Like On Me. Like On My Face.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. You need to, first, ask questions.”
But, that’s no fun. I’m not a murder detective. Or am I?
“There’s half of an uneaten burrito about six inches up the victims rectum”
“So, I guess our victim is a gay Mexican?”
“Don’t be homophobic, Anderson. All Mexicans are drawn to the burrito in the tale pipe trick. This is obviously an unfortunate case of a burrito tossing.”
Jumping to conclusions is part of human nature. The joy of solving a puzzle. You take in information, analyze the data, and you conclude the origin and, in most cases, intent.
VOICE OVER: (Sniffs the air.) Smell that? It smells like hate. Where’s it coming from… Over there. You see? There’s a man in an Uncle Cracker t-shirt. And he’s holding a machete that’s painted like the confederate flag. Hmm. Machete? That’s not very American.
You hear something sizzling and you see a chef holding a sauté pan while the smell of caramelized garlic attacks your olfactory glands. The room is hot. You salivate. There is no equation to solve. Everything is crystal clear. But is it as it seems?
“You, uh, cooking something over there?”
“No, I’m clubbing a baby seal. What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
“Umm. Yeah. Sorry.”
Jumping to conclusions is a sign of intelligence. If you don’t jump, you appear to be a slow witted idiot. You and your senses are trying to survive the world, man! So, jump. You always jump.
There’s a woman on Twitter that goes by the name of “Snowflake Cuckfucker.” Which I think is funny. But I could be wrong. It’s hard to read intent on Twitter. The tone is missing.
“Alright patient 243. Do you see the tweet?”
“Tell us, which tone is correct?”
(Clamly) “Dude, I totally killed everybody last night.”
(Happily) “Dude, I totally killed everybody last night.”
(Crazily) “Dude, I totally killed everybody last night.”
“OK, sir. Can you tell us which tone is the correct tone.”
I don’t know. All of them? I mean, that could have been said by anybody from a stand up comic to a murderous clown mother of eight. Well, a murderous clown mother of zero, now, I guess. So, not even a clown mother anymore. Just a clown now…
It’s a massive problem communicating on Twitter. Misunderstandings abound. And with each passing tweet, Twitter devolves into a Paleolithic version of The Flavor of Love.
“I say, everyone. This situation is incredibly dire.”
“What the hell is going on? How could this be any worse?”
“What the fuck, bitch! I’ll smack you in your muthafuckin shit!”
“Microbe! I kill you! I kill you!”
“Yaaaaaaa! Glog angry! Glog smash!!”
Hey, everybody! Come on down to Twitter Land! Every single tweet comes with it’s own “what did you mean by that” action figure. This week’s toy is An American Indian snowflake. She comes complete with a can of mace, a constant look of pain, and a sign that you can customize. What does your sign say, Little Emily?
“It ain’t whack to be black.”
Excellent! One out of every ten will also come with a backpack for a baby! Like Carrie’s insane zealot mother, you too can be ashamed of America.
“It’s just a megalomaniac, momma. Everybody’s got one.”
My buddy Joey says, “Twitter is a waste of time, son. Just a bunch of bitches yelling at a bunch of other bitches.”
Maybe. Or, it could simply be a collective of very sad and scared people wanting to be heard.
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Oh. I’m sorry. I misread your tone…
GRANDPA: You know, Little Billy. Back in my day, we just liked stuff. We didn’t have to run around advertising it to everybody. Looking for some sort of validation that we were good people. Or used it for acceptance. We simply were all different and we liked different things. And, whatever. You know what I’m sayin’?
LITTLE BILLY: Yes, Grandpa. (Gets up. Points at Grandpa) Hey everybody! Hey! Look at me for a second. Grandpa just said something. And I liked it. (Sits down) OK, go ahead Grandpa.
How many views does it have? How many hits? Plays? Followers? Go on. Like those things that the others have liked. Operate under the guise of freewill. Slowly, everyone is turning into sheep. No longer say, “Will I like this?” But, “How many others liked this and will they like me because I also liked this?” You are a slave. A slave unaware of a machine.
NAZI: We’re losing our right to pursue our destiny. We’re losing our freedom, so that a bunch of fuckin’ foreigners can come in here and exploit our country. And it’s happening right here, right in our neighborhood. Right in that building behind you. Archie Miller ran that store since we were kids. And now some fuckin’ Mexican owns it?
SKINHEAD 1: Whoa whoa whoa. Are you saying you want to attack Guillermo’s?
SKINHEAD 2: We can’t do that. He’s got the best burrito supreme in town.
NAZI: What the fuck is wrong with you? You’re going to let that wetback into our neighborhood?
SKINHEAD 1: Well, I think his family has been here since it was Mexico.
SKINHEAD 2: Oh, really? I didn’t know that.
NAZI: Shut the fuck up! This isn’t Mexico anymore, you fuckin’ idiots! It’s ‘Merica!
SKINHEAD 1: Isn’t your last name Van Der Hoof? You’re, like, Dutch, right?
SKINHEAD 2: Dutch? That’s not even in ‘Merica.
NAZI: You guys are driving me crazy! You’re missing my whole point! This neighborhood is a battle field! Are we gonna stand by the sidelines while our country gets raped?
SKINHEAD 1: Raped? You better not touch me, dude. I’ll fucking knock you out.
SKINHEAD 2: I thought we were just going to scare old people. Not fuck them.
NAZI: I can’t. You guys are useless. You don’t understand!
SKINHEAD 1: Yeah? Well, fuck you to, you rapist. Come on. Like, we are going to give up Mexican food just because he’s unemployed.
SKINHEAD 2: Dude, I have to get some of that homemade Guac. Guillermo’s is awesome!
BURPHOLE: Hey, TP.
THE PUNDIT: The man from the hole. How you doing, buddy?
BURPHOLE: I’m OK, I guess. Just watching and waiting for the civil war to begin.
THE PUNDIT: Right. It does feel that way, doesn’t it?
BURPHOLE: We need an office pool on which day will be the first mass shooting. Because it’s ramping up to be a zinger.
THE PUNDIT: Yeah. It’s all a bit depressing.
BURPHOLE: Listen, TP, let’s not talk about it. Let’s change the subject. Anything else, please.
THE PUNDIT: Alright… Well, I was reading an article yesterday about rape victims.
BURPHOLE: Rape? Come on, man.
THE PUNDIT: No, you’re gonna like this. I found it fascinating.
BURPHOLE: Really? OK… Go head…
THE PUNDIT: They found that around five percent of all rape victims achieved an orgasm.
THE PUNDIT: And, even more achieved some sort of sexual arousal during their unfortunate event.
BURPHOLE: That seems very high.
THE PUNDIT: I know. Out of every twenty rape victims, one of them was a squirter.
BURPHOLE: That just sounds terrible.
THE PUNDIT: Hey. Don’t minimize the data. It’s a fact.
BURPHOLE: But not everyone’s a squirter.
THE PUNDIT: Well, that’s true.
BURPHOLE: You know, I once… no, twice. Wow. I had two girls I briefly dated admit to me that they had rape fantasies. Which, I think, is why we briefly dated. I couldn’t play that role.
THE PUNDIT: And let me guess. They didn’t actually want to be raped because of the fear of herpes and the possibility of decapitation. But, if there was a way they could guarantee their rapist was disease free and wouldn’t kill them, they would want to be choked out by two big, black bulls. Rooted like a white midget out behind the Dairy Queen.
THE PUNDIT: And then, being found by a gentle, but strapping, police officer. One nipple slightly exposed. The skirt hiked up revealing her sultry, perfect ass. Scrapes on her knees and elbows. And a fucking’ twinkle in her eye!
BURPHOLE: Please stop.
THE PUNDIT: Don’t say that. This shit happens all the time and it’s not even the worst of it. Think about. Pedophilia, bestiality, snuff films, self mutilation that would make the guys from Saw cringe. The world is a fucked up place. You’ve seen behind the curtain…
BURPHOLE: Yep. And my eyes are still burning.
THE PUNDIT: How do you do it? Your sense of morality is pretty admirable. You have an incredible understanding of empathy. Some how, you have transcended above the wreckage. You have seen the worst in mankind, but you still try to do the right thing. I don’t get it.
BURPHOLE: Well. That was a very long, twisted, and extremely dark road to get to a very kind compliment… Thanks.
THE PUNDIT: Hmm. What are friends for?
BURPHOLE: I have no idea…
THE PUNDIT: Did you hear about the lady that ate her baby?
BURPHOLE: I gotta go…