Obnoxious Opinions

I once made a rude and unfair remark about hating young people with opinions.  I made it after I heard two high school students talk about the “message” in a Hedley song (there was no message, the song was an annoying top 40 hit that no one will remember five years from now).  

I made it again after I offered to buy the friend of a friend’s younger brother a hot chocolate from Starbucks, and he said it was stupid to buy coffee that you “had to take out a second mortgage for.”  One should not criticize a kind offering from a near stranger.  It was a nice gesture on the part of a [relatively] mentally astute young woman, not a creepy enticement from a pantsless man in a 1989 Oldsmobile. 

After browsing a few pro-family (and pro-family always means anti-sex but pro-gun, go figure) websites, I hate at least 60 percent of people with opinions.  

To the “no kissing before marriage” crowd:  You must be joking.  Kissing – the mere touching of mouths – is now considered (by some, not all) to be an impure practice that compromises a couple’s Christian integrity before the bounds of holy matrimony make it okay to have vigorous, unprotected anal sex in the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn?  Tell me it’s not true (it is)!  

Kissing, some people on the Focus on the Family blog argue, is a prelude to sex.  A wet tongued temptress forcing you to tear off your pants and consummate your unholy union, leading to the inevitable disappointment of God, Jesus and your mother.  

Here’s the thing – an act becomes most tempting when it’s naughty.  No one feels a rebellious rush when studying for a test or volunteering at a food bank.  Why?  Because those are things you’re supposed to do, things that society encourages (and for good reason).  When people – particularly people in positions of authority, parents included – start condemning acts and warning of grave consequences, curiosity is peaked and overindulgence ensues.  This is why the cool kids drink too much and smoke too often and drive really, really fast.  It’s cliche behavior, but it’s still a little badass.  All girls still say they want a man who’s “a little bit of a bad boy,” don’t they?

All I know is this, if people have no intention of having sex at a certain point in time, a kiss won’t turn them into rabid nymphomaniacs, unless they’re overwhelmed and enticed by the dastardly immorality of their scandalous actions.  

As far as other young opinions go, I recall being encouraged to “think critically” in my elementary school days by having light ethical questions posed to me and other classmates.  The favourite question, other than “why was the Holocaust bad?”, was “is it right to keep animals in captivity?”  

That’s a stupid fucking question for several reasons.  One, all kids will say it’s bad because they’ll feel that’s the right answer. Second, it’s unfair because all children love zoos, and need not be guilted into relinquishing the joy that comes from an activity not involving sneaking their mom’s cigarettes.  Thirdly, animals in captivity (this includes domesticated pets, by the by) don’t know any different, so they don’t care.  If they’re well fed and cared for, they’re as content as they can be.  

Furthermore, anyone who watches the Discovery Channel knows that while zoo animals may not be free, they’re safe from predators and starvation and habitat destruction and poachers.  You can’t draw some unreasonable parallel between zoos and fascist governments who trade freedom for safety either, because that’s not an appropriate analogy.  Animals have only one “civil” right, and that’s the right to humane treatment from humans.  They don’t vote or protest or write strongly worded letters to politicians.  They sleep, eat, shit and play, and adequately run zoos allow them to do so in peace.  Also, zoos bring people joy, and there isn’t enough joy in the world as it is.  

Zoos, really, are the least of the animal kingdom’s problems.  If I was a tiger or polar bear or shark or lemur, I’d want to live in captivity.  I’d get used to the stares and shrieks and greasy fingerprints on the walls of my spacious enclosure, and I’d likely never yearn for a short and brutal life somewhere in Africa.  

So, the point of this post (I think), is to stop asking kids about the ethical nature of zoos.  It breeds obnoxious opinions that make me angry.

A Burning Question

So, I’m kinda a member of the press now.

Well, not quite.  I write for a college newspaper, and I write for free.  In fact, I write because it’s a program requirement. However, it’s been a challenge, and a rewarding one at that.  

Anyways, I think I may have made some kind of etiquette or journalistic faux pas today.  Perhaps it was merely a professional one, I don’t know.

I’m writing a somewhat important story about some wayward support-gathering tactics used by a prominent political party.  I’m not the first person to talk about it.  This isn’t a Woodward/Bernstein thing, though it would be cool if it was.  I’d like respect and notoriety at a young-ish age.  If I had it, I wouldn’t have to worry about proper phone etiquette, for people would be calling me.  

So, because this is a somewhat important story, it requires me to contact somewhat important people.  Today, I called a politician, and when his assistant answered the phone, I just asked for the person for whom I was calling.  The assistant seemed kind of surprised, and did a little, “umm, uhh” sort of thing before asking about the nature of my call.  

I guess you can’t just ask for a politician the way you’d ask for your friend when you’re bored and want to talk about America’s Next Top Model.  

Are you supposed to be like, “Hi, I’m so and so, and I want to talk to Mr.____ about this, can you help me?”  

Was it brash and ignorant and rude of me to ask to speak directly to an important elected official?  Did I come off as amateur and socially awkward, or ballsy and assertive?  

I think the former.

Damn.

You’re All a Bunch of Dirty Hookers!

No, but for real – you are (and that’s okay).

Despite the fact that I haven’t updated in about a month, I had 15 hits yesterday (I usually average 2-5 a day).  I am able to see the words people type into search engines that lead them to my cozy neck of the Internet woods (a nifty WordPress feature, to be sure).  Today, I saw the following:

	2
naked vacation photos	2
hot slutz	1
there a feeling i get when i look to the	1
squeeze heavy sweaty balls	1
thoughts of a wayward nature	1
slob on my neck like corn on the cob	1
religion + kink	1
very hot nacked picture in nature	1
jump on the bed and give me head dont ha

I like “squeeze heavy sweaty balls” the best.  It’s not something I would ever think to punch into a search engine.  I haven’t much interest in sweaty balls, or heavy ones.  Balls, I think, are utilitarian rather than ornamental.  The same could be said for any body part, but most people think of breasts as decorations rather than biologically-necessary appendages.  I’d wager a guess that testicle fetishes are almost entirely exclusive to the gay community (but I could be mistaken).

I like that someone searched for “Religion + Kink.”  Those two tend to walk hand in hand on occasion, ironically enough. 

I’ve come to a realization recently.

I have achieved nothing in my life.

I possess a worthless and meaningless degree that’s been given to mass numbers of people stupider and less motivated than myself.  An arts degree is like a happy meal – if you can afford it, you can have it.  You can have six or seven, if you’re feeling peckish enough.  It’s a shame, really.  The arts do mean something.  They are, indeed, important. 

It’s a disheartening how few career academics take them seriously enough to guard them from flagrant idiots who fail – time and time again – to understand them. 

I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but I did appreciate what I studied.  I did, at times, care enough to try.  I could have, instead, written essays so horrific they bordered on obscene.  I would still have that $20,000 piece of paper hanging on my wall.

So yeah, I’m going back to school.  I’m a hypocrite, I guess.  And, well, I’m getting a little desperate for gainful employment (and easy access to a potential job). 

I’m happy to be going back, because I really do hate my job.

Being here depresses me.  I feel very hopeless and useless and devoid of passion.  The heavy fog of circumstantial depression tends to lift on the weekends, so I attribute my general  malaise to my off-white surroundings throughout the week.  If I stay here for too long, I’ll only be able to talk about the mysterious picnic at the bank last Wednesday.  And the various health complaints of the aging courier with a penchant for peanut M&Ms (we have a candy machine). And the difference between Tazo and Tetley teas.  And the horrible pain of pricking yourself with an industrial-size staple that’s come loose within its papery confines.

I can’t do this for much longer.

And I won’t be.

I hope to spend many of my luscious Friday nights in a semi-far away city come September.  A cute basement apartment with a tiny bathroom will be a nice change of scenery (despite my love of big, roomy bathrooms).

I’ll also look forward to uninterrupted “prviate time.”  You know, the kind free of intruders who gasp and giggle and say that they’ll leave once they use the bathroom “quick-time.”

On an unrelated (yet sad) note, I’ll bid a great man adieu.

George Carlin, it seems, has left us.  He was funny, but truly brilliant.  He was one of the few who told us all to stop caring about shit that doesn’t matter, and to care about shit that does.

A wise man, indeed – and one who will be missed.