Dude-Skills 101: Fun with Facebook

Geo-Caching is probably cool, or whatever, but Geo-Bashing & Gag-Tagging are way better. I’m pretty sure I invented them. If not, I coined the cool names. I’ll explain how they work, but only after I explain how dudes develop guyness. I’ll explain this so chicks, girly-men & dudes raised in the jungle by wolves can understand the “why” behind Geo-Bashing/Gag-Tagging. Follow…

The dude gender shoulders the responsibility to “provide”, but before that can happen, little dudes must first learn:

A) how to deal with stress
B) how to think on their feet
C) how to NOT get an ass-whooping or eaten by a bear

When we were hunter-gatherers, dude-childs developed strength, agility, cunning & farting skills, through a series of challenges from their elders. I don’t know what those challenges were. I wasn’t around. Get off my ass.

Fast forward. Evolution. Today. Dudes still learn A-C, through SCORN, DERISION & HUMILIATION, at the hands of their elders & their piers.

If they cry? FAIL. Otherwise, they prove their dudeness. This process became the basis for male bonding, which will never change. Ever. After all, if you can stand a good teasing from your friends, a vicious, brutal teasing, then you can kill a sabre-toothed mountain lion. With your BARE HANDS. No problem. The life-long value of this is universally self-evident, among dudes. Got it? Good. Moving on…

But, what if you don’t have mad dude-skills? Are you less of a dude? Yes (for now). Is there something wrong with you? No, but if you run into a sabre-tooth mountain badger, you’re dinner.

Stop crying. You can develop dude-skills & become a real, manly man. Here’s how…

Step 1: GEO-BASHING: Ever clicked “check in”, from your phone, on Facebook or FourSquare? What do you see?

1. Starbucks
2. Walmart
3. Desi’s TuTus & Ballerina Supply
4. Hair Club for Men, treatment center
5. Amp U. Tate’s STD Clinic

Yeah? OPPORTUNITY. Which would your dude-friends LEAST like to see on their Facebook wall? What would humiliate them THE MOST? Bam. Check them in. They’ll be better men for it. Exhibit A: this is ESPECIALLY funny if dude is obsessing about slowly losing his hair. Help him grow a pair of balls…

GAG-TAGGING: In battle, Cromagnons gagged at the site of blood & guts. They got distracted. That’s how the Neanderthals killed all of them. Want to survive? And wrestle alligators? Don’t gag. Train yourself. Like this… Exhibit B:

Step 1: upload to Facebook.

Step 2: tag your dudes.

Step 3: sit back & laugh (cruelly)

IN SUMMARY: dude-bonding + dude-skills development. Remember: Adversity builds strength. Make them suffer. Next time they face a sabre-toothed mountain weasel, they’ll thank you.

My Bucket List

Current Location: Death Valley, CA…

2 years ago, last month, I almost died. 5 months ago, I drove across the country. Today, I’m driving back. Here’s why…

Late one night. July 23rd. I sat awake, pondering the things I’d never done but always wanted to do, but almost never had the chance, because… well… I almost died. It occurred to me that I’d never driven across the country.

So I got in my car and left.

Now, after my accident, I can relate better to old people. At least, we have more in common; I can’t remember shit. My vision sucks. Young people piss me off. Oh, and I can’t remember shit. Commonalities lead to bonding and, suddenly, I got along with old people. In time, they accepted me as one of their own. And made me their leader. And, I would ask them; “how’s your bucket list coming along? Did you check off #1 yet?”

“No… no… Not yet.”, they’d say.

“Well, YOU’RE OLD. What are you waiting for?”

“Too busy. No time. See, my cat got syphilis & I uad to take her to the vet. Then, I had to pick up the dry-cleaning. Shit. I haven’t even opened the mail yet, etc. But one of these days, I’ll get around to it…”

“One of these days, you’ll be dead. Look at you. You’re older than time. Shouldn’t you get around to it sooner, than later? Like, NOW?”

“Well, maybe. One of these days…”

“Knock Knock! Who’s there? Death! At your door, Old Timer…” (They like it when you call them that. Try it.)

So, you’re alive. But you never had time to… live. Hear that sound? That’s your coffin lid, shutting on all the things you hoped to accomplish in your brief life…

But, back to lmost dying. It’s a funny thing. Well, your Mom won’t be laughing it up… count on that… but, anyway, almost dying has a way of making you think about your mortality… in ways you never did before. And, reflecting on your demise?

Well, that gives you the opportunity to think about life. And your life?

It’s a death sentence. Life. Is a death sentence. Your time is running out. You only exist for a fraction of a hair of a cosmic nanomillimicrosecond. What on Earth will you do with all that time?

Poof.

Morgan Freeman summed it up best in Shawshank Redemption…

HOW 2 SURVIVE

After I awoke from my coma, I searched for a blog or first-person account from a survivor. Well, that’s not entirely true. After I awoke from my coma, I thought I was on a 4-star pleasure cruise. My whole family was there, everyone was smiling… & attractive women, in matching uniforms, were bringing me breakfast in bed. The food was delicious. For some reason or another, I had a fist full of $20s in my left hand to tip the wait staff. I made it rain. And I was SO excited to see everyone! This was the BEST VACATION, EVER!

But I wasn’t sure why my Mom burst into tears & began sobbing when I ordered a bottle of champagne & some hot wings for my brother & his girlfriend.

Days later, it occurred to me that I was strapped to that bed & wearing a body cast. The docs laid it on me: I’d been in an accident & my spine was broken. Brain damage, too. I had contusions on every lobe of my noodle except the Parietal. My Occipital had seen better days, which is why I wasn’t seeing very well. My L&R Frontal lobes, which compute actions & consequences, judgment, etc., were pretty mashed up, but I’m pretty sure they never worked anyway, so… no biggie there.

So there it was: shattered spine, brain damage, some busted bones in my torso & a scratch on my left knee. I knew my odds weren’t so good, because if they were, they’d have told me; “You’re gonna be fine! No worries!”… over & over again. But nobody ever tells a patient; “Your survival odds are just shy of 5%. At best. In all likelihood, you’re TOAST. Prepare your will, ASAP”.

Well screw that. NOBODY tells me when I’m gonna croak, or doesn’t tell me when they’re thinking it. So I figured I’d better find a blog by someone who lived. A DIY guide. Time to get inspired… Ink my game plan… and SURVIVE, bitches.

I never found that blog. So I wrote It.

HOW RELIJUN MAKES UR KIDS DUM

If you wish to proudly tell me; “Haha, you misspelled “dumb”, congratulations. Your religious.

If you didn’t see anything wrong with that last sentence, then… ditto. PS: Possessive “your” just isn’t the same thing, is it?

HERE IT IS:

Religion makes your kids dumb. Or, at least, not as smart as they could be. Why? Because questions = thought. Knowledge comes from questions. Faith = “believe it because I said so.”. There’s an invisible silent man in the sky. All these contradictory books say so. No questions, please.

Why are you teaching your kids NOT to ask questions? Think about a two-year-old. When a kids are two, what do they do? Bingo. Ask QUESTIONS.

“Why do flies fly?”

“Why are oranges orange?”

“What’s the difference between general & special relativity?”

Ideally, what should kids do? Yes. LEARN. If asking questions is a natural process in human development, and IT IS, then what happens when you discourage your kids from asking QUESTIONS, with the “miracle of faith”?

You’re right.

They won’t be as smart as my kids.

Think about it.

=============
If you disagree, leave a comment. I reserve the right to be wrong. About everything.

INCREDIBLOG, DAY 2

Completed:

Another evening in my CaRV(TM). Another Walmart sunrise. The mobile homeless dot the parking lot. Their engines begin to rattle to life as their owners return from the restrooms in the bowels of Sam Walton’s useful abomination. Sam Walton was a shadow agent, leading the insurgency for Chairman Mao. Like a skilled Judo master redirecting the force of his opponent’s punch, Sam set the plan in motion, using the weight of capitalism to destroy itself. Dog-loving, pickup-truck-driving bastard.

Lapping the aisles 10 times for my morning workout & watching the tragically overweight, disability-funded Need-A-Bathletes, searching for the latest As-Seen-On-TV neccessity (to live the good life)… I can’t stop myself from thinking of languid, indolent cattle, grazing in the fields. No effort. Everything they’ll ever need, right in front of them. Oblivious to their impending slaughter. These shoppers shop like it’s their job. Not a care in the world. No thoughts deeper than the mist of perspiration dampening their 3rd chins.

Without adversity, there is no progress. There’s just no need.

With my fractured brain, I make out my daily to-do list in my head. Meanwhile, oblivious to their roles as pawns in the insurgency, the shoppers continue shopping.

I am one of them.

IN THE ROAD

Tonight, I sleep in a parking lot. Today, I proved, beyond a phantom of a doubt, that I don’t exist. I can’t. In fact, it’s impossible for me to have ever been born. More on that later. Potentially. For now, I’ll kick-start this blog.

Here it is:

All my teachers told me that, one day, I’d grow up to be a great writer. Maybe the best. Never happened. I suppose it might have, had I written something. But the sky is blue.

At any rate, as an homage to Kerouac… and, in light of the fork my life has taken… right in the eyeball, I’ll call this blog “In The Road”. I’ll do it because;

A) I think it’s funny

…and…

B) It is.

From this post forward, until I die, I’ll write every day.

Hi, Mom. <3 U.

Everyone else: Follow me.

Seven Days

“Seven days”, I thought, as Danrather and I passed the neighbors’ house. The one with the goat on the roof.

I’m leaving in seven days. Better hurry up & finish my new home by then. My motorhome. It’s 40 years old. I bought it from the ex-leader of an outlaw motorcycle gang from Texas; the “Heaven’s Devils”. He moved to Tennessee, to take care of his mother.

Oak Ridge, Tennessee. That’s where we refined the Uranium for The Manhattan Project. Just before we detonated a nuclear bomb.

In seven days, my motorhome isn’t coming with me. Mom just wants me to start it up… & get it TF out of her yard. I’m a grown man who lives with his mother.

Seven days? Should be enough. Then, I’ll drive my VW Noob Eetle…

…to Kansas City, where I’ve hired a guy to rip the engine out. And drop it in a race car; the “Cody Coyote”, from “Hardcastle & McCormick”:

I bought it from a nuclear engineer, who’s also a former surfing champion. He lives in Belize. And Hawaii. And Kansas City, sometimes.

In a perfect world, the VW diesel engine would put the “Noob Coyote” closer to the goal. Which is 100 MPG. Which, most likely, will make it the SLOWEST RACE CAR EVER.

But I left my heart in San Francisco. And my car. The other one.

So I’ll head back that way to retrieve it… so i can resume my 6-month, cross-country road-trip… which IDEALLY, will not end with a coma.

Like last time.

I’m excited about seeing Area 51, Roswell & The Trinity Site, where the 1st nuclear bomb was detonated, at the conclusion of the Manhattan Project.

But, so far, my time in Oregon was the highlight.

The last time I was in Oregon, I shattered my spine. This time, I had the pleasure of spending time with the EMTs, who happened along, last time, when I crashed my electric motorcycle. And lay dying, on the side of the road.

I took them out for a kickass steak dinner & a bottle of Dom, at the Mark V Grille, which is kind of funny, because…

It’s not every day you get to buy dinner for the 2 guys who SAVED YOUR LIFE… at a restaurant that was reccommended to you by the girl who almost ended it.

But, she didn’t mean to do it.

Sometimes, shit happens.

So, Anyway

I meant to start writing this blog 2 years ago, but good intentions don’t always make it to the top of your to-do list. Shit happens, too.

So, anyway, I was sitting on the front porch of a log cabin restaurant in No.Cal., talking it up with an elderly couple about the Redwoods, Airstreams, Area 51 & the price of tea in China, when, suddenly, without warning, they started asking me questions about my life.

Now, I’m not one to talk about myself, but they were asking, so I obliged. Otherwise, it would have been rude, right?

So, anyway, I went on & on… & on… 100MPG cars, comas, outlaw motorcycle gangs, Sasquatch grenades, hand-built castles, grizzly bear spray, and… you know… etcetera. They were fascinated. I’m certain of it. And, after several hours, it occurred to me that I really couldn’t make up a lie that sounded less believable than the truth. And I’m REALLY GOOD at lying.

See? That was a lie, right there.

So was that.

Or was it?

Anyway, It’s almost time for me to hit the road. I have to drive to San Diego, so a girl who shattered my spine can buy me a hamburger.

Hello?

My dog is a robot from the future