Because I am an asshole, and in fact a very particular KIND of asshole (the kind who BEGGED Sifu to let me put baloney all over our upstairs neighbor’s car one night as they kept us up for hours with their drunken foolishness), I have put a lot of thought into creative ways to be destructive.
And because I am another very particular kind of asshole, namely the kind who takes a keen, misanthropic interest in psychology and evolution, my fetish for destruction often leans toward psychological experimentation on the soft of brain, to see if we can advance the species at an accelerated rate by training them out of unhelpful mental habits, such as overpopulating the planet with their weak-minded genes, and listening to Journey.
This is Steve Perry, from Journey:
To say that Steve Perry’s face is bothersome to me is an understatement. I mean no offense if you are a person with a face like Steve Perry, but you should put a burlap sack over your head when you leave the house. For the children.
It’s not just his face, either. His voice bothers me too. He’s like Phil Fucking Collins, but less sincere.
The point is, when I think about Steve Perry, I feel my reproductive organs climbing up deeper inside my body cavity, as if they are afraid that to conjure a clear enough image of Steve Perry would allow him to transcend time and space and impregnate them. And then I would be forced to give birth to a child who looked like this, shirtless, in a vest, with a black choker and a series of neck chains:
And nobody wants that.
But that’s not exactly true, is it. SOMEBODY wanted that. I reckon that over the course of history, LOTS of people have willingly, knowingly had intercourse with Steve Perry. LOTS of people have, over the years, found themselves in the throes of passion only to look up and find THIS bearing down on them:
Pictured: “O” Face
And that got me thinking about psychological torture.
Which is a logical leap.
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The thing about the baloney on the car was, it would have served as negative reinforcement. Because I planned to do it again and again.
Sifu didn’t like my plan, but the idea was, every time Demonoc and Manicu had an evening brawl at volume 11, I would put lunch meats on their car. They probably wouldn’t know it was me, at least not at first. The inevitable confrontation would have been hilarious:
Demonoc: Did you put baloney all over my car?
BIOU: Did you spent the whole screaming at your wife and keeping me awake?
Demonoc: I don’t see what that has to do with it.
BIOU: On some level, you do.
I *like* the idea of negative reinforcement. That is how I got the idea that people should always play Journey when they screw.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bear with me. This message is primarily for the parents out there. The rest of you can play along too, but you need moldable young minds at your disposal for this to really work, so try to gather some stupid people in your home on nights when you’re feeling frisky. It’s gonna take some time, and you’re going to have to have a lot of sex, but please take into consideration the fact that all valid science generally requires this and I think the results will be worth the sexy sacrifice.
But first, check out Steve Perry again.
Once the chill leaves your body, take a very sharp knife, cut some blood from the palm of your hand, press it against your monitor, and swear the following to me:
“I, _______________, do solemnly swear, that every time my partner and I get freaky in the house when the kids or assembled stupid guests are in another room, we will crank Journey to cover our lustful grunts and snorts.”
In no time, your little fools will come to associate the traumatic sounds of parental sex with the fist-pumping shriekings of Steve Perry, and you will ruin their reproductive future, as well as stunt any tendencies toward Journey fanship, in one fell swoop!
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We here at Simian Idiot Sex and Dude Rock Laboratories do not recommend taking the performance of psychological experiments on human beings lightly, so you can proceed with confidence that this plan has been very well thought out and considers the overall best interests of the human race in general. We can’t make an omelet without cracking a few tender psyches.
So go out there and get busy to Journey. FOR MANKIND.
I saw a caveman on Fifth Avenue this morning. At first I thought, how did that caveman get here? Was he frozen in a glacier, and recently thawed out and set free in the modern world to have lots of hilarious hijinks because he doesn’t understand our culture? What a wacky, novel, never-before-thought-of thing THAT would be, ha ha! Can you imagine him in a SUPERMARKET? He’d try to pay with skins! He’d club a socialite over the head and drag her back to the Museum of Natural History for some coitus, and at first she’d be all put out but eventually she’d come to appreciate his charming, unspoiled view of society and she’d fall in love and they’d both be better people for it! Oh my god, what a hilarious world to dream about!
But then I realized I was just imagining about fifty idiotic movies and television shows and commercials that everyone has already seen, so I kicked my brain in its ass for being so hackneyed and unimaginative. My brain has an ass, and so does yours. It’s the part of the brain that shits out dumb ideas all day. It’s the part of the brain that is responsible for 99% of what you see on television. There are people whose brains have their asses connected to machines all day long, which harvest their brains’ farts. See, I’m doing it again. I already invented the Fart Harvesting Machine in a previous post. My brain has been eating too much junk food, and all that’s coming out is pthttlblblblt.
But yeah, my brain has bowels and I did see a caveman on Fifth Avenue. He wasn’t just a slovenly naked guy with a bad forehead, because those are a dime a dozen. He was carrying a club and looking decidedly like a man who wants to use that club on a mastodon. So my first thought, as discussed, was Unfrozen Caveman Cliche, and then my second thought was Practical Joke or Possible Sitcom Filming on Location, and then my THIRD thought was…PURE FUCKING SCIENCE IS HAPPENING NOW.
Here’s the science.
Evolution is slow, but it’s happening. It didn’t finish when humankind was finally perfect. If you could go back in time and meet the real George Washington, you wouldn’t recognize him as part of your species. And George Washington was alive over FIFTY YEARS AGO! So evolution is still taking place, even as I type these words. Though I’m sorry that evolution saw fit to take away my powerful tail and my climbing feet, I’m glad it gave me a brain with which to realize that if I am still evolving into an ever more complex and intelligent specimen, and obviously I am, then OTHER simians in OTHER earth environments are evolving as well!
So, what is to stop the chimps of the jungle for re-inventing fire? What is to stop the babboons at the zoo from realizing that their vengeance against their hairless overlord captors would be more easily facilitated with the help of a wheel? That they could hurl at us with their long, muscular arms? Things get re-invented all the time! It doesn’t have to be new to be novel.
For that matter, what is to stop the fish in my aquarium from developing tiny legs and crawling from their tank to the bed where I sleep and pecking the eyes out of my head? Remind me to install a grated dome over my bed soon!
The point is, what I saw may not have been an ancestral holdover from my own human history, but a fresh new sample of evolution at work, an example of nature learning from its past mistakes to create a better, stronger, more adaptable version of me for the world of the future!
So the lesson here is clear. If you see a caveman, destroy him. He is your replacement and his inevitable rise is your death warrant. There aren’t even caves anymore. These guys are trouble. Science is fucking trouble.
The nice thing about having a good backlog of stories here is that I completely forget which ones I’ve already told, so when I go back into the archives I can read them again as if they are fresh and new.
I can’t tell you how refreshing it is for me to know that in the past year, I have matured not one bit. I STILL love thinking about running after that damned llama. I have ALWAYS been this way.
Emotional growth? Please. Adult stability? Fuck that. You show me a llama this very day, as I sit here with a gray hair so long I can pick up radio stations on it sticking out of the top of my head, and I will chase that bleating sack of shit as far as it will go. When I get my AARP card in the mail, if it is delivered by a man riding on the back of a llama, I will chase his sorry as straight back to the Post Office. Do not test me.
In other news, I am positively itching to draw more MSPaint nonsense, but I still haven’t motivated my lazy ass to pick up a drawing tablet. Maybe if a llama was carrying one, I’d be showing you guys pictures of Jesus fleeing His followers, but until they start hiring llamas at Best Buy (I have HAD IT with Best Buy’s anti-llamist practices) the day for you to Learn Religion through healing artwork is not today.
I was recently doing some research on the subject of weather anomalies, because let’s just say I am acquainted with someone who is full of shit and fancies himself an amateur meteorologist, and I love the sound of his dreams shattering. In the course of my research, I happened upon the following Google Image Search:
Answer me this: What the fuck would the sun need to wear sunglasses for? This image is absolutely everywhere, and it is misleading. First of all, the sunglasses would melt the instant the sun put them on his face. Secondly, the sun does not have arms. Who is responsible for applying glasses to the surface of the fucking SUN. That is a rhetorical question. Obviously nobody could lift sunglasses that large. And finally, the sunlight comes directly from the sun. Therefore, it is brightest INSIDE HIS HEAD. Whatever he’s looking at is, by definition, less bright than what he is looking WITH unless his eyes point the wrong way, in which case, he should be wearing his sunglasses inside his skull. SCIENCE.
You have no idea how much it enrages me when people play fast and loose with basic scientific concepts such as how the sun would wear sunglasses. But that is not exactly what I want to talk about today. I want to talk about the Rolling Stones, and how they ruined my childhood innocence.
Not like that. Don’t be disgusting. I never even met the guys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I was a tiny boss, barely old enough to discern the important elements in any given social interaction, I was listening to the radio with my dad and the deejay announced that a prize would be given to the first caller to correctly state the number of times the “Woo-woo!” is heard in the Rolling Stones song, “Sympathy for the Devil”. I was not familiar with the song, but I assumed, because there was a prize and a contest involved, that the “Woo-woo!” element was essential to the song in some way, and awaited anxiously the results of the contest.
Well, some jackass eventually guessed it, and it was some insane number like 212 “woo-woos!” and then they played the song so everybody could hear it since they’d been talking about it for over an hour, and fair is fair.
And I listened to that song, and heard all the “woo-woo!” going on in the background, and when it ended, my poor little childlike head was filled with one single burning question that blotted out everything else I knew, until I had no choice but to ask my dad, in different language than what I’m using here for the purposes of recounting this tale for you, “Dad, what the FUCK difference does it make how many times the guy says ‘woo-woo!’ in that song? Why would anybody count them? It is completely irrelevant to the content of the song. Who gives a shit about this ridiculous, pointless detail?”
And my dad, who was almost 30 years old at the time and very wizened and elderly, replied, “It doesn’t matter. People just do stupid things for no reason.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was then that I achieved enlightenment. In order to count the number of “woo-woos” and win the big prize, a person would have to sit there, intently concentrating on bullshit while actively tuning out the entire point of the song. The lyrics, the music, the percussion - none of these things can be heard when the idiot human brain is focused on abstract, nonsense minutiae echoing on the periphery of their consciousness.
There are countless ways to do this. A person could completely lose their mind trying to focus on all of them. It is simply impossible to concentrate on everything.
Which brings me back to my friend, the weatherman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He got in my face and informed me, in a very officious and knowing tone of voice, about some utterly unrealistic weather prediction like he’s always making. And my first instinct, as usual, was to attempt to combat his foolishness with factual information, statistics, maps, etc. I am forever frustrating myself in this way, like trying to argue with a piece of furniture.
But instead of doing so, I said, “That’s interesting. Do you think the sun would wear sunglasses if he could? And how would he put them on?”
DERAILED. Confronted with this bullshit inquiry, this stupefyingly pointless quandary, my moron friend was stymied in his attempts to convince me of falsehoods and walked off stammering to himself, wondering either:
a. if the sun could, or would, wear sunglasses; and
b. if something was wrong with me.
Having mastered psychology AND meteorology in this way, I was free to eat my lunch. Mission accomplished.
As my bus crawled along, a woman on the sidewalk flailed her hand in front of her nose as if waving away a bad smell. She was walking behind two other people, so I assumed they were emitting the odor. I have a pretty sensitive nose, thanks to a cocktail of beetus meds and other chemistry experiments taking place in my brain and bloodstream, and most people smell like shit to me anyway, so I could relate to her flamboyant flappery.
Our bus wasn’t going fast, so we kept pace with her for a few blocks. She sure was wagging that hand around. It was so conspicuous that I could not stop watching her. I thought, eventually those smelly people are going to catch on to her display of digust. Perhaps a fight will break out. Fistfights always liven up my morning commute so I was looking forward to this.
But then something unusual happened. The woman passed the two presumably stinky pedestrians. She got a few feet ahead of them, and kept on waving her hand in front of her nose.
A block away and she was still at it. The bus turned and our two roads diverged, but her arm was beating harder and faster than mine when “Don’t Stop Believin’” comes on random. What the fuck was she smelling?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some people make a lasting impression on me. Hours later I am still thinking of her, and I’ve (scientifically) concluded: she wasn’t smelling a damn thing. That’s just what she does with her arm when her brain relaxes.
There are worse ticks to have. She could have a spastic middle finger, like the one I have in my brain, that jerks to attention without warning, causing her to insult people at random. She could have a leg that manically kicks out into the asses of passersby. She doesn’t hurt people or suggest that they go fornicate with themselves. She just implies that they stink, which they probably do.
The brain is a betrayer, and I wonder if she knows she’s doing this. If not, that opens up the possibility that I’m doing it too, when I think I’m in a drooling stupor on my commute, or when “Extreme Couponing” is on teevee and I’m thinking about what kind of magnificent asshole the creator of the universe forged out of human cells, that would buy 400 bottles of mustard just because she could.
The same brain that compels the mustard purchaser compels the stink waver. The same brain that leads me to tell my bus driver I love him, that fixates on a stranger with a crazy arm, or humiliates me in a hundred thousand other ways per day, only a small fraction of which I am aware of.
Good thing I don’t give a solitary fuck what anybody thinks of me. Crazy old brain gave me that, too. THANKS, BRAIN!
Weinerdog ownership comes with many exciting opportunities for scientific study. This being an elderly weinerdog, there is one particularly invasive constant that absorbs the bulk of my focus.
Pictured: Hannibal Weinerdog at the Vet
Now, my heart and my ass belong to Sifu, but my brain belongs to Science. Science is my mistress. And that’s how I came to find out that there are people who calculate, for a living, the average number of human farts per day, and that number is “between 15 and 25”.
Even our nation’s top Fart Scientists can’t understand that an average number shouldn’t have to be “between 15 and 25”. That’s a ten number difference. So let’s say that the official average number of medically approved farts per day per human is twenty. Twenty farts.
Putting aside this pedantry, we need to think more about the farts. Are they calculated by length? Because if a brief fart and a lengthy fart are both counted equally as “one fart”, the entire study is skewed. I have to give the Fart Scientists more credit than that. They would have considered an important detail like fart length when calculating that average. I don’t think volume should affect the study - after all, if one farts in the presence of a deaf person, that does not negate the fart. It still occurred.
Twenty daily farts. With 24 hours in a day, and 60 minutes per hour, there are 1,440 minutes in a day. That averages out to approximately one fart per 72 minutes.
My weinerdog is exceeding these averages, I can assure you. She is a superior gas blasting machine, with the power to clear rooms and ruin meals. SCIENCE!
* * * *
Now, how are the farts collected and catalogued? Considering the occurrence of nocturnal farts, someone must be recording these farts in a laboratory setting.
Imagine it. A dozen or so subjects at a time, in rotating 24 hour shifts, their raised asses encased in air-tight, ass-shaped molded lucite timing devices, while a team of doctors in white lab coats stand patiently on the sidelines clutching clipboards. Just to show you how serious I am about this, here is an artist’s rendering in MS Paint (the true artist’s choice):
Mathematicians are working around the clock to ensure that the carefully mined Fart Data is calculated precisely and to the second! Otherwise, inaccurate information will go on the record! We can not have that in a civilized society.
To conclude, let us summarize what we have learned today.
1. Weinerdogs fart more than, and are superior to, humans; and
2. I already had a tag for “farts”, therefore Simian Idiot is the classiest blog on the entire internet; and
3. When someone tells you they are a professional Scientist, you should think twice before letting that make you feel inadequate
I may have mentioned this before, but years ago, I heard the finest line ever televised, on an episode of House, M.D. This sentence was so unimportant to the plot of the episode, yet it has become central to my life. It sits side by side with “What Would Hannibal Lecter Do?” as the cornerstone of my personal philosophy. What’s that you say, “can a philosophy have two cornerstones?” Fuck you. My philosophy is lousy with corners.
About that line.
The young Australian doctor with the sweet coiffure prepares to plunge an instrument of some kind up the rear end of a patient, for some reason. Probably to cure lupus, or prepare for the lumbar puncture. In any case, the patient is not keen to have anything stuffed up his hinder and as such, his opening clamps down with such force that the doctor is unable to anally violate him.
At this point, the doctor utters a line that sums up, for me, the very reason television was invented. Hundreds of years ago, scientists huddled over the glowing two-inch screen of the first television prototype in a laboratory and peered into the future so that I could hear an actor speak these words:
“I need you to relax your anus.”
These words have a calming effect on the brain. Not, “I want you to relax your anus,” or “I prefer your anus when it is in a state of relaxation,” or even, “it is very important to me that you unclench your pooper.”
I need you to relax your anus.
It’s the need that seals the deal, friends. You can try this and prove that this scientific finding is inviolable, unlike your anus. In virtually any social situation, you can bend the masses AND their asses to your every whim with only one useful phrase:
I need you to relax your anus.
People are unable to resist the power of this command. Something about its authority communicates beyond all doubt that the consequences for failure to provide instant anal relaxation will be dire. Let me know how this works out for you, and remember, you’re doing this for science.
I pointed at my brother across the table, and my mother gasped in horror.
I once saw her singlehandedly wrestle a large, agitated horse into an upright position while nailing a horseshoe onto its flailing, deadly foot. I’ve seen her turn automotive screws with her fingernails. I’ve seen her fling rowdy drunks from a bar. She’s underwhelmed by crudeness. When she reacted to my gesture, I assumed I’d crossed an unknown line. I needn’t have worried about that.
“Your finger!” she said. “WHY does it bend that way?”
It was just my finger, bending as they all do. I showed her.
“Your fingers are unsettling. Do not ever do that again around me.”
I think she’s being unreasonable. After all, it was HER weird finger genes that did this to me. It’s HER fault I’m this way.
* * * * * * * *
I have heard that Wild tropical parrots are taking over NYC, and I’ve seen them. Unwanted domestic parrots, set free by careless owners, survived the first year of harsh weather, and then found each other, fell in love, and bred hardy new parrots, multiplying all the heck over Queens.
While cleaning my car at a gas station once, I heard a lusty “hello!” from above. Perched overhead was an enormous, brilliantly colored parrot. “Hello,” I said, because I like to be polite when I can. The bird said hello and flew away. Hello, goodbye. Out of my life.
Imagine this: The wild parrot descendants of talking pet parrots are breeding. When their babies stretch their little green heads from the egg, perhaps they will be greeted with a hearty HELLO! And may, in time, respond with a tiny, squeaky “hello” of their own. Thousands of pleasant, beautiful wild birds greeting each other warmly in the language of their ancestors’ captors.
Neither generation will know what it means, but they’ll say it, because their parents said it to them, and so on.
* * * * * * * *
When I was born, I was dressed in a gown and taken to church, where a stranger submerged my head in water and told me I’d better behave myself. My family took me home, taught me how to chew without choking to death, how to bath without drowning, how to use a toilet without getting my ass torn off by sharks.
After a few years, I was dressed in a gown and taken to church, and a stranger fed me a cracker and told me I’d better behave myself. My family took me home and gave me presents, and taught me not to jump into vans with candy-bearing strangers, how to cook without burning the house down, and how to avoid getting creamed by a truck while crossing the street.
After a few years, I was dressed in a gown and taken to church, and a stranger made me drink out of the same cup a hundred people had their mouths on and told me I’d better behave myself. My family took me home and taught me how to drive without smashing into a wall, how to fill out the necessary forms, and not get brain-rotting sex diseases from people.
My parents did this, and my grandparents did this, and my great-grandparents did this, and their parents did this, and their parents as well, all the way back to when the Italians invented Jesus Christ so there’d be someone’s picture to hang until the camera was invented.
Nobody knows what it means anymore, but we keep at it, because if we don’t, all the free time we have from not worrying and begging and humbling ourselves will scare us to death.
I recently read that certain creatures are undergoing accelerated evolution. Changes normally requiring thousands of generations to appear consistently throughout the species are now happening in a matter of decades.
We must evolve, or be left behind. My grandfather can’t use a computer, but newer grandfathers were once software developers. A few generations more and grandfathers will be extinct, as mother nature shortens our lifespan to make space for all the new people we keep churning out like it’s our job.
Weinerdog13 has a nose situation, a volatile snot rocket in her snout. Dogs are genetically predisposed to withdraw from the pack when sick, to avoid spreading infection. Weinerdog13 is an exception - the sicker she feels, the more she clings, and I am made to carry her around like a farty personal tumor. It may be that she doesn’t care if I catch her leprosy, but more likely she understands that no harm can come to her in my arms. I would fight a pack of dinosaurs to protect my fetid little snot bomb, and she knows it. Centuries of biological inclination are thrown to the wind. Evolution.
Sifu recently directed a funeral for a flipper lady. With one withered eye, flappy hands and feet, flipper lady was beloved by many. They gave her an elaborate send-off. It’s beautiful to me, in a world where so many (the ugly, the gimpy, the stupid) are cast aside for genetic accidents in which they had no hand (ha), that flipper woman was sent off to the Unknown Beyond this way. She will not easily be forgotten even by her youngest relatives, who may sooner forget Aunt Average Sally, or Uncle Regular Hands Jack. Perhaps the warmest hug we can receive is from boneless arms, but it may just be evolution at work. The world doesn’t NEED more beautiful, breedable primates now.
Some of the most divisive people I’ve met were beautiful, successful, and driven. A cougar birthday party I attended comes to mind. Money and tactical surgery had crafted these women each into a specimen of the group ideal, yet there was no admiration between them. Sure was a lot of spare lip meat going, though.
Evolution marches onward, keeping up with the times, changing its course to accomodate the needs of the day. It is doing so with an urgency we ought to take note of, and its message is clear: embrace the mutated man of the future - he carries the success of the species on his gross and twisty back.
The Nature vs. Nurture argument was first introduced to me in junior high school science and the topic is still relevant today.
I have a half brother. He’s a full person, but we have different dads. We lived together until I was 12, and he was 8, and I detested him. He burned my hand with a hot iron, I threw him down the basement stairs in a laundry basket. He slammed my fingers in a door, I pushed him in the stomach until he barfed all over the rug. Poor mom.
Without pause, he pressed a button on his dashboard - and the Oompa Loompa song started playing. I asked him why he would have a pre-set button for that. “I just thought it would come in handy some day.”
A particularly odd symbol makes frequent appearances in my dreams - Hall & Oates. I can’t count the number of times I have been balls-deep in a twisted dream, when Hall and/or Oates will make an appearance, but if I COULD count the number of incidents, it would be somewhere along the lines of five or six. Fuck you, that’s a lot of times to dream about Hall & Oates.
The only Hall & Oates song I like is “Out of Touch”. It is a great song, with such poetically excellent lyrics as “Smoking guns hot to the touch, Would cool down if we didn’t use them so much, yeee-eeeeah”. It is the only Hall & Oates song I own. So imagine my surprise when it played on random on my brother’s iPod. “Woah, Hall & Oates?” I asked. “Since when do you like Hall & Fuckin’ Oates?”
“I hate Hall & Oates, but I like this one song. It’s the only Hall & Oates song I like.”
WOAH.
I like to hump statues. It’s more than “like”, really, I’m compelled. If I see a humpable statue and there is any way I can get my legs around it without spending the night in jail, I’m doing it. Stand the fuck back. I am so serious. Here is a picture of me savagely giving it to a statue in New Orleans, a city so rich with statues I practically broke a hip:
This habit is not something I typically share with my relatives, although all of my friends are shamefully aware of it. While visiting my mother, my brother and I were forced to attend a museum about FDR, and in the entrance to the museum was a life-sized statue of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt sitting on a park bench, shooting the shit. My brother noticed it, and under his breath, whispered, “I wish I could hump that thing without embarassing mom.”
“You hump statues TOO?”
“It’s not something I like to talk about.”
O_o
So I think we’ve learned a lot about science and genetics today, as well as about my embarrassing personal choices in music and fetish, but if there is one lesson I want you to take away from this, it is that the statue humping gene is passed down through the mother. Get tested.
