This Big Boss was brought to my attention by my furniture destroying, science-minded friend Pope Sinphaltimus Exmortus, who sent me a link to an article about eyelash mites, bearing the caption “In Your Face”. As it turns out, my eyelashes (and yours!) are positively crawling with snuggly little monsters!
Pictured: The things that are squirming on your face RIGHT NOW.
The cutest of the bunch is this little guy. Don’t you just want to squeeze him until he shits? Too bad. Eyelash mites do not defecate.
They DO eat, though. They eat and eat and eat.
"What the hell are they eating," you’re probably asking yourself, as you scrape away at your eyes with a bleach-soaked wad of steel wool. "I don’t have any mite food in my eyelashes." AU CONTRAIRE. According to the article, these things contain "needlelike mouthparts for eating skin cells."
You’re right about that! The rest of the time, they are laying eggs on your face.
Don’t worry about it! This is perfectly good. For some reason, we require this service, and as usual, the Creator of the Universe has orchestrated things in the nastiest possible manner.
"Gee, Rev. Back It On Up," you’re likely to be saying, as you claw away at your living skin, "I sure was happier before I knew about this stuff!"
But I can’t read your words, because I have carved my eyes out and worms are laying eggs and grooming their needle-like mouthparts in their gaping sockets.
Our ancestors, like Turkana Boy, feared all manner of beasts. If the movies are to be believed, they spent half their days hurling rocks at dinosaurs. Here is a re-enactment in the MS Paint medium of what they might have done:
I may have taken some artistic licenses with this rendering. There is no scientific evidence to indicate that ancient dinosaurs had wheels or flames, and that the sun ever actively disapproved of us. But there is no conclusive evidence to the contrary, either.
The reason for our ancestral fear is because even then, with their thick blunt heads and their spongy brains, cavemen knew that being eaten by things really sucks the root. Nobody wants to be eaten alive. It’s just bad form and it will ruin your day.
Perhaps that is a sign of how far we’ve come. Our skulls and ideas are much bigger, but the things that that can eat us have gotten smaller and smaller, and now come in the form of rogue bastard cells and microscopic bugs that live in our heads. These things may have existed in the time of cavemen, but many of them were eaten by pterodactyls and bludgeoned in competition for a mate before cancers had a chance to nom them, in the parlance of our times. And there most assuredly existed mites and crawlies of all varieties, but Turkana Boy was far too stupid to know about them. Ignorance is bliss, and he was otherwise consumed with trying not to displease the burning orb in the sky.
Congratulations, Eyelash Mite. You’re small as hell but you’re obviously The Man. Thank you for reminding me that sometimes terror is huge and burning and obvious, and sometimes, it’s too small to see. Live it up today - eat an extra helping of my god damned skin cells, you tiny nightmare come to life.
It’s been a week since I lost my old granny. I don’t know why, but I’m taking it a lot harder than I thought I would. Trying not to be gloomy around here, but today is Halloween and that’s when we’re supposed to think about the dead. As if there were any stopping me.
On Halloween, the veil between the worlds is thinnest, and the spirits of our ancestors are able to reach through with their bony fingers and offer us candy and watch us in the bathroom, or something. I’m not really clear on the details.
I don’t care about the bulk of my ancestors. There are the immediate ones who mean a lot to me - Grandma Jackie, and Grandma Jean, who I’m not worried about now that I know she is partying with Elvis, and my very distant ancestors like Turkana Boy, who is chatting in near-words with his primitive buddies in Caveman Heaven.
But in the space between Turkana Boy and Grandma Jackie, there are countless generations of foreign strangers, yammering away in their native tongues, and kneeling and scraping and bowing and doing whatever else you do in Heaven, and looking down disapprovingly at me, the current owner of what’s left of their genes, failing to pass them on to another generation while I do things that make their ghoulish asses cringe in mortification. And that’s fine by me. The feeling is mutual. I don’t much approve of their antics in Ghost Space either.
Way uptown, I passed a memorial shrine in front of a tenement building. A stuffed toy of the variety frequently won at carnivals in the shape of a doberman dog, was lashed to a tree with bungee cords. Underneath, a cluster of bleeding saint candles were flickering away in the damp morning, with a sign reading “In Memory Of So and So” stapled up under the ass of the carnival dog.
I appreciate the sentiment here. Truly. But to my own loved ones who may read this, I’d like these wishes on the record for when the inevitable comes to pass.
When I die, even if it is untimely, even if I am creamed by a taxi while crossing Fifth Avenue, even if I choke on a wonton while eating microwaved Chinese food over the sink for breakfast in my underwear, even if I run into a burning building to save a priceless comic book, even if I slip while cleaning the shower and crack my head open on the faucet and the weinerdog comes in and eats my face, even if I am smashed to a pulp by a falling gargoyle - no matter how I go out, please do not remember me by stacking a pile of junk in the street, where strangers will ruminate on the kind of person who could be summed up in death by a flammable Scooby Doo filled with billions of foam pellets and a couple of creepy Jesus candles.
When I die:
- Remember me by cleaning your house. I appreciate a clean house, and my soul will smile as it ascends into the ether.
Remember me in profane and disrespectful things. Have parties and laugh about that awful thing I used to do. Remember me as crude and coarse and sometimes unpleasant, but never really bad or ill intentioned. Remember me when you watch The Thing, and know that the first thing I did when I got to the afterlife was nutpunch Wilford Brimley, and the second thing I did was eat an entire bowl full of Cadbury Creme Eggs.
Many thanks to my heavily bearded friend Jugendsehnsucht (did I spell it right this time? Because I really tried) for alerting me to today’s unbelievably stunning forehead.
A forehead like this is once in a lifetime. If cranial implants were a real thing that anyone in their right mind would consider getting, actress Angela Bettis would be the forehead by which all artificial foreheads were measured. Check this dome out and try to hold your boners down if you’re in a public place like a bus or an elementary school. Tape ‘em to your leg if you need to:
She’s proud of that flat stomach too, as well she should be.
Mother of god. This head makes me, with my piddling skull, look like Turkana Boy. This head makes me look like I should go out and bludgeon a sleeping yak with a sharp rock to feed the mewling blunt-skulled knuckle-draggers who swing from my knee-length, flopping caveman tits.
Pictured: A total fucking loser.
Angela Bettis has been in a few movies I’ve seen, but I don’t remember them. She was in “May”, which I’ve seen but I blocked it out because it featured Jeremy Sisto, an actor who absolutely creeps me right the fuck out, and the remake of Carrie, which is a nice movie about a girl who goes to a dance, and she also has a credit for “Touched By An Angel” which I’m sure she’s real proud of, but none of that matters because when I look at Angela Bettis:
all I can see is the glory of possibility, the beauty of our continued evolution as a species, and the untapped vastness of the human mind. Yea, let that not go untapped for long. If I had a scrotum, I’d sell the left half of its contents to drag it over that vast alabaster plain.
Together we can make foreheads like this the high standard for sexuality again, just like it was in the days of our alien forebears. I don’t think that’s too lofty a goal for a blog with a readership like YOU.
Congratulations, Angela Bettis, you magnificent, high-foreheaded thing.
I am not having the best day, friends. When I’m pondering my mortality by 8:00 A.M., it’s time to start asking myself some serious questions.
It started with a night of tedious dreams. I’ve talked about my dreams before, how they are usually these thrilling hellrides with characters and plots and betrayals and twist endings and I have no idea how my imagination churns this shit out while I’m asleep.
Last night, I dreamed that I was late for work.
That was the whole thing. I dreamed I woke up late, and pondered calling in sick, and then a gang of pirates and I shot a pregnant lady in my bedroom and stole her clothes. That part was odd, but the rest just bored the shit out of me. What a waste of my nightly four hours of restful subliminal contemplation.
But I woke up on time, to find myself looking like a mess. I scratched my chin in my sleep somehow, and my hair looks odd. It’s got a weird dent in it, I don’t know. My hair is odd looking on a good day, so I really didn’t need a dent.
But I got it together and boarded the crowded bus, and in the shittiest part of my commute, I was afflicted with a coughing fit which caused my left eye to stream tears while my right eye remained mysteriously dry. So I simultaneously repulsed, confused, and annoyed 60 strangers with my hacking discomfort and creepy, seeping eye.
I went to the pharmacy to get some test strips, before Wilford Brimley shows up at my house to violate me with a fireplace poker again. On the way up the escalator screeched and started thrashing around, and I thought, “Wouldn’t it be interesting and pathetic if I died this way? On a Duane Reade escalator, buying diabeetus supplies?” No such luck, though. It started back up and I had to go to w*rk.
Gone are the days when a person could look forward to an adventurous death, torn to pieces by dinosaurs or in a cave collapse like my good friend Turkana Boy. Is it really coming down to the bang vs. whimper scenario I’ve been fantasizing about since Mr. M exposed me to TS Eliot in high school english class? Can we as a species really be as soft and useless as we seem?
Then I got to w*rk and looked at my beetus strips. I haven’t read the instructions on these things since I first used them, five years ago. “Do not use arterial blood,” they warned me. Okay, no problem there. I read a little further. “Do not eat Blood Glucose Test Strips.”
You really gotta spell things out for people, sometimes.
Sifu and I live across the street from an awful old man, who, for the sake of this story, I will call Gino. Because that is his name. I do not like Gino, nor do I like his wife, who sits on her front steps day in and day out, minding everyone’s business for them.
Sifu called me at work one morning. “Guess what Gino’s doing,” he said. I guessed, “Gino is standing in front of his house, glaring at people as they try to park their cars.”
"No," said Sifu, "He is standing in front of his house, frantically sweeping the street with a broom."
"Good for him," I replied. "Everyone likes a clean street."
"He is happy about the alternate side parking," said Sifu, "because it affords him several hours of unimpeded access to sweeping the street."
"That’s understandable," I said.
"The alternate side parking that is in place for the STREET SWEEPERS. That’s like shovelling the snow so the plow can get through."
Of course Sifu is correct, but Sifu did not have the unique experience of being raised by my grandparents. This is good - if he had, our marriage would be awkward. Luckily he was raised by his own family.
My grandfather retired in his 60’s and within six months, he ran out of things to do. He also discovered that retirement meant he would spend approximately ten extra hours per day in the company of my grandmother. He quickly went crazy and started spackling everything to within an inch of its life, and in the next 20+ years he has painted everything on our property a hideous shade of brown.
He continues to brown up my house and its contents. So far the only thing he hasn’t painted brown is grandma. She punches him in the ass every time he comes near her with a roller. She knows what’s what.
The point is, old age makes you crazy. If this were Turkana Boy’s day, we’d be eaten by mastodons long before we ever had a chance to get into the brown paint phase of life. In Turkana Boy’s day, if you got as far as painting a yak on a cave wall, you were hailed as a sorcerer.
* * * *
The reasons I dislike Gino and his wife are multifold, but one of the main ones is because with all the spare time they have, they spend many hours examining me and my habits, and looking at me judgementally. That’s why it is so strange to me that Sifu and I have started observing them, in a gesture of total hypocracy. In their efforts to loathe us, they have become fascinatingly loathesome. We simply can not get enough of the trolls across the street who can not get enough of us.
Some day, when we are old and decrepit like Gino and his wife, I wonder if we will catch ourselves staring out the window in our flying house in space, watching the kids across the street as they watch six-dimensional movies in their entertainment helmets.
"Sifu, look at those kids. What the hell are they doing."
"They’re watching six-dimensional movies in their entertainment helmets."
"I hate those kids. Smart ass little punks. They’re probably on drugs."
They’ve made a movie about that surfer girl whose arm was torn off by a shark. “She’s a hero,” people say. “Nothing will stop her from getting back in the ocean.”
I disagree. She’d be more of a hero (ha) if she STAYED THE FUCK OUT OF THE OCEAN. There are SHARKS in there! She knows this “first hand” (ha ha).
She’s not heroically surfing out to an island full of blind refugee babies, then surfing them back to safety. She’s out there wagging her stump in the sunshine for fun. FUN! But as the saying goes, “it’s all fun and games until someone loses another arm.”
Lightning DOES strike twice in the same place. It happens all the time. Same goes for sharks - they VERY RARELY attack people outside of the ocean. Shark Attack Girl is not a hero. She’s just a girl who likes to surf, and has a short-term memory span for pain.
Here comes The Point.
Evolution is happening all around us. Slowly, but surely, every generation is moving towards the ultimate goal of humanity - roasting alive when the earth smashes into the sun. But all the same, little by little, our plucky little “never say die” DNA strands are mutating with every passing century. Yet somehow, on the whole, the species is getting weaker, slower, stupider. My distant ancestors could outrun a mastodon. I wouldn’t survive a 24 hour blackout.
If a caveman got his arm ripped off by a shark, his hairy ass would instinctively stay far from the surf for the rest of his life. Science instructs us: Trust your caveman brain! At all times!
This brings us to the Big Boss of the Day, “Gay Caveman”. Real Scientists have recently discovered ancient caveman remains near what is now Prague, positioned in such a way as to indicate homosexuality. These Real Scientists assure us that primitive cultures were very fastidious about their burial procedures, so this is unlikely to be an oversight. Gay Caveman wore his Caveman Earring on the gay side of his blunt, unevolved head.
As a heterosexual woman, I can’t say so authoritatively, but I’m going to suggest that it’s not the easiest thing in the world, being a gay modern man. We can only imagine the struggles a gay caveman might have faced. Even Turkana Boy had a voice for his woes. Gay Caveman didn’t even have a closet to come out of.
Yet he persevered, his bold, fabulous DNA somehow travelling down through the ages, perhaps driven by a “survival of the species” mentality which could sense that many thousands of years later, there would be too many straight people procreating for the earth to sustain. His strong gay lineage was fueled by something larger than himself, unlike Shark Attack Girl, who would fall off the same cliff every day if that’s where the buffalo ran.
Thank you, Gay Caveman, for your role in evolution. You are our big boss of the day.
Today is my birthday. I’ve now officially outlived Jesus Christ, which I think makes me bigger than John Lennon. One thing is certain. I’m gonna be dead someday. And in the grand scheme of things from an evolutionary perspective, that day is going to be SOON.
That may seem morbid, but for every silver lining, there’s a big old parade-ruining cloud, and I’ve been pretty clear about how I feel about parades (http://simianidiot.tumblr.com/post/3924080207/fuck-parades). I love birthdays. But every notch on my belt for another year well-lived is also a tick in the other direction, one less of my allotment, one year closer to farting in my Depends. We deal with facts because they help us grow.
Last week I watched a documentary about human evolution. A stack of petrified humanoid bones was identified as a primitive human, “Turkana Boy”. Based on lots of Genuine Science, it was determined that Turkana Boy was 8 years old at the time of his death. But the real revelation was that Turkana Boy, unlike most other specimens of his era, had the capacity to talk!
Think about that. You’re an early man. Language hasn’t developed yet. Most of your colleagues just sit around mutely thumping their hairy chests and picking the fleas out of their floppy tits, gnawing on yak bones. Can you imagine the frustration to be able to communicate in that social climate? During the big hunt, you’d shout “Hey, there goes a very nice juicy looking bison right there! The meat from that bison will certainly help our brains evolve into larger, more complex thinking organs!” and your brothers and sisters would fling feces at you in derision. You’d be a lost man, alone in your own mind. Who would Turkana Boy talk to? What would Turkana Boy say? I posed this very question to Sifu.
So we see that self-awareness was the key to Turkana Boy’s contribution to evolution. That, and his femurs, which he is no longer using.
If we could time-travel to see Turkana Boy give words to the secrets of his primitive soul, it would do us well to keep our expectations low. He’d be unlikely to try to sell you anything, though, or convert you, so you could do worse, conversationally-speaking. It took many, many generations for humankind to voice anything of interest, and shortly thereafter we ran out, just in time for the Information Age. But we are still evolving! I maintain hope.
If Turkana Boy saw his descendants up close and personal, he’d beat us to death with rocks. He’s never seen a Vibram Five Finger Running Shoe or Pia Zadora’s tits in sparkling hi-definition, but some primitive intuition would know the monstrosities we are capable of imagining, with our enormous, developed brains.
I once worked with a woman in her late 80’s, who was horrible in every way. She looked like Skeletor and she smelled like urine + antiseptic and she was nasty and unpleasant to everyone. I was in my early 20’s at the time, and she told me that I ought to start thinking about Botox. “But isn’t that Botulism? Why would I put that in my face?” I asked her.
"It IS Botulism, and I get my shots every two weeks, which is why I look like this."
So, happy birthday to me. Someday I’m gonna be dead and Future Man will stroke my sun-bleached skull in wonder and ponder my botulism pocked brow. If he allows his Futuristic imagination to wander he will know all he needs to know about the values of my era. “This female lived to be 100 years old, but her wrinkles were like those of an 87 year old,” he’ll say, before he straps on his rocket shoes and soars home to his floating space condo.
You’re be dead eventually.Mightas well start injecting all kinds of shit into yourface.