Money

Everyone goes nuts if you drop a buck on the floor. If someone
saw this -> pile of money on the floor, he/she would probably start foaming at the mouth and fling herself on top of it, like that lottery commercial where the money falls from the sky and everyone rushes for it. I mean, yeah, it pays the bills, but still, there's no need to start acting like you're a penniless orphan who's never seen a dollar bill before. I think that's part of the reason that reality shows are so popular, because you get to see the extent people are willing to go to for money, even though you'd do the same thing.


But why? Why are we so obsessed with little green pieces of paper, or rather, really f*cking thin cloth? Why do we risk bodily harm for the aforementioned little pieces of paper? Because, since birth, we have been brainwashed with the idea that those little green pieces of cloth are the most important things in the world, and they are, because everyone believes they are. And when every single person in the world believes something, then that thing becomes a fact and try as one might, one cannot change it.

But is this the best way? Couldn't life operate on bartering for services, "I pull your tooth, you fix my roof?" No, we couldn't. Services have different values and unless one has tried his or her hand at both services involved, one usually thinks that his or her trade is the more difficult and thus worth more. So the bartering could extend until the need has passed or become so severe that it has exceeded the capabilities of the original parties and requires specialists.

Money is quite an integral part of our society and will be for the forseeable future, although why it must be so all-consuming is beyond me. So then, a return to the classic sign-off, and a suggestion: Think about it.

Part 4 of The Sixth Degree

Part 4 of THE SIXTH DEGREE

Dr. Nia Shoreheart nudged her tightly braided dreadlocks out of her eyes and focused on her client. This was her last case of the day before she went back home and shoved Edy’s low-fat chocolate ice cream into her mouth like an unattractive pig. “Lean back, Mr. Houston. This will all be over soon.”

The old man leaned back in the paisley dentist’s chair. “Now open,” ordered Dr. Shoreheart.
The man shoved his long beard out of the way and quickly complied. Dr. Shoreheart hefted a wicked-looking tooth drill and headed for the mouth.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

The screaming was audible in the waiting room next door, where David Schultz-Lancaster was reading an old coffee table book. He looked up in mild surprise. What manner of creature could make a noise like that? He contemplated a moment, then shrugged and resumed his reading, while trying to find a way to appease his wife after their latest fight. She liked tulips, didn’t she? He honestly couldn’t remember, but resolved to get her some anyway, on the way back home. Tulips were flowers, and flowers were always good.

“Mr. Schultz-Lancaster?”

The nurse’s small voice barely reached the contemplative man, but he looked up. He shed the book, and eyed the woman. She was a bit short, but he could manage. David stood and flashed the petite nurse a dazzling smile. She smiled back, uncertain, and as she turned to lead him through the lavender doors, he caught sight of a wedding band shining on her finger. His grin dimmed a bit, and he followed the nurse deeper into the recesses of the building.

I have nothing to say

Guess what happens when you give an introverted single guy who thinks he's the best person in the universe unlimited access to an audience willing to read his work, with the single stipulation that he write at least a paragraph a month? Yes, you're right, it has happened again: I am f*cking out of ideas. My friends say that writer's block is sh*t or it's all in your head. Yeah, like they know. And actually, to clarify, I'm not out of ideas, I have one more, a rant against pop culture, but I figure Lewis Black has that covered pretty well. So, for all intents and purposes, I am out of ideas for the time being.
F*ck, this is a total pain in the a**, having, or rather, wanting to write sh*t and post sh*t but not being able to think of sh*t. I mean, I have another few installments of THE SIXTH DEGREE, but I don't want to post them in case I get writer's block on that sh*t too.

I just read what I've written so far and it sounds like a coherent blog post, so I'm going to post it. Too bad for me, almost no one will ever read what I have written because I have not yet established a prominent spot in the blogosphere. I think one day, I will post total bullsh*t nonsense and THAT will be the day someone comes and reads my blog and they'll see this BS post and think, This guy's an *sshole. I shouldn't give a sh*t about what he thinks. Then they WON'T tell their friends about my insightful clever, mind-opening, and truly witty blog and I will go back to the bottomless pit of the Internet, confined to the anonymity of an electronic Sargasso Sea. (See? I said I was mind-opening. Now, odds are that you will have to look up the Sargasso Sea. I'll wait.) Ah, well. Fame isn't all it's cracked up to be. (So they tell me) I guess I can go without being famous, because then I get to write the sh*t that makes my blog insightful, clever, mind-opening, witty and truly unique. So there, big publisher people. I took writer's block and did something with it. F*ck you. Oh, and normal reader? Think about all the other stuff I said, before I started to insult publishing companies.

Guess What?

OK, so I took this piece of sh*t quiz called "Are you stupid?" and I guess I got my answer right there, because I'm wondering whether I'm f*cking stupid in the first place. So here is a
Question: Who wonders if they are stupid?
Answer: Myself, mentally challenged and the village idiot (George W. Bush)

I have just been notified by the CIA, FBI, and the NSA that GWB is not an idiot. I apologize Mr. Bush, but I will not remove the reference because of the 1st Amendement. (3 Words of Advice: Learn Your Rights. If you ever go to jail or somewhere equally unpleasant but fully law abiding [unlike Guantanamo Bay & Abu Ghraib], you need to know them) Sh*t, I feel like a textual copy of Stephen Colbert, without snarky writers (I have all the snark!). BTW . . . sh*t again, I forgot what I was going to write and both my Backspace and Delete keys are broken right now.

Anyway, away from the World's Longest Digression, which would not be out of place at the 1904 World's Fair (why is "World" capitalized there anyway?), I got a badge for completing the quiz, which is here by the way, if anyone out there wants to take it and HTML works here, but I lost the badge and don't care much about it.

Luckily for all of you out there who wonder about my intellectual capabilities, you Platos of the world, (not capped!) I took an I.Q. test and here is the badge for that! 144! Take that! I am smarter than our current president! (Whose I.Q. is 120-something, if anyone wants to know) And I have a tendency to boast! (Insert Nelson-esque "ha-ha" here) I also am addicted to random tidbits of info I'll never need to know and I ramble! I'm trying to stop myself, but I can't! Must hit 'Publish' button!

The Return/Part 3 of The Sixth Degree

Sol-o-mon's back and I'm better than ev-er! I couldn't resist. I wrote "I'm back," and the Hess Truck song popped into my head, so . . .
Anyway . . . part three of THE SIXTH DEGREE!!

Yolanda Martinez turned on her computer and drummed her fingers impatiently as she waited for it to warm up. Maybe I should buy a new computer, she thought as she ruefully eyed her six year-old desktop. ’Course, the kids gotta come first, as the sound of three year-old playing tag wafted in through the open window of her study. It wasn’t really a study, more of a closet, down to the shelf a foot above her head. And the window wasn’t really a window, more of a hole cut in the wall with a hacksaw by an ex-boyfriend, coerced into doing it by the act that had produced the three kids playing outside.
The computer booted up and Yolanda wasted no time in going onto the long-distance schooling website, where she logged in and started her math lesson. I know it’s not the best way to get an education, she thought, but it’s all I got.
The door of her study banged open. Her oldest son, Samson, stood in the entrance. The thirteen year old boy had always been the child that had given her the most grief, and now she was afraid that he would get caught up in this nonsense with the Bloods and the Crips.
“Moms, I’m goin’ out.”
“Where?”
“To Mr. Houston’s house. I still have that job mowing his lawn for the rest of the month.”
Yolanda glanced at the clock on her computer. “Okay, but you gotta be back by five.”
“A’ight. See ya.”
He left the door open on the way out.