Hard to be Soft

So there’s this restaurant that gives you a free bee- *ahem* alcoholic beverage if you purchase more than $30 worth of food. Or $40.

I don’t know. I can’t remember that well.

So I got some food, got some more food, got a free beverage, got to show off my shiny new driver’s license, and maybe bought some more of the stuff.

Driving is scary. Like holy crap, what the hell are people thinking when they get behind the wheel of a car? Intensely painful and speedy death is mere seconds away at all times. I know I was thinking “oh god oh god I’m going to die holy christ I’m going to die oh god oh god.”

And you know what? I have no shame in saying that. I’ve driven a lump of forged steel down a road constructed out of pain and the tears of tortured children. Meanwhile, other metal of contraptions roar past, their pilots screaming obscenities out the window at me and shaking various limbs.

This may be because I never once let the speedometer (pronounced “speedo meter”) go any higher than 25 kilometers an hour. I think an old lady passed me and called me “grandma”.

Screw it. I’m alive, my heart is beating and my digestive system is processing a pound of pizza.

And you? You’re dead, and your organs are pierced, stabbed and shredded by hunks of uncaring steel.

I’ll be attacking a tornado with a stick, plucking a crocodile’s eyebrows, or doing Shrek impersonations in a Scottish bar.

At least I’ll be safe.

“But, those are all dangerous!” you say. Well, you know what? Come back and tell me that after your car, your trusted steed, decides to betray you and shows you why you should’ve invested in an organ donor card.

Oh wait, you can’t. Because you’re DEAD.

At least horses have the decency to snuffle and swish their tails when you bleed to death.

No, screw that. Horses are terrifying. You ever seen one of those things? Hundreds of pounds of raw muscle, just waiting for the chance to destroy you.

“But horses are gentle creatures!” NO. NOT even sort of. You know what horses did? They crippled Superman. SUPERMAN.

A guy who can reverse time, play frisbee with aircraft carriers and subsists on a diet of magma and iron bars was transformed into a sad, crippled man in a wheelchair because of a horse.

If I was in charge, there’d be a surplus of glue and dog food.

Know what? Screw dogs too. Those things will rip your face off given the chance. All that licking and frolicking and adoring? Just a clever ruse… they wait, patiently, and when their owner’s least expect it, suddenly there’s RABIES EVERYWHERE.

I’m not actually too sure what rabies are. The dog shoots raccoons or squirrels from it’s mouth or something.

Cats have the decency to let you know that they’re plotting to kill you. But that’s the thing… they never do. Only plot it. They’re into the whole “mastermind” thing as a mental exercise. Similar to how a criminal mastermind will rob a convenience store every now and then, it’s only done as a way to stay in practice.

So here I am, 532 words into the blog post.

I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing here.

I mean, I’m at my trusty ol’ laptop, writing up this blog post. I had a story to impart, but I can’t remember what it is.

Well, I’ll list a few details, maybe we can piece it together. All elementary Holmes like. It’s deductory, my dear Watson!

• There was a Cuttlefish. I think I ate one. Or watched a David Suess special on TV.
• Coffee Crisp is involved somehow.
• Seafood, seafood seafood. There was a lobster. Lobster meat?
• Man, I love lobster. Get some butter and garlic in there, and YUM.

There was this guy in the local paper who wrote in a letter talk about the inhuman treatment of lobsters, talking about how horrific it is to boil the poor things alive. Why not kill them first, then boil them? There’s no need to be senselessly cruel to enjoy good food.

Look. I get it. You feel bad for those things, after all, they feel pain and scream when they get cooked, right? You said that right in your letter. The “little scream of anguish” as you stated it.

One. Lobsters are food. I don’t see you fighting for the rights of eggs. Those are almost baby chickens! You’re eating an abortion, you fiend!

Two. It’s physically impossible for a lobster to scream. There are several requirements for screaming, one of which is a lung. Preferably two lungs. Maybe a diaphragm. And maybe some vocal cords, if you’re feeling generous.

Lobsters possess none of these. The act of screaming is a physical impossibility.

Pass the butter.

On the previous page of the paper were two hilariously positioned articles.

The first was talking about how PETA had purchased a jail, and is planning on using it as a rescue center for lobsters. Lobsters that other PETA members rescue from various restaurants, saving them from being eaten by humans to be eaten by seagulls or something.

The second was talking about homeless people, and how many organizations were struggling with funding, but more so with finding room to fit all the homeless that came to them.

So. Let me get this straight.

While human beings, our own species, goes without shelter and a warm meal, an organization purchases a large building designed to be lived in by human beings, and uses it to house lobsters.

Wrap your mind around this, and you’ll start to see where my deep set cynicism comes from.

Oh yeah, now I remember.

There are 3.1 patch notes on the intarwebs, but they’re fake. Ignore them. When the real thing hits the intertubes, we’ll know.

To the people who continue to make these fake patch notes… keep it up. You’re getting better at faking them, though you should really consider having someone who actually plays the class to write the class patch notes. It’s still a little obvious.

YES I AM SLIGHTLY INEBRYAT… INBREATED… inbretiate… inbert… DRUNK.

I don’t drink often, so technically speaking I’m a lightweight. SO THEN I DO STUPID STUFF LIKE THIS.

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