Thoughts

That’s it. We’re doomed.
Despite all the signs that the world was teetering on the edge of disaster, I pressed on. I had convinced myself that things weren’t that bad. That things were getting better.
And then I opened today’s mail. Lo and behold: the wake up call.
We have reached a level of decadence that’s a sin the likes of which can only be redeemed in blood. Lots and lots of blood.
Something terrible, awful, will happen because of this.
When the Romans got to this point, their empire crumbled.
When the French aristocracy over-debauched, they lost their heads.
And now we’re throwing dress-up parties for dogs.
When word of this reaches Al Qaeda, we’re in trouble. Big, big trouble. As if they didn’t hate us enough already, now we’re actually giving them legitimate reasons. Reasons I can actually agree with.
I find it strange the Lord channeled his message through Real Estate agents, as I’d always thought them second only to lawyers in their Godlessness. Then again, He works in mysterious ways.
And so, The End Of The World has been announced by a poorly art-directed, punning Chihuahua.
See you all in Hell.

As a child, I recall that many jokes were at the expense of the Polish. In particular, the jokes were geared towards the notion that Polish people were quite dumb and equipped their submarines with screen doors and always chose the wrong answer that got them shot by the crazy farmer. Ha ha.
I accepted this wholeheartedly, as we all did. It was funny to think of Polish people, or any people, being really dumb. Not to say the Poles are innocent – they tell Ukrainian jokes.
But I am here now to say that we were lied to, and that anyone capable of speaking Polish is not only smarter than we are, but much smarter, because this language could only be more complicated if they had an alphabet comprised of subtly different triangles.
Speaking Polish is akin to stuffing a box of consonants in your mouth and coughing. Vowels are rare, presumably wiped out en masse by poachers in the 1200s. The average word looks like someone tripped and fell on the keyboard. Thrice.
But the real catch is with the declinations, whereby the endings of nouns, verbs and adjectives change depending on numerous circumstances.
It’s not enough to remember what a kobieta (woman) is. Numerous factors will determine if the “a” at the end of her is actually needed, and if not, what will be replacing it.
As an example of declinations, I’ll use the English word desk and apply the various endings that it would suffer, in Polish, depending on the circumstance:
If the desk was simply sitting there, as a desk tends to do, you’re talking about a desk.
However, if that desk is no longer there, or it happens to be your brother’s, then we’re talking about a deska.
Should an angry mob attack your office and you decide to barricade yourself inside using your furniture, you’d use your deskiem to block the door.
During calmer times, when not being attacked by angry mobs, you might want to kick back, relax and put your feet on your deskie.
If a friend enquires as to where your desk is located, you’d tell him that your desku is upstairs in the spare bedroom.
And, should you be suffering from delusions and wish to yell at your furniture, you’d scream Desko!
And that’s just a damn desk.
Every noun gets the same treatment, not to mention that the adjectives and verbs suffer the same fate. On top of that, every noun is either masculine, feminine or neuter — which themselves have their own endings. And there are different endings between singular and plural. Multiply all these factors together and you’ll soon realize that even describing what you had for lunch requires levels of cerebral calculation incomprehensible to the average speaker of say, English. And most people don’t even speak English that well.
When asked why I’m studying Polish, there are two obvious answers. One, I want to be able to speak with my wife’s family on a level beyond “I like the pork cutlet. It is good.” Two, when the US implodes and I become a refugee, I want to be able to read the street signs in my new homeland. The third and less obvious answer is that the people who speak this stuff correctly must be geniuses, destined to rule the world. If I can actually manage to speak this monster of consonants and tortuous grammatical technicalities with them, I will at least be in a position to apologize to my new masters for all the jokes I made at their expense in the ’80s.
Perhaps they’ll let me off easier than someone who doesn’t know where the desku goes.

Every year, a certain number of actors are selected by the Screen Actors Guild to vote in the Screen Actor’s Guild Awards. The SAG Awards are like the Oscars, but no one watches them.
Nevertheless, the movie studios want your vote because winning a SAG Award is like winning an Oscar, though no one watches you win it. A movie that has won a SAG Award can then advertise that they’ve won a SAG Award on the DVD and video case. This is expected to increase the number of rentals or sales of that movie, much like an Oscar. Just not as much.
Last year, I received a letter telling me I had been chosen to vote in the 2002 SAG Awards. I didn’t realize the ramifications of this at first, but soon came to understand that this was a most lovely opportunity to expand my DVD collection and feel important. Two things I seldom do.

Continue reading…

I would like to propose reparations for the awkwardly-surnamed, and I hope every Lipschitz, Kuntz, Pecker and Lickdyke will join me. We deserve to be compensated for the pain and suffering we have suffered since birth at the hands of mean-spirited schoolchildren, restaurant hostesses and Directory Assistance personnel.
For years we’ve had to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous surnames. Every Booger and Nimrod knows exactly why they’re being asked to repeat their name when making a reservation. Every Ho and Fuykschot is well aware they’re the source of entertainment at roll call. There’s not a Dickgraber or Dumfart who hasn’t been hung up on at least once.
We’ve endured long enough. We didn’t choose these names. These names chose us. When people like great-grandfather Krapp stood in line at Ellis Island, they had no idea that they’d be responsible for generations of schoolyard taunting and grief. The poor bastard just wanted to make a better life, but wound up making life difficult. That sucks. Just ask Mr. Suck.
I know full well the immigration officials weren’t smiling to welcome our great-grandfathers. They were smiling because Mr. Skummy and Ms. Nimrod were hilariously named. They were smiling because they knew their children — the Smiths, the Nelsons, the Washingtons — would have fun at the expense of the Gaylords, Loners and Fuks who were entering the country under their watch.
Oh sure, they’d change Tomaszewski to Thomas. But a Rumplick stayed a Rumplick.
So now it’s time to pay up.
We’ve been left behind. Disenfranchised. Afraid of nametags. Making reservations under our first names. And always explaining, apologizing and self-deprecating every time someone raises an eyebrow. It’s from Latvia, we’ll say. It’s from Cambodia. Russia. India. Nigeria. It’s from somewhere else. Somewhere where it’s okay to be a Ditz. A Dong. A Fartash.
Certainly, there are the unfortunately-named who have gone on to do well. There’s Gay Construction Company. Perhaps they use Dykes Lumber. And when they build a nice house and need a great real estate agent, they need look no further than Mycock.
We may eventually have a gay president, but I assure you he’ll be no Fagg.
Enough is enough. I demand that every Jones, Stevens and Wilson dig deep into their pockets and hand every Beaver a pile of cash. Now. I mean it.
Trust me. You don’t want to see a Prik get pissed off.