Arbitrary Rulings 21 (Unexplained Edition)
Aliens - I also believe in aliens, but in a totally Carl Sagan way as opposed to like thinking we're randomly getting abducted for "medical research" that always seems to involve the butthole. The universe, kids... it's vast and we don't even know the half of it. I want you do something for me right now; I want you to actually, just for a minute, contemplate the SIZE of the universe. Think about it stretching out beyond Pluto, past the Milky Way galaxy, beyond the scope of our radio telescopes and deep space probes (heh). Think about that immense physical scope. Then try to imagine that we, the citizens of Earth, are the ONLY people occupying said universe. Crushingly lonely? So much so that you've started power chugging straight Everclear at your desk? Haha... wow... I want to party with YOU, especially if you're a chick. But you see my point: There HAS to be other life out there. We can't just be IT. Because, quite frankly, we ain't that spectacular. Sure we've got some good things going for us... apples are nice, as are professional sports and the mind of Joss Whedon... but basically we're all about hate and fear and war and The Pussycat Dolls. I'd really like to think that there's another race of beings out there with exciting new technologies and invigorating ideas and they're just dying to share it all with us. Man, I can't wait until we fight those fuckers and make them our slaves!
ESP- Complete bullshit. I know that, this one time, you TOTALLY knew Becky was going to call right before the phone rang and IT WAS HER but, dude, that's called a coincidence. Besides, Becky calls you every fifteen fucking minutes anyway to talk about Dylan and how he's such a creep and you keep telling her to break up with him but she won't because Dylan's dad just bought him a Miata and Becky's really into small, horrible deathtrap cars that even toddlers think are kind of gay. But... look... what I'm trying to say is that there's no such thing as extra-sensory perception. Nor can any of us use the powers of our brain to move stuff around and/or control the minds of others. Were it possible to do so, I'd spend every waking moment of my existence unhooking girl's bras from afar and then I'd use telepathy to make them think they were being offered beads at Mardi Gras. An ignoble pursuit, perhaps, but... and I think you'll agree with me here... boobies.
The Career of Dave Matthews- He's pudgy and balding, kind of squinty and he wears a lot of t-shirts. I'm pretty sure, too, that his closet is full of cargo pants and there's a real "Dad" vibe coming off of him... like he'd try to ground you if you came home past curfew. And yet, he's HUGE. Even today, years past the peak of his fame, his concerts still pack them in. And by "them," I mean guys with backwards fitted baseball caps and pukka shell necklaces and their girlfriends who wear shirts that say "Diva" even though they basically just do whatever their boyfriend tells them to do. Oh, and BOTH of them have hair with bleached tips, as they are just shitty, shitty people. And if it's not them seeing Dave Matthews in concert, it's the hoodie/poncho wearing, just-made-my-own-dreads, discovered-weed-freshman-year-and-it-blew-my-mind, liberal arts majors who are really just looking for an empty patch of lawn to have the ultimate hacky-sack kick-around. So it's douchebags or people so stoned, they don't even comprehend they're at a concert. That's his fanbase. And they've made him one of the biggest selling acts of our generation. Thanks, America's colleges! Your dorms are a breeding ground for pop culture leanings so off base they make entire species of the animal kingdom go extinct.
What The Hell HAPPENED Last Night - I mean, I woke up in the hallway of my apartment building soaking wet wearing pants that were not my own and clutching tightly to my chest a ceramic dachshund that's inscribed, "To Fritz, with love... and maybe more (wink!)." They actually wrote "wink!!!" What?!?! I wouldn't be so worried about it but, according to what's written on the tag of these pants, they belong to Fritz. And I get the feeling he's a guy who's really going to miss his ceramic dachshund. Seriously you guys, I'm done with tequila. It makes me feel like I swallowed a running band saw and it only leads to weeks of regret, visits to the doctor for a course of shots, and the distinct feeling that a German man is following me night and day, watching, waiting for the moment to leap out and reclaim what is rightfully his. I guess I've really got to stop drinking... or at least I've got to stop drinking in the part of New York known as Little Stuttgart. Freaky shit there, for real, but unfortunately they've also got excellent happy hour deals.