The truth about Badgers: knowledge that might save your life

Posted on May 18, 2011 by Max T Kramer

Friends, we have something important to discuss. A danger which already affects one in six Americans according to a study I conducted in my mind. No,  for once i’m not talking about the imminent threat of Zombie apocalypse. I’m talking of course about unprovoked badger attacks on innocent badger farmers, or as they are called in the biz, badg-herds.

Thanks to nationally standardized school curriculums, most students between the ages of 8 and 14 learn to respect and fear the ferocity of the Badger (taxidea taxus), aka nature’s Chuck Norris. Recent statistical evidence proves however that we have gravely underestimated the true danger posed by these omnivorous weasels of doom.

The badger, due to its many uses, along with its stunning good looks and rugged charm, has ingratiated itself into every facet of American culture. Badger based jokes and puns inundate the late night talk show circuit. Badger-hair tampons have all but replaced the once popular Cherokee brand as the discerning environmentalist’s lady-plug of choice (side note: How do you piss off an archeologist? Answer: Give them a used tampon and ask them what period it’s from.) If you have been to the supermarket recently, you have no doubt noticed that delicious and nutritious badger-milk is starting to compete with traditional cow derived milk for supremacy of the dairy aisle. The good people of Wisconsin even worship the badger as their god. These are facts.

It is undisputable. Badgers have become the it creature in the American psyche. BUT AT WHAT COST?

Scientists predict that by 2015, every single American family will have lost a nuclear member to badger-related assault. I know. Shocking. Every year there are reports on more and more badg-herds lost to the very badgers they rely on for their livelihood. The majestic sight of a thousand head badger clan thundering across the midwestern prairie is so romantic that it is easy to forget the human beings that have lost their lives to these cruel and capricious animals. It is a tragic, but easily ignored trend. Until now.

It won’t be so easy to ignore when these cunning beasts, probably in conjunction with their coyote familiars (badgers sometimes hunt cooperatively with coyotes, look it up) sneak attack grandma mildred in her tomato patch, in broad daylight, in her Chicago suburb. If you don’t believe badgers are capable of such violence, look one in the beady little eye. You’ll see the truth. That nasty little beast wants nothing more than to rip your tender throat out with his gigantic terror fangs. He’ll do it too. He’s the fucking man.

We invited these abominations into our hearts, and sometimes, foolishly, into our homes. Now we are poised to pay the price. Do your research. Lobby your local congressperson. Prepare yourselves as best you can. And when they come for you, please remember that I tried to warn you.

Check this shit out.

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Decrepi’tude

Posted on May 7, 2011 by Max T Kramer

Yes, I have repurposed an already existing word and given it a glorious new meaning. Decrepitude is the quality or condition of being weakened, worn out, impaired, or broken down by old age, illness, or hard use. Decrepi’tude however is a lifestyle of excess, a bold statement, one which says that yes, while we may be of an advancing age, we refuse to be cowed by our impending mortality, and will indeed go all Dylan Thomas on the reaper’s bony ass. (Dylan Thomas was the party-boy poet who wrote this poem. He rocked sack so hard he died when he was 39.)

Let me me give you a fine example of our decrepi’tude. Over the past months it has been thoroughly discussed amongst my circle of close friends that we, somehow, without our consent or knowledge, became the old people at the bar. I’m not certain if it occurred on one particular day, or if it was a cumulative effect, but the sad fact remains, even the bouncers are younger than us. We are just hitting our mid-twenties, and yet we are undoubtably the creepy old guys. The kind of guys that, only weeks ago when we were undergraduates (okay, so it’s been a few years) we would make fun of, sometimes cruelly. Something along the lines of, look at these losers, why are they even out? Shouldn’t they be at home watching Jeopardy and drinking metamucil? Why are they hitting on college girls, they clearly don’t have a chance. Don’t they feel weird being here?

The truth is no, no we don’t feel weird, and thats because we rollin’ deep with an abundance of jillepsorius decrepi’tude son. We might not have a chance with the college girls, but we didn’t when we were in college either, so hey, status quo dicksmack, and guess what, consolation prize, we don’t have to miss Jeopardy, that shit’s on so early we can still make happy hour, and we even know that it plays back to back on seperate networks so we can watch it at 7, and then skip wheel of fortune, cause it blows, and watch it on the Massachusetts channel at 7:30, this time proving how amazing we are by getting all the answers right. And so what if we did have a few fiber supplements with our meal, regularity is important at any age, not the least when you are then planning to subsequently slam whiskey drinks in a social setting.

And so my story takes us to Mezzo bar and grille, a local hot spot (luke-warm spot) last friday night, where, fortified with many stiff drinks, and perhaps a raging semi or two my roomates and I partook in the mass-murder of an innocent dance floor, absolutely killing it with moves that should only be attempted by wily professionals like us, with our years of experience. It takes something special in such a crowded environment to find that, undoubtably over-awed by your prowess and enthusiasm, you have cleared the general vicinity of not only viable babe-targets, but every bar patron altogether. Outlasting all the sorority whores as most annoying last customer to be forcibly evicted from the bar after closing? You guessed it. Decrepi’tude.

Tonight on the other hand, my friday consisted of getting off work at 9 and coming home to find both my roomates already fast asleep. So maybe we’re just decrepit after all…

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Feminism, and other synonyms for wrong

Posted on April 30, 2011 by Max T Kramer

I earned a lot of good will with my last post about reading. I think the honesty it contained was touching for a lot of people. Even my girlfriend Marissa Kay complemented me on it, and as a general rule, the only time she enjoys something i’m writing is when i’m writing a check. To her. (Even then, she has made it abundantly clear that she prefers cash.) Me being who I am however, I cannot simply sit back and enjoy having touched a few people in what was for once an appropriate manner.

So let’s destroy all that new-found good will shall we?

Feminism is dumb. Marissa and I were recently enjoying a scrumtrulescent burrito treat at Iguanas Ranas down on mainstreet, a hobbit sized Mexican place I highly recommend, when in the course of conversation she mentioned that she had just finished reading a book on feminism. I wish I could remember the name of it, but I wasn’t really paying attention, as it all sounded terribly boring and whiny, which I suppose it would have to be, since it was written by a girl. (I joke, a lot of my favorite authors are women, and they are every bit as talented as their male counterparts.) (Female stand-up comedians on the other hand, I think we can all agree as a general rule, SUCK.) Needless to say, since the book did not contain guns, wizards, spaceships, or any combination of the aforementioned, I did not read it, but judging from Marissa’s description, the author maintained a raging lady-boner over her opinion that we Americans live in a flawed society where the rape of women is accepted, and even seen as inevitable. Marissa then went on to articulate that it was unfair that as a woman, and only because she was a woman, she had to live in fear that at any moment she might be grabbed by some hooded and cloaked ne’er do well, and forced to give H-J’s behind some bleachers. She explained that it was unacceptable that some cracked out prostitute passed out in an alley somewhere would run the risk of being violated sexually, because evidently our society turns a blind eye to that sort of thing.

I pondered long and hard on this revelation, and crafted a well-plotted, mature response, which came out as “you sound like a crazy person.”

First off, rape in our culture is NOT accepted, that is why there are laws against it. Rape is bad, mmkay? Secondly, women generally feel more fear than men from threats of physical harm, not because men are evil and women are exclusively preyed upon, but because women are smaller and weaker than men. The hard truth is that this makes them an easier target. The rapist generally chooses someone that they can dominate and show power over. In the real world, this usually equates to the fairer sex. Once the rapist is caught, and goes to prison, the rules change, now don’t they?

So yes, women have more to fear than men, but not because of any flaw in society. Call it a flaw in genetics. I’m not really scared of being raped, because i’m pretty big and strong, and confident in my ability to defend myself. Most women, understandably, do not have that same confidence. Even though they are every bit as smart, and capable, and deserving of respect as men, they are smaller. They just are. (they live longer too, so it’s not all bad I guess) So what they should do is carry pepper spray or a hand gun or a samurai sword or something. I believe they will find most would be rapists change their plans once their eyes start bleeding and they’re shot full of holes. Blam-oh.

You’re afraid of strange men? Well, i’m afraid of zombies, but you don’t see me whining about how life in unfair. I just accept that to them I am seen as a delectable treat, and my blood is like sugar, and I prepare myself accordingly to minimize risk. So, miss feminist who supposedly wishes for equality and  shared rights, how about you stop complaining about how unfair life is, acknowledge your weaknesses, and implement steps to level the field. Equality at the end of a gun is still equality bitches.

And the prostitute thing? Come on. Yes rape is always wrong, and the perpetrators are wrong, and are to blame for their evil actions, but guess what, that cracked out unconcious prostitute is also to blame. It was her choices that led up to that terrible situation too. She is equally to blame because, yes, she got raped, but she would not have been if she, you know, did not do drugs, or pass out in an alleyway, or be a prostitute.

If I cover myself in honey and run naked into a bear cave, people are not going to blame the bear are they, just because i’m weaker and couldn’t defend myself. No, they’ll say, man he was a stupid idiot to put himself in that high risk position, i’m not surprised he got eaten by that bear (which I hear also raped him).

So listen up feminist-schmemenists. In the world the strong prey on the weak. It is not good or bad, it just is. Rapists are evil men (or women), and their actions are unforgivable. BUT If you truly want to be equals, stop complaining about how things go wrong sometimes, and DO something about it. Don’t expect others to fight your battles for you. Understand that you are at risk because of your physical stature. Educate yourself accordingly, and please remember handguns still shoot bullets even if they come out of a prada bag and the barrel has been be-dazzled with rhinestones.

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The joy, and pain, of reading

Posted on April 20, 2011 by Max T Kramer

A depressing proportion of my friends do not read for pleasure. They are all very intelligent, educated young men and women, and yet they take great pride in the fact that the last book they read for fun was The Hobbit, in seventh grade and eighth grade (it took two years to finish). I, on the other hand, just read six books in the past three days, not because I am the man, though I am, but because I could not help myself.

I think i’m obsessed. Thank goodness i’m an extremely quick reader, because everyone close to me knows that once I crack open a new book, I do not take kindly to being disturbed until it is finished. Inconveniences like eating, or sleeping, or going to work are avoided if possible, or suffered with ill grace. Until I can get back to reading I am distant and irritable, and that’s just for okay books. Whenever I find a great book? Forget about it. You’ll see me in six hours when i’m finished, whether my schedule is clear or no.

So why do I do it? I’m not sure. What I do know is that whenever I read a really good story, I am changed because of it. Perhaps you know the feeling I speak of. You’re basking in the solitude of your room. You’re reading a book. As the story progresses, you chuckle, your eyes tear up, you make appropriate umm and ahh sounds, and after you finish the last sentence, all you can do is put the book down, slowly, like it’s some sort of dangerous creature, rub distractedly at the knot in your stomach, and say “woah”. Your world has somehow just been rocked by a few words on paper, and you need a minute to collect yourself. To think. To absorb.

That’s a big deal. Using the abitrary symbols of written language, another human being created something, presented it to you, and let you interpret it how you will. Nothing else has that power. When you watch television, or a movie, though you might appreciate it on a different level than the people sitting next to you, you all just shared in the same experience. You saw the same things, the exact same way. Now say you read a book, and the author describes a room. It has two windows, a table, and three chairs. The chairs are red. When you read that description, your mind creates a picture, an internal visualisation that is uniquely your own. Nobody else imagines exactly the same shade of red, or how the windows cast shadows across the floor, which you decide is covered in a beautiful berber carpet. How about the smell of the room? The temperature of the air? That’s all you baby. “Show, don’t tell” is a mantra that good writers live by, but even the best writer can only give you the barest skeleton frame upon which to build. Is how you envision the world in the story similar to how the author envisioned it? Similar, maybe. Is it the same? Absolutely not.

That, I think, is why a great story is so powerful. It is unique to every person who reads it. It is your own. Because you, the reader, just created it. Sure, the author put some words together, and built an outline for you to follow, but you did all the real work. In your mind, in your soul, you brought the story to life.

A good author is just an enabler really. Me, personally? I’m going to enable the crap out of you.

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Religion? That’s silly (and probably evil)

Posted on April 13, 2011 by Max T Kramer

First off, there is no heaven. Secondly, there is a hell. It’s the DMV in New Britain.

Now that we have that out of the way, let me rock your box with some inconvenient truths. I’m going to focus my attentions on the Christian faith, not because I feel any special animosity toward it, but simply because I am most comfortable speaking about its basic tenets and doctrines, having been exposed to it the most growing up.

According to the Bible, and those Christian sects that consider it the exact word of God, all you have to to to get into heaven and chill with the saints for all eternity is BELIEVE IN JESUS CHRIST. That’s it. That’s the whole process. If you believe Jesus was real, was the messiah, and died for your sins, you will be forgiven for whatever it is you do in your life, and you will go to heaven. That’s not so bad, in fact, its pretty easy. Say you spend your life murdering hookers, eating panda-meat, and clubbing baby seals just for the fun of it, as long as you accept Jesus, when you die, you’re in the good guy club. No hell for you.

Unfortunately, if you spend your entire life doing good deeds, give the homeless booze money, clothing those weird egyptian hairless cats, curing cancer and creating peace on earth, etc. etc., if you don’t do it in Jesus’s name Amen, you’re going to spend eternity in Hell (or the New Britain DMV as it were).

I for one say Fuck that Shit. If Hitler and Dahmer can be roomates in heaven because they followed the one essential rule, it’s not a very exclusive club, and i’m not interested. If Faith is literally the only qualification, and Islamic Suicide bombers really do get their 72 virgins, I don’t think the eternal paradise thing is my bag baby. I have a conscience you see.

And if that is the only rule, then why do all the different Christian churches have so many weird rituals and rules they force upon their congregations? Why do people spend their sunday mornings cooped up in a big room, giving money to strangely dressed people who aren’t even speaking the same language, plus the food and music sucks, and old ladies smell weird, and its just creepy when kids pray, and even creepier when kids pray alone with middle-aged, un-related men who aren’t married, when according to their own beliefs, they can be out playing a round of golf instead, and still get the big bonus payoff when they die? It just doesn’t make sense to a Maximus.

Not to mention that the Bible was not written by God, it was written by Dudes. A lot of them. Over the course of years and years. And then it was compiled and edited by other Dudes. And then translated and retranslated by loads of other Dudes. Most of which barely had GED level educations, and probably beat their wives. And definitely had ulterior motives for crafting a piece of literature that would pacify, constrain, and control an entire population of people who were even less educated. So lets just say the veracity of the word of God, as delivered by the holy bible, is suspect.

Then we have the problem of God himself (herself?). Which one is the most popular this week? The Christian-Judeo-Muslim God? What about Ron Hubbard (scientology), or Anansi, or Ba’al, Chalchiuhtlicue, Dawn, Enlil, Forseti, Gaia, Horus, Ishtar, Juno, Kukulkan, Leto, Medb, Nemesis, Osiris, Pan, Quezalcoatl, Rhea, Sol, Tlaloc, Utu, Vishnu, Xi Wang-mu, Ymir, or Zeus, or is it something even older, or newer? Do you know what I am saying? These are just a sampling of all the Gods of the world, whom people worship, and believe in. You would think that if there was any one true God, or any number of true Gods, they would do a better job of monopolizing.  Odds are the God you worship is a phony, because, hey, they all are. Jesus rose from the dead? So do Zombies. We don’t worship those, do we? (do we?) Besides, Hercules was real strong, and he was just half a god. Odin had a beard and a hat. They’ve all got cool stuff going on, but you haven’t been worshipping them, have you? Even if there is a GOD, I think it’s safe to say that our interpretation of him is WRONG, and not something we should base our lives around, because lets face it, he’s not here to argue. IF there was a GOD that made us (highly unlikely), and he is omnipotent, then he made EVERYTHING. I’ve looked through a telescope before, there’s a lot of cool shit out there in the universe. Hes probably busy with that crap. Hell, I doubt he knows we exist. He definitely, positively, one hundred percent doesn’t give one flying fuck about you. (Like anyone in a position of power) And if he does know about us, but continues to let us fuck up so badly, well then he’s a stinky dick cheese, and you don’t need him anyway.

If you’re too egocentric to think things through, and instead insist upon blind Faith with no evidence or proof that your life choices have any credibility whatsoever, you can carry on killing in the name of. That’s what religions do.

I on the other hand will continue adhering to my own personal code of honor, and living my life as I see fit. I don’t need a God to explain why the apple falls from the tree. I have physics for that. From where i’m standing, God is dead, and that’s a good thing.

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