Wednesday, March 29, 2006


When I say I hate people and support terrorism, it's not that I actually hate people and support terrorism. As usual, I'm being sarcastic and hyperbolizing the truth. Truth be told, I only hate people slightly, and the same can be said for my support for terrorism. Nothing like sarcasm to distort my well founded worldly views.

And I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed neither. I'm more of your plastic butterknife among a hodgepodge of ginzu steak-knives and cutleries. Al-Quaeda couldn't hijack a plane with me if Allah was on their side. I spread, margarine preferably, because I'm stupid and dull.

I suck at math. I didn't learn my times tables until the sixth grade, a good 2 years too late. Even then I struggled with my multiplication tables, and it took a good 2 months of studying them, whenever I sat down on the shitter, to finally get them down. I have now forgotten all of them except for the 2's, 5's, and 10's.

I forget almost everything I hear. Tell me something and I will forget it like a bad childhood beating, I promise you. I don't know my mom's birthday, I only know Christmas falls in December, and if little douchebags didn't show up at my doorstep begging for candy every year, I'd probably forget when halloween was too.

I'm bad with details, I hardly read, the majority of all my teachers have hated me, and on occasion I won't wear deodorant. Yet take all my faults, add them up, and- fuckit dude I'm a genius compared to the average human being.

Which is saying far too much. Today at work someone asked for plastic in paper. But that's nothing. Einstein once said, "Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the the universe."

Take Bush for example. No nevermind, I'm going to sleep.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Meaningless banter

When you're really familiar with something, tiny differences render exponential results. Because there is something about routine that makes life feel completely pointless. It's like carrying around a brick of shit tied to a leash everywhere you go. It can't walk, you gotta drag it, it smells bad, sometimes you back up and step on it, and at the end of the day you look at your piece of shit and think, "Why am I carrying this around?". There is no point. And so do I feel with routine.

If I lived everyday the same as the last, I am excited by nothing. Surprised by nothing. I'm merely living for the variables, the details that change from day to day, which are fleeting and equal nothing in the grande scheme of things.

But then it occured to me that I had it wrong, or mostly wrong. What does the grande scheme of things matter?

People in general are terrible at seeing the big picture. We live in a linear society, where the average person moves from detail to detail in order to see any peice of this infinite puzzle. Yet when it comes to finding meaning, people want the big picture. So we dream of big electrons in the sky and dudes with beards sitting on clouds playing chess, and I wonder, were the details not enough?

I guess few truly know what it means to stop and smell the roses. Fuckit, feel them too. Take a pedal, stick it in your mouth and chew on it. Rub them on your nipples. It's something different. My point is, finding meaning in life is hard, it takes skill to be happy.

My first step towards a hint of personal serentiy was to admit that life was ultimately meaningless. How's that for irony. I've always wondered why people asked what the meaning of life was, as if there was one singular meaning stamped into the sky for all of us to read. It's common for people to think their subjective opinions stand for all, and some people will go crazy trying to amend their own personal philosophies with a cold and uncaring universe.

An ultimately meaningless life is scary for most, to me its like reading a choose your own adventure novel. With no objective meaning I get to create my own. It's alot harder, maybe I could read a 2000 year old book and take on someone else's, but for now I'll do it by myself.

It's all in the details.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

God vs. American Engineering

There's an old-as-dinosaur-piss argument that goes about to say, everything in creation must have been intelligently designed. I'm not here to open that can of mashed potaters, but I would like to point something out.

See, us humans have the tendancy to primarily recognize positive occurances. Which is to say that it's much easier to notice things that happen as opposed to things that don't. So when it comes to intelligent design, we tend to only notice the "intelligent" things about our structure, while overlooking all the things that could be better, or make our design dumb as shit. Like a Ford.

For example, if we were truly intelligently designed,

1) Women's farts would smell like roses. Fuck it, men's farts would smell like roses too. That's a hell of a lot more "intelligent" than feeling like I'm being strangled everytime some fat guy rips one in line at the DMV. Farts can often be traumatizing, as on occasion I will wake up in the middle of the night sweating, because someone farted in my own goddamn dream.

2) There would be no fat people, only people who are "well-insulated". There is nothing "intelligent" about people who need to be crane lifted out of their own bedrooms.

3) Babies wouldn't be so dumb, and this whole "cognitive development" phase wouldn't need to exist. I would've popped out of the womb, sparked up a cigarrette, and walked around slapping doctors with my umbilical cord sayin, "Yo, which one of you nurse bitches wanna spank me?" Cuz that's just how Baby G-rizzle would do.

4) Alcoholism wouldn't cause liver problems. Instead, copious amounts alcohol consumption would result in increased articulation, better motor skills, sudden tight-rope walking abilities and clearer skin. Extreme cases of alcoholism would result in an overwhelming urge to read the Bible and find Jesus.

5) There would be no such things as car accidents. I mean, you've never seen two birds fly head on into each other, have you? Also, asian drivers would drive faster, make sharper turns, see over their steering wheel, decide which lane they wanted to stay in and remember to flip off their turn signals.

6) Dinosaurs would have never gone extinct. Instead, we'd be the dinosaurs and it'd be like that show they had on television with the pudgey little dinosaur baby. If I were a T-rex, I wouldn't have to worry about shit, I mean, I'm a T-rex bitch, what you got on me? I'll smack you with my stumpy little hands. And my girlfriend would be a taradactil, because I'd dig chics that fly.

7) White men would be able to dance. There is nothing "intelligent" about white people dancing like Doogie Howser meets Al Gore everytime they throw back one too many at wedding receptions. And this caucasion wallflower association at clubs isn't cutting it, either. God, you suck man, I just want to dance.

8) Eating Spaghettios would grant superhuman powers. Okay, maybe that's pushing it.

But you all catch my point. For every "intelligent" thing about us, there is something that only a dumbshit or American engineer could make. And there are a million unfathomable ways in which we could be better. Just something to think about. Now excuse me, I'm gonna go punt babies.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

The anticlamatic celebration of 21 years of humanness

As of now, I will be 21 in 20 minutes. Do you know what that means? I am 20 minutes away from doing absolutely nothing.

Perhaps I will engage in a bit of scratching, perhaps some light sobbing, maybe I'll make myself some crackers with a light garlic cheese spread, but nothingness will most likely be the prevelent ontological state.

I feel slightly depressed right now because 21 years ago, when I was a wee fetus, I imagined that on midnight, 21 years down the road, I'd be sucking tequila off a stripper's well-moisturized toe, surrounded by close, encouraging friends. The reality, as it turns out to be, is that I'm sucking nacho cheese off my finger tips, because I just devoured half a bag of cheetoes, and now I'm migrating towards the Ben and Jerry's. And if I were a chic, this is where I'd say something gay like, "I have a spoon, and I know to use it!!!" But I'm not a chic, so I won't fucking say that shit.

But it's way to early to get depressed about the anti-climatic arrival of my 21st. Tomorrow is another day. I plan to make it a very drunk one. Gimme some salt, baby.

Sunday, March 05, 2006


So I found who I want to marry. No really, check it out: My future wife

Her name is Evgenia Podoplelova and she is a mail order bride from Russia. As far as the price of humans go, she is cheap, and for only 299 dollars more, I can buy her English lessons with books included. I just figure this whole "dating" thing might take too long, and nothing is garaunteed, so I might as well buy myself a bride.

Because the problem is, girls down here have too much freedom. And by that I mean, they're not bound to me by a state-recognized contract or sense of obligation. They may leave me at any time without facing any legal or financial consequences, and this is a problem for me because when I'm not busy standing outside women's bathroom windows, I'm busy scaring them off.

Yet I should just keep on trying. I can't set myself up for failure because that's called self-handicapping. I suck. I have to keep a positive mental attitude and reach for the stars. My legs are too hairy. Even if I I'm like that clown who makes little babies cry but nevertheless insists on shoving more and more balloon animals in their faces hoping they'll shutup or at least start sucking on an animal part, I must go on.

A little smile here. A little smile there. Hey baby, wuts up, I see you looking. Yeah. Cocky. Get cocky Greg. You're the shit.

Before I go make toasted bagels in my bathtub, I'd like to leave you all with this message: Lust... that's just a fleeting chemical high, but love... love, my friends, will pull you from the depths of despair, from the bottom of the deepest well, or from selling yourself in the redlight district in Russia. I'm telling you guys this chic is a c-u-t-i-e. I'm gonna go gather my pennies.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

my first newpaper article

(this is my first newpaper article that i wrote for the santa monica corsair. Hopefully, they will publish it)

We here at the Corsair have a hypothetical question.

As everyone should know by now, Los Angeles rests near the ocean. The ocean produces waves. Sometimes these waves are big. REALLY big! So imagine if, on one bright unsuspecting day, some REALLY big waves washed over the city of Los Angeles, swallowing this place whole and turning our grand old city into a real life Waterworld. Our question here at the Santa Monica Corsair is: what would Kevin Costner do?

No really, what we want to know is, how would FEMA and the world respond? Being that we all saw what happened in New Orleans, and it sure wasn't pretty.

People accused FEMA and the Bush administration of slacking off in New Orleans because, in the words of Kanye West, "George Bush doesn't like black people". Wait just a second there Kanye, you don't know that for sure. George Bush is a good man, cough. A colorblind man, cough, cough. I'm sure he loves every race equally, cough, cough, cough- wait my spleen just popped out.

But I'd like to debunk this whole "racial" thing right now. While race may have played a factor in New Orleans, it seems social status was the bigger issue. Because after all, if it were a bunch of proverbial Caucasian “honkies” rowing around in dilapidated canoes, we wouldn’t have exactly sprinted to the scene. More like taken a nice, brisk jog.

On a side note however, the biggest issue turns out to be the apathy of George Bush and Micheal Brown, who were reportedly engaged in a passionate game of online Connect Four during the hurricane's most crucial hours. Bush lost, claiming later in his defense that, "I'm colorblind, and I didn't know those were four black ones."

As many of you already know, a large portion of Katrina victims were underprivileged, and as I stated before, people don't exactly jump off their couches to go help the underprivileged. Especially over-privileged people with that names rhyme with mush. And even if they do get off the couch, they do it as reluctantly as possible, by gradually leaning their body weight forward until they either collapse in a jello-like heap to the floor, or successfully stand using both legs. Many never reach the bipedal stage, if you catch my metaphor.

So with human nature in mind, I think its reasonable to assume that social status did indeed play a role in the Katrina response effort. Because let's face it, gerbils are cute. Wait, wrong argument. Let's face it America, we're constantly placing "value" judgments on human life based on silly things, arbitrary things, and social status is just one of those things, right alongside which D class celebrity does the best tango, and people who sort of resemble Gary Busey.

So, what have we learned so far? We've learned that I've taken the liberty to completely ignore my initial question because I'd rather make fun of Bush instead. But hey, that's my journey, right?

But if there's one point I'd like to make, it's that America, FEMA, and the Caucasian powers that be would react quite differently to a Katrina sized disaster if one ever struck LA. Because we have movie stars. Including the cast of the OC.

And we'd watch as helpless people stood atop their million dollar mansions waving for help, and we'd scream, "Oh my gosh! Those poor, poor people! Imagine their upholstry! Those poor, poor people and their poor, damaged upholstery! Wait a second, isn't that Adrian Brody from the OC?"

The horror. It would be a disaster of unparalleled proportions.