Much Ado About
Does nothing exist? I would argue that there is always something, even when one thinks there is nothing. An empty box has air inside, which though invisible, is something. Oxygen, hydrogen, and nitrogen molecules are present in the empty box. The great vacuum of space in all its vastness has small amounts of something even though light years may separate one something from the nearest something else. In fact, nothing as a quantity is still a quantity it is simply the very least amount of something, (whatever category of something that may be) one can have.
So, what is the closest approximation to true and total absence, or nothing? I would argue that the closest state of nothingness that exists in this plane of existence is the unique state of mind the male of our species is able to achieve when it's at rest. This state is difficult for the female of the species to fathom which causes no small amount of frustration. For example, let's say a female of the species asks a male of the species, "What are you thinking about?" The male's response of, "Nothing" seems to be either an attempt at deception or simply impossible.
To the male of the species he really isn't thinking of anything. This doesn't mean that his brain has entered a state of total stagnancy. It simply means that nothing on the conscious level is within male's flickering and dim intellectual spotlight. Of course, the neurological processes of breathing, maintaining a heartbeat, digestion, and the countless other biological processes the brain is responsible for are engaged, but to the male such mechanisms aren't worth considering out loud and therefore qualify as nothing.
How is this possible you ask? Simple. The male of the species has a less sophisticated brain than his female counterpart. It has been scientifically confirmed that less evolved thought processes of the male remain much like his prehistoric Neanderthal ancestors and are primarily focused on procuring food, shelter, fucking (procreation is rarely a conscious level motive here), entertainment, and the size of his penis. Now, it is nearly impossible for the male of the species to think about more than one of these limited categories at a time. One area of focus may inadvertently assist in the achievement of another area of focus, but this is a result of one simple drive being complimentary to another and not an intentionally thought out part of a larger plan in which another goal is achieved.
Let's say that the male of the species wants to fuck something other than his hand. While self-pleasure provides release for a biological urge, it can also lead to carpal tunnel syndrome which reduces the male's ability to provide for himself and thus hinders his chances for survival. Coincidentally, the male has worked to provide for his basic biological needs. He has obtained suitable shelter, a consistent food source, and the means to maintain both beyond the short term. A female of the species observes the male's efforts and acknowledges his capabilities and the characteristics that allowed him to be successful, both of which meet her qualifications for a suitable mate. As a result, the male has unintentionally made himself fuckable. He would've obtained shelter and food in order to address his basic biological needs without considering the female. The female's reaction to his efforts are simply a bonus. So, with a limited number of categories which require thought to focus on, the male of the species is able to reduce his thought processes to the biological minimum to continue living.
In comparison to her male counterpart, the female's brain is a natural multi-tasker capable of complex planning and problem solving in the short and long term. This advanced ability to think beyond the basic need to survive allows the female to improve higher brain functions such as emotions, ethical responses to adverse conditions, the ability to nurture, and empathy. All this activity means that the female brain is in a constant state of thought. Consequently, the female of the species cannot fathom how the male of the species can achieve a state where thought is idling simply waiting for the need to obtain the basic necessities of life, attend the next monster truck rally at the fairgrounds, spend money on a raised pickup truck (or to be Freudianly honest, treatment for being phallically challenged), or watch the movie where the lead actress is topless. So, when the female asks the male what he's thinking his response of, "Nothing" seems absurd and dishonest. Sadly, 99% of the time he is telling the truth.
In short, it is difficult to say that a complete and total absence of anything, or nothing exists. The closest thing to nothing is the mental holding pattern the male of the species is able to achieve when he's not working towards a very finite number of goals using an equally finite number of methods. It is the limited capability of male thought that has been the bane of human advancement for centuries. War, discrimination, masogyny, and a constant need for more demonstrates the male's less than advanced ability to think, analyze, empathize, and nurture. A brain too complex to achieve a state where it can think about nothing should be given the chance to run things for awhile. Too bad our management or potential management choices are two old corrupt men one of whom has no moral qualms about grabbing a lady's, your daughter's, your wife's, your sister's.....while being worshiped by, "Good Christians." Frankly, I think even Neanderthal man's brain would defy its evolutionary limitations enough to be ashamed.
The Cheshire Cat With a Side of Pork and Beans
I've always felt that the world is more mad than broken. Although, I suppose there is probably a fair amount of brokenness required to achieve madness. So, it may just be that one cannot exist without the other. That is a matter way beyond my slightly irregular, shouldn't have made it past quality control, intellect to comprehend. As a result of having an IQ that is P-U, I tend to lean on the simplest definition of madness or insanity which is, "Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting to a achieve a different result." Of course, depending on the circumstances, this futility can definitely invite insanity's bedfellow, brokenness to the party. Though simplistic, I think this simple definition of insanity pretty much describes humanity from day one. Wars rarely solve anything, but we still fight them. Kindness is always more fruitful than cruelty, but there's still plenty of cruelty in humanity. Political systems continue to fail or outright abuse those they're supposed to protect, yet we still use the same systems, contenting ourselves with minor cosmetic modifications. It's like chosing a purple shaft today over the same tried and true green shaft our leaders have been shoving up our collective asses for centuries. Sure, it's different, but it doesn't change that fact that we're still getting a shaft. So, the difference is pretty irrelevant. In short, I think that the great sage of insanity, the Cheshire Cat put it best when he said, "We're all mad here." I guess the real question is, can a mad person navigate a mad world without being swallowed by the world's mass, twisted, often dangerous, cruel, and narcissistic madness? Consequently, are we doomed to share society's collective delusion of grandeur that allows each of us to somehow assume that we're modern day Napolean Bonaparts while simultaneously believing that we're also genius artists who work solely in the medium of feces using the walls of our padded cells as our canvas? Can we have our own madness that is unique to us, an insanity that separates the individual from the rest of the rabid lunatics in the world at large? I'd like to think so.
Personally, I try to mold my delusions into something benign or if not benign, then only harmful to myself. For example, I write. My writing is unrefined, often without purpose, and is more manic than a tweaker with a set of tools and a broken lawnmower. Plus, there's a good chance that the Oscar Myer hotdog jingle will show up at random times somewhere within the pork and beans of my prose, but it's my writing and it harmlessly gives my delusions a little playtime. However, for the more timid reader who possesses a little dignity and sense of decorum, reading anything I write provides a mild psychological shock similar to what one experiences when pissing on a live electric fence. The lesson is learned immediately after the electricity climbs the conductive arc of urine and lights up the individual's mommy or daddy parts. So, after a good zap of my writing and a couple of melted fillings, odds are, the timid reader won't be doing that again. With this newfound wisdom born of a very negative experience, the timid reader knows better and the next time they'll take a pass on readng an post by Shallowgenepool.
Professionally, I have sculpted the dry humping a fire hydrant level of crazyness that is a regular part of my job into a bit of cathartic delusion. For example, when the office is intolerably quiet, the voices in my head become bored which leads to psychotic naughtiness. This isn't a good thing because engaging in my brand of psychotic naughtiness will likely lead to unemployment and a criminal court date. Seeking to alleviate this very dangerous boredom, it's not unusual for my coworkers in the neighboring cubicles to hear me suddenly break out in, "YOU MAKE ME FEEL...YES, YOU MAKE ME FEEL, YOU...MAKE...ME...FEEL...LIKE...A...NATURAL.......WOOOOOMAAAAN" in my singing voice that can best be described as a tone-deaf, pubescent, prone to cracking, and dolphin with hemorrhoids-like, falsetto. I don't care that I'm an almost 50 year old man. It's my delusion and Aretha Franklin was a goddess, I really don't care what my coworkers think. They can either move to a different floor or they can sing backup, I'm good with both choices. Singing spontaneous Motown melodies at the top of my nails on a chalkboard voice allows me to get through the fucking day without trying to silence the voices in my head by cracking my own skull wide open with a three hole punch!
At home, my lunacy is diffused by reading. My reading is as manic as my writing. One week I'll read Steinbeck, Twain, Orwell, or Shakespeare, the next week I'll read a totally predictable zombie, werewolf, or vampire novel (and no, the Twilight Series doesn't qualify, even at my worst I have better standards than that). There's no reason to my choice. It's as spontaneous as a fifteen year old boy cumming within two seconds of being invited to touch a girl, "There" for the first time. One week I may choose to read a work of great beauty and wisdom and the next week I'll be reading the literary equivalent of left over Taco Bell that's been in the refrigerator for three months. Of course, my manically driven choice of reading material is a bit embarrassing at times, but in the end, it hurts no one.
Music hath charms that soothe the savage beast. It's true or in my case, I try to rock the voices in my head to sleep, or when that doesn't work, to drown them out entirely. For example, on my commute home from work, I will snarl along with Dave Mustaine and "Tornado of Souls," celebrate debachery with the Rolling Stones belting out, "She's so cold," or shiek to Valhalla with Led Zeppelin's, "Immigrant Song." Some people shoot heroin. Some people drink. Some people pray. Some people dress up like a 19th century German school boy and get spanked by a 300 pound woman dressed like a Swedish milk maid. Me, I worship at the feet of the rock gods and goddesses.The end result is that I make it home without entering a psychotic rage resulting in me taking a tire iron to the driver of the motherfucking Tesla that is apparently saving battery charge by NOT USING HIS FUCKING BLINKER!
Well, there is no escaping madness. We really are all mad here. The difference is we can MY BOLONEY HAS A FIRST NAME IS O-S-C-A-R, MY BOLONEY HAS A SECOND NAME, IT'S M-A-Y-E-R and join the often harmful insanity of society or we can shape our own madness like sculpting mashed potatoes into a scale model of Mount Rushmore. Being crazy may be inescapable, but being a crazy dick, that's a choice. Ha! I bet you were thinking I'd add the Oscar Mayer hotdog jingle in here somewhere!
First Day: That’s All Folks!
HR Manager During New Employee Orientation: Welcome to ACME Incorporated's state of the art factory! You should feel proud to work here because ACME is the exclusive supplier of coyotes, roosters that sound like Kentucky Colonels, hunters with speech impediments, narcissistic ducks, and two foot tall red haired bandits everywhere! It's a great place to work! Oh, now don't listen to the rumors about employee turnover. We value our employees at ACME and consider each of you as more than workers, we consider you family!
Let me assure you that the quality control workers at ACME are the foundation of the company and we pay you accordingly! What other employer offers its employees 100 paid days off, a company car, clothing allowance, and free chef currated meals and $10,000 an hour? Now, I can take a question or two from the new hires.
Cartoon Mouse: Do you offer health insurance?
HR Manager (sweating): No, but the pay alone makes health insurance a small consideration!
Cartoon Cat: I really like the life insurance policy, I mean $10,000,000 for accidental death or dismemberment, that's amazing.
HR Manager (with a smile): I told you that ACME takes care of it's workers.
Cartoon Cat: That's great, but when I went to fill in the spot for beneficiary, ACME Incorporated was already there.
HR Manager (taking the cat's life insurance application): Now, I thought those monkeys in clerical fixed this typo! I'm gonna get this fixed as soon as we're done here! Now, does anyone else have any questions?
Cartoon Dog: Yeah, the job discription's a bit vague. Exactly what'll we be doin' here at ACME?
HR Manager: GREAT QUESTION! Your job here is to test our products as they come off the assembly line to make sure that they work as designed and it doesn't take any special training. The process is simple. To test each finished item all ya gotta do is just tap each product on the detina.....er.......top with a wee hammer as it comes off the assembly line and answer one question on the form attached to your clipboard. Does it explode?
Drowning in the Wake of Bad Decisions
The most powerful entity on Earth and perhaps the known universe is the mother. Before I begin, let me give a shout out to mothers of all the other forms of life on the planet be they mammalian, reptilian, fish, or lower primate because they too are the moving, and evolving genesis of their species. However, for the sake of time, I will focus on the most advanced, dynamic, intelligent, compassionate, loving. and dangerous (when their offspring is threatened) of mothers residing here on Earth, the human mother.
Like their fellow lifeforms, human mothers are the authors of humanity, selflessly allowing the parasites growing within them to take everything needed to grow and develop to maturity. All of this happens while nurturing a love and bond that is beyond the scope of words with and for the little life growing within them. This parasitic relationship continues beyond the womb as the infant human is totally reliant on its mother for survival. Now, let it be known that a woman's life giving power isn't without burden and the responsibility of bringing new humans into the world is best described by that great student of human nature, the inspiration for the invention of spandex costumes, and the creator of the Marvel Universe, Stan Lee, "With great power comes great responsibility." Most of the time, mothers bear this responsibility with a wisdom and strength that is notably absent in their phallically equiped counterparts. However, this isn't always the case. Not every woman who possesses the power to bring human life into the world should nor should every woman want to have children. While most women are biologically capable of bringing life into the world, not all are suited to supporting and nurturing that life once it is born. This is in no way a fault as human beings are infinitely complex, adaptable, and as a result. sometimes have different roles to play as part of humanity. Because of the adaptable nature of humanity some women choose a different path in the world, a path that is equally important to the continuance of the species. This doesn't mean that the woman who chooses to be childless or feels that they are incompatable with motherhood doesn't love children or would do them harm. It simply means that whatever role they may play in humanity makes child rearing difficult, or sometimes undesirable.
Sadly, patriachal society has made becoming a mother an essential part of completing the, "Being a Successful Woman Check List." This is cruel, discriminatory, and given the current population of the world, totally antiquated and redundant. What's worse, many women who're pressured into motherhood might lack the unique set of qualities that it takes to be a good mother. This doesn't mean that they don't love their childen. It means that they were better suited to being childless. My mother is just such a woman.
My mom began life beset by mental health issues. She was given to depression, anxiety, agorophobia and coupled with the trauma of losing her dad to suicide by the age of 4 and being sexually assaulted by a family member as a 10 year old girl, she struggled to care for herself. By the time she was in highschool she was self-medicating with, nicotine, marijuana, alcohol, and amphetamines. At that point, my mom was against ever becoming a mother, but her wounds would make this VERY wise choice difficult to stay committed to.
Sadly, my mom's total lack of self-worth and feelings of abandonment stemming from the trauma she experienced as a child made her turn to anyone for affection, and men were happy to oblige her for a price. My father was just such a man and within a couple months of knowing the fresh out of bootcamp sailor my mom was pregnant with me. My dad would've been happy to board the USS Enterprise (CVN 65) as it headed for Vietnam in the waning hours of the war, leaving a bastard behind, but due to an Irish Catholic push from my dad's grandmother, my parents were married by the time I was born.
Motherhood didn't due my mom any favors two years and one positive test for a STI later, she and my dad were divorced. If EVER there was a marriage due to fail it was my parent's extended for waaaaaay too long one night stand. Unfortunately, my dad (a major asshole then and now) would be the last guy she attached herself to who worked, didn't have a criminal record, or thought that beating women was an acceptable passtime for the next decade. So, I was now being raised by a mentally ill mother who was even more deflated after being cheated on by her first husband. As can be expected given my mom's horrible character judgement my seaborne deadbeat dad would (and I'm shocked to think to this day) be the best of her penile possessing prospects. This would lead to a string of abusive relationships and two more ill conceived children.
I was almost out of highschool when my mom FINALLY admitted that she should never have had children, hadn't wanted children, and had dreamed of being the favorite aunt to her nieces and nephews. Instead, she had dragged me and my siblings through a series of violent, unhealthy relationships inflicting trauma to us along the way. Oh, she loves us, of that I have no doubt, but she wasn't capable of caring for herself let alone three little humans. The extended consequences of her actions would be experienced by her three children more than her.
Somehow, I was the lucky one. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy by the time I was three years old. I only heard the theory regarding the cause after I became an adult. The theory was that I stroked out in utero due to exposure to moderate amounts of amphetamines, alcohol, nicotine, and psychadelics before my mom would realize she was pregnant. As an adult, I would spend some time in a mental health facility for my own depression, anxiety, and domestic violence related PTSD. Eventually I would marry WAAAAAAAY out of my league and have kiddos of my own. So, being a dad, I went back to school and became a, "Normy Drug and Alcohol Counselor," meaning a substance abuse counselor who's never been an addict. I guess I realized after my failed attempts to help my family that I wanted to help someone. My education continued until I became the first person on the maternal side of my family to earn a college degree.
My sister would be sexually assaulted before she was 14 years old and was an addicted mother of three herself by the time she was twenty. Each child was born exposed to methamphetamine, her first was born very premature at one pound thirteen ounces. The other two struggled with learning difficulties and all three suffer from various forms of mental illness. The doctor delivering her last child, fearing that she would continue having drug exposed children actually obtained early approval from Medi-Cal to offer and perform a tubligation on my sister, something that wasn't usually approved by Medi-Cal until the mother was twenty-five years old.
My brother also became addicted to methamphetamine and became quite adept at stealing cars. He's been homeless off and on his whole adult life, struggling to hold down jobs while dealing with organic mental health issues and not so organic meth induced psychosis which I believe has become permanent.
So, mothers are the most powerful entities on the planet, always have been, always will be. However, all women are powerful and becoming a mother isn't a gauge of success as a human. Women are the pinacle of human evolution, motherhood is just one thing women excel at. If you're a lady who doesn't feel like you have the mommy gene, don't sweat it. I can honestly say that for me, my siblings, my nieces and nephew's and most of all, for mom's sake, I wish she'd been able to stick with her notion that she wasn't mommy material. Fuck, considering staying with my dad, a one night stand that went waay beyond what should've been a walk of shame the next day with no further contact, and putting me up for adoption or even having an abortion my mom could've prevented a long string of tragedies. I guess the wake that forms from bad decisions sometimes drown more that just the decision maker.
Social Media and Introducing Apathy Book
"Follow me on Snapchat, like my YouTube channel, follow me on TikTok, X, and Instagram." Everyone wants to be famous and many think they are and will proudly tout the number of social media followers they have to prove it. Why? I was recently commuting to work and got behind a vehicle that had all the invites to check them out on multiple social media outlets. Naive me, thought that the vehicle belonged to a business, directing potential customers to their website. However, when I changed lanes and pulled up next to this monument to narcissism on wheels, I didn't see a single logo or other indication that the vehicle had any connection to a business, organization, church, or club. So, the only conclusion that I could draw was the owner of the late model Ford Focus wasn't selling anything and simply promoting themselves.
Even though I don't have any social media accounts, The Prose being the closest thing to social media that I access, I can see that it has its uses. My initial assumption that the Ford Focus that was covered in, "Pay Attention to Me" decals promoting a business or organization was based on the idea that social media provides a way for locals to find resources in the community. However, no business was being promoted that I could see. It was just some wanna-be hoping that someone would click a button on their multiple social media pages so that they could gain enough followers to attract sponsors and get paid to make brain rotting videos about what to buy at the Dollar Tree (yes, these videos really exist).
So, is having a large enough presence on social media enough to say someone is famous? Strangely it is. My now 5 year old (Owen 5th birthday 4/17/24) is addicted to this YouTube channel called Ryan's World. From what I can tell, the channel originally started out as a kind of mom and kid's (he was about 5 when he started) review of toys. Now, the whole family is involved (including Ryan's future replacement, his younger twin sisters) and they go on trips, play silly games, review toys (the puberty train has arrived so Ryan's toy reviewing days are numbered) and every once in a while, they will actually do something educational. Today, Ryan has his own line of Ryan's World merchandise and he's worth millions. Methinks the money is gonna come in handy because the kid is likely going to need A LOT of therapy and maybe a stint or two in rehab when the fame fades and the money stops coming in.
Becoming a social media celebrity seems to be the new American Dream. It's a modern day gold rush with everyone staking a social media claim in the hopes of striking it rich in followers, sponsors, endorsements, and all the wealth that comes with it. Like the gold rush of 1849, a few social media hopefuls may strike it rich. Unfortunately, most will likely find themselves with nothing, just like the failed prospector who never finds gold nuggets on his claim, and has nothing to show for his effort and must return home with nothing except for a bad case of gonorrhea he got from one of the girls at the Dirty Kitty Saloon.
I can't say I aspire to wealth or fame. Fuck, I'm a social worker which means I'm doomed to be forever broke and the code of ethics I work under requires that I perform my job as anonymously as possible. So, there's no wealth or fame in my future. Personally, I think someone should create a social media site for those who have no wish to be anything other than who they are. I'd call it, Apathy Book. Like my post (if I post at all), or not, watch my videos, read my content, or not, Whatever. "Followers" wouldn't be a thing because Jim Jones and Charles Manson had followers and that should be warning enough about people who want a large number of people to follow them. See also religion, and anyone who thinks Taylor Swift has talent for other examples of how following anyone can be dangerous. Besides, I don't want anyone really following me outside of The Prose because, I'm worse than lost. You have a destination in mind to be lost. I don't know where the fuck I going. I would suggest one new social media feature for Apathy Book I'd call, "Go Fuck Yourself With a Rusty Piece of Rebar Wrapped in Barbed Wire Sideways, Sans Lube." This button could be used for the dick head that starts posting things like, "The Election Was Stollen," "Vaccines Cause Autism," and "Donald Trump is Better than Jesus, Shits Gold and Pisses Silver." Or I guess we could just have a minimum IQ requirement which would likely keep posts like these from every being a thing on Apathy Book.
My Sincerest Apologies
I recently noticed that I have submitted over 100 posts here on The Prose. Frankly, I'm ashamed of myself because no one knows better than I that my written thoughts are about as palatable as broken glass smothered in the contents of a chili cookoff port-a-potty. So, to anyone who has read anything I have written I owe you an apology for any chafing, strange reoccuring rashes, or loss of IQ points resulting from unknowingly reading anything I have ever written. Now, please note that I don't go fishing for compliments because for one, I can't afford a fishing license, and two, as my wife will tell you, I lack a rod of sufficient length and girth to land even an anorexic sardine.
Why do I write? To be honest, I think my writing is a compulsion similar to that experienced by a nymphomanic. I guess you could call me manically, prosaically promiscuos. I can't help myself from recklessly thrusting a metaphor into whatever wet literary space is willing to have me. Of course, this unhinged writing will probably end with me catching a bad case of antibiotic-resistent drippy dictionary or best case scenario, end up being rubbed raw in poetic places by fiction friction. I admire my fellow Prosians who can commit to writing chapters and even entire novels. Me? I can't commit. The most anyone will get from me is a couple thousand words before I'm off trying to spread my sticky, most likely diseased similes to other topics.
Realizing that I have posted more than a 100 times on the Prose, I decided to audit some of my submissions in the name of quality control. Frankly, what I found is disappointing. I seem to only be able to write on a few very limited topics, most of which are probably only appealing to a dirty minded 12 year old or to those who have the sense of humor of a 12 dirty minded 12 year old. Some topics regularly touched on by Shallowgenepool include:
Sex I can't help it. I can't help but find everything about sex HILARIOUS!. Why you ask? Humans are the most sophisticated, intelligent, and capable creatures on the planet. We're supposedly the pinnacle of evolution on this blue ball of a planet (he he he blue ball). However, when given the chance to have our joy buzzers pressed we become drooling fucking idiots. Don't believe me? Then why do so many terms related to sex have a negative connotation and suggest poor dicision making. For example, "Walk of shame," "Mini van," "Holidays at the In-Laws," "Unexplained burning sensation," and my personal favorite, "I hope no one I know sees me buying a home pregnancy test at the Dollar Store." If we humans were smarter we wouldn't let the chance to bury the baloney to overwhelm our common sense. Nope. Instead, the best we horny, hairless apes can manage is to use our cummon sense which usually leads us to say things like, "Geez, I hope they're too hung over to remember my name and where I live" or "I think the built-in vacuum in the Chrysler Pacifica is a real game changer." In summation, giving in to one's grunting, squirting, I wonder if it'll fit in there, howl at the moon lust can lead to complications such as the need to obtain restraining orders against that one night stand (whatever his/her name was) or dreading being forced to take that weird kid that smells like cabbage to school when it's your turn to drive carpool for the neighborhood cum fruit.
Politics I blame this one on being a social worker. Which way do I lean politically? Neither because politicians don't let you lean, you're forced to bend over and take it. Be the shaft red or be the shaft blue, it's still a shaft and no one voted in the mandatory distribution of lube for the election year, so we all take it dry. Personally, I think the republic has failed. I think I have a better idea. Who represents the greater good at all times? Who embodies the best parts of humanity? Who can protect you from your parent's wrath by threatening to tell you about the time grandpa caught your mom/dad fucking their highschool sweetheart in the backseat of the family Volvo causing an embarrassing stain in the seat that wouldn't come (he he cum) out? Who has the wisdom to understand the rules of that most confusing of all card games, bridge and can also bake a mean fucking cherry pie? Grandmas of course. My idea is simple. Using the national census, five grandma's are chosen through a random drawing. These grandmas then are given the decision making power of all three branches of government. New grandmas are chosen every 6 months providing the sitting grandmas time to catch up on spoiling their grandkids The way I see it, childhood hunger would be solved in minutes because a hungry child to a grandma goes against the order of the universe, is nothing less than an abomination of Biblical proportions, and isn't to be tolerated. Crime? I don't know about anyone else, but when we did something wrong as kids my sweet grandma became a blue haired Bruce Lee, support hose wearing, agent of justice with her broom and we'd be pummeled into behaving. I don't care how hardened, mean, and murderous a criminal may be, no one wants to fuck with a pissed off nana. Criminals would be begging for the chair instead of the Rubber Maid broom ass whipping the grandmas in charge would give. My guess would be that with a moo-moo clad, geriatric judiciary in charge the crime rate would drop exponentially. World peace would be achieved in days because I don't know about anyone else, but I think grandma's have secret powers, and I don't think anyone wants to fuck around and experience grandma's wrath. The economy? Coupons FOR EVERYTHING, and bake sales to create the first ever zero balance for the national debt and a completely balanced budget with a surplus. I call my new form of government, Grandmacracy.
My Childhood I write about my childhood for selfish reasons. You see, there's never any padded cells with a view of the Sierra Nevada mountains open at the county safety center where I live, so I have no other choice but to process the fuckery of my childhood by writing. I haven't given up on some, "Me, Me, Me, Me, and Me" time yet in a padded cell and straight jacket because I put a request in the sheriff department's suggestion box asking that they set a limited number of padded cells with a view and sufficient medication aside for them to take reservations. I also suggested that they get some house arrest ankle bracelets in different colors. Black is fine, but some of my family members want a splash of color in their outfit for when they go to their job interview with Walmart.
Religion Nothing proves the falibility of humanity like its continued insistance on having religion around to fuck things up. Here's my issues with religion in a nutshell:
Everyone is convinced that their god(s) are the one true god(s) and their assumptions about what their god(s) want is the way things should be. Fine. I'll play along, but I want to hear it from the god(s) and not through their prophets, literature, or the God's image showing up in a potato chip. Supposedly, back in the day God would show up and talk to people. What the fuck happened? Well, schedule a press conference and clear everything up! You don't even need to burn a bush, we've got the internet now which is both more efficient than the burniing bush method and less likely to be mistaken for an acid trip at a Pink Floyd concert.
Assorted Stupidity Um, I call myself Shallowgenepool, I figured that assorted stupidity is to be expected. It's kinda like assuming that the average dick length and girth of a NRA convention attendee is going to be somewhere in the low 2's. Inches? They wish! I'm thinking millimeters.
There you have it, the subject matter in my writing is both of poor quality and limited in scope. So because of my obvious limitations, I offer a sincere apology to my fellow Prosians. Oh, I don't plan on changing, I don't think I have the cognitive ability to change (I'm Shallowgenepool remember and sadly the moniker is based in truth), but I'm still sorry.
It Aint Easy Living Free
I've never understood why having a crutch or crutches for ways of dealing with life are almost universally viewed as negative things, weaknesses, or signs of a critically flawed character. Why is this the case? After all, crutches are meant to keep the already broken person from falling and becoming even more damaged. Things like addictions and bad habits are irroneously called crutches. Addictions aren't crutches, they're virus' that twist the identity and goodness of the individual by mascerading as oases for the troubles of life. Once infected, they create a strange paralysis that immobilizes the integrity of the individual while allowing the need created by the addiction to lay waste to all that the victim loves.
Now, I had two crutches growing up that kept me from snacking on the barrel of a twelve gauge before I saw the tail end of puberty. My crutches kept me standing and gave me the strength to rebel. This rebellion somehow helped me to evade the hopelessness of child neglect, taught me to recognize the poisonous hypocricy of religion, offered me a safe place to go in my head where I could temporarily escape a world filled with drug-fueled violence, and helped me feel that I mattered somehow. My first crutch was the written word. I read voraciously anything that wasn't the Bible and the more anti-religious, mythological, and fanciful my reading was, the better. I read Llyod Alexander, Roald Dahl, and Terry Brooks to start.
Now, considering this prompt, my second crutch was music and not just any music. I found salvation in the music that would've made my mom and her Bible thumping, tweaker, leper messiah, prophet wanna-be husband spontaneously fucking combust. It was by the grace of Gibson, Fender, and Marshall that I discovered hard rock and heavy metal music. With these two crutches I had a fighting chance of making it beyond the age of, "Teen took his own life after years of abuse and neglect by his mom and her current bedwarmer."
My musical crutch was carved and began its life-long duty of propping me up one winter day when eight year old me sat with my friend, Donald and his 13 year old big brother, Alan in their shared bedroom. Alan the infinitely wiser (as far as 8 year old me was concerned) musical oracle unknowingly changed my life when he inserted AC/DC's magnum opus, Highway to Hell into his bitchin 8-track player. The first power chord that roared out of Malcom Young's, Gretsch guitar from the album's title track was a Marshall Stack blared revelation. In that song I found my declaration of independence and Bon Scott's wail provided the preamble:
"No stop signs, speed limit
Nobody's gonna slow me down
Like a wheel, gonna spin it
Nobody's gonna mess me around
Hey Satan, payin' my dues
Playing in a rocking band
Hey mama, look at me
I'm on my way to the promised land
I'm on the highway to Hell"
Unfortunately for me, emersing myself in this new found musical refuge would be difficult because Dip Shit (mom's second husband) and my mom by default felt that music or literature must be about:
-God's grace, and being a sinful wretch until God turned the person away from the evil that as the advertised creator of all things he's responsible for bring into existence in the first place.
-There being 10 Commandments, but somehow eating pork, shellfish, and having a dick with foreskin was a no-no for the poor Israelites.
-The loving and peaceful, but also somehow simultaneously jealous and wrathful God who commits righteous genocide against those he deems to be wicked and sinful on a fairly regular basis (in his mercy of course). I'm assuming the babies and small children of the wicked were slaughtered next to their parents because like many Christians today, only unborn children were important, once they were born, they could go fuck themselves and experience the fire, brimstone, plague, or flood right next to mommy and daddy.
-How God answers the prayers of the faithful, but apparently the medical equipment in hospitals must block the signal because A LOT of the prayers being said by parents of dying children in hospitals everywhere seem to get missed.
Any music or literature that wasn't about the above were without exception deemed to be the work of the devil. To my delight, the song pouring out of that eight-track player and into every cell of my body, unapologetically gave the devil his FUCKING due!
As the song ended and the euphoria subsided, I knew that if I was ever caught listening to AC/DC, fuck, if I was caught listening to ABBA, I would be beaten bloody by Dip Shit all while he supposedly spoke in tongues in order to cast the devil out of me. I may have been only 8 years old but I was wise enough to understand that my mom and Dip Shit's religious zeal laden stupidity wrapped in a meth, weed, and alcoholic haze meant that I would have to keep my crutch a a secret, otherwise I might end up in need of very literal crutches or as evidenced by a recent assault with a deadly weapon charge earned by Dip Shit, a body bag.
Now let it be known that even at 8 years old I had serious doubts as to the existence of the devil or Hell. As far as I was concerned, real flesh and blood adults were capable of enough evil making the devil a redundancy. I understood that images of Satan, Hell, and damnation are frequently used as metaphor, poetic license, and symbolism in the arts with no literal nod to the powers of darkness. The only exception to this rule being found in tapestries, book illuminations, and other common graffitti mediums in the Dark Ages. So, long as devil was involved in any it was off limits. I knew better than to try to reason with them because I learned at a very early age that you can't reason with supersticious idiots.
Confession: I always wanted to ask them about their position on deviled eggs, deviled ham, devil's food cake, but I didn't want to become the victim of a small scale inquisition or excorcism.
From that day forward bands like AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, Pink Floyd, and the Rolling Stones were the omnipresent soundtrack playing in the background of my mind. This music, allowed me to quietly rebel against the religious bullshit the adults in my life fed me. It illuminated the evil nature of the acts committed by my mom's meth addicted, wife beating, child abusing husband who was delusionally convinced that he was the second coming of the Apostle Paul. Finally, the music that I love dispelled the antiquated cracked, crumbling, porous and blatantly false supposition that adults are always wise and committed to doing what is right.
The next few years were rough. I would play, "Fairies Wear Boots" in my head when my mom screamed and begged trying to get money for groceries before Dip Shit left with the welfare check, destination, meth binge oblivion. Robert Plant's cry to Valhalla at the beginning of Zeppelin's, Immigrant Song would blare louder in my ears than the storm of violence about to break out as Dip Shit went into a rage and his fists flew with laser precision towards my mom's face.
In short, hard rock and heavy metal saved my life. It was a respit from dispair and provided all 75 pounds of me a way to fight back against the 800 pound gorilla that was neglect and violence in a house governed more by the needle and pipe than by the plaque depicting the 10 Commandments that hung next to the living room door.
Cheating Hearts and a Rectum Large Enough for a GOOOOOAAALLLL!
I will never claim to be a saint mostly because it's a bitch trying to conceal my very conspicuous devil horns beneath my low-key halo. However, there is one moral wrong that I just cannot see my sinful nature enthusiastically wallowing in, and that is infidelity. Now, because of my extensively documented addiction to reading stupid shit on the internet, I have come across a lot of stories about people engaging in infidelity. The surprising thing is that in many of these stories the cheater suggests that they, and sometimes even the person they cheated on are better off for the experience. Far be it for me to suggest that I am an expert on human nature, but this seems to be either delusional thinking on the part of the cheater or there has been a drastic shift in what qualifies as douche bag behavior.
One cheating story commonly featured involves a brother/sister hooking up with their siblings spouse. A person might expect this kind of betrayal would result in heartbreak followed by the cheated on spouse finding the rabid wolverine equivalent of divorce lawyers. However, if the stories are to be believed, the end result is that somehow all parties involved realize that the infidelity made everyone's lives' better. Maybe the cheating parties finally have a partner that shares the same interest in anal penetration with power tools. Conversely, the spouse that got cheated on, now free from their coupling, can now go off to realize their dream of becoming a full time underwater basket weaver.
I also read a story where a terminally ill spouse asks their current partner for permission to bang their ex because, "While she loves me more than anything, her ex used to fuck her until she, the next door neighbors, the astronauts orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station, and her future ancestors, all walked funny for a week." Okay, maybe I paraphrased a little, but how exactly did the terminally ill, yet still horny spouse bring up this carnal desire? Somehow, "Hey, honey, you're the love of my life, but you can only make me wet, where my ex can create a veritable vaginal Victoria Falls between my legs" seems a bit cruel
Now, I can hope that these stories are fake, but even imagining such betrayal is so all kinds of fucked up that not even the writers who queef out those Lifetime Movies of the Week would stoop that low. So, am I wrong in thinking that infidelity is still a horrible thing to do to someone you supposedly love and have committed yourself to? Or is infidelity just another way for people to drift apart, get separate places, argue over who gets the cum fruit when, and eventually settle into passive-aggressive and snarky comment filled coparenting ?
I have to wonder if these stories aren't ways for the cheater to somehow justify bumping uglies with an unfamiliar ugly instead of the ugly they are committed to. After all, adults can't pretend that infidelity is a harmless accident. Dropping a dish is a harmless accident. Inserting throbbing naked tab A into equally naked, wet, quivering slot B is in no way shape or form an accident. Also, contrary to just about every fucking Country Western song ever written, being under the influence of alcohol isn't a good excuse for cheating either. Being under the influence of alcohol is only a valid excuse for getting impregnated by one of my relatives. It in no way can be used to, "Oops, my bad" away doing the tube steak boogie in a strange Wonder Bread bun when you have a loving Oroweat bun at home.
I can't help but think that there just isn't an excuse to cheat. If you have feelings for someone who's not your significant other, it could be argued that maybe you should be honest and get out of your current relationship because your feelings aren't as strong as you thought. Sure, it will hurt, especially when your significant other righteously kicks you in the baby maker after you've told them, but cheating would hurt worse and that kind of hurt can lead to a lot worse than getting kicked in the fuzzy-bumblies. (Please see the previous reference to rabid-wolverine divorce lawyers in paragraph II, for an example of what's worse than having your no-no place receiving a firm and justified boot-leather bopping). No matter what, your significant other deserves an honest break. Besides think of any children involved. Do you really want to cheat on the co-pollinator of your cum fruit? Think about it. Cheat on the other parent, your kids find out, and twenty years down the road your children are placing you in Dr. Kevorkian's Home for the Elderly because you couldn't keep your Tab A or Slot B at home where it belongs.
So, maybe I'm an idealist when it comes to relationships. Maybe, cheating has become just another of life's event we should all just assume we'll experience. I hope not because life is hard enough without being cheated on and then having to get tested for gonorrhea. Personally, I hope those who're so insensitive and focused on getting their yippee parts tickled that hurting someone who loves and trusts them isn't a big deal have a prison bitch experience with karma. The end result is that karma viciously renovates the cheater's corn-hole in such a way that a youth soccer league could use their rectum as a regulation sized goal net.
I’ll Have A Warning Grande, No Common Sense, With Extra Whatever Passes for Meat
I should've known better. Returning here could only end in one way, and I knew it. After all, I danced with this particular devil for over ten years and barely managed to escape. Now here I am, once again staring down into the familiar, dark abyss that has painted my dreams in shades of technicolor terror ever since I managed to escape the shadow of this great evil so many years ago.
There is no hope for me. At my age, my chances of escape are about the same as that of a life-sized cut out of Wonder Woman escaping a comic book convention without being covered in sticky dork DNA. So here I sit writing my farewells to those I leave behind on the filthy walls of my prison. My pain racked, palsied shaken words resulting from a poorly chosen, carcinogenic burrito have found a place of rest right next to the final words of the poor desperate souls who perished here before me. I have no hope that my words will ever be read by a wise and compassionate soul. No, only fools ever find their way here, drawn by the same desperate and self-destructive impulse of the male Black Widow spider as it enters the web of its murderous lover. Being here, the risk of death is understood, but still, one's baser nature guides it up the web towards a self-imposed death that has been brokered by mindless, gluttonous lust.
My pathetic end was ordered from the Cravings Menu and the first bite sentenced me to death inside this cold tile walled crypt. The torture began as a heat within the depths of my abdomen and like a poisonous serpent, hatched from a shell of pure agony, it slithered to every cell within my body, it's fangs dripping a caustic trail of Diablo sauce the whole way. I am now trapped, paralyzed, and my agony keeps me in place better than even the strongest chains. The minutes pass, each twisting, writhing, second slices like a razor into the soft belly of my sanity. I am ready for it to end. Desperately, I cry out to whatever angel or devil that may be eavesdropping in the drive-thru headsets and beg for salvation or damnation, whichever will give me escape from my corroding, still breathing carcass.
Oh, I shouldn't have tempted fate. I knew I was within range of the siren's call. I could hear her muffled words as she tempted fools, promising to fulfill their gluttonous lust. Still, I set course dangerously close to her shore, so close that I could smell the stench as it escaped from her stucco covered island surrounded by a dirty asphalt sea. Now, hopelessly, I wait for the end.
Sweat dapples my brow as I slowly feel my organs begin to liquify and the marrow within my bones starts to explode shattering my skeleton like fine porcelain. I knew that it would end this way. After all, in my youth I watched so many before me succumb to this miserable, undignified end. As the gelatin-like substance of my eyes begins to boil, I blindly write my final words to those who're probably too foolish or too stoned to heed the warning within:
No matter how desperate you are, no matter how far from home you may be, never...Never...NEVER...NEVER...NEVER eat at a Taco Bell that has reserved parking for the health department and the CDC, while being suspiciously located right next to the pound. For if you do, your body will liquify while slowly (but surprisingly conveniently) filling the commode as you sit begging for mercy, your anguished cries for help going unanswered in a lonely Taco Bell restroom stall. Forgotten, anything left of you will be flushed down the drain by the poor motherfucker that makes minimum wage to clean this rest stop on the highway to Hell.