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Ramblings Of A CineManiac
By: Calisto Slim
I'm like a rape victim, in that i dont like it when people touch me. My body is surrounded by what I refer to as a “touch bubble”, that no one is permitted to penetrate. If another person’s flesh gets within 2 feet of mine, I can detect it and deflect it. Even if they’re behind me & I can’t see them, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; it’s like my Spidey Sense tingling. I’m not a violent man, but I’ve elbowed 3 close friends and family members in the eye because they tried hugging me from behind.
There’s always one guy at work that is overly touchy, though. We all know somebody that feels compelled to over-laugh at a bad joke and slap his hand on your shoulder as he bends over yukking it up, as though without your body for support he would collapse onto the floor. At my work, it’s a guy who looks a little like Sloth from The Goonies. I mean, not full-on mutant or anything, but his face is malformed and his eye sockets point in different directions like a hammerhead shark. He looks like fetal alcohol syndrome, all grown up. Anyway, this guy-- let’s call him Bryan, because that’s his name-- he comes from a super religious family. I’m not talking just a crucifix in the living room type of religious, I’m talking that he’s in his 30s, still lives with his parents, and has to work at the church 3 days a week in addition to attending regular services. The whole family does this. Religion is a part of their daily routine, much in the way that most of us would brush our teeth every morning, or sacrifice our children to Molech, or wash the dishes. You know, just normal, every day life.
The interesting thing about Bryan, aside from his face, is that everyone at work knows Bryan is gay, except for Bryan himself. Just from speaking with him for two minutes you can tell his sexuality, but he won’t (or can’t) admit to it because of the havoc it would wreak on his personal life. On one hand, I’m wondering why the hell are there still closeted homosexuals in 2016? It seems like society has pretty much gotten over it, but then some nutter shoots up a dance club in Orlando and I’m like, “Oh okay, I guess that’s why.” For whatever reason, a lot of religions that preach acceptance are extremely hostile towards... everyone. Like, all the time. Somebody should probably point that out to them, I’m sure they’d really appreciate it and immediately correct their behavior!
Back to Bryan, this dude has a move that drives me crazy. I’ll be sitting at my desk, hard at work on some TPS reports or whatever (you don’t fucking care what I do for a living), and Bryan just appears out of nowhere. He likes to give surprise massages, like some kind of Norwegian Ninja. He’ll pop up behind me and start brushing his hand on my shoulder, saying, “Oh mistah, you so dirty! Teeheeheehee!” and then he proceeds to knead me like pizza dough. Some people might appreciate a mid-day rub down to relieve the workday tension, but not me. I react like he’s coming at me with a knife. Stand back, Bryan! Don’t you touch me with that thing! So, you see: I’m like a rape victim, in that I react like a rape victim. Also, I’ve been raped. A couple of times. You just don’t hear me whining about it all the time, unlike SOME rape victims. You know the type: a bunch of whiny cry babies, if you ask me. I’m not some pansy-ass little cunt. I take! My raping! LIKE A MAN! And I go on! WITH MY LIFE! Tough rapes don’t last; tough people do. You gotta just walk it off, the raping, that is. That’s what my little league coach taught me.
This guy knows.
It’s not like there’s a bunch of support groups for victims of bicycle theft, but that’s just as common as rape. Bicycle theft may be even more pervasive than rape, actually. Did you know that 73% of all bicycle thefts go unreported? There’s a bunch of overly enthusiastic cyclists out here in the streets, who just can’t hold back their primal urge to pedal. They can’t engage with some sweet little Schwinn and wait for it to consent to a ride like the rest of us do, so instead they steal my Huffy and take it for a spin. Leave it laying in a ditch somewhere, when they’re through. Oh great, now I don’t even want it back! Not after some guy has had his sweaty taint all over my Huffy’s precious padded leather saddle. He ruined my sweet girl! He popped her wheelie! I was saving that move for when we got married! What the fuck was I talking about!? Fuck it! Let’s keep moving: RANDOM NEW TOPIC INITIATED.
"You perverted little bastard. I can't believe you defiled my precious!"
We really cared about breast cancer during the month of October, didn’t we? It was 31 preciously optimistic days of putting pink ribbons onto random products and hoping for the best. We’ve been doing this for years, but it hasn’t really cured cancer yet, has it? In fact, if the purveyors of this pink ribbon industry were to finally stumble upon a breast cancer breakthrough, they’d probably destroy it, because curing this form of cancer would reduce their profits and eliminate their reason for existing. 10% of our proceeds have been going to fund a massive marketing campaign, not actual reasearch. What the hell is Susan G. Komen doing the other 11 months of the year? She probably sails her giant pink yacht around the world, living it up with the other charitable high rollers, like the Red Cross, Jerry’s Kids, and whoever came up with the ice bucket challenge. Oh, Susan Komen died of breast cancer in 1980, you say? Then who’s cashing all those checks? I say she’s still alive, living it up Keyser Soze-style with Tupac and Elvis!
Meanwhile, if your wife, your sister, or your mother actually gets breast cancer, suddenly we revert to medieval times:
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Emma...” the doctor laments in his practiced, dolorous tone, “but you have breast cancer.”
Emma asks optimistically, “Is there a cure, doctor?”
“Not really a CURE, per se...” the doctor replies, as he sharpens his machete, “we just sort of hack that titty clean off your body. No more breast, no more cancer.”
“Are you serious?! But I bought my Starbucks in a pink cup last month!” Emma declares incredulously, “Where’s all that money going?”
The doctor replies, “How do you think we pay for all the machetes?”
Pictured: The Peak Of Medical Science, 2016
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