Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Top Ten Benefits of Unemployment


Day 60, or so. Outlook remains bleak, though the gravity of light keeps tug tug tugging away at the few remaining remnants of hope; resurrecting delusions of grandeur that were long dead and buried (Can't they just STAY dead?)...

I'm in kind of a floating state at the moment. It's a strange mixture of desperation and dread, blended in with just a bit of cheery-eyed optimism (blech!). 

Unemployment, as the government terms it, continues to teach me things I never thought I needed to know. For example:

Interviews Mean Nothing

I've had several in-person, in-office interviews since the Great Lay Off, and each one seemingly went according to plan. Dressed up in my Sunday Best, fully shaven and supported by the best attitude I could muster, I represented the professional idea of myself with the utmost professionalism, answering questions (somewhat) honestly, thoroughly and within the parameters defined by the Wise Sages of Job Candidate Protocol so many years ago.

Yet, as well as each interview felt, as articulate as I sounded, as engaged as I was and as positive I had been of securing each respective position (however much I actually wanted it or not), the results were disappointing, perhaps even soul-crushing. What I thought was "in the bag" ended up getting loose and running into traffic.

And as per the usual, I didn't learn of the tragedy, in each respective case, until days, even weeks, following. Decisions were made behind closed doors and miles and miles away, with nary a phone call or courtesy slap.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I took each in-house interview for granted, to the point where I believed them to be mere formalities. And though I did my best to look and sound, well, my best, I (apparently) fell far short of the goal-line.

Perhaps worst of all, the effort that preceded each interview was all-for-naught (or not at all, however you choose to see it).

Skills (and skills "tests") Mean Nothing

Prior to each interview "opportunity," and to varying degrees, I was required to complete skills evaluations; to second guess the skills, credentials and talent I had/have acquired/refined over the past 10 or so years (a very important yet agonizing first step in the hiring process), and to make actual guesses as to how those skills could and should be condensed and presented within the parameters of a corporate quiz format, so as to pass muster with the ever-so-discerning hiring managers responsible for their review...

Some tests were designed to test the applicant's actual skillset, while others were meant to evaluate comprehension (Can YOU think critically, yet not TOO critically, within a bland, spirit-crushing corporate environment?). 

Needless to say, this is the "effort" one must put forth to achieve even the slightest glimmer of hope of obtaining an interview with some witless twerp 10 years your junior (not that age has anything to do with intelligence, but you tend to get a little jaded the closer you get to 40). Each "effort", which required hours of my time, effort and stress/anger/nervous twitching, resulted in an interview, which, as previously stated, resulted in the death of yet another part of my soul.

In other words, in each scenario, I passed every "test" with flying colors (I think), which was rewarded with an interview, which was rewarded with a "fuck you."

Skills tests mean nothing. Fuck you process.

The Candidate Evaluation Process is Fucked.

Yes, nothing is perfect. And yes, there does probably need to be SOME way to filter out people not suitable for a given position.

But the process of resume filtering, phone screening, skills tests, critical thinking tests, IQ tests, loyalty contracts signed in blood, non-compete clauses, second interviews, more tests, third interviews, in-office panel interviews, mid-evaluation video indoctrination, stool samples, more loyalty oaths, phrenology, blood draws, "how much ya bench?", violations of personal privacy, security and dignity, and final interviews is completely, utterly over the top; exercises in torture most likely devised by soulless human resources people and bored executives tired of revising mission statements and sitting through endless shareholder meetings...

Make it STOP! You've seen my resume! You've read my cover letter! I talked to your ENTIRE goddamn team for 3 hours, neglected my personal health and taken attention away from my wife and son for the off-chance I can level up with your "world-changing" organization! ENOUGH!

Any-who...

Recruiters Are WAAAAYYY Out of Touch

Well, duh.

Each phone interview and email exchange I've had with a so-called "Recruiter" has fallen somewhere between mildly pleasant and vomit worthy. However, regardless of the quality of the transaction, or the subsequent result, I've noticed a canyon of separation between the individual and the organization they work for...in each friggin case.

Equipped with a computer screen and the instant analytics of "proven" resume filtering algorithms, the fresh-out-of-college recruiter, who themselves has never visited the company they actually work for, nor met anyone within its walls, ebulliently, sickeningly asks me why this position, their company, is the right fit for me.

And I must sit there and answer each one of their gut-wrenching questions as though it's the best, most fulfilling experience of my life.

Sure, they're just doing their job. But they are the gatekeepers. And they know NOTHING about the position they're recruiting for, the skills needed in the right candidate, or anything whatsoever about reality.

Some recruiters, in fact, work for third party companies with no actual affiliation to the organization they're working on behalf of. They are literally thousands of miles away, yet they are the people standing between curmudgeonly desperadoes like myself and gainful employment that will feed my family until the next heartache or financial disaster comes down the pike.

I hate you, recruiters. I really do. Nothing personal. 

Hurry Up and Wait

Once more into the fray, go I...

Mired down in the Great Unemployment Mess, I continue to muck things up as I CHEW my way out and navigate back into the working fold.

 At times, the world seems full of possibility, as though I somehow have control over my destiny and can do literally anything I want without the burden of a full-time job on my shoulders.

But most of the time, it's a miserable, time-sucking pit of soul-crushing despair; one that I must overcome each and every day, beginning with the attempt to justify the need for getting out of bed each morning.

Bring on the pendulum. My brain is cooked.

make love not war, or something,

BP

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Another Spin Around the Sun (38 Ways To Get a Great Looking Tan)

The Earth continues to spin around the sun at a ridiculously fast pace, blissfully unaware of the pitiful pleas for pause and patience emanating from its surface. A man begs for more time, only to watch his desperation gradually, unrepentantly disappear into the Great Void.

The breakneck momentum of the universe wins again and always and ever.

I once believed in the power to control universal momentum; that I could somehow direct it toward my own ends. At this point, I feels as though all I can do is try not to fall as I stumble from point A to situation X, and that I'm almost better off accepting that I have no control whatsoever.

Another year in the books. A little less wiser. A lot more confused.

The more stumbling and bumbling I do, the less I have figured out. Kudos to those who have all the answers. I still have a ton of questions...

Things move so fast. I'm not sure the human brain is built to process the unrelenting tornado of sensory information thrown its way, every day over and over and over from birth to rot. Every time you seem to have a firm grip on things, the rug is pulled, the clock is reset.

Again, I have nothing but admiration for those with the answers. I wish you nothing but the best.

I'm still trying to deal with failures past. I'm still struggling to hold onto dreams undead. I'm still mulling over fading ideas of how and why things work or don't, working to remember exactly what I was taught and how to apply those lessons long forgot (poetry).

Yet, like everyone else, I'm forced to deal with the new day, every day. To consider the past and navigate the present simultaneously. To ponder and prepare for the future.

All of which I do with zero grace and negative skill, as though I've learnt nothing from my travels; absorbed nil from my experience.

In other words, I still eat at Arby's.

As I "live" and breathe, nothing continues to change. Sometimes I enjoy it. Other times it is simply maddening. Even if I could correctly identify forward, I'm not sure I'd have the gall or gumption to really take the leap.

For those of you who have progressed, improved or bettered yourselves, you have my applause. I beseech your forgiveness for slowing you down. I apologize for occasionally reaching from the muck with a thought or an impulse or some other action that forced a path correction.

I don't know how you do it. I can't keep track. Life moves too fast for me.

Selah.

BP

Friday, July 21, 2017

The Theory of the Shiny Metal Object

Admittedly, I've been hooked on the whole Russia-collusion narrative from the very beginning. From the first reports of potential Russia-Trump election meddling onward, I've been near obsessed with the story, its many, many, many developments, and its ostensible expansiveness.

Though the story has ebbed and flowed from the start, ranging from the ultra-banal to the rabbit-hole intrigue of geopolitical/financial deception and manipulation, I've been undeniably drawn to it, near the point of choking in its unrelenting grip of death. The slow drip drip drip of detail and development and update has been expertly delivered, keeping the addict salivating and just desperate enough to hang on, perhaps in spite of indications, and the occasional gut feeling, that the tiger had no teeth...that there was nothing really there.

The pace at which this Russia thing has moved along has been, at times, enough to nurture doubt in even the truest of believers, myself included. Even the most feverish of Russian dark-hole conspiracists have had to, at some point, have posed the question "Where is the NUT?" After all, crazy or not, we've all grown accustomed to the tricks of television and marketing, at least on some base level, and most of us have a general sense that those in the media, no matter how professional, ethical or noble, are always trying to sell us something, even if that something is merely the idea that you need to tune in again tomorrow...

Thus the Theory of the Shiny Metal Object.

Our cynicism in regards to the media, messaging and (gulp) the D.C. public relations machine didn't come from nowhere. We were experiencing information overload and fatigue long before this latest incarnation of buffoonery and greed and evil slimed its way into the collective trash heap.

So, when someone so obviously full of sleaze and so apparently absent of shame and morals and intellect, surrounded by those equally full of sleaze and absent of shame and decency and basic intelligence, came into the fold, it wasn't that much of a leap to dismiss what often seemed like poorly-footed (but so believable) narratives, connections and patchwork as mere distraction; a masterful attempt by expert media manipulators to keep the idiotic masses subdued in and consumed by the Shiny Metal Object...just long enough to REALLY screw them over and burn the place down.

It's not hard to believe. The barrage of Russian articles and think-pieces and innuendo begging for attention on your phone and your TV and your radio and your PC on a round-the-clock basis not only creates a general sense of ennui and exhaustion, they BEG for an ulterior motive. The seeming lack of conclusion or endgame in this news is enough to feed the question mark, as well as to ask oneself "Hey, what DON'T they want us to look at?"

Plenty. The bureaucratic inertia that has largely prevented the roll-outs of mega-donor-approved legislation has, for the most part, been unable to stop the White House from rolling back regulations in regards to housing, education, the financial industry, environmental protections, consumer protections and so on, and while executive orders are somewhat limited in scope, there are, potentially at least, long-lasting consequences.

There was also the successful nomination of Garland, as well as any subsequent, consequential Supreme Court decisions, which one could argue have largely slipped and continue to slide past public view.

Yes. The Russian thing, in spite of its exhaustive, depressing and seemingly overwrought nature, continues to keep a nervous nation in its oxygen-depleting death-grip. And by doing so, it has, naturally, stolen the spotlight from issues and events that deserve more attention.

One could also argue that it's glare has been so distracting, so engrossing, that it has effectively diluted efforts to fight the wrongs, real or perceived, being committed daily by the Bad Hombre and his minions. So prevalent is the Russia-Trump-Collusion-Calamity story these days, it could be argued, that efforts to combat the Trump phenomenon continue to be greatly watered down; in some cases, stalled altogether.

Is the story mere distraction? Is The Shiny Metal Object really as powerful as it is claimed to be? Is the Trump Administration specifically, and GOP Money, in general, actually BENEFITTING from its chaotic allure?

Superficially, maybe. Realistically, no.

From my own ignorant perspective, I see several things taking place that are either a result of the Russia story or that are being altered/influenced by its gravity ; none of which I believe have any short or long-term advantages for The Trumpening:

1) Legislative Impotence

The fact that several legislative committees are charged with "investigating" Russia and election collusion have certainly not helped along the effort to pass GOP legislation, nor to help Trump guide his own "agenda" through (though, to be fair, Trump does very little on his end to usher through his own America First policies).

Also, the mere stench of Russian collusion, continually grown by and within the national press corps (not without reason or merit), does little to muster up legislative confidence or support in the President and his Cabal of Crooks.

2) Message Erosion

Trump is used to having control over his brand and the message that defines it. This gives him the power to control the narrative, his image, etc.

With the Russian story constantly hanging overhead, and with the constant cross-messaging and power-plays going on in Washington, the only brand control Trump has at this point is keeping his mouth shut. He is incapable of doing this.

The Russian story, however distracting and often overblown, is a constant negative that has effectively etched a scarring stigma into the Trump brand, and it digs in a little further with each new development. The more his brand suffers, the more he and his surrogates have to spend time digging in to defend it, wasting resources and political capital Trump could have been using to usher in the Age of the Idiot, as well as all the destructive little trimmings that decorate it.

For someone who places so much value on optics, the mere refusal of this story to go away is a constant source of erosion, both to the Trump brand and to anything else his name is emblazoned on.

3) Criminal Exposure

The Trump-collusion story and special counsel investigation may end up vindicating President Trump, though not before exposing certain things about how generally awful he is or what he's willing to do to service himself and his family. This goes the same for those in his orbit, who will most likely take the brunt of the blame and fall in an effort to protect Ol' Hairplugs from incrimination.

It's already well-established that Trump & CO have always lived in the high-end gutter, and value nothing more than saving their own collective butt. Though that's not obvious to everyone (stalwart Trump supporters), it is public knowledge; a fact that is hard to deny when you carefully and willingly examine the details.

This is speculation, but I'm guessing that a few low-to-mid staffers, and perhaps a Cabinet Member of two, are gonna regret falling on this sword...at least when all is said and done. I do believe that, at the very least, some criminals, both here and abroad, will be exposed as a result of this story/investigation, and it never hurts to get a bit of scum off the streets (per Jeff Sessions).



No Less Than The Future and Integrity of Journalism Are At Stake

Countless individuals, including professional journalists, editors, fact-checkers and more, have staked their reputations and their careers on the Russia story. In doing so, the reputation, future and integrity of not only professional, esteemed news organizations, but also the journalism profession, are hanging in the balance.

The dismissal of the Russia-collusion story as unimportant, a dead-end or simply as distraction, is essentially a no-confidence vote for journalism itself.

Trump has gone out of his way, both during the campaign and throughout his young presidency, to shame, discredit and undermine not only the reputation, but the value, of the journalistic profession. Dismissing the story as cannon fodder helps to fuel his fake news narrative, as well as to help solidify the "they are the enemy" mentality among his supporters.

To label the Russia story a "Shiny Metal Object," something with no real worth that makes for little more than fun water-cooler banter, and that takes attention away from those issues that "really matter", does both the story, and the journalists who have brought it to the forefront, a gross injustice.

This callous assumption not only shows very little faith in the public to be involved and interested in the issues that "really matter" (perhaps deservedly, in some cases); it also smugly and self-righteously dismisses the efforts and integrity of those working tirelessly to hold those in power to account (that ever-so-mysterious 4th branch of gov't).


You NEED this story

If you want to retain any sort of hope of ending "Trumpdom" before any real damage occurs, or of holding any of these corrupt actors accountable, or you simply want to restore any sense of accountability to begin with, you NEED this story.

Without it, we're all screwed.


re ipsa loquitor

BP

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Controlling the Narrative: It Falls Apart Because Your Story is Bullshit

I've always had a distaste for Public Relations, or anything officially labeled "marketing material," for that matter.To me it's always been about selling something, be it a product, a persona or simply an idea, and truth gets polished, tainted and eventually lost in the process...

Public Relations (i.e. marketing) is all about controlling the narrative. And how do you "control the narrative?"

By lying your fucking ass off, over and over and over ad infinitum until the lie sticks and gets reprinted as generally-accepted fact.

I admire those that have such a knack for pulling it off, though I tend to lose that admiration over the course of peeling back each consecutive layer of abject bullshit. You spend enough time pulling back layers and you develop an inclination to just give up. On everything.You give up on one bullshit pie, it becomes easier to give up on the next, and before you know it, you're swimming in soul-killing cynicism.

Anyone attempting to control the narrative is just a salesman who themselves have given up on objectivity and truth and integrity and humanity. It doesn't matter what you're selling, whether that's a cause or a service or political spin; you're as hollow as the calories in a corndog.

Eventually, whether it's an hour or a week or millennia, your story will fall apart. That's because your story is bullshit. People are generally dumb, but they will figure it out eventually.

Yes, I get it. Everything is layered and hidden behind lies. There's no escaping it. The whole Goddamn thing is built on a farce; the whims of a madman with no regard for objective reality.

It makes "everything" more palatable, because when you dig down deep enough, the unbearable-ness of being is too much to swallow.

So why am I writing this? Well, I believe it's because I'm trying to control the narrative...you know, the one that reads "if you don't write, you'll never write, so write, you sad sack of crap."

Short rant done. Until tomorrow.

BP

Mission Not Accomplished.





Tuesday, July 11, 2017

10 Ways to Get Rid of That Annoying Russian Problem

I have to admit...I was beginning to think it wouldn't be a problem.

A self-proclaimed news addict, I've spent countless hours over the past 5-6 months with my head buried in my phone, my laptop and the various 24-hour stations in search of the next Russia-related "scoop." Most of the time the items have been merely filler; countdowns, what-ifs and innuendo designed to satiate the consumer's blood-lust and keep them coming back for more at the beginning of next day's news cycle.

It worked. I was completely hooked--almost to the point of neglecting my nightly dental hygiene routine...

But then my interest began to fade. The combination of circle-jerking punditry, the constant flow of casual, dispassionate denial after denial and so-called "other news items" made it seem as though it didn't, and wouldn't, matter. Regardless of the preponderance of sleaze and the undeniable gut-feeling of Royal Shitbaggery going on, there seemed like no real opening was ever going to present itself.

In other words, no matter how guilty anyone actually is/was, the whole thing began to feel like a fucking hair-pulling, $&*%# dead-end; a gross and unprecedented miscarriage of presidential injustice that would ultimately signal the beginning of the end of the once-fair republic...you know, that one that perhaps had potential for doing SOMETHING noble, good or shining-beacony-like for the cause of humanity, maybe someday.

But this somehow seems different.  No longer are pundits and thought-piece pushers trying to connect the dots with shoestring theories and White House hearsay (well, they are, but the gap between smell and source is rapidly narrowing). Now, Hair-plugs Jr., of all people, took a giant Paul Bunyan-type swing at any notion of misunderstanding or innocence or ignorance or shred of plausible deniability left to provide cover for this whole masquerade.

Or so it seems.

Yeah, it definitely seems. And reeks. And blows. And shits all over the carpet. Again and again and again.

The Twit otherwise known as Donny Jr. essentially just confessed to taking action to collude (which I guess is just fine if the attempt didn't allow for any colluding...HA!), implicating both Son-in-Law and ex-campaign scum Manafort of the same in the process. And now he's lawyering up.

Not only that, but the initial source of the story came from a collective of White House advisers (in an apparent effort to get ahead of the story).

Don't worry though. Nothing to see here. Just another out-of-touch brat playing by a different rules...(what rules would those be, again?).

Late at night, deep deep deep in the forest, if you listen VERY CLOSELY, you can hear that last withering piece of Kellyanne Conway's integrity screaming for the sweet release of death, cutting its own throat and disappearing, without a trace, into the backwoods mist of long-forgotten dreams.

BP

Next time--Nothing happens. The whole thing gets buried. We were all fooled into thinking it was something real this time. The rich assholes win, again.




Thursday, July 6, 2017

What Do You Mean? CNN Has Always Been A Nightmare

Strangely, it's one of my first memories as an adolescent. Eyes glued to the TV, waiting in semi-suspense for the green fireworks show to begin. Rapt, in awe of the technology that enabled not only the off-screen reporters the ability to see and narrate goings-on in the middle of the night, but that illuminated a foreign desert, as well as unfathomably massive, cannon-laden gunships, over a half a world away...

A surreal scene, to be sure. And for someone nearing the precipice of hormonal haywire, the whole alternating visage of gunship missiles and smoky Baghdad hotels was almost too much fun to keep up with.

Voiced-over by the melodramatic monotone of then-relatively unknown Ewok/Future Desk Anchor Wolf Blitzer, the scene unfolded with made-for-TV precision, capturing the attention of a distracted nation and wagging the dog with the efficiency of a Westminster Wiener Dog (terrible, I know).

That was my first real introduction to CNN, as well as the idea of round-the-clock news, round-table commentary and the wartime correspondent. Before that, I had little idea what a war actually was, much less how detached and entertainment-starved our culture had become.

The rationale for committing the U.S. to the first Gulf War was almost as dubious as the reasoning for the second.

And CNN salivated at the opportunity.

Itself in adolescence, the network needed a real coming out party; something that would put it on par with the Big 3 and, once-and-for-all, justify it's place as a news-gathering, ratings-gulping juggernaut.

And Bush I needed a distraction from a fledgling presidency; a way to make a name for himself while keeping American eyes focused on anything but a terrible economy and general sense of administrative incompetency.

It was a match; a marriage of criminal and Public Relations. Catching wind of wartime rhetoric, talk of "Crazy Saddam" going after the helpless Kuwaitis, coming from wonks and Pentagon goofs in Washington,. CNN knew it's big break was coming, and coming fast.

The fireworks show began. Critical thinking was dealt yet another blow. And CNN became the awful, awful powerhouse of mind-numbingly mindless ambulance chasing personality and pomp they had always wanted.

Another blow to journalism. Another boost for television.

That was over 25 years ago. And really, what has changed? In between spurts of what could be mistaken for good TV journalism are dimwitted pundits spitting saliva and nonsense at one another for hour-long "debate segments." Personalities, not journalists, anchor these programs, placing egos and waxed smiles above what could be a real opportunity to inform the public on the shit-basket we seem to be sharing a ride in.

Don't get me wrong. CNN does employ good journalists. And every now and then one of them gets it right. Hell, there's even been somewhat of an effort to improve the process since ol' eyebrows has taken over, and many in Atlanta seem to be motivated to get something right this time around...for as long as the producers will allow them, that is...

To add, it's not like President Butternuts McScrewFace is making it difficult to rediscover one's passion for news reporting, The trail of breadcrumbs, sleazebags and social media sludge circling this cocksucker is so thick, how could anyone with a microphone, a tape recorder and a soul possibly be sitting on their hands? Journalistic passion has been undeniably and at long last renewed by this tornado of truthiness, detachment and the shameless, cold-blooded murder of accountability.

However, that doesn't mean CNN doesn't deserve anyone's rancor. Just because Jon Stewart is done deservedly and hilariously lambasting, mocking and eviscerating the 24-hour nonstop shit show on a nightly basis and for the whole nation to re-watch on YouTube doesn't mean they still don't, well, suck.

CNN has learned nothing. Sure, they've taken the brunt of Thump's public "beatings" as of late, and they did act fast on the retraction of a story that was largely unverified (though, in all seriousness, probably true), but they didn't hesitate to turn around and, petulantly, I might add, release a rather ominous statement about refusing to publicly expose some middle-aged Internet ratfucker for posting something a million others post on a daily basis.

That's not to say I hate CNN. Like I said, there are some bright spots in there. But the need to fill 24 hours of space with anything and everything leaves little no room to really care about ANYTHING OR EVERYTHING.

Not that the other round-the-clockers are any better. MSNBC can't find it's footing, and Fox News is and has always been unapologetically thinly-disguised, agenda-driven drivel.

But as the vanguard, the flag-bearer, the innovator, CNN could do a lot better. Right now, it's a marketing platform, not much different form Facebook or Twitter.

"Fill the space with something, ANYTHING, and keep it running constantly. Be sure to fill it up with ads so they don't forget to buy soap."

CNN, in my humble estimation, has always been a nightmare. Nothing has changed since the days of "No New Taxes", Patriot Missiles and those fateful, grunge-soaked 90s. It doesn't take some half-wit in a bad tie to tell me that. It was and has always been fueled by creating and fulfilling a need; a endless marketing ploy, designed to generate the constant need for news by promoting fear and uncertainty 24/7.

Feed the addiction slowly. Drip drip drip. Just make sure they're here tomorrow.

Anti-CNN rant over...for now.

Yours in Journalistic Integrity

BP

Next Time...Hollywood and the Death of Originality, or something


Thursday, June 29, 2017

Haunting Harry Regret Fest '17

I consider myself to be a prolific regretter. It often consumes me. Not a day really passes or has ever passed in my life, regardless of the circumstances, where I was able to get through three squares and a nap without regretting SOMETHING; even if that something were was the fact that all I did was make it through 3 squares and a nap.

How's that for circular? For my next trick...

I could probably find a way to rue the day I rued the day, or drown myself in regret over regretting the regrettable.

Sure, a large part of this constant, somewhat needless introspection is simply an controllable self-absorption; a compulsion to live within the world I've established in my head. You know, the one that revolves around ME.

I regret admitting that.

No, really.

Another may be the need to feed the beast. Whenever I feel stuck or trapped or angry or whatever, I can simply comb through the broken memory files in my head to find the one that may be the reason for my current situation. I jump back into that moment, turn down the lights and watch that event play in a loop, over and over again, and again, and again.

I over-analyze the mistake or misstep or error or judgment or REGRET until I'm sufficiently satisfied that it is indeed the reason for the season. I take it to heart, feel bad and lose myself in the muck.

I take SOLACE in the muck. I lap it up and stew in my own juices. The more time I devote to this "self-punishment" (comfort), the less I have to make an effort to change what's in front of me (that would be WAY too hard).

I need an editor. I regret not having an editor.

I would say, on average, that I engage in this activity several times a day, at the least. I become frustrated or pissed off or sad, see a potential opening for escape, avoid it and sink back into myself for some good ol' problem avoidance...

Ah...regret. My old friend (fiend).

I could sit here and tell you that the above is all true, and that my self-therapy session is nearing a close.

But that would be disingenuous. Sure, I do use regret as a tool for bypassing real action. And when I do, boy is it comfortable!

But regret isn't just a pudgy marshmallow beanbag chair protecting my fat ass from the truth. Neigh neigh. It's also an incredible motherfucker.

Sure, I regret the time I stuffed paper towels down into the heating vent in 3rd grade, losing the respect of my favorite teacher when I had somehow effectively blocked it from memory and failed to fess up (the disappointment oozing from her eyes was palpable...I'll never forget).

I regret that time at Boy Scout camp when I shoved the kid off the rock step, into a thorny painful-looking bush, because I THOUGHT he had been saying something mean to my friend (I'm still not sure he said anything).

I regret not taking a swing at the kid picking a fight in the junior high school basketball court.

I regret giving up on writing very early on in my life to simply lose myself in self-hatred and depression (an event that lasts to this day!).

I regret not committing myself to grades and classes and learning in high school.

I regret taking a year off between high school and college (only to further my isolation from the world, people, etc.).

I regret lambasting my sister with 100 "c" words during a drunken angry escapade.

I regret that kiss I failed to plant.

I regret that job opportunity I bailed on after college.

I regret, well, I'm sure you get the idea. The point, I guess, is that what most people call the course of life, I lovingly refer to as Haunting Harry Regret Fest (Enter current year); not just an albatross but an entire mode of living...one I seemed doomed to wear until my brain melts into jelly and oozes from my ear.

And it may be strange to write this in blog format, or to write any of the things I've written thus far in blog format, because I'm not really a blogger, or a writer for that matter.

I don't regret that, or this, for whatever reason. But there's always time. It can always be added to the list later on.

Maybe the regret syndrome I've always seemed to suffer from (from about the age of 12) is just a mechanism for avoiding the present, or a rationalization for failing to prepare for the future.

Or maybe it's simply just a built-in feature of this magnetic personality I carry around in my suitcase every day; the one that beams light and jelly beans and candy canes and love throughout the land, and that smells of lust and cherry cola).

Maybe it's just a motherfucker. I made the mistake of sitting next to him on the bus one day, and now the motherfucker follows me EVERYWHERE, harping on every little thing like a madman with a microphone...

Motherfucker. What a country.

Regrettably yours,

BP

Next Time, on Fidget Spinner...I discussing plugging the hole in my soul with more useless garbage (hint: it doesn't really work).

re ipsa loquitor

Monday, June 26, 2017

The Little "c" (or How to Write the Best Comments Online)

Let's face it.

The Internet is full of temptation.

And when a juicy article, think-piece or facebook post happens to roll into your digital periphery, grab your ever-discerning eye and get those wheels a-spin spin spinnin', how in the world could you possibly ignore the urge to make your thoughts public?

You saw something online, and you have an "opinion" on it. Now that you've hit the "Add Comment" button, you're ready to scratch that itch and give the Internet a piece of your mind.

But how?!? Where do you start? How do you offer a reaction that is truly stunning, that captures the reader's attention and makes an impression lasting for the next 10, 20 or even 30 seconds, maybe more??

If you're struggling to really strike a chord within the online comment community, and to trigger the vitriolic animus you truly deserve, follow these 5 easy steps:

1.         Let the Headline Be Your Guide.

When you first spotted that provocative headline or catchy title scrolling past your thumb, as if to say "Hey you, dipshit! Fuck you, ya idiot!," you knew instantly how important it was to respond, and to do so before it was time to flush. You have something fresh, spicy and unrepentantly hateful to say, and you don't have much time before it escapes your mind 4ever.

When that not-so-rare opportunity arises, remember: Follow the Headline, Stupid! Wasting your time reading that ENTIRE 500 word article is exhausting, not to mention completely pointless. You won't understand it anyway! Besides. developing a well-formulated opinion based on the whole, and doing so considering the article's context, is well beyond your pay grade, particularly when you have a knee to get jerking NOW.

The Internet is about immediacy. Don't bother combing through an article that's probably loaded with flaws, bias and items that may affect or change your opinion in any way.

2.         Develop an Angle.

Before writing your reaction, ask yourself: what angle do I want to take? For instance, if the headline centers on a celebrity, it may be a good idea to skew it with an anti-Hollywood bent. Begin your next comment with "Hollywood doesn't speak for..." or "So and so has so much money/fame/bad movies, who cares what she says about ANYTHING? She should keyp her mouth SHUT!"

If the headline revolves around a celebrity of a different color than yourself, maybe try the racist approach, something you can later deny as an anti-PC snowflake-triggering event (that's right! You were planning it all along! You don't have facist tendencies after all!). This is also quite cathartic for that inner racist you just can't seem to adequately release in public!

Whatever you're angle, make sure it's somewhat controversial, distasteful and doesn't touch on anything actually discussed in the article itself. Leave the thoughtful comments to the posers. After all, you don't want to look like a know-it-all, do you, ya PUSSAGINA NERD LIBTARD SNOWFLAKE HONEYPIE SANDWICH EATER??

3.        Grammar Is For Suckers.

You're pretty sure you graduated high school, and grammar is SO beyond the pale, er uh pael, er, uh, whatever, who cares, AM I WRITE?/

You didn't need good grammar then, and you certainly don't need it now, what with the economy so great and everything. Remember, a "z" is certainly just as affective as an "ess", commas r for losers and capitalization sure didn't do you any justice back in geography class.

If you really want to get your point home, ignore all rules of written and verbal english. Those guyz are nazis anyway. No comment quite hits home as hard as that without punctuation or proper speling..

4.        Stop, Drop and Roll Wit' It.

You almost completed a book on chemical warfare once, so roll with it. Sure it was only 30 pages, was heavily illustrated and involved superhero mutants, but hey, that shit's all based on something that really happened, or COULD happen, right? It's surely enough reason to claim, irrefutably, that you "KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE TALKIN' ABOUT, OK KID?"

Expertise is for smart-asses, and it tends to only get in the way of slapdash online commenting 101. Besides, your idiotic opinion still flies with your friends, and they're smart guys who always have your back...

Roll with it. If you think you know something about something, chances are good you have something well worth it to say in the online comments section. You're an authority. You're MORE than qualified. Don't hesitate to think it out or second guess yourself.

You KNOW that the terrorists are responsible, and now it's time to edumacate the Web-o-sphere on how best to wipe them out (Hint: it doesn't require a complex, comprehensive solution at all, man).

5.        Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant Rant   rant

Nothing is quite as easy on the eyes, or as fun to read, as an unmitigated emotional diatribe located in the reply-to-comment section just beneath Comment #4. Don't be afraid to let your brain stem take control. The half-baked, expletive-laden rant is just what you need to establish your well-deserved online superiority.

We've all been there. Some smart ass thinks he's better than you, and is testing your resolve with that latest post. Well, you DON'T have to take it!

Get out yer guns and start blazin'! That typing board ain't gonna punch itself, now is it? Whenever you feel insulted or are made to feel the least bit insecure by a capricious online headline, comment or reply, the time to act is now. Something with no commas, periods or capitalizations, around 250-300 words, should more than suffice, and will definitely go a long way towards making an attempt at saying something that probably could have been a point but will instead just reflect how desperate for attention and a hug you really are as wel as to show you may be about to snap and start throwing staplers inthe ofice someday FUCK YOU I LUV THIS CUNTRY FRIGGIN RETARDS DON KNOW HOW MUCH IM GONNA FIND EM AND SHOW EM WAT MERICAA IS ABOUTU!

The End!

Next Time, on How to Steal From Your Neighbors, we may or may not examine the hidden value of bolt-cutters.

Until then...re ipsa loquitor.

BP




Thursday, June 22, 2017

How to Make Deep Dish State Pizza

A dash of rhetoric, 5 layers of paranoia, sour grapes...all packed into pressed thin and flaky reasoning served with brute force alongside red herring and Parmesan...

A lot's been made recently of the "Deep State," the ominous, shadowy Orwellian old men-with-super-yachts club that sounds a lot like Illuminati but looks eerily close to the Federal Spy Collective...you know, the standard players of CIA, FBI. NSA and whomever else can be traced back to some sort of nation-toppling schemery or major crimes against Americans cover-up in the names of freedom, Satan and self-preservation.


On the surface, the Deep State seems to be just another concoction of rabbit hole conspiracists, cooked up by those with too much time on their hands and delivered by a half-wit demagogue with hair plugs, small hands and a Big Apple-sized inferiority complex.

On the surface, that is. Because when you think about it, how hard is it to really believe in the puppet-mastering Deep State; a group of rogue ultra-patriotic cold war throwbacks with nowhere else to go but the holes their fathers, and grandfathers, crawled into and died during the doom-and-gloom of domino-effect Pinkoism?

I'm certainly no fan of those able to catch and ride the wave of ignorance to the top of stone mountain. And the present iteration of this Deep Dish State seems to be little more than a scapegoat and distraction for someone else's failures.

I get it. You need to take the focus off the horrifying mess you've become and the country you seem to be hellbent on dragging down with you. The Deep State, a group of well-entrenched government loyalists lurking beneath the surface and suckling on the gov't teat, surely makes an easy enemy.

It's not a hard sell.

But why not? Growing up learning about the things done in the name of anti-communism, exposed to media over-exploitation and dramatization of the phenomenon (think: X-Files), the advent of the information machine (InterWeb), where even the darkest corners of theory, conspiracy and absolute rubbish are given not only new life, but perpetuity...

It's harder (at least for me) to NOT believe in such notions. In fact, it hasn't been such a long time since I last tested the waters and started drawing lines between coincidence and provable occurrence...

The underlying truth, I believe, is that while fake news and disinformation have taken on whole new lives, and that 99.9% of anything you see and hear is probably twisted 3 degrees from the truth, most of it doesn't originate in imagination land.

In an era where hyperbole is king and Bullshit is Holy Emperor, it's important to remember several things about the past:

The CIA HAS DONE very, very bad things (assassination, torture, democratically-elected official removal) in the past, and probably continues to do so. Most of them in the name of Country. Latin America and Iran can attest to this.

The NSA DOES spy on people. Innocent, guilty, brown, white, black, asian, christian, muslim, jewish, republican, democrat, man, woman and child...the NSA can probably tap into your cell phone at any time, without a warrant (a REAL warrant) or even probable cause. George W Bush and Barack Obama can attest to this (but won't).

The FBI HAS DONE bad, bad things, such as cover ups, domestic spying, blackmail, numerous other things that constitute Unconstitutional overreach, etc.

Now, I am certainly inclined to not believe a Goddamn word out of the Trumpster's mouth. Presidents lie, and it's embarrassing, but this is sort of idiotic compulsion is somewhat unprecedented.

I am also convinced, wholeheartedly, that ol' Hairplugs is nothing but a con-man. I believe a thorough examination of his real estate "career" is testament to this fact.

And, most importantly, I do believe he would do anything to win. ANYTHING. He can't help it, He's an insecure child. He cares not for the country, voters or the long-dead democratic ideal. He's a huckster who has to get his piece, no matter what (eh, comrade?). He is EGO.

Unfortunately, though, the unfettered bloviating about the Deep State, no matter how misguided or self-centered, does play, and it plays well. After all, it doesn't take much to stoke mistrust and fear of government types, when everyone kinda sorta doesn't trust those types anyway.

What's perhaps most perplexing about the whole Deep State is the trust in it, particularly by those who would otherwise see it burned to the ground for assorted, atrocities of the past (real and assumed).

Pick and choose. Win and lose. You win, you win BIG. You lose, you suspend all past feelings of sincere and justifiable doubt for the convenience of an excuse.

I'm not saying the whole Russian thing didn't happen, and that collusion isn't most likely a real scandal...In fact, I'm inclined to believe smoke doesn't appear where there's no fire, and Trump and his cohorts are indeed the biggest collection of proven criminals and liars and fraudsters this side of Nixon (not yet convicted).

And I certainly would never put it past Putin, a known crusher of dissent and enemies and anything and everything that presents the slightest glimmer of hope for his country and his people...

But the incredible and immediate suspension of long-held disbelief when it comes to supposed elements of the Deep State, that very thing that doubters blamed for the Kennedys and MLK and the drug war and numerous international assassinations over the past 50 or so years, has me literally and figuratively scratching my head.

"You mean, the CIA, aka Dulles, had Kennedy shot, and has spent the last 60 plus years lying and covering it up, making half of Congress and untold other government wonks complicit in their lie the whole time...then lied about WMD in Iraq to feed the oil barons by faking evidence, then covered THAT up, making countless others complicit in the lie throughout the process...but, now, are to be trusted about Russian election interference and collusion? When did the lying actually stop?"

When did the Intelligence community become Super Trusty Boy Scoutee Americanos (TM)?

Again, I'm not saying there was no collusion. After all, it's an intriguing series of unfathomable and improbable coincidences that seems to receive a little bit of evidentiary support (superficially, at least), on a daily basis. The stink is building, and the growing stench seems to emanate from the direction of Team Enormous Winner.

But though it's not always healthy, maybe all that previous skepticism regarding the Deep State for the past half century shouldn't be summarily dropped, forgotten or dismissed. Maybe a little honest= self-examination and dissection of the cognitive dissonance we're experiencing, that which many accuse the Red-faced Baboon's followers of having, is in order here.

Or maybe I should just shut the fuck up and carve out a big steaming pile of 5-layer paranoia.

Good day, fellow Screw Jacks.


BP

Next Up...I examine what happens when Skulduggery goes too far...









Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Stuck in Truck Country (or 10 Secrets to a Great Looking Prostate)

A sleepless night on Cul-de-Sac Independence; wandering aimlessly through the house for a spot to sink into...crash landing instead on the guest room futon.

A truck rumbles into action. A big one. Coming to life and growling for prey at 12:30 in the morning. Idles like a nightmare, like a relentlessly spinning steel trap gnashing its teeth and nipping at your ankles for dream-time eternity.

Shit.

The metal monster, a red-and-black Dodge pickup with giant chrome pipes and over-sized American flags donning each corner of its bed, sits and rumbles and idles idles idles. The cheap single-pane window in the bedroom rattles with every chug-a-chug. The floor trembles beneath.

I just wanted to sleep.

This is not uncommon or unexpected in any way. This scene takes place every night, around the same time, and with no real rhyme or reason, other than to remind everyone that it won't be stopped anytime soon.

The cul-de-sac can often be mistaken for a a makeshift Diesel exhibition, complete with trucker caps, exhaust billow demonstrations and games of patriotic one-ups-man-ship...wallet-chains and chrome polish for the kids!

 Come One, Come All! Saturday Saturday Saturday!

Yep, this is Truck Country. Smack-dab plum-in-the-middle-of-Murica Truck Country, where resentment's just a way of life and everyone's ready to pop on a moment's notice.

The tension is palpable.

Everyday, as I wind my way through the meandering stream of suburbia, I pass by what must be 15 or 20 of these behemoths, all decorated in sharp, contrasting paints and decked out with over-sized chrome implements, back windows clad with bone-filled grenade stickers; all ready to pounce on the next motorist who happens to pass by and blink at exactly the wrong time.

Behind the wheels of these monsters sits flesh-covered lumps of bottled-up rage; bitter, solidified pillars of piss borne from years of repressed emotion and continual disappointment (I'm spit-balling). Forever seeking an outlet (or perhaps an excuse), these pent-up pioneers of passionless ire (what?) keep ever-paranoid eyeballs ever-employed, constantly swiveling and searching for 'violators'; those unfortunate souls who appear threatening, or who are, at the very least, simply crying out for a good 'throttling' from those with nothing but time on their hands and insecurity in their hearts...

Rage is thick in the burbs. So thick, in fact, that it's often impossible to navigate around it in any meaningful way. Not uncommon is the moment when avoidance is impossible, when you must walk into the grocery store and through the fog, feel it penetrating and passing through your being, and come out trying not to feel a little heavier, sadder and coarser than you were before.

I have always been somewhat of an angry lad, as long-time friends and family can perhaps attest. Yet, for the most part, I've been able to brush much of my anger off into the dirt, or to channel it into something useful.

Eventually, I saw an opening, and seized a little light. Existence became somewhat bearable again.

For many here in the burbs, however, it seems that anger was never channeled, never mitigated, never relegated to a more functional or useful role as 'part 'of the larger personality. Rather, it spread from the head and heart on down, eventually occupying the whole. All that rage is now personified, embodied as displaced, over-worn souls always hunting for a place to grit their teeth and explode.

Casualties of Rage, holed up in houses and home depots and dealerships, constructing chromed-up Chrysler-brand tanks and preparing for wars being waged between their ears. Mercenaries without suitors, those seeking vengeance and death in all the wrong things; happily hating all the wrong people...

Saddle up. This is Truck Country.

re ipsa loquitor

BP

Next up--A Post That Makes Sense!







Thursday, June 8, 2017

Ten Things Everyone Should Know About Heroin Nonfiction

A small pile of nonfiction short stories lie neglected in my office, each bound in photocopies of old magazine covers a bit frayed around the edges. Each time I feel the urge to pour through one, an act which should take no longer than 5-7.5 minutes, I get distracted or lose interest.

So it goes, I guess.

Seemingly composed under the influence of various unnamed substances, these pieces supposedly provide first-person accounts of the author's sexual exploits in somewhat morbid detail, along with the general malaise, ennui or depressive state that often follows the consumption of various unnamed substances.

Maybe I should take a look. Probably not today.

Being as it's 2017, these stories are now more than a decade old. That makes me feel old. Not only that, but they were written by someone I believe has ceased to be. That someone, an old acquaintance I can barely picture at this point, was fighting a constant battle with addiction to various unnamed substances.

I probably made the mistake of revealing that information earlier in the post. Accidental foreshadowing, I believe they call it.

They don't call it anything.

I have taken peeks here and there at the writing. Not much, but long enough to know the author had a good grasp for style and storytelling. I tell myself I'm going to thumb through one of them the next time I add more material to my novel, but that must be a lie, because as far as I can tell, I haven't done shit in that direction.

Goes it so, guess I.

I think about this small pile of nonfiction decorating my desk often. I don't really know why. Perhaps it's because I often wonder what the world would look like with a bit more glaze. My perspective is already skewed, but sometimes I think it doesn't have enough of a tint to it. I don't know. Perhaps a softening, brownish lens is needed to see things with a bit more honesty; a bit more yellow or brown melted over the scape...just enough to give reality that reservoir-ish hue. Things could stand to appear a bit murkier, darker, tinted, uninviting

It would better match the inside.

The Heroin Nonfiction on my desk requires some attention. It's not really asking for it. It never ASKS for it. But it murmurs a constant and frightening message that seems to know not gravity, nor to recognize boundaries of door and wall.

I thought about thumbing through it today. But I lost interest.

Maybe tomorrow. Probably not today.

re ipsa loquitor

BP

Next Time, I provide an enthralling account of life and times as a Commuter in Truck Country. You don't want to miss it.







Saturday, June 3, 2017

I Can FEEL Your Anger (or 3 Simple Steps for Getting the Sexiest Abs This Summer)

I started this blog to take a cheeky and somewhat sublime look at the surreal, and with the limited number of posts I've added so far, it seems that I've more-or-less been sticking to its original intent.

After all, such confounding real-life occurrences, such as the sudden proliferation of red baseball caps and the discovery of gravitational "ripples" in the fabric of space-time, do indeed warrant a bit of levity, particularly if we plan on coming out of this age alive...

But I thought I might veer away from the formula for a second (time's up!) and do my best to examine a "serious" topic in a little more depth...that of the monkey who never quite leaves your back (unless you therapy the shit out of it)...drumroll please...A. N. G. E. R.

Anger.

ANGER.

ANGER!

F*%#ing ANGER you F*%#ing F*%#!!! JESUS F*%#ing Chriminee!!!!!!?!

Okay, enough of that. This post is about anger, using my own to illustrate.

I know, I know. NO one in the history of humankind has ever dared down this fraught-with-peril path. I mean, who do you know has ever taken a look anger, its causes, its effects, its place, its power, etc?

But seriously, for a second.

People bury it. People ignore it. People rely on it. Some people carry it in reserve. Others piggyback on it in order to inflict great pain.

It's often misplaced, often misused, many times misunderstood.

Yet no matter how enigmatic and misaligned this emotion tends to be, no matter how many times it tends to be overlooked or discarded or ignored, it comes back. Or, it never leaves in the first place. It hides and waits for the right time to kill.

I have struggled mightily with anger throughout my life. I've held onto it too long. I've released it too late. I've relieved it too fast, too openly, too hurtfully.

Anger has been a large source of regret in my life. That's not to say that each angry experience has been a source of regret; only that I've often woken up the next day, or walked away from the release, only to find myself more angry at myself for being too angry, or something.

I've always had a complex relationship with anger, as I'm sure any human being that's ever had a pulse can attest to or sympathize with on some level.

It's been my best friend and my worst enemy.

At times, anger, RIGHTEOUS anger, can shield me from awkwardness and carry me through difficulty. If I ever need to put up some defenses, to protect my ego or my intellect or my fragile whatever, I simply press the button and open the floodgates of rage. Suddenly, I'm on top of the situation again.

At other times, anger is the very source of awkwardness and difficulty. It makes a challenging situation worse, exacerbates the problem, lends credence to my enemies, both real and perceived.

Guess which scenario occurs most often?

This dual role is perhaps best understood for what it conveniently omits. The Why? (source) of the anger. regardless of where and when it makes itself present, is never put forth, never answered. Sure, there are clues, but these amount to bread crumbs that tend trail off into circle-jerk Quest territory.

And when things get too labyrinthine, I tend to lose patience and back away...slowly, of course.

When I was young, say 10-12, the frustrations began to pile on. When puberty hit, frustration piled on frustration, feasted on hormone and spit me out in high school. By that time, self-doubt wasn't just a lingering cloud; it was etched into my skin. Deep.

Needless to say, I became angry. And though I largely held it in, which seemed to eat away mercilessly at my insides, a piece of it always rode along on my shoulder. At all times.

Of course, I couldn't express it openly or in any sort of logical fashion. The perception was that its release was dangerous and potentially damaging to the few friendships I was in constant fear of losing a grip on, particularly at the time.

My anger became so thick, so all-consuming, it began to dominate my personality, my presence and my aura. In other words, it not only added to the problem, it became the problem.

And while I would blame my "situation" on others, on my peers, my parents, my school, society, etc., the brunt of my most brutal finger-pointing was myself. There was no stop to the number or severity of psychological beatings I would self-administer.

Why this is exactly I don't rightly know. I have my theories, but those would be a digression. The real focus at-hand is the anger that not only dominated my "previous" life (so-called youth), but that continues to remain an undercurrent beneath nearly everything I do to this day.

On some level, it's always there.

It's always festering beneath the surface: a hot, bubbling stream of anger; a steady current of rage that can be tapped into at any moment of weakness, pressure or threat of stress. And though it ebbs and flows, it never really disappears from view.

That's not to say I'm planning on acting on my anger. The same self-analysis that has allowed me to dissect and mitigate my anger before is still there, and promises to be for quite some time. Only when I'm senile do I suggest more stringent and dedicated adult supervision (kidding)...

I do believe, however, that suppressing such an emotion, or pretending it's gone away simply because of a change in station or life situation, or because you're happier "at the moment", is not a good thing.

Acknowledging that your anger still exists is, I believe, the only real way to cope with and understand it, lest it consume you once again in the future.

Nonsensical venting over.

re ipsa loquitor,

BP

Next Time--A lighter subject, anything at all; probably something to do with Russian collusion and the death of democracy.

Ciao


Sunday, May 28, 2017

14 Steps For Totally Nailing The Trump Handshake

Rounding out this Memorial Day Weekend's Blogfest Spectacular are a few thoughts, an entire post even, on the infamous Trump Handshake.

Oh god.

Indeed, the obsession with something so benign and superficial is vomit-worthy. But try as I might, it was unavoidable. I felt it necessary to select a topic and stick with it. So Trump Handshake it is.

But why? Aren't there more important things a-brewing in the Geo-Politic? I mean, Jesus. Must we forever be inundated with such trivial, knee-jerk nonsense from every corner of the Flat-Earth?

Yes. Yes we must. Because, you see my children, every good narrative from the dawn of time begins with and revolves around body language. From Joseph of Arimathea to Alexander Great to Richard Nixon to George Pompeii to Hitler to Charlie Sheen, no good yarn can possibly be spun around a center with no actor; someone who understands the art of gesticulation enough to control the illusion in his, or her, favor.

What?

You must understand that body language is an essential aspect of world leadership. To be in that exclusive club, you must first and foremost be able to protect yourself from unwanted negativity. Perception is KEY to everything you do, and a cold, sweaty-palmed, wimpy exchange is no way to show your rivals that you're the boss.

Because you are.

No, really, you are. You are the boss. Your handshake is firm and strong and dominant and supremely masculine, much like your cologne. Unlike the stench of fake news, your handshake resembles the truth. The BEST truth possible. And NO ONE, not even The failing new york times, can take that away from you.

Asserting your supremacy in and of the moment is how you got here, Champ. They can say what they will, but you will never be convinced of anything less than your own special glow. You outshine everyone, tiger, and and we all know why.

The Handshake.

The Trump Handshake.

Those in the fake news media will "analyze" your handshake to death, and good for them. No, you know what? Fuck them. They know not the power of ketchup on an overdone steak.

You are and have always been The Boss.

Why must we spend time pouring over data and documents and information? Why we we ever exercise discretion when the moment "demands" it?

We must keep our colleagues, our sycophants and our acolytes (all losers) in an ever-traumatizing, alternating state of adoration and fear. Letting our guard down is not acceptable.

After all, we seem to be on some kind of really big stage here.

Steps for a good Trump Handshake include:

1. Being Super Awesome.

2. Being, like, two-feet taller than everyone in the room, because I am.

3. Having a History of Success. "You WANT a deal? I AM the DEAL."

4. Having Super Awesome, Large Big-Time Hands.

5. Stiff, Calculated Approach to Your Opponent/Loser, Phony Smile in Tow. (The Phonier, The Better).

6. Half-Hearted Arm Extension--Keep it close the chest, buddy. Make them come to you.

7. Thinking About Your Super-Huge, Tremendous Penis (And How Much You Love Minorities).

8.Strong, Robotic Grip. (Like the Terminator, only more bone-crushing).

9. Hold.

10. Hold.

11. Hold.

12. Look Deep In Their Eyes. Understand Nothing. Mistake the Awkwardness of the Situation for Fear of and Respect for Your Very Giant Penis.

13. Hold.

14. Hold.

15. Ok. You're a Man Again. Your Penis is Huge. Just Ask Melania. Let Go Slowly. Pat Fellow World Leader/Opponent/Loser on the Back.

16. Go Home and Tweet About Fake News Analysis.

Now that you know how to deliver the perfect Trump Handshake. you can try it at home! Be sure to stare at a picture of your father first. You want to be sure that you're making him sufficiently proud.


re ipsa loquitur,

BP

Next Time---Taking care of business...how deals are done when you're out of collateral and no one will lend money to you (except Russian Oligarchs, of course).



Saturday, May 27, 2017

So, Like a Dipshit...(How to Cure Boredom)

So there I was, staring blankly into the bottom of a beer bottle. not really pondering anything.

Life wasn't great. It could have been better. But I didn't have anything demanding my immediate attention. No action was needed on anything. Freedom, however miserable, still seemed like freedom.

I didn't have to ponder anything, so, I didn't. Everything was pretty open-ended.

But as things often do, the situation changed. I was no longer engulfed in the serene emptiness of a Zen-like state. I began to THINK. It filled up the emptiness, til the emptiness was no more.

So, like a dipshit, I got up, attempting to occupy myself with something in the tangible, visceral universe. Perhaps that would stir the thought out of my head. And the thoughts were very random, too, very chaotic and disjointed. There was no beginning or end, just whole lots of middle. Trying to organize them in chronological order, or in any reasonable way at all, was futile.

So, like a dipshit, I decided to go ahead and give this parenting thing a try.

Perhaps the care, attention and worry that must so endlessly be given to another human being, my own spawn, would help me to make sense of the THINK.

At the very least, it might help me to re-focus my attention on something else, so as to better pretend I wasn't engaged in thought at all.

So, like a dipshit, I found someone else to agree to help me give this parenting thing a try. Who knows? Maybe they would be able to get something out of it as well...

9-10 months later, my, OUR, spawn was spawned. Set forth into the universe to disrupt; to create a kicking, screaming, hair-pulling ripple in the fabric of space-time, for all time.

As my, OUR, spawn continued to grow, both in strength and in cleverness, it's very existence began to threaten ours. Constantly accumulating more power, its burgeoning disregard for life, limb and the pursuit of happyness presented us with a considerable challenge, destroying the myths of compassion and reason we once held as the basis, the foundation, of a functioning civilization.

So, like a dipshit, I continued to pump love, food and money into our spawn daily. I refused to accept that Satan occupied the second bedroom of my newly refurbished basement, or that The Morning Star was not a star at all, but rather a bloodthirsty, inhuman terror-packed nightmare ready to pounce on and consume me in my sleep. All it needed was the right moment to strike...

So, like a dipshit, I waited. And I waited, and waited and waited and waited, until finally...

Like a Dipshit, I woke from my trance, finding myself staring into the bottom of an empty beer bottle. I was enjoying the illusion of freedom once more. No THINK anywhere.

Selah

BP

Next Time---I attempt to explain political correctness without offending the reader.




Friday, May 26, 2017

What About The Children?

As it turns out, you really need a focused topic before you start writing a blog.

Otherwise, your blog goes to shit fast, as in digestive priority numero uno. You ramble, you write in broken sentences and draw connections that really go nowhere. You just keep drawing. The whole stream-of-consciousness thing doesn't really work in this format.

There are thousands, probably millions, probably quadjatrillyabillions of blogs out there. And there is certainly no end to the number of platforms that give those people voices.

Yes, you are right. Not everyone is a writer. I'm certainly NOT a writer, though I sometimes pretend that I'm dreaming about playing an aspiring word jockey on the picture shows.

So, there you have it. This is my epiphany for the day. Pick a topic BEFORE you start writing your Goddam (or is it Goddamn?) blog. If I had known or grasped that simple concept a few short 10-15 years ago, I may be putting off writing a blog somewhere else. AS I SPEAK. I could be wasting time and energy and self-pity in a whole new setting ENTIRELY, wondering just how lucrative or beneficial or something something it may be to start WRITING A FUCKING BLOG.

But enough about that. Because, as you see, I'm already trailing off on a nonsensical tangent (redundant?), even when I have a Goddamed (Goddamned?) topic/focus in mind.

I digress. It is important to have something coherent to write about BEFORE you start writing, lest you end up in nowheresville doing needless damage to a keyboard wondering why it never works out for you.

And that leads me to my next point, and perhaps the most important question ever posed by man: What About The Children?

Well, if you fail to have an idea or topic in mind before you start blogging, then you've basically rendered yourself COMPLETELY useless. And when that happens, what kind of role model could you possibly be to your children?

In other words, if you are aimless, your writing will most likely be crap (unless you're SUPER talented), which will ultimately lead to years of absolutely no recognition whatsoever. You'll stew and mope and wonder what you're doing wrong as your writing "career" is fledgling, gasping for air. You'll become bitter and angry and paranoid and depressed and convinced the whole world is against you, you fucking loser you.

All your dreams seem to have crash landed into a brick wall; you have a front-row seat to the gaping hole that represents your life, destiny and demise.

And those kids you somehow procreated? Those mini versions of yourself that should be making you happy and filling your heart with ooey-gooey luv at the center of your very existence? Well, let's just say your self-centered misery and rot isn't doing THEM much good now, is it?

So next time you want to blog, STOP. THINK. EVALUATE.

Do you REALLY have an idea to write on, share your wisdom of? Gather followers with? Fill your soul with accomplishment, er, uh, with? Prove your self-worth and exude self-confidence and insight...(with)?

And, most importantly...What About the Children, you scaggy scummy villany pathetic excremental no-talent fail?

Think about it next time. That's all I'm saying.

I've learnt my lesson. Now it's your turn.

re ipsa loquitur

BP

Up Next Time--An all new rave about something amazing Donald Trumpo had done gone and done, again ( Obviously in the name of Making America Greater Than It Never Was...I CAN'T WAIT!)...stay tuned