Puttering around the interwebs tonight, as I often do, it came to me that I have issues. I mean, it wasn't exactly a revelation, pretty much anyone who knows me will agree without hesitation that I'm not quite like anyone else. Whether or not that's a positive thing is open to individual interpretation, but as for myself, I wouldn't want to be too similar to everyone else. If you're too much like so many other people, you blend in and aren't as memorable as someone who seems off in some way. I'm not saying that I try to be different, exactly, although it's well known that I try to be difficult, but rather that the way I think and feel about things is just naturally different than is popular. However, going back to my previous musing: is it a good thing that I'm a dodecagon-shaped peg that is supposed to be jammed into a square hole?
I've always enjoyed it, but recently I was at the psychiatrist's office getting my monthly anti-batshitcrazy meds when I observed a half naked, overweight black man wandering around the parking lot, accompanied by half a dozen armed police officers trying to put on their most soothing demeanor to quell this man's temper. I have absolutely no idea what his major malfunction was, but it was obvious immediately that he was both extremely high on drugs and extremely mentally unstable with the potential to go violently insane at any point. I know, I know, Pot, meet Kettle, right? After all, I was there for medication to keep me from going violently insane, so who am I to judge? Who am I to judge?, I wondered to myself as I repeatedly crafted judgments in my head. The thought of this crazy dude's behavior got me to thinking about my own behavior.
I typically don't care what anyone thinks about me and the choices I make. I routinely do things that can be described as out of the norm, from spontaneously breaking into a song and dance in public, to loudly and harshly berating Stitchfrank for daring to bring up that fucking terrible excuse for a television show, Family Guy, especially that dumb cunt Lois (don't ask). But I digress. I'm just not a quiet, meek person who spends all her time carefully weighing the possible thoughts and reactions of those around her to her actions. I do what I do, and if you don't like me, blow me. But while I completely disregard the opinions of people as it pertains to me doing things that are abnormal, immature, goofy, or just 'not done,' I have to wonder if people are thinking something more insidious than that I'm merely immature or irresponsible, or just plain stupid, but rather considering me to be more seriously damaged... If perhaps they think I'm actually one of those dangerously unhinged people who needs to have six cops trailing me, reassuring me in low, tranquil tones about the rightness of the world so that I don't start trying to bite off people's ears or something. Or maybe they're even attempting to determine which hardcore street drugs I'm abusing every day before I leave my house.
I have to admit that the idea of people viewing me as criminally psychotic or believing that I must be doing hardcore drugs unnerves me. I've always considered my brand of crazy completely benign, even cutesy. I can act like a child because I see the world like a child. I don't censor most of my thoughts and actions because I don't mean anyone real harm and I feel like that would be a denial of who I really am. Sure, it's completely possible for me to be serious when it's required, but when it's merely a guideline so other people will feel comfortable, anything goes as far as I'm concerned. Fuck, I minored in anthropology and completed half of grad school for Second Language Acquisition, studying the responses of people to external stimuli is a crap-ton of fun for me. Pulling people out of their comfort zones is an unconscious hobby of mine. Put someone in an unfamiliar situation and see what they do- isn't that a formula for a hit reality show? I'm getting off topic again, aren't I? Forgive me, it's the hour, the lack of sleep, and the delicious beer and vodka combo I've been enjoying since about 10 this evening.
My point being that yes, I troll people hard and fuck with them whenever possible because it's not truly causing them any harm and that's just how I roll. But just because I spend a portion of my time either deliberately disrupting someone's equilibrium or inadvertently making someone clear his throat and shift his weight between feet, I don't think I deserve to be labeled as a drug addict or a volatile psychotic. I am by no means certain that anyone, whether someone I personally know or a random bystander, has labeled me as such, mentally or verbally. But knowing how I tend to view people (cynically), I can step outside of who I am and my motivation behind my typically atypical behavior, and put myself in the mind of a typical middle class Republican encountering me by chance, and it seems feasible to me that such a person's mind might very well tend to drift towards thinking of me as clinically nuts or smoking something potent and blatantly illegal. I would rather not have a friendly officer of the law show up at my door one day because someone thought my overenthusiastic approach to life was a sure sign of a mental collapse or drug dependency, know what I mean?
For the record, I have two clinical diagnoses for mental disorders, neither of which cause me to take off all of my clothes and rant while I stalk around looking for someone to maim, nor am I addicted to or using any type of illegal street drug. Now that we've gotten those important truths out of the way, there are several things that, upon reflection, I would probably agree are 'addictions' of mine, after a fashion. It was the idea that I have strange tendencies and repeatedly engage in behavior that is out of character for the average person caused me to make the nebulous connection between me surfing the interwebs earlier tonight and that spaced-out drug user I saw in the parking lot of the psychiatric building last week.
Very likely my most obvious addiction is one that the greatest amount of people would admit to having suffered at one time or another. I feel like I am adrift in a sea of blackness if by some chance I am unable to go on the internet at whatever exact moment in time that I start to feel the desire building inside me. Whenever someone gives me internet access, I have a very explicit routine ingrained in me through many, many years of practice and technique refining. I experience the compulsion to visit Facebook. I will refresh the homepage 800 times in a single day to see who has created a new post or commented on an old thread in one of the numerous mother's groups of which I am a member (online, at least, since no one wants to talk to me or deal with my pissed off kid in real life). I will go to the games that I currently find it amusing to play and accept gifts, return them, and complete what few tasks I can before I'm forced to wait because Zynga is run by assholes who believe that doing any essential task in a game must cost energy or the game is destined to fail (I'm talking to you, Slingo). I google the things I'm desperate to know so I can find the latest information about the 'other men' in my life (besides Stitchfrank), the massively talented members of Chevelle. It's important that I do it every day so I can be among the first to learn about new concerts, projects, and merchandise. I mean, that's what everyone does when they have a musical artist they consider their favorite, right? No? Fuck you too. I didn't ask you. I check the various Facebook groups where I have recurring requests for Rage Baby's milk. I start searching for new porn. I do it all, over and over, until I have to drag myself away from the computer or pass out.
The interwebs aren't my only addiction, just the most obvious one. Maybe addiction is too harsh of a word, as it tends to direct my mind back towards drugs and all that bullshit. Let's go with... habits. Yes, habits sounds better. I have a very serious Chevelle habit as mentioned in reference to my internet addi- er, habit. I quote them in conversation, they're pretty much the only band on my iPhone, I have an entire wardrobe crafted from their merchandise (did I mention my sweet tattoo?), and the list goes on. These guys play music that really speaks to me for whatever reason, and their music has helped me through more than one difficult time in my life.
Then there's my old friend, vodka. Vodka may be welcome occasionally by others, but he's an old friend who's always welcome here. He can always be counted on in a pinch and he never fails to get the job done. Day or night, he's ready for action and he can defuse the most dramatic of situations. He comes conveniently packaged in a plastic bottle so if you get too excited to see him he's not going to shatter and force you to suck him out of the carpet. Yes, you could say that vodka is a daily feature in my life. Some people might see this as a problem, but I have absolutely no issues as related to my relationship with this close, special friend.
Vodka also tends to bring around another good friend of mine, sex. I never, ever want to go to sleep when sex is involved. When I wake up in the morning, sex is invariably the first thing I think of, and it's likely the last thing I do before I go to sleep. I can turn just about any topic into something adult-themed, and often do so freely in my head. When I have a threesome with vodka and sex, all the stress and pressure I feel daily are completely erased and I'm at peace. Coincidentally, this is also how Rage Baby was conceived, but thanks to the wonders of modern medicine and surgical techniques, I can have all the vodka and sex I want without ever being worried that any moment now I'll be presented with another child who wants to watch the world burn. My sex habit is naturally augmented by a talented and willing partner, but vodka hasn't come around much this evening so I'm at this juncture unable to reveal more.
However, I can disclose that sex is often summoned by another special friend of Stitchfrank's and mine, porn. Porn makes all the things you desire in your head seem like things that could really happen, and magically everyone involved is flawless and faceless. You're not going to have to deal with an irate porn star when you forgot to change the toilet paper roll, nor will you ever hear a complaint if you orgasm before they do. Porn is always ready for whatever type of action you can dream of having, and it's there whenever and however many times you need it. Chevelle is amazing, vodka tastes delightful, and I love sex and porn.
I'm fairly certain that my last statement is enough to shock and horrify almost all of my friends online and in real life. My 'habits' of Chevelle, vodka, sex, and porn in no way hamper my ability to get up each morning and face another day of trying to pacify the beast that is my daughter, however, so people can judge all they want. I know who I am and what I like and I'm okay with all of it. At least I'll be tipsy and having amazing sex while the people who are judging me sit in their frumpy pajamas, eating a pint of ice cream, and mourn the demise of their youth and sexual appeal. I might get old and ugly, but I'll never stop having fun thanks to those amazing habits of mine, so I'm not worried about a damn thing.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
That Fucking Horse
As I'm sure just about every mother knows through painful experience, all children's song composers and performers are on drugs. I'm not sure if they're dropping acid, taking hits of ecstasy, or just smoking a nice chunk of crack rock, but the result is always the same. The songs make absolutely zero sense. The musicians and singers are all so peppy and enthusiastically energetic that it makes me want a nap and a gun. Each instrument included in the composition seems designed to trigger a spasm in a different part of the brains of any adults unfortunate enough to be in earshot. The overall goal of children's songs seems to be making the children immediately become obsessed with hearing That Specific Song over and over and over and over while simultaneously breeding homicidal insanity in their parents.
Some songs are worse than others, and it's this upper echelon of ear cancer that captivates my evil daughter. I'm talking about That Fucking Horse. If you've lived your life without ever having encountered this gem before, allow me to introduce you to Rage Baby's favorite song. It's called "Little Red," and it's sung by some hippy named Patty Shulka. Watch it here. This is a song about a horse named Little Red, who really likes to walk, and trot, and run, and gallop and gallop and gallop and gallop and fuck my life. According to the lyrics, Little Red doesn't need to sleep when he's getting ready for a race because someone gives him amphetamines or something. This horse brings obsessive compulsive to a new level. Of course, he goes on to win his big race, The Run of The Roses, but does he stop galloping? No sir, he just keeps on fucking going. Maybe it's because he's forced to listen to the song written in his honor.
If you were foolish or curious or drunk enough to click on it and watch the video with the sound on, then you see my point. The first time you hear it, it's not awful. Stupid, certainly, but kind of catchy. What seems stupid but mildly catchy to me is like baby heroin to my daughter. Over her long career of being pissed off at life, we've tried many things to amuse her. I'd tried showing her the only children's music that doesn't make me want to put myself into a vodka coma, The Wiggles, but she could have given a shit less. I just assumed she wasn't interested in music or TV particularly (my fucking luck) and given up on entertaining her in that way. My sister, however, decided to give it another shot because she hates me.
We were staying in a hotel over the weekend for a hockey tournament and Rage was being her usual charming self. Trying to be considerate of other guests seemed to be futile, because, after all, this is Rage Baby we're dealing with here. But my sister, Squirt, hopped on YouTube and searched "children's songs" and clicked the first one on the list. Of course it had to be Little Red. Of course it fucking did. That Fucking Horse. I snorted derisively and waited for Rage to vehemently denounce the attempt as a pathetic failure. Instead, the trumpet flare at the beginning of the video caused her to jerk her head toward the sound. She was instantly captivated. I swear she did not blink a single time during that first exhibition of many. Squirt and I were pleased with her approval and chuckled quietly, not knowing what horror was to come.
When the song was over, she went back to the list of songs and chose another. This song did not, in any way whatsoever, cause Rage a bit of happiness. Instead she became irate again. My sister tried another song with identical results. After a series of songs that failed to pass muster, we returned to That Fucking Horse and once again, Rage became still and attentive. As soon as the song ended, she began to squirm and complain again. We watched it eight times in a row before she decided she was done with it for the time being. By that time I was covering my ears and pinching the bridge of my nose to alleviate the migraine caused by listening to Little Red gallop and gallop and gallop and gallllllllop.
That Fucking Horse is sometimes the only thing that will shut Rage up for a while. Of course, since it's on YouTube, you can't just put it on repeat and walk away. Nope, that would be too easy. Merely listening to the song, and not viewing the video, isn't enough to quell the angst in the baby, and finding the video for download is something I've yet to be successful with. So, instead, I return to restart the video every two minutes and twenty-three seconds, and start it back up at four seconds in when the trumpet starts. I appreciate that this song and video keep her calm and quiet for a few minutes, but hearing Little Red eight times in a row is really just too much for my fragile psyche to endure (after using this last ditch effort on several occasions, I've calculated the exact number of times she will watch it without losing interest. It's eight. Eight fucking times.). A person should not be expected to put up with this type of psychological torture, but hey, the things we do for our kids, right?
Since discovering the magical effect of That Fucking Horse on Rage Baby, I've continued my search for other children's songs that are slightly less demented and irritating. Until just last week I was unsuccessful in my efforts. She showed no special preference toward that hippy Patty Shukla (I'm sure she's very nice, but if I ever meet her I'm going to stab her for her crimes against my sanity). She had no positive things to say about traditional kids' songs such as the ABCs or The Wheels on the Bus. Barney, shockingly, did nothing for her, since both Happy-Go-Lucky and Taco Princess always loved that purple asshole. Raffi bored the shit out of her, and I can understand because although I listened to (and enjoyed!) his music as a kid, his videos are bland and colorless, and the sound quality on 99% of the videos is shitty. Rage Baby demands quality and high fidelity sound, dammit. A plethora of music videos and clips spanning the different genres within children's music completely failed to make an impression on my fickle child.
Then, recently, one afternoon when Stitchfrank and I couldn't stand to listen to That Fucking Horse another time, he clicked on a link in the recommended videos at the end of the song. The song that he clicked on was The Duck Song, and neither of us expected it to find favor with our little Napoleon but we tried it anyway. To our mutual surprise, she loved it. It's clearly not as popular with her as Little Douche bag Racehorse, but she enjoys it for a little variety in her day. And it has the added bonus of giving us a brief respite from all the galloping. So overall the discovery of The Duck Song has been a happy one, but there are is one minor issue I have with it...
That duck is an ASSHOLE. I mean, seriously, he's a dick who obviously gets off on being as irritating and tiresome as possible to everyone he meets. In not just one video, but an entire series of them, he visits various establishments and inquires if the proprietors have any grapes. He is especially careful to patronize only those places that are unlikely to have grapes on hand, such as a lemonade stand in the first and a convenience store in a later video. After being told no, he leaves, only to return the next day and ask the same fucking question. He does this every day until finally whatever employee he's been badgering loses his or her cool and threatens him or tells him to fuck off. He comes back the following day and manages to twist the threat against him levied previously into something that gives him the final word. The man working at the lemonade stand threatens to glue him to a tree, so the duck comes back the next afternoon and asks him for glue. The dude isn't expecting a new approach, so he answers honestly. Since the duck now knows he can't be glued to the tree, he asks for grapes again. For some inexplicable reason, the lemonade stand guy breaks down and buys the duck his stupid grapes at a grocery store, and when he tries to give the duck one, he tells him no and asks if the store sells lemonade!
What the FUCK, man? I want to know where the morality or respectfulness lesson in this song is, because I haven't found it yet. The kicker for me is that I swear each time Rage Baby watches the video she starts laughing when the duck tells the lemonade guy no. It's an evil little "he-he-he" chuckle that can't possible mean that she grasps the full meaning of the video at ten months. Maybe she just really likes that part of the song. But there's a tiny part of me that knows who her parents are and wonders if it's possible for her to have a sick sense of humor already. I've also caught her laughing at us when we're irritated about something or when one of us accidentally kicks a chair or drops something that breaks. I'm pretty sure she's going to grow up to be a sadist at this rate.
Also, how many talking ducks do you know, if we're getting right down to it? Wouldn't that freak you the fuck out if a duck came up to you and quacked for grapes? And what kind of a duck likes grapes? Or does he even like them? It could be that he actually despises them, since he said no to the ones purchased for him by the lemonade guy, and that for whatever reason they are just a prop in his evil master plan. I don't know, it all seems to come back to those serious drug habits that the children's song makers have.
I guess I'm glad that Rage Baby prefers The Duck Song series to Barney or the Fresh Beats Band. It shows that at least she has some capacity for good taste, even if she does like That Fucking Horse.
Some songs are worse than others, and it's this upper echelon of ear cancer that captivates my evil daughter. I'm talking about That Fucking Horse. If you've lived your life without ever having encountered this gem before, allow me to introduce you to Rage Baby's favorite song. It's called "Little Red," and it's sung by some hippy named Patty Shulka. Watch it here. This is a song about a horse named Little Red, who really likes to walk, and trot, and run, and gallop and gallop and gallop and gallop and fuck my life. According to the lyrics, Little Red doesn't need to sleep when he's getting ready for a race because someone gives him amphetamines or something. This horse brings obsessive compulsive to a new level. Of course, he goes on to win his big race, The Run of The Roses, but does he stop galloping? No sir, he just keeps on fucking going. Maybe it's because he's forced to listen to the song written in his honor.
If you were foolish or curious or drunk enough to click on it and watch the video with the sound on, then you see my point. The first time you hear it, it's not awful. Stupid, certainly, but kind of catchy. What seems stupid but mildly catchy to me is like baby heroin to my daughter. Over her long career of being pissed off at life, we've tried many things to amuse her. I'd tried showing her the only children's music that doesn't make me want to put myself into a vodka coma, The Wiggles, but she could have given a shit less. I just assumed she wasn't interested in music or TV particularly (my fucking luck) and given up on entertaining her in that way. My sister, however, decided to give it another shot because she hates me.
We were staying in a hotel over the weekend for a hockey tournament and Rage was being her usual charming self. Trying to be considerate of other guests seemed to be futile, because, after all, this is Rage Baby we're dealing with here. But my sister, Squirt, hopped on YouTube and searched "children's songs" and clicked the first one on the list. Of course it had to be Little Red. Of course it fucking did. That Fucking Horse. I snorted derisively and waited for Rage to vehemently denounce the attempt as a pathetic failure. Instead, the trumpet flare at the beginning of the video caused her to jerk her head toward the sound. She was instantly captivated. I swear she did not blink a single time during that first exhibition of many. Squirt and I were pleased with her approval and chuckled quietly, not knowing what horror was to come.
When the song was over, she went back to the list of songs and chose another. This song did not, in any way whatsoever, cause Rage a bit of happiness. Instead she became irate again. My sister tried another song with identical results. After a series of songs that failed to pass muster, we returned to That Fucking Horse and once again, Rage became still and attentive. As soon as the song ended, she began to squirm and complain again. We watched it eight times in a row before she decided she was done with it for the time being. By that time I was covering my ears and pinching the bridge of my nose to alleviate the migraine caused by listening to Little Red gallop and gallop and gallop and gallllllllop.
That Fucking Horse is sometimes the only thing that will shut Rage up for a while. Of course, since it's on YouTube, you can't just put it on repeat and walk away. Nope, that would be too easy. Merely listening to the song, and not viewing the video, isn't enough to quell the angst in the baby, and finding the video for download is something I've yet to be successful with. So, instead, I return to restart the video every two minutes and twenty-three seconds, and start it back up at four seconds in when the trumpet starts. I appreciate that this song and video keep her calm and quiet for a few minutes, but hearing Little Red eight times in a row is really just too much for my fragile psyche to endure (after using this last ditch effort on several occasions, I've calculated the exact number of times she will watch it without losing interest. It's eight. Eight fucking times.). A person should not be expected to put up with this type of psychological torture, but hey, the things we do for our kids, right?
Since discovering the magical effect of That Fucking Horse on Rage Baby, I've continued my search for other children's songs that are slightly less demented and irritating. Until just last week I was unsuccessful in my efforts. She showed no special preference toward that hippy Patty Shukla (I'm sure she's very nice, but if I ever meet her I'm going to stab her for her crimes against my sanity). She had no positive things to say about traditional kids' songs such as the ABCs or The Wheels on the Bus. Barney, shockingly, did nothing for her, since both Happy-Go-Lucky and Taco Princess always loved that purple asshole. Raffi bored the shit out of her, and I can understand because although I listened to (and enjoyed!) his music as a kid, his videos are bland and colorless, and the sound quality on 99% of the videos is shitty. Rage Baby demands quality and high fidelity sound, dammit. A plethora of music videos and clips spanning the different genres within children's music completely failed to make an impression on my fickle child.
Then, recently, one afternoon when Stitchfrank and I couldn't stand to listen to That Fucking Horse another time, he clicked on a link in the recommended videos at the end of the song. The song that he clicked on was The Duck Song, and neither of us expected it to find favor with our little Napoleon but we tried it anyway. To our mutual surprise, she loved it. It's clearly not as popular with her as Little Douche bag Racehorse, but she enjoys it for a little variety in her day. And it has the added bonus of giving us a brief respite from all the galloping. So overall the discovery of The Duck Song has been a happy one, but there are is one minor issue I have with it...
That duck is an ASSHOLE. I mean, seriously, he's a dick who obviously gets off on being as irritating and tiresome as possible to everyone he meets. In not just one video, but an entire series of them, he visits various establishments and inquires if the proprietors have any grapes. He is especially careful to patronize only those places that are unlikely to have grapes on hand, such as a lemonade stand in the first and a convenience store in a later video. After being told no, he leaves, only to return the next day and ask the same fucking question. He does this every day until finally whatever employee he's been badgering loses his or her cool and threatens him or tells him to fuck off. He comes back the following day and manages to twist the threat against him levied previously into something that gives him the final word. The man working at the lemonade stand threatens to glue him to a tree, so the duck comes back the next afternoon and asks him for glue. The dude isn't expecting a new approach, so he answers honestly. Since the duck now knows he can't be glued to the tree, he asks for grapes again. For some inexplicable reason, the lemonade stand guy breaks down and buys the duck his stupid grapes at a grocery store, and when he tries to give the duck one, he tells him no and asks if the store sells lemonade!
What the FUCK, man? I want to know where the morality or respectfulness lesson in this song is, because I haven't found it yet. The kicker for me is that I swear each time Rage Baby watches the video she starts laughing when the duck tells the lemonade guy no. It's an evil little "he-he-he" chuckle that can't possible mean that she grasps the full meaning of the video at ten months. Maybe she just really likes that part of the song. But there's a tiny part of me that knows who her parents are and wonders if it's possible for her to have a sick sense of humor already. I've also caught her laughing at us when we're irritated about something or when one of us accidentally kicks a chair or drops something that breaks. I'm pretty sure she's going to grow up to be a sadist at this rate.
Also, how many talking ducks do you know, if we're getting right down to it? Wouldn't that freak you the fuck out if a duck came up to you and quacked for grapes? And what kind of a duck likes grapes? Or does he even like them? It could be that he actually despises them, since he said no to the ones purchased for him by the lemonade guy, and that for whatever reason they are just a prop in his evil master plan. I don't know, it all seems to come back to those serious drug habits that the children's song makers have.
I guess I'm glad that Rage Baby prefers The Duck Song series to Barney or the Fresh Beats Band. It shows that at least she has some capacity for good taste, even if she does like That Fucking Horse.
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