Often, I find myself couching my defense of gender equality on the concept that I grew up with two sisters and have a daughter who I hope has the ability to grow up and be whatever she wants. I truly feel this way. I’m in favor of equal pay, equal opportunity, equal responsibility. It’s all fine with me. One thing I’m not fine with though, is this thing I see happen from time to time when couples get married: the hyphenated last name.
From a feminist standpoint, I get it. Why should you take your husbands last name if the two of you are supposed to be equals? Technically and from a literal equality angle, that makes perfect sense. Let’s be honest though, last names are already pretty whacked out. If you’re unfortunate enough to be a guy, then get a last name like “Delvecchio” or some other multi-syllabic, super long surname, the last thing you need to do, is add more letters and a hyphen. Even with my short last name of four letters, two of which are the same – why would I want to extend that? I’d be less offended by my future (ex) wife just keeping her own last name than trying to create some conglomerate of an ending that’s longer than the Great Wall of China.
What’s worse, is the kids. Especially the athletic kids. Nothing looks shittier on the back of a gorgeous jersey than a 20 letter sprawl with a dash in the middle. It basically screams “If you push me hard enough, I’ll go away.” I feel like if you lose a fight to a person with a hyphenated last name, you should probably just start doing heroin because that’s a step up from rock bottom. It’s absurd. Let the kid have the shortest or easiest name to spell. Let the middle name be one of the last names. It doesn’t make either of the parents lesser. It does, however, keep your kid from being pantsed, swirlied and stuffed in a locker for most of their school-age life. And let’s be frank, no business owner wants to spend the extra ink to print out checks for hyphen-named people.
If you think the solution to gender equality is hyphenating a last name, YOU AM DUMB.
Like most guys, seeing a woman in a pair of killer heels can sometimes be drool-inducing. Heels show off great legs and even seeing a woman in platform heels, knowing that she is actually a foot-and-a-half shorter than the heels are making her look is kind of hot.
Don’t judge my sickness.
What is drool-inducing in a completely different and disappointing manner is seeing that same woman, or any woman for that matter, later walking down the street barefoot, heels in hand. Was that the game plan when you left the house? Look, I get dirt in my eyes all the time. As such, I make sure I carry eye drops with me because I know how much of an idiot I look like picking and digging in my eye, along with the fact that dirt isn’t healthy for my eyes. You know where else dirt isn’t that healthy? On your feet. Especially sidewalk dirt.
I would put the number of vomit stains I see at an average of about 11 per week. That doesn’t count the spitting, cigarette butts, urination and whatever other general bum and disregard-for-anyone-else related fluids, etc that end up on our lovely city streets.
Carry a purse big enough to fit sandals or some other kind of back up shoes. Or keep your soon-to-be herpes riddled feet – your ferpes – nowhere near me. If you take your shoes off to walk on city streets, YOU AM DUMB.
No one likes to get wet against their will. There’s a rape joke in there but I’m going to let that go because that’s not the point of today’s YAD post. I’m talking about rainy days and umbrellas. Now, in a torrential downpour, I get it, before you step out into the monsoon, you want to unleash the power of your umbrella, brockabrella or other dome protecting appliance. Maybe you did your hair nice today or maybe you have on a reasonably expensive article of clothing – btw, an idiotic thing to do on a day you expected rain so much you brought an umbrella.
However, if it’s a drizzle, and we’re walking out of a building, do me a favor: walk and open. WALK AND OPEN. You can take a few shoulder drips to allow my body that’s in motion, to stay in motion. Unless you’re putting me under the umbrella with you, I give no shits regarding what rain falls upon your head. What I do give a shit about is the fact that you believe that instead of sliding to the side like a normal, considerate human, you believe the entirety of the population trying to exit a building behind you should wait at your whim and marvel at your umbrella unfurling skills. If you don’t know how to get the fuck out of the way with your umbrella, YOU AM DUMB.
I’m back, bitches.
For the most part I understand airport security. Blowing up a plane with a couple hundred people on it is no bueno. Showing your ID. The metal detector. The x-ray machine. Makes perfect sense to me. I get it. People pay to be shuttled from one city to another and they want to do it safely. Which makes me wonder what the fuck Greyhound has going on.
Do you need to show an ID to get on a Greyhound? Uh, nope. Do they check your bags for even a letter opener? Nah. Do they even pat you down? For what? Oh, maybe because the terminals are crawling with hoodlums and miscreants. Seriously, the difference between a prison bus and a Greyhound bus is that you at least know who the criminals are on a prison bus. I rode one of these hell wagons recently and its basically criminal university. I learned how to make dynamite out of garden variety fireworks. I learned how to make rocket launchers out of PVC piping. I learned how to pull 3 check scams. I now know enough to go to jail 3 times over. Does Al-Qaeda not know the danger they can cause here? Or the danger they can learn how to cause? Forget being concerned about uranium in Iran, we should be checking the LA to Dallas run on Greyhound. If you don’t think there should be more safety on Greyhound, You Am Dumb.
You know I couldn’t let this day pass without a post, right? I almost had to let it go because I wasn’t sure where to begin, but human beings never fail to give me ammunition. Of all the things I could complain about regarding people’s involvement in this holiday, it’s time to talk about how people complain about this holiday.
Valentine’s Day complainers fall into 3 categories: Women that complain that not enough or anything is being done for them on Valentine’s Day, men who complain that they have to do something for their woman on Valentine’s Day, and women who complain that the holiday even exists, unless they’re in a relationship, in which case they fall into category number one.
Ladies, unless you started dating your man within the 2 weeks prior to Valentine’s Day, you should know better. If you were dating him at Christmas, you know if or what kind of gift-giver he is. You had a month and a half to assess the situation and bail. You have zero right to feel disappointed when Cassanova’s idea of a great Valentine’s Day date is ordering Domino’s and catching Transporter 3 on Spike. You can’t maintain such a high level of expectations when you previously gave your standards a break. Or maybe you just need to get better at training him. Psyche, despite your belief, we aren’t dogs. Actually, we might be so you should expect that we sometimes just shit in the house. Get a wee-wee pad or call the shelter.
Men who complain about having to do something for their women. Guys, no you don’t. Break up if your girl expects a heartfelt Valentine’s outpouring that you aren’t interested in giving. I don’t want to hear you mope around about how you “have to” get flowers, dinner and a gift when I know the end result of something even that simple in forethought will result in you having awesome sex. Maybe if you bought flowers or a gift on a non-make believe holiday, she wouldn’t be so insistent on turning the screws today. Psyche, if you’re in a relationship, I don’t care if you send flowers weekly, you better turn the bouquet volume up to 11 if you want her to do that thing in bed she did that one time you defended her honor in public or whatever.
And to all the single ladies that complain about the “made-up, make believe, not real, bullshit, Hallmark holiday” you want to loudly proclaim Valentine’s Day to be today, I’d like to first thank you for letting me no longer wonder whether you’re single or had a man hidden somewhere you don’t talk about. Secondly, you’re full of shit. You hate the day because either previous suitors haven’t come through in the clutch or because you WISH a guy presently was so moved by you that he would literally wait in lines to buy shit he knows nothing about (flowers? jewelry? chocolate? Ok, maybe chocolate but guys know M&M’s, not Godiva,) just to watch your eyes light up. And have sex with you.
Don’t complain. Either solve the problem, or get excited about the situation. Whatever the deal, if you’re complaining about today, You Am Dumb.
Wow, I made it to 50 posts. Actually there are more than 50 because I don’t count Dummy Of The Week in my topic count, but still, 50 is a nice milestone for non-DOTW topics. I took a few days off because I was out of town and as you may recall if you’re actually enough of an
idiot fan to go back and read my early writing, I told you I’d sometimes miss days, weeks, months at a time.
For the sake of my break (see what I did there) and giving you #50 between D’sOTW I’ve decided to push my DOTW till tomorrow (if I remember, or have time). So let’s talk Super Bowl, now that we’ve all had a chance to digest it and are on the verge of moving on. I’m timely like that. Let’s talk Super Bowl controversy. Let’s talk M.I.A. Wait, why is she involved in a controversy? She stuck up her middle finger in the middle of a performance? I’m not almost sure where to begin to minimize this nothing affair.
How about here: I appreciate a live performance but hey NBC, not even a 5-second tape delay? There is no controversy if NBC uses a 5-second delay and cuts to a different camera at that moment in the performance. You do remember what started the whole halftime show concern happened at a previous Super Bowl, right? Sometimes I think I couldn’t run a network because I’m not DUMB enough.
Or here: As little as the general public may know about M.I.A., they should know this – all she does is produce controversy. Just about any song she’s had that gained any fame has been a stirrer of controversy. Out of nowhere you’re going to put her on national television and not expect something a little out of the ordinary. Not surprised.
Maybe here: Has anyone seen the actual shot of her giving the middle finger? Just in case you missed it, it’s here. Do you see the background? Yes, that’s a bunch of dancers thrusting their collective pelvises skyward. If you’re a parent, are you more concerned about some no-name holding up a non-descript finger, or are you more concerned about a bunch of women very descriptively air-fucking in the middle of a song? I’d inlude the multiple shots of Madonna splitting her legs open like a pair of ancient chopsticks to show her own crotch, but some of you are probably eating.
Or just this. That guy was far more offensive than anything M.I.A. did. So, if for any reason, you are complaining about the impact M.I.A. had on the Super Bowl, You Am Dumb.
In honor of February – or continuing to honor February like this blog was Black History Month, this week’s Dummy Of The Week is February related. I know that since the return of this blog you’ve been dying to see who the first DOTW is (see what I did there?), so I don’t want to leave all 3 of you hanging. This week’s Dummy Of The Week is every idiot that thinks they need to remind you how short this month is.
Listen jackhole, first-and-foremost, most February’s run a cool 28 days. Of the other 11 months, five of them (FIVE!) run 30 days. I don’t need to be forewarned over the month being two days short of the average days in a month. Who here among us can say they haven’t had a bender that ran at least two days? I promise you that if we gave February two more days, I would very likely be unproductive for either those two days, or two other days during the month of my choosing. More cranial-pain inducing is the fact that this year is a Leap Year, so we’re only 1 day short of the average month. Pick any day from January 2012 and I bet I couldn’t tell you what I did that day, and that was just LAST MONTH! Not only is the month not really that short but the missing day isn’t worth shit. I don’t need it.
Most importantly, I’m not 5 years old. It should be apparent to all managers, people on the elevator in my building and strangers that think they need to talk to me on the bus, that at this stage of life, if I’m not at least relatively familiar with the number of days in February, I probably didn’t have the skill to dress myself and get to whatever location it is that they think they need to let me in on this as-yet-untold conspiracy theory secret. I’ve experienced plenty of February’s, Rite-Aid check-out lady. I don’t need your calendar insights. Just scan my card and get me out of here. I have a lot to do. It’s a short month. If you like telling everyone how short this month is, you are our Dummy Of The Week.
I want to use today to apologize to any non-American culture I’ve ever made fun of. Any tradition that you’ve brought to the U.S., placed at my feet for approval and in return received the lash of my wicked tongue (that’s right ladies), you are by all means, entitled. I…wait, no, your weird concoctions, superstitions and ways are still ridiculous and useless, I just am no longer as shocked by it as the weight of today and a long-time American cultural event smacks me dead in the face. I’m talking about Punxsutawney Phil.
THIS is American tradition? THIS is up there with the Super Bowl, apple pie and the Dollar Menu? Every February 2nd, not only do a group of idiots get dressed up in beards and tuxedos (I’m assuming the beards are as phony as the pomp and circumstance surrounding the event), but a bunch of people show up at “Phil’s” cage to watch this overgrown furry rat be yanked out of his home…and for what purpose? To pretend that it has any bearing on anything other than the bowel movements of the groundhog is insanity. To think that Phil, who by the way is just the most recent groundhog they’ve nabbed – not the original (and I’m sure, TRUE weather forecasting capable) groundhog, denotes what stage of winter we are in solely on whether the sun is out on February 2nd or not, is on the level of not stepping on a crack to avoid the breaking of the back of your Mom. If you enjoy the farce that is, or think it would be remotely interesting to see in person, Punxsutawney Phil, or are involved with it in any way, YOU AM DUMB.
So here I am again. This little idea of a blog did not need a restart. What it needs is consistency from me. Maybe the goodies and options of tumblr make it a better home for me. At the moment, I don’t really care. The ideas still have to formulate in my big old egg and the words still have to come out of my dumb, giant mouth. So, let’s get to it, shall we?
I don’t care if you own a dog. I don’t care if you’ve owned 10 dogs. I don’t care if you used to be in a dog and pony show that featured nothing but the same breed of dog as the one that I am walking, and your daily job was to teach the dogs impossible tricks, like balancing the federal budget. DO NOT JUST WALK UP TO MY DOG. Don’t ask me if its friendly. Don’t make kissing noises at it, and do not start talking to it in a baby voice.
No more than I would despise you doing this to my child would I despise you doing this to my dog. I appreciate that you feel all pets should be the fru-fru frilly pants companions to the human race, but I’m trying to produce a protector and potentially trained killer here. People get dogs for one of two reasons: companionship and protection. If you don’t at least assume its the second one, well, not only is it your face on the line, but YOU AM DUMB.
I’m a modern tech kind of guy. I like to bank online when I can. I order online whenever possible. However, there are still some times when you just have to take care of business in person. You just have to feel a sweater. Or try on a pair of jeans. Maybe you have to see how good the picture on the television is first. Well, I occasionally have to actually stop in at my bank. I know, you can deposit in ATM’s, take pictures of checks to deposit them and things like that, but sometimes I need to talk to a real human, live and in person. Of course, that’s always fun when the bank closes at 5 and isn’t open on the weekend.
We do live in a capitalist society right? That makes money and the access to money one of the more vital service areas we need to have available to us. With this as the case, what is the deal with banker’s hours? Doesn’t the majority of the population work until 5 every week night and have weekends free (or mostly free). Why is it then, that most banks are only open during the same hours the majority of the population is working? Does this make sense to anyone? Lunch is an hour at most workplaces. I’m supposed to give up 20-30 minutes of that so I can stand in line behind some 80 year old biddie who for some reason decided that today was the day she was going to put 15 different deposits into 12 accounts, check the balance’s on two CD’s and open an account for her granddaughter? What are you doing with 12 accounts woman? You wear Lee Press-On Nails and I know the hairspray you’re using is from the 99 Cent Store because I’m there so often, and that smell kind of permeates the store.
Credit Unions are the worst. They’re basically like, “Fuck your time. Our shit isn’t online, our shit isn’t open on the weekends, and we won’t even let you in unless you have 3 ID’s.” I’m part of the 99% and you guys are making it real hard to get to the 1% since I can’t get my money either in or out of you bastards. Even with regular banks – have you ever had someone transfer a decent amount of money into your account? It takes days to get the money out. And they wonder why I travel everywhere with money strapped to my abs like Mark Wahlberg in Contraband. If you’re a bank that uses banker’s hours, You Am Dumb.