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Old people are ruining social media

Conventional wisdom has it that teenagers don’t use Facebook because their parents are watching online.

Preliminary findings of a study of social media, for example, suggest young people can’t “be free” if they know their parents may learn of “every indiscretion”.

Do we really need research to tell us that?

Teenagers obviously don’t want their parents to know they partied and smoked pot instead of studying. They could get in trouble.

Or worse, be forced to share their drug connection.

Teed Street, Newmarket

If I were a father, my adolescent children need not worry.

There isn’t anything a teenager could post on Facebook that I would find remotely interesting.

I wouldn’t say that, not in so many words. This is a kind of birds and bees conversation requiring wisdom and finesse.

So, I’d simply tell my children that I would sooner down a bottle of bleach than to follow the ignorant, hormone-soaked brain farts of your everyday, zit-faced bobby soxer.

It isn’t personal. I love puppies. But you don’t see me patting them on the head when they hump my leg.

And that is far less disgusting than teenagers.

I will not allow updates regarding alcohol binging or unwanted pregnancies to ruin my newsfeed.

Especially not from my own children.

Newmarket Station concourse, Monday afternoon

Very few people under age 35 have anything worth sharing on Facebook.

And the numbers don’t get much better at 35 and up.

So, to little Shlomo Junior, and my dear Jacquette, I would say this: your Facebook feed will be blocked until you develop a personality.

Whitcoulls Building with Santa

Sadly, that is one conversation I will never have, I’m afraid.

Not now, after Jacquie and I received news about our fertility.

A specialist recently told us in no uncertain terms that we cannot have children.

She said we have too much cool, expensive shit in our home, and we can’t have children around fucking it all up.

Parnell, Monday afternoon

I can imaging many teenagers have secrets they can’t afford to reveal.

But that’s not the main reason they’re leaving Facebook.

It’s because they don’t want to be seen in that sphere with their grandmother.

The grandmother doesn’t know what the fuck is going on in Facebook.

She has spent most of her life in the real world, and now she has arrived in this virtual reality, and her interaction with it is indistinguishable from her smashing her face into the keyboard and pressing ‘Enter’.

She means well. But she is just not accustomed to the mores and nuances of social media etiquette.

Earle Street

Somebody I know has a nonagenarian relative who recently started using the Internet.

It didn’t take long for the old fella’s curiosity to lead to the web’s many splendored “Red Light District”.

This would not have come to the friend’s attention if not for the elder’s obliviousness to the long, dirty trail of popup window ads that are the bane of the pornography-consuming public.

Which seems to me the same as leafing through the Penthouse magazine you’re waiting to buy at a busy corner store. That is not the level of sharing anyone wants. Even stupid teenagers know that.

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The 17 reasons you will like and share this post

This is difficult to write, so I’ll just get to the point.

The links that you all post to Facebook have grown tiresome.

Therefore, as of 2014, I will no longer be clicking anything you post there.

Nor will I comment on or “like” your blathering status updates.

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Don’t take it personally. I’m just tired.

Tired of following every bit of online nonsense your palsied mouse-clicking finger shares, either from sheer meme-reflex, or worse, from a preposterous notion that I give a shit.

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Don’t blame me. It’s not my fault that I have to say these things. I suffer from a real syndrome in which your links, status updates, political causes, pictures of meals (bought, made, or pooped), essentially everything that you draw my attention to on Facebook makes me violently ill.

Medical authorities call it Acute Facebook Fatigue, regardless of what WINZ says about it every time they reject my disability application.

Believe me. It’s the sickness talking, not me, when I say I’d rather drill a hole in my own teeth than pay a lick of attention to your Facebook feed.

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When I see a link posted on Facebook with a caption like, “you won’t believe what happens next” or “these seven pictures of plumber’s crack will restore your faith in humanity,” I feel used.

Stop manipulating me. Maybe I don’t want to have a happy birthday. Maybe I don’t want to know how many of the 100 best novels ever I’ve read.

I used to follow all those links, and I liked a lot of them, and made hilarious comments that, in retrospect, your link never deserved.

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Unfortunately, my particular syndrome attacks the part of the brain responsible for bullshit-tolerance.

The Fatigue forces me to ignore all your links, regardless of how I might actually feel about the content of those links.

Downtown Saturday

What makes me sickest of all are these stupid, self-promoting posts from bloggers, photo-mosaic “artists”, cat fanciers, atheists, and spreaders of Fukushima Godzilla scenarios.

These fucking people make me sick most of all. Who cares if you like to take photographs with your shitty android phone of places most people don’t really care about to look at?

It doesn’t get much more vain and desperate than an adult sharing badly taken photographs. If it were me, I’d only take photographs of my most recent bowel movement, describing the food that it once was, and what that food tasted like.

This would eliminate 33 percent of all facebook posts, while illustrating the ramifications of eating an entire Christmas cake, by yourself, with the refrigerator door open.

But, I have far too much dignity to stoop to such public self-absorption.

Make no mistake, if you post a picture of your leavings, you will be ignored most of all.

So, let’s start the New Year right, ok? Consider yourself ‘Liked’ until next December 31.

And don’t forget to Like and Share on Facebook.

Happy 2014.

[[First draft, no proofing, photos were taken in Parnell, Britomart, and Tairua, assembled in mosaic form.]]

A man, technically

Sometimes I wish I had a job.

I mean: a man’s job. Or a woman’s job.

Someone’s job. It doesn’t matter, as long as they let me have their job.

But only if it requires physical strength and good problem-solving ability.

It also should present a modicum of danger.

I’m thinking I’d like to be an “electrical contractor”.

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Look at all those cables and stuff, and that thing people use to climb places.

That’s the accoutrement of a man’s job. Or a woman’s. Doesn’t matter. If you’re an electrician in New Zealand, you’re a sparky.

“Sparky”. Typical. If there is a cutesie way to describe something, Kiwis will use it. You watch.

Here’s an example:

The arvo went pear-shaped when the sparky made his wees on a 10,000 volt power line. But she’ll be right, he had two bikkies for brekkie, and they were yum.

When Kiwis talk like that, I wonder why the other Commonwealth nations don’t slap New Zealand upside the head.

Then I hear Australians talk, and I remember the lingual bar for entry into the British Commonwealth is low, probably somewhere at the bottom of the Kermadec Trench.

Plus, Australians are assholes.

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Two things get in the way of me being a sparky.

I have no desire to urinate on live electric wires.

I also have no idea what any of the tools are called, or how to use them.

I’ve lost count how many times an implement ended up puncturing my colon because of my complete lack of tool skills.

I guess I’m just not a man’s man. I don’t know from tools. I hate sports.

Plus, men are assholes. A lot of what men do is just foreign to me.

Of course, regular readers will know me as a ladies man. But the man part is more of an honorarium than anything else.

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The most I can say is I’m a man, technically speaking.

Which means I’m going to have to work at being a man.

Especially in light of our new neighbors.

Nobody knows much about them, except they like to have sex a lot. This is public knowledge, I swear.

They leave their door open, and all their windows, and the woman is quite enthusiastic in the vocalization of her pleasure-taking.

Some days, it’s so loud, it sounds like a David Attenborough special on Bonobos, but with a classic porn soundtrack (our neighbors are always playing funk).

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Jacquie got the idea to take revenge.

We were the best qualified couple in the area to teach these newcomers how embarrassing it is to hear other people have sex.

The next time we did it, we left all the windows up, and the door open, and we amplified the noises we normally made.

It was a lot of fun, but how many times was I supposed to shout, “ow, not there; ow, not there,” to get the point across?

I wasn’t used to this sort of thing. Usually, I just bite my pillow.

Doesn’t matter because the exercise was lost on the neighbors. If anything, their romps got louder and more public.

First it was the laundry room, then it was by the rubbish bins, once inside their car, twice inside ours, and I even saw them do it in the queue while I was waiting to buy soda water at the shop.

To tell you the truth, I was starting to feel self-conscious. Was I performing my functions adequately as a man? Should I cry less or more during the act?

This was turning into a crisis.

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To make things worse, the new guy-neighbor started building furniture because they didn’t have anything for the apartment.

Every time I passed him working those tools, my penis retracted another centimeter into my pelvic region. Another two weeks and I’ll have a vagina.

This guy needed furniture, never picked up a tool in his life, went out and got everything he needed, and voila. He saw a problem, and fixed it, like a man.

It was clear that my status as alpha male of all Parnell was being challenged by this upstart.

I had to compete on his level, so I wracked my brain to come up with a DIY project of my own.

The first step was to identify something that needed fixing. What problems were there around the house that Jacquie has been complaining about for a while?

After much soul-searching I realized what needed to be fixed. Me.

I have been successful thus far in my five or six year sex-life to keep my man-pollen sequestered, far away and safe from the Death Star (ie., Jacquie’s egg sacks).

But the only way to full-proof against accidental contamination is to cut the essence off at its source.

So, I decided to give myself a vasectomy.

In retrospect, I probably should have thought twice before taking that old fashioned Kiwi “No. 8 wire” approach to major surgery.

Not because I actually went through with it. Jacquie made sure of that when she caught me naked in the bathroom with a 500-foot spool of No. 8 wire.

But more because I was so threatened by this guy, I told him on the spot, “Hey, big shot, you think you’re a man because you can build a shelf? I’m going to cut my own balls off. How do you like that, pansy?”

Well, I’m not sure what to do, because he made me promise to show him the results.

I’m going to have a lot of egg on my face when he sees close up that I’m still a man, right where it counts.

Flat-livin’ ain’t no Gummy Bear picnic

Our next-door neighbors are giant, anthropomorphized Gummy Bears.

Having Gummy Bears for neighbors is not what you’d expect.  They’re not playful or entertaining, as their varicolored luminescence suggests.

They don’t juggle, they don’t unicycle, and they most certainly do not shit bags of smaller Gummy Bears, as the landlord led me to believe they would.

Gummy Bears, in short, are just assholes.

Giant, anthropomorphized Gummy Bear assholes from England.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

Of course, Jacquie and I were happy to see the previous tenants leave.

They were a German-Kiwi couple, on the skids. The New Zealand-er tended to smash dishes and scream at the German every night.

I once thought it was because she was seriously bipolar, so I tended to avoid her.

Then I met her boyfriend: an over-disclosing, touchy-feely, Euro-dweeb.

We’d only known each other two minutes when he went into great detail about his moribund relationship with the Kiwi.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I just want to be loved. And she doesn’t want to give me any love. Is it too much to ask to be loved? I ask her to hug me. But she does not hug me.”

His sad story really moved me. All I wanted to do was smash plates over his head, and tell him to go fuck himself.

Obviously we were ready for new neighbors. Just not the ones we got.

Neighbor

Based on an actual photo.

I’ll never forget when the giant, anthropomorphized Gummy Bear couple took the place of the coo-coo and her deutsche-bag boyfriend.

When I saw them moving their stuff into the flat next door, I was like, Holy Shit! I didn’t know an acid flashback could be so realistic.

Or involve giant, anthropomorphized Gummy Bears.

The only thing about them that didn’t astonish me were their accents. Considering their brains consisted of corn syrup and rendered hooves, they could only be from Leicester.

Leicester gives Dayton, Ohio, a run for its money in the production of dumb, gelatinous people. That’s what makes England one the world’s leading manufacturer of ignorant, gelatinous people.

Arms-leicester

Nobody in the block of flats was surprised they came from Leicester.

But we tried to make them feel at home, anyway. We made sure to speak slowly so they could follow along whenever we need to talk. It was difficult, because you could not tell from their accents if they understood you or not.

So, we developed a system the Gummy Bears grasped immediately: one stomp was “yes”, two stomps “no”, and three stomps, “I don’t know, please clarify”. (Nine stomps was “call the police”.

In short, we all developed a rapport with the Gummy Bears, and we learned to tolerate their ways. When they cleaned and dried all their shoes in the communal laundry, thus destroying both driers, we laughed it off as just another Gummy Bear frolic. Nothing a contracted serviceman couldn’t fix.

Early this year, I noticed the male Gummy Bear enjoyed going without a shirt in his apartment, in the common areas, and at work.

Basically, male Gummy Bears see clothing as hindering the complete articulation of their limits, which, let’s face it, isn’t much to begin with.

Other neighbors complained, but I stood in solidarity with our new neighbor.

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I’m the kind of person who’ll give any Gummy-body the benefit of the doubt.

But, I have to say, the other neighbors were right. It got kind of sickening to see this vaguely formed mass of cottage cheese everywhere.

It was hard not to gag when he stopped you in the alley for a long conversation about work.

“Evry’fing a’right, mate?” he would say.

“Yeah, yeah,” I’d say. “All good.”

Immediately, he would launch into his latest work troubles.

His prattling gave me time to muse on the unsavory image of in full view of all our neighbors.

We must have been a revolting sight. A partially-clad, glob of middle-age neglect, pretending to care what a man with huge tits has to say about selling gym equipment.

Mm-hmmm

Needless to say, I haven’t gone partial bare-chested since that disgusting evening.

But the continued exposure to the Gummy Bear man’s bare chest has given me PTSD.

My dad had ample man-boobs, and growing up with three sisters, I was conditioned to hope for man boobs myself, one day.

Seeing the Gummy Bear man’s tits on a daily basis has made me realize I’m never going to be more than an A-cup, despite my lavishly sedentary lifestyle.

It made me a little sad to think I would never have a bigger chest than my sisters or my wife, let alone this Gummy Bear man. He has to be a D cup, at least.

I don’t want to do what it takes for a guy to be a D-cup. Last week, I saw the Gummy Bear in his kitchen window, his capacious bosom covered in what looked to be blood.

“Are you alright, man?” I said.

Gummy Bear stamped three times.

“You look like you’ve been stabbed in the chest,” I explained.

Gummy Bear laughed and lifted into view the 18 inch pizza he was currently masticating by himself, whole.

He offered me some, but I politely declined, ran inside and dry heaved over the litter box.

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There have been other shocking incidents: an unreturned iron, a “borrowed” laundry basket, damage to appliances from excessive sneaker-washing, the extended stay of a Gummy she-Bear émigré, laundry left in the machine for hours, and on and on.

Honestly, retarded people would make far better neighbors. At least they master the basics in their Independent Living classes. And they understand shared spaces require courtesy. They get it. Believe me, I used to commute with a lot of them when I lived in New Jersey. Come to think of it, they were all retarded, which could mean only two things. I was riding the short bus. Or I lived in New Jersey, which I’m pretty sure I did.

Anyway, Gummy Bears, with their rudimentary central nervous system, are only vaguely cognizant that other entities exist, let alone have anything to do with them. So forget courtesy, they have no sense of responsibility. There’s a strong case for them to be in an assisted living situation.

Yet, somehow, they still qualified to foster dogs.

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This went on for months. They got a new dog every other week. They frequently let the dogs off their leashes to shit all over the place. Thankfully, I always made sure I knew where to step.

Especially after I found out some of the shit belonged to the Gummy Bears (which is how I know they don’t shit bags of smaller gummy bears).

Toward the end of their fostering careers, they had a run-in with a neighbor I’m friends with. He owns an old cat, was freaked after being chased by a succession of unleashed demon dogs.

“So,” my neighbor said to the Gummy she-Bear, “could you please make sure the dog is on a leash?”

“Wot the fuckin’ bloo’y hell business is’t o’ yours, you fucking batty geezer,” said the bear. “‘on’t yooo tell mee oy cain’t wawlk me poor dawgs from etting your feckin cat anyway.”

So, now I know what the she-Bear does for a living.

She teaches English as a Second Language to mentally challenged 18th century pirates.

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Which brings me to what got me thinking about all this in the first place.

Last Tuesday, I witnessed the Gummy Bear mentality in its full splendor, and it isn’t just mindless obliviousness that animates them. It’s sheer stupidity.

The Gummy Bears had parked their car in a driveway belonging to the private house across from our flats.

The Gummy Bears were sad. They had to go to Ellerslie, but someone had parked a station wagon in front of the driveway.

Their car was blocked in. They waited 20 minutes for the other driver to return. But they only got sadder.

And they were in a hurry. So they decided to squeeze the car out through the narrow gap between the station wagon and the neighbor’s wood fence.

To their credit, the idiots managed to accomplish this, in a complex, 170-point maneuver comprised of loud, public bickering.

They were getting ready to drive up when one of the four renters living in the house came out to talk to them.

“Don’t ever park in our driveway again,” he said.

“Wot the fuckin’ bloo’y hell business is’t o’ yours, you fucking batty geezer,” said the bear. “‘on’t yooo tell mee oy cain’t park me poor Toyota Cellica in your feckin’ space; I’s ‘ave pre-mission from the owner.”

“There is no owner,” the renter screamed. “It’s just us.”

The Gummy Bears repeated their story to me, about having permission from the owner, that is was their right, that they were English.

Of course, that’s not what the people who live there told me.

“Frankly,” said one of the guys, “I never cared much for Gummy Bears in the first place.”

We are V’Ger

The spacecraft Voyager 1 has left the solar system.

So long, arsehole. Don’t let the door hit your dish on the way out.

It’s great that you had a nice 36-year tour of the solar system on the US taxpayers’ dime.

But if there’s any scientific fact I learned growing up from broadcast television movies, it’s that as soon as Voyager reaches interstellar space, the fucking aliens are going to be pissed.

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And they’re going to come, and they’re going to fuse with a bald chick, and they’re going to give us an ultimatum, like “Go back in time and save baleen whales from the Japanese, or we’ll destroy your planet, including all the remaining baleen whales.”

I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have sent a probe out. But did we have to give the aliens a fucking map?

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In case you’re not familiar with US history, or you’re not an American, the above image is from a disk mounted to Voyager 1.

What rocket scientist came up with the idea to invite the galaxy to kick our asses? Once the aliens see there are only two of us, and we have no clothes (let alone weapons), they’re going to be like, “Shit, why wouldn’t we kick their asses?” It’d be a walk in the park.

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Now that I think of it, the plaque above isn’t from Voyager 1. It’s from one of the Pioneer spacecraft, which is also leaving the system, but in a different direction.

So, basically, like a bunch of idiots, we’re putting the call out everywhere.

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I’m not sure what any of that shit means, but the concept must be the same. I understand that Voyager also carries a bunch of recordings, sounds of the earth, including bird songs, and the Bill Hick set where he tells the marketing guy in the audience to kill himself.

We don’t know what kind of alien is going to find our invitations, but after watching one season of Falling Skies, why would we take any chances?

I’d have to kill myself if I lived in a world executive produced by Steven Spielberg.

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In the first place, all Spielberg has done with Falling Skies is replaced zombies with aliens. The plot lines and dramatic conflicts and cheesy character dynamics are pretty much the same as Walking Dead. Which is bad enough, without having to watch Noah Wyle in a lead role.

Frankly, I’m tired of both the alien invasion and the zombie genres. So, I’m not a good person to ask honestly about this show. Why can’t anyone come up with a new genre? Like, what if the alien attack happened two weeks after the zombie outbreak. That would be cool because then everybody would be fighting one another, and making alliances and changing teams, and then there would be alien zombies, and that’s your show. There’s your show. I’d watch it.

And I’d be glad if there were a show like that. It would make sending those invitations to the universe worth it.

A personal milestone

Working freelance after a full time job takes time.

I’ve done a number of contract projects since being made redundant in July.

Ad copy writing, corporate gigs, research projects: they’ve all been very interesting, and I’m learning new things as I go, even about myself.

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A contract worker, for example, must hone his business skills, even if he is “creative” or “stupid”.

This fact dawned on me a few days ago when I realized that I’m just as equipped to manage my own business as the next guy, who at that moment was a Down Syndrome-dude selling pencils on Queen Street.

Add business to my growing “incompetence list”, right up there with being a techno-tard, fuck-tard, bastard and leotard.

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Business is just not my thing. So yesterday, I finally got my ass over to a professional. I went to see an accountant.

This was a huge milestone for me because on the way to my appointment, I stepped in dog shit.

It was the first time I stepped in dog shit in New Zealand. Not only that, but it was also the longest I’ve gone without stepping in dog shit, by far (363 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes and 17 seconds).

I’m not ashamed to say I cried. I stood there on Dominion Road, my Birkenstocks tread-deep in dog shit, overwhelmed by tears pride my accomplishment.

In case anyone didn’t know or you forgot, I’m New Yorker. Asshole.

And everyone in New York is constantly stepping in dog shit. You’re lucky if you don’t step in shit before getting out of bed in the morning.

It’s not unusual for subway commuters to get to work completely covered in all kinds of shit. This means they have to go back home to clean up and change clothes.

The braver ones sometimes go back to work, only to go through the cycle all over again. Usually, we just call in sick, but if you’re in a union, you might get some annual “covered in shit” paid-leave days.

It took a while to sort out the mess. I didn’t want to start off a professional relationship with my feet covered in shit.

So I shuffled through some twigs for a while, and used a snot-rag I had in my pocket to clean the shit from between my toes, as I happened to be wearing Birkenstocks.

The accountant showed me into a conference room after arriving at his office. He was really helpful in giving me advice about starting my business.

But even though I’d cleaned myself thoroughly, there was still a foul smell in the air, faint but persistent. It seemed possible I was imagining things.

Then the accountant started finding one excuse after another to leave the room. Kiwis would rather do that than to openly acknowledge a problem. So he kept interrupting himself from giving me advice, staying away longer and longer.

The last time he was gone the longest, maybe three minutes, and when he sat down again I could see a bit of whatever he’d had for lunch on his now-stained tie.  (It sucks when you think you’ll make it to the toilet in time, but don’t.)

Then he asked me to leave and if I could show myself out.

Which I thought was a little on the unprofessional side. If he’d only asked, I could have told him about my milestone. But when I got home, I realized it wasn’t the dog shit I was smelling, but the natural odor of my feet. In which case, sorry, Mr Accountant. My bad.

<<first draft. Not proofed. No SEO. Heading out the door.>>

Insensitive advertising makes me feel like crap

This advertisement just came up on Facebook

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Superior Farms Pet Provisions should be ashamed of itself.

This ad makes me feel terrible. Look at the dog in that picture. He obviously has a better life than me, and it looks like he earns a lot more money, too.

His name is Jumpy. He likes the outdoors, water sports, and shitting on the neighbor’s lawn. In other words, he is living the life that I’ve always wanted for myself.

Thanks for taunting me Superior Farms Pet Provisions NZ. You think I’m going to buy something for my cat from you in my currently tenuous economic condition?

Vince doesn’t need gold teeth that spell THUG in diamond studs, which I imagine is the kind of thing you’d try to sell a cat.

It’s just not going to happen. Not when you instantly make your target market (me) feel shitty about their lives. I’m sure we’d all love to drop what we’re doing, head off to the beach, and water ski on all-fours and shit on somebody’s beach towel.

Some of us don’t have the time. We have too many responsibilities. We are obligated to our families, and our employers. Well, you are. I’m unemployed. If you have a job, sucks to be you.

And as for family? Jacquie counts on me. If something ever needs fixing or cleaning, I’ll get around to it eventually. Because that’s what love is. It’s anticipating what your other half wants or needs, and paying lip service to doing something about it.

The secret to a strong marriage is, if you make it look like you care what color the bedroom wall is, you’re doing fine.

Better than me, anyway.

Thanks to Superior Farms Pet Provisions NZ, I have to sit down, think about where my life is going, and drag my ass across the carpet a few times because it itches and I haven’t been wormed in weeks.

And give my regards to Jerky.

Heteros must stand firm against gays

New Zealand parliament the other night legalized same-sex marriage. It made news all over the world.

But it’s nothing to celebrate. It is just the latest in a series of moral outrages eroding our finest traditions.

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First, they came for our alchemy. But I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know how to change lead into gold.

Then, they came for our leeching. But I stood by, silently praying they would at least allow Doktor Schnabel von Rom to finish draining my Choler.

Now, the government has come for my marriage license. And there’s nobody to speak up for me here on Basement Life, the most popular blog on the Internet.

Somewhere on this flat Earth, someone must still have their god-given sense about them. But they don’t live anywhere near New Zealand. (For my friends back home, New Zealand is the country on the part of the map where it says “Thar be Dragons”).

We are surrounded

In New Zealand, ever since Jesus walked the Holy Land, perpetually surrounded by 12 loosely garbed young men, their tawny skin glistening in the desert sun, The Gays have been busily pressing their agenda against our tight-fitting jeans. At first, we heteros didn’t mind helping a fellow out.

That’s why we gave The Gays the fashion and design industries. It’s why we invented softball teams for the women, and all-male choirs for the other women. We even conceded K Road, and just to be nice, we threw in an annual parade.

You’d think if any group of people in the world could be pimped with a parade, it would have to be The Gays. But no. Parades just weren’t enough for these ingrates. They wanted more. More, more, more, more. It just goes to show the old adage is true. Give them an inch, they take another seven inches.

Art is gay artists are gay my kid can do that

How long must we heteros endure this persecution?  How long must we remain silent, cowering in one another’s man-caves, watching the rugby, rising in our seats as the beastly rivals grasp, and grab, and hold just to get their hands on a big ball? We heteros will not hide.

We will remind you that marriage is a timeless, static, god-ordained covenant between three people: a man, a woman, and God. Or five, if you count the divorce attorneys.

The Gays' dominance over the heteros

Oh, you will hear people say that for most of human history, marriage was a financial, political or community power sharing arrangement among sub-groups with vested interests in particular matches. These same people will also claim that the bride and groom had no say in the matter until modern times. They will say, ‘If marriage is a divine institution, and god is the same today, yesterday and forever, then why has the institution changed so dramatically in time and is so disparate by geography?’ They will say god at one time ordained polygamy, commanded a rapist to pay his victim’s father and to marry her, if she weren’t betrothed (which, by the way, isn’t in any Deuteronomy 22 of any bible I’ve ever read). 

Sodom and Gomorrah

Recently, I had a conversation just like this with one of these acrimonious atheist know-it-alls you meet sometimes, but you still love them even though they’re going to hell which is fine by me. Frankly, I’d only just met this man when we struck up a conversation waiting for a recent parade to begin. I could tell right away why he was an atheist. He was angry at god. It’s the same old story. You would never have to meet an atheist, let alone hear their reasons for their atheism, to know that. It’s just obvious.

finally a picture i can understand

Anyway, this atheist and I really had it out. Pretty soon it got really heated. We were both highly excited, barely able to catch our breath or to see each other in the dimness of the alleyway, as we exchanged blows. As our engagement reached its climax, the Atheist pulled a fast one.

the empty tomb that is your head for reason

‘Explain this to me,’ he said. ‘Your bible says it’s an abomination for a man to lie with a man. And that’s part of why you think you and I, let’s say, should never be allowed the sacrament of marriage?’

I agreed, seeing his logical trickery from a mile away.

“And yet, just a few verses above that, it says it is an abomination for a man to look at a menstruating woman.”

“Well, who wants to look at that,” I said. “Even when it isn’t her time of the month, my wife’s makes me a little queasy.”

“OK, but, have you taken any steps to ensure that other people do not look upon a menstruating woman.”

“Of course not.”

“Then under that logic, why the fuck would you bother telling me that you and I couldn’t marry? How is that even logical?”

“Because,” I said, basking in the glow of our denouement, “you’re using man’s logic. I follow god’s logic.”

With that, my atheist friend silently walked away, sighing.

But not before I gave him my phone number in case he wanted to debate some more.

Temptation in the desert

(Note to self: Google ‘Leviticus’. Sounds like one of the books in the Catholic Apocrypha.)

A fate worse than walking your cat

A blogger risks his career, everything he’s worked his whole life for, when he begins to exploit his cat for new material.

His beautiful, luxurious and intellectually superior cat.

Money shot 666

What I’m saying is, posting shit like that places me squarely in the borderlands of the crazy-old-loner-guy from the creepy house down the street. Or from Apartment 16F, for you high-density urbanites reading. People, as a general rule, don’t like crazy-old-loner-guy. And that makes me sad. I’ve always known that one day I would become that guy. But I never dreamed it would happen before August. 

You don’t notice how quickly it ages you to post cat pictures and videos, until it’s too late. Suddenly, people stop visiting your blog. I got an email from my mom asking me how I was, and if I could somehow prevent Basement Life from reaching her computer.

The stats give testimony to the fact that my blog has become disconnected from its core audiences. According to WordPress analytics, those would be “depressed insomniacs” and “cats/infants messing around with the keyboard”.

In the past month alone, my daily average page-views total has plummeted a shocking 50 percent, from three to 1.5 now.  Which is about the same time I switched to the 24×7 cat programming format, when I started posting shit like this:

The problem, as you can see, extends well into the physical universe. The video was shot on the afternoon of Waitangi Day, a holiday in honor of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi between Queen Victoria and many Iwis. It was the beginning of New Zealand. It was an important time for national reflection. And I used my time off work to shoot moronic video of my cat.

The shame. It piles up on me like so many dust bunnies regurgitated by your cat. Not only had the neighbors caught me surveilling Vince on video—a fate worse than being spotted by strangers with Vince on a lead—but then I gotta go post the video to YouTube, add tags, give it a title, and push the link on Twitter and Facebook. What kind of sick, pathetic person would go and do such a thing? The old creepy guy in apartment 16F, that’s whom. Think Gary Busey.

I have several good excuses for what I will call my ‘changing’. In the first place, it’s not my fault. I’m under the influence of a creature who has a far higher brain-to-body mass ratio than Jacquie’s and mine put together. Obviously, having more brain weight available for complex cognitive tasks always implies telepathic influence and control of others. Vince is fucking with our heads, man. Making us do things. Not any kind of inappropriate licking, mind you, just little things like making us open doors, feed him, and stabourselves in the eye with a fork while we’re trying to finish our dinner in peace. That sort of thing.

But I think I’ve turned into Gary Busey for a much more obvious reason. He’s so cute, I don’t mind damaging my sensitive tissue and organs with cutlery. Let alone, to post things like this next one.

To tell you the truth, I wanted to write something else today. About how I’d been in bed for most of the last six days because of an infection in my groin. But as much as I desire to be pitied, don’t feel bad for me because I’ve been sick. Feel bad for me because I’ve turned into an even bigger dork than you could ever imagine.

The Sixty-Second Promo

Just a few announcement to make. Listen up.

First, I want to say thanks to everyone who participated in my recent poll. I have no idea what the results are, but I’m sure your opinion still counts for something. To someone. Somewhere. Whatever. I myself voted three times. For ‘Cookie’. Which seemed to be the most logical option, really.

Alright. Next up is for those of you in the Auckland area. There is a show coming up at the Bath Street Gallery that everyone who likes painting should see. It promises to be very interesting. I will be attending the opening on Thursday, and posting about it shortly thereafter. The show looks promising on its own merit, but it also will make a great lead in to a discussion about the exhibition coming down on Tuesday.

One more item. We got a new kitten. He’s a six month old Maine Coon and his name is Vincent, but sometimes goes by Vince, or even just ‘meep’. In an upcoming post, I will be going more into his interesting story, his ideas about cat nip and the advantages of licking oneself over a shower, which in his imagination is far less hygienic. Somehow, I will tie this subject in with my recent, toxic exposure to popular culture, and why Madonna is worse than Whitney Houston, despite their music being equally unlistenable.

Lastly, does anyone object to me changing the name of this blog to BasemeNZlife.com?

All that, and more, in the next few weeks of Basement Life.

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