The musings of a madman...

Life, love, hip hop, humor AND instructions on how to cook a bangin'-ass meal... all in one place. I put the words here, make what you want of them.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

True Story©... Please heed the warnings

True Story©…
                Sometimes I operate opposite of my apparent plan to see the world burn and try to warn people that they’re about to do something SUPER stupid.  Unfortunately, 98.772% of the time, these attempts fall on deaf ears and people wind up failing anyway.

You see it all the time on FaceBook…

                “I just won $700 on a scratchoff”
                “I’m pregnant”
                “I’m gay”
                “I think I am in love with someone”
                “I still love my ex”
                “If you’re in High Point and have $15, you can come get this pussy”
                “I’m moving to Mongolia for a new job!”
                “I caught my husband cheating, someone come help me get rid of this body”

…  and this is where I find it in myself to get involved.
                Someone on my timeline posted that last one.  Well, someone on my timeline posted one of EACH of these (except the $15 one, that is an inside joke), but I figured the one that might get someone touched was that last one, so I had to jump to quick and decisive action to help the unlucky soul.  If I couldn’t been the first respondent, I wouldn’t have even bothered.  Understanding internet memetics and how things are designed to spread based sometimes on people’s refusal to think before they act.  Next thing you know, everyone is wearing underwear on their heads or some shit.  So I responded…
                “Don’t fall for it, you’ll comment below of inbox her about this and then you’ll have to post one of these as YOUR status”
I followed that with a response to my own comment saying “watch EVERYONE ignore this, the FIRST and usually most important comment and get themselves caught up.”

                Man, if I had ONLY known how “caught up” dumbasses on the internet are willing to get themselves.  This particular chick apparently has a ton of friends who know her family and their general whereabouts pretty well, so instead of responding, two of them left work early and went to HIS job and let the air out of his tires.  When he came outside to find this had happened, he went back in, came back out properly dressed to handle the situation, takes to a knee to assess if there was any damage or just someone being a dick to him for no reason – well no reason that HE was personally aware of – and just as his attention was on the underside of his car and his tires, they ran up on him and beat him with the straps from their purses.  When he tried to get up and make sense of what was happening to him, he bumped his head on the car and was out cold.
After beating on him a bit more while still knocked out, his assailants were in the wind.

                Meanwhile, back on FB…
The normal comments are still taking place.
“Aw naw, girl…  you was too good for him anyway”
“lets go out for drinks and replace his ass”
“see, n**gas can’t appreciate a good thing”
“I know a good lawyer girl”

…  and then comes her NEXT status…
“OH MY GOD!!!  Someone let all the air out of my husband’s tires and then beat him unconscious when he was trying to fix it!  WHO DID THIS???????”

Wait…  put a pin in that…
I have always opined that behind every bumb ditch (think about that as you read it) is one or several more who are committed ONLY to encouraging the continuing of her bumb ditchery.

Remove pin, but remember the lesson, it will come up on the quiz…
One of her homegirls is QUICK to own up to felony aggravated assault in a publicly-visible social media post (see?  Remember the lesson EVERY time, these things are FACTS).
“Hell yeah, girl, me and [other friend] left work and went to that n**ga job and WHOOPED that ass like the little boy he is.  He tried to play dead on us, but we ain’t give a fuck, we just kept beating.  Teach that n**ga a lesson for doing my girl wrong like that!”

                Oh boy…  Ever get to see something AMAZING play out at the hands of people who do not realize they should probably take a conversation private, lest charges will be pressed and lives (further) ruined?  Well the petty in me is glad that common sense should be treated as a super power sometimes, because it was RIGHT then that we saw that these ignorant girls had jumped right into action and let a social media joke escalate into some real-world drama.  And MAN was it good.  All kinds of bitches and hoes were called, threats to press charges and mention of how there could be implications of his employment, then FURTHER implications that SHE might have actually cheated on HIM first.
All of this on her FB wall for her mama, family, friends and God to see!
It took all I had in me to not post a funny picture in the comment thread, but hey, I TRIED to warn the dumb people who happened upon the initial post not to get caught, but some people are apparently just about that action boss.

Oh well, I tried!

Thursday, November 24, 2016

True Story©... That Time I Wrote To Penthouse

True Story©…
                Wait, I need to set up a little background before I get all the way into this one.
One of the things for boy children that comes from the separation from your father right as you enter adolescence is that sex ed is left to a gym teacher who is uncomfortable dealing with presenting factual information while being responded to with snickering.  The only other place to get it is from the streets, and by “streets,” I mean the older dudes in the neighborhood and peers and such.
Fact: this is a SHITTY way to learn something so important and is one of the reasons that teenage pregnancies were so prevalent when I was in high school.
                Now, True Story© time.

One time when I was 18 or 19, I was CONVINCED that I should write in to Penthouse Forum.  For those who don’t know or won’t Google, Penthouse Forum was a magazine with raunchier pictures than playboy and a section where people would write in to brag of their sexual conquests.  At 37, I am CONVINCED that none of that shit was true, but from ages 13-17, I was a lot more na├»ve about such things.  Armed with no real education on the subject and pretty limited (2ish years) experience, I took up my pen/pad and got to work on writing the letter.
                Without much experience in terms of years or sheer number of partners, I figured I should embellish on what I HAD done without using names or anything, so as to protect the names of the people involved.  I spent at least 3 weeks and 10 drafts on this damned letter.  I had plenty of time, I didn’t own a car at the time and was riding the bus to work at the mall, which gave me an hour and a half every day with nothing but my Walkman (c’mon, it was 1998-99) and headphones on my way to work and at the bus station.  I wanted to make sure it was good enough for them to look at and publish.
I forgot to account for the fact that I had gone from underinformed adolescent to sexually active pretty quickly with my only sex-ed after the childish language people used with their kids in the 80s and early 90s being porn and talking to similarly uneducated people.
I guess at this point, you all want to know how the letter went?  Well thank you for asking.  In a word, "emfuckingbarrassing" is how it went.
I will have to make my best guess at what it was in its entirety, because 18 years and alcohol will have made remembering it verbatim nigh impossible.  It went a bit like this...

“Penthouse,
                I’m only 18 years old right now and know that the submissions you guys normally receive are from older and more experienced people, but I felt this was worth sharing…
One time I after work at the amusement park I used to work at, a coworker approached me and told me of a party that she and some of her friends were going to, asking if me and my buddy would care to tag along.  Well, he was my ride home – we lived 3 blocks apart – so after consulting with him and gathering the address, we were on our way.
                I don’t know WHAT I was expecting when we got to the party, but when we arrived, we quickly realized that we WERE the party.  Opened the door, boobies and cookies out everywhere, not another man in sight, just me and my friend.  Only two of the girls here worked with us, the rest were complete strangers, so it made sense that the ones from work were looking to their friends with an “I told you” kind of look on their faces.
                Enough of the setup.  9 teenage girls in the apartment between 17 and 19 years old, I had just turned 17 and my friend was still 16.  All legal here in the great state of North Carolina.
Anyway, we walk into the apartment and the girls are all kind of giggly and playful, as if they KNOW what is about to go down.  Thinking back over it now, I think my buddy did too, but that was made moot when four of the girls took me by my arms and led me to a room.  They slowly removed my shirt and pants and felt up on my weewee through my briefs, then one of them reached over the band and pulled it out.  Ever the willing pleasers, before making their next moves, they checked with me for my preferences...

                “So what would you like for us to do next?”
                Me: “…  um…  I dunno, what would YOU like?”
                “We’re here for you, you can have whatever you want.”
                Me: “Well, umm…  I hadn’t really thought about it.”
                “Well what do you enjoy?”
                Me: “Well, I guess I could get you and her to lick my winky a little bit, then--…”
                “Did you say ‘winky’?”
                Me: “Something wrong with that?”
                “Well…  Awkward, but no.”
                Me: “I didn’t bring any rubbers…”
                “We did.”
                Me: “Oh, y’all have done this before?”
                *visibly rolling eyes* “Yes, a couple of times”
                Me: “Wow.”
                “So after we lick your--…  Look, I ain’t saying that crazy word.  After that, then what would you like?”
                Me: “Y’all are in charge here, surprise me and make my day.”

And make my day they did.  They did things to me that I had only seen in the video tapes that I found in the trunk of my uncle Bill’s BMW back in the day.  Each one took special time and attention to make me and my wee-wee feel like we were special invited guests.  This was easily the best my dingdong had felt in my whole life.
                They took turns kneeling in front of me and at one point all four of them shared.  One of them put the rubber on my winky and two of her friends held the 4th open for me to do my part.  This goes on for about 45 minutes to an hour until we were done.  We were advised that we couldn’t stay the night because while the one girl’s parents were out of town, she could be subject to random inspections when her uncle got off of work at like 3am.
With that, my buddy and I hopped back in his car and went home.  The next day at work was kind of awkward with the two girls we worked with, in that “you and three of your best friends know what my winky tastes like” kind of way.  Strangely, we were never able to finesse a repeat of that night with those girls, and my nickname around work with not only those two girls but dozens of others became “Winky” and I never figured it out until just before I left for greener pastures.”


I was SO proud of myself and just KNEW they would publish my letter…
Now, 19 years later, I am hopeful that they still might.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

True Story©... The Job Interview

True Story©…


                Confidence is EVERYTHING.
I realize that I have been using this space to tell silly stories with little in the sphere of life lessons.  For that, I apologize and intend to make it up to you.  Today’s discussion is how having your chest out and being confident can go FAR in getting you where you want and need to be.
Since the only way I know to tell you these things is through a totally real anecdotal True Story© of things that have happened in my life, we will peek in on me in a job interview from back when I first got home from the Military…

                Interviewer: “Well Mr Evans, what can you tell us about yourself?”

                Me: “Well as indicated on my CV here, I am recently home from the military.”

                Interviewer: “Oh?  Which branch?”

                Me: “Basically whichever they needed me in on a particular day, I am what you might call a specialist.”

                Interviewer: “And where did you serve?”

                Me: “Vietnam, sir.”

                Interviewer: “V-V…   Vietnam?  You are aware, Mr Evans, that is it now 1998, correct?”

                Me: “Well aware sir, war is tragic and usually solves nothing.”

                Interviewer: “Uh…  Never mind that.  Looking over your resume here, you certainly describe an impressive skillset.”

                Me: “Thank you, sir.”

                Interviewer: “If chosen, when would you be able to begin work?”

                Me: “’If,’ sir?  WHEN you hire me, I am ready to go.  In fact, I will clock in right now.  Where do I take the picture for my badge?”

                Interviewer: “Well, we have some things to work out first, like the background check, and--…”

                Me: “Background check?  Do you not believe I am a Vietnam veteran as a special agent in three different branches of the military?”

                Interviewer: “It’s not that, it’s that standard procedure has it that--…”

                Me: “Standard procedure has you NOT supporting the troops?”

                Interviewer: “It’s not that, it is that we must--…”

                Me: “Oh, I get it…  This is the part for salary negotiation.”

                Interviewer: “Well, that too…”

                Me: “Cool, I will take two million.”

                Interviewer: “Dollars?”

                Me: “You get it.  I like you!”

                Interviewer: “I don’t think this is a two million a year position, I don’t even make that and I--…”

                Me: “You just got to try harder, Geoff, and you can get to that point one day.  Right now, though?  I know my worth, and I am taking two million up front.”

                Interviewer: “Up…  Front?”

                Me: “How else will I be able to give my unbridled commitment to your company if you can’t give it to me?”

                Interviewer: “You’re certainly nothing if not prepared.”

                Me: “Yeah, and that receptionist out front?”

                Interviewer: “Yes?”

                Me: “Can she be a part of my contract negotiation here?”

                Interviewer: “But she’s married.”

                Me: “I just want to SEE those titties, I don’t need to touch them.”

                Interviewer: “…”

                Me: “Look, you’re telling me you see that fine-ass woman with them prodigious gazungas EVERY SINGLE DAY and not once thought something?”

                Interviewer: “Mr Evans, I am a professional.”
[Note: he kinda grinned when I said “gazungas”]

                Me: “That was a yes or no question.  Never mind for now.  Now that we’re in the midst of negotiations, have settled on two million as my salary with viewing a certain pair of breasts as a later option, when do I start.”

                Interviewer: “Wait, what?”

                Me: “Have we not been negotiating the terms of my employment since you first asked when I would be able to start?”

                Interviewer: “I’m afraid that this is not how this works.”

                Me: “And now we’re back to you insulting and disrespecting veterans.”

                Interviewer: “No, I’m not--…”

                Me: “And hogging all of the titties for yourself.”

                Interviewer: “Can we stop talking about Mrs. Pickard’s breasts, please?”

                Me: “I thought you’d never ask.  So…  two million it is, and I start when?  Today?”

                Interviewer: “Hold on a minute, I never said--…”

                Me: “Right, it is Wednesday, you don’t want to start someone new in the middle of a pay week.  You can either backdate my hire day to Monday, or I will simply start on this coming Monday.”

                Interviewer: “But…”

                Me: “Ball’s in your court, buddy…  Take that shot.”

                Interviewer: “SECURITY!!!”

Thursday, November 10, 2016

True Story©... The SECOND Time DARE Ruined my Life

True Story©…


                Did I ever tell y’all about the time I got an assault charge?  Worry not, you’re about to read about it now.
Back when I had my previous car, I refrained from putting a sound system in it because I ONLY bought the car as a soulless appliance and not to necessarily enjoy.  That said, I spent a lot of time listening to (and learning to fucking HATE) commercial radio all over again after 15 years without it.  I heard a spot one day where they were doing acting casting calls at a convention center here in town on a day I had previously taken as a Mental Health™ day from work.  Basically, they would interview random folks to see if they could be placed with agencies, no experience needed, all comers would be spoken to between the hours of 10am and 4pm.  With nothing to do that day, I got my hair cut clean and brushed my waves up nicely, groomed the beard and put on some good clothes and headed over.

                When I arrived, the line was BEASTLY!  I mean wrapped around the building.  It was a fall day, so not too hot outside, I had nothing better to do and decided to give it a shot.
I get in the line and put my headphones on, just kinda head bobbing and mouthing along to the music, I look up and see the dude in line next to me and think “damn, this cat looks familiar” at the first glance.  I spend the next 30 minutes racking my brain trying to place where I know this guy from.  What I didn’t realize at the time was that I might have been staring at every chance to try and place where I knew him from.  About the 4th or 5th time he looked around, he asks “can I help you?” and that is the moment that the exchange that would change my life again began…

                Me: “nah, it just feels like I know you from somewhere.”
                Him: “Oh, well I ain’t from around here, so it wouldn’t be from anywhere local I don’t think.”
                Me: “Aight, just kinda feels like I have seen you somewhere or another.”
                Him: “Oh…”
                Me: “Probably would have been a long time ago, like when I was in middle school about 20 years ago now.”
                Him: “Beats me, my man.”
                Me: “Yeah, now this shit is starting to kill me.”
                Him: “Sorry.”
                Me: “Not your fault, homie.”
                Him: “Yeah, and if you were in middle school 20 years ago, I am a bit older than you.”
                Me: “Heh, yeah…  Who wasn’t, it seems.”
                Him: “Back then, I was--…”
                Me: “Wait, I know where I saw you!”
                Him: “Yeah, I was saying that I used to--…”
                Me: “You motherfucker, you used to give dope to kids to get them hooked on them, I saw you in DARE videos!”
                Him: “Dude…”
                Me: “Do you know I took that shit to heart?  I went to the dope dealers in my neighborhood and collected those free drugs.”
                Him: “Yo…”
                Me: “I wound up in rehab in 7th grade, motherfucker.  And I never smoked a PIECE of dope.”
                Him: “Look, I think you got it all--…”
                Me: “I should fuck you up right here, dude.”
                Him: “LISTEN!”
                Me: “No, YOU listen, gimme a reason motherfucker!”

At this point, we had the attention of basically everyone in earshot.  I am CONVINCED that this dude gave drugs to kids and led to the spiral that got me in all that trouble back at Lincoln Middle.

                Him: “Dude, you’re fucking crazy.”
                Me: “Crazy?!  Right now, I am pissed!”
                Him: “Yes, crazy, I am trying to tell you that I was--…”
                Me: “You were a got-damned dope man, the lowest of the scum of the earth!”
                Him: “Now look, am I am going to get a chance to talk this out, or are you going to keep yelling, because this is getting out of hand.”

It was too late by then, I was convinced that he was what I thought he was.  Given the trajectory of my life experience based on what was set forth by what he was (to me in this moment), he didn’t get to even START his next sentence before I rushed him.

                Right here in line in front of all of these people, I had gone into a red-misted rage and first hit him in the jaw, he started to fall and I tackled him.  I pinned his arms down with my knees and just kept punching him in the head and neck, I had to have hit him 10-15 times before security got involved and held us down until the cops arrived.  We were both arrested for fighting and statements taken from witnesses.  I was clearly the aggressor.  The guy, in his teenage years, was an actor who portrayed a drug dealer in videos for DARE and the ONDCP.  Not only was I the aggressor, I was also a damned idiot  Thank God that man was the forgiving type, he decided not to press charges.  I was held overnight and released in the morning and returned to work.

That was the SECOND time that fucking D.A.R.E. program had ruined my fucking life.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

True Story©... Love in the TSA

True Story©…

                Fact: EVERY dude will find himself in a bit of a drought sometime or another in his life.  Some take to extreme measures to get themselves out of their funk.  These measures include paying for it, thirsting at every juncture, begging for it, tricking off on a couple of bills or expensive meals or (perhaps most reasonably) investing in some internets porn and resolving the issue in-house.
Anyway, a few years ago, I was in a bit of a slump and considering I don’t thirst, beg or pay and pr0ns was getting boring to me, I had to come up with something.

                It so happened that this was RIGHT around the time that the thwarted shoe and underwear bombers situations took place, so increased TSA scrutiny in airports began.  Soon after that, complaints of people being felt up by creepy TSA agents started rolling in.
…  and I had an idea.
I would book a quick cheap flight to somewhere close, like maybe Charlotte or DC or something like that so as to get a few moments with a (hopefully) creepy female TSA agent on my way through the checkpoint.  Once she begins feeling me up for security purposes, surely she would note my excitement and I would score a handy out of it at the least, right?

                Armed with a plan and a boarding pass to go and spend ONE day in DC – so as to take in the National Mall and the Capital, plus whatever else I could happen upon while I was there – I arrived to the airport 80 minutes before my flight.  I do a passive walk-by to assess the agent situation, so I could make sure my plan will be able to go as I envisioned it in my head.  “Cool, we got three male agents and two female agents,” which means I would need to watch a few moments longer to see how the lines moved and get myself in front of one of the ladies.  I had come to prefer the one on my left/their right.  Cool, I will just bare to the right when I get in line, and assuredly I could wind up in her line and break my rough streak under the guise of a TSA security checkpoint.  It would be the spankjob I could write into Penthouse Forum about.
(wait, is Penthouse Forum still a thing?)
I go through the Tensa Barriers and I am now faced with my WORST fear.  Not only can I not chose whose line I am in, they are doing a “general admission” kind of thing where the next available agent takes the next available traveler.  FUCK!  They’re about to totally screw up my program.  I try to stall, letting people pass me.  Acting like I’ve received an important phone call but the woman I want to inspect my equipment NEVER seems to line up just as I need it.

                Then it happened…
“Excuse me, sir,” came from one of the male agents.  “Sir, we need you to help us to keep the line moving.  You will have plenty of time to complete your phone call before your plane takes off.”
Dammit, I am being forced from what I had decided was my right and destiny.
And it was humiliating.
Once my Nikes were off, he looked in them, put his hand in them, lifted the insoles and smelled them too.  It wasn’t just any smell either, it was one of those euphoric-looking inhales, like he was in a Glade or Airwick commercial.  Except he didn’t close his eyes when he did it, he looked RIGHT into my eyes at the same time.  I felt cheap.  Next, he puts on the coroner gloves and goes through my one backpack (I was only staying the night), holding my two pairs of briefs in the air for everyone in eyesight to see.  If I wasn’t clouded by the frustration of not getting the agent I wanted, I would be more clear on whether or not this motherfucker waived them in the air to have another smell like he had just done with my shoes.  I go through the x-ray next and nothing beeps or is particularly alarming, so no pat-down was necessary, thank God.  But I SWEAR I heard him snap that glove at me like a proctologist as he was taking them off after giving me my bag back.

                Needless to say, my slump would continue for a few more weeks and I cried and drank whiskey the entire flight.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

True Story©... Trolling for entertainment

True Story©…

                Apparently, it has become a more obvious fact over the past 3.5ish years that I can be a bit of a nihilist.  I mean, like, MORE of a nihilist and somehow I am okay with that, like to the point where I have sharpened my ability to needle someone with the simplest of words without cursing or raising my voice, yet driving them to both.
My favorite place to do this – as observed by my brother and cousins – is on the comment threads under a third involved party’s FaceBook post.  That third party usually knows me well enough to know when I am being serious, silly  or just fucking with someone.  The fun part is when they lay back and let it happen.

                Anyway, True Story© time…
Scene 1:
One day back in the winter, I was in an especially Trolly mood and logged into my favorite place to snare a victm.  I scrolled and happened upon the post of a long-time female friend of mine who happens to have nice mammary glands and pictures prove it.  Frequently, the comments under said pictures are the romping grounds for thirsty fuckboys who often become aggressive when they think a different thirsty fuckboy is moving on titties he has claimed for himself.  She’s not responding to them, of course.
I respond with a well-placed subliminal to make anyone who is still getting notifications on her post aware that I know she sees their comments and isn’t going to respond to over thirst.  This works double time because while she does not respond to THEM, she responds to me.
…  three of the five of them ALSO respond to me, aggressively.  Apparently I am a bitch-ass-n**ga who isn’t getting any pussy and that is why I joke about (read: ‘hate on’) “real n**gas” who are.  Nothing to lose, I engage one of them to the point where he is LITERALLY offering to meet me and fight over some words on a webpage.

-Put a pin in that, it will be on the quiz-

Scene 2:
On another friend’s post about music, the conversation turns to Drake.  This, naturally, leads to “Drake makes music for…” and “Drake the kinda n**ga…” responses until someone comes in to defend him.  Now, it stands to reason that anyone defending Drake’s music to the point of Stannery might be about as hard as a bag of wet doughnuts, but this particular dude swings for the fences immediately.  Not only are we ONLY joking on Drake because we don’t know shit about music and he does, but the “accomplishments” of people in his circle nullifies any rebuttal we might be able to form.  Yeah, buddy with the fake Jordans takes it a step further when we kept right on going and NOW offers his services in a fistfight as well.  Keep in mind, that dude does NOT know me, doesn’t know what I am about or just what this situation could turn into.

                *Bingo*

Now I have two fuckboys, living in the cloak of “real n**gas” who want to fight me over a couple of pretty mundane-ass differences of opinions presented by someone sitting at the other end of an internets-connected electronic device.
Bear in mind, now, that the fact that they DO want to fight proves my point that they’re both insecure fuckboys, but never mind that.

                Anyway, I send each a message to their direct inbox “pull up then, pussy n**ga,” which naturally enrages the both of them into all-caps tirades demanding that all I need to do is name the spot and they will be there to ensure that my ass is kicked…
Simple…
First I stalked each of their pictures and noted that they were seemingly quite fond of their automobiles.
I then tell them that I don’t use my real picture on my profile “to keep my bitches out of my business,” and have them both to meet me at an out-of-the way park, describing to each that I would be pulling up in a whip matching the description of the other’s car.  Date and time were set, I backed up ALL the music, photos and video from my phone and set to the task of arriving to the park from a different angle than where I directed them to meet me with an empty phone set to video tape the forthcoming altercation, hopefully it would make it to WorldStar.
While BRILLIANT, this plan failed to account for the level of bravado and stupidity of a fuckboy in his feelings.  Apparently the Draking fuckboy was not as hard as he said he was and brought three enabler fuckboys with him to help him fight.  Meanwhile, Thirsty Thug fuckboy came alone and he WAS about them hands and a little more.  Draking fuckboy’s dude gets out the car first and gets knocked down in one punch.  Now he has to get involved, along with two friends.  They rush Thirsty Thug who (actually quite hilariously) handles the three of them until the first one gets around behind him.
At this point, I am watching from far enough away to not be noticed , haven’t even closed the car door and because of the surprise of a planned 4-on-1 fight, forgot to video ANY of this shit.
It was for the better, of course, that the car door was open and ready to go, because just as the 1-on-3 became a 4-on-one, I heard the words “awe shit, that n**ga got a GUN!” and I am no longer a spectator, but a motherfucking escapee.  When I made it home safely, taking the extra long way to shake off anyone who might have been following, I checked the news for any shootings in Hagan Stone park and blocked BOTH of them on FB.


                Needless to say, while I will still log in and troll people to my heart’s content, I have decided to stop short of the fight promotion part of the trolling business.
But still, they deserved that shit anyway!

Thursday, October 20, 2016

True Story©... And your damned hashtags

True Story©…

                My level of disdain for people who fake wittiness is beyond measure.  Also, sometimes I have a hard time maintaining my temper in response to such things.  With that in mind, I fucking HATE hashtags for the sake of hashtagging.  I understand the use of them for discussions on a topic on social media, like last night’s debate or MLB playoffs games.  But cramming a sentence preceded by a pound sign under a post with no spacing because you thought it was witty is enough to send me into a rage.  Seeing them on an email, text message or even a fucking t-shirt makes it even worse still.
                One day last year, I decided that I’d had enough after a rough morning on The BookFace.  I was off work and home, and several consecutive posts contained the worthless hashtagging scheme and I was pushed into action.
First, I spent one hour on Google, Wikipedia and everywhere those sites led me to learn who specifically it was who INVENTED the hashtag, then I set about the task of locating that person with the intentions of fucking assaulting them.  1:15pm, I had my information and was ready to be on my way.  Armed with a full tank of gas, no responsibilities until the next day and (of course) these hands, I was ready to hit the road and go whoop an ass or seven.
…  then my FUCKING car wouldn’t start.
                So here I am, ready to kick ass, knowing precisely who it was to be and why and I am done in by a selectively inanimate object that chose THIS day to become inanimate.  Instead of getting on the road to collect a body count over what nonsense their creation caused, I had to deal instead with a 300k+ mile Subaru doing what 300k+ cars do. 

Oh well, I will go get em next time.