Yes, I know, I have not posted since Ron Paul was a relevant GOP presidential candidate. I offer no excuses. I could feed you some ambiguous, intentionally-mysterious hints at what I have been doing to make it sound cool and pardon my lapse, but that's not what this blog is about. It's about me and my opinions on totally asinine shit. So I won't bother you with tedious details about why I haven't been writing. Somewhere along the way, I have forgotten to be a responsible blogger (if those exist). My apologies, loyal readers. Let's move on.
Happy International Women's Day! What, you didn't know that was today? You didn't know that holiday existed? Well, I did, and it's totally not because it was the Google Doodle of the day. Shame on you, sexist pigs! And it just happens to coincide roughly with the release of world-renowned ultra-prick Taylor Max's third (really,
third, America?) book,
Hilarity Ensues, which, to be fair, it probably does. For about six pages. Then, I feel quite confident, it becomes just another string of dirty, mean-spirited, sensationalized anecdotes of dubious authenticity from the life of a loser whose fame clock is hitting 00:14:59.
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The kind of guy who thinks this joke never gets old. How clever. |
What sort of name is that anyway? Tucker Max? How about Chotchbag Max? It sounds like the kind of online handle a 12-year-old "extreme" rollerblader would adopt. So, I am the anti-Tucker Max. By that, I mean I am not a narcissistic, chauvinistic, complete douche-tool (much). Notably, I'm also not famous. As a writer, I am perfectly aware that embellishment and hyperbole are the weapons of mass comedy, and being offensive can be funny. Or at least I hope so. Thus, I would like to hope Max's authorial persona, which reads like a stock character from (take your pick) Animal House/Revenge of the Nerds/PCU/Old School/whatever-the-modern-remake-is-called, is a gross exaggeration. But let's be honest: in all likelihood, it's not.
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And this is a fucking shovel. Get it? |
So, with that needlessly involved and lengthy introduction in mind, it's time for another revision of the rules governing male behavior, the Gentlemen's Agreements. I hearby call this meeting to order.
High-fives
Like many of society's more insidious ills, we probably have the 80s to thank for this one. The slapping of elevated palms was around well before that, I assume, but it was not until the era of neon glitz, cocaine, and laughably-stupid Reaganomics that it became the go-to gesture for any sort of masculine celebration. More specifically, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are, perhaps, to blame for the rabid proliferation of this phenomenon in the modern world.
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It is the only sin they ever committed. |
In conducting research for this article (yes, I do that), I even found out April 21 is National High-Five Day. That. Is. Pathetic. Nowadays, high-fives are the equivalent of a participation ribbon in your elementary school field day. We need to let this die. At this point, a high-five means about as much as blinking. Nothing says, "My maturity is permanently stunted!" like going for the palm-connection with a bro because you ordered something mutually-awesome in the Taco Bell drive-thru. As a matter of principle, I do not distribute high-fives except for very momentous achievements, in an attempt to reestablish their once-lauded status. If it helps, anytime you feel the urge to call for a high-five, just remember it will never, ever be as sweet as . . .
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. . . this. Yeah. |
Stop being a dickhead (shock, right?)
Boy, am I going to catch shit for this one. Ladies, just remember this: I am on your side. As my good friend Dr. Watson once commented in regard to my stance on women, "He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent." Or maybe that was about Sherlock Holmes. And they might both be fictional characters. Either way. My point is, no matter what your personal ignorant thoughts on the ovaried ones, treat them civilly. As I have noted previously, I am pretty old-school, but this is one of those times when I think people would truly benefit from following my lead. Quit being a Fucker Max. To refer back to my earlier visual aid:
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Oh, I get it, it's funny because you treat all females like anonymous receptacles for your seed who are lining up for the honor! Well-played! |
Seriously, how old are you? The war between the sexes, the longest-running cold war in the history of ever, will probably never abate, but we can promote the
detente by not being dickheads to the other half of our species. For every Snooki,
termagant, and backstabbing uber-twat out there, another 392 women are essentially respectable, decent human beings. Yes, there are genuine bitches and sluts out there, but acting like they are the representative examples of their gender is akin to saying Germans are, by and large, the Third Reich. Only not as funny.
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Take that, rich and diverse cultural history of a nation! |
Beyonce may be an obnoxious, pretentious celebrity who seems to revel in telling men off, yet you can't deny her man-slamming music is a product of women getting the shaft (damn, couldn't resist) from us. But, while we're on the subject, you can call a girl a "slut" when you can verify that she has had some manner of sexual contact with more partners than you have. Maybe. Until then, shut the hell up. That is all.
KP, out.