Permanent Case of the Heebie Jeebies

                           

or, the day I stopped having a thing for katy perry…

                                               

                Well, I’m crushed. Soul destroyed, distraught. Tormented, addled, beside myself. Discomposed, unscrewed, unglued.

                I mean, it just hurts, you know? I knew that she was dating John Mayer, as if that wasn’t bad enough, now they’ve co-written a song together that is, to me, the equivalent of snuff.

I feel like this pouty lipped, mainstream, every bro with an acoustic guitar you met in college douchenozzle is trying to actively make me vomit. I could stomach the fact that he’s dating her but the lyrics to this song are basically her talking about how wonderful and glorious he is in the sack. The lyrics are putrid, sickening, vile combinations of words I am loathe to repeat, but I will for the sake of the fact that I must make every stride to take this man down.

 For the good of the land.

I actually find the thought of her banging John Mayer more gross than the thought of her banging Russell Brand. At least he’s funny sometimes, even if he does seem like the rejected third Gallagher brother, and I’d probably take hearing Wonderwall for the eleventy billionth time over hearing any John Mayer song more than once. I mean she could have anyone! (Even this wonderfully witty wordsmith that wryly wrangles language like Wally Whitman affectionately known as: Yours Truly. I mean, Jackpot.)

Ducking and dodging digression now and moving on to this hideously retarded lovechild they have created together. It seems like the imagery was plucked right out of the imagination of the guy in the hallmark meetings everyone thinks is too flowery, and puts the two of them right next to you making out like every gross couple discovering they had mouths in the 8^th grade. Let’s take it from the top, shall we? Cringe.

               

Lay me down at your altar, baby

I'm a slave to this love

Your electric lips have got me speaking in tongues

Laying it on a little thick there, Kates? It’s going to be hard to decipher what this song is about considering the fact that we are just drowning in subtext. Maybe you’re going super meta and trying to write lyrics as if Prince had suffered a traumatic brain injury? (That’s nothing to joke about, though, Prince is an American institution and could teach John Mayer a thing or two about being suave.)

Why do electric lips have her speaking in tongues? What are electric lips? Did he get them from Sky Mall? Are they battery operated or powered by his own smug sense of self-satisfaction? These are the burning questions. Moving on. It gets worse:

I have prayed for a power like you

To see deep down in my soul

Oh, you make me bloom like a flower, a desert rose

You make me bloom like a flower? You make me bloom like a fucking flower? Come on. Gross. Plus, I think the desert rose metaphor is getting a little tired, don’t you? Who does John Mayer think he is? Bono? Even Bono thinks that’s cheesy and he’s been grating mozzarella into his songs since the late 80’s. Double cringe.

Magic, or one, or mystery

All of your charms have worked on me

I would surrender myself

Holy hell, and heaven high

You will open up my eyes

And I am finally here

Good lord. John Mayer is heaven to you? Heaven. Like eternal bliss, everything you’ve ever wanted or needed from your mortal life embodied in one curly headed twit? Ironic because for me, Johnny boy would probably be present at the ninth circle of DK’s inferno. One man’s trash, I guess.

This is spiritual, under your spell

Phenomenal, the way you make me feel

Like an angel, oh, at blow

Like a feather, you make me float

Yeah. I think this last bit speaks for itself. The rest is just more of the same. The worst part is, this song is actually called “Spiritual”. Eeeeeeeewwwwwwwww.

Basically Katy Perry says that John Mayer is her religion, and she has sworn herself to him, and this leads me to the inevitable conclusion that he has either mastered the same brain washing tricks as scientology or invented love potion number 9. Either way, he’s used his powers for evil. Shame on you John, shame.

In any case, it seems like that’s it for me and Katy. Thankfully there’s like three actresses that look exactly like her that John Mayer probably hasn’t slept with yet, but give it time.

Now you might say, whatever Dave, you’re just jealous because he’s dating a sexy pop star and you’re not. That might be true, but I don’t think I’d trade places with him because, first off, I’d have to be John Mayer and that’s gotta be hard no from my camp. Second, I don’t really think I’d want her now, she dated John Mayer, that’s number three on my list of deal breakers after:

 1.)    Listens to John Mayer

 2.) Would date John Mayer.

Lastly, I’d like to thank Seth McFarlane for saying in 2009 in one sentence what I’ve needed several hundred to express:       

       

Petty or Small - First to Fall.

“In any bureaucracy, the people devoted to the benefit of the bureaucracy itself always get in control, and those dedicated to the goals the bureaucracy is supposed to accomplish have less and less influence, and sometimes are eliminated entirely.”
                     ― Jerry Pournelle 

                I do not suffer fools gladly. In fact, I suffer them with maddening rage that is akin to Bruce Banner, “hulking out” or a smash cut to the Hiroshima mushroom cloud. Fools, however, are a dime a dozen, and whether they are cutting you off in traffic or are too fucking stupid to have their money out before they hit the front of the line, they are an evil that my personal crusade is yet to vanquish.

                Fools, however, are only that by accident, and they can be afforded a certain level of forgiveness due to the fact that their idiocy is, for the most part, genetic or perhaps caused by some sort of head trauma. It’s the petty, the small, the lords and rulers of tiny worlds that attempt to destroy my day with what little power they wield when I wander into their dominion. Whether it is the traffic cop, with his small notepad and grandiose sense of purpose, or the high school teacher brandishing an “F” just to prove a point, I have ducked and dodged these cretins my whole life, and so must you I would wager.

                See, I know you, kind reader. I know if you’re reading this, you aren’t one of them, you’re one of the hip, happenin’, men or women about town that catch cool like a cold and are breezier than fall in New England. You’ve got better things to do than fuck with people’s day for no reason, right? Why be the person out to ruin everybody else’s good time? Don’t be the angry neighbor over the fence, shaking his fist while you attempt, fruitlessly, not to look at his wrinkly old man junk revealed by the bathrobes inevitable acquiesce to the wind. Put your old man junk away and come join the party, it really is fun over here.

                Now, I’m no psychiatrist, but I have watched A LOT of Frasier, so basically I am. (It’s a phony science anyway, but that’s a topic for another blog post).  I think I can speculate fairly easily on the root of what causes people to behave this way, and I think it can be boiled down to one, if not all three, of the following:

1.)    Revenge- 

This one is fairly self-explanatory. Basically, these small spineless little fuckwads that harass you over being two minutes late, harp on about forms being filled out or generally just go out of their way to make you feel as small as they do, are probably doing it because someone did something to them first. Maybe they were picked on (I wonder why), maybe Mommy and Daddy didn’t love them enough (you don’t have to love your kids if they suck, by the way, just try again), maybe they couldn’t run fast or jump high, whatever the reason, they are out for revenge. You, in their view, are a metaphor for everyone else that got them to where they are, gleefully signing up to be an R.A when they don’t need the free housing. They will put you in your place alright, next to them on the train to nowhere.

2.)    Genetics-

Small breeds small, as far as I’m concerned. Cats have litters of cats, mice have litters of mice, spiders explode out hundreds of creepy, gross little spiders, and the world keeps on turning. The same rule of thumb applies to humans, somewhere along the chain of human evolution we decided, for some reason, we needed bureaucrats, and wieners beget wienies. These hairless cats were allowed to survive and reproduce with others, creating more wiener sans toothpick (gross and useless, the toothpick makes the flavor in a cocktail sausage and its ilk, trust me.) Now, despite it probably being the most vapid and joyless sex that two humans can have with one another, and probably involves lists and data, it happens, and it happens enough to put more than one traffic cop, hall monitor, red pen wielder et al., in your life.  

3.)    Small brains, small dicks, small kingdoms-

The seemingly worst part about these people is their knack, nay, their talent, to find themselves in positions of power. They are in charge of your green card, your court date, your bank loan. Those of us who consider ourselves bigger than fine print are always hobbled by it, and it’s a sad state. A state that got me thinking about who arrived and got mercilessly devoured for hundreds of years first:

      The chicken or the egg?

Are these people a naturally occurring phenomenon or where they born as a necessary evil due to the positions we’ve created for them and the tools we put at their disposal? Perhaps, perhaps it is our fault as a society that we have created a virus that can’t be cured. I’ll give the working title of “petti douchicocci” but I’m no scientist.

Whatever the reason, we must suffer these tools gladly until computers inevitably replace them and start putting snide post it notes on everything instead.

Just remember, if you feel yourself taking pleasure, even a little bit, in actively causing someone else’s misery, or finding you can help someone but choosing not to because of your own twisted and tiny principles, check yourself before you riggidy wreck, yah dig?

Siz out.

Billy Bic

Billy Bic.

I was born, yeah that’d be right, I said born, in Milford, Connecticut. We didn’t like to say assembled, it felt cold. The year was 1961. I was a bright eyed young Bic lighter, eager to explore the world, they told us we were meant for grand lives back then, they told us lighters travelled more than anything else, they told us we’d meet more people, live more life, they told us a lot of fanciful tales that painted the world in black and white. I suppose it’s like a parent. They tried their best to prepare us, but we had to see it for ourselves. They left some things out, they left out the pain.

They left out the part about getting attached to your owner, only to be discarded. The part of your life when lighting his cigarettes or his pipe or his cigars is all you do. You do it for so long you can’t even remember a time when you were apart. If you were lucky enough, like me, you’d have a time period when an owner felt a connection back to you, and made an effort to keep you, for a while at least.

When I started, I was always smiling, I was red, and I was good at what I did, so I got a break, but not right away. I got noticed, but by the wrong people at times.  I thought I was special, but to most, I wasn’t. I suppose I was just an object, but I was glad for knowing those who saw me as more.

My first owner bought me at a grocery store in 1962, after a long time being packaged and shipped with the other boys all around the world; I still remember the box opening, the package tearing, and the manager of the place gruffly stuffing us into one of those cramped lighter holders. Tight fit, if I remember, but it’s been quite a while.

I stood as tall and as proud as I could. I did like they told us, I stayed positive, I smiled and I made eye contact. I was trying harder than everyone else around me and they all knew it, they resented me for it I think, but I didn’t care. I was the first one picked.

“The red one, on the right there.”  The sentence that launched my career and started my life and I was told I’d remember it forever. They were right about that, I just wish I could forget the man who said it.

He gave me my first lesson about the harsh reality of this world we live in, and it was one I’d never forget. His eyes were cold and dead, his brow was heavy and awkward like a badly packed bag. He smelled terrible, and his pocket was filthy.

I was there in all the meetings, I heard all the planning, I saw how he and his associates discussed taking a man’s life like it was some sort of nine to five they were muscling through, as if filing paperwork were the same as pulling a trigger. The rest of them, they seemed detached on purpose, like they were told to do a job and wanted to get on with it and go home. That doesn’t excuse what happened, of course, but I could tell the man whose pocket I rode home in every day enjoyed the idea of what he was about to do. I could feel his hunger for it, his anticipation for the day.

People speculate so much about what actually happened that day, and I have spent many sleepless nights wishing I could tell them who it was and what really happened, and now they will definitely never know.

 I’ve heard people say that everyone remembers where they were when John Kennedy was   assassinated, well I certainly do. 

The man who shot John F. Kennedy did it on a hill; The man who shot John Kennedy smoked Winstons. 

Thankfully we parted ways soon after that, but I knew what I had seen and heard would stay with me forever. I heard the people screaming, running crying, not knowing what to do. I knew it was coming.

And I heard him laugh.

He left me at a bar by accident a few days later. Considering how long I’d been with him and his other suit wearing badge wielding brutes he took little notice, but I was glad of it. A waitress picked me up and pocketed me.

Her name was Nancy Fielder, and she was beautiful.  

She smoked Lucky Strike and her boyfriend Marc smoked Lucky Strike. They were simple and kind and neat and organized and I was happy with them. I never wanted to leave, I tried to put the past behind me, but it would still come up in conversation and I would have to relive it all. They had no idea what had happened to me, so I couldn’t blame them, but I loved being their friend. They seemed to like me as well, they got a lot of compliments on my appearance, which made me feel good. People seemed to think I was sturdy, and I always lit first time, even in the wind.  

For a long time I hated Marc for handing me over and not coming back for me. For a long time I blamed him, and I just knew Nancy would be furious. I don’t blame Marc anymore, he didn’t know what he was doing, and we had our time together.

Listen to me, I sound like a rejected beaux.

Anyway, next was Mike, and he was forgettable, then John, and then Diane. I had begun to see a bit of the world, I remember planes and trains. I remember parties and conversations. I ended up with a slob named Felix, slumming with a drunk that lacked people skills and hygiene wasn’t the highlight of my year, but the Felix’s of the world do wonders for perspective.

Thankfully, I was his lighter for only four torturous days before I was taken by a girl attempting to grab her things in a 7am mad dash, filled to her brim with early morning regret. If you knew Felix, you wouldn’t blame her for feeling that way, but I was glad she arrived when she did.

She was a student, her name was May, and she didn’t smoke, but liked having me around for some reason. She would twirl me in her fingers, light me occasionally, and would help out strangers with a light every now and again, just to spark up conversation. Excuse the pun.

May was my education and how wonderful it was. She took her studies seriously and spent most of her time with a book or a notebook or in a class, and she would take me with her everywhere she went, without fail. I got to see beautiful, sprawling forests, mountain trails and lakes lit up by the moons glow at night. I saw life for the first time through her eyes.  I grew close to May in those months, and I know she was fond of me, as well. But I had learned by then not to rely too much on people for that kind of reciprocation.

My time with May gave me a perspective; it taught me where I was, when I was, and, most of all, who I was.

I was in Boston, it was 1969, and, through May, I now had opinions, I had a perspective. I supported women’s rights and learned all about the suffragettes, I supported Black Civil Rights and knew everything there was to know about Dr. King, I wept the day he died and at first wondered if it was the same evil fuck that shot John Kennedy.

May took care of me; she refilled me, which doesn’t happen to a regular old red Bic, let me tell you. She even gave me my name. I’d never had a name before, and I was so proud the day she said it. “This is my favorite lighter I don’t know why.  I take it everywhere I don’t even smoke. I even named it Billy. Billy Bic.” She laughed her awkward laugh and had no idea what she had done for me that day.

I could tell the blue eyed jerk she was talking to wasn’t listening but I didn’t care, I couldn’t believe it, I wasn’t just a lighter anymore, no longer just a red lighter.

I was Billy and the world was full of possibilities.

May got her purse snatched getting on the J train in Brooklyn while visiting a friend in the spring. I was in there, and it took me a minute to realize what was happening. I was distraught, at first, to be apart from May, but I consoled myself with the fact that she would be fine, she wasn’t hurt in the robbery, and it was time for me to see more of the world. I was grateful to her but I had taught myself now how to let go.

New York City wasn’t like Boston, it wouldn’t chew you up and spit you out, instead it felt like it would bite off a big piece and leave you to die if you didn’t have your wits about you.

But I did. I was ready, and I had something to prove.

I escaped from the thief quickly; he left me on the table at some party and a groupie for Fleetwood Mac picked me up. What happened next was a whirlwind of excitement and glitz, parties and glamour. The seventies was my decade, and New York was my city.

I saw Henry Fonda snort cocaine and I lit his cigarette afterward, I saw Joan Jett sleep with Stevie Nicks’ boyfriend in a coatroom and I saw the fight afterward.

I hung out with Ginsberg when he sat next to Dylan during the Rolling Thunder Revue and they jammed.

I swapped stories with other lighters that had done this circuit, some of them a lot older than me, and they taught me some survival tricks I hadn’t known before. Not lighting very well for the shitty owners, going first time for the good ones, refusing to light cocaine or burn up heroine cause that’s a sure fire way to run you out of gas. Even if you’re probably getting chucked somewhere after that, some hippie would pick you up, they spent a lot of time on the grass.

Discarded lighters are known to come out of whatever hole they are left in a little tainted, a little bit off. We met a couple on the road, the ones who had been dropped down couches or sewers just to wash up still working somehow, but not quite right in the head. I mean, I’d met them, but I never expected to be one of them, I was having the time of my life.

One of the roadies put me in his pocket at an after party. I never minded going with the road guys, they were good salt of the earth people, but this one let me slip down the side of a couch at some apartment in Detroit. Detroit. He could have picked a better place for my descent into madness, but I suppose every good time ends. Hell, most of them probably end in Detroit.

When the darkness hit, first there was panic. I reassured myself, it was all I could do not to fly off the handle. Someone would stick their hand down the side and find me. I had some near misses in my time, and told myself to remain calm. Then the hours started to slip away and I lost track of time. I remember thinking at one point I had definitely been down there for days, maybe weeks, and then the madness.

I completely lost it, and everything started rushing back to me. Everyone I’d grown close to was gone, and I was completely alone. Without any kind of contact, in a dark hole, your sanity goes quicker than I’m comfortable admitting. My thoughts were disjointed, the only contact I had with the outside world were grumblings, like I was hearing voices in my head I could barely hear.

I can tell you what the first drop of water feels like to a man dying of thirst, it was the same feeling I got when I saw the light again for the first time. The couch was being moved out to the sidewalk, it was old and ragged now, looked nothing like what I had fallen into in the first place. I didn’t get out as I had dreamed all that time, with the helping hand of a kind stranger; instead I fell with a loud CLACK out of a hole in the bottom of the couch and onto the stone steps of the apartment building.

One of the two movers picked me up on his way back in, and I would, if I could have, leapt with pure thanks as he slipped me into his pocket. I could not believe I was here, I was alive.

Where the hell was here? What month was it? It felt cold outside. Did I still work, could I still light?

The man who saved my life smoked Newport 100’s. His name was James and he was a part time mover, part time coke dealer in the year 1988. I had been in that couch for well over a decade and it showed. He blew the dust out of my head and tried to light me, I knew I had to concentrate and light for him or I would be discarded.

One flick, no light.

Two, still nothing.

I thought he was going to give up.

Then, on the third attempt, glorious and seemingly eternal I lit, and I stayed lit. He seemed happy with himself and his find, and he slipped me into his pocket.

Later, when a deal went bad and he got winged, he seemed to put the luck of not being dead on my shoulders, started calling me “lucky red” after a girl he once knew, although judging by some of the stories I heard about her the title must have been given ironically. Me and James were together for a long time, and despite him being a horrible piece of shit I grew fond of him. Call it Stockholm, call it whatever, but I was sad when they capped him.

I had to figure out what had happened when he didn’t come home one night. I felt like a police wife worried sick and brewing tea. I guess I was his lucky  red after all. I got scooped up by one of his “friends” when they were ransacking his place and then went on another cross country trip, one of those you get used to as a lighter, going from pocket to pocket. I had gotten my head straight after my time in the couch hole and I was ready to pick back up again. The fun was over now, though, and I knew it, it was time to try and lay low, keep my head down and survive. Maybe get picked up by a nice elderly couple and live out the rest of my days helping them through theirs. Always end up in the same place every night, always in use. Wouldn’t have been a bad gig to end things with.

But that’s not the way it went. Never does work out how you plan things, especially when you can’t move under your own volition.

I knew it was him right away, I recognized the must and whatever horrible hair product he still used somehow. I remember how that smell that turned my stomach the day he bought me. At first I prayed he wouldn’t pick me up, I’d been left at a bar, same way he left me all those years prior, with bags of relief and bad memories. The years hadn’t been kind to him, and a cold chill went over me when I saw his eyes fall to where I lay.

“Whose is this?” He asked, innocently enough.

“Someone left it here,” replied the bartender “Take it if you want it”.

“I think I will, used to have one just like it”.

“It’s just an old Bic, man.”

“Nah, they don’t make em’ like this no more.”

He wore an old paddy cap that sat snugly on his head above the cavernous wrinkles that had formed on his face. His brow still sat low and heavy like his face had trouble carrying it, shelter for his cold, dead brown eyes.

He was still shaved clean, and he still smoked Winstons.

When he took me, first I felt fear. Then rage, and then a cold, settled feeling washed over me. I knew what I had to do, I just didn’t know how.

I traveled with him for a long time, and he was still a horribly vicious and evil man, just no longer sanctioned by the government. The things I watched him do, powerless to change them, would break most people, but my mission was solitary, my purpose set.

Then, after so much pain, so much waiting, my moment came.

We had left the motel from the night before, me sitting solemnly in the bottom of his jean pocket, the girl from the bar lying lifeless in the room we absconded from so casually. We rumbled along in his massive Lincoln, presumably going onto the next town, the next horror, when I heard him stop. The familiar sounds of the gas pump leaving its cradle and going into the tank.

Then, as he brought the pump back out he swore audibly as the smell of gas filled my nostrils. Notoriously, my kind don’t do well with gasoline, but he has spilled it all over his jeans, and this was my moment. I wanted to do it right away, but I didn’t know who was around, what the damage could be. So I waited, and that wait was the longest of my life. Longer than the assembly line, longer than the couch, longer than my whole life, it seemed, but it was only a few minutes. I knew I was going with him, but I didn’t care, the bastard had to go.

I tried the first flick, the flint was soaked wet from the gasoline. My heart sank.

The second flick, still nothing.

The third flick, I thought I was going to give up.

A fourth, a flick, a flame, a scream.

I felt the road vanish from underneath the car, I heard him scream like I had heard him make so many others scream.

I smiled. Not because he died in pain, but because I remembered how I had lived with joy. I remembered all the people that I had come into contact with, those who had loved me even though I was just a lighter, just an object. They didn’t know me, but I knew them, and I knew one thing for certain:

I was Billy Bic.

It's the Reckoning, I Reckon

“Fuck those shorts.”
  -Marc Maron

 

                                                                                                                                                                                     


 

                Yesterday, after a long hard day of doing very little, I went home and cackled endlessly. I laughed and I laughed and sighed deeply after I finished laughing, I got that buzz, that rare tingle that you get when you are thoroughly enjoying something by yourself other than masturbation. I was watching Marc Maron’s new stand up special, “Thinky Pain” and my was it enlightening.  

Stand-up comedy, for me, is less about jokes and more about making a point, and delivering it through a medium where people naturally have their guards down. The more unique the world view, the better the comic. If you see a really good set, it should get you thinking, it should at least start to change your mind about something.

                The best thing Marc did for me yesterday was to change my thinking about a certain behavior that I know I absolutely love ritualizing: judging the absolute shit out of people. He frames the act of judging someone as one of the only pleasures left in life, and all I could think about was how it was a favorite pastime of mine, hell of everyone, but as a society we are taught, for some reason, to never do it.

 

Thanks to Marc when the Brady bunch tries to teach me a lesson about how treating everyone with kindness and respect no matter what  I get to say, “Fuck you Carol, your haircut looks stupid and nobody raising this many kids is this well put together, turn over the blue pills and we’ll call it a day. Boom.”

               

Guess who plugged that idiotic way of thinking into the zeitgeist? The people we should be judging the most, and they know it. The one thing, the only thing, that every idiot wearing flip flops, everybody with Jack Johnson T-Shirts and all those fucking assholes that sit red faced and self-satisfied behind the wheel of their 2014 Prius seemed to achieve is put up a wall against us calling them out for their bullshit way of life. They got one over on us thinkers, us non wristband wearing citizens of the world that get haircuts and say things reinforced by knowledge of facts.

 

We must rise up, we must overcome. Free at last, free at last.

 

The best part about actively scanning every room that you walk into for prey is that it keeps your eyes open; it keeps you plugged into the world. It helps you relate to people that are just as good at judging as you, and makes you better at defending judgment that comes your way. Without it, we are just humans on display, slowly trolleying by without a thought in our heads. With it, we are Captain America, standing up for Freedom, Justice, and the American way. We have perspective, context, a frame of reference for why what you are doing is wrong, and we are armed to the teeth with quips and quotes about you need to be stopped, for the good of humanity. This is how we improve and I welcome judgment from those properly equipped to give it, because at least their eyes are open.

Hating other people creates bonds between us that can never be broken. I’ve fallen in love with girls over mutual judgment of a weird third party we couldn’t wait to get out of the car. I have close friends, friends I’ve had for years with whom I share a mutual bond of respect and trust, but anyone that understands the dynamic of a male friend group understands that whoever isn’t there at the same time as everyone else is going to get bagged on, and bag on them we do.

I’m not outside of the crosshairs, I get called out on things all the time, and those that do so are right to do it. My closest friends haven’t said three sentences before they tell me something I am doing or have done wrong right as they walk in the door, and it’s why I love them! Some of our best banter has come from judgment and condescension, let the chess match commence! It is a meeting of minds and at least we are honest. As my friend Matt likes to say, “Do you want a friend, or do you want someone who spoon feeds you bullshit?”

Put the spoon down buddy, I can take it.

This faux, overhyped mental mishap about being nice to one another is why we have American Idol auditions (and don’t get me wrong, I judge those wastes of space as well, I just wish they had have come to me first before getting in front of a camera). This is why people embarrass themselves on national television and ruin their entire lives, forever known as the idiot who once did that thing, because nobody told them they were bad at what they were attempting to do. It’s fine to take the attitude of, “he’s putting me down because of his own problems blah blah blah” because not everyone has the right motivations. If it becomes, however,  “they are all putting me down because of their own issues” then that is called a consensus and you need to stop. No no, don’t say anything else, just stop. Go home. Re-apply to Devry, guy.

Judge not lest ye be judged? Ye be judged my man, trust me, they are just doing it silently.

 

Hey Sizzle, relax man. You shouldn’t want to hurt people’s feelings, you shouldn’t want to judge, because you wouldn’t want someone criticizing you, would you? Huh?

 I decided that I hate you before you even finished that sentence Wally Beaver.

 You are sentenced for that sentence.

You are road kill on the highway of progress and I’m better for moving my two ton over slightly to make sure you were out of your misery.

 

Open your heart and let the reckoning commence, because trust me, you want to be on the right side when everyone with a Bluetooth or a barbed wire arm tattoo stares blankly into the face of the rapture.