3. Confronting Bigots
I’ve met my fair share of terrible people. In fact, you could say that they flock to me. Something about me just rubs people the wrong way. I can’t tell you how many times someone has pulled me aside to tell me that they don’t like something about me. I can’t make them go away. I mean, sure, I could murder them, but I’m pretty sure that’s illegal in some states. What I really want them to do is say whatever they want to say to me into a mirror. Usually, the problem is that they haven’t confronted their own prejudices and realized that the problem is not me, but their inability to give me a fucking chance. It takes a while for that to sink in, however. In the meantime, I have to find all manner of creative ways to tell them to fuck off. Sometimes, I ignore them. When that’s not possible, I just tell them that they’re wrong as many times as I have to before they shut their ignorant little mouth. I don’t think there’s anything narrow-minded about that; to sit down with someone and tell them that they don’t understand how things work around here is to predicate an entire conversation on the assumption that they’re just not getting it. But I do get it. It’s everyone else who doesn’t get me. So if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just continue being an asshole. It’s not fun, exactly, but it is something of a relief.
2. Obsessing Over Meaningless Bullshit No One Else Cares About
Those of you who know me know I don’t have the same idea of “fun” that most people do. Some people like to party. Others like to get drunk, and/or abuse other substances. Most people like to do both. I don’t care for either. I’d much rather spend an evening watching cheesy English science fiction. I’ve mentioned this before, but I had a friend for a while with whom I would organize viewing parties for Classic Doctor Who. Some people think that the older Who is cheap, slow, and borderline unwatchable. I think they’re fucking morons. Classic Who is richer, more textured, and just more real than the newer stuff–which is slick, pretty, and utterly phony. But that’s beside the point. The point is that after close to a year of hosting those parties, my friend said no to having another one. Just like that. He told me that he wasn’t getting into it, which is interesting, because he hadn’t complained the last time we’d watched it together. In fact, if I know my friend (and I like to think that I do, or at least, did), he seemed to be having a jolly old time. He laughed at the low-rent production values (which are bad enough to make the original Star Trek look like Star Wars), admired the high-spirited adventure of the whole thing, and told me several times how much he loved me. Sound like a guy who’s enjoying himself? Then one day, he simply got tired of me. I waited by the phone to see if he’d call, but he never did. It’s been over nine months since I’ve talked to him. He passively shut me out of his life, then forced me to move on. Remember how I said that I rub people the wrong way? Most people don’t turn their back on someone that suddenly. But when you convince yourself that what this is really about is whether or not old English telly is your thing (I’d have watched Swedish gay donkey porn with my friend if I thought he wanted to watch it with me), it’s easy to walk away. I don’t do that, mainly because I have so few friends left to walk away from. I am, however, getting quite used to whiling away the hours in my room alone. Sure, I could go out, but I don’t want to. Care to join me sometime?
(I should add, in case anyone is curious, that if you’re looking for a good place to start with Classic Who, it’s hard to beat The City of Death, a funny, well-written serial with a story by Douglas Adams and starring Tom Baker, everyone’s favorite old-school Doctor. It’s available on Netflix and is just over 90 minutes long. Chop chop!)
1. Having Sex
Unfortunately, I don’t get to do this one as often as I like, so I’ll just talk about something else: having a sick sense of humor. Have I talked about that before? I don’t care. I don’t condone rape; I just think it’s hilarious. Most of my favorite jokes deal with rape, and those that don’t could definitely be improved by its addition. Why did the chicken cross the road? I don’t know, but rape rape dead babies child abuse! I’m only partially being sarcastic. Really, Daniel Tosh crossed a line when he talked to that one woman whose friend wrote a blog post that everyone read and immediately started talking about. It was a great opportunity for self-righteous A-holes to shake their heads and pontificate about how comedy may be good for making light of some matters, but rape is far too serious to be a subject for comedy. Bullshit. I raped someone last night, and I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t guffaw heartily throughout! But seriously, it’s not up to anyone, not even the victims of rape, to rule something out of bounds for the rest of us to talk about. I’m getting tired of all this talk about whether or not it is “too soon” to make a joke about something. It’s never too soon to ridicule someone who deserves it. And an insensitive joke is insensitive no matter how long you wait. So let me explain something to those who are wondering where I’m going with this (most of you, I’m guessing): a joke about rape itself is never funny. A joke about the rapist, maybe. Perhaps even a joke about the way that we perceive rape victims can be acceptable, given the circumstances. But the act of raping someone is, yes, off-limits as a subject for humor. That’s not something I say lightly.
By all means, though, let’s make fun of James Holmes. He’s a dick, and should be regarded as such.
Also, I don’t have a vagina, but if I did, I would definitely want to see how much government I could fit up there.