Parasite

There are those among us that would have you believe what I’m doing is wrong. They think that I am nothing but a parasite, a leach on the system. They condemn what I do. They say I’m not honest. They say that I have no right to rob from them the very money they allegedly work so hard to obtain. They say a lot of things.
However what no one ever says is that I’m smart; that I’m clever; that I found a loophole in the system and can suck the wealth from every one of their dirty, working man pockets.
I am firm believer in Darwin’s survival of the fittest philosophy. One look at me and you would see that I am not physically fit, nor do I care to be. There is no doubt, however, that I am mentally fit; the fittest I would assert in this shit-hole town. You see, I get what I want and I don’t have to do anything to get it that is except to outsmart you all.
I decided a long time ago, just after that waste of time they call high school, what I wanted to do with my life. I had no desire to see the world. I couldn’t stand seeing the faces in the city I was currently living in do you think I care to see the same hypocritical, smug and idiotic faces in a different setting? Perhaps in a different language? I don’t need this.
I had no desire to be with a woman. They have since invented the internet and that is all I need in the way of carnal pleasure. As far as fostering a loving relationship with a woman, I realized in high school that such an endeavor would be a waste of time and money. A lengthy courting process would only lead to that bitch saying “I just want to be friends.” I don’t need a cunt like that in my life.
Along similar lines I realized I didn’t want to have “friends.” I don’t need them. I learned that a friend is nothing but an enemy who hasn’t showed his or her true colors yet. They don’t need to, I see through them. Oh now I have acquaintances. Surely no one could get along in life without some acquaintances. For instance there is Robert, the old black man that delivers my groceries. I have taken to being on Robert’s good side less I wish harm to come to my provisions. He’s a nice enough man but there is a boundary that is never crossed, that is friendship. Mindless, conversational platitudes are exchanged, as well as cash for my groceries, and I send him on his way.
You, dear reader, are no doubt wondering how I live so comfortably yet do nothing?
No, I am not the child of rich industrialists. I do not have a trust fund. Yes my parents are both dead but they didn’t leave me large sums of money in their will. They simply left me this house, a rather shabby dwelling admittedly but I like it; it is my home. No, I was, and to a certain extent still am quite poor.
You see, just after my thirtieth birthday I was involved in an altercation. I was doing what I’m sure you all are doing, working in a menial, soul consuming job. I was a janitor at our local Bank of America. A lowly job moving dirt from place to place, and arranging shit into neat and manageable piles. The way I saw it there was not much difference in what I was doing than what the tellers were doing.
Wouldn’t you know it? The place gets robbed!
“On the floor fat man, and don’t fucking move!” said the ski mask wearing, armed individual. I looked at the tellers, scared shitless, not wanting their lives to end so that they could return to this job and keep the shit moving and continue living in monotony.
I on the other hand saw an opportunity. I struggled with the gunmen for control of the firearm when a bullet discharged and ripped through my shoulder and neck, clipping important nerve endings along its journey.
One of the tellers showing some sign of brain activity in the situation had pressed the silent alarm button under her station and police arrived just as the masked man streaked out the door with a sack full of $300.
I spent significant time in the hospital. The bullet had severed nerves that would result in my having a limp for the rest of my life and of course left me in constant pain, or at least that’s what I stressed to them.
I no longer needed to work. I began receiving disability checks after I was released from the hospital. That is when I knew I could finally live the way I always wanted to live; I cut the few ties I had with the outside world.
I now live in my parent’s house, alone, with internet access and satellite television. I have a nice couch where I spend the majority of my waking hours. Since my change of lifestyle I’ve put on a considerable amount of weight. I don’t have a scale and I refuse to go to the doctor but I’m sure I’m past 600 pounds now. I smoke harsh tobacco and watch old movies.
Occasionally I watch the news. I often see stories about the job market and how horrible it is right now. I see how “normal people” have to work two or three jobs just to get along. They interview these poor people, some of them in tears, hoping that the government or their conspicuously absent God will save them in this time of crisis.
Fuck them.
They are but the ignorant masses who will never find a way out of their hopeless situation. They are not smart like I am. They have no foresight. I knew the way I wanted to live and when I saw my opportunity I took it.
Sure they say I’m nothing but a parasite. A fat leach on the system, a system by the way that they continue to support; that I have no conscience and am taking advantage of program designed to help those in serious need. They say I am nothing but an unfeeling virus, helping to drain the life out of the rest of the populace.
I say survival of the fittest.

Prison and Film

I apologize to my kind reader (hey Cecil!) for my absence in the last month. I’m afraid for the entire month of March I was in prison.

I was given a speeding ticket for traveling at 46 mph in a 45 zone. A minor infraction to be sure but I happened to be driving a stolen police car at the time.

Even the most incompetent of cops tend to recognize a situation is afoot when a bald man wearing purple lipstick and a bathrobe is behind the wheel of one of their vehicles.

I did not resist arrest. I, in fact, gave a moan of pleasure when I was cuffed and asked the officer to cuff me tighter.

I was put on trial later that evening (the judicial system moves very fast in a fictional tale) and sentenced to a month in the Robert Blake State Penitentiary.

The old adage about surviving in prison is to pick out a fellow prisoner and beat the shit of him on your first day. I tackled a 3 foot Australian man to the floor and pummeled him with my best blows.

After he finished kicking my ass I was helped to my cell by two large black men who placed me on my cot and laid down on either side of me. I suppose I fell asleep at this point and had a marvelous dream about Oreos.

Well I’m out of the slammer now and back to work. I sit here on my hemorrhoid doughnut slurping pizza puree watching an old movie, which brings me to this particular rant.

I love old movies. I really do, the storytelling is far superior to that of modern cinema. The ambiance is better, the dialogue is rapid fire and there is no Pauly Shore.

However I am very creeped out by a certain aspect of these classics. When I watch a film from the thirties or forties I have a voice in the back of my mind nagging me with the comment, “Wow, all these people are dead now.”

I find it somewhat off putting to watch the work of a dead person. I don’t know why but it only bugs me in these old films, not in modern ones where an actor had died.

Fuck Heath Ledger.

However it really creeps me out.

The worst is when there’s a baby on screen. If I watch a classic silent film from 1917 or thereabouts and they show a baby in a scene, I have to stop myself from puking. “Wow, that baby is dead.”

I can’t reconcile the fact I’m watching a dead baby. King Solomon or not, no matter how you slice it a dead baby is not enjoyable.

On the contrary, when I watch an old movie say from 1928 and they show a VERY OLD person on screen I feel the complete opposite.

I feel a rush of joy and wonder.

It warms the cockles of my heart to see someone who was born before the civil war getting a chance to be forever preserved on celluloid.

That is why I will only watch old movies now set at geriatric facilities.

There are only about two of them, and I have not seen them, nor do I know if they exist; but those are the only ones I watch now.


I can’t think of a witty way to end this piece so let me just reiterate, Fuck Heath Ledger.

Work

Something I have a problem with, work ethic. I deal with too many distractions. Hold on, my hands are freezing right now making typing a bit of a chore. It's like I just felt up Frosty the Snowman. OK that's a little better. As I was saying, work ethic is one of my biggest bugaboos. Sure, when I first started Medicated Minutes I made numerous posts all in a single day. Those were some writings from the past that I dredged up and knocked the dust off and posted for your sheer entertainment. I have plenty of writings left but so many of them are incomplete thanks to my work ethic. So I'm forced to write entries like this to keep the blog current where I'm out of witty sayings and phrases so expertly turned. There is nothing special about writer's block, besides I don't think I have writer's block. I'm just out of ideas. If I was able to snatch a good idea out of the great celestial wireless I would write the shit out of it. That reminds me, I did have an idea recently for a sitcom. It's about conjoined twins, one of whom is a Harvard educated astrophysicist and Nobel Prize winner. The other is mentally retarded. I even thought of a catchy sitcomish name for the show, "I'm With Stupid." It would never make it to air, too many protesters in wheelchairs holding up their misspelled signs and mumbling protest chants outside of the network headquarters; that is until an ice cream truck drives by and they wheel and limp after the vehicle with the pretty colors and funny music. I'm forcing it. Ah, caffeine doesn't work anymore. I'm switching to crack.

Day

I have plenty of good days. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a grumpy Gus all the time. I have days where I'm cleaning out the cesspool and discover a shiny new quarter. Good stuff.However it's gotten to a point where people unintentionally make me feel guilty whenever I don't have a good day."Why do you look so glum, Joe?" "I just sat on my balls, Reverend." Look I think it's perfectly normal to have days that just...suck. Some people have more of those days than others but I'm sick of the comments and false "Cheer ups!" from people I barely know. Anyone who has read anything on this blog, Hi Mom, will deduce that I'm not the most chipper guy normally. I tend to walk around with a perpetual look of a Basset Hound on suicide watch. That is no reason to saunter up to me, with a "pedophile in a candy store" grin and try to cheer me up with cliche phrases. Often I feel fine but people assume I'm deep in thought, pondering the purpose of the universe and questioning the reason for living. I'm thinking about breasts. I'm going through my photographic mental index of boobs, examining the curves, shapes and hang-time of these marvelous melons. I'm simply entertaining myself instead of eating my stale fucking tater tots in the school cafeteria and you approach me with your fake concern and ruin my boob-tastic times. Stop it. The only way I won't object to this in the future is if my interrupter is a woman willing to add her milk cups to my photo album.This has been one of those days.

Blogs

A Buddy of mine recommended I start a blog, in order to let the internet community know what a knucklehead I am. Everything you will read about me is true. And by true I mean false; it is a complete fabrication I've constructed to shield my inner child from bullies and policemen.Aside from my name and educational status I have done nothing but lie. If at anytime while maintaining this blog I feel my mask start to slip I will run my right wrist through a band-saw. This would serve many purposes, first to scare the shit out of my left wrist but also it would make typing any truths about myself near impossible. I mean with a bloody stub not only would I hit about 11 different buttons at once but I would short circuit the keyboard with my spurting bodily fluid. Again.

Public Service Announcement

Hi, I’m George Clooney, I’d like to take a minute to talk to you about stale bread. Stale bread is the 3rd largest cause of crappy sandwiches in this country. But with your help we can overcome this plague on sandwichery. Now I’m not innocent in this scenario either. I was once a young, wild, out of control college kid who liked to experiment. I did what most of you have done, or still do; After making a sandwich I would simply tuck the excess plastic of the bread bag up under the remaining slices. *shakes head* But after the pain of having to eat sandwiches with slightly stale bread, I finally had had enough. I began to use the twisty tie. The twisty tie became a life saver, and I’m here to tell you that it can save your life too. With your help and use of the twisty tie we at the ‘National Association of Zero Indigestion’ hope to improve sandwich quality by 3% over the next decade. To learn more about saving sandwiches please visit the National Association of Zero Indigestion at www.NAZI.org. *Broad Smile* I’m George Clooney, take it easy America.

Square Dance

Hey!
Do you want to square-dance with me? Seriously, I bought new boots from Ray's Boots and Bait. They're a little snug to be sure, but if you accept my invitation you could help me break them in. Aw come on darlin, don't walk away. Look will you at least let me buy you a slice of pie? Yeah? That's swell, I mean seriously that is great news! Tell ya what, I know this little place not more than a hop and a skip from here, what do ya say? Boy howdy! I sure like that answer! You know you have a beautiful smile. Your very welcome. You look a little chilly, here put my coat on. Whats that hon? Yeah my dog sleeps on it. Those spots on the cuffs? Well Babydoll has a problem with anal leakage. You sure you don't want the coat? Alrighty, if you change your mind let me know. Ah, here we are, "Chunky's Diner." Here let me get that door for you sweetheart. How about that booth in the back? Great! Oh hon what did ya sit in? Oh thats just a little of Chunky's brown gravy, it'll wash out with Tide. Ok, you can have my seat. Don't say I never gave ya nothin. Yes waitress we'll have two slices of Chunky Pie. I'll have a cup of the house coffee also, you want anything to drink darlin? No? Alright just the coffee and pie then. Nice place ain't it? Ok? This place is what America's about. Late night pie and coffee, I can't think of anything better... that is except being able to share it with such a beautiful woman. Is that a blush? Oh, its poison sumac? I hate that, itches like the Dickens. Oh here comes the pie. Thank you ma'am. Go ahead darling eat up! Good ain't it? Oh that tangy flavour is the lemon peels. Gives the pie an extra zing, don't you think? Sure you don't want a cup of coffee? Alright, just remember I offered. You know I don't know whether its the weak flourescent lighting, or the smoke of cigarettes and burnt pork products in the air, but darlin, you have never looked better. Pardon me darlin, this coffee's gettin to me, I gotta go drop the kids off at the pool. Wow, ten pounds lighter. You didn't finish your pie honey. Not hungry? You women and your dieting. I say there ain't nothing wrong with a big woman, as long as she's proud. Do you need a ride anywhere? Good thing, cause I'm not sure I could fit you on my bike. It's a 94 Huffy. Yup just replaced the ball bearings last Monday. It's a smooth ride. Oh you have a Mercedes? Well, I don't reckon I could ask you for a ride? No I know, It was wrong of me to ask. Well it was a pleasure meeting you darlin. You take it easy now, don't forget ole Red now ya hear? All right, take care sugar. Another cup of coffee waitress! And may I say, you are the most beautiful waitress I have ever seen...

Knowledge

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.