Monday, March 28, 2011

Old People: What Are They Good For?

I took my kids to the dentist the other day. He’s located in a medical office building near Leisure World (or Seizure World as I like to call it) - a huge retirement community in South Orange County. The place was absolutely crawling with old people. Walkers, wheel chairs, oxygen tanks, yucky old person smell, the whole nine yards. We somehow managed to navigate our way through the crowded lobby full of decrepit imbeciles (save your occasional attractive pharmaceutical sales rep dotted here and there) and proceeded to get stuck in a huddled elevator with another half dozen old farts. We mouth breathed our way through the first 3 floors and finally arrived at floor number 4 only to be greeted by 3 more old geezers who bum-rushed the elevator doors before we’d even made an attempt to get off (Hello – elevator etiquette grampa: you don’t get in until I’ve gotten out - why do I even need to say this?). Same story after we finished up with the appointment and made our escape from the building – wall to wall old people as far as the eye could see. It was like being stuck in a building-shaped sardine can full of urine-soaked crypt keepers. I think some old person stink might have even rubbed off on us as I could still smell them on the drive home. Which (wait for it) got me thinking…

When you arrive at those final years of your life (like an expired carton of milk waiting to be thrown out) what’s the f*cking point? You’re barely mobile, you feel like shit all the time, you’re a burden to everyone around you, and you stink. When I get old I swear I’m going “Thelma and Louise” off the side of a f*cking mountain to save my family the trouble. Which is probably why I never feel guilty after smoking a cigar, drinking too much, eating a piece of bacon, or doing anything that will generally shorten my life expectancy. What do I care if I trim off a few months here and there? It’s the months at the end I’m eliminating and those are the shitty ones anyway, right? It’s been a while since I’ve waxed poetic on this blog and I think it’s long overdue. What follows is my “Ode To An Old Fart”:

Warning: if you’re north of 75 years old you might want to stop reading at this point. On the other hand old people love to complain about shit and this will definitely give you something to complain about.  So enjoy it.

Ode To An Old Fart

“Look up to your elders and pay them respect”
With certain exceptions I must boldly object

For it’s tough to admire, hold you in regard
When you piss in your pants, get lost in the yard

You’re wrinkled and tired, your ears are too big
You insist on a comb over, should wear a wig

You drive like an asshole, eat dinner at three
Shit in a diaper, need glasses to see

You say cell phones are stupid, the internet is a scam
You’re stubborn and racist, you don’t give a damn

When reading my blog you’re never amused
It’s over your head, you’re old and confused

I’m fed up with your antics, your old person scowl
The gut wrenching stories about your irritable bowl

Your opinions don’t matter, you haven’t a clue
Like a useless old horse we should turn you to glue

I could ramble off reasons all day and all night
Of why you’re irrelevant and fill me with spite

But the worst part of all which makes my head stew
Is that some day in the future I’ll be one of you

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Stupid People Are So Lucky

I have a Golden Retriever named Max. He’s probably the stupidest animal on the planet. All that dumb mother f*cker needs is a tennis ball and he’s 100% content. If you really think about it he’s brilliant in his simplicity – dumb as a box of rocks - but brilliant nonetheless. He’s always got a huge, horsey grin on his big, dumb face and there’s not a single ounce of ill will in his entire, clumsy body. I love that dog and he loves me back completely. Without question. Which makes me wonder: If it takes so little to make a creature so dumb completely happy, does the same paradigm apply to people? Or to put it another way is there a positive correlation between stupidity and happiness?

To answer this question I can think of no better place to look than my own life. I’m no Rhodes Scholar but I do consider myself a person of above average intelligence. Plus I just scored genius level on one of those pop-up internet IQ tests, so I’ve got that going for me. That said sometimes I think I’d be happier if I was a little less intelligent. Example: Details stress me out. I really don’t want to know how jet engines work (I do) because then I’d know how easy it is for shit to go wrong (it is) and I’d be freaked out every time I board a plane (I am). If I was stupid I probably wouldn’t question everything around me, feel the need to do subsequent research, and stress myself out in the process. Instead I could coast through life in a fog of blissful ignorance (a la the Bush’s). In this example how would being stupid not make me an incrementally happier person (have you seen the huge, shit eating grin on Dubya’s face)?

In several ways I already am quite stupid – just ask my wife. The first thing that comes to mind is my terrible sense of direction, or lack thereof. I can literally go to the same place like ten times and still not remember how to get there. It drives my wife freaking nuts. But you know what? I don’t need to know how to get anywhere because I've got GPS in my car, and GPS makes me happy. Which begs the question: If technology is able to mask the retarded section of my brain responsible for direction (and put a smile on my face in the process) what other intellectual short-comings could technology be making up for or actually improving? Unfortunately I’ll never know because I’m too smart… and you can chalk up another victory for stupidity.

Embarrassing personal example #2: One of my wife’s favorite things to say is that “I’m the dumbest smart person she knows” (her words not mine). This statement stems in large part from my utter lack of common sense. I could list off numerous examples under this topic but for the sake of my own personal credibility I choose not to. All I’ll say is that in these recurring moments of poor judgment (lovingly pointed out by my sweet flower) it always makes me feel good that despite this glaring mental deficiency / character flaw I still somehow convinced her to marry me… which must make me one lovable idiot (big smile on my face). And there you have it: Further proof that the road of stupidity does indeed meander towards the parking lot of happiness. Are you sensing a trend here?

I can only speak from my own personal experience but based on the overwhelming evidence above I’d say there’s only one logical conclusion: Yes – there is absolutely a positive correlation between stupidity and happiness. All you dumb bastards out there have no idea how lucky you are :)

Peace and Love,

The Quinsey Blog

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Charlie Sheen: Living Proof That It’s Possible To Envy And Pity Someone At The Very Same Time

By now everyone’s seen the manic television interviews with the bizarre quotes (“I’m a winner man”, “I’ve got tiger’s blood”, "I’m a frickin rock star – you can’t hang with me the door’s right over there”, etc.). It’s all part of the self-initiated Charlie Sheen whirlwind publicity tour. Is he a hopeless narcissist? Sure. Is his lifestyle non-traditional? Uh huh. Is it strange that he has two twenty-something live in girlfriends (one a porn star, the other a model)? Yeah. Is he most likely on some sort of drug/s even though he recently produced records of a clean drug test? Yup (you think $1.8 million per episode can’t buy a clean drug test?). That said I’m not sure whether to envy him or pity him?

The facts:

a) He’s filthy stinking rich: he makes $1.8 million per episode of “Two and Half Men” and has been the star of numerous hit movies over his 20+ year career.

b) He’s extremely talented: his comedic timing is second to none and a true thing of beauty (regardless of what drug/s he’s on).

c) He’s always done well with the ladies: case in point ex-wife Denise Richards and his two twenty-something (allegedly) live in girlfriends who he affectionately refers to as the Goddesses (Daddy issues anyone?).

d) He’s arguably one the most famous, high-profile television actors of all time: how many million people have tuned in to watch the surreal television interviews? Enough said.

Any one of those things (wealth, talent, women, fame) on their own would be enough to make most men happy for a lifetime, and Sheen’s got ALL four that lucky bastard. In baseball terms (the sport he loves most) his life is a walk-off grand slam in game 7 of the World Series. For all these reasons I envy him. How can you not?

For every other reason… I pity him. Seriously - he’s like a slow motion train wreck unfolding before our eyes, and no matter how hard we try we can’t turn him off. It’s just good clean entertainment, am I right? After watching more interviews than I care to admit I’ve come to one inalienable conclusion: Dude’s straight fucking crazy. He’s lost it. He’s flipped his lid. He’s cracked up. He’s bonkers. He’s coo coo for cocoa puffs. But that’s okay because he’s WINNING. Just ask him and he’ll tell you. I'd be curious to know when the definition of winning was broadened to include things like snorting down copious amounts of reality altering drugs, telling your boss to piss off on a public stage, and allowing a misguided pair of under-aged prostitutes to raise your kids. The worst part is that he doesn’t even see a problem with the way he’s living his life (his Hollywood estate is like a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah). On the other hand it must be nice to completely not give a shit about anything or anyone, and to live every moment of your life with the singular goal of pleasuring one’s self… and the envy creeps back in. So you see my dilemma. Envy? Pity? A very fine line indeed. Oh well, I’m sure it will come to me some day while I’m winning on a rocket ship straight to Mars.

In closing I’d like to extend a heartfelt thank you to Charlie Sheen’s publicist, Stan Rosenfield, for quitting. Had he not we surely never would have experienced this important moment in history.