Beards are Awesome.

There are very few irrefutable truths to be found in this ever changing world.

Fast food tastes better when you’re drunk. Taco Bell WILL give you explosive bloody diarrhea. Dogs and Hobos have fleas. Jesus was a vampire.  The show Ancient Aliens on the History Channel has it all figured out. Fox Broadcasting owns chemical weapons plants in Syria. All men are created equal. Good truths all, and yet while we hold these truths to be self-evident, there is one truth more truthy, more self-evidentish than all the rest.

Beards are Awesome.

This is not my opinion. This is a fact. It was proven. It is known. Here are some other useful facts about beards:

Men with beards are two times more likely to have sex with many beautiful women than men with mustaches, and three times more likely than men with no facial hair, and unlike men with mustaches, that sex is consensual. FACT.

Men with beards are wise. FACT.

Men with beards are Viking warlords. FACT.

Men with beards are Wizards. FACT.

Men with beards can eat 7 saltine crackers in under a minute with no water. Men with beards can time travel one hour into the future every sixty minutes. Men with beards invented everything. A man’s strength is derived almost entirely from his beard. Women who touch a man’s beard are gifted with a lifetime of good luck, and many strong babies. Dinosaurs used to be all up in this bitch but then we grew beards. FACT.

Chuck Norris has a beard. FACT.

I have a beard. Therefore, I AM Chuck Norris. FACT. SCIENCE.

My current beard is a relatively new affection. I’ve only been raising him for a few weeks now. He’s still a little unruly, it’s true, but that’s to be expected, we’re still getting to know each other. I’m sure he’ll mellow out soon enough. I’ll admit, i’m surprised that many people have questioned why, after shaving my head for the summer, I would choose to allow so magnificent a mane of thick bristly red-brown hair to take up residence on my face. Oh how I laugh. Those fools. First off, you don’t choose the beard. The beard chooses you. All you can do is accept the honor. Secondly, why wouldn’t I want to look like a COMPLETE BADASS? Sure, being infinitely awesome and endlessly winning can be tiring at times, but the beard lends me strength. He comforts me when i’m feeling down. He holds snacks in crumb form. He cushions my face when i’m being mauled by jealous polar bears. He protects my dreams.

Here is a picture of a young Bill Clinton. He had a beard. Then he went on to become President of the United States. Not too shabby. (Once he shaved the beard however, he got caught getting blow jobs from a fat chick, and lost his job. Coincidence? Of course not.)

Here is a website listing some good reasons to grow a giant beard. The creator of this website is a wise man. He must have a beard.

In some made-up cultures that i’m imagining right now, social status is linked directly to beard fullness and length. In those cultures, everybody is happy and nobody wants, for they have discovered the secret to true happiness. They universally recognize the most fundamental truth.

Beards are Awesome. That’s the truthiest truth of them all.

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There was a Zombie outbreak in MA this weekend. I died.

I sprinted around the bend in the trail as fast as I could go, the chilling moans of the zombies I had just avoided giving my bruised and battered legs barely enough strength to keep from collapsing beneath me. This was it, the last hill. Fifty yards of dirt and rock lay between me and safety.

I had been pushing myself too hard, but anything less would have resulted in a gruesome and disappointing death. The last three miles had been a hellish fight against both the elements and the ravenous undead.

Thick, viscous mud had long since coated my entire bottom half in a rapidly hardening shell of pestilential filth. From the waist down I was completely covered with what looked and smelled like an unholy mixture of chocolate syrup and diarrhea spewed from the tainted bowels of a million billion Mexican day laborers with Crohn’s disease. At this point it was unclear which had claimed more casualties- the gnawing teeth of the infected, or the stinking quagmire of the escape route itself. I had seen too many fellow survivors evade the grasping hands of the undead only to lose their footing in the stinking morass and fall to their death when they lacked the strength to lift themselves back up from the fearsome embrace of the hungry mud.

I wasn’t going to stop and help the poor bastards. I had abandoned Mistress in the first seconds of our flight when she lost her shoes, there was definitely no way I was going to risk my life for strangers. When the dead walk the earth, heroes soon join them.

Not me though. I was going to survive, whatever the cost. I had done things to reach my goal. Terrible things. But none of that mattered now. I had almost made it, the safe zone was tantalizingly close.

Forcing my sweaty, mud-smeared eyes to focus, I looked up the hill toward my salvation.

Mother Fucker. Zombies.

The bastards were spread out in a line, hands together in a classic red rover formation. I couldn’t stop my head long dash, the zombies behind me were still closing in. They were coordinating! They had herded me straight into a trap. I tried to change course, but the 80 pound mud bricks that my feet had become refused to respond to my mental commands. I breathed one last sigh of frustration, and with a gleeful howl the zombies had me.

“I got it!” one crowed enthusiastically, waving my last red belt flag over his head.

“Yeah! Good job!” The others responded, patting their rotting compatriot on his tattered and bloodstained back.

“Hey guys!” a zombie lookout warned from his hiding place in a tree, “there’s another one coming! Get ready for him!”

Well son-of-a-bitch. I didn’t realize zombies were so well-coordinated. All that remained for me to do was wait in line for the water slide, and then limp down to receive my disappointing pity medal at the finish line. Thus ended my first experience with the “Run For Your Lives” zombie themed 5k race franchise.

Eh. It was okay. As per the race website, “Runners will navigate a series of challenging obstacles throughout a 5K course in an attempt to reach the finish line — all while avoiding zombies.”

Now, unless you count 3 miles of knee deep mud interspersed with portions of waist deep mud as “a series of challenging obstacles” there really weren’t any obstacles. Certainly nothing on par with a Tough Mudder or Rugged Maniac type race, which is what I was expecting. I guess I should have known better. Races like Tough Mudder or the Rugged Maniac are designed and organized by various branches of the military. As far as I can tell, Run For Your Lives was designed by…people who like zombie movies? Nothing says “I’m qualified to build challenging obstacles that can withstand the passage of thousands of people in a single day” like watching Dawn of the Dead sixteen times.

My disappointment in the lack of obstacles, and my overwhelming bitterness at being “killed” by a highly coordinated zombie trap, as well as my frustration in knowing that the constant mud made getting a decent 5k run time entirely impossible aside, the Run For Your Lives zombie 5k experience was a pretty good one.

Parking was off site, but shuttles ran regularly and efficiently. Lines were long throughout the event, but moved fairly rapidly. Beer tents were plentiful, and the food options were adequate. I had one of those giant turkey legs that I assume are sold at renaissance fairs. Why does the meat on those things look and taste like ham?

Either way, it was a fun way to spend a saturday. I probably won’t do it again.image from projectsole.org

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My friends never let me play with them

Maybe it’s my bad attitude. Maybe it’s because I cheat. Probably it’s because of my penchant for turning even the most peaceful activities violent. Like puzzles. Dangerous games, puzzles. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that when my friends are playing games, I am not often welcome.

Take last night for instance. After drinking one million beers downtown in celebration of my beloved Mistress Kay’s 25th birthday, everybody who returned to our house for the evening decided they wanted to play with Mistress’s Ouija board. I was told in no uncertain terms that I would not be joining them.

I know why i’m not allowed to play with the Ouija. On the two previous occassions that I was allowed to sit in on their seance efforts, I spent the entire time loudly and enthusiastically demanding an appearance by Satan, even going so far as to offer various of my friends souls in exchange for a hang-out session with the horned demon lord of Hell.

Needless to say, old Lucifer didn’t show up, but evidently this was poor enough manners on my part to make those of my friends who believe in the ghostie-gobblies distinctly uncomfortable, so they subsequently banned me from all future Ouijaing activities.

I think they’re over-reacting. I have a hard time being intimidated by a product designed for children, and manufactured by Hasbro, creator of such fine diversionary products as Lincoln Logs, and Candy Land. I sincerely doubt that a 2 piece board game produced by the devious minds behind Play-Doh, is the secret to piercing the veil between the living and the dead, or initiating a mild to moderate case of demonic possession.

I’m pretty sure that if the little pointer block moves across the board, it’s not because the lost soul of Senator Purrrrrrceval, our childhood cat that tragically and completely accidently got hit by a car, is trying to tell us that he loves us and forgives us for putting him in a pillow case and hurling him off of a highway overpass, but because our drunk ass hands are pushing it around. We move unconsciously literally all the time. The human body is one twitchy sack of crap. In fact, you’re scratching your ass right now without noticing it. This unavoidable ideomotor effect is hardly evidence of paranormal activity.

I’m biased, as always. I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m about as spiritual as an empty condom wrapper. Some of my friends however, do believe in ghosts. Others want to believe. If they, as fully grown adults, want to play Ouija in the basement by candlelight (because everybody knows that ghosts prefer the dusty couch in the basement as well as inefficient light sources) that’s fine. Good for them. I read books while I poop, I know all about wasting time too.

I just hope they understand that since I wasn’t allowed to stay up all night with them conversing with ghostie-gobblies, i’ll be spending most of my day today while they nap rubbing my testicles on their toothbrushes.

OOOooooOOOooOOOoOooHHHHHHH!

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Smartphone Apocalypse

The world is ending without a bang. Without even a whimper. The world is ending with the annoying chirp of angry birds, and the…whatever other sounds smartphones make.

The world is ending, and most people haven’t even noticed. They’re too busy obsessively pininteresting or posting status updates on facebook asking what pininterest is. They’re too busy playing words with friends, or hanging with friends, or drawing with friends or chess with friends to realize that they dont…have any actual friends. They’re even too busy spending hours playing scrabble and hangman, and pictionary and chess to realize that they’re spending hours playing….scrabble, hangman, pictionary, and chess. Those aren’t games adults choose to play. Those are games you play when you’re stuck visiting grandma because the old hag doesn’t have cable and the only other option is watching her pick listlessly at her most recent 8 billion piece puzzle about cats with her super gross gnarly arthritic fingers.

I do not have a smart phone. I barely have a cell phone. On the mobile phone technology scale, I rank somewhere between those hilarious briefcase-sized car phones from the late 70’s, and cupping your hands around your mouth and yelling really loudly. My cell phone is a burner. A pre-paid. A six-dollar flip phone I picked up at a kiosk in the mall. It has two volumes: On and off. Its call quality: poor. Its ring tone: a ring tone. It has no camera. It does not access the internet.It has no touch screen, and the buttons are small and sticky. It is in no way user friendly. I love it with every inch of my shrivelled grinch heart.

Whenever I pull it out while in new company, it immediately becomes everybody’s favorite topic of communication. “Like, oh my glob, how can you even use that thing!? You totally need an iPhone!”

No. No no. Why do I need an iPhone? So I can take shitty photos of myself, apply a digital filter, and upload it to instagram? Do you know what your instagram account says about you? It says “not only do I enjoy taking shitty photos and pretending they’re real art, since i’m a self-absorbed narcissistic douche, I also have to broadcast those photos across the internet, screaming “Hey look at me!”, and maybe, just maybe if I show half a nip, or the thick patch of hair at the base of my spine, some jerk-off I don’t know will “like” my photo. That would be cool! Then i’d be popular! Right!?!?! RIGHT!?!?! LOVE MEEEEEEEE!!!!!!”

“But Max, I have a smartphone, and I don’t use instagram. They’re useful for other stuff too, like checking facebook.” Oh thank god. I can check facebook. I definitely couldn’t wait until I got home and turned on my laptop to do that. I might have missed out on the clever witticisms of my genius friends.

I work during the day. Most of my friends work during the day. What could they possibly be posting on facebook that is worth looking at? And if they aren’t working, and they are posting awesome stuff about their vacation to Tahiti, I don’t want to fucking see it while i’m locked in the office, so stop bragging about your happiness you ass burglars, I hope the entire island sinks like Atlantis and you drown and die and octopi eat your face bones.

I get it. I really do. Smartphones are a lot of fun. Well, so is crack. But like crack, smartphones are really best enjoyed in moderation.

When I wake up a 3am, and Mistress is lying in bed playing Forestville in the dark, that’s creepy.

When I sit down in a crowded bar during happy hour, surrounded by friends, and everybody is so engrossed with whatever they’re doing on their smartphones that the room is silent, that’s beyond creepy. That’s the world ending.

Other people have commented on the smartphone obsession phenomenon. You can read a recent IO9.com article about it here.

Or if you have 2o minutes to spare, you can watch this video clip.

And of course, if you don’t have that kind of time, you can always just look at this scientific equation I made with science.

iPhone equals Forever Alone

When you’re done using your smartphone, feel free to come find me. I’ll be the guy enjoying the real world.

 

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Please. Stop. Complaining.

It’s been a minute since I last posted. That’s mostly because i’ve been working on writing a super sweet new story about astronaut vampires that’s totally going to blow your mind penises while gently cradling your soul balls.

Let’s catch up. There’s a new study which links eating red meat to early death. You can read the CNN news article about it HERE. The study, which tracked the diets of over 128,000 participants for as long as 28 years pretty conclusively shows a link between eating red meat, and dieing horrible disease ridden deaths at a younger age than people who don’t eat as much red meat. What the study failed to mention however, is the indisputable fact that those people not eating red meat, while technically biologically alive, haven’t really lived at all. Therefore, when comparing data on “days lived”, as opposed to “length of existence”, I believe you will find that the study shows quite the opposite results.

Not eating red meat is three orders of magnitude more torturous than…torture. Jesus once equated a day without meat to an eternity in Hell, or New Jersey. Given the choice between possibly dieing in my seventies of a massive heart attack while gnawing on the succulent flesh of a dead, preferably endangered beast, or lingering on into my nineties, trapped in a rotting body fueled by vile substances like “plants” and “nutrition”, wishing for a death that just won’t come, i’ll take the steak-assisted suicide thank you.

As a whole, I think we worry about things far too much. We could all die tomorrow in the zombie apocalypse, so who really cares about trans-fats, and msg’s, and lead-based paints? I had an earnest young hippie fellow knocking on my door a few weeks ago, trying to get me to donate to his cause, which was some act or bill to ban certain plastics in household items, because some studies sometimes show a possible link between these plastics, and the extinction of unicorns, or something. I politely told the young man I was not interested, and he then had the poor manners to become pushy, and demand an explanation as to why I wouldn’t give him money.

Why? Here’s why. I make it a habit to not give money to anybody ever, because well, that’s my money. I also definitely don’t give money to people that smell like crap. And I certainly don’t want any laws passed which tell me which plastics I can and can’t have in my home. Good intentions aside kid, this is my home, and if I want to fill it floor to ceiling with asbestos cream cheese, I should be able to do whatever I damn well please. If you want to waste your time and money on educating people about how I might possibly get cancerous tumors the size of grapefruits in my scrotum if I eat my shower curtains that’s fine, but you have no right to tell me that my snacking habits are illegal. Besides, i’ll probably be dead from all the red meat I eat long before the plastic effects me.

While we are on the topic of bills and laws, there is a bill currently trying to make its way through congress to forgive student loan debt, ostensibly as a way to stimulate the economy. Over 300,000 people have shown their support for this bill by signing an online petition. I would like to personally punch every single one of those people in the face. It would probably do irreparable damage to my hand. I don’t even care. You can read a moderately insightful article about the bill HERE.

You know what people used to do when they were in debt? Pay it off. Not my generation however. That’s too hard. “You don’t understand, I went to a really expensive school to get my masters degree in philosophy and douchebaggery, and i’m having a super hard time paying my loans on my barista’s salary. It’s hard, so I shouldn’t have to do it.”

No. You don’t understand. You didn’t have to go to that over-priced private university, you chose to. And you chose to do it by taking out monstrous loans. That wasn’t your only option. You probably don’t need your Phd to serve coffee. You could have gone to trade school for cheap, and learned something useful. Then, you could have applied that useful skill to a decent paying job. Then, with the money you made at your job, if you wanted to, you could have gone to a better school to get a more prestigious degree. And so on. Sure, it would have taken a few more years, and you would have to work, but you’d be debt free, and deserving of the right to call yourself an adult.

I’m not against higher education. I have a degree, and i’m working on a second. The difference is that I worked full time in construction before I went to school, I worked full time in the food industry while I was in school, and now i’m working full time as i’m back to school. Oh, and also I don’t have ANY debt. Do I have my dream job? Have you seen any of my books on a shelf in Barnes and Noble? There’s your answer. Do I have any complaints though? No. I have a job, my bills are paid, and i’m putting money in the bank. I work toward my personal goals in my spare time.

What I am against is people spending money they don’t have on degrees they don’t need, and then bitching when the real world comes knocking a few years later, and they can’t pay their bills. That’s dumb. That would be like buying a fancy mansion that you couldn’t afford. Oh wait. People do that too.

This brings me to my third, and final topic for the day. The Occupy movement. I guess it still exists? I blame the mild winter. Those turds should have frozen long ago, or wandered in front of a bus in a salvia induced stupor, or something. I’m sad to say Connecticut is home to one of the last infestations, at Occupy New Haven. They’ve been clogging up the New Haven green for six months now. Come on. How can these people camp out for six months? That’s not a protest, that’s homelessness. They need to get some damn jobs, and make something of themselves. Maybe they can get jobs with the New Haven Parks department cleaning up the mess they’ve made? It’s an idea.

These Occupiers were only brought to my attention because they’ve been in the news recently, first because they staged some sort of demonstration where they lay down in the road and blocked traffic for a while. That was a wise move. I’ve always found that the best way to win sympathy for a cause is to annoy and enrage the people you’re trying to recruit. Then, most recently, they were in the news again, because one hobo raped another hobo in their tent city.

Sounds like a real utopia over there fellows.

I hate that I sound like a grumpy old man when i’m talking about my peers, but they make it really hard to be sympathetic. Get it together guys, you’re totally blowing it.

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