funny

Important Things To Say.

Hello, hello, hello! It’s a-me, that one guy here to tell the news:

I actually don’t have any pertinent matters on which to elaborate–sad stuff, I know, but the truth is, eh, pertinence is a matter of perspective for those experiencing pertinent events. Significance falls into that camp just as easily, and I’d say it doesn’t matter, save to those who endure significant what-sits and bingle-bogles along the life not so frivolously traveled.

The act of writing a blog post somehow implies a matter of utmost importance. Hm. I may concur, though in more instances than not, I wonder if the (a) post demands importance by virtue of its being written. Imagine that: a run-of-the-mill post foisting false honors upon itself before telling people, “HEY, LOOK AT ME! I’VE GOT FANCY COLORS AND A SPLENDIFEROUS SENSE OF ETHICAL PRUDENCE!” Not to mention, its fonts are, uh, real eye-catchers, Calibre and Arial Black getting ink injections at the local watering hole.

Let’s say this is an important post. Let’s say I’m writing this as a matter of duty to whatever principles swarm my mind for the next few days. You argue that this is an average post, and I respond: “But I said it’s important–look, there’s bolded words and–

–fragmented paragraphs.

You insist: “If it’s so important, then what is it about?”

“Importance.”

“How ridiculous. You can’t write about importance. Importance insists upon itself.”

“I beg to differ.”

I mean, have you even noticed the citations I spent hours knitting together into a neat bibliographical quilt?

“Citations? I see no citations.”

Ah, you see, that’s because they’re at the end of the post, and you’ll have to take my word for it.

Important topics, important topics…maybe I can insert a talking point one of the most trending subjects in the recent three weeks—pssh, three weeks, make it about the last six hours. Certainly an option that is guaranteed to garner massive commentary and platinum ‘viral’ status. Great idea. Now I’ll go scroll through the headlines for the next thirty minutes and steal the more apt sentences, fitting them to my stylistic liking.

First line:

“Good morning, great people, and have you considered how long a dolphin can live?”

No, no. I can do better.

“Greetings, fellow bloggers, I’m writing about ‘such-and-such,’ oh, and I hope you don’t mind my kissing ass afterward in order to get more people on my site, get those numbers up. Season’s Greetings!”

[Incidentally, the post was published in July]

A valiant effort I can be proud of before I go about networking. Gotta make sure they’re all up-to-date and chock full of modern-day references.

As for an ending–well, it has to be memorable and witty and quite concise.

So.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

ID 124500090 © Savenkomasha | Dreamstime.com

First Things Last

I worry about a lot of things. Of course, I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s, what, automatic and instinctual? methinks that is the proper phrasing–then again, words are changing so much these days, it’s hard to tell.

Nagging thoughts haunt me, these figmented imaginaries running miles upon miles in Brain-O-Cranium, Ltd. Some are strange, some are stranger than strange. It gets to a point, really, where I’m determining whether one thought deserves a straitjacket more than another oh oh oh oh yes thats right because theyre beyond rational investigation correctamundo!

First things last, junk heaps are actually treasure heaps, or that’s how the saying goes. It was told to me by that guy who was told by the other guy who heard it from the guy working in the soup kitchen where the first guy talked about it over hot cocoa. Now I remember, yes. Forgetting information is my game, and my name is–lemme get back to you on that one.

Three years later, and the same predicament reigns supreme. Who’da thunk it, certainly not me, ’cause I forgot it in the first place. You knew that already, but I betcha didn’t know the Moon is Saturn’s third cousin, twice removed. Few people do, not only because I made it up; however, nobody can tell the difference. Third cousin, fourth cousin. All those planets are related in some fashion. Similarities abound up there. Think about it. Most of them are big-ass space rocks…and that’s all I got.

I never passed astronomy.

I never took astronomy, either, but, hey, man, space is space. Everybody’s got a personal version of it.

Who am I to say there’s not an astronaut hanging out here and now, livin’ for that sweet space toothpaste? If that’s not an incentive to brush your teeth, then I don’t know what is. Maybe we should get all the non-brushing people together, stand them in a line, and hire WWE fighters to march past and rub their knuckles together. It might scare a couple of them, I dunno, worth a shot. It could also backfire and cause the non-brushers to go total Dental Rebellion and declare war on the toothbrushing industry, as if there’s one giant corporation devoted to the practice.

We’ll see if all matters pan out, we always do. It’s human nature. We look ahead and turn around and look back just because. HUMAN NATURE.

“Will worries never cease?” said Shakespeare, I think, but I’m guessing.

Sue me.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

ID 10185556 © Ekaterina Staats | Dreamstime.com

Goodbye, Mr. Bittersweet

Hey-BOOGA-BOOGA-BOOGA!

Hey-BOOGA-BOOGA-BOOGA!

Man, y’know, alphabetically speaking, there’s not that many letters in the word, ‘hello.’ What, five? make it six, and you got a winner! seven, you’re pushing the proverbial envelope postmarked in artificial cherry-red ink to Shangri-La. Folks try so hard to dig into mysticism and ulterior/interior meaning, but, hey, it gets them to a point of purposeful inaccuracy disguised as random guesses. Nobody can blame them because they don’t exist. Even if they did exist, they’d be too busy moving from one hotspot to the next to worry about our mumbling attempts to interpret the Jesus-shaped-watermelon-seed-madness currently gaining a following in America’s most populous retirement communities. EVENEVEN if that happened, and for shits and giggles, let’s say it did: well, my friends, there we have the runt of the littered questions strangers sketch into a two-AM sky without any consideration for the time and/or place on which they intrude.

Outrageous, really, how we figure it all combines in a fortune teller triangle, each flap representing our wild, zany, ridiculous predictions–of course, they’re not entirely ridiculous because ridiculous things have some attached meaning. Fry cooks and security guards, the working mill; oh, and we are so unsure as to their roles in the situation, like the hole in the donut. Question of the century, ‘Is It A Finger-Nook Or Just Make-Believe?’ All the same, we eat them, and soon, the donut is itself a hole.

Interpretations perturb the spectacled hedge-trimmers stalking the midnight burroughs of the sane and sound, and BLAAAAAOOOOOPPPPP! goes the elephant trumpet to warn of mental breach. A donkey sits at a porch table and recounts the tale of poor Nobody Nink, Unknown Occupant of Room ###hereitgoeswegoagainupandaroundandsidetosidealongthemerrigoroundoftime

immemorial.

Flying monkeys seem absurd to us because absurdity is naturally unnatural.

In what a world we live to see some truth, in what a world.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

ID 143664990 © Jason Lester | Dreamstime.com

The Beautiful And The Ugly

On any given day, I’d like to say it’s easy to tell who the good and bad guys are. Creating a dividing line is a satisfying feeling, solidifying the creators’ preconceptions and ridding undue stress from wearied minds. Classification of all kinds calms people down, since nobody (NOBODY) enjoys the unclear and unknown. They may get curious–at the most, terror will set in and evolve into hysteria–but you see, so long as there are names for the beautiful and the ugly, there’ll be moderate peace. Whether it stands or falls is another situation entirely, and it is one unanswerable by that eons-long plight. News flash: it’s lasted eons for a reason, so it won’t absolve itself of conflict within the next forty-eight hours. That is, at best, wishful thinking, and at worst, an acknowledgement of something greater than ourselves: time’s withstanding grudge against human intervention.

Good and Evil. We love them. They taste so nice on our tongues, four sy-l-l-ables capturing the respective epitomes of their concepts; oh yes that is GOOD and those are undeniably EVIL just look at the symbols and words and intentions my my how outrageous! We might as well be loading people and objects into duct-tape labeled, grape juice stained Kindergarten cubbies without a single regard for examination. Words supplanted by bigger words supplanted by bigger words. Then we wonder–we wonder, ‘oh, gee, why are they overflowing? are-are, they are–they’re switching places! how dare they!’

Make larger cubbies, say the pinstriped suit-wearing dude lurking outside the window, who, as a matter of fact, has never entered the classroom.

Cubbies are ordered, sir, say some rag-tag maintenance group no one recognizes–and hell, folks, these guys don’t even recognize Mr. Pinstriped Suit, but that doesn’t stop others from carrying out orders.

Cubbies come in, glorious tidings and champagne bottles for the people old enough to drink. There’s new labels, too, because after several millennium, the letters somehow lost their shine. They gleam in sunlight and blanket themselves at night. Reading them accrues no worth anyhow.

Cubbies are in, sir, and it’s a recorder looping an affirmation. Somebody shoved a box of chocolates beneath it.

Mr. Pinstriped Suit is gone. Some blue birdies are eating spilt seed on the windowsill. They make an incredible noise.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

ID 21632081 © Brad Calkins | Dreamstime.com

From the Standpoint of A Teen…

What’s up, everybody?

I haven’t seen you guys the past few weeks, been hectic with college starting back again. I got papers and more papers. Not to mention, I’m also working on two of my novels, trying to salvage enough time to accomplish all of it.

I’ve been good, y’know, being eighteen, getting used to Life; although, I’ve been getting used to it since I came into this world. It’s not as if once you leave high school, you’re initiated into this Adults-Only Section–and no, I’m not talking about the place where they store the dirty movies.

That ticks me off. Not the dirty movies, just the adults who forget what it’s like to be young, to have a fresh view of the world. I’m talking about the adults who patronize those on the fringes of adulthood: this teeter totter that rocks perilously over either side of an angst-filled abyss.

We don’t have a friggin’ map. People don’t provide one for us, and most of the time, we have to cut our own path through the jungle. Machetes are not provided. Also, water evaporates fairly quickly.

Guess I let it get to me sometimes, which is not so bad as it is disheartening. I think it’d be better if we all shook hands and congratulated one another on our accomplishments–but the world can’t always be so black and white.

We have different perspectives for a reason, yeah? For one, we’d be super bored without them. Imagine having a conversation with someone about Lord of the Rings, and for some reason, the other guy is as big a fan as you are, which should be impossible, ’cause you’re number one, right?

That’s to say we’re all a number one in one area of our lives. Least, I like to think so. Maybe you’re number one at pool or darts; hell, give hockey a shot, and you might end up in the NHL.

Chances, man, take ’em, but don’t get me started on how many times I’ve missed out on publication opportunities because I’ve forgotten the deadline. Yeah, I’m working on that part, getting better, though; y’know, learning from failure.

I know for a fact that the majority of my followers are adults, so, if you’re reading this, lemme plead to you from the standpoint of a teen:

  • We’re not all lazy, and if we are…we’ll work on it, got eighty more years, anyhow.
  •  Getting a job is not as easy as it used to be, but we’ll bust our asses until we find one.
  • Lastly, do you remember when you were our age?

Yeah, yeah, I get it’s called a generation gap, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it; and besides, the best way to get past a gap is to build a bridge.

A metaphorical one, of course.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

What’s Next, Then?

So, heh, got a funny story for you folks.

Okay, now get this–

I work three nights in a row as a dishwasher at Great Wolf Lodge; wait, that’s not the funny part, don’t laugh yet.

I work those three nights, and now that I’m on break I choose to work several more nights, ’cause why not? As of now, then, I am working Friday through Monday next week, which means I miss New Year’s Eve and Day. Well, I sort of miss the day, since I’m at home in the morning, but whatever…

You guys aren’t laughing. Did you miss the punchline? Was I not clear enough?

Alright, alright, I’ll say it again. Wait, what? You’re bored of it now?

Fine. I’ll move on.

What are we moving on to, though? I’ve been asking myself that question for a while, tossing it back and forth in my head; if you were wondering, no, I haven’t found an answer yet, so stop bugging me.

I’ll be working on my novel or washing dishes or lying in bed, staring at my gray ceiling; and the questions will creep in unwanted: What’s Next? Is There A Point To It All? Am I Spinning Fruitlessly In A Circle While Life Slips By Me?

I like to think those aren’t true, but, gee, what is or isn’t true nowadays? Our own perception of truth is clouded because we’re surrounded by so many falsehoods. One minute we’re learning about the Emancipation Proclamation, and the next we hear Abraham Lincoln was abducted by aliens at seven years old.

I mean, c’mon, people, everyone knows the Emancipation Proclamation was totally faked.

Just like the Moon Landing.

What I’m trying to say is that if we can’t count on the legitimacy of all this external stimuli, then what’s to stop us from misconstruing the truths and lies about ourselves?

People insult me; they say I’m gay, but I know I like girls and I’m just getting confused.

Well, what do you think? The only way to be sure is to confront the question yourself; those others have no justification in claiming one thing over another.

I feel like I’m swimming in a fucking abyss, tidal waves crashing over me so much I can barely breathe. But I tell myself I’m fine.

Are you? Don’t jump to conclusions. The worst thing that could happen is that you end up believing in the wrong answer…which you don’t want. Look in a mirror and ask yourself honestly if you’re fine. Again, the truth can only come from you.

This bleak and dismal stuff can get depressing, but I think it’s a fair topic. There’s too many times I find myself stuck in a dull mood because my future is unclear; although, let’s be honest, folks, who the hell has a notion of how their life is gonna turn out?

From our first step to our last breath, we’re all a little mystified, aren’t we?

Don’t know about you, but I am. Ahead is sometimes foggy, and the past, oh, the past, is always so visible; God, if I tallied how many times I looked back on the past in nostalgia, or as in most cases, for fulfillment, I’d be at a thousand…maybe two thousand, and a quarter.

The present is a tricky dude. It’s satisfying for a few seconds, then it descends into oh-no-how-did-I-not-predict-this and I-thought-I-could-see-the-friggin-future-darn-it.

Yeah. Tricky. Slick. Slicky.

By the way, that’s tricky and slick combined. Just saying.

Still, the best we can do to combat it is to hold fast to the handlebars and not fall off the ride; since, even though it gets bumpy, there are occasionally a bunch of flashing lights and stage performers to entertain us during its slow parts. Then you gotta deal with the lines at the end, as well as the parking lots–

Sorry. Got off topic there; then again, I believe I’ve said all that needs to be said.

Guess there’s nothing left than to wish you all a Happy New Year’s, and to hope you keep an optimistic outlook on your futures, too.

It can be difficult, but it’s worth it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

This One Stressful Day

Ever have those times when you have to stop and wonder how you got into a certain situation? It’s not what I’d call a moment of reflection, nor a Oh-my-God, how did this happen situation; it’s more of a what the hell did I do to bring me here of all places?

I had a time like that. Yeah, it was today; in fact, it’s still fresh in my mind, like a tray of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

See, it started with my brother asking me if I had used his bathroom. ‘Course, why would I use his, when I have my own, right? So, my answer’s no. He doesn’t like that for an answer, and he goes storming off down the hall, raging about his toilet flooding the bathroom, swimming crap included.

For all those who just lost their appetite, allow me to let you know I am eating ice cream, so if anyone is losing anything, it’s me–then again, I could still be happily eating while writing this; all bets are off.

I sigh, look back at Netflix, since I am a lazy college kid on break, who only works three days a week; yes, yes, I’ve heard all the criticisms. Then I realize I’m an adult, and as an adult, I have to deal with said swimming crap.

“Josh,” I call, “show me this bathroom.”

I’m expecting turds hanging ten on toilet waves, a piss monster rising from the shower, but I do not have these expectations fulfilled. Rather, I see a sticky floor with food crumbles scattered all over the tiles, and it stinks, too, which makes it worse.

My brother and I then grab the bleach and pour it all across the floor. This makes an even worse smell, but by now, who honestly cares? I emerge from the bleached bathroom, unscathed, save for a burning sensation on my shins; as it turned out, some of the bleach had sprayed onto my skin.

What luck.

I look at the bottle of bleach, read the warning about getting the stuff on your skin, and   I groan. Apparently, if it got on your skin, you had to spray the affected area(s) with water for fifteen to twenty minutes.

So I tell my brother to leave the bathroom alone and enter my own shower, fully dressed, and take down the shower head and spray my shins for fifteen minutes.

About then, I start wondering what the hell did I do to bring me here of all places? It’s 1:00 in the afternoon, and here I am standing in a shower, washing my legs free of bleach, while toilet water slowly sinks its way through to the kitchen ceiling.

Life. I swear I don’t even attempt to understand it sometimes.

I ended up burn free, and the bathroom was left alone; however, our house now reeks of bleach.

Hooray for toilet problems.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

A Southpaw’s Year In Review

My, but this has been quite the year, hasn’t it? I realize a post of this nature may be premature–after all, there are two weeks until 2018; but I’m a stickler for breaking the norm, so sue me.

What is there to say about 2017? In terms of development for this blog, it was an important year. So many events happened that unexpectedly shaped the type of content I write, some of them tragic, and some of them lighthearted. All the same, though, they played a part in Thoughts of A Southpaw’s evolution, and I am glad to have been able to document them for the sake of my readers, be they weekly or occasional.

You understand, much of the time–I will admit, not all of the time–this blog is meant to help you guys think or cope or laugh, or smile a little on a bad day. It’s For the People, By the People, Of the Pe–okay…I’m getting a bit too Founding Father on this thing.

Let’s run over 2017’s Top 5 most popular posts, starting with–

  1. Small Town Losses (This was a heartfelt one for me, and a lot of other people. A tribute to a great person.)
  2. Meet My Cousin: William Shakespeare (I was genuinely surprised as to how much this post blew up. I was just fooling around one day, and–well, there you go…)
  3. Prom and Punch (Another surprise, but this one, I think, had some certified funny moments…maybe…)
  4. Sunshine Comes Around (Boy, this was a hard post to write, and I can only hope it helped some people get past their own dark moments in life; so, in that, I see this as one of my most important posts.)
  5. Graduate (A happy post that attracted a lot of attention on Facebook, which, again, surprised me. Three cheers for graduation, too!)

All of those posts I feel had a significant role in forming the current Thoughts of A Southpaw, as well as what it might become in future years. They each had their own tones and messages–even though it seems like a few have no messages whatsoever–and for that, I see them as unique on this blog, reflecting the perspectives of my readers.

Perspective. That’s a big thing I’ve learned. The views and tastes of my readers influence the output of this blog. It’s one of those things that always keeps the posting interesting; it brings something new every time.

What else have I learned? Things. Stuff. Nonsense.

I am still learning how to write an effective blog post, as I believe there is no one way to write anything, and we are all constantly refining our approaches towards a project.

Here, then, to 2017, a year of great changes and introspection. May there be many more years ahead as significant as this one, and may there be many more readers to experience them.

Together, we’ll see what 2018 has to offer…

As they say, though, C’est la vie, whatever will be, will be.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

 

Yo, Dude…It’s Finals Time!

You heard it right, my dudes! As of next week, finals are coming to a theater near you–or me, or…whatever…Either way, they’re here, and I am mentally preparing myself to crush them all to smithereens.

Weird word, smithereens, isn’t it?

I’m only legitimately worried about Philosophy, that one thinking class; but, see, I feel like the rest will be easy, save for Math. Still, that’s a given.

College has been a fun ride so far, though. These past, what, five months have gone by in a flash, not even kidding; the last thing I remember was taking my picture on Orientation Day.

What have I learned?

Uh, lemme think about that:

  • There’s the never-park-in-college-parking-lots rule.
  • Remembering to do homework the night it’s assigned, otherwise you’re screwed.
  • Always pick the 12 inch meatball sub at lunch.

Oh, and one more…

  • Study and study and study and study

Those four things should cover such a long time span, sure. 

Yeah, but it’s been fun, more fun than I probably might have had at a community college, not dissing those who attend them, of course. I almost went to one–almost being the keyword there.

A big woo-hoo to the Community Collegiate. Seriously.

You guys are gonna be laughing at us when we have to pay shit loads of student loans.

Here’s hoping I won’t end up in those shoes, ’cause I got my own neat pair of kicks. They’re called Brooks, and, uh, they’re the biggest thing since shoelaces.

Yeah. I know. Lame. Cut me a break, willya? I am a mentally deprived individual!

Keep in mind, too, these finals can suck the brains right out of your head. Each one’s a big-ass vacuum with sharpened pencils for teeth, oh, and a brain tank, where your brains float around in copious amounts of Mountain Dew.

Might have to start wearing a tinfoil hat. Never know where those Freaky Finals’ll be next.

At least you’ll protect me, right, guys?

Ahem.

Right, guys?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

P.S: I found another friggin’ coffee picture! Credit goes to zazzle.

I Am Becoming A Caffeine Addict (Also 150th Post, Dudes! Yeah! Cheers! Cowabunga!)

Yes, you read that right. I have officially written 150 of these things, most of them bad, some of them good; but the point of this milestone, you see, is that I have been able to write 150 posts because I have such a huge follower base.

Gee, I’m pretty sure we’re near 100 followers now, in total. Crazy stuff. Wouldn’t have anticipated it a year ago, but there are those things you can never sense until they’re right on top of you, am I right? Eh?

But, to the topic of this post, quite a serious one, if I may say so:

Caffeine Addiction.

I’ve been attending CAA meetings lately. For those who aren’t familiar with the acronym, it stands for Coffee Addicts Anonymous, maybe you haven’t heard it; and, honestly, I wouldn’t blame you. It’s situated out of my parent’s basement, so…small reception, heh.

I wasn’t always addicted to coffee, no, as a kid, I hated the crap. It tasted like black licorice combined with tar–although, that may have been due to my Dad’s preference for black coffee.

I’m more of a creamer man myself. That’s right, ladies. I’m buddy-buddy with Coffee-Mate.

The addiction started off harmless, like a Daddy Long Legs, then, it…oh, it’s difficult to say…it took over my mornings, filled my stomach, and–and, it made me have to use the little boy’s room quite a few more times than usual.

Oh, man, I need a breather. I can hardly talk about it without feeling the urge.

Quick, someone grab a liter of Prune Juice!

[One hour, and one big, big, big burp, later]

All right, we’re good now. I have quenched my thirst with the worst possible drink–oh, wait, that’s orange juice, duh.

We may now proceed with open questions from the audience:

How many, uh, coffee cups do you consume a day?

Tough question, pal. I’d have to say three…dozen.

What is your favorite type of coffee?

Whatever’s in the pot, babe; and, hey, shoot me your number. We’ll get together, have coffee.

How long is it going to take you to realize no one is actually asking questions?

No comment.

What a twat that guy was, huh? I made sure he was kicked out of the auditorium, so he’s not gonna be bothering us any longer. There are just no decent people anymore, ‘cept for you guys; you guys are cool.

Like coffee. Coffee’s cool, unless it’s hot.

Use that for your next pick-up line, guys. You can credit me later–with a check for 100 grand, addressed to Thoughts of A Southpaw; but, really, it’s no biggie.

Otherwise, keep it rocking, my people.

150 posts strong, and still rolling!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

Photo Credit: Tumblr, I believe…