I'M THE GUY WHO DOES HIS JOB (FOR MOM)

Picture me, juvenile, prankster, having dinner conversation with a collection of people who, by all accounts, are much smarter than I (in defense, I'm obviously much bigger; evolution favors me). I love it. For every one word spoken, a thousand pop up in my head; constellations of decision trees and logic webs blossom like fireworks when I listen to these worthy scholars. I learn so much from hearing these people talk!

Of course, I'm the jackass that believes you can't be privy to an intellectual conflagration without setting a few small fires. This attitude, while provocative and infinitely more interesting than agreeing with everyone else (see: banal dinner conversation among freshman IR majors ["you know, I wish society would just see the futility of war as like, an extension of our own, like inner conflict, you know?" zzzzzzzzz....]), can cause a bit of trouble.

Consider this: I, well fed and content with not being an asshole, am thinking about having intercourse in an fMRI machine (like you do), listening to a very poignant and pointed discussion of gender discrimination. I am a white male.

What I should have said was NOTHING. There are two truths in our (thank Christ) rapidly/rabidly evolving culture which pertain to this discussion in which I strongly believe:

1. Gender discrimination, like racism and ageism, does currently exist, and
2. is shitty.

Duh.

For fuck sake, DUH!

What I DID say, using a gross economy of words, was "nuh-uh." Why? Well, maybe I wanted to see what it was like to defend sexism, you know... just to see what that's like. I expected to be booed off the academic stage by a barrage of heated, and un-measured words (for truly you can't understand a person's motivation while they are cool, calm, and collected, now can you?). What I hadn't intended was the request for elaboration on a point that, in all fairness, I had just pulled straight out of my ass.

For yea, verily, my friends if there is anyone on this planet who would volunteer to beat the holy iced tea out of every beneficiary whiteman who thinks "blacks / women / jews/ A-rabs / poor people / gays / mex-ee-cans" have no business in their business with their own flaccid boy's club, it's me. And if you didn't know, ya ain't spent enough time with me alone in a closet with a case of MGD and a BB gun. So how the hell do I defend sexism?

Not very well, I'm afraid, but I can stick to what I know, and that's all I can do. So you've been labeled a bitchy, aggressive, silly, insignificant woman in the workplace, eh? Well I'll bet you've never begged a woman for sex, now have you. Yea. I thought so.

That's a little joke so we don't get to serious.

Treading water, I looked back on the last corporate job I held (122,000 employees worldwide, wheee!). If I remember correctly, it didn't matter if you were a woman, a man, or a goddamned kangaroo just as long as you did your job and you did it well. My life was mercifully devoid of any snarky, backroom gossip because we were all to busy with our stock dropping 18 points in 2 years to give a shit about politics. Mmmmm Ramen....

Did I just become an angry, white, male, capitalist???

No no no no no! I was working in an industry where the only reputation anyone had to defend was a reputation for not fucking up. Ahhh the simplicity of cash business...

"Sorry... I spilled coffee all over myself this morning, so I had to come to work wearing this lacy, camisole that displays my firm, milky, bosoms in all their glorious splendor."
"Yea, fine, great, grand, wonderful, you think we could find a way to shave 750k of next quarter's budget? Maybe we could cut back on materials cost, but we might run into problems meeting EOY goals, and piss off our QC folks, which might mean the end of bonuses this year. What were you saying about coffee? Oh, we should order some Chinese unless our SA brats want pizza."
"You're right, let's take a look at last month's production numbers..."

Bring your own stripper pole to work for all I care just as long as I don't have to work weekends.

Alas, I'm a product of a different generation and a different lifestyle. I wonder if my freshman Psychology textbook says we men downplay women's ambition because our father's ruled the roost, and our mothers kept to their place? Not so, Psychologists! (And I'll thank you not to suggest I want to shack up with mom, you twisted bastards). No, no! Our mothers were the pioneering feminists in what I would call the glorious second dawn of gender equality (voting, while totally awesome, was just not enough I would say). Many of us were lucky enough to be born into a generation of working mothers. Mom had a job! Mom had a graduate degree! Mom read books, and smoked marijuana, and listened to rock and roll music! And mom, when it came down to it, never took any shit from dad. Mom never let anyone put her "in her place."

Good on ya' girl.

So, fuck, where was I, which is to say where are we? Well, I suppose we give the finger to those who don't share my progressive, albeit rough-hewn, viewpoint on gender equality, and wait for them to retire, die, and pass a shit-ton of money and entitlement to their bratty, culturally impotent children who will do us no more harm. Amen.

After all, if you can't look me (me!) straight in the face and tell me (ME!) that you don't give a flying fuck what I or anybody else thinks, then maybe we're in for a long, tragic, drawn-out slog to the finish line. The optimist in me believes the world is ultimately so reductionist that the quality of one's work will RULE ALL in the end. No matter how white you are or how many Y chromosomes you have (oodles and oodles!!), if you can't suck it up and do what you said you would, you won't get the respect you deserve from those who really know and matter. Or... even little, ol' me?

This line of reasoning, sadly, doesn't work very well when you're begging for sex. Trust me.

Trust me.

In then end, I'm quite sure I didn't win any popularity contests among dinner guests, but what I did find was that firm confirmation that, no matter how far I roam, am surrounded buy brilliant, magnificent women who will never define themselves in any other terms than their own. That's what I was looking for all along.

And, having now read this, some of you women will hopefully consider intercourse with me? Pretty please?

I can cook, ladies! I can cook!!

Thanks, mom.

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I AM A MARKETING WIZARD

My popularity is waning, according to the hoards of blog readers who email me constantly begging for new post-y goodness (read: "Mom"). Apparently I've failed to provide you with quality entertainment while you sip your morning coffee or pray to God that our long, national nightmare / your current STI will come to a dramatic end soon. For that I am genuinely sorry, but thanks to an upcoming television appearance, a well-rounded diet of peanut butter + lemonheads + Miller Lite, and my own God-given and goddamned ability to drive the ladies batshit crazy, I've been so self-absorbed and so energy drained that I have been just utterly unable to have a single creative thought emerge in this last week. I believe the kids call it "living la vida loca," which I absolutely do not understand and find truly offensive (we mock what we don't understand, doctor. Doctor? Doctor.). Damn kids with their rock 'n roll and their makeout parties....

Fortunately for you/me the weather has turned a rosy cheek, and it's now gorgeous as all get out. In related news, hordes of college women (let's say "graduate students" to avoid any hints o' Nabokov in my narrative) are getting out as well to sun their firm, youthful shanks while nerdy CS majors rubberneck and crash their Segways into each other. Jesus it's a beautiful season. In short, I, your humble ("crass/perverted/hyperactive") narrator, am beginning to feel the faint tingle of a good mood coming on.

A quick check 'o the medicine cabinet reveals that yes, in fact, my good mood is organic in origin and has absolutely nothing to do with the handfuls of prescription drugs I jack from jock assholes who grope my ladyfriends / have the bad luck to invite me to their crappy parties and grope my ladyfriends. [See, I TOLD you I was in a good mood again! Ho HO!] Nope, my glistening aura comes courtesy of Grandmama Nature, herself. Thanks, Geritol.

Why is my mood important? Well, it's really not, and if you think it is, then please send $5.00 in cash to:

That Assclown, Mike Huckabee
P.O. Box 2008
Little Rock, Arkansas 72203

But you SHOULD be happy to know my brain is cranking in high-gear with greasy-slick serotonin lubricating all my happy, dendritic cogs. I, my friends, I have an idea, and you're privy to it first (they say you gotta git in on the ground floor... that's how you build an investment portfolio). I came up with this idea while trying to think about companies that have been so successful at branding, we refer to all products from multiple manufacturers by one copyrighted title (e.g. Kleenex, Band-Aid, the Baldwins).

Speedo is another company with a monopoly on branding. I say "Speedo," you say "leathery, old Europeans." Or you say "Michael Phelps," in which case I owe you a slice of pizza. In any event, we say "Speedo" when we mean "low-profile, competition quality bathing trunks" or some such old-timey lingo because it's easy to remember, ubiquitous, and conjures up thoughts of swiftness. SPEEEEDO. SPEEEEEEEEDO. Whisper the name and watch your words slip away on the wind. SPEEEEEEEEDOOOOOO.

How does one break through the stiff marketing ceiling Speedo installed to keep the entrepreneurial folks like myself out of the biz? Huddle up, and I'll tell ya. You use their own marketing tactics against them. You take "speed" and make it "speedier." You make it warp speedier.

My friends, welcome to the age where the cruel tyranny of Speedo has been replaced by the glorious springtime sponsored in part by "WARP-SPEEDOS, FOR WHEN 'FAST' JUST ISN'T NEARLY 'FAST ENOUGH.'" Observe:

	Speedos		WARP-SPEEDOS

I think we can all agree we will look back one day and say, "forget the internet, WARP-SPEEDOS truly made the world what it is today." Hell yes, they did. Hell yes.

Note: so much of this post was made up, please don't send me any emails warning me about the dangers of taking prescription drugs. I don't even like using moisturizer, and that's on the outside, people. The outside.

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