Newsflash: You Will Never Be Happy

In case you haven't heard yet, let me let you in on the big news: Happiness is a myth. It's true. Recently, a group of scientists at the University of France stumbled upon this truth* while working on HIV medication. I don't know much science talk, but supposedly the proof was in the protease.

This news has shed some light on many things concerning happiness. For one, it turns out love is also a lie, perpetuated by knotty old men in cloaks and hoods wearing heart-shaped pendants, with last names like Hallmark, Spielberg, and Hitler. That feeling of affection you get when you think about that "someone special?" It's bullshit, don't trust it. It's just a mix of lust and starches. I had a feeling this was the case, as many of my previous experiences had hinted at the fallacy of love(I'm looking at you, Carl Weathers), but I still held out some hope. This only crushed my hope and confirmed my fears. Thank you, scientists, you heartless bastards.

Also, the ramifications of this breakthrough extend to the work place. Using a solar-powered calculator and a tricked-out Gameboy Color, it can now be proven without a doubt that you will never find the perfect job. Been wanting to be a pediatrician all your life? You'll hate it. Think you'd be happier if you just got that promotion? Nope, you'll still be miserable. "Why work, then?" you may ask. Well, it turns out the equation also proves that you will be equally unhappy without a job, with your stress(variable s) being replaced with a feeling of uselessness(variable nes). Now, whenever someone tells you that he/she "loves" his/her job, you can say without hesitation, "You are a lying bitch."(In an unrelated experiment, Swedish scientists have concluded that 'bitch' can be effectively used on either gender)

Am I happy about this news? Of course not. But I suppose knowing the truth is better than living a lie, right? Actually, no, it's not. I think I'll start doing drugs.


*Other minor findings: your childhood pet was not sent to a farm, your parents resent you for ruining their sex-lives, you will never be the best at anything, and your girlfriend is still attracted to other men.

50th Post!

This is BfN's 50th post. Woo-hoo! I would like to celebrate this milestone by thanking a few people. First, I'd like to thank the team members: Madison, for his expert comments; Pinche, for coming back and then turning our little blog bi-lingual(now we're bored in two languages!); Shitface, for being generally retarded; and R-to-the-P, for his words of wisdom. I'd also like to thank myself: Thanks Vanderbilt, you are truly an awesome and cool dude.

Secondly, a big 'thank you' has to go to God. I think it's in the Blogger user agreement. This 'thank you' is about 10 feet wide and is made of pure steel, just like my biceps. Hopefully Your angels can carry it up to You. And don't worry, it's supposed to make that ticking sound.

Anyways, it looks like we might be building up some momentum, so let's keep the posts coming. A special thanks to that person who reads this on his/her computer. You know who you are. I, however, don't.

Next meaningless milestone, here we come!

Crisis de Identidad

Siempre he tenido el mismo crisis, en respecto a mi indentidad. Soy muy guera para ser Mexicana. El acento de mi lengua me traiciona. El tinto de mi pelo me disfrasa. El estilo de mi vestuario es moderno. Soy muy Latina para ser Americana. Mi corazon canta en Espanol. Mis ojos miran los colores vibrantes de mis paisanos. Mi ser busca mi cultura. Mi boca busca lo picante.

No soy ni de aqui, ni del otro lado. Estoy en un limbo. Esperando que me den la mano y salir del abysmo. Pero para cual lado me salvo? Las oportunidades que se me ofrecen por el color de mi piel son muchas. Y son muchas las que dejo perder. El calor de mis raices son aun muchas mas. Y es mucho el calor que dejo perder.

La vida sabrosa y con fuego se vive mejor. Porque es vida. Esa si es vida. Y en el fondo de mi corazon es lo que mas me hace falta. Y yo lo se. Yo lo he sabido toda mi vida. Y es apenas que lo voy aceptando.

Parece que la mano que me salvara sera la mia misma. Adelante. Con fuerzas saldre del abysmo para superarme y al mismo tiempo superar toda la raza. Recuerden mi nombre, y recuerden mis suenos.

Would you watch this show?

Patrick is a college graduate and an atheist who can't find a job. He sees a job advertisement in his local Mid-west newspaper looking for door-to-door bible salesmen. After acing the interview, he learns that his boss is in fact God, and also meets his wacky co-workers: Paul, an elderly zealot with a foul vocabulary; Jeremiah, a repressed homosexual; Tim and Kim, fraternal twins who constantly finish each other's sentences and meals; Francine, God's Jewish secretary; and Matthew, who is black, just to name a few. There is also a fellow named Samuel, who is pretty normal, and who Patrick befriends. In addition to earning a paycheck, they are all competing each month to sell the most bibles, with the winner having a wish granted by their boss. The job is full of trials for Patrick, most of them coming from Satan, who takes the form of lusty housewives, angry dogs, FBI agents, and pieces of gum that get stuck to Patrick's shoes. Will Patrick ever sell enough bibles to be granted a wish? What would his wish be? If you work for God, is every girl you meet the boss' daughter? What's it like having sex with Satan? Will these experiences help Patrick change his heathen ideas? Will I ever get around to writing the pilot? These are just some of the thought-provoking questions surrounding Bible Salesman of the Month.

Praise the Lord

Are religious nuts oblivious to their freakiness? If said nuts, feel the presence of the lord come over them and begin to fall to their knees, raise their hands towards the heavens, vociferously praising the lord (at Toys R Us, mind you) - is it freaky? Or am I overreacting? I'm not judging, except to say that I think it's freaky. As the saying goes, "to each their own," right? Wrong! I have a real problem with these people. Then, as the judgement cloak feels heavier and heavier, I try to accept these people, as they are, and I simply can't. I can't see myself having a conversation with them over a cup of tea. Does this make me hateful and elitist?

you forgot what?

Shit! Fuck! Crap! Nards! Smithsonianizer! I can't believe I forgot. The most important moment in my life and I forgot! Only if I had remembered, would have things changed? Fuck this Shizer! Am I real? Are you real? Are we real? Only if I had not done what I did to that silly sandwich. The future could have changed, and the rightful owners of that 86' blue Tornado, could be petting cats and shit. Sigh, the only things that keeps me going anymore is holding in bowel movements, and then releasing them, ever so slowly.

Did I mention I simply detest bread that's toasted. Why would you? I mean, what's the point of heating bread, its already hot enough already. And toast? That's an original name. Let's name a food after the action that forms it. Shit is annoying.

I was at the corner store, and some guy asked me, "Excuse me sir, do you know the time" I laughed in that faggots face. AHAHAHAHAHAHAH. Only gays don't know the time, its against their religion.

I walk everywhere. Once, I walked to the park. I had a good time. It was nice. I walked home.

Public Toilets

As who ever is reading this well knows, Shitface McStevens is a sick bastard. I actually enjoy doin the do(#2) in public toilets. Some say that everytime you shit where someone else does, you take a piece of them with you. In essence, you borrow their strength. I don't really buy it, but there is something comforting about farting into a small bowl filled with water that many people have before you. Also its like adventure every time. They can smell bad, or in even more peculiar situations, actually smell good. If you're like me you get freaked out when the toilet is clean and smells good. You're like, what happened here? Did someone actually aim when they were taking a piss, or did someone take a clean shit? Impossible.

Being the scumbag I am, when I drink the 'cohol' (worst nickname ever) I enjoy pissing on everything in the bathroom! and I mean everything! All over the toilet, the toilet handle, up the paper tower dispenser, on the button the hands dryer, all over the sink, and the mirror if they have one. The great thing is, no one will ever know its you, but you can be sure that someone will accidently touch your piss. They might not even know it! The real dick thing is to piss on the door handle. That way it is inevitable that someone will touch your piss, and eventually put their hands to their mouth...

Finally, dropping creamy nuggets into public toilet soup can be point of pride. I have taken shits in diverse places such as pizza hut buffet bathrooms, amusement park speazies, and club johns. About the latter... Wow that shit was grimy. Had free flow too, shit tumbled down like a million dollar house in Malibu after a downpour following a drought. I spent close to a half hour in there. It was a unisex bathroom, which are the best to blow up by the way. So I had mad peeps yell at me. Fortunately, I have little shame so it didn't bother me to much. When I left, the attendant knew what I had done and said, "mother fucka, you gots to give me a tip for that shit" We both laughed, but out hands together (unwashed), and said, "ONE, TWO, THREE GIRLS," and proceeded to jump up and slap hands like the saved by the bell episode where they find oil at Bayside. I wanted to shit on it, but yes... There is actually oil in California. That shit could've happened, however the earthquake episode lacks legibility. GOD! Real earthquakes don't last that long!

My Return

I sat at a window table, alone, playing with my food. I was struggling to use my chopsticks. I've never been good with chopsticks, but I refuse to eat Chinese food without them. "It's part of the dining experience," I recall a friend telling me. Little Ollies was alive with noises, conversations, and the sound of clanking china. The floor to ceiling windows gave a Panoramic view to the intersection of Clayton and First, the corner that my favorite Chinese restaurant sat on. I noticed that the windows were fogging slightly around the edges, indicative of the dropping temperatures outside. It always gets so cold after the sun goes down. I found my gaze lost in the gently falling snow flakes that were visible as they floated into the light of the street lamp. A lass in a black skirt and black thigh high boots caught my attention as she walked the sidewalk adjacent to the restaurant's window towards the intersection with a hurried pace. We were only separated by the window's glass as she walked by. She carried a worn, overstuffed canvas bag with the letters, 'NPR' printed on the side, slung over her right shoulder. Under her left arm was a book that was pressed tightly between her body and her arm. She was struggling while putting on her red gloves. Her mind must have been concentrating on the gloves and not her path. She slipped on a patch of ice and fell to the ground. She used her hands to catch herself, simultaneously sending her book and bag flying in the air. To no avail, she landed on her butt, with her legs stretched out in front of her and her toes pointed in towards each other. Her shoulders were slumped forward with resignation. I could see her profile, but not her facial expression. She sat there, tragically beautiful, illuminated by the street lamp. The snow landed gently on her jet black hair. After what seemed like a minute, she looked in my direction and instantly locked my gaze. I deliberately mouthed, "Do you need help," giving her an awkward wave. She smiled slightly with kindness and embarrassment, shook her head no, picked up her sprawled belongings and got up. She wiped the moisture from the book cover with her red-gloved hands. She stood up straight and proud. Studied the ground and took her first, careful step. She crossed the street with a confident jog and continued on her hurried way.

You know what's weird?

Public toilets. They are just weird. Sitting in a little stall; doing your business next to some other dude doing his business; the mingling of odors; when the guy in the stall next to you is a grunter. That's the worst. It was cute to make noises while you shat when you were a few months old, but NOT WHEN YOU ARE 56! Totally destroys any hope of a boner. Or when the grunter spends as much time wiping as he did pooping. I HATE THAT. It just makes me clench longer.

People. Weird with a capital 'W' and lowercase '-eird.' I mean, you never know what they're thinking, unless they say it out loud, and 99% of that is lies anyway. This is one of the main reasons that I speak as few words as possible, and those words are lies, each and every one of them. Example: People say "How is your day going, Vanderbilt?" I say, "Fine." I'm not going to let people pull one over on me.

Madison Sinclair. Seems he's given up posting and has become a professional commenter. Nothing wrong with that, but you might want to change your name to ROGER EBERT. THE FILM CRITIC. BECAUSE HE COMMENTS ON THINGS FOR A LIVING.

Returning

When she came to the door of her apartment, when she turned the lock with her key, she noticed that it was already unlocked. Entering the front hall, the living room light was unexpectedly on. "Hello?" she yelled, repeated. Grabbing the umbrella in the entrance tightly with both hands, she tiptoed her way towards the light.

The first thing she noticed was the sound, a familiar crunching. She saw nothing in the room that would make such a sound, no broken radiator or faulty VCR, but still it persisted, and still she couldn't place how she knew it. She followed its source, across the room, past the glass table, near the couch, and that's when she saw the shoes, toes pointed towards the ceiling.

He had left 9 months earlier, his departure abrupt and unexplained. And now he was lying behind her couch, sprawled out with his arms and legs opened wide, his body like a fallen star. His teeth were grinding, hard and rough like rusty gears, and she could smell the alcohol on him without having to crouch. His jacket was stained(soil? blood?), as were the knees of his jeans, and she nudged his hand with the toe of her boot. He did not move, just kept grinding. Suddenly, she found her foot was in the air behind her, building up momentum for a strike to his stomach, but she stopped it mid-swing. Her boot hit the floor, grounding her anger for the moment.

She wished he was gone, and she wished he was awake, sober. There were too many questions, all starting with 'why.' But there would be no answers tonight. Tossing the umbrella onto the couch, she stepped over him on her way to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. In bed with her eyes shut, she wondered if this time she'd be able to hear the fading footsteps. She could still hear his violent teeth.