Dear John,
I regretfuly inform you that I'm taking your girl,
Loving your girl,
Fucking your girl,
Cuz your being a girl,
Not treating her like a girl,
Not like she's your whole world,
Cuz I'll tell ya. She's be come mine.
Look at you.
All scruffed hair,
Poped coller,
silver chain wearing,
"I live off the streets
Even though my avenues
Are sax and fifth"
I wish I could see your face John,
But mine is buried in your girl.
You took for granted,
And she panicked,
And while you just drank more,
Complained more,
Had the whole mindset of marital rape more,
I just SO wish you could see,
It was me,
There,
Taking care of your girls needs.
You asshole.
Your were just Sticking your dick in her
Crushing her hopes of you
Being Loving, supporting
While shes cryin and sighing
Inside she's dying
But the whole time trying so hard
Just to make you and your second hand store OCD happy.
Cuz when you call at 1 in the morning she'd still
Give you your 30 seconds of endorphin induced ecstacy,
Taking every inch of you in like a prison sentence with a smile.
But she's mine now Johnny,
I'm gonna be taking your girl.
You know that little trick you like?
I like it too.
And she's mine.
Keep in mind,
It's not like I'm trying, to sound posessive,
It's just she's so perfect John.
You fucked up, had every chance,
And after all those months of hearing about her dick boyfriend,
She finally got mine.
And while you read this Dear John Letter,
Just to make you feel a little better,
Right now I'm in your girl,
We're Hustling, and Thrusting,
and I'm busting inside her,
And she lays there smiling, all amazed,
She'll never have to pick up that razor again,
Because I keep her feeling alive this time.
But don't kill your self yet John.
Just don't let the door hit your ass on the way out,
Just hold on a little longer,
Because I'll tell you a secret.
We're the same guy.
She'll end up leaving me for someone new,
or better yet, if you're douchebaggery is
at a superior enough level,
She'll end up.
With you.
Hurting.
White Trashed.
Haggerd.
And the cycle will continue.
I guess I'm like Cupid.
Because you'll appreciate eachother more,
And when I'm off on my next conquest,
You'll hear the stories of how I was,
and you'll get so mad,
while she's sad,
but glad I'm no longer there,
to impose my hose, on your ho, because lets face it,
She is, at least for attention.
And you'll so hippacratically hate me.
Disdain me, but at least respect me,
Cuz we're the same Guy John. You just got to her first.
Sincerly,
A recovering nice guy.
22.8.09
"I read your blog, it's very well written, but it's so angry" -J.C.
OMG, Let's.
Let's sit on throne's made of cracked Magazine's.
We'll throw bologna sammys at our servants,
And feed them blood capsules and weird non-
popular off brand chips.
Let's rub off on old people on park benches and
when they complain, tell them they're up tight
and flip them off.
WITH BOTH FINGERS!!!!!
BOTH PINKY FINGERS!!!!!
Let's go to bars. No, Let's go to ONE bar.
Let's pretend we're sports commantaters for
everyone else's conversations and make up
back stories for them. See that Guy?
He's a woman beater. But it's ok because he
spends christmas at soup kitchens. STEALING
the soup!!!!!
Let's make rape jokes. Let's make everyone
feel uncomfortable with the amount of rape
jokes we make. Let's make fun of people that
aren't us. Let's make fun of US.
Let's turn a bible thumper into an atheist. Let's
fuck up they're whole visage of god, and the
afterlife, and when they FINALLY agree how
idiotic an afterlife is, let's scream at the top
of our lungs "HOW COULD YOU? JESUS
WOULD BE ASHAMMMEEDDD!!!!!!"
Let's talk about sex baby.
Let's talk about you and me.
And everything we've EVER done in bed.
Let's make a verbal Kama Sutra out of 20/20
hindsight, and make eachother blush.
Then slap eachother until our blushing faces
turn indian. (woo woo, not dot dot)*
Let's dress up. Let's buy a $6 thrift store tux,
and a $2 thrift store gown and go out to eat at
arbys or taco bell. I don't care which one I wear.
Let's wear costumes. For no reasons. Let's dress
up like smurfs and drink a case while watching
horror films from 1983 and re-create the final death
with the cheapest box of wine on the clearance
shelf of the dirtiest state store.
Let's find out that there are people like us in the
world. Off the beaten path. Poor and dark, and sadistic
in the BEST way. Let's explore, everything, for no
reason and be happy, truly happy, for several momments
in the day.
Let's.
-Ruckus
*That's funnier then you acted.
Let's sit on throne's made of cracked Magazine's.
We'll throw bologna sammys at our servants,
And feed them blood capsules and weird non-
popular off brand chips.
Let's rub off on old people on park benches and
when they complain, tell them they're up tight
and flip them off.
WITH BOTH FINGERS!!!!!
BOTH PINKY FINGERS!!!!!
Let's go to bars. No, Let's go to ONE bar.
Let's pretend we're sports commantaters for
everyone else's conversations and make up
back stories for them. See that Guy?
He's a woman beater. But it's ok because he
spends christmas at soup kitchens. STEALING
the soup!!!!!
Let's make rape jokes. Let's make everyone
feel uncomfortable with the amount of rape
jokes we make. Let's make fun of people that
aren't us. Let's make fun of US.
Let's turn a bible thumper into an atheist. Let's
fuck up they're whole visage of god, and the
afterlife, and when they FINALLY agree how
idiotic an afterlife is, let's scream at the top
of our lungs "HOW COULD YOU? JESUS
WOULD BE ASHAMMMEEDDD!!!!!!"
Let's talk about sex baby.
Let's talk about you and me.
And everything we've EVER done in bed.
Let's make a verbal Kama Sutra out of 20/20
hindsight, and make eachother blush.
Then slap eachother until our blushing faces
turn indian. (woo woo, not dot dot)*
Let's dress up. Let's buy a $6 thrift store tux,
and a $2 thrift store gown and go out to eat at
arbys or taco bell. I don't care which one I wear.
Let's wear costumes. For no reasons. Let's dress
up like smurfs and drink a case while watching
horror films from 1983 and re-create the final death
with the cheapest box of wine on the clearance
shelf of the dirtiest state store.
Let's find out that there are people like us in the
world. Off the beaten path. Poor and dark, and sadistic
in the BEST way. Let's explore, everything, for no
reason and be happy, truly happy, for several momments
in the day.
Let's.
-Ruckus
*That's funnier then you acted.
17.8.09
"All great Truths start as blastphamies"
Made this a little earlier. I feel an entire blog is not nearly as necessary as this graph.
Self explanatory.
By the way a girl that is 1 or <1 = A dude.
"If we are going to stop wars on this earth, we are going to have to make war on hunger our number one priority."
(Warning:Satire)
War, huh, what is it good for.
Everything.
What we need, is a war. A BIG war. We need a catastrophic MOTHER OF GOD what
have we done, WAR. We need WWIII. We need men woman and children fighting. We
need millions and millions of citizens of the world dropping their remotes, and forgetting their trips to the gym, and we need them to become killing machines.
Have I got your attention?
Every animal has a taste of natural selection. Deer stab at each other with antlers.
Fish in the same school eat each other. Monkeys, dogs, and other mammals learn to
have alphas which disregard sickly pack members.
And we, have war.
This is how we thin out the heard. This is how we concur starvation, and poverty.
This is how the strong survive, and the weak perish. How nations gain the financial
freedom to let their people have the freedom to bitch about girls on blogs. War is
how countless generations before us fended off over population, how the masses
in each empire before ours stayed rich. Until natural selection took them out, waiting for the next war machine to destroy them.
Look hippies, Vietnam was your loss.
Governments aren't smart enough to feed and cloth and educate you.
Democracy, Democratic republics, Whatever we are isn't working. No more votes. Let's become war mongers. What we need is to wipe out a good portion of the population, and maybe have less suffering. What I'm getting at is there are too many "Have not's" and way too happy "Haves". No more protests, no more public opinion polls.
I'm not saying I agree with ANYTHING the military has done in the last few years.
We shouldn't be fighting 3rd world countries with rocks. We need to fight someone big. We need to pick a fight with Russia, or China. Better yet, let's fight Britian. Lets scream at the top of our lungs "Not taxation without fornication" And bomb them. Then have them bomb us. And so forth. Let's have another revolutionary war. Let's goad them to come over wearing red coats and I'll run down main st Norristown screaming "Those DICKHEADS are coming!!!!!"
1 in 8 Americans starve.
Our homeless numbers are at an all time high.
Our unemployment is at an all time high.
Let's do something about it. And it's not like anyone is interested in volunteering, or donating. We'll never get this countries agenda to say "Help out the little guy" at the top of the things to do list. We'll never get that hundreds of billions spent on anything except occupations and weapons. Weapons that will never be used, instead of water or food or shelter. Computers made to track bombs instead of teach kids math.
It's either death, or decay.
-Ruckus
War, huh, what is it good for.
Everything.
What we need, is a war. A BIG war. We need a catastrophic MOTHER OF GOD what
have we done, WAR. We need WWIII. We need men woman and children fighting. We
need millions and millions of citizens of the world dropping their remotes, and forgetting their trips to the gym, and we need them to become killing machines.
Have I got your attention?
Every animal has a taste of natural selection. Deer stab at each other with antlers.
Fish in the same school eat each other. Monkeys, dogs, and other mammals learn to
have alphas which disregard sickly pack members.
And we, have war.
This is how we thin out the heard. This is how we concur starvation, and poverty.
This is how the strong survive, and the weak perish. How nations gain the financial
freedom to let their people have the freedom to bitch about girls on blogs. War is
how countless generations before us fended off over population, how the masses
in each empire before ours stayed rich. Until natural selection took them out, waiting for the next war machine to destroy them.
Look hippies, Vietnam was your loss.
Governments aren't smart enough to feed and cloth and educate you.
Democracy, Democratic republics, Whatever we are isn't working. No more votes. Let's become war mongers. What we need is to wipe out a good portion of the population, and maybe have less suffering. What I'm getting at is there are too many "Have not's" and way too happy "Haves". No more protests, no more public opinion polls.
I'm not saying I agree with ANYTHING the military has done in the last few years.
We shouldn't be fighting 3rd world countries with rocks. We need to fight someone big. We need to pick a fight with Russia, or China. Better yet, let's fight Britian. Lets scream at the top of our lungs "Not taxation without fornication" And bomb them. Then have them bomb us. And so forth. Let's have another revolutionary war. Let's goad them to come over wearing red coats and I'll run down main st Norristown screaming "Those DICKHEADS are coming!!!!!"
1 in 8 Americans starve.
Our homeless numbers are at an all time high.
Our unemployment is at an all time high.
Let's do something about it. And it's not like anyone is interested in volunteering, or donating. We'll never get this countries agenda to say "Help out the little guy" at the top of the things to do list. We'll never get that hundreds of billions spent on anything except occupations and weapons. Weapons that will never be used, instead of water or food or shelter. Computers made to track bombs instead of teach kids math.
It's either death, or decay.
-Ruckus
14.8.09
“When a man dwells on the objects of sense, he creates an attraction for them; attraction develops into desire, and desire breeds anger.”
Yes, I know that's your girlfriend.
Yes, I was looking.
Yes, I'm sporting a chub.
Look, let's just put it out there, some girls are hot. And I'm a dude.
This all stems from me being "caught" 3 times today. Twice at work, once at the theater. So let me just set up a scene for you.
Act I
Hot chick walks by wearing an incredibly low cut top, and an unreasonably high cut skirt. The legs go on for hours, and the butt wont quit. Oh yeah, the twins are out. Way out.
What's that? How could it be cold out in summer!?
Shiny lip gloss.
Dark ravenous hair.
Deep green eyes, that I can get lost in.
A walk. An amazing walk with confidence.
A tiny little facial piercing (nose, lip, monroe, etc).
You, could be, the mother, of my children.
You, are perfect.
And you, are gonna look a LOT like my right hand in a few hours.
That's not all, walking just 2 steps behind you, the perfect accessory; your DOUCHEBAG
Boyfriend.
Walking behind in a nonchalant manner, with his undeserved swagger.
Chinstrap beard and a goatee with flavor saver.
Beater.
No, that wasn't a suggestion, it's that undershirt your wearing.
In public.
Oh dude, did you know your hat is slightly mal-adjusted?
Did you know your shoes aren't tied, they just the laces tucked in?
Your pants must be soooo heavy, since you have all that extra money.
Because she paid.
Oh, and you must be playing basketball soon, because those are the shorts your wearing.
Just under your ass.
And here I come, dressed like a person of society, with all the best intent towards humanity. Until my periphery is screwed. I get the slightest glance out of the farthermost corner of my eye, and I become a deer in headlights, my head shoots sideways like a nervous squirrel. I drink you in. I am an art admirer. I see you like a Monet painting, slowly analyzing every piece. You can sense my eyes as they move across you like nomads, unhappy settling to a home. You know, and adore this feeling. As you put on this costume, emulating your tv's stars, you think to yourself of all the faces that will want for you. And all the minds that will rape you.
You are the spank bank president. And it gives you goosebumps of joy.
Now, as I am finishing up my third tour, I become self aware again. I even become self-conscious of the fact that I've been drooling all over you just in time to become caught in an equally intense stare. I feel two lasers drilling into my skull.
Oh shit.
Panic.
My eyes find the root of my discomfort. And there he is. Walking 5 feet behind you. His pace is slowing and his stride interrupted. He is a lion. With his primal instinct he wants me to know his presence. Sticks out his chest. Purses his lips. And he stares. Daring me, goading me to look at you once more.
End scene.
ACT II
Ok this is where it all gets tricky. I have two paths. On the one side I can retreat, becoming the beta male you'd expect me to be. I could look at him for a split second and then divert my eyes to avoid that awkward potential that may follow.
Or,
I can be a man. And see you, my angel of now. I can forget about you, and retreat, or confirm that tonight, in my mind, I'll have a friend that I know like the back of my hand. And I already know what I'm going to do. Because I'm me.
I tear my stare from your mongoloid doucher, and return to you. Now your backs facing me. I like this view too. And I dare not look at him, though I know his face is red. You sense he's no longer at your heels and turn. You see him, and then you see me. You know the whole story before anyone. You've read it a million times, and you, although outwardly would like to be disgusted, you are far from it. You love the attention. You love the drama of it all. And for just an iota of a split second, you love me. Or at least what I represent for you. And so in this moment you give me a fleeting half grin to acknowledge your acceptance of my compliment.
Back to the ape. He's seething but tries not to show it, and I pray for a peaceful resolution. Avoiding conflict like cancer, I don;t even look at him, but he makes his halted stride aware. He wanted me to see him angry. So I give it to him, one more glance before I turn and pretend, that somewhere, sometime, somehow, I'd have his girl. That as much as I hate him. And I do. That a girl like that, would know how I warship her. And choose me as her companion.
End scene.
The point is, why the fuck is she dressed like that if she didn;t want the attention?
Why would any self-respecting boyfriend allow that much skin shown, unless he wanted
these little pissing contests? And let me tell you, if I had a hot girl, I'd WANT every, single, pathetic, wow playing doofus, to stare with envy. I;d want them to turn green for me. I'd wish for them to wonder aloud why I am with HER. So dude's get the fuck over yourself. I'm not a creep. I'm not a date-rapist. I just respect that hot, is hot. And girls are the end all, be all
of existence, to guys like me.
And girls, for the love of god. Keep it up.
-Ruckus
Yes, I was looking.
Yes, I'm sporting a chub.
Look, let's just put it out there, some girls are hot. And I'm a dude.
This all stems from me being "caught" 3 times today. Twice at work, once at the theater. So let me just set up a scene for you.
Act I
Hot chick walks by wearing an incredibly low cut top, and an unreasonably high cut skirt. The legs go on for hours, and the butt wont quit. Oh yeah, the twins are out. Way out.
What's that? How could it be cold out in summer!?
Shiny lip gloss.
Dark ravenous hair.
Deep green eyes, that I can get lost in.
A walk. An amazing walk with confidence.
A tiny little facial piercing (nose, lip, monroe, etc).
You, could be, the mother, of my children.
You, are perfect.
And you, are gonna look a LOT like my right hand in a few hours.
That's not all, walking just 2 steps behind you, the perfect accessory; your DOUCHEBAG
Boyfriend.
Walking behind in a nonchalant manner, with his undeserved swagger.
Chinstrap beard and a goatee with flavor saver.
Beater.
No, that wasn't a suggestion, it's that undershirt your wearing.
In public.
Oh dude, did you know your hat is slightly mal-adjusted?
Did you know your shoes aren't tied, they just the laces tucked in?
Your pants must be soooo heavy, since you have all that extra money.
Because she paid.
Oh, and you must be playing basketball soon, because those are the shorts your wearing.
Just under your ass.
And here I come, dressed like a person of society, with all the best intent towards humanity. Until my periphery is screwed. I get the slightest glance out of the farthermost corner of my eye, and I become a deer in headlights, my head shoots sideways like a nervous squirrel. I drink you in. I am an art admirer. I see you like a Monet painting, slowly analyzing every piece. You can sense my eyes as they move across you like nomads, unhappy settling to a home. You know, and adore this feeling. As you put on this costume, emulating your tv's stars, you think to yourself of all the faces that will want for you. And all the minds that will rape you.
You are the spank bank president. And it gives you goosebumps of joy.
Now, as I am finishing up my third tour, I become self aware again. I even become self-conscious of the fact that I've been drooling all over you just in time to become caught in an equally intense stare. I feel two lasers drilling into my skull.
Oh shit.
Panic.
My eyes find the root of my discomfort. And there he is. Walking 5 feet behind you. His pace is slowing and his stride interrupted. He is a lion. With his primal instinct he wants me to know his presence. Sticks out his chest. Purses his lips. And he stares. Daring me, goading me to look at you once more.
End scene.
ACT II
Ok this is where it all gets tricky. I have two paths. On the one side I can retreat, becoming the beta male you'd expect me to be. I could look at him for a split second and then divert my eyes to avoid that awkward potential that may follow.
Or,
I can be a man. And see you, my angel of now. I can forget about you, and retreat, or confirm that tonight, in my mind, I'll have a friend that I know like the back of my hand. And I already know what I'm going to do. Because I'm me.
I tear my stare from your mongoloid doucher, and return to you. Now your backs facing me. I like this view too. And I dare not look at him, though I know his face is red. You sense he's no longer at your heels and turn. You see him, and then you see me. You know the whole story before anyone. You've read it a million times, and you, although outwardly would like to be disgusted, you are far from it. You love the attention. You love the drama of it all. And for just an iota of a split second, you love me. Or at least what I represent for you. And so in this moment you give me a fleeting half grin to acknowledge your acceptance of my compliment.
Back to the ape. He's seething but tries not to show it, and I pray for a peaceful resolution. Avoiding conflict like cancer, I don;t even look at him, but he makes his halted stride aware. He wanted me to see him angry. So I give it to him, one more glance before I turn and pretend, that somewhere, sometime, somehow, I'd have his girl. That as much as I hate him. And I do. That a girl like that, would know how I warship her. And choose me as her companion.
End scene.
The point is, why the fuck is she dressed like that if she didn;t want the attention?
Why would any self-respecting boyfriend allow that much skin shown, unless he wanted
these little pissing contests? And let me tell you, if I had a hot girl, I'd WANT every, single, pathetic, wow playing doofus, to stare with envy. I;d want them to turn green for me. I'd wish for them to wonder aloud why I am with HER. So dude's get the fuck over yourself. I'm not a creep. I'm not a date-rapist. I just respect that hot, is hot. And girls are the end all, be all
of existence, to guys like me.
And girls, for the love of god. Keep it up.
-Ruckus
10.8.09
“Justice is better than chivalry if we cannot have both.”
I am single.
No, wait, I am REALLY single.
And before all you say "You're single because your a fucking pig". Hear me out.
Chivalry is dead, and women laid the final fucking blow. You see, I really am a romantic guy. I open doors. I buy drinks. I write love sonnets. I always make sure the girl... gets hers. Because as my favorite poet Erik Ott says, I'm a boy, and I'm GOING to get mine.
But women you need to decide, do you want to vote, or do you not wanna get punched.
This is all metaphoric, I don't condone violence in the bedroom, unless that's your thing. I mean, There is an absolute ridiculous stereotype in this country, which is all I can handle right now because those muslim/ninja outfits blow my mind. Women have to be delicate, furiously defensive, loving, and strong. And they have to do it while looking like a playboy model. Men, equally, have to be macho, love football, protect their woman, and be sensitive 1 week out of the month, while never having a beer gut.
You see boys are brought up with trucks, and toy tools. And girls get dolls and tea sets. Boys have to walk it off and girls are coddled. And since children we are giving these stations in life and they define us.
Until middle school.
Which I left.
Twice.
Where gender becomes more of an issue, and kids, who are naturally rebellious want reasons. Boys start getting balls, girls get to bleed. And all along the way hormones are driving the car. This has nothing to do with chivalry, but it's setting up a valid point that from the beginning of our individual existences we are taught to be a certain way.
I never had a girls are icky phase. I saw them, I liked them, I WANTED them. And thus
a nice guy was born. I listened to them, bought them them things, went shopping with them. And then I got to hear all about their boyfriends. And so on. And i started to become a little bitter s.o.b.
Most girls had that platonic friend in early development through High School (words I hate saying). The kind of guy that would stay up all night on the phone with them, giving advice, and always playing devils advocate. Truth is, I really was an open floormat for these legions of girls, I so easily fell for. I practically laid down in the mud, while diving on bullets of rejection, and holding their purse. And like many over weight/under self esteem young men, I learned the most valuable piece
of advice, Girls like boys, who treat them, like SHIT.
WAIT! Don't get defensive, I know there's a few of you that don't feel this way. But you're all taken. You're all with someone who grabbed you BEFORE you got to that level.
And if you're not, you're waiting for Brad Pitt, or Vin Diesel or Harry Potter and the Jonas Brothers to come give you the 5 some of your life.
So every weekend, I watch thousands of 18-28 year old chicks flowing in and out of bars, and clubs and venues, searching for that perfect popped coller, gelled hair, muscular DOUCHE BAG. Or the half hair covered face, ked wearing, girl jean sporting, HIPSTER. And every blind date I go on, or every friend lunch, when I try to be myself, I see the girls eyes become more and more bored. They want a challange. And I want to make their life easy.
I know how hard it is for you all to deal with the unfair stereotypes that pop media thrusts upon you like a turret ridden date rapist with a.d.d.
But I promise it's not as hard as being a generally nice guy with your best intentions at heart in the world of frat douchbaggery, Edward Cullen loving, Adrian Broady looking, architecture. So, in my most recent date-capades, I see myself un-knowingly, but in totally involuntary being meaner. Making rude comments. And expecting things from girls, I ought not expect. And it's working. Slowly. But I can't bring myself to date under false pretenses.
I am a great guy.
I do want to do nice things for you.
I don't care what you look like.
I don't want to put your snatch pics online.
I want to cuddle.
I want to hold hands.
I don't want to donkey punch you.
I know young girls can be immature, just as young guys can, and in our thirties we're all gonna wanna settle down, and if a few of you can hold your looks and keep off some of the major STD's you're gonna find a nice guy eventually. And wonder, where he's been all your life. And feel cared for. And loved. Just be careful, because we are a dying breed. If you turn us all now, and bitter us to you, not all of you will get a nice guy. You'll get the same Asshole you're with now. Just a few years older. And fatter. And greyer. And you'll remember you're platonic friend, with envy.
-Ruckus
No, wait, I am REALLY single.
And before all you say "You're single because your a fucking pig". Hear me out.
Chivalry is dead, and women laid the final fucking blow. You see, I really am a romantic guy. I open doors. I buy drinks. I write love sonnets. I always make sure the girl... gets hers. Because as my favorite poet Erik Ott says, I'm a boy, and I'm GOING to get mine.
But women you need to decide, do you want to vote, or do you not wanna get punched.
This is all metaphoric, I don't condone violence in the bedroom, unless that's your thing. I mean, There is an absolute ridiculous stereotype in this country, which is all I can handle right now because those muslim/ninja outfits blow my mind. Women have to be delicate, furiously defensive, loving, and strong. And they have to do it while looking like a playboy model. Men, equally, have to be macho, love football, protect their woman, and be sensitive 1 week out of the month, while never having a beer gut.
You see boys are brought up with trucks, and toy tools. And girls get dolls and tea sets. Boys have to walk it off and girls are coddled. And since children we are giving these stations in life and they define us.
Until middle school.
Which I left.
Twice.
Where gender becomes more of an issue, and kids, who are naturally rebellious want reasons. Boys start getting balls, girls get to bleed. And all along the way hormones are driving the car. This has nothing to do with chivalry, but it's setting up a valid point that from the beginning of our individual existences we are taught to be a certain way.
I never had a girls are icky phase. I saw them, I liked them, I WANTED them. And thus
a nice guy was born. I listened to them, bought them them things, went shopping with them. And then I got to hear all about their boyfriends. And so on. And i started to become a little bitter s.o.b.
Most girls had that platonic friend in early development through High School (words I hate saying). The kind of guy that would stay up all night on the phone with them, giving advice, and always playing devils advocate. Truth is, I really was an open floormat for these legions of girls, I so easily fell for. I practically laid down in the mud, while diving on bullets of rejection, and holding their purse. And like many over weight/under self esteem young men, I learned the most valuable piece
of advice, Girls like boys, who treat them, like SHIT.
WAIT! Don't get defensive, I know there's a few of you that don't feel this way. But you're all taken. You're all with someone who grabbed you BEFORE you got to that level.
And if you're not, you're waiting for Brad Pitt, or Vin Diesel or Harry Potter and the Jonas Brothers to come give you the 5 some of your life.
So every weekend, I watch thousands of 18-28 year old chicks flowing in and out of bars, and clubs and venues, searching for that perfect popped coller, gelled hair, muscular DOUCHE BAG. Or the half hair covered face, ked wearing, girl jean sporting, HIPSTER. And every blind date I go on, or every friend lunch, when I try to be myself, I see the girls eyes become more and more bored. They want a challange. And I want to make their life easy.
I know how hard it is for you all to deal with the unfair stereotypes that pop media thrusts upon you like a turret ridden date rapist with a.d.d.
But I promise it's not as hard as being a generally nice guy with your best intentions at heart in the world of frat douchbaggery, Edward Cullen loving, Adrian Broady looking, architecture. So, in my most recent date-capades, I see myself un-knowingly, but in totally involuntary being meaner. Making rude comments. And expecting things from girls, I ought not expect. And it's working. Slowly. But I can't bring myself to date under false pretenses.
I am a great guy.
I do want to do nice things for you.
I don't care what you look like.
I don't want to put your snatch pics online.
I want to cuddle.
I want to hold hands.
I don't want to donkey punch you.
I know young girls can be immature, just as young guys can, and in our thirties we're all gonna wanna settle down, and if a few of you can hold your looks and keep off some of the major STD's you're gonna find a nice guy eventually. And wonder, where he's been all your life. And feel cared for. And loved. Just be careful, because we are a dying breed. If you turn us all now, and bitter us to you, not all of you will get a nice guy. You'll get the same Asshole you're with now. Just a few years older. And fatter. And greyer. And you'll remember you're platonic friend, with envy.
-Ruckus
“When it comes to the future, there are three kinds of people: those who let it happen, those who make it happen, and those who wonder what happened.”
I want to be clear. I believe human beings have limitless potential. I believe we can all be amazing at something. I generally believe some people have goodness. I believe there are good people with good intentions, and so on. But the majority of us, are scum.
The number one lie, one that reverberates in my soul like an organ made of the flesh of bunnies, played by Satan, conducted by Hitler, in a concerto written by Vlad the Impaler is:
You, can do ANYTHING you want to do when you grow up.
Let's hop in the 'way back machine'. Back to Kindergarten. Back to kisses on foreheads, play-doh, legos and super soaker summers. When your teachers and adult fascists told you That despicable lie. But here's the thing. The rest of the cliched quote should have been; You can do anything you want to do when you grow up if, you have the money, the willpower, the connections, the know how, the determination, and a whole shit ton of luck. I know some of you are saying "duh". But look at us. Since birth we're filled with this notion of having anything at our disposal, this entitlement. We're sitting on our couches by the millions watching 'True Blood', eating Pizza Hut Pasta Bowls for one, slurping our 'Mountain Dew code 7 defcon red wild mix berry'. If we're not out spending our 8% of our income that is expendable on over priced Jager bombs and Bud Lite at the chain restaurant, trying to get some affirmation, or affection from a counterpart that shares our sloth like compatibility with the world.
All of us 20-something, reality tv show watching brainwashed, Angus 1/3rd pound burger eating fuckers. Our dreams have changed. Since being a little boy, I dreamed of flying through the stars on a rocket ship, or being a rock star. Because I could do ANYTHING I wanted to do when I
grew up. What did you want to be? President? A millionaire? A movie star? Or di you want to be a waiter? A welder? An I.T. Technician? Did you want to be a plumer? Did you lay in bed at night and dream of your perfect adulthood and think "Man I want to sell used cars forever"?
Our goals die. Our inner light dies over time and we settle for lives more readily available and slap an ugly fucking label on it. We call it maturity, as if letting go of a dream counts as adulthood in itself. We believe/make ourselves believe that happiness can be found in the time that is in between 5pm and 9am. That you work 40 hours on the grindstone, and have a family,
and your fulfillment will follow. And then when you decide to go make a little human, and they look up at you with their youthful faces, you tell them with envy, "You, can do anything you want to do when you grow up."
I admire the baby boomers. I admire the fact they continually said this to us. They sacrificed their lives, at least 40 hours a week of them, to give us opportunity. Unfortunately, I don't think we share their motivation. I think because "We can do anything we want" we waited for it to be handed to us on a silver platter. We wanted direction to come to us. I wanted my space ship to land in my back yard. I wanted the chairman of Sony to call me and say "Oh please Ruckus PLEASE play madison square garden".
My mother worked everyday of her life to give me the opportunity to do what I wanted. She gave me instruments, that I never practiced hard enough on. She bought me books, I skimmed instead of reading. She bought me healthy food, that I sneered at while I ate Doritos, and double quarter pounders with cheese.
It's that selfish entitlement that's ruining our way of life, and although it's going to take sometime, I believe I will find my real dream and follow it, and it will be because I refuse to live an existence of servitude to other servants.
For the 10% of you doing what you want and following your dreams, I salute you. I envy you. I loathe you. But, give me some time, I'm catching up to you.
And to the 90% of you, willing to allow yourselves to "Grow up", I implore you to work towards something. Set yourself a fantastic goal, and just work a few minutes at it each day. Even something small. Repetition can save you from the mundane. Learn an instrument, or another language. You'd be so surprised what you can accomplish.
Because you, can do ANYTHING you want to do.
-Ruckus
The number one lie, one that reverberates in my soul like an organ made of the flesh of bunnies, played by Satan, conducted by Hitler, in a concerto written by Vlad the Impaler is:
You, can do ANYTHING you want to do when you grow up.
Let's hop in the 'way back machine'. Back to Kindergarten. Back to kisses on foreheads, play-doh, legos and super soaker summers. When your teachers and adult fascists told you That despicable lie. But here's the thing. The rest of the cliched quote should have been; You can do anything you want to do when you grow up if, you have the money, the willpower, the connections, the know how, the determination, and a whole shit ton of luck. I know some of you are saying "duh". But look at us. Since birth we're filled with this notion of having anything at our disposal, this entitlement. We're sitting on our couches by the millions watching 'True Blood', eating Pizza Hut Pasta Bowls for one, slurping our 'Mountain Dew code 7 defcon red wild mix berry'. If we're not out spending our 8% of our income that is expendable on over priced Jager bombs and Bud Lite at the chain restaurant, trying to get some affirmation, or affection from a counterpart that shares our sloth like compatibility with the world.
All of us 20-something, reality tv show watching brainwashed, Angus 1/3rd pound burger eating fuckers. Our dreams have changed. Since being a little boy, I dreamed of flying through the stars on a rocket ship, or being a rock star. Because I could do ANYTHING I wanted to do when I
grew up. What did you want to be? President? A millionaire? A movie star? Or di you want to be a waiter? A welder? An I.T. Technician? Did you want to be a plumer? Did you lay in bed at night and dream of your perfect adulthood and think "Man I want to sell used cars forever"?
Our goals die. Our inner light dies over time and we settle for lives more readily available and slap an ugly fucking label on it. We call it maturity, as if letting go of a dream counts as adulthood in itself. We believe/make ourselves believe that happiness can be found in the time that is in between 5pm and 9am. That you work 40 hours on the grindstone, and have a family,
and your fulfillment will follow. And then when you decide to go make a little human, and they look up at you with their youthful faces, you tell them with envy, "You, can do anything you want to do when you grow up."
I admire the baby boomers. I admire the fact they continually said this to us. They sacrificed their lives, at least 40 hours a week of them, to give us opportunity. Unfortunately, I don't think we share their motivation. I think because "We can do anything we want" we waited for it to be handed to us on a silver platter. We wanted direction to come to us. I wanted my space ship to land in my back yard. I wanted the chairman of Sony to call me and say "Oh please Ruckus PLEASE play madison square garden".
My mother worked everyday of her life to give me the opportunity to do what I wanted. She gave me instruments, that I never practiced hard enough on. She bought me books, I skimmed instead of reading. She bought me healthy food, that I sneered at while I ate Doritos, and double quarter pounders with cheese.
It's that selfish entitlement that's ruining our way of life, and although it's going to take sometime, I believe I will find my real dream and follow it, and it will be because I refuse to live an existence of servitude to other servants.
For the 10% of you doing what you want and following your dreams, I salute you. I envy you. I loathe you. But, give me some time, I'm catching up to you.
And to the 90% of you, willing to allow yourselves to "Grow up", I implore you to work towards something. Set yourself a fantastic goal, and just work a few minutes at it each day. Even something small. Repetition can save you from the mundane. Learn an instrument, or another language. You'd be so surprised what you can accomplish.
Because you, can do ANYTHING you want to do.
-Ruckus
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