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.

Paper Thin Wafers

It had dawned on me the other day that my life has been a lie. Well, not so much a lie as it is an egregiously detailed and complicated paper-thin construct of sheer pretentiousness and imagined depth and dimensions. It's as if I found out that I was actually a robot all along, and all my emotions, memories, and experiences were simply programmed into me. This, my friends, is what they call, the moment of truth.

People like to think that they're sophisticated, deep, and unique but the truth of the matter is, we're closer to being cardboard cutouts than we are to such great literary characters like Blondie or Jules Winnfield. We have to shed our masks and see ourselves as we really are. Nobodies. You have to ask yourself, why does your existence matter? Why should we care about you? This is the fundamental question that most people fail to ask themselves. The number of cagey, antsy, and clueless people out there is staggering, there's no shortage of dummies in this world. Even if we're paper thin constructions, at the very least, we can be useful paper thin constructions. Is a robot still not valued by his contribution to society, regardless of whatever prattling memories were inserted into his memory banks?

The basic goal of every college student after graduating is either to a: get a job or b: get into school. I tend to think of it as a: start your life or b: stay in school. There's something oddly comfortable about being sheltered by the educational system. Classes are orderly, and it gives clear objectives to be completed, but getting a job? Being expected to be an active contributing member of society? That's scary! This is where most people flounder. What separates your wafer thin ass from the hundreds of thousands of other similarly vanilla colored thin wafers? At first glance, you all look thin, fragile, and simply put, the same.

College graduates have been deluded into thinking that more is better. As if increasing the thickness of your wafer can actually make you stand out among the throngs. It's not about doing more than the other guy, it's about being different. Nobody cares if you got substance if they don't give you a glance to begin with. The key to solving this problem? Coloring. You have to make yourself a different color. Everybody packs their resume in beige. Don't be a follower and commit that cardinal sin of conforming to standards. Screw the standard resume format, put the things you find valuable about yourself on that piece of paper, not what you think employers might find valuable. The difference between graduate a and graduate b is all a difference in perception and branding. A resume is not the be-all end-all summary of your available skills and capabilities, take the initiative to brand yourself as something more than your accomplishments. I want to know your ambition, I want to know how you're going to change the people around you, how you can fucking change the world boy-o.

This world has got enough automatons. We need real robots. The rogue kind, the kind that gets shit done. I'm talking terminator, not weaksauce i-robots. You have to ask yourself: what do I offer? If you can find that answer, and emphasize it in every meeting, and in every interview that you do, then you're well on your way to killing John Connor.

Soul Mate

"Do you believe in the idea of a soul mate?"

No. No I do not. The idea is completely and utterly ridiculous. What was it again? That there is a single individual out there who completes you in every way possible? The perfect complement, the yin to your yang? The other half of your soul? Please don't make me laugh. The idea of a soul mate isn't just stupid, it's obvious. The statistical probability that there is someone out there from the 6 billion people on this earth that makes a perfect match for you is extremely high. Of course that person exists, so the central question is, can you find them? No. It's impossible. Unless there's some key formula, some ground-breaking algorithm that can find you your perfect soul mate, the dream of finding that special someone should remain in the pipe from whence it came from. Is this a cynical view of the world of love? I don't think so.

If you reject the premise of the soul mate, what are we left with instead? Options. That's the key, having the option. Instead of looking for that one ever elusive individual, the ephemeral fairy queen (or king if that's your scene) forever hidden amongst the forest sprites, you will never learn to see past the trees for the forest. I'm not saying that you should settle, but you should look for people for who they really are. Relationships aren't sanguine ships, they're gritty duels and fights to the death. Each victory and loss is as rewarding as the game itself.

One of my favorite songs of all time comes from The Rolling Stones, and it's called "You Can't Always Get What You Want." I love it because it's a simple but universal truth. The chorus doesn't stop there though, it adds a little extra, "but if you try sometimes, well you just might find, you get what neeed." Few creatures are as dumb as humans when it comes to identifying what it is we really need. Animals fucking maul each other for mates, food, and territory -- such a simple life does not extend to us complicated humans. Beneath the veneer of culture, expectations, ideals, and all the garbage that we've collected throughout life, the truth is, we are fucking clueless.

The soul mate is a convenient concept that our brain grasp onto in our attempts to justify our woefully inadequate state of existence. Don't give into the temptation. Don't sit your ass down, waiting for that special someone to come into your life and sweep you off your feet because it will never happen. Then what to do? What is it that we can do if we can't hold on to soul mates? It's easy, you try.

Transience

There's no point in having an attachment to your homeland. "My father lived and died here, and his father lived and died here, and his father etc..." Such a sentiment is increasingly becoming irrelevant in the face of globalization. Not only that, but such fervent nationalization can only lead to one thing: war. 80% of all conflict can be attributed to plain and simple greed, and the remaining 20% is due to pride. Funny how two of the seven deadly sins has lead to so many deaths throughout the history of history.

Ethnocentrism is an outdated notion, the sheer audacity to hold your own culture superior to all others is the first step to having your entire existence summed and reduced to a curious Wikipedia entry. People try too hard nowadays. The lines between "nation" and "country" are getting blurred each and every day. Sooner or later, it won't matter where you live or where you die because everywhere is everywhere.

I don't profess great faith in the US nor do I profess great disdain because to be honest, everything looks the same. The idea of tying myself down to something as grounded as "property" just isn't all that appealing. In the words of Solid Snake, "I'm nomad too." Perhaps I'll change my tune as soon as I get a family of my own, but the American dream of owning a home is as foreign to me as the countries I want to visit one day. I think a life as a globe-trotting writer sounds like an awesome and incredible experience, certainly much more attractive then getting some paltry two-story home out in suburbia. There's no need to limit yourself, there's a reason why "right to property" was replaced with "pursuit of happiness."

They say that true nationalism is holding no punches when it comes to criticizing your government, and America isn't afraid to express their discontent in the most vocal and irritating manner possible. People trumpet the same horn, "this country is going to shit," yet they comfortably whine without making an effort to do anything to, you know, actually change it. "It's impossible to change," "it's too entrenched," excuses excuses. Maybe you're right, or maybe you're wrong, but your lack of any ambition doesn't impress me, and the free reign you have in venting out your frustration at a country you perceive to be going down in flames is an outright luxury compared to most other places where your head gets chopped off, no questions asked.

America is a nation of whiners, hell, the nation was founded on the principle of whining. We want to whine, we love to whine, we whine our way to freedom, but at some point, there's comes a time where whining has to turn into action. If you think the country is going down the shitter, then fucking do something about it yourself. Change doesn't come from whining, it comes from ambition, from aspiration, it comes from the single-minded dogmatic fervent dream that tomorrow can and will be better than today. So stop whining and do something.

Perhaps you're thinking, "well what the fuck are you doing then?" That's easy: I'm not whining.

DinYomo Inc.

Apple. Microsoft. Nike. Coke. Nintendo. All sterling brand names, names that instantly inspire images, the kinds of images that marketing execs cackle in the limelight for. The very presence of the brand name suggest a conveyor belt, a constant feed of merchandising and market-speak straight into your cranium. It's impossible to escape from and it's impossible to separate reality from the reality these brands create.

Is it so strange, then, that I should want to put my own creation on that list of instantly recognizable brands? I have a dream, and that is to be creator of one of the most recognizable brand names in the world, and I'll call it "DinYomo." I think DinYomo has the potential to be the next "Google," a new and upcoming company that achieves massive success. It has a nice ring to it doesn't it? What kind of products would DinYomo deliver? A little bit of everything, it doesn't matter what the product is because what DinYomo promises is so much more than a simple product. Brands are successful not because of the products, but because of the meaning behind the brand.

Coke offers a sense of classic timelessness, Nintendo promises fun and innovation, and Apple inspires the free spirit in all of us. I want DinYomo to be more than just a series of syllables, I want it to send you a message, a message that only DinYomo can deliver. DinYomo is a promise of a better tomorrow, a better future, a better world. DinYomo isn't about what you can do, it's about what you're supposed to do. Failure to adhere to the principles of DinYomo would be a failure to adhere to the principles of life, that's how important my message is. I want DinYomo to leave people absolutely speechless and breathless all at the same time. When they see DinYomo, I want their words to be stuck in their throat, their mind numb at having DinYomo thrust into their faces. It will be a revelation, an explosion of epiphanies, where the truth of the world spells itself out on the shocked expressions of every spectator. The plain white truth shall never taste as sweet as DinYomo.

I want to beat you over the head with it, I want to stress how much of a slap in the face DinYomo will be. It may be uncomfortable at first, letting a brand penetrate your life, to become a guiding principle, but many people have already done this. Just ask the Apple diehards, Macs are for free spirits aren't they? Think about how conditioned we are to drink a refreshing sip of coke along with our burger. How often do we get that tingling sensation when we hear the log-in jingle for our electronics? I want DinYomo to give you that same tingle whenever the words "DinYomo" rolls off your tongue.

Mark my words, DinYomo will be huge, massive even. What it promises is so big, you might not be able to comprehend it at the time, but with enough force, you will see the light. It will fit. It will all make sense. What is DinYomo? It's a shortened form of an expression that I say routinely in intense sessions of Battlefield Bad Company 2: Dick. In yo mouth.