Class Distinctions

Which would you prefer? If somebody said to you, "You're stupid," or if somebody said to you, "You got no class." I think the answer is pretty simple:


There's just something about the word "class" that provokes knee-jerk reactions from even the most level-headed cucumber. Typical insults like "idiot" and "stupid" have pretty much lost their bite through overuse and juvenile association. Anybody who's stupid enough to call anybody else stupid is...well, stupid--like what are you, ten years old? Grow up.

So what are the insults of choice for adults? Douchebag, dick, asshole, and motherfucker are common enough, which by default, makes them exceedingly vulgar. Cool cucumbers can brush off layman insults simply because its beneath them. So how do you get under the skin of Mr. Freeze?

Calling out their family members is one way. For some reason, everybody sees blood when their mom is insulted. Family in general is hallowed ground, but because its hallowed, it's a pretty desperate attempt to undermine someone's cool exterior. Besides, it's a grade-A dick move, you get no respect from anybody for doing so.

So the last resort really, is to say to them, "You got no class."

Holy shit. Did you just say I have no class? Fuck you.

What differentiates a straight up insult like "You asshole" to a seemingly innocuous observation of "You got no class" is precisely just that: it's an observation. It's one thing to call a spade a dick, but it's a whole 'nother story when you're calling a spade, a spade.

For the most part, the "no class" insult isn't all that common, so when it does come out, most people get blindsided by it. They are ill-equipped to handle such an insult since they've never encountered it before. They don't have the counter-strategies, and in their attempt to come up with one on the spot, they sputter and manage to make themselves look like idiots in the process. The thing about being called out for having no class is that its a fundamental evaluation on your being as a human being.

It pretty much goes back to old-school society. They're basically calling you a peasant, a peon, a lower-class citizen. You is in the lower-echelon of humanity my friend.

Fuck you, I totally have class.

Or do I?

What does it even mean to have class? Does it mean being honest? Being nice? Grateful? Never saying a bad thing about anybody?

Face it people, we are all classless to an extent. Every time you make a joke that mocks misogyny and racism, that's not very classy. Every time you revel in the failures of the people you absolutely despise, that's not very classy. The long list of things that make us unclassy is exceedingly long compared to the things that do make you classy. But the thing is, the unclassy list is the same as the being human list.

Few people are class all the way. There's always a bit of classless in all of us. It's what it means to be human. So the next time somebody says to you, "You got no class," just smile and ignore the hypocrite.

He's a classless fuck anyways.

Fat Boggles

As my eyes gazed upon another human boulder rolling along campus, my brain can only think: how? The phenomenon of "fat" simply boggles the mind. Or perhaps its more accurate to say that fat jiggles the behind. Whatever undulating motion those waves of flesh finds themselves in, the concept of fat forever remains elusive to me. I can't imagine being fat. Never mind that I was a slightly pudgy kid.

It's such a foreign concept to me. How does one become fat? My appetite is so weak, and my genes so lean, that I don't think I can ever eat more than a mini-sized bag of Doritos. Those who continue to wolf down bite after bite after a full course meal have my respect. Mad respect. Just the idea of having that much weight to carry around me...how do they even get around? What does that do for flexibility? I may not reach my toes, but I can at least see them.

I remember for one of my club outings, we went to a Korean BBQ place after a tiring day of fun at Six Flags. The food was legitimate. It was good stuff, absolutely delicious. But I know my limits, and even though the food kept coming, I stopped. But that didn't deter the female members of my group, who persisted in their efforts to ravenously consume all they could eat. Vultures. Unabashed vultures. The lot of them.

There's probably a threshold, a line where once you cross it, you just go "fuck it." I think most of these people found themselves over the threshold before they realized that there was a threshold. To be honest, it's insulting. Years of natural selection and the final result in the evolution of man is ball. Gluttonous human fat ball. Our first invention was the wheel, now we have become it.

I hardly think that we scraped and fought our way to the top of the food chain only to be rolled off the top to pave way for our new alien overlords. Obesity is a serious issue. Diabetes and all that jazz. Somebody's gotta fight the fat.

Fight the fat.

Screwed

Don't give me daylight if there's going to be a solar eclipse five minutes later. Don't give me hope if you're only going to disappoint me in the end.

Journalism is such a haphazard occupation. You really don't know whether you've hit the jackpot or if you're being bamboozled. So much of your livelihood hinges on the whims of your subject. If they clam up and start making you sweat bullets, there's no turning back. And what you're left with is pieces that you try to stitch together to make somewhat of a coherent story.

Not a very fun experience. I don't know where I read it, but I hear journalists rank very low in the realm of prestigious occupations. Guess we really haven't recovered from all the muckraking back in the 20th century. Hell, I still wouldn't trust any of today's journalists, especially when twitter and blogs have increasingly become the face of "journalism."

It's certainly a very special feeling. Feels quite like death. You deny, hope it isn't true, but in your heart, you've already accepted it. The feeling of being screwed over. Royally. I'm left in a situation that can only be described as "fucked." But I'm a scrambler. Somehow, I could pull shiny nuggets of gold from the deepest and darkest pits of despair.

There's a simmering rage in my heart. Being screwed over isn't a pleasant experience. It sucks. It sucks balls. Huge hairy balls. I don't explode. Usually I can think myself in circles long enough to blunt the impact. Blunting can only do so much. I guess this is where the magic happens. Crunch time and pressure. How well can you operate with the weight of the world on your shoulders? This is the time for action, quick-thinking and solutions, not lamentations, moaning, and wailing. We are in the business of doing things, doing good things, and doing things good (well).

When it comes to reporting, you always gotta strike a delicate balance. If you're not in their grill, its easy for them to brush you off. Reporting over the internet is an enterprise that nobody should bother with. No verification, no consistency, we're not even in the same timezones. I'm so pissed that I question my ability to report. Only one interview, granted, it was like a four-hour interview but c'mon! We all know reporting takes more than four hours! While I'm besieged by the ghosts of stress, my subject is off dawdling over whatever the hell. I'm sitting with my thumbs up my ass waiting for a response that never comes.

Could I blame her? Do I appear like a stalker dressed up as student reporter trying to learn the ropes of my profession? The most futile endeavor is trying to convince somebody something that they believe without question to be false (insert joke about religion here). I don't think many people have the experience of trying to explain that they are not weirdos and stalkers but the sad reality is, to be an effective reporter, you got to crank up the stalker skills and amp the weirdo factor. Only curious mofos get all the info.

So while I'm off in a mad dash to concoct something that isn't entirely false, she's probably wiping her brow and patting herself on the back for successfully eluding an online rapist. I only need to talk to her one more time, preferably before the end of the next week (deadline and all that). Is it seriously too much to ask for just one miserable little response, just to make sure she wasn't all in my head? Just one fucking interview and then we can all get on with our lives.

By the grace of all that is divine, I hope that I pull this one out. Alternatively, if I don't, then I hope karma will screw her -- in the most painful way possible please.