chick take her clothes off for no reason?”

“No the audience will notice that we’re only pandering to their penises if we do it twice”

“What if we have Spock go down and capture Benedict Cumberbatch and use his magic space blood to save Kirk?”

“You mean he has to go get Benedict’s blood, even though we have shown that there’s an entire cargo hold filled with people with the same blood currently frozen and making a much more easier solution to whole magic blood problem then some 10 minute long fight scene.”

“Yeah, but do you think that people who pay 15 bucks to watch moving images for two hours are really that smart?”

“No not really, so magic blood for no real reason it is, also we can’t just call Benedict Cumberpatch’s character Benedict Cumberpatch.”

“Oh, I know let’s just call him Khan, like the second Star Trek movie, and THEN we’ll make it a big reveal that he was Khan the whole time.”

“But that twist would only make sense to those would see it coming a mile away, like in the trailers, and it wouldn’t make any sense to those who haven’t seen the movie we’re poorly ripping off.”

“Yeah, but we’re the only smart people in existence, movie goers are a bunch of idiots who will watch anything, did you see how much Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen made, that was literally just text saying ‘thanks for the money assholes’ and Michael Bay flipping the bird to camera for three hours, and it still got a sequel”

“Man this cocaine is really good”

“I know right”

“Do you think removing death as threat to any of the characters would ruin any sense of danger in the next film”

“Can’t hear you, hookers and blow”

Also as an honorable mention, The Conduit 2. The Conduit series is a first person shooter series on the Wii console. So since it’s a FPS on the Wii not called Metriod it didn’t sell. But it still goes down as the weirdest ending in all of history. Your character is fighting off of an alien invasion in the US, you beat the final boss. A portal forms and out walks George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in power armor saying that they’re here to help you out, as more figures walk out of the portal, presumably the rest of the US Presidents. I like to imagine that if the scene played out FDR would of rolled out in a hover chair like Professor X.

At least Breaking Bad ends with Walter White finishing the goals he set out to do in the first place, and he did die protecting his beloved meth lab. Even though out of context, him killing a bunch of Neo-Nazis to do so seems a little on the convoluted side.

Close enough.

Not Knowing if the Cashier is Going to Give You A Receipt or Not

With the advent of future 1990′s technology, we humans started to pay for things with plastic cards. And when we use these little cards to pay for things, we are occasionally asked to sign a receipt to prove that we did in fact use our plastic cards to pay for the thing we just paid for.

Other times not so much. And this becomes even more convoluted considering it is also optional for us receive a copy of the receipt proving that we paid for the thing we just paid for.

And considering YOU just bought a Sean Hannity shaped dildo,  and you don’t want your liberal friends to find out, since they all bought Anderson Cooper dildos in support of progressive politics.But you on the other hand just find Sean Hannity attractive on a purely superficial level and don’t actually support any of his ideas of marriage, race culture in America, or that since he’s an upperclass white heterosexual male, who is so out of touch with the rest of the world that he might as well be living under a rock on the ass-side of Jupiter, this makes him an expert on how blacks, hispanics, latinos, homosexuals, native americans, asians, bisexuals, asexuals, and those who make less than $250,000 a year live and should live their lives.

(Sean Hannity doesn’t believe in transexuals)

Anyway, obviously your liberal friends, who are too busy sharing ti-chi recipes and discussing how to make Priuses even more lame, won’t understand the secret love you share for the Hannity, so when you pay for the handsome dildo with a credit card (really it’s a debt card, no one’s dumb enough to get a credit card after the credit companies enslaved all of Generation X in the 90′s), the cashier asks if you want a receipt, and you say no to cover your tracks. And this case he doesn’t give you one since he asked if you wanted one.

Another scenario he doesn’t ask and just gives you a receipt anyway, forcing you now to hide hard evidence that you’ve betrayed all of your pompous friends via sex toy.

Or he has you sign a store copy of the receipt and then asks if you want a copy.

OR he has you sign a store copy of the receipt and then gives you a copy anyway.

OR he has you sign a store copy and hands you your receipt and doesn’t specify which is which so you end up signing both like an idiot with a weird fetish for conservative TV pundits (and unfortunately this doesn’t include Stephen Colbert, since your libido understands satire).

OR he doesn’t hand you a copy to sign or your own copy, without saying a word to you, causing you to hover next to the counter like a complete village idiot for several lingering seconds that feel like an unending, deathless eternity until he finally looks up at you like you just walked off the short bus by accident.

Seriously do you know how awkward it is to just stand there in front of the cashier at the Barro’s a few miles down from your college, waiting to see if some magical paper will come your way via overworked, underpaid, under appreciated liberal arts major, who could of just asked if you wanted a copy of your receipt instead of just breaking eye contact and looking down at the register like he’s doing something productive, even though his current task at hand isn’t finished until you have moved on and the next person in line takes your place. AND there is a lot of people in line since apparently 11:50 is the entire City of Scottsdale’s lunch break.

So you’re just the asshole holding everyone up for no reason because the cashier as sure as hell moved on to the cow waiting for slaughter, and by slaughter I mean reasonable priced pizza that is insanely good, ok the metaphor doesn’t really work but you get the visual for this totally fictional situation that totally didn’t happen early today.

You know there’s this part of multiverse theory that states that with every choice you make, at least one other universe forms in which you didn’t make that choice, like one universe where you did buy the Anderson Cooper dildo, one universe where didn’t get addicted to Tumblr and fail senior year of high school, one where you didn’t look like a complete dumbass in front of bunch of random strangers.

Seriously if every choice we make does create another universe, the amount of universes created by the utter inconsistency in the cashier staff of America in regards to how they handle the receipt giving/and or not giving has got to be flooding the multiverse with an infinite amount of pointless universes as pointless as the one we’re living in because back in 2004 Janet signed a store copy of the receipt for her Sean Hannity shaped dildo.

No wonder Owlman wanted to blow up Earth Prime just to end it all.

Truly a hero to us all.

My Chair at Work

Seriously I hate that chair.

(WARNING this post contains spoilers for House of Cards, much like the poison Walter White used to poison Brock in the Season 4 finale of Breaking Bad, but in like consumable media form as suppose to edible substance form)

It’s comfortable, has arm rests, pretty good in the height adjustment, everything one could ask for in the slightly above average office chair.

But the sound.

Every time I lean forward in it, the spin of the chair makes a chorus of a million rats drowning in an indoor pool inside of a burning house, and the pool is also on fire because of it’s low pH levels (I passed High-school Chemistry with a C-).

That godforsaken sound echoes through the small office space, think Slug-line fromHouse of Cards but less: bean bags, ping-pong tables, iPads, sex with congressmen, and with more booze and an office dog.

The office space being so small that when everyone finally reaches that point in the day when everyone is at max productivity, and I lean forward, it kills the mood as everyone wonders where all the drowning rats are. They soon realize it’s just me the intern in the back corner as far away from everyone as possible.

I’m an unpaid intern, and there’s nothing in my contract keeping them from firing me at any point, so my whole soon-to-be-over-in-three-months-anyway career at the small advertising agency in Phoenix, Arizona all relies on me not giving everyone in the entire suite complex a migraine.

I figure thats why the architectural design company the next door down always gives me dirty looks when I walk by on the way to the bathroom, that or they’re mad because I always forget to lock the door behind me when I finish and they always have to shoo the hobos out of there first thing in the morning. And when hobos have a clean bathroom to themselves all night, things get kinda hot-boxy, and not in the marijuana sense of the phrase.

(I’m saying all night long hobo orgies)

That or the ancient rivalry between architecture design and media production still carries onto to this day. It all started when both of the Lumière Brothers kicked Stephen Sauvestre in the balls. (He’s the one who designed the Eiffel Tower you uncultured shit)

Anyway I really hate this chair. Yes it is one of the most comfortable office chairs I’ve ever sat in, but that hellish noise that could only be described as the devil tuning his fiddle with his anal sphincters before going down to Georgia, just isn’t worth it. And I would hate to replace it, it matches all of the other chairs in the office, other than the one guy’s chair who sits in the other far back corner who has the big fancy leather reclining chair, I would assume he does something important to deserve that chair, but the office dog hates him so assume he’s a slacker. Or a really well dressed hobo that wonders in everyone morning.

And it really fits with the whole modern look of the office, like a small chunk of Seattle rolled into Phoenix because Portland became too mainstream. Once again imagine Slug-Line from House of Cards, but without me getting eaten out while talking on the phone with my dad on Father’s Day. Mainly because I don’t know Kevin Spacey that intimately, don’t have a vagina to eat out, and I would never call my dad on any day regardless of the occasion.

Actually I’m pretty sure the sound the chair makes was similar to the last sound Zoe heard as Frank Underwood pushed her onto the subway tracks in the premiere episode of the second season.

Man no one is going to see the season 3 finale coming when Frank has the secret service officer he’s having a gay affair with assassinate him so that he goes down as a great president in the history books instead of being remembered as the guy who killed his way into the Vice Presidency and ruined another man’s life to get into the oval office by almost starting a war with China.

Still not as good as BoJack Horseman though.

Truly the superior commentary on the current American culture and political climate of all Netflix Original Series.

Shoe Laces that Untie Themselves

The first step in realizing that life is a never ending series of tedious tasks and unrealized happiness is when you graduate from the easy-to-wear, easy-to-use velcro shoes of prekindergarten to the tied laces of elementary. And at this point life begins to suck, as you then start to realize that universe is not apathetic but in facts hates everything, and by everything it specifically hates you.

So your laces will never be tied, and the knots will never be tight enough, unless your parent tied it for you then it cuts off your circulation.

Oh and everyone else in the world always have perfect laces, expect for you. Since this one task that 5-year-olds have mastered behind your capability is still far beyond your mental reach.

So here you are a full grown “adult”, walking through the parking lot of a grocery store with a bag full of Poptarts and another full of chocolate milk mix, since the usage of quotation marks earlier in this sentence implies that you are just pretending to be an adult. Which is highlighted by that fact that you’re still too scared to park between two cars in the denser areas of the parking lot closer to the store so you park in the far back corner next to the Taco Bell and the drug deal.

And as soon as you stop at the cross walk and look both ways before you cross, completely ignoring the lack of cross traffic, and work up the courage to cross without a large hand to walk you, you feel the slight whipping on the back of your right leg coming from the untied shoelace from your left shoe.

Your shoe, which you swear you just tied, has once again cursed you by magically loosening itself and giving you a light reminder that you’re now more or less going to have a limb until you give it the attention that it desires.

But you’re in public, about the cross a cross walk in a parking lot and there’s plenty of other fully grown adults around you who will judge every move you make any sort of nonadult like movement. In this case everyone in a 300 yard radius will judge you for tying your shoe in public, because if you were a real adult it would have already been tied you small mewling infant.

So instead of taking thirty seconds to tie your shoe, you decide to walk it, and this only brings more pain. As you walk like your left leg is trying to escape the sex dungeon of your body, and you pull on its leash to attempt to bring it in for a forth round of S&M, you hobble across to cross walk with your left foot making only half strides as kicking your shoe off in public will ultimately require you to ether change your name and leave the state or commit Seppuku. And seeing as you don’t have the funds for a fake ID, you better start polishing your katana.

You continue your hobble through the parking lot, avoiding eye contact with the Prius that grudgingly stopped at the stop sign for you, and as we all know the biggest judgmental assholes on the planet drive Priuses. Ego wounded but not killed you march on, and by march I mean you start a game of personal skip rope as the shoelace is now orbiting it’s point of origin and attempting to trip you. Tripping in public is almost as bad as kicking your shoe off, but it would only require two years of self exile, and the forfeit of breeding rights.

Now hobbled across the cross walk, you realize that you forgot where you parked. A feat only to made by the stupid or the elderly, (there is quite an overlap) and seeing as you are just now considered an adult, you’re assumed to be stupid. To avoid being labeled the village idiot of your smallish metropolitan suburb you play it off as if every single license plate you see is a hilarious linguistic joke that only you see, and by doing this you point and laugh at every car you pass that isn’t yours. Considering you park in the next county over to avoid parking next to another car, you find yourself point and laughing to almost near exhaustion. Luckily no one around you thinks you’re stupid, but just easily amused, which is a symptom of stupidity but you take it anyway.

Finally spotting your car as the police carry away the mass of dead bodies from the botched undercover drug deal you now think it’s safe to be able to tie your shoe, since the police are busy thinking of witty one liners and practicing taking their sunglasses on and off.

You bend down into the “girl peeing in the woods” position because as you squatted, on the way down you forgot why you were bending and ended up not stepping your left foot forward so that your hands can comfortably reach the rebellious lace.

So now you look like a girl peeing in the woods in a parking lot. And considering you don’t need to squat to pee, because squatting to pee while have a penis is counterproductive to urination, you look like a hobo taking a dump in the parking lot, just with nicer (that’s being kind) clothes. In order to rectify this mistake in bodily position and maintain your commitment to a squatting position you attempt to go from the hobo toilet to the Tim Tebow, this doesn’t go over well as your left knee builds up momentum and then releases it as you move your torso off of it and it slams into your chin, causing you to bite your tongue as you fall back and land flat on your back. Seppuku won’t cover this, this is public self immolation territory.

Recovering and grabbing your can of chocolate milk mix that had begun to roll away to avoid the humiliation of being associated with you. You recover by getting into a full Tim Tebow with minimal wobbling as you try to maintain your balance.

Then you discover that your shoelace isn’t just untied, it’s knotted. It didn’t loosen, your idiot right foot stepped on the lace on the wrong side and pull the knot tighter. Now in full view of Jesus Christ our lord and savior you attempt to untie the knot, but since the world is designed around humans with dexterous, elegant long and skinny fingers, your fist sausages that just flail about aren’t much help with this delicate task.

A full two minutes into the knot untying experience you finally pull the last thread and the knot comes apart like a beautiful rose blooming, actually probably not the best visual considering roses don’t open as much as other flowers, picture a flower that opens up all the way and that’s what the shoelace looked like. I don’t know I’m not a trained florist.

Anyway, now with a truly untied shoe you go to the progress of retying, which only causes that one song from that episode of Spongebob to crawl into your head, and once again your stuck with the monumental task of trying to visualize how

“You put your laces in each hand,
go under and over again, take your loop-de-loop and pull,
and your shoes are looking cool.
You go over and back, left to right, loop-de-loop and hold ‘em tight.”

Could possibly describe to you how to tie your shoe. Then realizing that the aforementioned mentally superior five year olds figured out the instructions in the song and learned to tie their shoes in the course of twenty minutes and it took you years of practice in the vain attempt to gain your father’s approval, and considering how he swore the vow of silence when you first disappointed him (take the year of your last birthday and minus your current age, and it’s your birthday of that year) and you haven’t heard him speak once in your life, the shoe tying wasn’t enough.

Holding back your tears once again, you cross the laces and go under, make the loop, and have the bunny run around the tree and then jump back into its burrow, but instead you have Hitler ride around Berlin in his motorcade and then drive into his secret underground bunker as the Red Army invades, since you learned to tie your shoes watching the History Channel as suppose to Spongebob.

Finally the deed is done and your left shoe appears to be tied by a one handed sea lion (flippered), but you take that victory since sea lions are actually kind of awesome. But then your brain tells you that the tension on your right foot greatly differs from the tension on your left foot. This sensation continues to grow until you grudgingly, like a Prius at a stop sign, Tebow down to tie your right shoe.

Once again the image of Spongebob with a guitar riding a shoe roller-coaster appears in your brain and the song once agains begins to baffle you.

This time the tears begin to roll, your body has had enough today, and as you tighten the noose on Saddam Hussein for his execution in 2006 (you learned to tie your shoes during a dictator biopic marathon), you pulled to0 tightly and the lace snaps like the neck of an Iraqi fascist ruler, and your fists clinching the strands of laces both hit your chin again causing you to bite your tongue and fall back yet again.

The universe has won, and you pull yourself up, and you sit in your car and eat the entire box of Poptarts in an effort to comfort yourself.

Point being you should build a time machine and go back to remarket Velcro shoes as adult shoes.

The Devil doth have a mortal form.