Just let me sleep, damn it

Apparently forgot to post this flash of genius so enjoy...

As a super cultured higher being, I attend the theatre as often as possible. Considering my brain is always working overtime, the suspension of disbelief is a welcome change from making world domination decisions. (If you watched the debate last night, what a 100% shit show the world is.)

There seems to be this new and disturbing trend in the theater wherein the audience is called to participate. Initially I was on the fence about interactive theater. Hell, some of these unwashed masses may have skills; let's see what you can do, dummies.

But not surprisingly, people disappoint when called upon to not act like animals.

Case in point, two interactive theater performances I recently attended focused on one of my favorite activities: sleeping. The performances in question:

Sleep No More at the McKittrick Hotel
Never Sleep Alone at Joe's Pub

Both required the audience wear a mask either during the entire performance or a portion thereof. This in itself is revealing. Hide your telltale stupefied faces, unwashed masses. (P.S. No one looks good in a mask. Ever. This is why Halloween should be banned forever.)

SNM I was on board with almost the whole time. A wordless Macbeth in a former hotel requires the participant to explore various floors, observe, inspect objects and papers, and follow one of the players who interpret Shakespeare through dance. The dancers, I wholly commend for their ability to totally block out all the idiots in masks surrounding them, running after them, and generally cramping their space. Yes, it's true, even in the context of theater, people will act like animals if given the chance. I very well could have been stampeded by those following Lady Macbeth.

Remember that episode of Bernie Mac's show where he had to coach the peewee soccer team? He advised those tiny people that to win, you must not bunch.  No bunching! The kids botched it in that episode. And not surprisingly, adults botch the no-bunching rule as well. Bernie Mac was ahead of his time.

Now this NSA was a real thrill-a-diller. Singles are bunched together (I know, Bernie. I know.) in small tables and forced to do as the hostess/emcee/aggro female sex therapist commands. First of all, no one tells me what to do. So we have a real problem in the first five minutes of this show. The hostess then precedes to select random singles and demand they makeout, take off shirt, sit on lap, simulate oral sex with a watermelon -- in the lap of a strange girl.

When asked to act like animals, people will. It goes without saying that I was horrified. I try not to mix among you too often and clearly this is why. Thankfully I was not called upon to participate because I can assure you, it would have ended badly for someone who is not me.

So all this interaction has me wondering what the hell you have against sleep/sleeping/sleeping alone? I, for one, love sleeping. When I'm tired of being awake, I can nod off just about anywhere. Cars, planes, waiting rooms, hairdresser's. You name it, I can sleep there. It's part of my super power. To shut down, naturally, on command.

Seriously, you should try it. Turn it off, people. You're not doing anyone any favors staying awake. And damn it, stop bunching.

Pain in my assets

My last entry was on my best asset: my powerful brain. The following will cover my second best asset: my awesome ass.

How can you describe a rear of such import? One doctor commented, "You're pretty bony back there." followed by "not much meat." Don't be fooled though. I have just enough pounds of flesh and not an ounce more.

Why bother with all this detail? Well normally, I reserve the viewing of my ass for a highly select few. Unlike Chinese tots whose pants have cutouts in the seat so they may poop at will (See image.), I cover my backside with normal pants.

Yes, the above is disturbing. Try to keep it together. 

Anyway, I've been having pain in my lower back and down my very attractive left leg. Self-diagnosis revealed my spine was unhappy with the recent uptick in activity. Fuck you, spine. Who told you to disobey the powerful brain? Self-diagnosis also revealed I may have pinched a nerve. Whatever. Shut up, body. 

So I went to the doctor several times to address the pain. On a whim, I decided to get an epidural yesterday. (Cross that off the bucket list! And, I didn't even have to shoot out a kid.) 

Yeah, you read that right, epidural. This is the momma of all needles and injections. Pregnant women get it because they're champions of pain and can pretty much handle anything pre-birthing. Well, I've proved myself just as strong (surprise, surprise.)

Let me set the scene. Young, bearded, attractive physician assistant (PA) and whatever middle-age doctor prepare the injection. I lay down on my stomach with a gown open in the back. 

My interior monologue: "Oh, you're going to pull down my underwear now? Great. Oh yeah, thanks for that sheet around my upper legs -- it really does the trick."

PA now begins to prepare the injection site, for all intents and purposes, my ass, with iodine. 

Interior monologue: "Hi, my name is Shiny Penny. I usually don't show my assets to people I've only known for 15 minutes so please consider this a rare gift. You're welcome."

Doctor inserts first needle to numb the area. Why does the numbing needle hurt exactly? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Way to go, science. 

Now comes the big one. I didn't catch a glimpse of this 18 foot needle which was inserted directly into my spine at the tip. I can tell you that it hurt as much as I thought it would. During said injection,

Doctor: "You okay?"
Me: "Sure. Dynamite. Never been better. Can't imagine anywhere I'd rather be."
Doctor: "So, what do you do for a living?"

Really? We're going to have small talk around my bare butt?

Me: "I'm conquering the world."
PA: "I have a buddy who does that too."

Whatever. Losing points PA.

Doctor: "We could use someone like that here. No one's creative enough."
Me: Silence. 

This lasted all of 10 minutes but it felt like an eternity. My upper legs and butt were numb for a good hour, which is really strange and not as awesome as you'd think. 

We'll see what wonders unfold 24 hours post epidural. I'll be flying by the seat of my pants on the follow-up course of action but I'll be sure to keep you posted on the backend. 

Pain in the brain a.k.a. brain pains

Many a child and adult alike have bitched at some point in time about "growing pains." From the physical pain of growing into your legs, nose, chin, ego, etc., to growing accustomed to a new city, job, home, relationship, you really know how to make a mountain out of a mole hill. Babies. Those pains are ridiculous. 

Brain pains are another story entirely. Some would call this a headache or its more evil cousin, the migraine. The debilitating stab in the temple, aversion to light, nausea at the smell of Subway sandwiches – all are symptoms of the head storm. My particular migraines are the result of actual growing pains. My brain is always actively expanding and it hurts, damn it.

I know you can’t possibly wrap your head around this so let me really dumb it on down. My brain needs more space due to all the awesome knowledge contained therein. Imagine one of those IBM server farms with the rows and rows of gigantic black servers. My brain has double the knowledge and .00000001% of the space. You’d have a headache too.

I tried to sleep it off.

Brain won.

I tried to drug it out.

Brain won.

I tried to distract myself with menial tasks.

Brain laughed quietly to itself.

I should invent a brain goiter to take some of the pressure off. Like a side brain or a porch for my frontal lobe. A quick Google search revealed a band named GOITER with a song entitled “Brain Expulsion.” I doubt they have expertise in brain add-ons. 

You know what I hate most about brain pains? When people ask, "Why do you have a headache?" Often I answer, "Because of all your dumb questions, you dumb dummy. Now beat it."

So that's the situation with my brain. It's a real pain.

What you missed while I was somewhere awesome

I've been away. Out of the country. Pushing my superior body to its limits, in high altitudes, unfriendly terrain, outdoor residences, foreign cuisines and tongues. Most of you unwashed masses barely dip a big toe in another culture  if and when you travel farther than the Olive Garden. Good job.  

I dove deep into the belly of a country of small tan people to uncover their secrets and secret trails. It was a journey not without misfortune and mishaps. Don't think I didn't notice your attempts to slow me down by misplacing my contact lens -- while it was in my eye; by pushing your altitude sickness upon me with its all-consuming headache, nausea, and shortness of breath; making my fingers numb for 20-minute periods; and of course the "accident" of my sprained ankle. I'm onto you small tan people. You're small but not that crafty. Well, actually, you're very crafty as the many craft tables with your crafts proved and your constant soliciting of buyers for these crafts, but not in the crafty underhanded way.

Journeys like these often lend themselves to self-examination as if the self (meaning you) was that interesting to begin with to require investigation. Lest you confuse yourselves, see Olive Garden comment in first paragraph. I, on the other hand, being of superior mind and body as stated earlier, generated several brilliant ideas and observations while in the jungle and the unwelcoming environs aforementioned.

INSPIRED IDEAS AND BRILLIANT OBSERVATIONS OBTAINED OUT OF COUNTRY, SOMETIMES WHILE IN THE JUNGLE

-- Toilet paper and flushing are underrated. More surprisingly, toilet paper was not invented by the Japanese, but the Chinese! Horrors! American Seth Wheeler put it on a roll in 1877.

-- You can in fact make a delicious cake in the jungle, without an oven.

-- Walking down 3,000 steps with a sprained ankle is a real bitch.

-- Whoever is engineering knees these days has really fallen down on the job. Way to go, humans.

-- Hiking is not a race, even though you really want to beat the family with small children to the campsite.

-- It's not the speed of your hike that matters, but the time spent -- the more, the better -- on the trail.

-- Panic attacks and altitude sickness are often confused for each other.

-- Guinea pigs produce milk. (Shocking.) You can make cheese from this milk. Small people are best equipped to coerce this milk from guinea pigs.

-- Tents are made for short people, an injustice I will rectify for those of us over five feet in height. Look out for a missive from my new nonprofit TENTS FOR TALLS.

-- It's best to remain in disguise throughout your trek and even "assume some outward physical weakness" to gain favor and greater access to knowledge. People can't help but divulge information to the weaks and the sicks and the frails.

There are countless others I could tack onto this abbreviated list. It's funny how journeys outside your comfort zone and time zone can really change you, readjust the old priorities. In addition to my regular world domination to-do, I'm adding this new, totally selfless and possibly time-consuming cause: my nonprofit TENTS FOR TALLS. I won't rest until this evil perpetrated by the shorts is corrected. I'm coming for you, shorts. Better look out -- and up.

It's curtains for you, kids.

It's become increasingly apparent that the world hates kids. Exaggeration? Let's consider some recent events to support this fact:

1. Unarmed 17-year-old shot dead by crazy lurking old for wearing the always-threatening hoodie sweatshirt.
   
2. The olds are pumping your school lunch meat full of pink slime. (Not to be confused with the fun kind of green slime that Nickelodeon dumps on celebrities at awards shows.)
   
3. MPAA slaps "R" rating on movie made for kids, about bullying among kids. So, kids won't be able to see the movie made for them about them.
   
4. NYC Department of Education compiles a list of 50 words to ban from standardized tests because kids will get too distracted to take the test when they see the super charged likes of "pepperoni" and "dinosaur."

Hey kids, you need to organize your tiny selves and fight the olds before they turn you into a bunch of shits with no vocabulary.

Now for the in-depth analysis (Clearly the kids won’t read this far because they all have ADD but maybe one rebel kid will.).

1. It's no surprise this event happened in Florida. Heimlich and I have agreed that Florida should be physically severed from the United States like a gangrenous foot and set to sea.
   
   Nothing good comes out of Florida. Residents have proven time and time again that they like to murder, whether it’s their babies (Caylee Anthony), their baby mommas (Michelle Parker), or apparently kids with hoodies (Trayvon Martin).
   
   Consider too that the senior olds go there to die. They're probably expecting to get murdered before their natural end. I bet the senior olds sign some kind of "I agree to be murdered" pact when crossing the border into Florida.
   
   Florida, you are akin to the penal colonies of old Australia. Except without the dignity of bars and the punishment. You really blew it, Florida. So we're done with you. Now get the hell out of here.
   

2.  Your pink slime meat is produced by Beef Products, Inc., “the world's leading producer of lean beef processed from fresh beef trimmings.” I just threw up after typing that sentence. Go on a hunger strike, kids.

3.    MPAA, what a bunch of dummies.

4.    Speaking of dummies, the New York Department of Education really takes the cake. Oh geez, should I strike “cake” from the record so as not to offend the gluten intolerant? F you, Department of Dummies.

What the hell is wrong with you, jerks? Are kids today so sensitive that they can’t take a test if the word “birthday” appears and they happen to be a Jehovah’s Witness because they’ll burst into tears? Hey kid, maybe you shouldn’t be a Jehovah’s Witness because birthdays are awesome. Or better yet, maybe you should steel yourself for a world of disappointment and hard things to deal with . . . because that’s what the world is.

This extreme sensitivity to offending anyone is really fucking offensive. I’d like to suggest a ban on banning or maybe just a ban on the Department of Education. Here’s their idiotic list of banned words:

Abuse (physical, sexual, emotional, or psychological), Alcohol (beer and liquor), tobacco, or drugs, Birthday celebrations (and birthdays), Bodily functions, Cancer (and other diseases), Catastrophes/disasters (tsunamis and hurricanes), Celebrities, Children dealing with serious issues, Cigarettes (and other smoking paraphernalia), Computers in the home (acceptable in a school or library setting), Crime, Death and disease, Divorce, Evolution, Expensive gifts, vacations, and prizes, Gambling involving money, Halloween, Homelessness, Homes with swimming pools, Hunting, Junk food, In-depth discussions of sports that require prior knowledge, Loss of employment, Nuclear weapons, Occult topics (i.e. fortune-telling), Parapsychology, Politics, Pornography, Poverty, Rap Music, Religion, Religious holidays and festivals (including but not limited to Christmas, Yom Kippur, and Ramadan), Rock-and-Roll music, Running away, Sex, Slavery, Terrorism, Television and video games (excessive use), Traumatic material (including material that may be particularly upsetting such as animal shelters), Vermin (rats and roaches), Violence, War and bloodshed, Weapons (guns, knives, etc.), Witchcraft, sorcery, etc.

Say goodbye to “fart!” and “Halloween” and “rap music” and “swimming pools" and "video games” and anything else FUN. 

Like I said, kids, get yourself out of here. Because all signs point to the olds ruining everything for you. 

Who really hates cats? This guy.

Gatefeeder - feeds the right meal to the right cat from Gatefeeder on Vimeo.

Got a cat? Yeah, you probably will end up hating that furry friend as soon as it gets sick. Like this guy. Inventor guy. He had two cats (Mikey and Sparky) and one went and got sick. Mikey, of course. That's what you get for cursing your cat with a stupid human nickname, guy.

Anyway, Mikey required special food and medicine, and worst of all, supervision. And this guy had a day job. Pull it together, damn cat. You're really ruining this guy's life.

But then guy has a storm of the brain:

"So one day, while I was waiting for yet another delayed flight back home, I sketched out some ideas, and by the time I landed, I had a working drawing. I now knew what our babies needed; now I just needed to figure out how to make the thing work. Plato was right!"

Let's take a minute to really understand where guy is coming from.

1. He's obviously a V.I.P. because he's jet-setting around for business. 
2. These cats are his babies so clearly he has some serious attachment issues and a deep-seated fear of human babies. 
3. And of course, this guy reads philosophy so he's super smart and doesn't even need to tell you what Plato was right about. The guy just knows he's right. 

So, introducing this guy's invention, or as I like to call it, The Humiliation Box a,k.a. Thanks for ruining my life, Mikey:

You insist on being sick, cat, so go stick your head in this box. That'll teach you to be weak in this guy's presence. He's so disgusted by your weakness that he put your "special" food and meds inside this plastic box. Go on, get your damn fix, you stupid weakling cat. And, if you vomit inside that box, at least this guy doesn't have to clean it up. You'll just have to eat that too, cat.

Lest any other cats fraternize with this weak one, it's tagged for life as weak thanks to a handy collar ID that reads, in short, "I'm a pussy."

No surprise here that Mikey didn't make it to see this guy get some patents on his humiliation box. Way to go, cancer cat.

Doesn't much matter since this guy will be rolling in dough soon and can buy a whole litter of healthy cats with better nicknames and non-cancerous bodies.

Important to note: This guy has tested his humiliation box on dogs too, and even "a curious baby."

Watch out, sicks. If you're related to this guy, he's going to put you in the box. Uh, I mean put your feed and meds in the box.

Grandmas and grandpas too, better be on your guard. Hide your sick, people. There's a sick box lurking around ever corner. And someone who hates you.