DLOG: The Manifesto

So I've been thinking, I need to start a manifesto. This way, if I'm fiddling with the radio on my car and go careening madly off the side of the road, inadvertantly hitting a Government building in the process and killing myself, it will be seen as an act of patriotic defiance (not terrorism - I'm still considered Caucasian). This will probably make for better headlines than "Died in an effort to not hear that Lady Gaga telephone song again, like a twit".

As such, I have the following demands and grievances that I expect everyone to pay attention to and act upon, regardless how ridiculous, selfish and petty they may seem:

• Each week, one individual voter, chosen at random, will be "Person of the week". They will be mentioned on all television news broadcasts and will recieve free food at any restaurant for the duration of the week. There will also be a hat, signed by the President of the United States, that they get to keep.


• A song shall be selected that, when sung by a man in a public restroom, must immediately be joined in upon by all other men sharing that facility. I'm pushing for Rawhide, but remain open to suggestions.


• Free pie Fridays. MAKE THIS HAPPEN!
  


• While I sympathize with the plight of the downtrodden in our society, I do not feel it fair that I should be expected to participate in funding Government programs to help them when such participation interferes with my procurement of shiny objects (for the purposes of this manifesto, "shiny objects" is defined as anything appearing anywhere on Gizmodo). As such, I shall be exempted of all taxation dedicated to programs that do not directly benefit me until the production of such shiny objects ceases or I run out of room for all my stuff.


• It shall be made illegal to hide from someone and then jump out, yelling "BOO!", in an attempt to frighten and startle them. That's just mean.


• The third Monday in March shall be declared a Federal holiday in celebration of the works of William Shatner. The Shat must get his due. (I don't %$#*ing care if he's Canadian. We're claiming him, and if that means we take Canada in the process, so be it.)
  

As I understand it, these are supposed to be living document, so I think this is a sufficient starting point. Feel free to add any suggestion to the comments section. I will give each due consideration.

Maybe I Just Don't Understand Art For Art's Sake

Okay, our situation has escalated and I'm now officially upset. See, I take great comfort in my belief that I'm the least mature person I work with. Well, this is no longer something I can take for granted.

At first it was a cry for help, then an unwarranted act of aggression against a friendly reminder of proper hygienic techniques. Oh sure, I wasn't thrilled to think that somewhere in my workplace, a psyche capable of such things was lurking, but what can you do? I work with a lot of people. Realistically, what are the odds that I'm the loopiest? (Don't answer that.)

Today, however, finds a thing that I simply cannot accept. See, someone (and I'm going to assume it's the same individual as before, if for no other reason that it allows me to limit the circle of crazy I'm dealing with) has taken a pen to the men's room and actually drawn a crude representation of male genitalia there. We're talking "creepy laundromat restroom" quality stuff here. In case that was deemed insufficient, he then also carved, for lack of a better term, "a boobie" into the toilet paper dispenser, lest some industrial cleaning person remove his mark from the world.



Look, I'm a graffitti aficionado from way back. I can understand wanting to share your vision with the world, regardless of what medium presents itself. This, however, this truly leaves me aghast. This is something I would have considered childish in middle school. The idea that here, in a professional setting, there lurks a mind that determined this to be a reasonable plan of action, that said to itself, "If only this wall had a weenie on it, then maybe things would be okay", actually leaves me uncomfortable in a way I haven't been since realizing that a lot of the people who comment on YouTube videos can legally vote.

This has me genuinely upset. It's not that I'm a prude. I can withstand the sight of a badly drawn bit of junk. It's just that I have certain expectations from people, expectations that I consider reasonable, and when those around me fail to meet these expectations...well, frankly it reduces my faith in humanity in general.

God dammit people, if you're going to write on bathroom walls, you have to at least try to be funny!

I'm Carrying Moist Towelettes, Just To Be Safe

Previously, I tried to reach out to the disturbed individual at my workplace that carved "HELP" into the wall. I fear his situation has not improved. You see, after a long quiet period without bathroom-related activity (other than, you know...the usual), we've had another incident.

Yesterday, I again found our bathroom defaced by a sharp instrument, and I can only assume it's the same individual. This time, instead of a simple pleading, he has taken his aggravation out on one of our many "Wash Your Hands" signs. I don't know if it's someone who just has an issue with hand washing or what (although I have a suspect if this is the case), but there are several slashes now forming a star defacing the sign, and between you and me, I find the whole thing frightening.



Clearly, this person never got the help they needed. Unable to control themselves any more, they've lashed out. So now we've got some guy in my building, full of the rage only neglect can cause, with a sharp instrument, looking to do attack the world that abandoned him in his time of need.

And worst of all, his hands are probably filthy.

Like Cats, But Without All The Mopey Singing

So, thanks to a post on Newly Nerfed, I squandered yet another hunk of my life watching videos of other people's pets. I thought I had broken free of this habit, but the individual responsible, one klaatu42, hit my weak point - he makes them talk. Already a sucker for a well placed lolcat, I'm powerless against this.



Why is this a weakness of mine? Simply put, I, like most people, cannot help but anthropomorphise my pets. As such, every time I watch either one of our cats do something, some part of me is running a narrative in my head of what I think the cat might be thinking. Sometimes they have accents. I'm pretty sure the new Calico Holly, for example, has a little Irish lilt, but I have no idea why. Azure, on the other hand, sounds a lot like my lovely wife, who like to taunt me about the cat's affection for me by narrating her take on the kitty's thoughts. It's a little sick.



What makes this so ridiculous is that I've watched these cats. I've seen how they operate. After Azure tried to catch the pointer on Dora the Explorer for the 800th time, I had to accept that there was no dialog going on in there. There's nothing going on in there at all. If they attached one of those monitors on her little, dumb, kitty brains, it would show less activity than Mario's success chart of the times when he actually attacked the right %#$@ing castle.

Anyway, I continue to get suckered into believing that they are thinking something. I will go on writing little dramas involving the cruel, deviant Azure trying to stifle the plucky, irrepressible Holly. The maniacal laughter. The inspiration defiance. The final showdown, involving them viciously attacking one another in a fight to the death (this scene plays out more often than it probably should, but it makes for great theater, plus it's funny when they forgot that they're on the bed or couch and they fall of mid-fight).

Perhaps if I could figure out a way to keep the monocle on Azure, I could finally share these visions with the world.

Okay, The Title Needs Work, But You Get The Idea

Well, it's Valentines season, and as anyone with school age-children knows, there is a long-standing policy among schools that a card must be brought in for every other kid in the class, regardless of gender or likability. I was sure that this practice would be put to an end during the conservative majority of the Oughts, what with it clearly indoctrinating schoolchildren with "the gay". Alas, I was wrong, and each child still gets a card, ensuring that no fat kid is left with an empty Valentines bag at the end of the day.*

But people who believe in a solid social hierarchy should fear not, for the card industry has taken you into consideration. See, out of every box of Valentines, there are levels. Most of the cards are smallish, maybe 2x3 inches. These are the ones you give to the people you're forced to give cards to, like that dude who sits in the corner and smells his fingers all day.**

Then there's the second tier card. Typically these are a little bigger, maybe by an inch or so in one of the dimensions. These are set aside for acquaintances - the kids who you liked okay, but wouldn't necessarily invite to your birthday parties if there were a limited number of seats.***

Finally, you have the premium card. It's still got the Jonas Brothers on it (or at least the ones the Princess picked out for the girls do, apparently feeling that their body of work fails to speak to the males of the group), but it's almost twice as big as the smallest ones. You're no longer getting just one Jonas, but the full Jonas trifecta. These you keep for genuine friends, or, in the case of the older kids, someone you like. As in like like. I think you know what I'm saying.****



So there you have it. As always, we find a way to make sure that those individuals who should be marginalized will be, thus maintaining the natural balance of society. The popular kids know they're popular, and the other kids know that the popular kids are popular too.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to work on a childrens book I'm writing, The Firefly That Burned So Brightly That He Ended Up A Fat, Balding, Worn-Out Husk By The Time He Was In His Mid-Twenties.

*To be honest, I preferred the bag that way anyway. It was lighter and easier to carry.

**Seriously, I washed my hands all the time. I was just trying to figure out what that smell was.

***Which I was totally understanding about, although I didn't really think it was necessary to point out that I would be taking up two seats.

****I have no idea what am I saying.

My Rude Bodily Noise Skills Are Legendary As Well

This weekend is the annual celebration of my failure as the ideal American man. No, it's not my wedding anniversary (and if you thought it was, I should let you know that whatever my lovely wife told you was a vicious lie). Instead, it's the annual gathering of men around big-screen televisions all across the country to watch incredibly expensive ads for beer and erectile dysfunction drugs.

Oh, and there will be a football game in there somewhere as well.



Yes, it's Super Bowl weekend again. While I care about football slightly less than, say, the price of head cheese in Venezuela, I know that once again I will consider this as I'm doing laundry this weekend and feel just a little left out. It's not that I actually want to watch men in padded outfits fighting over a piece of leather and slapping each other on the ass - I've got clubs I can go to for that. Rather it's that I know a lot of the other guys will be gathering together to watch it, so I'm losing that camaraderie.

It's actually worse because it reminds me of all the things that guys are supposed to do together that I just never picked up. Despite my willingness to sit in a boat and drink, fishing doesn't really appeal to me. Golf has never come up either, surprising given my sartorial history. I won't repeat my lament regarding my lack of handyman skills, beyond saying that I'm not going to be invited to any barn-raisings in the near future. I don't even like The Three Stooges all that much.

Perhaps I'm reading too much into all of this. After all, I'm man enough to have reproduced twice, which isn't bad. All of this manly nonsense is just stereotypical rubbish anyway, right? There's nothing inherently manly about sitting around eating chicken wings and yelling at your television that I can see, so I suppose I should just learn to accept that it's not who I am.

Besides, I can always take comfort in the fact that I show amazing aptitude for both swilling beer and inappropriate scratching which is more than enough to hold on to my man card.

Best Part: Googling Each One To Make Sure They're Not In Use

It may surprise you to find out that Dangerously Low On Grog was not the only idea for an online foray I've entertained. I had several concepts for online journals that, for one reason or another, just never took off. Here are some examples that any of you are welcome to steal if the mood strikes you.

• Lord Blackheart's Musings on the Misery that is Life
  Given up because I had to end my Goth phase. Who has time to put on black eye liner and lip gloss when you're trying to get kids out the door?
  


• Things My Colon Said
  Pretty self explanatory. Had to abandon this one on the grounds that my lovely wife threatened to leave me while I was "searching for the perfect quote".


• Neat Places To Hide Bodies
  Closed on the advice of my attorney.


• Things You Can Stuff Into Petas
  Fat-fingered the title, inadvertently leading to several animal-rights activists being stuffed with lamb meat and cucumber sauce and then offing themselves over the guilt of enjoying it so much.


• Foods That Smell Like Body Parts
  Shut down due to lack of interest/appetite.
  


• Proof That the Internet Is Full Of Morons
  Closed because YouTube/news site comments pretty much cover everything I could have ever said.


• How To Make People Say "Hey, Who's Touching Me?"
  Also closed on the advice of my attorney. Dude has no respect for social experiments.


• Will This Fit There?
  Closed due to repeated injury.

Fortunately I settled on DLOG, where the research is easier and doesn't involve injury/revulsion/potential litigation (usually).