Some People...

Some people get stereotyped. It is just a fact of life and there is really little that the common man can do about it. It's not an easy pill to swallow and the sooner we come to grips with it, the better off we all will be. Not all stereotypes are true, but unfortunately most of them exist for a reason. It really is a crying shame. I am Irish, so naturally I cannot not perform even the simplest of life's mundane tasks without Jameson ripping through my blood stream like a class 5 rapid. And for that matter, sure, I've even gone whitewater rafting absolutely shit canned, where the only thing white about the water was the bailey's and cream I yaaaaked overboard after a death-defying turn on a dime to avoid a large dam, which required immediate celebration in the form of 7 shooters of hard irish "top of the morning to you" sauce. Fortunately there was a black man on board with me, who was able to jump 10 feet in the air to a safety branch, throw his Indiana Jones's-whip-of-a-dick down to the struggling raft, and as I climbed his cock toward his midnight taint he started sprinting, hurdling, and pole vaulting over every obstacle in our path until we reached a concrete playground where he slam dunked a basketball with his tongue hanging out.

In reality, there are new stereotypes popping up everyday and most of them we don't even realize. All it takes is for someone to witness two other people of a different race doing something out of the ordinary and BOOM! - from now on it is common knowledge that everyone of that descent shoves the core up their stinkhole when they're done with an apple. I actually I am a guilty of this. NO, NO, not the apple thing, I'm not big on the granny smith stiff. But the other thing: determining when and where stereotypes should apply.

I came to the conclusion this afternoon that some people are so desperate to rid themselves of one specific stereotype that they will actually do the craziest shit ever, just to take the public's mind off of their old ways which got them a ceratin reputation. Take for instance the people I saw earlier. These people were all taking candid pictures. They were straddling the railing of an escalator, cartwheeling through a wishing well, posing like bodybuilders with their biceps curled up over their shoulders, and jerking off into their coke zero. They were capturing all of these shenanigans on film. Then I saw another group doing the same fucking thing, and then another group doing it again. There was one common theme among these wacko's...they were Asian. That's right folks...Asian. They are perhaps so fed up with the common misconception that all they do is horde rice and attain black belts faster than the white kids in their karate class, not because they are necessarily better, but because their instructor is also white, sees pure perfection in their every roundhouse kick, and concludes that shuffling them through the ninja ranks based on their race alone is the appropriate course of action. The new stereotype to look for in 2009 will be people of Asian descent thinking they are ultra cool, and funny, just taking action shots like a fucking American Eagle ad...Korean Eagle clothes will be on the shelves soon enough, and if you don't believe me, don't worry, cuz there will plenty of photographic documentation. Bunch of posers.

But then again I'm still Irish and, unless I take it upon myself to start doing something absolutely absurd and start changing the way my fellow Mick's look then things will never change. So until I start using orange peels as condoms, sunkist as lube, and boysenberries as anal beads, then we will always just be those drunken idiots who can't get it up.

Heckles for Freckles

There is nothing remotely beautiful about a beauty mark. I used to just go along with the common misconception, which turned into quite the popular fad some time ago. I believe it was Cindy Crawford who put the beauty mark on the map. She may or may not have even coined the phrase. Um, well guess what Cindy? I have those little fucking critters all over my body too, and I'm not a super model...know why? Because they are called goddamn freckles! Just because your best one just so happens to be located on your luscious upper lip, standing out like a turqoise toilet, doesn't mean that you can casually call it a "beauty mark". My best one resides one my fat, pasty, 1980's hockey helmet-esque ass, and its called a birth mark for crying out loud. I'm forced to call mine a "birth" mark, as if I slid recklessly down the vaginal cavity "fun slide", ass first, and on my way out skinned the shit out of my upper back man thigh, doomed eternally with a brown blemish due to my over zealous attempt to get out of that frat house of a womb.

Yes that's right, mommy dearest knocked the bottle back with an unquenchable thirst while preggers with yours truly.(They found a Scarface poster and a shot-gunned High Life on my ultrasound. This would have been somewhat embarassing for Ma had she not later found out what was discovered in Tara Reid's chest during her massive failure of a jug job: A carton of Winstons and a ginger flavored diaphragm.) The jig is up Crawford. You had your fun, but I'm finally blowing up your "spot". It looks like a dollop of shit. It looks like a cow woofed down a half acre of tall grass and dung-ed out the ticks on your lip. Dung-ed may or not be a verb, but if I shit out shit, then fucking Bessie must sure as hell dung out dung.

But you're still a supermodel and I still love you. If you ever decide to get that thing frozen off, don't discard it. I may just happen to know a certain birth mark that could use a good friend to lean on...let's just say he's in a real dark place right now...

And for those of you who are wondering - YES. This means that I would surgically implant Cindy's beauty mark onto my fat ass...and so would any of you...so get in line.