Remember that scene from Ghostbusters?

Dr. Peter Venkman: This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions.
Mayor: What do you mean, “biblical”?
Dr Ray Stantz: What he means is Old Testament, Mr. Mayor, real wrath of God type stuff.
Dr. Peter Venkman: Exactly.
Dr Ray Stantz: Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies! Rivers and seas boiling!
Dr. Egon Spengler: Forty years of darkness! Earthquakes, volcanoes…
Winston Zeddemore: The dead rising from the grave!
Dr. Peter Venkman: Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria!

Maybe it’s bravado, but strangely enough just like Venkman, I seem to be relatively ok with the fact that we’re all going to die.  No, really.  Because if this crisis is truly meant to be the beginning of we’re-all-royally-screwed-end-times judgment on America for its many sins, then I can’t think of a better way to ensure our complete and total destruction than to elect a Christ denying (yet Christ imitating) dillweed who thinks he can neutralize the threat of a nuke building Iran and a nuke ready Russia with his charm.  Really, what better way to tell God just how ridiculously irredeemable we’ve become than to elect a guy who claims to be a Christian and yet thinks a good Muslim could still make it to the pearly gates as long as he keeps the bombing of civilians to a minimum?  Hey, we’re all good people here, really(!), even if we do think having a baby is tantamount to a punishment, and if we don’t seem to be too bothered at the thought of leaving those that survived failed abortions out to die.  Not that Big-O would ever intentionally do such a thing, he just doesn’t think they merit protection of course, at least not until the kind of offensive language that dares to remotely suggest a fetus is a living thing is completely stripped from such a bill of protection.  Because you know, God forbid we should toss those whacky pro-life freaks a bone that even NARAL wouldn’t have had a problem with.  We do need to be principled here, after all.

No, I just don’t see why God would want to rain fire and brimstone on us darling cherubs of light… except for possibly giving our rich folks far too many tax breaks.

When I think about it, it’s not even Obama that I can’t stand so much.  I don’t even hate on the heathens for supporting him either, since such a godless sort devoid of any sense of morality will obviously go for the Barry-O show.  I can respect that.

No, it’s the self professing Christians who hang on every word he speaks, and who teach their children to sing musical praises of Hopey-O-Change that make me want to stomp their faces in with something rusty and spiky.

It’s no secret that I intensely dislike what passes for American Christianity today, whether we’re dealing with dimwits sipping Starbucks while they fawn over girlie boy Rick Warren’s latest perfume scented books, or Calvinist snotheads who think knowing two words in Greek makes them the most brilliant scholars in recorded history, or charismatics who scream and flail their arms in revival meetings because they think they’re “on fire” and they’re about ready to projectile vomit out a stomach’s worth of 24 karat gold.

Yet nothing makes me want to go out and start bouncing people’s heads off the cement more than those ever devout Christians drooling puppy love over that Obamanation of nature otherwise known as Barack Hussein Obama.  I am absolutely convinced that this very same flock of fluffy sheep will also someday jump at the chance to stand in line for an opportunity to lick the hairy hindquarters of the Antichrist, thinking it will taste just like rainbows.

These to me represent the most darkened, clueless minds in all of creation, and because of their depraved stupidity I may end up witnessing the one thing I never wanted to see in my lifetime: the death of my country.  Thank you so, SO much for that, my brothers and sisters in the Lord.

I don’t get it.  I really don’t.  You hate Bush?  Fine.  You think he’s a war mongering, oil happy, half brained cowboy who caters to the rich?  Fine.  I can understand that.  I even dig the pacifism thing.

Explain the abortion thing to me then.  Explain to me how the violence involved in ripping fetuses to shreds doesn’t somehow repulse your pacifist side the way “Bush’s war” does.  Because when I see people looking to extend human rights to red assed baboons or wail whenever a dolphin is caught in a net, but scream at the top of their lungs for the right to twirl up a fetus into itty bitty bits that would have otherwise become a full fledged human being, then I see only the kind of deranged, twisted up minds that no medicine on earth could ever possibly cure.

And yet somehow, you’re all ok with it.  You can relate to a guy who can’t even get the basic tenets of Christianity right, (though I admit, it would have been more palatable to me if you merely agreed with him on some points and decided only to vote for him while holding your nose at the polls.)  But no, your attitude is one of complete adoration for a morally compromised Chicago politician as if he had come from the very throne of heaven itself.  It exhibits the same kind of mentality that the Antichrist will no doubt someday feed on: unabashed adoration and unquestionable loyalty, despite the transparent seedy and evil character of your so called hero.

It almost makes me want to see the Obamanation become President, if for no other reason than to see the collective look of your ashen faces when you realize with horror that “the one” turned out to be the second coming of JC after all: JC as in Jimmy Carter that is.  Mr. Malaise has finally come back to finish the job.

You know what really frosts my Chips Ahoy cookies about all this though?  It’s the fact that I’ll have to endure the travesty that will soon come upon us, alone.  There will be no honey bunny snuggles to share my misery with while we watch our beloved country commit suicide.  No cuddly bunchikins to hold and share a sweet, tender moment with while our cities riot and burn.  Every dark day that lies ahead of me I will have to face completely and utterly alone, all because not a single one of you hateful, despicable, vile women could manage to find it in your hearts to wubs me.

Fine then.  Don’t come crying to me when the world ends and you desperately need a manly shoulder to cry on.   I won’t be there.

Well maybe I will.  I am desperate and all so who knows, perhaps I can learn to forgive and forget. 

So according to this study, you can tell a lot about a person based on their sleeping position.

As for myself, I am, THE YEARNER:

People who sleep on their side with both arms out in front are said to have an open nature, but can be suspicious, cynical. They are slow to make up their minds, but once they have taken a decision, they are unlikely ever to change it.

Cynical?  Me??  Please.  What a ridiculous study too, probably done by a group of virgin weenie scientists who wouldn’t know what real psychology was if it up and collectively back-slapped all their wart infested faces.

And just because I’ve had the same beliefs about life, politics, religion and evil women in general since I was 7 years old doesn’t mean I’m unlikely to change my mind about things.

… … … what? 

Last Christmas I received a lovely miniature Christmas tree to hang my decorations on, and I decided then and there that my wittle tree would also be known as the Tree of Hope:

…I thought to myself, “I will continue to take care of this tree until I meet the girl of my dreams, and perhaps even beyond.  This will be our future, special tree.”  So as long as the tree lives on, my hope lives on…

Well…

Suffice it to say, I don’t think yellow is a good color for an evergreen tree to have.  I watered it, gave it plant food, made sure it always had enough light, but the fricking thing was determined to die on me, almost like it had heard me when I declared it to be the Tree of Hope my future honey snuggles would someday hang ornaments on, so it decided to spite my ass by committing suicide.

Though it’s not like it really needed the help.  With each failed attempt to connect with the opposite gender since that time I could tell my tree was getting a little browner.  The depths of evil to which evil women go (because they’re evil) was simply too much for my wittle Tree of Hope to handle.

Eventually I decided to take it to work hoping the nuclear powered fluorescent lights over my desk would breathe some life into my poor, wittle tree.  For all I know it could have, but the air here was probably more toxic than I’d care to admit, because now it was starting to turn yellow.

Finally I gave up and planted what was left of the Tree of Hope outside in a small garden area.  After I finished planting it I threw my hands up and said, “Well Lord, I tried.  Now it’s all up to You.”

My guess is that it’ll be torn out by the maintenance crew and dumped into the trash by week’s end, which is pretty much how I think I’ll be going too when it’s my time to check out. 

Ah well.  It was nice to dream for a while. 

Another coworker of mine is getting married, this time it’s a woman with cerebral palsy.  Very nice person too, and when she talked about her fiance, she indicated that he had a similar disability as well.   She showed us all her lovely new ring.

“Wow, that’s probably about as close as I’ll ever get to an actual real diamond,” I said.

“See Linc?  You never know.”

“Unfortunately, I have found that I am the exception to every rule, no matter what that rule is.”

Indeed, it seems lately that every time I look around, I’m always seeing somebody being paired up with their own.  If I see a Chinese girl, she’s holding hands with a Chinese guy.  If I see a black guy, he’s holding hands with a black girl.  Now here’s someone with a disability who is getting hitched to someone else with a disability.  How in a horse’s wide load are these people finding each other?

For my part, all I can seem to attract are women who, oddly enough, look like men.   Does that mean I’m really gay and this is God’s way of trying to tell me to own up to it?

Really quite sure that’s not the case here, but frankly, I’m running out of plausible reasons to explain away this anomaly.

Lately though, I’ve been settling on what I call the “My Man Genes Were Pounded to Fossilized Dino Droppings” theory.  This theory extrapolates that I was somehow born with a genetic defect that precludes a particular demographic of women from being able to see me.  Like, at all.  In other words, if I’m at the supermarket, they will run right through my righteous ass with their carts not because they’re being rude, but because they just couldn’t see me.

The more I think about it the more things start to make sense.  If I hold a door for a girl and she walks right on through without acknowledging me or saying thank you, it wasn’t because she was being rude.  Again, she just couldn’t SEE me.  It also explains why when I’m talking to a girl, she’s always looking past me, like I’m not actually there.  Really, is it conceivable that every woman in creation would be that rude?  Doesn’t it make more sense that they were simply unable to physically see me at all?

I think I need to head down to Harvard with this.  This definitely merits a closer look and possibly conducting controlled studies so this phenomenon can be observed in action.  I’m talking fully funded with grants and the whole works, and lots of hot girls to use as test subjects too.

Seriously, it’s for science. 

It’s no secret that one of my favorite pastimes is to bash women and their womenly ways on a regular basis, being that I’m an acidic women hating hairy baboon and all.

And yet oddly enough, it only occurred to me recently that most of the people I chat with and consider myself friends with are… women??

So I decided to do some research. I went back and evaluated how many guys and gals touched bases with me over the past year, then cut out those I either hadn’t known long enough or whom I rarely ever spoke with.

As it turns out, over 83% of the people I consider myself friends or good acquaintances with were all WOMEN. The number of women I talk to on a regular basis outnumbered the guys by a ratio of 5 to 1.

Dude, whaaa__?

But I also noticed something else: ALL of the women I knew were married or at least 5 years older than me. In fact, to this day I have yet to make a woman friend who was both single and within the ages of 18-30. Unsurprisingly enough, this also happens to be the same group I reserve all my virulent, bile, acidic hatred for, so much that within the underground women-hating movement I’m widely known under the callsign of KILLBITCH.

I’ve asked around about this, and from what I’ve been told so far, many single, young women are basically stupid-ass creatures who don’t get over themselves until they either hit their thirties, or they get married, or both. And sometimes not even then. Mind you this is women telling me this, but who knows, maybe my misogynism was rubbing off on them.

Anyone else have any theories? Why is it so easy for me to make friends with married or older women, and yet it is a bitch and an ass and a half when they’re single and around my age?

It’s no secret that I live the life of a Downtown Man. Women who lived in an uptown world, along with their fancy college degrees and white collar professions could never go for a blue collar bum like me. Social status doesn’t exist in a vacuum after all, and if I don’t got the mojo, then there’s no way I can land me some high class ho-hos, ya know?

But Billy Joel, he made me believe. He made me dare to dream in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, there was an Uptown girl out there who could see past my blue collar ways, and past the gruff exterior. Yes you did, Billy Joel:

But I see now that it was all a dirty, filthy, vomitous lie. Damn you Billy Joel!! Damn you for making me dream wonderful dreams, only to see reality grind them out like so much meat!!!! I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you…