Is there a fucking doctor in the house?

Everyone thinks they are a fucking doctor.  And I don't say "fucking" as an expletive but more so, as a specialized kind of doctor; like instead of a foot doctor or an ass doctor, we all think we are fucking doctors.


A doctor that specializes in fucking.


Of course, there is no such thing as a fucking doctor but everyone thinks they are a fucking doctor.

I have been dealing with some anxiety issues lately.  These issues are causing me to be a little more annoyed than usual.  When I am annoyed, I tend to let everyone who is annoying me know that they are annoying me.


For example, a few months ago at a work, a clueless woman asked me what I was planning to dress up for as Halloween.  Because I believe that men who dress up for Halloween are insane, I immediately responded, "Only pedos and gays dress up for Halloween". 


The woman immediately stated, "You need to get laid".  As if getting laid would change my opinion on adult men who dress up on Halloween.

Seriously, do you know how many times I have heard that phrase?


That phrase is used everywhere for all occasions.


If I'm in a bad mood or just annoyed by someone's behavior, it never fails that some unclever adult will comment, "you need to get laid".


I see that phrase used by many on social networks.  I hear it at work constantly.


It's as if people believe that having sex will cure everything.

One day, I am going to get my doctor's license and open my own practice. As each patient comes in with his or her ailment, I am just going to say, "You need to get laid.  Thanks for coming.  That will be $19.99 and we will bill your insurance company."


Some examples as me as your doctor:

Woman:  Doctor, I found a lump on my breast.
Me:  Ma'am, you need to get laid.

Man:  Doctor, I can't get an erection.
Me:  Sir, you need to get laid.

Child:  Doctor, I fell out of my tree house and I think I broke my arm.
Me:  Son, you need to get laid.

Now, do you see how ridiculous all of you fucking doctors are?


I think my favorite fucking doctors are the hippies.  The minute we go to war against some rogue nation or a group of "terrorists", it never fails:  the fucking hippie doctors march in front of the White House with signs that read, "Make love not War".


Look, I am against war as much as anyone else but I'm not delusional enough to believe that sex is the answer to the world's problems.  The hippies act like if we all just went home and got laid all of the evil people would disappear.

Note to hippies:  Evil people probably fuck more than you do.  And guess what?  They are still evil.


Anyway, I admit that I need to get laid.


But I promise you this, after those 3 minutes are over, I will still be easily annoyed.


Sex isn't the cure for our behaviors.  It certainly has no impact on evil in this world or even those miniscule quirks people have that annoy the rest of us. 


I would go even a step further and say that the fucking doctors of this world are simply prescribing a placebo when they attempt to claim that fucking will take that edge off. 


Sex certainly has its benefits and yes, the release of dopamine creates a positive reaction in our bodies.  However, food and chocolate also do the exact same thing yet no one tells me to go eat a Big Mac or a Snickers bar when I am a little annoyed.


You fucking doctors think you know it all.  

The Normalcy Bias‏

What if the Mayans were right?

Based on the normalcy bias, we don't dare ask this question.  We simply make jokes and brush that magical date of 12/21/12 off as just another day.

The normalcy bias is the reason why people laugh at those who claim we are in the last days.  It is the reason the people of the South were not prepared for Hurricane Katrina despite ample warnings to be so.  It is the same reason why people refuse to recognize the impending and inevitable economic collapse of our country. 

The normalcy bias is why the people of Germany handed their freedoms over to Hitler and cheered him on as he invaded all of Europe.


"The normalcy bias refers to a mental state people enter when facing a disaster. It causes people to underestimate both the possibility of a disaster occurring and its possible effects.  The assumption that is made in the case of the normalcy bias is that since a disaster never has occurred then it never will occur.  People with a normalcy bias have difficulties reacting to something they have not experienced before. People also tend to interpret warnings in the most optimistic way possible, seizing on any ambiguities to infer a less serious situation" -Wikipedia


Despite all the obvious signs that things will be getting worse and not better, we, as people, prefer to live in our little bubbles insulated by the technical advances of the last few years.

What gets me is how we all live in the contemporary.  If we haven't personally witnessed something or experienced it, we don't believe that event or that something could have existed.

We look at a picture of a starving child in Africa and empathetically mourn for them.  Briefly.  Then mere hours later, we are lamenting our own hunger because dinner won't be ready in time.

No one believes that one day they could be that starving child in Africa.

The Mayans are not right about 2012 but they are close to the truth.  This world, your home, my life will be considerably different in 12 months.  Just like last year at this time.

I want a child.  Odds are I will never be a father.  I do not nor can I imagine how it is to raise a child in today's world.  I don't even know if it's fair to do.  I toss this dilemma around in my head nightly.

But something happens.  Something... and it never fails.  In fact, it happened just two hours ago.

Standing in my driveway with the neighborhood stray cat rubbing up against me, the next door kid walks up to me.  He smiles.  Bends down to pet the damn cat.  Stands back up.and stares at me awkwardly.  Then as beautiful as anything on God's earth, he says, "my dad hates cats so please don't tell him I just petted yours".

"It'll be our secret and you can pet him anytime.  He doesn't have an owner", I replied.

As quick as a 6 year old can be, the boy stated with such certainty, "me neither."

Man, kids are the reason the Mayans are wrong.

Kids haven't experienced anything.  They see the world through unjaded eyes.  This world is a blank canvas to them and they paint it exactly how they want it to be.  It is why when children color they make purple suns, stick figures with disjointed limbs, and yellow grass.

This is their world to paint, to mold... to perfect.

There is so much hope out there.  So much beauty.

I am prepared for a terrible year.  I suspect one year from now that many lives will be in absolute chaos.  Just like last year.

But the good news is no one owns us.  Our free will can never be stolen from us.  We can paint our worlds any color we choose.

And when those floods come ravaging through our lives, we can sit atop our rooftops pointing fingers and screaming words of anger or we can patiently wait for the waters to ebb and become stronger for it.

Me. You. Fuck, Fuck.

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Binge and Purge

For the rush, I jump
the catharsis of adrenaline
Superman has lost his cape

And I binge like an overactive child on Ritalin

Mr. love junkie has found his needle

everyone needs a dose of their own medicine

For serenity, I pray
the catharsis of religion
mother mary is crying blood

And I binge like a hungry pigeon

Mr. man upstairs is out of bread

everyone must make an uninformed decision


The ordinary colors paint this canvas
And my sky is filled with lemon drops
So, I put my faith in the fearful farmer
who says, this spring there will be no crops

And I binge like the weather man

As he predicts when the rain will stop


Superman has lost his cape
He stays inside the telephone booth

Mr. handsome devil is still looking for his wisdom tooth

And no one will tell him
the source comes from experience

everyone is binging
on their own belligerence


For the rush, I jump
without a parachute

it's a frightening urge

Mr. love junkie will lose his needle

it will then be time to purge

December 1st

As a kid, my room was a lot cleaner this time of year.  If shaving was a necessity back then, I certainly would have shaved each day... this time of year.

Gotta be a good boy, Santa's coming soon.

My room is a mess.  I have a patchy poor man's beard sadly sprouting from my face.

Dear Santa, I wish I still believed in you.


Something about my grumpy neighbor across the street.  He's gotta be close to eighty.  I greet him as warmly as I can all year long.  His shifty eyes, his lack of a reaction, his strange demeanor: I swear he's got some good stories to tell.

It's December 1st.  There he is.  Today.  Hanging up Christmas Lights.  And even a simple manger scene.

Baby Jesus, don't be afraid.

I am inclined to sneak over there tonight and comfort that plastic baby Jesus.

Something about my grumpy neighbor hanging up Christmas Lights.

I went outside today to grab my mail and he waved at me.  He waved first.

My grumpy neighbor hanging up Christmas Lights waved at me.



Maybe, I see a little of myself in that man. 


I thought it would be a good idea to avoid driving this month.  Those 24 hours of Christmas songs on that one specific radio station leave me with goosebumps.  I don't like the longing it leaves me:  the longing for a family, the longing for the love of my life to decide, the longing for the dealer to give me some new cards.

I don't like being alone.  "Utterly alone", just like Nicholas Cage says in The Family Man.

It's my childhood all over again.

Dear Santa, I've been a good boy.  I swear.


I went driving today.  Just to hear those songs.

Somehow, some way, I ended up in the parking lot of Toys R Us.  I was never a Toys R Us kid. 

Something about reliving those days of toy envy which now has evolved to family envy and love envy and Christmas Envy.

God, I hate commercialism.  And the irony of that statement rolls through my fingers as I type away on the most commercially programmed social network known to man.

I came home from my short drive and passed my grumpy neighbor's home.  For a brief second, I considered "borrowing" his plastic Baby Jesus and sticking it into a baby stroller and returning to Toys R Us.

I want to hear what a cute baby I have.  I may even let a few strangers pinch his little plastic cheeks. 

I've got dreams.  And hopes.  High aspirations.

And I have faith.

It's my strongest ally.  My faith.

And I don't really believe I am all alone.

And I am not too upset about the hands I've been dealt.

It's Christmas.

The holiday where grumpy men hang up Christmas lights and wave at their neighbor in the warmest of ways.

I just hope no one steals my plastic Baby Jesus.

Made in Bangladesh

Buried beneath the rubble of the collapsed garment making factory in Bangladesh, an unknown lifeless man is seen embracing the limp body of an unfamiliar woman.  Blood streaming from his eyes with the determination of a martyr as if his final cry was, "don't remember us as cheap labor.  don't think of our lives as cheap."

Nine hundred lives, gone.  Just people.  Like you.  Like Me.  Trying to survive.  Trying to feed their families. 

I have no idea where Bangladesh is on a map.  The best I can do is locate them in my closet.

A package of 4 white T-Shirts from Walmart.  Made in Bangladesh.
A hoodie from The Gap.  Made in Bangladesh.

If I frequented Sears, Kmart, JC Penny or purchased Disney themed clothing, my Bangladesh collection would be more extensive.

My Nike running shoes.  Made in Bangladesh.
Even my Ralph Lauren Polo Shirt.  Made in Bangladesh.


Odds are this unknown man clutching onto the unfamiliar woman never laid his hands on nor sewed a stitch of my above mentioned clothing but someone like him did.  Someone exactly like him did. 

Someone with the grit to work long hours every day for mere cents on the hour to appease the appetite of the greedy; to satiate our vanity, to put food on his own table.

Someone with the compassion in the seconds before inevitable death to grab a co-worker and embrace her tightly in his arms.

Someone with the label of cheap labor around his neck as if we are supposed to believe that slavery ended centuries ago.


I'm thinking about this man sewing sweatshirts for Disney and I cynically wonder if this is what Disney means when they tell us, "it's a small world after all".

And my mind starts to wander to those pictures we never see; those images more haunting than this one.  Like the pictures of dead children microwaved in their own homes by "advanced" technological weapons we callously call drones.

If anyone ever tries to tell you that drones save human lives and are cheaper than using jets or soldiers, tell them there is only one reason drones exist:  It's because drones are incapable of compassion or empathy.  They kill.  They move on to their next target and kill again.  Their trigger fingers do not waver between compassion and following orders.

Drones cost anywhere from $5 million to $12 million each.  Thirty thousand drones will be flying in American skies by 2018.  Do the math.

The haunting face of cheap labor reminds me of one thing:

Compassion.  Made in Bangladesh.