Fabregas Rule

Let’s say an amazing player (Robin Van Persie) does his job in the middle of a boring game and scores, it is good manners to let him have his moment. For 41 minutes, the game hadn’t lived up to expectations. Van Persie finally scored the goal, ran to the sidelines doing his celebration thing, waited for the customary few seconds, and all the players settled down for the kick-off.

Almost all. Cesc Fabregas got jealous and, like a petulant kid who wants all the attention to himself, he decided to get the ball away from Tottenham and score. Allegedly. The cameraman was still preoccupied with airing the replay of Van Persie’s goal, so nobody outside the stadium really saw it happen. When he caught on, Fabregas scored, ran to the sidelines doing his celebration thing and waited for more than a few seconds. All I saw was the replay.

The fans were cheated out of their customary routine. When someone scores, the fans clap and yell ‘yeah’ until someone (a cheer leader) realizes they’re supposed so sing. In this case, they would have started clapping and singing “Robin Van Persie.” They would then have waited for the cheer leader to lead them in a “One nil to the Arsenal” melody. But in this case, before the cheer leader realized that he was supposed to do his job, Fabregas had scored. No “Robin Van Persie,” no “One nil…”

So it is necessary to institute a Fabregas Rule. When a teammate scores, be a gentleman and let him have his moment. Let the fans have their moment. Let the other team have a minute to recover. You don’t have to make them feel like the pieces of kaka they already are. Give the cameraman time to show the reaction of the managers to the goal, show a replay from a different angle to allow the commentators to say that the goalkeeper almost had it and could have saved the ball if only he had bent down a little bit further and brought his head closer to his knees… but he would look like he was blowing himself. Give the commentators time to do their job.

Unless you’re playing against Tottenham at home.

The rest of the game was a blur. I heard a rumor that it ended in 3-0 and Van Persie got finally had his moment. Yeah!

Beemer

I took my friend to his church, even though I did not share in his faith. He was having doubts about his life, and needed a friend. I had to fulfill my duties as a good friend, so I promised that I would sit and wait while he got his spiritual fix.

I drove into the lot and parked at the front. He likes sitting at the front next to the others who are there just to show off. I went to the back and sat, listening to a man who told lies for a living. My job was to pretend that the lies made sense and ask some meaningful questions. I had to make the man believe that I was interested in whatever he was selling me.

Beemer, my friend, believed that by congregating with the others, he would get a glimpse into how his life should be. He sometimes has doubts about paradise, so he communes with the others to strengthen his faith. While he was idling, someone would get into a new model BMW for a test drive and start revving the engine. Beemer would then inhale the exhaust, have a spiritual experience in which he saw himself in his paradise, Germany.

While Beemer was having a spiritual experience, I was listening to the salesman’s lies. He said I could get a discount on a new car if I had an aunt whose name started with a K. I said I didn’t, but I did have a C aunt, which sounded like a K. He said the special discount was for a K not a C aunt. I told him the C aunt sounded like a K anyway, so he should just throw the C aunt a bone. He said no.

I asked how much I could get for a 14 year-old Beemer and he said $1000. I threw a fit and started cursing him out in tongues. I called his mother a whore, and he said she was dead. I said she died of AIDS, and he said it was true. He told me she was one of those who believed that only homosexuals got AIDS, so she never bothered with safe sex. There was no getting through to him, so I stomped out, got into the car and drove off.

Beemer handled the road well after his spiritual awakening. He handled the road so well that I got a ticket for speeding. It’s a small price to pay for a friend.

Pfizer

Pfizer has just been forced to cough up a couple billion dollars. The fine wasn’t because of a lawsuit, but because the company had been marketing drugs illegally. This is utter madness. What happened to the good old days when some idiot claimed that the writing on the labels was so small that he ended up taking Viagra instead of vitamins and almost… this and the other, you finish the line.

This time Pfizer was fined after getting a bit too greedy and lying about what some of the drugs did. I believe they forgot that they were a drug company which meant that they did not even need to spend all that money on ads. Instead of lying they could just have had plain, no-label pill bottles. The drugs sell themselves, and market through word of mouth.

I always roll with 28 aspirin pills, not because I have chronic headaches. It is because they can come in handy in thinning blood. This is very helpful in case an over-zealous sperm with a severe case of ADHD breaks through the prophylactic fort, makes its way into the egg’s nest, and tries to establish residence. I would then prescribe several aspirins which would march in like an army on steroids and quickly evict the zygote.

So, Pfizer doesn’t need to advertise any of that. Let me figure it out for myself. Of course, if I screw up, I can always sue. Like the good old days.

Based on Imagined Events

You know when you meet someone and you think that you’ve seen him somewhere but can’t really tell where? And you spend time trying to figure out his name, and you become so obsessed that you don’t even hear half the stuff that’s coming out of his mouth? You start focusing on what he’s saying hoping he tells a story which has “So he says to me, ‘Douche…’” because that could be the only way you get to know that his name is Douche? But he doesn’t say that because he doesn’t talk like that; he never says his name in a story. So there you are getting mad at this relative stranger, listening to him carry on and on, you get more and more pissed and finally can’t take it anymore and you find yourself blurting out “Hey douche, I’m sorry about your baby having cancer in his rectum and all, but who the fuck are you?”

It did not happen to me. It happened to a guy I was talking to. He thought he knew me, and I was bored, so I pretended to know him and gave him the baby-rectum-cancer story. I don’t have a baby, and I have since confessed my sins and my maker has forgiven me, so don’t you dare judge me.

He thought I looked like a kid he once knew. Not that I look like a kid, but I look like what the kid would look like now. Unless the kid never grew, then I would obviously look nothing like him.

The kid in question was his maker. This kid was bored and had no one to play with so he got himself an imaginary friend. The imaginary friend was the kid’s age and they played together all the time. Then the kid got a video game, and thus graduated into playing imaginary games on TV.

The imaginary friend was left without a friend, and had to fend for himself. If you think your life sucks, imagine how much worse it would be if you were an imaginary friend and your friend/maker abandoned you. You’d do what he did. Go to poor neighborhoods and wait for someone to imagine some food so you can eat. Then you travel around and pick up imagined shelter and clothing.

He told me he needed somewhere to crash. His mind had picked up some crazy imaginations and he had become paranoid. He needed somewhere to hide; somewhere with limited imagination. I couldn’t imagine turning him down. Now I have to put up with him. He farts all the time. At least I can’t imagine what the farts  smell like.

Basic Right

To: United Nations Human Rights Council

Cc: ACLU

Subject: Violation of Basic Rights

I’ve been ostracized my whole life and made to feel worse than smokers. At least they chose to smoke, so they know that one of the side effects is stepping outside restaurants and bars to create a cloud hazardous to them and passers by. At least they have the satisfaction in knowing that the extra dollars they pay per pack goes to making the environment clean and giving them a shot at cancer.

I am allergic to human beings. I’ve been laughed at by doctors whose advice I sought for a prescription that is part epinephrine and part antihistamine. I spend all day indoors and whenever I step out and see the 2-legged creatures, I’m filled with both fascination and revulsion. Fascinated because it’s human, repulsed because I know what an encounter would lead to. The doctors have suggested, dismissively, that I should try changing my diet to combat the rashes I get when, for example, I have guests for dinner. I fail to understand that these brilliant minds went through medical school just to tell me about remedies I already know and have tried.

I have tried different diets. No peanuts, no milk, no carbs, all carbs, no fish, no animals, no protein, vegetarian, vegan, 15 glasses of water a day, all insect, caffeine-free, coffee in the ass to get rid of toxins. They all produce the same result: No matter what the humans eat, every time I take a bite into their flesh I get an allergic reaction.

So I’m appealing to your sense of humanity to offer me some protection as I seek treatment for the allergies. It’s hard enough trying to get a cure without everyone calling me the C word, cannibal. I seek, no demand, to have my voice heard as I pursue my basic right to food.

For now, I gnaw at my limbs for sustenance. I’m grateful that I’m not allergic to my own flesh. I know I’m missing some nutrients as I engage in the allergy-imposed self sustaining system. I do not know how long I have, having lost both legs and an arm. Please recognize that I too am human, and at least let me die with some dignity.

I won’t give my name for fear of being eaten alive.

Healthiest Way to be Sick

Step One: Travel to Czech Republic. I’m not saying it’s dirty, it just sounds like it should be dirty. The split with Slovakia must have left someone holding the dirty bag. Every time there’s a break up, someone ends up with all the dirty shit. I know it looked like Slovakia for a while, but going to Slovakia would nullify the point I’m trying to make.
Step Two: It would really help if you were into girls, so travel the country. They are, allegedly, very beautiful. Being totally unable to communicate in Czech would be very extremely vital. Make the beautiful women speak to you in English, and you’ll quickly realize what a beautiful language it is when one says, “I have the thing you want.”
Step Three: Get genital warts. Self explanatory and it would help if ‘the thing’ she referred to was an STD. This may sound unnecessary, but it is important remember not to involve animals. You can never know where they’ve been, and it’s illegal, even in Czech Republic.
Step Four: The pay-off step. Steps 1 and 3 are vindicated here, and step 2 will lead you to the best hospital in the world located in Prague. The nurses and doctors here get free liposuction, face lifts, and breast implants as a signing-bonus. As you lie on your back and have the warts managed, you’ll realize a new and deep appreciation for being sick. The nurse will know you like to play it loose and dangerous, so she’ll either yell at you in words you cannot understand, or scream out words you can’t understand. Either way, her silicones will be shaking with great emotion.
Step Five: When there, or anywhere else, never ever objectify women.

Koo Koo Kachoo

I read a very appalling story in the paper and even as I try to relate it, a sinking feeling comes into my stomach, the kind you get when you’re telling a lie—you mouth the words and your stomach begins pulling itself away to distant itself from the shameless liar. I will try and stomach this feeling. A woman was arrested for selling two kids, aged 4 and 5, for $175. And a cockatoo. Apparently they haggled over the price, starting at $2000 even, but after the bird was thrown in, the $2000 was quickly replaced by a 175-dollar price tag. Either the woman had no idea how to negotiate, leave alone the fact that she was desperately trying to get rid of the kids, or the couple knew a couple of things about market speculation and manipulation, managing to make an offer of a bird look extremely attractive. There are no indications that she was a drug addict, so let us hold onto the bong-pipes and not dive into judging her.

I’m appalled by the fact that someone privy to the negotiations and ultimate sale could not keep his mouth shut. I sense some jealousy, but it could very easily be a case of delusions of grandeur that made him feel compelled to snitch since it was the right thing to do. I feel sorry for the cockatoo, which had to spend time learning to impress its owners with its mimicry and incredible signature dance moves, getting uprooted and transferred to a different home, where it would have to learn new dances and possibly accents.

I do not feel sorry for the children. It’s quite obvious that they were on their way to a better life, with nowhere to go but up since they knew how much they were worth. So they had the opportunity to go through life knowing the exact figures they had to hit in order to be considered successful. (I’m quite jealous, since I have no idea how much I’m worth.) The sudden change in parental figures would not have left any eternal scars. How can I be so sure? Allegedly, my sister was born when I was 4, we moved when I was 7, but however hard I try I cannot remember any of these incidents. My memory’s timeline starts at 9, so I have no recollection about falling out of bed and cracking my skull open at 8, yet somehow I end up being a well-adjusted human being. And all these kids had to endure was a change of residence and parental figures.

The fate of the cockatoo is unknown since the new owner sits in jail having failed to post bail. Should it be forced to go back to the previous owner, I can almost guarantee that the days of singing and dancing (practically being the couple’s monkey) are long gone. It has to feel betrayed and should be learning a few choice words to sing in a showing of its displeasure. “Koo koo kachoo… F*** you I’m through… Goo goo gajoob… Two kids for you…”

Too Late to Die

If indeed there’s such a thing as ‘dying too soon,’ then there has to be a ‘dying too late.’ I’m not referring to dying at a rotten old age of 129. Neither am I talking about a deplorable character that just won’t die. It’s all about picking the right spot, it’s all about timing. Thou shalt not die 2 days before News Years day. Unless you’re Chinese. An adherent of the Julian calendar has an obligation to be respectful about the timing of his own demise. All the obituaries have been written at this time, all the “In Memoriam’ lists have already been published in the final Sunday paper of the year. Right now, people are looking forward to a new year, and your death could easily be overlooked. ‘If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one to hear it, does it make a sound?’ No. Nobody heard you die.

Apart from the final Sunday paper being in circulation (this year at least), many are dealing with either the financial aftermath or the fall-out from their indulgences over xmas or the holidays (whatever the religious persuasion). So for Christ’s sake don’t die now. Christ is only a few days old. Many are also placing bets on the first baby born in the New Year and don’t want to hear about death.

So, if dying now is wrong, dying in December is also wrong. It spoils the holiday mood. The best time is early in the year, but not too early as the year is still a baby emotionally. For simplicity, pick an ‘A’ month. August, the tragedy month, is already crowded with deaths so pick April by default. It’s early enough, and at the end of the year, people will be forced to remember you. They’ll hit your name early as they go month by month and it’ll be well before the August rush which tends to take a toll on everyone. While you’re at it, why not the 1^st? That’ll get your friends talking. “Really? Are you sure it’s not an April Fools joke?” The mixed emotions will go a long way in helping them through the grieving process. It’s important to be considerate of others in your death.

If April 1st falls on an Easter weekend, or within 5 days, then you’ll have to pick a different month. Trust me, you do not want to get into a pissing contest with Jesus Christ. The next month in the alphabet is February (we agreed not to die in December). To hell with the fictitious St. Valentine, die on the 14th. That way you can challenge your friends: should they buy a bouquet or a wreath.

Don’t die in July unless you want to piss off Julius Caesar. And it’s also too soon to die.

Survey Says…

Many people believe that polls are an absolute waste of time and money, according to a poll conducted by the Pew-Pew-Pew Research Group. An overwhelming majority of those polled (89.5%) said they did not have the time to answer the questions and if given the chance would rather spend the time punching the researcher repeatedly. Once the poll-taker turned victim had gone to the ground, they said, they would then stomp on his head until he died before urinating on his corpse. Only 30% said they would consider urinating on the brutally assaulted surveyor before his soul had departed from his body.

      
“The high rate of noncooperation stems from a culture where the young are coddled and told they are always right, even when they’re clearly being douchey,” says a former researcher who spoke on condition of anonymity, which was quite retarded considering his face was bandaged up and his voice chords gone.

      
72% said they never, ever, respond to polls and always choose to run when the questions start. When pressed for answers, 93% said they figured running was a way to avoid getting physical with the questioner. Or they ran away because they were in a rush to get somewhere. Or they had lives to live. It’s unclear, but what is certain is that the 93% said something while punching, stomping and peeing on this researcher before leaving him for dead. Maybe they said they ran away because they were little bitches running to mommy after a bad, bad man asked them questions that were so hard.

      
Of the 10.5% that did not mind answering questions: 65% preferred answering ALL questions before inflicting bodily harm; 20% said they would answer as many questions as they could depending on the compensation; 5% were so ugly that the researcher simply walked away; and 10 % were so boring that the researcher chose to spend the time punching himself, kicking his own head, and urinating on his own face before leaving himself for dead.

     
The survey covered less than 15 adults and took so annoyingly long that most of the numbers had to be made up to cut Pew-Pew-Pew’s losses. So much money was spent on medical bills and lawsuits against the barbarians that the researcher had to be let go. Pew-Pew-Pew Research Group has since gone under.

DNTxt

And it came to pass that public texting was outlawed.

The number of accidents caused by people texting while driving was a matter of grave concern. Many who had had their loved ones lost in such accidents came together and, in their grief, sought to put an end to texting while driving. They met together and channeled the maternal spirit of MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) but the mother superior was unavailable. There was a lot of speculation about her unavailability, but everyone failed to see the obvious reasons. They will be excused for not thinking clearly in their grief. MADD’s mother superior could not be channeled because many in the grieving group were not mothers. Hell, several were actually… men. And MADD was all about raising awareness and the grieving lot was after legislation.

So the certified failures (certified for failing to channel MADD mother superior) sought to look within themselves and find their own superior mother. They congregated in a room, locked themselves up, and after 3 hours of grueling brainstorms, came up with a DNTxt slogan. Drive Not Text. Their eyes were then dry, and they replaced the mopey faces with smiley faces and walked out, triumphantly, hand-in-hand, to the cheer of crickets. Whether they expected anyone is now quite clear, but nobody cared about fulfilling their expectations.

A website was established and questions were asked about the intelligence behind DNTxt. Questions about their inability to form an acronym for their cause led to questions about their competence. These very questions led to the accuracy of DNTxt being questioned, since it appeared to be a marketing campaign banning texting, not just while driving. A Madison Avenue exec(Mad man) sat a couple of the certified failures—again, for not getting MADD mother superior—down and told them that the slogan would fuel controversy, which would in turn create awareness. The 2 in attendance nodded, shook hands with the mad man, thanked him, stepped out to the cheer of crickets, and sought to notify the other certified absentees.

There were several accidents that day. Preliminary reports pointed accusatory fingers to texting while driving, and the public got certifiably mad. With the public mad, the legislators had to step out of their government mandated saunas and talk to the press. They vowed. They swore. They yelled. They promised they would put an end to texting while driving. They pledged that they would not stand by and watch while texting took human lives. They then got into their cars and sped to the quickly convened meeting. 5 legislators died en route to enact the ban on texting while driving. They were carpooling and the driver, a co-sponsor of the bill, averted his eyes from the road to check on an urgent text he’d received.

After the new bill had been passed, after the legislators had been given state funerals, after the smoke settled, several truths emerged. Truths about the circumstances surrounding the passing of the bill. Among those killed in accidents caused by texting while driving were founding members of DNTxt who did not meet with the Mad man. They were driving when they received texts from the 2 members in attendance. The quick glances at the texts of good news led to shouts of jubilation, which resulted in swerves, crashes, and deaths, with smiley faces. The contents of the text sent to the legislator were also released. It was an automated text from his phone company reading. “Happy Birthday ”