I had a conversation with one of my more favorite cohorts the other day about a particular business with which we are both familiar. We are both incredulous at how many bad decisions are made on a daily basis and how no consequence ever seems to come of it. At one point, he dubbed it insanity per the definition of “doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

Maybe it’s masochism, but I am sometimes compelled to pore over the shit that is purveyed to women about men. Insipid, shallow, stereotypical drivel like: 5 Types of Guys to Avoid at all Costs and 10 Things he’s Thinking when he Sees you Naked.

Now, do I agree that Bluetooth- and popped-collar multi-polo shirt-wearing douchenozzle cuntbags aren’t worth a woman’s time? Yes. Absolutely. But this article doesn’t share anything insightful at all … and it doesn’t call women out for their habitually stupid behavior of going for exactly the guys they complain about. All the while these insane — per definition above — women decry the lack of good men out there, while intentionally overlooking the ones that fit the criteria they condemn the dipshits for lacking.

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Five men were recently absolved of accusations of rape. The charges were brought against them by a girl who recanted her claim. Though there’s a lot of noise about “innocent until proven guilty” in this country, these boys were thrown in lock-up, held on exorbitant bail their low-income families could never hope to pay and some of them were suspended from their schools. All the result of mere allegations … which have turned out to be false.

Rape is obviously very serious, but so too should be protecting the innocent from false accusations and unlawful repudiation. Like it or not — under the tenets of our justice system — even if someone did perpetrate an act that violates the law, there should be no recourse for punishment BEFORE a guilty verdict is delivered in our courts. However, preemptive punishment, regardless of guilt, is not new in this country … this purported land of freedom and democracy … more like of hyperbole and outright lies.

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I dislike very many things, but I like what I like, no matter how uncool, ridiculous or risible it may be. There are also things towards which I am ambivalent. I dislike Incubus for many reasons, most of them related to the exes of mine who loved them but, at the same time, I do enjoy some of their music. Right now, I’m thinking of the lyric: “To resist is to piss in the wind / anyone who does will end up smelling.”

It is simultaneously insipidly puerile and insightful. I think that description can be universally applied to all of their music. Not to delve too deeply into something about which I have no insight, but I wonder if that dichotomy is the result of the songwriter’s urge to be meaningful while unable to avoid stooping to superficiality, hedonism and inanity.

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Almost everything I experience sticks in my mind. I have so much information in my brain that serves no practical purpose, it’s patently absurd. My propensity to recall music lyrics or dialogue from movies is a useful party trick. I can even recall mundane details from other people’s lives, told to me in passing, that the people to whom it happened eventually cease to recall.

Having a long memory is so much more of a curse than a blessing.

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Page views are down because output is down. Not as though I’ve monetized this thing, so tracking how many times it’s been viewed is little more than an exercise in gauging the little niche of interest I’ve staked out.

It’s a good sign that a handful of people still will tune in despite nothing new to see, but if I alienate that readership by not providing new content, I’ll be back to utter obscurity instead of nearly utter obscurity.

The dearth of writing is the result of a dearth of inspiration. Sure, there have been things to write about, but as angry and vitriolic as this place can be, I’d much rather it not be used as an outlet for woe. Woe has been in large supply of late and using it for inspiration is like trying to fashion a skyscraper from literal horseshit.

On the train last night, a bum was making his rounds. But this bum wasn’t like the bulk of his cohorts. He wasn’t asking for money or selling a sob story for years on end about how his house burned down the week before … he was belligerent, abusive and confrontational.

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Maybe people were crazier back in the day, or at least a lot more gullible, but if someone today came around talking about a burning bush and having spoken to God, how credible would be that person? Would anyone believe them? Anyone who isn’t already drunk on the “word” and thumping their own bible or religious text, reading it on the train and at every spare moment? I doubt it.

I’ve been watching ‘Deadwood’ lately. It is marvelous. Very gritty and unapologetically vile … true to how I imagine frontier life to have been: filthy, objectionable, brutal, hard, miserable, coarse and unpleasant.

In the show, there is a preacher. The speculation is that he suffers from a tumor that is causing him to do wonky things. His sense of smell is so fucked up he thinks his own flesh is rotting. He has seizures. His eyeballs are askew. His short-term memory is unreliable. Finally, he is talking utter nonsense with regard to scripture … that is to say, even more nonsense than when the scripture is read verbatim.

When last I saw the preacher, he was talking to a bull about circumcision. He would stand upright and say something, then double over to view the bull’s johnson. The guy is touched in the head, surely.

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Being the best at something is not always worthwhile. It depends upon the environment. If one works with error-prone individuals and one’s own eagle-eye for typos and copy-writing mistakes always catches their errors — and the environment is such where there is no checking of work before it is purveyed to the public, making every citation of each error an event in itself — it promotes a culture of resentment.

In sum, the error-prone take umbrage with the person devoted to maintaining a high standard of quality. If this does not evince a dysfunctional relationship, I cannot imagine an example that would.

However, if one’s great skill at recalling the proper spelling of names and English-language words in general is appreciated and employed at a stage prior to the dissemination of mistake-riddled product to the public, this defense against errors would be welcome and appreciated, and the defender might even be rewarded for their good, invaluable work.

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It’s a rainy day. Rainy days tend to be ruminative for me. It’s because the forbidding weather prevents outdoor sojourns, except in the case of necessity, and it leaves a lot of idle time indoors during which the wheels spin and spin some more.

Looking at my “home” page on Shitbook (I’m loath to mention the comination of visage and reading material for fear of giving the dreck a reverse plug. As much as I’m used to using it, I still revile the obnoxious and oft insipid, growing colony of bacteria-like narcissism), I saw the post of my misanthropic rant about a cross-dresser and a sad-sack twerp who was just shy of public masturbation.

I rarely take the time to look any deeper than what people present in public and form my perceptions on what I see; I use the immediate picture. I don’t think that’s so strange … in fact, I imagine it to be quite common. First impressions are just that.

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I mentioned the old, hideous, bat-shit crazy dude who was wearing a dress on the train the other day. Here’s the photo I took. But as I recounted the encounter, I remembered there was another freak on that train near to whom I had the great misfortune to sit.

Picture a short, flabby, unattractive man. The kind of man most people would assume still lives with his mother and hasn’t seen a pussy since he was squeezed out for the first time. He was strange and odd and he held in his hands a book by the unapologetic skank who subjected humanity to ‘Sex and the City.’

The book’s title was something to do with one-night stands. Obviously a book written by a slut for sluts or at least women who are not sluts but wish to live vicariously through one. Either way it breaks down, it’s chick-lit … and this sad-sack schmuck was reading it while licking his lips like he’d been sat down before a full-course meal after starving for a lifetime.

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I hate khaki pants. It’s not an objective decision; they just offend me. In their original form, they are a bland color. Their cut is never flattering, especially to women who have asses.

They bring to mind images of entitled preparatory school children, flouting rules and date-raping girls while the interest on their trust funds accrues. Couple one with a blue blazer and it’s like waving a red cape at a bull to me.

If I had Tourette’s — and yes, I know I’m borderline — I would shout: “Goddamned, fucking cocksucking piece-of-shit motherfucker, fucking blue blazer khaki bullshit creep fuck!”

As for leopard print. Ladies. Please. Stop. It’s not sexy. It won’t make you sexy. It makes you look tacky and cheap and, in most cases, it’s an advertisement of that very truth about you. Next time, just wear a sign that says “I’m a cheap skank with no fashion sense.” We’ll interpolate the spots.

I said there would be other Crimes against Humanity, so I’ll expound on tattoos. I couldn’t care less if men have them; they’re already almost universally ugly and stupid … but when women have them, what a waste. It’s like if the Venus di Milo had a tramp stamp or a butterfly tattooed on the inside of her hip. I imagine a lot of leopard print gets worn by women with tattoos.

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