ageing young

Here is a boy. His name can be Todd.
Todd is not unique, but we will use him as a vessel to explore a world not unlike our own - not unlike, but completely different: Backwards. Not in a way that doesn't make sense, or is illogical, or that has missed the point somewhere, but backwards in the literal way. Every hour of every day of every week works in reverse to ours.

Todd lives in this wonderful world. He is 30 years young and feeling better than ever. At birth, he had all the wisdom of a century-liver, and all the wrinkles. Oh, don't worry, he wasn't born in the usual way, he just came to be. Use your imagination here - perhaps he came from the ground or awoke one day as a pre-made being. Nevertheless, Todd enjoyed his undoing all the burdens of arriving. Over time he lost the bad - and the good - aspects of being old (by our system). Arthritis became less of a problem as he aged (remember, he ages backwards). Defects of the mind, too, were less frequent and less troublesome - Todd actually had amnesia, and lost that when he was 10. Although he had little memories to have not know by this time. Even so, he began to imagine a future from what little he knew.

At 30 Todd knows the vanity of the world. People everywhere trying to look old, trying to beat young. At such an age, Todd was in his prime, though he knew what time does to you: eventually you become too young to have memories, too young to think; too young to take care of yourself. You could try and beat it, but the finish line would always be there when you succumbed to the inevitable.

We might wonder how a world would be, and how we could experience it. If it is a mirror of our own lives, we must consider the similarities: Though in Todd's world you don't age, but become young, you still degenerate to a point of being unable to fend for yourself.

For us, we become old men and women. We desperately cling to our youth and constantly try to defy our own existance.
For Todd, he becomes young.

We can wonder whether he becomes physically young as well - does he shrink and lose hair? Is becoming younger better than becoming older when you lose the same advantages in reverse ways?

Either direction has but one master: time. Time giveth and time taketh away. Though we might mark it and think we are the masters of such an eternal concept, we are mere slaves. Time has the patience of a universe, and will always win.

Todd, despite having the novelty of getting younger as he lives, still suffers in the same way. Though I do not think he can hold on to an extra year through exercise, as we do. I think Todd has his timeframe decided already.

Perhaps everyone in Todd's world begins their life with amnesia, so they do not remember that they have already lived before and what they are living now is but a flash in a single moment before their little candle is snuffed out by the breath of time. At 10, Todd may have become privvy to this, though desperately wanted to go back to the beginning.

We don't know, for we have yet to go there - we have yet to experience the last moments in our own minds. Consider the past, at least your memory of it, a chance to grow backwards.

- P

Yet as an eternal audience looks on
And you take your final bow on the grandieous stage
One thing is sure - as clear as crystal:
For all your wise words and all you have heard,
From every short step and long-deep breath
You can almost forget your age.

she drives me crazy

Feminists and bad drivers. Two seemingly unrelated topics that have somehow come to a crossroads. And by somehow I mean I have forced them together for the sake of this post, much like how we're forced to share the roads with people who forget they are controlling moving tonnes of metal.

So, there I was cruising through the web, when - as what happens - I took a turn into Feminist Street: A forum full of angry, delusional females. I know; it sounds harmless and somehow normal, but these particular females were insanely aggressive to anything that doesn't wear a bra. Actually, they are just insanely aggressive toward anything.

Their posts are eerily well written grammar and spelling wise, though the convoluted nonsense to be read negates any impression of intelligence. Oh sure, they appear smart with large words and bitter cynicism, but really the lack of common sense pollutes every word. It's almost a cult following, this forum: They refer to society ("ruled by men and designed to degrade women") as the Patriarchy, or the P, for those in the know. When I say 'refer to' I mean in every fucking post. To them, everything is because of the patriarchy.

Assumptions are everywhere and the hard facts seem to ride in the backseat - no, the boot, or maybe a trailer left behind. From the thankfully brief (as amusing as it was, my head begun to hurt from the sheer stupidity) encounter I broke down the process of how the threads work:

1. Someone points out something inane and makes it appear as if it specifically targets women and proverbially demands they get back in the kitchen or so help them
2. Every reply agrees; with the word "patriarchy" thrown in like some kind of Borg movement
3. Pitchforks are handed out, as well as torches
4. The cause becomes justified and the sheer audacity of everything produces snarls and scowls
5. Hypocritical closing statements are thrown in - 'it's disgusting that there's violence and degradation to women in this inane something... I want to kill all men'

To this cult group of angry women I say: Please do not have children.

Now, the bad drivers of yonder! Where I live and drive, the most common form of bad driving stems from the following:

- Giving way, or rather, not giving way. Screw waiting for traffic, they can wait for you! Screw traffic all together: you own this road.
- Indicating, or rather, not indicating. Keep people guessing right? Look out, you're moving your tonnes of metal this way. Ha! I didn't expect that!
- Speeding. Because heaven help you get to the red light behind someone.
- Driving slow. Yes, it is bad on this end too. Look, your caution is the right idea, but there is a speed limit 50 other cars want to get to. Congestions equal frustration equals chaos.
- Car Parks. What lines? Review mirror? I like going backwards while not looking. Do it all the time without my car!

The easiest way to be a good driver is to remember this: Don't drive your car in ways that you wouldn't walk.
What I mean is, you don't run from shop to shop or weave between people in a building at speed. You don't walk in front of traffic knowing that you are going slower and it will catch up...
You don't cut in front of a car.
You don't walk backwards without looking and if there's a line, you adhere to it.

Also: Pay attention while driving! Tell your passengers you are not involved in their antics because you have a large moving object to control. Don't answer your phone! STOP THINKING YOUR CAR IS MAGIC AND WON'T BECOME A DEADLY WEAPON IF YOU DON'T USE IT PROPERLY.

Rant: Over.

- G

no little poem today
just these words to let you know
oh shit, I've done it anyway
okay, it's time to go!

department of Qs

So it's a common fact that, worldwide (except maybe in Qatar), the department of transport office (or whatever it's named in your 'hood) generates the slowest cues known to man. They are deceptively short - you see a 'few' people sitting down and some brave souls standing along the perimeters, arms and ankles crossed, all staring up at the all-knowing interchanging number screen. Surely this time my number has to be called, they all think. But no, F156 wins the place (though that person at least got their number).

I decided to by-pass this and wait at Register 2, to the left of the door. My chances of being served were slim and I knew it was out-of-procedure, but I refused to be a minion of the all-knowing number screen. I would not conform so easy!

After several minutes that seem like hours, a lady asked me in a polite tone if I was being served. I just wanted to renew my license, so I said that. Wrong answer. To the ticket machine I go, to become another slave for the all-knowing screen. I should have pretended I was a chosen one.

Several thousand more hour-minutes went by while I lean against a bench next to a few other minions, all of us waiting and staring like brainwashed religious converts.

"Ticket number: A.1.4.9., please report to: counter 10."

The sweet, monotonous tone over the speakers, like some propaganda machine, aroused the hopeful attention of anyone listening. Never will you see a person move with such haste and readiness than you do at these places. Calling their name would fail to inspire the same instantaneous reaction. These people jump out of their chairs - or off the wall/bench - to where they're directed.

"Ticket number: A151, please report to: counter 6."
"Ticket number: B678, please report to: counter 2."
"Ticket number: F549., please report to: counter 10."

It skips numbers. The audacity; the conditions stated clearly! I was number A160. My ticket would be called at some interval between A151 and A164. It made no sense that A151 would go before A150, since the counters are capable of handling any service.

I waited.

"Ticket number: A158 please report to: counter 2."

The tone continued over and over. It was like a train station; a hellish, confined train station that took you nowhere. You weren't there out of choice, oh no, you're there because the law - the true power behind the all-knowing screen - makes you.

A160, my number - "my" - was called at last and I proceeded to counter 3, which was a whole one meter from my leaning spot. A man was behind the counter. A probably-gay man. He took my form and took my money on behalf of the law.

I moved on to the photo seat and hardly smiled into that ominous lens.

"Look right here," the operator said.
A flash.
I'm directed to wait. I ignored my previous position in favour of a cushioned seat next to the middle. My ears were pricked for any call with a phonetic resemblance to "Greg"

And there it was. My new license. I had survived the department for now, but I'd be back. One must always return, lest they no longer travel legally. The screen watched me leave, mocking me with its now-sequential number calling.

I just nodded and make a note that in all my ID photos, I have progressively more hair.

- P

I pushed into line and saved myself time
But I never knew what I was doing
Never knew where the line was going
If I had known it led back to the door
I don't think I'd have bothered entering at all

politically correct me

I have two things on the agenda tonight. The first is a short rant about the absurdity of the rights of common people to complain. By common I mean backwards. Okay, so there is (or was) an advert on TV for tampons. This isn't astonishing in any way, but this advert used a an euphemism we're all familiar with (apparently too familiar for some) to portray a certain important element to tampons. It was a good attempt at not taking a touchy product too seriously. The ad features a beaver hanging out with a young lady. They do all the things a couple would do early in a relationship: walk, laugh, have dinner and give gifts. Except the beaver of course doesn't talk and only receives a gift: a box of tampons from the lady. It makes sense.

Seems this offended some people, because it's offensive to use any kind of imagery or wording that describes something natural we're all afraid to hear on TV. First off, the offended folks claim the use of the term 'beaver' was offensive. I don't get this. Beaver was never mentioned once. It was just there, quietly going about business with the lady who seemed pretty joyful. What if it had a name like Barry? She hung out with Barry (a beaver) and gave it tampons over dinner.

"A beaver?! Oh my heavens' Lord golly gosh! She's giving a beaver tampons. What an outrageous, scandalous thirty seconds I've just witnessed. Where's that number - ah yes, on Speed-dial. Lovely dovely."

I don't really care about the ad or whether it's still circulating. I mean, it wasn't amazing, even though it beat all those incredibly hackneyed "empowerment" ads for tampons that apparently give back control to women. Face it, ladies: You're hormones' bitch.

What I do care about is how ridiculous the notion that this kind of thing is considered offensive and various action is forced. If I was the company I would send a diagram of the female reproductive system to whoever complained, with the simple note:

This is a vagina. It's real, so deal with the beaver, you sheltered, empty fool.
Ps. Penis.

There was another advert that came under scrutiny. Something to do with beer and a chick wearing a bikini, I think. Or at least it vaguely involved breasts. These offended people have issues. Their children will grow up being menaces to society because they had terrible parents and no sense of reality (rated very R).

R = heavy sex, plenty of violence, a fuckload of language and mega-gore.

By the way... highlighting an 'offensive' ad just makes it more known and earns the creator extra money and a pat on the back. Plus the company is (hopefully) laughing at you over lunch.

- P

Wait, I had two things on tonight didn't I? The second is making fun of horrible lyrics, such as the following, line by line:

Superman dat hoe
The title lets you know you're in for a butchering of ghetto English, which is a butchering of English itself. "Superman dat hoe" ... does that mean you make her wear a cape and undies outside a tight outfit?
[Chorus: x2]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Tolja this was a butchering. Seems here that soldier boy (I know, right?) is "off in this hoe" meaning perhaps that there is a hoe somewhere we're supposed to know about and he is in her, going off. Maybe 'hoe' in this sense means some kind of place, like a club.
Watch Me Crank It
Oh, but he's cranking it. Euphemism (that word again) for some sexual act or is he cranking a car? Oh! Maybe 'hoe' meant car in the last line! That fits well. He can be "off in" a car.
Watch Me Roll
Roll... this follows on pretty well. The car might need to roll before the engine fires up after he's cranked it good.
Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy
Wait, there's another soldier boy! These characters need to be mentioned earlier, before we're slammed "dis" and "dat" that we're supposed to recognise. Is the car a Soldier Boy (TM)?
Then Super Man Dat Hoe
Ah, the title returns. So it is an action after all. Since the car is a 'hoe' by the name of Soldier Boy (TM), I guess supermaning would involve pushing or some other exertion likened to superman. Hm, you do look kind of like superman flying with your arms outstretched...
Now Watch Me youuu
Huh? Okay, with 'ghetto English' I sometimes allow for certain licenses. There's some strange sentences that fly at you, but it's within the ghetto realm of lingo. This line is just bad. You is not an action, and this is a serious struggle for words.
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
Now Watch Me youuu
(Crank Dat Soulja Boy)
... so the worst line is repeated and backed up by a chant to get the car started.

[Verse 1:]
Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe
Yes, we know already.
Watch Me Lean And Watch Me Rock
Um, out the car window? Does the car have hydraulics?
Super Man Dat Hoe
Right, pushing it or something again. Guess there was leaning and rocking at the same time.
Then Watch Me Crank Dat Robocop
New car! Or maybe we're all just finding out that Robocop needs to be cranked. All this time!
Super Fresh, Now Watch Me Jock
I'm getting bored of watching these things. This is also pretty weird.
Jocking On Them Haterz Man
Oh, you're jocking some haters. That's even weirder.
When I Do Dat Soulja Boy
Now it's just confusing. Are you cranking or doing this damn car? Goddamn.
I Lean To The Left And Crank Dat Dance
Now you're a cranking a dance? What dance? Why left? UGH.
(Now You)
Hm?
I'm Jocking On Yo Bitch Ass
Hey, don't go anywhere near my ass. Especially don't crank it. Seriously.
And If We Get The Fightin
The fighting? If we get it? Missing word there... only two letters.
Then I'm Cocking On Your Bitch
What happened to the homosexual urges?
You Catch Me At Yo Local Party
I wonder if Corey Worthington knows about this.
Yes I Crank It Everyday
Much cranking indeed. Them cars don't seem to have very good engines.
Haterz Get Mad Cuz
"I Got Me Some Bathin Apes"
...

[Chorus x2]

[Verse 2:]
I'm Bouncin On My Toe
I can't be bothered writing anymore
Watch Me Super Soak Dat Hoe
But some innuendo is in there. I guess it involves a money shot
I'ma Pass It To Arab
And then this makes it weird.
Then He Gon Pass It To The Low (Low)
... and it doesn't stop there
Haterz Wanna Be Me
Mm, because there's bitches to be cocked, cars to be cranked and bitch asses to be jocked.
Soulja Boy, I'm The Man
Soldier boy.
They Be Lookin At My Neck
Of course
Sayin Its The Rubberband Man (Man)
Lame.
Watch Me Do It (Watch Me Do It)
Again with the watching
Dance (Dance)
Blah blah blah
Let Get To It (Let Get To It)
Blah blah blah
Nope, You Can't Do It Like Me
I really have no idea what "it" is at this stage. Unless "it" means write lyrics, in which case this line is both wrong and right. Wrong because the lyrics are terrible and right because a bunch of bathin' apes could do it. But I think "it" means the dance that is mentioned somewhere
Hoe, So Don't Do It Like Me
Trust me, you need not worry
Folk, I See You Tryna Do It Like Me
That was a muscle spasm - sorry.
Man That Shit Was Ugly
Your face is!

That was pain. I was truly brain dead by the end - thinking, in a zombie-state: When does it end?

Oh, and the lamest thing about the entire song is the video. This soldier boy claims to be the real deal with his dance (TM), and yet the clip is filled with people doing the exact same dance without error. Go figure.

- G

lyrics are fun
but often not well done
so we can all write songs
and pretend to smoke bongs
when really we just fail English
and insult fish

real life chat room

It's a common belief that, as with many atrocities, 'flaming' (also known as 'dissing' or disrespecting) was born and still thrives on the wonderful anonymous world that is the Internet. But it is not so.

Go into any public restroom and you'll find that this flaming business is as old as, well, public restrooms. There's the ancient "woz 'ere" that has stood the test of time (from, I imagine, 6t9 to 9t9 and then '00 to '08). But these simple messages weren't alone in bathroom stalls; many phrases, poems, discrete invitations, propaganda and blatant racism and vulgar language resided with them (and still do!)

Ignoring everything else, a question needs to be asked about these toilet 'forums':

Who takes a pen into a fucking toilet?

It makes sense to have a pen in a toilet conveniently because, I don't know, maybe it's a work day and you happen to keep a pen or two in your pocket... and your company doesn't provide its own staff facilities...

Okay, really, who does it? I won't believe that these notes are from people who accidentally have a pen on them, get bored while doing the deeds and decide to write - because, oh! Look here, I have a pen! I might reply to this "Gangsta Boy"

NO. It just doesn't work. Standard pens aren't even used for the classy ones; they use textas. And nobody conveniently has a texta. Go ahead, try and find someone. If you succeed, you know what kind of person writes these messages, though you could have guessed by now since - wait for it - the writing is on the wall. At least now you have a visual of the person, not just a faceless lonely soul.

Anyway, back to the point: These writings are deliberate. The messages are written not because someone happened to have a pen on that day they did the deeds, oh no, they are written because someone walked into the toilet with the intention of writing something.

"Ya'll no who it is"

Yes, yes we do. And lo' it was just like the internet, mocked for its lack of spelling and dismissed as spam, by spam.

And indeed it is heartbreaking to attempt a bowl movement only to release gas*. O woe, I might call Joe for a suspicious time** and try another rhyme.

I could understand any of this if they weren't at public toilets out of the way, far from any accidental-pen-having places. Instead it's the street public toilets (or the cinemas...) where the thugluv is abundant and the overwhelming urge to communicate*** is too much.

Ugh!
Okay.
People going into toilets with felt, paint, chisels; whatever:
You.
Are writing.
In a fucking toilet.
People reading your drivel are urinating, masturbating or taking a dump (or all three).

Maybe that's why the internet version isn't embraced; it reminds people of sitting in a dirty toilet surrounded by drivel.

Thanks, T-bone from 6t9! You started this disease of abbreviation, spam, anonymous tardation and disrespect.

Glad I wasn't there.

* "Here I sit // Broken hearted // Tried to shit // But only farted"
** Many suspicious times are available from toilets; not all from Joe
*** That term is used very loosely, much like it is for forums that lost direction
**** There is no fourth star. Ever.

- G '08

retail therapy

Ah, retail. What a wonderful concept. That marvelous end-of-the-line for products and middle-man between customers and production lines.

But how do you convince somebody to buy what your company sells? It shouldn't be too hard, should it, I mean they had to have wondered in with the intention of buying something. Ha! Pity that is not the case, as customers are given FTMO; Far Too Many Options. It all boils down to price. It's mostly true that expensive items are higher quality, but only mostly. You don't always get what you for. Sometimes you literally don't get what you pay for.

So, back to point. You earn a commission and you need to get products out the door. Forget morals, honesty and humanity, you have to get that dollar in your (company's) hand. Also, remember this: Customer service isn't about providing personal service, it's about making sure they spend money.

Now, to the magical method on making those buckaroos:

Basics: Start by telling your customer what the product/service is, how it works and what it's called.
Utility: Inform them what it is used for and why. Go on with its best application.
Lie: Make something seem more awesome than it is. If you don't know the real answer to any queries, this is where you pretend.
Lie more: Mention that you would definitely purchase the product/service, that your family/friend already has and that it is great.
Sell: Time's up, you gotta sell now. No price should have been mentioned until now (sure, it's labeled, but you weren't acknowledging that until you've created the image of value).
Honesties: Throw some truth in so it looks like you care. Talk about a disadvantage or two, but it make it pale in comparison to the sheer awesomeness of the product/service.
Intimate: Be a friend. You care and you're not like those other fake salesmen. Make a joke, laugh, tell them you love their eyes...
Transaction: Booya! Congratulations, you got the money and are free to run. The delicate dance is over and you can move on to the next victim, you money-vampire.

If the above method doesn't work, don't worry, it's all bullshit anyway.

- G

Commission is nice until you realise
That you're exactly like a company:
Screwing people for money.
I just want them to like me...
I shoulda been a hero.

just a short one

There is a moth that has taken residence in the bathroom and toilet. It is the colour of cherry and likes to hang around doors. It just sits silently and watches. I do not know what it eats or where it goes when it isn't around (if it is ever not around...) and I do not know where it came from.

All I know is that I see it when I am naked, it is alive and it doesn't fear close contact with a naked creature a thousand times its size.

Unlike a spider behind the towels I discovered one day, this moth won't be squished into mush. It was a mercy killing of sorts for that spider.

"Why?" it said. Not afraid or pleading, just sincerely curious.

"It is better then the embarrassment of scaring someone naked and having them squawk at you until you come to the same sad end as now, by the same shoe. Go in peace, my arachnid voyeur-friend."

WHAM! WHAM!

No, this moth won't be so squished. When I don't see it anymore I will a little sad, despite the perverted nature of the bug.

Speaking of nudity, today while I squatted (bend at the knees; your back is not a crane!) to lower a boxed chair to the ground something between my legs ripped. At first, I thought it was my slacks. Thought I was doomed to spend hours walking the floors with ripped pants. A quick grope revealed it wasn't my pants, but rather my boxers underneath.

Not so bad.

- G

throw caution to the wind
as a butterfly on its wings
to find a blooming flower
or a captivated being
to share a single moment
and all that we're seeing