Tuesday, February 28, 2006


None of you need to say it (and judging by the number of hits I get, none is an accurate count of my readers), because I know it already: I am an idiot. You’ll never get an argument from me about that. I am not smart. Mensa wouldn’t even allow me to clean the puddles of piss on the floor of their bathrooms.

What’s frightening, however, isn’t that I am a dumbass, but that there are people who are greater dumbasses than me. A lot of them. Quite probably numbering in the multiple millions. And that isn’t even counting christians.

Even more scary are those who aren’t dumber than me. The so-called geniuses and 150+ IQ types. I know these people, because the dull grey building in which I work is apparently populated with a lot of them. I also had the considerable misfortune of being surrounded by them at school.

So, how do I know for certain that these people were/are poindexters? Simple: they never let an opportunity to tell me about it pass. In fact, an iron-clad absolute characteristic … one you can hang your hat on as being 100% dead-on balls accurate is the fact that so-called geniuses love to tell you that they are geniuses.

Patronizing cunts.

Don’t get me wrong. I have all the respect in the world for people who can pontificate endlessly about the intricacies of string theory, or who grasp the subtle complexities of Riemann Sums, but I have never heard any of these self-proclaimed uber-brains actually discuss these things. Instead, these loudmouth eggheads seem to want to go on and on about themselves, and how smart they are, or how they chose their current life, even though they could have picked any profession.

So, it started me wondering. Why are these people, who make it a point to go out of their way to tell me just how smart they are, the biggest social retards? I mean, they stand too close when they talk. They constantly interrupt while someone else is speaking (or just don’t bother to listen). They blame others (non-genius types) for their own errors. They will constantly talk about something, then add a remark implying that everyone else is too estupid to understand. They are inconsiderate, obnoxious, arrogant bastards.

And then it hit me. These guys aren’t really the smarty-pantses they claim they are. Sure, they got some brains, but for the most part, the guys that have to keep reminding everyone about how advanced they are really aren’t. It’s just that they need to be for their own pathetic little competitive streak. Some guys compensate for internal deficiency by driving Hummers or BMWs, some by ordering invasions of countries based on lies, and yet others by writing snarky blogs. These wanna-be Einsteins do it by bellyaching about how dumb the rest of us are.

Well, fair fucks to them I guess. If that is what it takes to make them feel content, then I guess it’s a small price to pay. Besides, let the babies have their bottle. Me? I’ll just keep being an ignorant monkey. Anyway, those super-genius guys tend to think things like vanilla ice cream are dull and flavorless. Which is good, because I like vanilla ice cream. I like it a lot, and if they don’t want it, I’ll be happy to have their share.

Ook ook.

There's Nothing Nietzsche Couldn't Teach Ya 'Bout the Raising of the Wrist ...

Traffic in ellay is a mugs game. A never-ending grudge match against the idiots in SUVs, Westside richbitches applying makeup, and jackholes in BMWs just being their normal jackhole selves. Add a little rain, and things go from aggravating to incendiary in no time. Only the strong will survive, son. The slightest drizzle has the roads looking like the aftermath of Armageddon, with people weeping openly at the carnage strewn about them.

Yeah, driving in ellay is most definitely is a Nietzschian thing. You know what I mean, right?

Well, maybe you don’t. Pointy-headed German intellectuals whose philosophy tends to justify complete avoidance of personal and communal responsibility aren’t exactly fodder for pop-culture. Particularly one in which poker is a nationally televised sport.

But nihilism aside, it makes me wonder whether Nietzsche’s proclamation regarding the relationship between survival and strength is as immutable as people think. I mean, social Darwinists probably achieve climax thinking about it, as it does tends to prop-up their misanthropic view of life (it’s easy to make casual comments on the inherent value of some ethereal superiority of one's ancestry and genetic makeup when it’s some other geek that has to eat rats to survive).

But is it true? Does anything that doesn’t leave us cold and on a slab make us stronger?

Obviously what he meant was that life experiences that test us in some way (intellectually, physically, or so forth) serve to help us grow into more reasonable, wise, and complete human beings, and not that putting a gun to our head, pulling the trigger, and surviving because the bullet miraculously lobotomized only unnecessary tissue suddenly gives us super powers. He was wrong, of course. The more I think about it, the less I believe it. I mean, take that douchebag Texan lawyer (oh, sorry, using the term douchebag with either Texan or lawyer is redundant, isn’t it?) that got shot in the face by the Dick. Do you think that experience made him stronger or wiser in any way? I bet if the Dick calls him up for another round of murdering cage-raised fowl, he’ll saddle up and bring the beer.

But think about it. Tragedy strikes, or some sort of sudden conflagration or challenge to culture/heritage/religion/way of life erupts and what happens? Those who are unlucky get moved into the next plane, while those who emerge from the brouhaha do what? Do they say, “Gee, that was a great learning experience that has strengthened my character and made me much wiser in direct proportion to the difficulty I just encountered.” No. What the jugheads living through some sort of bump in their daily lives will inevitably do is chalk their survival up to divine intervention. Oh, the poor slobs that did't make it through? Well, I guess not only did god not die (another of Nietzsche's things), but he hated the poor losers so much he whacked them.

Am I rambling? Hell yes, I am. A good bout of traffic does that to me, Chachi. Especially when I am dosed up on caffeine, anti-histamines, and tequila. Just sit down, strap in, and shut up. I’m talking here.

The thing is, Nietzsche never had to drive in ellay traffic. If he did, that pompous egghead would never have come up with the sort of simpering nonsense about what makes people stronger. In traffic, no one can hear you scream, Bubba.

Ook ook.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Say Hello to the Monkey

Have you ever had the experience of letting curiosity cloud your better judgment and just walk into an oddly threatening room? One that was just a bit too dim to allow you to make out fine shapes and details, and which had a thin, but vaguely obscene odor? Yet, even when it became frightfully obvious that you had made a mistake by ever crossing the transom, you stayed, and continued your exploration?

Welcome to my world. That's exactly the situation I face every stinking morning when I wake up. My daytime life is that poorly-lit, smelly room, and like a masochist who simply can not get enough of his controller's sweet, sweet pain, I continue to get out of bed every morning and stoke the flames of my consciousness with caffeine. Mmmmm ... caffeine.

No, that metaphor isn't entirely accurate. I'm not some disgusting masochist craving more agony at the hand of my sadistic partner. I'm more like an idiot who keeps sticking his hand into flame well after it's little more than a charred stump.

Yeah, charred stump. Now that's real good writing. Mighty good. Bet you wish you'd come up with that, dontcha, Spanky?

Excuse me while I pat myself on the back.

So, I asks myself, I asks: "Self, why start a blog? I mean, everyone and their grandma has one by now. It is so freaking passe. And since when are you a joiner? You're a rebel, Monkey, you take no prisoners and never have. You mock the poseurs and dilletantes who blog. They are your inferiors."

I gotta admit, I ask some pretty damn good questions. And there's some serious truth in that, too. You are inferior to me. Accept it, I have.

But I digress.

So, I sits back and contemplate this, scratching myself, as my distinct musky scent settles about me in an aerosolized, lime-green mist.

Like a coroner engaged in fine dissection of pancreatic tissue searching for subtle abnormalities, I needed to gently tease apart the fibrous cohesion of why I should start a blog. There needs to be a reason, something that can justify my doing this.

"To point out the obvious absurdities of modern life!" I offer. But no, others do that much better than I can ever hope to.

"As a means of expressing my innermost thoughts, and giving life to my muse." Not hardly -- my muse died long ago from starvation and abuse.

Then the answer hits me, like a shovel in the back of the head. Why start a blog? Because like most every other fuckwit, my ego is grand enough to make me believe that people will actually want to read what I write.

There is my justification! I mean, if semi-literate NASCAR fans can blog, then surely an almost housebroken monkey can as well.

So, here I am.

Hide the women and send the kids to grandma's: the Monkey is here to pollute your drinking water.

Ook ook, bitches.