life

Living High and Flying…High-Er?

I am in such a good mood. I’m serious. I think rainbows are going to shoot out of my eyes.

Finals are almost over; Senior year is almost over; and I just got some good news from a girl. What could–hold up, why would I say that? Never say that. It is a sure jinx.

Those darn jinxes.

Okay I’m doing a count; everyone raise their hands.

How many of you are in good moods?

Hey! That’s a great number–check it out, that’s, what, twenty of you? Should I recount?

Oh. There we go! Twenty one! Good on you!

You remaining two–the ones who didn’t raise their hands–please open your hands. I feel the need to boost your spirit; and so as a delightful token of my affection I am handing each of you an early Christmas present. No need to thank me. It’s socks and underwear.

The rest of you…will have to wait until Christmas morning. I know, I know; why give them their presents so early? Well, to put it frankly: maybe all you should have some bad days; and then you can expect an early box of assorted fruitcakes. Eh? Sound fair?

No. There is no time for recounts. Put your hand down.

But the point here is to bring out your happiness. Geez, I sound like one of those exercise training videos from the 80s: And now stretch your arms to the sky and bring out your inner strength…let it lift you higher than a sweat band flung into the air. 

Yeah. Exercise, which as a matter of fact is a proven way to boost happiness. Look at that–you learn something new every minute–dang, I screwed it up; I mean every day. Ignore me for a second. I’ll step back here…in the dark…and the shadows…and whisper…

[Ten hours later]

All right! I’ve had my nap and I am read-ay to part-ay! Oh…are you guys still here?

Put a smile on those faces. This isn’t the ending of Marley and Me; even though I did happen to drive home and pick up my dog…he had a flea infestation. It was baaad.

Do I seem more jittery than usual today? Is that a self conscious thing? Boy, maybe it’s the six pack of root beer I drank before sitting down at the chair; that, or the excitement of my mind!

How do you like ‘dem apples?  Good Will Hunting reference…eh?

Are you really leaving? I was only gone–I don’t know–ten minutes? Twenty minutes? Maybe an hour or two?

Well, before you go I want to pass out these small gifts. Yes, a toothbrush; I’m so thoughtful. And I wish you all a good rest of your day, or night…or midnight; hell, if you’re reading this in space you don’t even have a time.

And be happy! We need more smiles than frowns.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

That Asshole Krampus

Everyone loves Santa Claus–you know? That should be the next Everyone Loves Raymond; can we get someone on that? Production team? Anyone? I can cast Rino Romano as an angry elf…

Ahem…

Right. Back to work now.

Everyone loves Santa Claus.

Everyone loves Rudolph.

Everyone loves Frosty.

But everyone hates that asshole Krampus.

Seriously. In the lore of Yuletide it is written down: and so forth that asshole Krampus crashed our kicking crib with all his whip and chain shit…he totally killed the radical Daddy Claus vibe we had going on… It drags on for a bit: when those Yule folks had something to say they said it; you should see this book, it’s 1000 pages of Christmas rap songs and Yuletide bash songs.

But we are not here to waste time. Krampus wastes time. He’s an asshole.

The guy whips naughty kids. What, did the lists not work for him? He draws up these mountainous scrolls of names as he sits at his throne and eats the limbs of bad children; but does he actually read them? Does he go through and say: “Here’s a no good brat. There’s another. What to do? I know! I’ll whip ’em all and stuff coal in their shoes.”

Psychologists, pay attention. That is the mind of a deranged goat monster.

And does Santa Claus–the father of joy and bellies stuffed with chocolate chip cookies– operate against Krampus? I don’t think so. He stays at the North Pole with his elves and his  reindeers and his wives–excuse me, wife; I was still reading about Daddy Claus in the lore–and, guess what, he checks his lists twice and goes to bed.

Mindset of Santa Claus: Oh…so many unpleasant children this year. There’s Little Timmy Peterson–the little tike peed in the school parking lot on the…ah, the principal’s car; and Susie Geraldine tied her sister’s hair in a ceiling fan. Well. Pity. I suppose Krampus is going to whip them all. I could call and argue him out of it; but…right now I think I would prefer to fall asleep and dream up Christmas rap lyrics–MTV did promise me that music video…

Yeah; gee, you’re a real fun guy, Santa. All that warm milk is going to your fat head.

But, hey, he’s better than Krampus; although in recent years the horned demon has gotten the better end of the Hollywood treatment…while Santa has to cope with Bad Santa and that Tim Allen trilogy.

What to take away from this?

Krampus may be that asshole and it may suck when he whips all those naughty children; but, during this festive holiday season, we all should try to remember the most important lesson of the Christmas tradition:

Being a snot nosed brat will only ever get you coal…and a super sore butt.

Think daily,

A Southpaw 

 

 

 

 

 

Crushing Cherries

Allow me to introduce you all to a new phenomenon; and just so you know it is quite shy–what with it being shown off barely a minute after its initial creation.

With great pride I present: Crushing Cherries.

Yay. Toot those horns. Blow those trumpets. Wave those flags…but not in my face.

Ahem. Well. I suppose I should explain what Crushing Cherries signifies…

There has been, over some time–maybe a couple millennia, not too long–a separation between factions. What factions? Any factions. Nerds vs. Jocks; Dogs vs. Cats; Mice vs. Cats; Students vs. School Lunch; Sprinters vs. Milers; Humans vs. Other Humans…what? seriously?

These factions, I am sure, are familiar to most of you; but if you lived under a rock your whole life…perhaps this will be an education in, however unfortunate, humanity itself.

Eeek, sounds dramatic–bolts of red lightning and all that apocalypse shit.

But nothing is too dramatic for these courageous bloggers! Look at that one in the Wolverine sweatshirt–bad ass, my friend, bad ass; or the chick drinking three energy drinks at once! Insane!

Back to Crushing Cherries.

I cannot tell if any of you guys like cherries–personally I savor the chocolate covered ones; but, hey, my preference. All of you; however should know their appearance: a squishy dwarf apple with a red, or black, exterior; they are extremely fragile–with about the strength of a grape–and so crushing these cherries is easily done.

All right. I’m getting symbolic on your asses now.

For me the cherries represent barriers in our world. Everyone can think of at least one barrier they either wish would cease to be or love it and wish it a long and prosperous life; but of those two descriptions how many choose the former rather than the latter position?

I got no polls; but it does not take a scientist to figure this brainteaser.

With that in mind I tell myself I am the former–what a loser, he tells himself?

Hear me out.

Cherries are scattered across the world: in any building or park or restaurant; and for the most part their locations remain invisible. At the moment, exactly as you read this post, new cherries–larger and juicier cherries–are forming wherever groups of diverse people form.

What? Are there goggles for seeing them? No–who thought of that?

You have to look to see. Boy…could be a little more wise…Captain Obvious.

You have to search for the cherries; and once you have found one take your shoe–size does not matter here–and plant it smack dap on its bouncy top…and then?

Initiate the crushing.

Crushing Cherries is crushing barriers, of which we have many to squish and slide off our shoes like it’s a pile of dog crap or something. Yeah….I could not have put it more poetically. Robert Frost would be impressed.

So get busy searching. Crush cherries. And if people ask what the hell you’re doing kicking your foot in the air in the paint aisle at Wal-Mart, tell them you are making the world a cleaner place.

Of course–someone will have to mop up those juice puddles.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

 

Romancing The…Stone is a Cliche.

Anyone in the mood to talk romance? Light up those scented candles and eat a red velvet cake on a satin couch…Whooh, boy–

Me neither. Anyhow, that was getting too hot for Thoughts of a Southpaw–geez, shouldn’t I remember how many innocent minds are reading these posts? Not enough is what I say, am I right? Innocence for the win!

Pardon me; however, we were, I believe, discussing a serious topic; and everyone knows all we cover here at Southpaw International is serious stuff. Spend a day in these rooms…you will have an evening filled with the most terrifying nightmares: kindergarteners picking their noses; dogs pissing on fire hydrants! It’s horrible. It’s downright scary.

But romance is not scary.

At least I hope, for your sake, it is not scary. Hey, if you want to hook up with the Axe Murderer on Gallows Street, please, be my dead guest; and be sure to call at your curfew–never o’ clock.

The sane minded among you, excluding those in flip flops–it is Winter, people–will not chase after the killers in your midst, however dark and handsome they may appear to be; and to tell the truth the darkness is from the shadows.

No, the sane minded will hopefully–this is a leap of faith–go hunting the equally sane minded; obviously they will be attracted to these sane souls, and perhaps some day find a common ground on which both sane minds can frolic…like puppies on a giant ass rainbow.

That a good picture?

There are plenty more portraits where that came from if you will kindly hand over your credit card…or write a check to Romancing the Bloggers Ind.. I hope your duration working with us has been delightf–

Wow. I apologize. That usually doesn’t switch on unless I hit a button.

Getting back to the romance chat, by the way.

Here are some dos and do nots:

DO eat dinner at a fancy restaurant–this is not McDonalds, you cheapskates.

DO NOT eat breakfast at a fancy restaurant–this should go unsaid…

DO get to be friendly with brothers and sisters–ever heard of browning points?

DO NOT get to be friendly with the drunk uncle–though it may seem fun, the reality equals hangovers and hangovers and more hangovers.

DO buy him or her a dog–name it Fido and enter it in the Thanksgiving talent show. You all know what I’m talking about…some of you did not switch the channel after the parade ended…

DO NOT buy him or her a parakeet–a bird that repeats whatever you say in your free time?  Bad idea.

Oh. Looks like I reached the end of the list. Note to self: add more do nots…

Are you still there? What the hell? Leave this computer, or phone, and run after that dame or duke–I mean, don’t go all stalker on their ass, but…you get the point.

Observe at a distance. Scratch that–sounds worse than before. I am genuinely picturing someone dressed up in a black ninja costume jumping behind trees and those pissed on fire hydrants as their crush runs through the park with headphones blaring rock and roll.

Last time. Observe them as you would a wonder of the world.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Silverish Bells–It’s Christmastime?

All right, people, let’s get it out of the way–Santa Claus. You believe in the tubby man wholeheartedly, or, say, you happen to be descended from Ebenezer Scrooge, you think Santa can shove his cookie gobbling ass down the chimney; yet some of you do not have chimneys…

No smoking out the intruder this year. Put away those marshmallows.

This year, unlike other years–not calling out 2010 or anything; I mean, the milk was untouched when I woke up in the morning and the carrots were…moldy, not sure how that happens in nine hours either–Santa Claus will be believed.

Yes, throw away those horrid conspiracy pamphlets written by the same people who believe the moon landing was directed by Stanley Kubrick, as well the shameful Christmas horror movies–for kicks toss in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, the one with Jim Carrey; it is for the best.

Open the box, go on, you know which box, you sly dog; it’s the one containing the cookie plate and the milk mug. Why? You think Santa won’t want an appetizer in New York before he flies to Hong Kong–this ain’t the Red Eye, folks; this be Sleigh Express, taking American Airlines out of business since the dawn of time.

And the presents–

Whoah! Don’t show them! It’s like you’re flashing around a pair of dirty underpants: no wants to see them until Christmas, in this case, Christmas dinner, and it ruins the season for all who gaze upon them. Yuck. Skid marks. Quit rubbing chocolate bars on the underpants!

There. Set them down easy underneath the tree–on second thought, tie up your dog before he pisses on the wrapping. Okay…all is in place, and all is hidden; save for the bicycle.

After setting out decorations the best thing to do is counsel your children…if you have children. Please don’t go steal a Tiny Tim from off a doorstep so someone can eat your fruitcake.

Tell them:

Santa Claus is…

Oh, I almost forgot the best part–the Christmas carols! Personally I can do a little ditty on Silent Night; but, see, that was when I was eleven years old…hard to sing in heavenly peace at seventeen. What you want to do is–

Not sing any Christmas carols whatsoever.

Hello?  Who is this?

I am the Santa Advisor. 

The Santa Advi–I thought the elves gave Santa advice?

I do not give Santa Claus advice, you fruitcake. It is rather to the families in doubt.

Doubt about…

Whether or not Santa Claus is real. I advise a certain answer for each family. 

You can’t do that. A family should decide on their belief of Santa themselves.

Not according to the rulebook…

Rulebook, schmulebook! Santa Claus is an individual opinion for everyone!

Santa Claus is a definite figure in the world and no one can–

Enough! Get out of my studio!

What studio? This is a broom closet. I see a mop and bucket for the janitor. 

Then get out of my closet! And take your elitist Santa views with you!

Bah, humbug.

Is he gone? Thank Rudolph…Oh, man, he totally spilled my soap bucket! Hang on, have to rip out some paper towels and sop this up. Doo doo do. And it is–Oh. The soap is leaking through the paper towels. Right.

At least it’s Christmastime.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

 

 

 

The Life of Rice–Ballad of Loneliness

Meet Rice.

Nice guy, right? He has that slim body so hounded after in modern society; his texture is always smooth and…well, a bit slimy; and his acclaim–why, everyone loves Rice; he should be an American icon…but for that he came originally from China…

Rice is in need of a good ear, no, not Goodyear, the tire manufacturer, a good ear! Get your hearing fixed, would ya?

He has started to feel inferior in his social life: all around him his relatives and friends are experiencing what he refers to as, “a grand old time;” while he is trapped, as it were, in a hole of alike faces. There is Rice Junior; Brown Rice; Uncle Ben; and each one of them are exactly as he imagines himself…but better.

I don’t know how many of you are psychologists; but perhaps you could tell me, and Rice here, what it means to understand yourself. Rice is having a hell of a time–from nine to five he basks in a cooking pot for that special slimness; on weekends he is restrained to a black storage container wherein sleep his equally bored brethren; however he never finds the time to examine this…life, or as he calls it the Scalding Oven.

I want anyone reading this to invest some time, right now, in aiding Rice in his quest for self acceptance. Remember he’s not a big guy–at Rice Training Center, when he started smooching on Missie Soy Sauce in the–whoah, Rice, calm down! Anyhow, at Rice Training Center they had him lifting peas and swimming four laps in a salt pool.

Put it this way: he looked like the same skinny, no-good, dry piece of rice–

Okay, okay, sorry, Rice! I was trying to make them feel bad for you, and I guess I got a little carried away. Would you go back to your cooking pot and sulk in there? You’re getting salt on this nice beige carpet.

Good God…he is…

Oh, still there. Right. Rice is such a sensitive person, you know; you say one thing and he takes it as a threat to eat him.

Rice, ol’ boy; what else is there to say about him? He cares a lot about the environment. He also likes to sunbathe; get a little tan on his starched white backside. And he is always, always, putting others before himself, like the time when he let his friends jump on to the orange chicken in that one restaurant…yeah, they loved it up until the Fork showed up–silver pronged bastard.

Whenever you find yourself in a rut, a seriously deep rut, kinda like if your hand fell off; I want you to remember Rice and his self esteem issues. Tell yourself, “Man, Rice is an example of how screwy life can be; but he somehow makes it work, spending the majority of his time avoiding overhead death from those bastard forks.”

And then, once you have climbed out of that rut, throw away any bags of rice–this goes to all you Uncle Ben lovers–for the sake of preserving the mental health of Rice and others like him around the world.

Rice! Come back and say bye to the nice bloggers!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

Ugh. That is the sound my stomach is making right now; well, actually, it’s beating out the guitar solo from Free Bird–too bad there wasn’t a the in the middle, or I might have let the   poor sucker go home–and I am enduring insanely incredible, yet painful, string pickings.

Anyways, before I collapse into a coma for, who knows, seventeen weeks–in turkey language this is seven hours–I have something to say. No, kidding, nothing to say; but I do have to give you a package. Can you all take electronic mailing? Geez, I hope so; the darn thing needs a signature.

All right, I’ll forge it for you guys.

And…everything else seems to be in order here. You should have your own box cutters–careful, it’s heavier than a bloated turkey! Maybe it is a bloated turkey? Some dude at the gas station handed this off to me; yeah, he was wearing a pilgrim costume–little gold belt buckle and all–and I thought to myself: what the hell, it’s Thanksgiving, and I said I would give it to all of you.

Christmas came early?

Obviously not buying it…I can tell by the turkey basters in your hands.

Call me later, huh? I feel the need, the need for a nap…and some pie, in that order.

Enjoy. I guess.

(Inside the box)

The Day The Turkeys Went Bird Shit

A Script

[A small Native American village in which the Native Americans and the Pilgrims are together enjoying their second Thanksgiving dinner. Laid across the tables are yams, potatoes, corn-on-the-cobs, and…roasted turkeys.]

OWETOEP [eating some yams]:

Dear sweet Pilgrim people, you have again proven your worth in hunting down the dreaded  turkey fiends that haunt our homes. We can never thank you enough; however, we would gladly impart to you these cornucopia grenades collected from their den.

[He hands to GERALD a awkwardly shaped cornucopia stuffed with miniature bundles of gunpowder.]

GERALD:

This is wonderful, Owetoep. [He passes it around the table] Gaze in awe, children; it is a weapon of those damned dirty turkeys! Feel it! Smell it! Can you smell the powder?

[Halfway down the table a chair explodes. A small boy lies charred on the ground, his mouth full of corn.]

GERALD:

What has happened? Is Henry all right?

KATHERINE [touching the body]:

He is not all right, Gerald sir! He smelled the grenade too much! Too much!

GERALD [sweating and hurriedly eating turkey]:

Smelled it too much? But…but…it was protected! [He tosses down the turkey and looks at OWETOEP, who is busy chomping on a potato] You told us you collected them! They should have been safe!

OWETOEP:

I did collect them. [He laughs]

[Then as Gerald and Katherine watch horrified the Native Americans reach to the top of their heads and peel off their skin. Beneath are orange and yellow feathers; and on their giggling faces brown beaks! Each turkey steps out of their suits and pulls from beneath the table silver baster guns.]

GERALD:

All of you–all of you are turkeys! What terrible luck!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

You shall pay for your mistreatment of turkeys this year, Pilgrim man! We are Turkeys United: Fighting For the Rights of Endangered and Basted Turkeys! [Slowly he aims the silver baster gun at GERALD] Prepare for the most excruciating experience of your life!

GERALD:

Curse you, Turkey! I enjoyed every minute of chopping off your heads!

TURKEY OWETOEP:

Hasta la vista, Pilgrim man! BAKAW! [He fires the silver baster gun]

[There are screams and more screams and more screams…and then silence.]

THE END

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Futuristically Speaking…

I have been doing a lot–well, no, that’s a lie; I haven’t done a lot–of thinking about the distant future and [spoken in despairing soap opera tones] my purpose, my destiny in this world. Can you blame a guy? In a couple of months I am off to the stomach–the metaphorical belly of the beast…life outside of a sandwich bag.

Not too often do I consider the future. It gives me the heebie jeebies. I predict one thing, like how I am going to have a financially successful standing by the time I’m twenty-one–funny, right?–or if I’m going to own a litter of dogs or children. Busy times either way.

But when I do ponder futuristic realities…I do so with optimism.

Everybody likes to think the future is a grumpy old fart who never does what you want unless it has its beauty sleep; but to shed some savory light on this abused character–read A Christmas Carol to see how badly his Christmas counterpart is described–the future is an agreeable fellow.

It controls your lives! It controls our lives! It strums an electric guitar of epic futuristic proportions while drinking a cup of green tea! People, Mr. Future. Mr. Future, People. Introductions are out of the way.

Now consider the future as related to you:

Is it…flying cars?

Is it…robot slaves?

Is it…the death of an annoying cat?

Is it…an A plus on your next math test? Am I right, guys? Yeah, Math! Kicking its logistic ass back to Archimedes!

Okay, you obviously know what I think about. Still, see the positivism?

Grimness has its place, no doubt about it. Some examples are the apocalyptic movies we have all seen: Mad Max; Apocalypse Now; The Road; The Stand; My Little Pony; Clifford the Big Red Dog–I could go on forever…that would be an apocalypse of its own. And the Grim Reaper. What a guy. Like a dependable weatherman he forecasts your death years before it comes it to fruition; oh, such a caring member of society.

Sometimes I frequent that dark side.

I walk over there with my head bowed and look up to those black shadows and I yell at the maintenance man for not fixing the lights! He is paid hourly; and yet there are no operable lightbulbs in that section!

So, you get me? The future is bright, do remember to pack sunglasses for the many tomorrows; and when you enter the dark half tell the maintenance man to work a little harder and switch out the bulbs…so many people have hit their heads helplessly wandering.

And then–you can come back to the future and reread this post.

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

Take A Load Off. Go On. Do It.

It is getting close to the time of year when laziness is not as frowned upon as in earlier seasons, like, say, Summer, or Spring–it is Winter, my friend, that cold burglar of energy, and the moment in which cookies and cakes and pies and television seem to be deemed…okay–for now.

Not that a long run won’t do you some good, because, hey, getting out on your favorite course and breathing in the chilly air, the type that burns your lungs, is a sensational experience. Side note: if you have not already done so, go out and run…I can wait here…trapped eternally in cyberspace…

Laziness does have its perks. Personally I can’t stop moving all day–the idea of sitting in front of the television and watching three shows straight through is mind boggling; however those of you reading this probably have different perspectives on the whole laziness versus fitness discussion. And maybe you have some fair points. It is possible.

I can think of at least one good thing to come out of laziness. Go on and guess.

Bzzzzzz! Wrong answer!

I was actually going to say…

Huh. I have no idea what to say. Let me do some more thinking here–talk amongst yourselves.

(In the background)

Okay…hm…hot chocolate is an option, oh, and so are movies…maybe squeeze Netflix in there. Let’s look at the notes…doo da doo…a ha! fireplaces! Wait…fireplaces? The hell do fireplaces have to do with laziness? Something about soothing flames–forget it! I hate these notes! There’s nothing on them but pictures of snowballs and chocolate! I’ll take a swing at it on my own…

You still here? Good. Oh…you’re still waiting for the answer. Right…well…

How does next Saturday sound? You open for ten o’ clock? I was thinking we could grab some coffee and talk it over.

You disagree. This is not going how I anticipated.

Excuse me a moment.

(In the background…again)

They said they hated coffee. Yes. They honestly hate coffee.  Well, I don’t know; I didn’t say if it was going to be Starbucks or not. What’s that? No…I was sort of thinking Dunkin Donuts. Geez! All right, all right, no cheap coffee! I get it! Look, would–would you–shut up for a second! Would you please give me some ideas? Okay, pen and paper…and go. Uh-huh…good stuff…yep…definitely! Thanks much.

Apologies for my distracted nature today. I happen to be suffering from a cold…cough-cough. Anyway, I got the goods. Let me unroll this paper…

And now, the one perk about laziness is…

Dang, out of time. Looks like I’ll have to tell you later. Business and all that…

I’ll catch you later?

(In the background…a third time)

Boy, are they dumb….I wonder what I’ll watch on Netflix tonight? 

Think daily, 

A Southpaw

 

A Date? Do Clarify, Dear Sir.

Welcome to the Dating Show! Today we have our contestants–the Businessman; the Jerk; and the Brainiac–all competing for the lovely hand of one jaw-dropping madame. The contest: bob for caramel apples in a barrel the size of an ant!

It ever seem like that to anyone else?

You see a painted target–the painted target you have been eyeing for some time–and luckily you still have a good number of arrows in your holster; but are there arrows enough to compensate for all the target has to offer?

Maybe an arrow is flat. Maybe your bow string snapped a second earlier.

It is impossible to account for all the mishaps which may occur in the course of pre-going-places-with-another-person. Hm, sounds catchy.

The thing to remember; however is not the name of the game, but the game itself. Too many people focus on labels–the urge to slap a title on a flowering relationship; and this can be destructive…hastily destructive.

Artificial cookies never taste as good as the cookies baked thoroughly in an oven to the point of a crisp browning–mmm, it makes the mouth water; and yet eagerly these cooks crank the dial on the stove and heat those suckers up, because, honey, the chocolate is only ever tasty when it’s melted.

Or so it appears.

That said, the dates themselves are to be savored. Yes, the browned cookies are going to be eaten; you have watched that timer run its ticks and its tocks for a satisfying desert. But when will the timer run out? No one can know.

All is left to do is sit and wait and enjoy what is served until it does so.

Truthfully, despite the difficulties and the doubts which can arise it is a ride worth taking; for as in any journey the most meaningful memories are contained within the steps it took to reach that red carpeted end.

Go ahead and dunk your face in the barrel! Whoever said caramel apples came easy?

Think daily, 

A Southpaw