Author Archives: andymac012@gmail.com

That’s politics, bitch.

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I despise election season. It’s not just because I live in a battleground state that gets engulfed in campaign ads; those can be ignored. It’s the people that I hate:  all of the condescending douche-nozzles that come out of the woodwork to pretend like their opinions actually matter. Anyone who broaches the subject of politics, especially in a bar, is trying to accomplish one of two things. Either they’re actively trying to pick a fight, or appear socially responsible and well informed, when in reality, they’re just regurgitating someone else’s ideas, passing them off as their own, and then looking around to see how impressed everyone is. I may be cynical, but I don’t think there is a single person alive who will ask someone else their political views because they legitimately want to hear them. More likely, they’re just waiting for their turn to talk, or can’t wait to tell you why your opinion is wrong.

As a result, I typically try to avoid the topic altogether, especially with people older than me.  There’s just no winning when you’re young. We want to seem like active members of society, but we’re too busy chasing our dreams and trying to get laid to truly give a shit. Older people know this. They’re envious of this. So they ask us our opinions just to make us feel stupid and give themselves a false sense of superiority. I urge you, dear reader, do not take the bait. I know your pride will fight you on this, but resist. It’s a trap. They’ll sneer at you for not forming an opinion about the world around us, and then when you finally do, they’ll disregard it and call you naive. “You just don’t understand,” they’ll say.

No shit, we don’t understand. Do you know how difficult it is to develop a well-informed opinion on political policy when most of the information readily available to the public is all rhetorical bullshit? The whole arena has devolved into a culture war, and instead of enlightening the general public by helping them navigate the major points (you know, news), it creates a nationwide shouting match where the loudest voices prevail, regardless of the insanity they’re spewing. Sure, every one claims to have an open mind, and yet they only follow news that reinforces the opinion they already have (I believe that’s called hypocrisy).

Arguing about politics is a lot like arguing about religion: everyone thinks they’re right and no one is willing to compromise.  Here’s a list of phrases you will never here in a political discussion: “That’s a good point.” — “I disagree, though I can see things from your point of view.” — “Thank you for introducing me to such a fresh perspective.”  There can’t be a winner when truth is subjective, and arguments are based on the future outcomes of present actions.

I think that political debates are the only proof we need that humans evolved from monkeys. Intelligent discussion quickly gives way to personal attack, and the whole format devolves into a childish stalemate, where neither side has anything original to say so they both just keep screeching and throwing the same shit at you over and over and over. It’s no wonder all of these white collar criminals get away with the systematic rape of our financial system: they know the majority of the population is too stupid to know when they’re being fucked. I certainly am.

I swear I wasn’t high when I wrote this

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Disclaimer: the following is based on nothing even remotely resembling a reliable source. 

Humans have evolved to such a point, and in such complete domination of every other living thing around us, that we no longer need our baser instincts. We don’t need to fight for survival. Unless of course you live in a country ravaged by epidemic or war, but I’m not talking about people with actual problems. I’m talking about Americans. We buy our food in mass quantity, with everything we could ever need conveniently located at the corner store. Our meat comes from a small, airtight package, instead of a rotting animal carcass that we had to bring down ourselves. Fresh water is pumped directly into our homes. All we have to do is turn a nob, and out comes instant nourishment. We use solidified water to keep our other water cold, because the building blocks of life need to be a certain temperature or their not worth drinking. When water pours from the sky by the hundreds of gallons, we consider it a bad day.

People used to measure the passing of time not by the year on the calendar, but by how many winters they had survived, because that shit was an achievement. It was something you prepared for months in advance, cutting wood and storing food, so your family didn’t starve, or freeze to death. Today, we get pissed when we have to wake up 15 minutes early to clear the snow off our car. But who would want to leave the comfort of their home? All we have to do is flip a switch and heat is pumped into a ventilation system (that we don’t know how to build) which runs throughout our entire house.

We can’t even imagine the worst case scenario:  having to huddle together with our family around a shitty little fire, praying that everyone makes it through the night, but secretly hoping someone doesn’t, because it’s been three days since we’ve eaten anything and our little brother’s calf is starting to look more and more like a drumstick. And he’s so small and weak, there’s no sense in all of us starving when he’s probably going to die anyway.

I always find it funny when people talk about what they would do in the event of a zombie apocalypse, because the vast majority of us wouldn’t be able to survive. Fending for ourselves? Fuck no.  Most of us don’t know a thing about survival, because our evolution as a species has made our most basic needs a non-issue. The people in charge of the human race, i.e., the ones actually advancing us as a species, have built the necessities into our every day lives, allowing the rest of us to slack off, and forget how to endure hardship. Instead we worry about stupid shit, like the Oscars, or how our pro football team is playing, or why our favorite porn site is down, again. Even after you check the connection, and restart the computer. Now I have to use my imagination? What am I, in 6th grade? This is horse sh–

Sorry…I uh…I may have been projecting a little bit on that last one.

In other words, mankind has become so intelligent, that intelligence is no longer necessary for our survival. 

Guilty Pleasure

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If I had to admit to one guilty pleasure in life, it would be Train (the band, not actual trains). I never buy any of their music or go to their concerts, for fear of being found out; but if I find myself alone with “Hey, Soul Sister,” blasting, I will sing my pasty little heart out and I will dance, nay, frolic wherever I am. However, if I had to admit to another, it would probably be my general compulsion to make people feel stupid. Not exactly an admirable pursuit, I know…kinda fucked up really, but it seems to be a talent with which I was born.  Though these condescending urges may be part of my baser instincts, I try to focus them only on those who truly deserve it. Kind of like Dexter, but if instead of killing people, he went around being a sarcastic douche.

Being an improvisational art, most of my verbal assaults are brief in nature: correcting grammar, pointing out contradictions in logic, or asking rhetorical questions to highlight a character flaw. Here’s an easy one. When a co-worker complains about working I’ll ask, “Which part do you hate? The one where you volunteer your time in exchange for money, or the part where you have to listen to co-workers bitch all day?”  Now, the appropriate response would be “fuck off, Andy,” but not every one understands irony, and even fewer people take kindly to having their flaws pointed out. 

Sometimes I don’t even need to speak to make someone feel stupid. All it takes is a look; albeit, a look that I’ve been crafting since puberty. A quick, but slight, tilt of the head. A furrowing of the brow, and a shifting of the eyes, making it clear that I’m trying to make sense of whatever idiocy that has just been demonstrated. Here, it’s important to look in the individual’s general direction, but never directly at them.  If confrontation should ensue, you want them to seem like the aggressor. That way you can plead innocence, because once bystanders start catching on to your ruse, the game’s over. No one will take the bait if they know you’re being an asshole solely for it’s own sake.

You may be asking yourself, how does one decide who warrants such a passive aggressive form of retribution? By what metrics are they measured? And who am I to pass judgment? Well, I can’t say that I have a method of selection, or any real sense of order, but there isn’t exactly a system to being a prick. What I can say is that my victims tend to be comparable in character, displaying obnoxious behavioral patterns, yet showing extreme sensitivity to anyone who points them out. For example, there was a girl I worked with not long ago who was charming, and pretty, and as sweet as could be…the fuckin’ bitch. Not only was her whole personality a mask to cover her deep conceits and social manipulations, but she’s one of these people that never stops talking about herself. Ever. Needless to say, I cherished every opportunity to make her feel as low as that black hunk of garbage she calls a soul.

Granted, I don’t always have such brazen contempt for my targets. Sometimes I’m just bored. I’m bored of small talk; bored of pretending to care; bored of the all of the meaningless, solipsistic bullshit that people spew in order to make themselves feel important. I do realize the insensitivity of everything I just said, but sensitivity is overrated. The world is a vicious place, and if you can’t handle being mocked by someone as insignificant as me, then why even bother getting out of bed? You can feel free to call me any name you want: hypocrite, cynic, asshole. I’ll just smile and wave, because while I may be all of those things, I know who I am and I know where I stand. Do you?

Andy Falls In Love

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I catch a glimpse of her goldilocks curls as I pick up my board outside of the rental lodge. I do a double take, as all boys do when they think they see a pretty girl. My gaze falls on her for only an instant before I have to tear it away, because as I glimpse the strawberry blonde ringlets falling across her lightly freckled cheek, she starts to look my way, and fear seizes me. I don’t want those eyes–marked by a devasting shade of green and blue–to see me as the slack-jawed neanderthal that she has momentarily turned me into. Though I lack the faculty to form a sentence, she walks in my direction, buying me time.  I fall into stride on her left, separate but in sync. My window is wide open, but what do you say to a pretty girl in a crowd? How do I make her see me as unique from the countless goons who have gone before? How do I portray confidence without arrogance? Compassion without weakness? Intelligence without pretension?

As I continue to over-think even the simplest of introductions, opportunity sweeps in on my left:  a predator, flanked by a two subordinate members of his pack.

“Hey there sweetheart,” he calls to her. I drop back a step to give him a clear line of sight.  “Do you snowboard?”

“Mhm,” she nods, holding up the board in her hand.

“Wow, that’s sexy,” he replies, causing his two friends to chuckle like idiots, in awkward envy of his daring. “We should set a shred date.” As the girl flushes and tries to hide her face in her hair, I step in between them.

“I’m sorry, but this is getting hard to watch.” I make sure to speak up in order to drown out any further advances. “I admire your confidence, but your strategy is garbage. Not only have you objectified her twice in ten seconds, but you asked her on a date before you even asked what her name was.”

The confusion ripples across his features, and I know that anger in close behind. As the predator collects his thoughts, I steal a glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s watching.

She is.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, dude?” He says as his brow creases in what I can only assume is fury. “What the fuck do you know?” Excellent question, my stupid friend.

“First of all, you can’t tell me to mind my own business as you’re butting into someone else’s.” I start as I line up the argument in my head. “Secondly, what I know is that ‘Hey sweetheart’ is a condescending way to start a conversation. I know that having these two goons chuckling like henchmen in a Bugs Bunny cartoon is only hurting your cause. And I know that a girl like her, who is that naturally pretty, has had to deal with a hundred assholes just like you, and could do without the hassle.”

From here, the goons will usually go silent. Never having developed the proper tools to express their emotions, they will typically just smolder in quiet rage, and stare at me like they smell something unpleasant and it’s my fault. Regardless, while I do think that calling him an asshole may be excessive, I’m short on time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about assholes, it’s that nothing pisses them off faster than being called an asshole. As I watch the rage well up behind his eyes, I can only hope that his intelligence is suffering the inverse, because he is playing his part flawlessly.

“Hey dickhead, you want to get your ass kicked?”

“Not really,” A smirk slides into place as the three of them close in around me. “Why? Do you feel like reinforcing every point I just made, as well as the meat-head stereotype?”

“Fuck you,” he shouts, inches from my face, fuming as the other two loom over his shoulders like gargoyles.

At this point, it’s time to retreat. When a predator begins to express himself solely in expletives it means that his (or her) aggression is nearing capacity, leaving little to no room for rational thought. On one hand, I can either keep talking and risk pushing him over the brink into physical violence:  a mantle his companions will undoubtedly take up. On the other hand, I can walk away now and risk looking like a pussy. Now, if I were a particularly prideful man, I’m sure that would bother me, but I didn’t go through all the effort of catching this girl’s eye just to be incapacitated in a struggle for dominance.

Instead, I wink at him, and turn away to see the girl standing against a fence post, waiting not twenty feet away.

“Where are you going, pussy?” The predator tries to grab me as I walk away, but I just roll my shoulder back, letting his hand slip right off my jacket.

“That’s right, you better walk away, fag,” the predator continues to shout as his friends pull him away toward one of the ski lifts, probably to talk about what an asshole I am, and how badly they could have beat my ass.

“Hi,” I walk toward the girl. “I promise we’re not all like that.”

“I know,” she replies with a straight face. “You didn’t need to do that, though. I could’ve handled it.”

“Oh I know. I just can’t guys like that,” I say. “Plus, my motives weren’t entirely selfless. My name’s Andy.” I take off a glove and extend my hand.

“Amanda,” she takes it with a smile. “I must admit. That was pretty funny watching him flounder like that. He had no idea what to do.”

“Why thank you. There’s something rewarding about the look on someone’s face after you’ve stunned them into silence. Would you like to join me on the mountain for a couple of runs?”

“Oh, you mean a shred date?” She asks.

“Precisely,” I nod. “I would never assume anything more.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m waiting for someone.”

“Aw,” I pretend to be wounded. “And all this time, I thought you were waiting for me.”

“Haha,” she laughs but I can’t help detecting an iciness in her voice.  “No no. I was waiting for him.” She points down the path at a broad shouldered man walking toward us, eyeing me with notable distaste.

“You know,” she leans in close and drops her voice to a whisper. “It’s not the meatheads that bother me. At least they’re straight forward. It’s the manipulative, sarcastic little fucks like you, with their smooth lines and witty comebacks. Always trying to weasel their way into my good favor, like I’m too stupid to see what’s going on.”

The blood drains from my face and the air leaves my lungs. I freeze. I’m a deer in a pair of high beams.

“Who is this guy?” Her boyfriend questions her as he gets within range.

“Hey babe,” a smirk spreads across her face. “This is Andy. He was just trying to get in my pants. Said he would show me what it’s like to be with a real man.”

“Is that right?” He squares up to me, his head clearing mine by half a foot, looking down at me with murder in his eyes.

I turn to her, wanting to plead my innocence, but my tongue is swelling up and the words won’t come out. She sees me paralyzed, and her smirk spreads to a smile. She mouths ‘Good luck,’ and then throws me a wink before walking away toward the lifts.

 

Just Think About It

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These days, as I sit on Facebook feeding the delusion that I have a lot of friends, I see all of these people my age getting engaged, or married, and it saddens me: heart, mind, and penis. Which is weird, because those three are almost never on the same page. Normally, my dick and heart fight like self-entitled brats while my brain just tolerates them as necessary byproducts of his existence. My brain’s like “Just leave me alone, don’t break each other, and we’ll be fine.” However, on the issue of marriage, the three of them form a united front.

The traditional debate between married life and single life would have me parroting some sex driven frat boy vernacular about how great it is to be a manwhore. Have no fear, dear reader. I only make brief mention of my genitalia to publicly acknowledge that they have been the source of many a bad decision in my short lifetime, and to discourage the general population from trusting their own. The reckless spread of one’s genetic juices comes with just as high a risk of destroying personal potential as marriage does, but instead of taking care of a full grown person, you’ll be responsible for a much smaller and stupider person; I’ve heard those are much more difficult to keep alive.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to the concept of marriage. I’m opposed to people rushing into a lifetime commitment because they think they should, like it’s the next chapter in some metaphysical field guide on how to live. Instead of making independently informed decisions, they look to the model that society has set up for them: go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, raise kids, retire. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with living that way, as long as that’s what you truly want. It’s just that some people seem so anxious to meet their own self-imposed life obligations that they lock on to the first person with whom they’re compatible and don’t let go, just so they can check one more thing off their to-do list.

Now, before you write me off, know that this particular brand of cynical douchery comes from a place of love. I truly want (most of) you to be happy, so I poke holes in your emotional certainty. If you’re in love, then hell yeah. Just make damn sure that it is real love, because infatuation can be a sneaky fucker. It goes parading around as passion, making you feel deep affection toward your significant other, but blinding you to their inevitable drawbacks. One second, they can do no wrong, and the next, you’re in a screaming match over a few stray pubes on the toilet seat.

Follow your heart, but give your brain ample time to cross-examine. Move in with them for a while. Think on it for half a decade or so, because why wouldn’t you take the time to be absolutely certain? The rest of your life will still be waiting for you when you’re done.