I Don't Accept That

Blogger fucked up, and they fucked up on my birthday. How unacceptable.

I used to know an Asian neurologist who, when confronted with something with which he did not agree, would angrily proclaim, "I don't accept that."

Actually, when he said it, it sounded more like, "I don assep tat!" I think there are a lot of people who would say that what I just did there is racist. These people are the same fucklords who want to ban "Huckleberry Finn".

Anyway, Blogger deleted my birthday post yesterday, and the lovely comments that went along with it, and I don assept tat. Of course, I realize that I do not live on an isolated island with mermaid-style prostitutes and tufted leather chairs and endless supplies of sugary, chocolatey treats. I realize that other people were fucked over by Blogger on May 12th. And I am angry for them. I am angry for you.

I bleed for you. Out my ass. My ass bleeds for you, ******.blogspot.com.

It. Bleeds.

I figure that the internuts are full of irate posts about Blogger's ineptitude by now, and I typically don't add my voice when I know there are other far breathier voices out there and they're all talking about the same thing. The thing is: I'm really upset. The other thing is, in a situation where a bunch of people are doing one thing, I typically present myself with two options:

1.) Take a contrary position

or

2.) Stay silent and/or talk about something else

Now, option 1 is clearly out of the question. How the hell can I take a contrary position about Blogger twisting my nuts and calling it love? "Oh, Blogger fucking up on my birthday? Yeah, it really gave me a chance to be all contemplative and disconnected from the fast-paced online world and I used the time I normally would have wasted blogging traipsing about in the wilderness holding hands with a grizzly bear and we picked a couple daisies and shoved them up each other's twart."

I mean, come on. That's just silly. No grizzly bear would ever hold hands with me.

I considered option 2, but I'm not very good at staying silent, and, truthfully, I couldn't really think of anything else I wanted to talk about. So, by default, I was going to blog about Blogger's immense cock-up, one way or another.

I suppose I should go easier on Blogger, seeing as they've provided me with 792 opportunities to pretend I'm a writer and all, with relatively few interruptions or complications. And it's free, so, really, you'd expect the servers or the interface to fuck up a lot more than it does, because things that are free are generally for bullshit-- like those stale-ass cookies in the Bank of America lobby or sex in Thailand or those BIC pens on the counter at the hardware store. And it's very true that everybody makes mistakes, and the error that prompted Blogger to shitcan probably 798,432,345 blog posts on May 12th was most likely a human error, prompted by some college drop-out's decision to masturbate in his cubicle and his gyrating elbow hit some key or other-- and that's a forgivable human mistake. And I can acknowledge that. I can understand that. I can relate to that. If I look deep down into the smarmy, swarthy depths of my thirty-one-year-old soul, I can even forgive that.

But I don assep tat.

The One With the Waggily Tail

When people don't know what to talk about with other people, they tend talk about their dogs, because it's slightly more interesting than talking about the weather, and it's definitely less provocative than talking about the latest technological advances in clitoral-stim devices, and it's usually more entertaining than talking about their cats. Unless the cats in question are consuming Christmas tinsel and/or string that then comes out of the cat's asshole.

So, people, I've noticed, talk about their dogs-- especially people at work. One psych tech with whom I work was recently bellyaching his misfortune at getting a "fucked up" dog from a shelter. The dog routinely runs, at full tilt, until he collides head-first with the wall, spins around in circles until it throws up and is thought to be, generally speaking, disordered in the brain department.

Spiking off this discussion, one of the nurses on duty approached me with her feelings of guilt that she had purchased a puppy recently from *gasp!* a pet store. She said that she agonized over the decision, because she knew it was "morally wrong" and that she "wouldn't be able to look in the mirror again" after purchasing the dog, but, as she drove away from the store, she called her friend to ask her what should she do, because she had fallen so desperately in love with this one puppy.

"Turn your car around," the friend said, "go back there, and get that goddamned dog."

And the nurse in question did just that, and she loves the dog to pieces.

"Seven hundred dollars later," she said to me, rolling her eyes. Another one of her friends, upon hearing that this nurse had purchased a dog at a *gasp!* pet store, stopped speaking to her.

And this, loves, is where my blog post for today comes in.

I have my opinions about pet stores, and the people and entities who supply pet stores with their, ahem, products. I have my opinions as a self-righteous, two-time "rescuer" of dogs from unpleasant situations. I have my opinions, and you know more than most that I am not shy when it comes to expressing them, but, when our opinions on issues get in the way of our friendships, well, then that is just very, very sad. You can have your beliefs, you can have your thoughts, you can have your views of how the world ought to be, and how others should behave, but try to have a little perspective with your lemon bread, you know?

Pet stores are not evil, the people who purchase pets as opposed to adopting them are not the devil incarnate, and there are breeders who operate responsibly, within the limits of the law, and do their best to respect the dignity of puppy life.

So. There.

Bark.

Da Finga

I'm far too civilized.

I wouldn't say "classy," or "mature," because I do acknowledge and appreciate the humor inherent in the fact that the word "fart" is almost in the phrase "far too" but for that tiny little space. Just call me the thin Peter Griffin...

But I'm definitely too civilized.

I was looking at someone's Facebook album that contained old pictures from my days in college. Eight-year-old photographs. That had to be digitally scanned in order for them to be uploaded onto Facebook. That's how old I am. Fucking scannable.

Anyway, in one of the pictures, a group of schmucks I know, maybe thirty or forty of them, were all assembled in front of the camera and all of them were giving the camera (and, presumably, the camera operator) the finger.

With both hands. That's nearly eighty middle fingers, if my math is correct. And it probably isn't. Why should today be any different?

And, as I looked at this picture, I thought to myself, "I've never given anybody the finger."

That's a disappointing thing to realize.

Sure, I've given it to people in jest, and I've given it in photographs, too, but never out of anger. Never in the heat of the moment. Never behind the wheel of my car. Well, I do, but it's always hidden under the dashboard. Never extended through an open window or a sunroof. I've never had such a heated argument with another person where I've found it necessary to resort to one finger, thrust upwards, to underline or underscore a point I was making. I don't even think I've ever told another person to go fuck him/herself out of real anger.

And don't say, "Well, maybe you just don't get angry," because, trust me, I do.

When I get angry, though, I'm more likely to well up with tears. And I don't know if that makes me sensitive or if it makes me a pussy or if it makes me a prime candidate for therapy, but it's the truth.

If I yelled at someone, out of real, true, hot anger, my voice would start to quaver and break. My hands would start to tremble, and it's very difficult to muster up the fortitude necessary to shout, "FUCK YOU, YOU GODDAMNED ASSHOLE!" when you're about to start to cry. I doubt giving the finger has much impact when your hand is shaking worse than Katie Hepburn's head.

Not only that, but my middle finger looks, well, funny.

It's too long. And too skinny. Too bony. It looks ridiculous when it's fully extended. If I really gave someone the finger, they'd probably fall on the floor laughing. My middle finger looks like John Cleese's leg. And John Cleese's legs are funny. They're much funnier, I suspect, than Henry Kissinger's or Danny Aiello's.

In the movie "Fletch," Chevy Chase gives the finger to his newspaper editor in an unusual way, I noticed when I first saw the film at age 11. The knuckles of his index and ring finger protrude out past his extended middle digit. I tried this in the mirror of my bedroom and found that sticking out knuckles 1 & 3 somewhat ameliorated the effects of my absurdly long and skinny middle finger. I resolved that, were I ever to give someone the finger in a pressure-cooker situation, that I would give it like that, so that they wouldn't laugh at me.

But I haven't had to do that to anybody yet. Or, at least, I haven't done it to anybody yet.

I don't get into fights very often. I'm very non-confrontational. I suspect that this arises from my fear of getting shot in the face, or even punched in the face. For someone as dubious-looking as I am, I'm very protective of my face. I don't want any of its components enlarged or rearranged. I have enough holes in my face-- I don't want another one. People shoot each other all the time and I have no reason to suspect that someone wouldn't shoot me in the face for giving them the middle finger.

Back in high school, during our production of "Pygmalion," the kid who played Colonel Pickering said that he's always wanted to go out for his curtain call and give the audience the finger. Obviously, he wouldn't do that, he told me, so, instead, he comes out with his hands in his pockets, bows, and gives the audience the finger through his trouser pockets. The double deuce.

"Huh," I said, backstage, "that's an interesting idea."

And, one night, I tried it. There they were, hundreds of audience members, clapping like mad after our probably seven-hour bollocksing of George Bernard Shaw's theatrical masterpiece. I stepped out and took center stage, after having thoroughly exhausted the cockney out of myself playing Alfred Doolittle, drunken chimney sweep extraordinaire. I stopped and listened briefly to their applause, my hands in my pockets. And I bowed.

Too fucking civilized.