Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Never... Never would I have thought this.

Yelps from the Closet: Never... Never would I have thought this.: I'd add audio to this post if I was able. Not to let anyone hear my voice or my words but to let everyone hear the snorts and snores of the ...

Never... Never would I have thought this.

I'd add audio to this post if I was able. Not to let anyone hear my voice or my words but to let everyone hear the snorts and snores of the lady who is beside me as I write this. Her snores...her breaths...her slumbering snorts...all music to my ears.

As sweet and musical as this may sound, i'm sure to offend at least two to seven people who may read this blog. You see, as I glance to my left, admire the open mouth of the one I love and simultaneously use the 'up' volume button on the remote control while I watch 'American Pickers' on the History Channel, I have experienced something I never thought I'd ever experience again. A feeling I thought I'd buried under years of hurt....

I look at this woman, my wife of almost one year, a woman who has endured her own parental hardships and continues to do so.... and I regret.........

I regret.....

I regret that I'll never have a child with her that is our own.

Yeah, I said it. i can't believe it myself. Maybe it's due to our spending time in a doctor's office today as younger women and men without a clue of what's to come filed in two by two to have an ultrasound and marvel at the creature that was growing within...

Or, maybe it is because my love for this woman exceeds anything I've ever experienced. That's not to take anything away from the two children I had with my other wife. I do love them and want to have them love me too...

But, I wonder.... what would my children with Pam be like? Tall, like her? Short, like me? Smart, like both of us? Screwed in the head like me or rational and realistic like Pam?

I never once considered being a parent again. After all, I'm already a parent, whether my own kids recognize it or not.

But, for a moment, a moment that I now continue to remember, I wonder.... what would our children be like? You see, Pam can't conceive anymore, despite my efforts to fertilize.

But, I glance to my left. And, as she sleeps, I picture her as a mother of my children. Would those children be different than those she has? Than those I have? Absolutely. They'd be our children and they'd be perfect and certainly well-versed in the workings of the real world.

Would I drive a mini-van?... Uh, No. Not on your fuckin' life. We'd have a side car on the Harley and a double harness belt in the convertible. But, we'd be good parents, no matter the race and ethnicity of the baby that popped out.

I love my wife. Yeah, I'm soft like that. And, I'm conjuring visions of parenthood with my wife despite the hatred my own children exhibit towards me.

If that doesn't scream 'Love'. then what does? A forty-eight year old man with two unloving kids, married to a woman with two kids who consider me an afterthought, yet wondering what life as a father with this woman would be like.

Life would be complete.

That's the great thing about life and the mind. It takes you everywhere you were, are and will possibly go.

Again, I look to my left. 'Snort.

Love is grand/ Truly.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Well now, was I ever called down to reality?

Yelps from the Closet: Well now, was I ever called down to reality?: It seems that perhaps my brain speaks before consulting my fingers. You see, I type with two fingers, the index finger on my left hand that ...

Well now, was I ever called down to reality?

It seems that perhaps my brain speaks before consulting my fingers. You see, I type with two fingers, the index finger on my left hand that is perfectly normal and the index finger on my right hand that shows the signs of a permanent reminder of a temporary feeling.... lumpy, deformed and probably still encasising a bit of brick from a punch to a wall for some reason I still cannot recall.

I've been told lately that my writings have been cynical, angry and maybe a bit indicative of oncoming mania. Despite my objections, I know enough to take what I'm told both seriously and with a grain of salt due to my past experience with mania. Mania.... what a wonderful, yet unsettling state of mind.

I'm not angry, I'm frustrated. I'm not cynical, I'm honest and forthcoming with my opinions. I'm not manic, either. Mania has a way of sending me to jail, the mental hospital, the ER and on tangents that alienate everyone.

I'm just me. A forty-eight-year-old man with quite an active mind, a bag full of opinions and a disdain for the system that seemingly holds control over an individual's life.

An anonymous responder quite aptly pointed out in my last blog entry that maybe it isn't all about being an individual as it is about being a member of a team, albeit possibly a losing team. A valid point to be sure. But what if the leader of that team, despite talent, training and all the right moves, still manages to undermine the team? It's when that realization hits that a low chop block from behind on my own team leader, a supposed star, is in order.

Don't misunderstand, I am all about team harmony and cohesiveness. Afterall, that's what makes our world liveable. But when a leader undermines the many for the sake of self, well, then, chop block from behind. Take out the knees and push the head to the turf and hope that the concussion reverses the self-important thinking that puts the masses in the crosshairs of authority's directives.

Anonymous had it right, in a perfect world. But this isn't a perfect world and the corporate world is a battleground that requires body armor and a mind of steel. What Anonymous said to me spoke to me. But a team requires a leader worthy of respect and it seems that those type leaders are few and far between. I admire Anonymous. I know Anonymous. I wish I could have the resolve and dedication that Anonymous exhibits.

But, alas, I'm a doubter. I trust no one who smiles, gives me an answer and promises to be in my corner when I know that their corner contains a bonus and recognition for doing just the opposite of what promises I've just received. It's the corporate world. It's the political world and often, but not in my case, it's the personal world as it pertains to relationships.

Am I cynical? Damn straight. Do I have a bit of a reason to be cynical? Absolutely. Should you, we, be wary of those who seem to have our best interests at heart? Of course. Is everyone who seems to have our best interests at heart a lying, smiling, unethical person worthy of cynicism? Absolutely not. No way.

There are good people who care out there. They might not look the way you expect them to look, speak the way you expect them to speak or elaborate on their intentions in a clear and concise manner. But, they're out there. Not on TV usually and not in political endorsements and certainly not on FOX News, but they're out there.

Anonymous know that is the case and has called me to the mat on it. Sure, I'm cynical and a wee bit disenchanted with not only my life but life in general. Yet, it sometimes takes a faceless, nameless opinion and calling out to point out the inconsistencies of life as well as the mistakes in judgement that we all ocassionally make.

Is Anonymous perfect? No. Am I always right? Uh, nah. But can we all learn from a word or two from another? Absolutely.

I still have a problem with suits and their sense of superiority. But I also now see another side of the team spirit.

Chop Block, team cheer, and final victory.


Oh yeah, and Holy Shit.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Control What? Well, Control THIS!

Yelps from the Closet: Control What? Well, Control THIS!: I can't help it. I think of the word 'control' and I picture Janet Jackson in black spandex, singing a hit from the early 90's. I like the s...

Control What? Well, Control THIS!

I can't help it. I think of the word 'control' and I picture Janet Jackson in black spandex, singing a hit from the early 90's. I like the song.... catchy beat.

But, I hate the word.

The thing is, quite unfortunately, we allow control of others to dictate who we are and where we go in life. I've lived that way all of my life, it seems.

"Act this way."
"Do this, or else..."
"We expect this of you in order for you to succeed...."
"You're one of us now... here's what we need for you to do for us...."

Fuck that. Capital FUCK that.

Who am I, or you, to succumb to another's expectations of who you should be or how you should act in your life in order to succeed?

I'm not specifically speaking about career, either. How many people, be it a spouse, a parent, a sibling, a friend or a coworker, or an etcetera, has looked upon you with a quizzical look as you say or do something that is unexpected or unwelcomed in their eyes, despite what you believe to be right?

My guess is a helluva lot of 'em.

Here's a harder question.... how many times have you sacrificed your own beliefs and sense of self in order to placate another with intelligence less than your own but position higher that what you percieve yours to be?

Be honest. Really. We have all caved to those who claim to be our 'boss' or our 'superior'... 'superior'.... a word that chaps my hairy, yet lily-white ass. Would you like to know who my superior is? Me. I'm my superior. Only I can decide what I'm to do to better myself and my life. Not some fucker in a starched white shirt and cufflinks or anyone else with a title that can be shortened to an acronym such as 'mgr', 'sup'. 'Rep', 'Dem' or 'Mitt.

Yet daily, we all seem to succumb to the control of another due to their title, position or simply a look of importance due their wearing a designer set of clothing.

Again I say, FUCK that.

Now, I'm obviously asking for dissention amongst my own ranks since I hold a title. Yet, I will never, ever expect anyone to surrender their sense of self to cater to my own ego for the sake of the 'greater good', which seems to always be the bottom line. The almighty dollar. As a matter of fact, I hold a title for the sole reason of being able to move to warmer, tropical locales without having such a difficult time in finding a position to alienate future employers.

Control. What an ugly word. What a word that screams 'surrender'. Control implies adherence to another's rules and expectations instead of one's own. Who ever told you that your expectations were wrong and unworthy of recognition? I'll tell you who told you that.... everyone you ever bowed to and feared. Not dear of harm, but fear of rejection, of being unheard, of being dismissed because of your personality, views and opinions.

Control is an evil, evil bitch and it exists at every level of life. From grade school through death... someone wants to keep you and your thoughts at bay and make you think that you should be doing what they want you to be doing, not what what you know you're capable of accomplishing. The part of this equation that is most disheartening is that what your capabilities might be screaming are far better than what those controlling your actions are demanding.

Loss of individuality. Loss of self-identity and loss of ...well... self. Then you die. And some guy in a suit has basically led your life for you.... or maybe it was a spouse, or a relative or ..*gulp*... a religious leader spouting verses from a book written by men who , well, demanded and expected adherence through their own control.


Janet Jackson looked best saying the word. At least she did twenty years ago before Nutri-System bought her soul with their control... ie, money.

Grab your crotch with one hand and extend your middle finger with the other as you accept life as being yours, being precious and being no on else's domain. Then, when you're told, "You don't fit our mold, you're fired," Say, "FUCK that, your mold isn't my mold. You don't fit MY mold." Then grasp your identity, smirk, and live a life meant for no one but you.

Amen and Holy Shit.

I'm Jeff Brunk, and I endorse this message.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: A 'Pryor-esque" Rant... Yeah, It's Not P.C.

Yelps from the Closet: A 'Pryor-esque" Rant... Yeah, It's Not P.C.: Richard Pryor said it best in his rendition of Mudbone on his 'Bicentennial Nigger' album .... "How long?.... How long must this bullshit go...

A 'Pryor-esque" Rant... Yeah, It's Not P.C.

Richard Pryor said it best in his rendition of Mudbone on his 'Bicentennial Nigger' album .... "How long?.... How long must this bullshit go on?...."

If you haven't heard the routine, you'll not have a clue as to what I'm referring. If you have heard the Mudbone routine, you'll not only understand what I'm saying, but what the great Mr. Pryor was saying and the accent he used while verbally portraying a southern Baptist preacher fed up with the bullshit that life, and those seemingly in control of our lives, doles out to each of us on a daily basis.

I now ask that same question... 'How long must this bullshit go on?...." as I face not only minor personal dilemmas but major issues facing both me and those closest to me.

"But, Jeff...." you may ask.... "what can be so bad as to reach a point of decisiveness that may or may not affect your future and reality as you know it?"....

Or maybe you're not asking that question, but now you know where my head is going.

I'll start with the mundane, my own personal circumstances. To me, my circumstances in life are nothing more than mosquitoes

It is now 1:53am. In twelve hours I will be sitting in front of the desk of a man who considers himself my boss and superior. That's an entirely different blog. He will begin the conversation, as the newest head of our floundering organization, by expounding upon the company's expectations. Yadda, Yadda, Yadda, ho hum, ho hum, it's off to 'work' we go... again. His zest for bringing new blood into a broken artery will soon be replaced by his disdain for my own expectations and experience. Then, the Hell that is waiting for me will be unleashed due to another's dumber than shit decisions that occurred this past weekend that circumvented the entire organization's directives.

Oops. I shouldn't question a man in a suit. STFU. Apparently, corporate america hasn't had enough of me ... yet. I imagine that I'll be told directives, shown pie charts, reminded of chains of command and given a 'mutually understood' agreement that non-compliance to the rules will result in some type of punishment or, *gasp* termination. Please. Really? I plan on carrying into this farce of a meeting a copy of my personal resume that will most likely scare the bejezzus out of the one who calls himself my superior.

How long must this bullshit go on? How long must I play by the rules of corporate structure and those placed in power who would be better at barking for the Yak Lady at the Loudoun County Fair? (I speak to you, David, Mr. F&B guy... you make people like me appear as genius (which I am) while you further dig your hole to obscurity).

Now... whew ... I'd like to change gears a bit. However, the topic of controlling, self-loving , grandiose individuals remains the same.

Doctor's office receptionists .... what a fuckin' waste of time it is to talk to these people. Apparently, a high school diploma and one semester a community college studying bookkeeping or medical transcription is enough to steer a patient away from answers and, more importantly, needed medication.

Since when... nevermind... dumb start to a dumb question...

So, doctors now rely on office note-takers to dispense medical advice and rely on their own judgement as to when seeing the doctor, or simply speaking to a nurse... a fucking nurse.... is necessary.

A bit more background... my wife, love of my life, soulmate and best part of me was just today given a diagnoses as having Lyme disease. After my joke of 'will you be tangy when I lick you?' I learned that the receptionist ... yes, the one trained to answer a phone.... told my wife that she can see her doctor in two weeks at an additional cost of $150. A visit that will consist of, get this, picking up a prescription to treat her condition.

1). Two Weeks.
2). $150
3). It was a fucking receptionist. Not a nurse, not the doctor, but a woman who's lot in life is to record the practice's voicemail message and accept credit cards for payment when insurance says, "This place isn't worthy of coverage by our company."

Red flag. By the way, I'm a bit pissed off, can you tell? Controlling others through smiling intimidation, whether a receptionist or employer just doesn't sit well with me.

How long, how long must this bullshit go on? The answer is right in front of us.... always has been and always will be.... The bullshit will go on as long as we allow it to go on. It's about control. Who has the control? You? Me? A dumbass receptionist? A shit for brains F&B director?

The answer is easy and hard to swallow.... the only one who has control of circumstances in ones' life is the one living it. That's you. That's me. Done, end of story. The bullshit ends when we claim our lives as our own, despite the circumstances.

Bluntly, fuck those who disagree. My life, your life, is not their domain. I want answers now and medications now for my wife so that she can be healthy and happy. Not two weeks and $150 later. Yes, fuck that.

I also want to be taken seriously for who I am and what I've done and can do by those who apparently view me as nothing more than a number not wearing a suit. Put me in a suit, I own you. Test me mentally, you will wither away in a heap of dung piled with beetles (not you, the reader, but those who claim to have superiority over me).

I rarely speak this way. I never, ever, toot my horn because, quite frankly, I'm not as limber as I once was... haha.

But enough is enough. How long must this bullshit go on? No longer for me. Or, my wife. Or, for anyone else I care about.

I call you to the mat, control. You and your minions who smile to my face while plotting my demise. As another wonderful, insightful comedian, Steve Martin, once said in 'Planes, Trains and Automobiles', .... 'You're fucking with the wrong guy...."

Amen. So let it be written, so let it be done. And, oh yeah, holy shit.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Flabbergasted and Humbled.

Yelps from the Closet: Flabbergasted and Humbled.: Odd. Very Odd. A bit disturbing but at the same time quite enlightening. Last night I wrote a blog in a moment of personal weakness. Rar...

Flabbergasted and Humbled.


Very Odd. A bit disturbing but at the same time quite enlightening.

Last night I wrote a blog in a moment of personal weakness. Rarely do I exhibit personal weakness unless I attenpt to carry Pam over my shoulder, in which case due to my short stature and her added height she drags her knuckles and feet as I carry her off to the bedroom so that I can let her have her way with me.

However, last night I penned, or fingered (outta the gutter, people), a blog that showed me in a place that few, if any, every see me being. I'm not sorry I wrote it. On the contrary. It seems that maybe my weakness and thoughts of stupidity hit a note, a chord or an off-key kazoo resonance with more than a few.


Out of all the crap that I write about... the inane, the rants, the reflections, the delusions of grandeur ... this one blog has somehow garnered more reads, worldwide, than any other I've written.

Never would I have thought that my writing about weakness and self-effacment would cause so many to both lend support and share their own weaknesses.

Dammit, people, you have given me hope and.... I hesitate to say this without reference to Steve Martin... a special purpose. Maybe, somehow, in some way, my struggles to survive despite myself resonate with like-minded, or should I say, 'strong-minded yet seeking' people.

Tonight, the klonopin bottle is safely stored and my only vices are wine and a sense of self that hovers between superiority and inferiority. That's not to say that the struggle is over. But, it means that for tonight, at least, the afterlife is safe from my rants about why ghosts always wear boots on "Ghost Hunters" and how I should invest in a pair of Tony Lama's so that those after my demise will know I'm walking around on stairs and unusually creaky floors.

It's still odd that my writing a blog about life and death struggles within my own mind causes such a spike in readership. Or, maybe it's not that odd at all. Maybe I'm but a voice among the multitudes worldwide that also sense within themselves something special, unique and largely unrecognized.

If that is the case, fret not. Don't worry about me. I'm going to be ok no matter what befalls me in life, and death. And, so will you. Don't question how I know this, just know that I know this.

Life is a journey... a journey seemingly set on I-95 with big rigs and dumbass drivers bent on going nowhere fast. Oh yeah, don't forget the occasional rest area and blue light in the mirror. These things only slow us down and cause us to curse, piss and buy a Moon Pie... not necessarily in that order.

You are me. I am you and we are all the same. My struggles are yours and your struggles are mine and your reading my blog while wondering if I twisted that bottle top is something we all do because we all know that eternity awaits us all in some fashion. Be it worm-riddled corpse or energy moving amongst the cosmos (my own interpretation), we all gain some sense of self in reading or hearing another's struggles.

So, read on. I'll continue to struggle. Happy one day, wishing to not wake up the next. Just like you. I'm priveledged to be you, if even for a few moments if it helps you be who you are meant to be.

Just don't twist the lid. Stupid is as stupid does.

Amen and Holy Shit.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Dear Jesse Jackson Junior....

Yelps from the Closet: Dear Jesse Jackson Junior....: Dear Jesse Jackson Junior.... or J3, Triple J or The Jackson 3.... I'm there with ya. As much as I believe that your dad is a self-effacin...

Dear Jesse Jackson Junior....

Dear Jesse Jackson Junior.... or J3, Triple J or The Jackson 3....

I'm there with ya. As much as I believe that your dad is a self-effacing, grandiose slimeball bent on alienating mankind due to race and religious beliefs, I applaud your personal decision to seek help for your mental disorder.

You're not alone. Believe it or not, we white people also have mental issues. If we didn't, we wouldn't be supporting your recovery right now.

Just kidding. That was said to get a rise out of your dad. It's been obvious for years that he needs mental evaluation and quite a bit of therapy to overcome his didain for the pigment-less population,

I hope you emerge from your time spent working jigsaw puzzles and taking B-12 injections with a newfound appreciation for all of the populace ... white, black, male, female, gay and straight... and realize that just like you, we are all fucked up in your god's eyes but equal just the same.

Time for your jello cup and lithium.

Hurry back.

Yelps from the Closet: A bit too personal, perhaps?

Yelps from the Closet: A bit too personal, perhaps?: As a victim of manic depression, I have but one thing to exclaim.... People. What a fuckin' waste of skin. Yeah, I said it. That means y...

A bit too personal, perhaps?

As a victim of manic depression, I have but one thing to exclaim....

People. What a fuckin' waste of skin.

Yeah, I said it. That means you. And me.

Let me begin this tirade by simply saying that I'm tired. Not tired from baling hay or shoveling shit or any other worthwhile occupation. I'm tired of living in a world full of stupidity, self-absorbedness and hypocrisy.

That's not to say I've not exhibited any of these traits at one time or another. Sure, Pam and the Loudoun County Sheriff's department can attest to my stupidity. I consider myself a whiz at trivia and I am one of the masters of the 'do as I say, not as I do' philosophy.

But really, I'm tired. Not just, 'gimme a klonopin and let me sleep', kinda tired, It's more of a 'gimme a bottle of klonopin, bottle of vodka and a porn site to drift off to' kinda tired.

How much bullshit can the world dish out before we all ask ourselves the ultimate question? 'How can I go on?'

Thankfully, I have a friend who has endured much, much more than I could even comprehend enduring. No, wait a second.,... that didn't sound just right. Let me rephrase that.... I have a friend that has endured much, much more than I can imagine having to ever endure. Thankfully, she's my friend.

Yet, she persistently survives. And encourages. She knows my struggles and understands my frustrations. How, I have no clue. Ok, yeah I do... she's just like me, except stronger and a bit more voluptuous, but not by much.  To be honest, ..... nevermind..... let me just say that her words just once have kept me from twisting a bottletop from left to right and counting the moments that energy meets eternity.

Thank you, Elisabeth.

However, that was yesterday and today my mind still whirls with activity. I was quite aptly reminded just this evening that I was playing a game on my computer, a game on my iPhone and watching television all at the same time as a dumbass director at my place of employment was circumventing the rules and harassing a wonderful employee. All this while I composed an email to management stating that if said management couldn't follow the rules then I would be quite vocal and be a thorn in the white-collar wing-tips. Oh yeah, I would. Fuck 'em. I gave up being a pawn to white-collar politics quite a while back.

But, that's not really the issue here. The issue is fatigue. Namely, my fatigue. I write to stave off fatigue with life. I write to escape the entrapment of mundane life. I write to hopefully fall asleep before I decide that what I'm writing doesn't matter any more than I matter.

You see.... I'm not nice. I'm not smart. Sure, I have an IQ higher than most, but I'm not smart. I'm not sane and I'm not worthy of the unconditional love that only a few have ever shown. Yet, here I am. Why? Really, why?

Oh sure, I could go into self-pity mode. But I won't. This isn't self-pity, this is realism. This is a place that we have either all reached or all will one day reach. The difference is that not everyone has a bottle of klonopin handy when they reach that point. The test of life is how far are we willing to twist that bottle cap on a day that tests us. Will we say, 'enough'. Or will we say, 'fuck you."

I say, ..................................................................................................................'fuck you'

Maybe tomorrow will be better and my thinking clearer. Maybe I'll be just a tad bit more sane.
Maybe not.

In which case I'll ask myself that question again. And I'll wait for the answer.

Enjoy your sanity as you read the words of one who struggles.


Sunday, July 8, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: Purpose in a Bottle.

Yelps from the Closet: Purpose in a Bottle.: Purpose. We all have one. We all need one. But, well, most of us don't know what the hell ours is. I'm one among most. I always joke that my...

Purpose in a Bottle.

Purpose. We all have one. We all need one. But, well, most of us don't know what the hell ours is. I'm one among most. I always joke that my special purpose is similar to Navin Johnson's special purpose. For those uninitiated in classic movie culture, Navin M. Johnson was 'The Jerk'... aptly portrayed by Steve Martin. A character to which most all can in one way or another can relate.

Yet, purpose is more than a penis...sadly.

Despite the fact that a penis with vim and vigor can surely stand in for a special purpose for many, or at least some, of the male population, it doesn't hold the same meaning for most females and otherwise unendowed individuals.

So, we must look at purpose in an entirely different context. I may at times to seem as if I'm rambling in this entry.... that is solely due to my search for purpose. Just kidding. I have a reason for writing this, I just can't quite find the words.

I'll try anyway. As is best for me, I'll try and elaborate through personal circumstance.

I bartend. At first thought, it would appear that my purpose is to inebriate and wipe away the horrors of the day from those I serve. That seems about right. Yet, it isn't quite on the mark. Many view me as the servant, the one available to make them a drink, to cater to their need for justification to wash away a bad day, year, week, marriage, whatever.... I'm nothing more than a pair of arms which can hold a glass, pour a drink and present a bill. I'm lower in the food chain than they are despite my having a genius IQ and quite a firm hold on the art of sarcasm and reverse psychology.

Those aren't my purposes though. My purposes in this particular juncture in life are to make someone smile and forget those troubles. And, if they are still to consider me less of a person because I'm simply serving their vices, to put them a notch or twelve lower whether they realize it or not. Now, that's quite a feeling.

Time and again I hear people contemplating their purpose and, quite frankly, it makes me feel good. Not that these people are searching, but that these people are searching. Think about it.

A bartender sees and hears everything. A good bartender can relate to everything. Read my blog. I'm a fucking great bartender. Yet, I still search for purpose.

Want to discuss quantum physics? Let's do it. Want to discuss a failed relationship? I'm in. Want to know what love really is? I can and will tell you. Want to order a Blue Hawaiian with A Mustache? Tell me what's in it.... my purpose isn't to know what every freakin' drink is composed of. But, my purpose might be to realize and understand what I'm composed of and help another realize what they are composed of just by listening for a minute...

Alcohol, it can be devisive, pervasive and troublesome. I pour emotion, not alcohol.

We all pour purpose. We just have to know what purpose doesn't give us a headache the next day.

*I'm Jeffrey Brunk, and I endorse this message*... like it or not.

Yelps from the Closet: And, so it is written, so let it be done. Please.

Yelps from the Closet: And, so it is written, so let it be done. Please.: "...... and the Lord saieth, "Lord? Lord? C'mon, this is 2012. Lord? In what century are you living?" "But," the masses responded, "this i...

And, so it is written, so let it be done. Please.

"...... and the Lord saieth, "Lord? Lord? C'mon, this is 2012. Lord? In what century are you living?"

"But," the masses responded, "this is what you are called in our book.... you are called 'Lord'... so therefore, we call you 'Lord', because, after all, you wrote that book."

"Uh, nah..." saieth the one formerly referred to as 'Lord'..."I didn't write that book. Some guys bent on controlling your emotions and ...well, your wallets, they wrote that book.Good intentions and all that... But, hell ,whoops, bad word, sorry, well, you know what they say about good intentions."

"Hold on, just a sec .... " the people responded. "If this is true, then how are we to know that everything we hear isn't true? You mean to imply that Liberty Mutual isn;t really that concerned about our family and the family finances after we pass on in4to the kingdom of Heaven?"

"Did I mention anything about the 'Kingdom of Heaven'", saieth the One formerly known as the 'Lord'.

"Well, no... not really... but, well, I figured that Liberty Mutual really does have a vested interest in my family's well-being after I die. Are you saying that isn't the case?"

"No, no... not at all," saieth the OFKATL (acronyms, people). "What I'm saying is that 'Lord' is an archaic term used to describe a man of leadership... which also implies that you, my friends, are serfs, servants, followers.... incapable of choosing for yourselves what you do, think and believe. What type of 'Lord' or, lets lay this down... ''Son of God', the creator of everything, the one who is expressed as having made you in 'His' image, would want you to be any less of a being than 'He' is by being subservient and referring to him as 'Lord'? Really... you humans... so searching for something that has always been within you..."

"Hmmmmm..... you're freaking me out, Looo.... I mean, ...uhhh....what shou;d I call you?"

"Call me 'You' ... There isn't a 'Lord'. There isn't one to whom you must bow...  geez... those days have passed. That damned book and it's wording. It's tough enough to understand lyrics in todays music... how can you expect to comprehend the wording of a book written by men hundreds of years ago? Men, who by the way, were bent on controlling everyone through fear by using verbage? My god...ooops, my bad... my goodness, It's as bad as the Arizona legislature's view of immigration. No better, no worse. Fear and Loathing in a book penned by a king. Sound familiar?"

"Brain fodder. But what about Liberty Mutual's claim of no-hassle burials and security for my family after I'm placed six feet under? Isn't that the same thing? Instilling fear through advertising?"

"Yes.... yes it is..." saith TOFKATL. (Acronyms, people.)

Amen and Holy Shit.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: "Buncha Racist, Judgemental Asses You Are" - Yoda

Yelps from the Closet: "Buncha Racist, Judgemental Asses You Are" - Yoda: Hola, muchachas. That's about all of the Arizona english I know unless I'm at Taco Bell. I also know how to say 'Achtung Baby' in U2 english...

"Buncha Racist, Judgemental Asses You Are" - Yoda

Hola, muchachas. That's about all of the Arizona english I know unless I'm at Taco Bell. I also know how to say 'Achtung Baby' in U2 english, 'Flied Lice' in Chinese english and 'Helllo, this is the Dell PC service hotline" in Indian english. Add that to 'How... smoke'em peace pipe' in Native American Indian english and 'Welcome to my Hauose' in canadian english, lest we not forget 'Hey y'all, let's shoot sumpin' and eat it for dinner' in southern American english.... Oops... I almost forgot... extended arm from window and raised finger directed to tailgating minivan mom... spoken in Northern Virginia english.

Know what this makes me? Take a guess. How do you feel right now? Go ahead, say it. C'mon, you know you want to say it. Sure, you bet, it makes me a seemingly inconsiderate, racist, judgemental asshole. If this was your answer, congratulations. You got it right. Know why you got it right? Because you were able to see yourself in one or more of the very positions I just described. Welcome to humanity..... or, as I prefer to call it, the Asshole Club. No matter your locale, race, creed or political affiliation (an entire different subject), you've either mocked, belittled or directed judgement towards someone unlike yourself.

What makes us so judgemental of others? I ask myself this often as I sit at a traffic signal and glance at those around me. Is it because any one of these people has ever done anything to me that has caused me harm? Is it because I was served a cold Big Mac from McDonalds (thanks Rosita... I'll remember that the next time I pay in rupees)...?

No. No, I say. What makes us judgemental of others is our inability.... nay.... our unwillingness, to see others as equals to ourselves. The funny thing is, this applies to everyone, no matter how fucked up someone may be. I bet Hitler not only hated Jews for their beliefs but also for their stoicism and those tiny little hats. Today, Hitler would slow to a stop at a traffic signal, look to his left (he was always in the slow lane), and automatically react with judgement towards the bearded guy wearing eyeglasses, driving an HVAC repair truck simply because the bearded guy was driving under the speed limit in the left lane.

Ok, so I'll maybe give Hitler that one .... or maybe not. Is that a reason to judge? We have all done it. Let's use the bearded HVAC guy as an example, shall we? Driving slow in the fast lane. How many times have we bitched, yelled, flashed lights, raised our fingers and called someone a dumbass or asshole simply because they delayed our trip to the next traffic signal by a matter of seconds?

Just me? Nah. I know one or two people who have done so.

Yet, here's the kicker... we are happy when that speeding dumbass gets stopped at the very same light we ease up to. It's a feeling of justification. A feeling of equality. 'You, dumbass, got what you deserved and where did it get ya.?'  Right? We feel better about ourselves because someone we felt was less intelligent, ugly, stupid, driving a car on a donut tire, whatever, had to stop beside us three seconds before we did.

This makes us 'equal'. 'You're no better than me, asshole.' 'The light stopped you and you have no control over the light'.

No control. Welcome to life. The main crux of the whole judgemental thinking mechanism. We have no control. Just because Mr. Patel's wife can cook up a mean curry doesn't mean that it's better than the venison that Bubba's baby mama can boil in the slow cooker. Just because some guy driving a Camry while wearing a turban passes you as you sport a Kangol cap in your Corvette (yeah, you, middle aged man) doesn't mean he has an issue with your religious beliefs.

Under that turban is a head of hair (albeit hair most likely in need of a shampoo... what? Am I perfec?) that covers a scalp that envelopes a skull that encases a brain that looks no different from yours, or mine, or anyone elses'... except for maybe Einstein, but he's an exception, you know, being from another planet and all....

Get it yet? I'm an asshole. So are you. And you, and you, and him and her and .... him (i think it's a him), and everyone else.

Go ahead, judge me. Call me names. Call everyone who annoys you a name. Let them get under your skin and let them be a small part of your day's pleasure as a result of their either being different or just stupid. Odds are that you are also a small part of someone else's pleasure each day... for reasons you'd take offense.

Aside from minivan moms with no regard for highway safety, there is no reason for us to speak harshly of anyone. Whether Christian, Muslim, Jew or Atheist (fuck, even you, Mormons and Scientologists ... Jeez) ... whether black, white, off-white, eyes that slant up or eyes that slant down (sorry, I can't remember the difference between Chinese and Japanese eyes), brown or yellow (i'm throwing a shout out to my alcohol-induced jaundiced friends), there is no difference between us. Unless of course you're a midget... then, well, there's a difference but only in stature and the pitch in our voices.

I jest, of course. I'm trying to make a point for crying out loud. My point being that I'm as bad at being judgemental as you are. Admit it, you're an asshole like I'm an asshole. We might not all be tight sphincters but we are all sphincters nonetheless. Loosen up people... let others live and don't be hating.

Tonight I witnessed a black guy with a groovy beard snatch up a $10 bill that I left as a tip for my bartender. I automatically said 'Hey, dude, put that ten bucks back down. I saw you pocket it...."
Turns out that he worked for the establishment and was playing around ...

Whether or not this is true, I don't know. What I do know is that I didn't know him.

Hello. My name is Jeff and I'm an asshole.
"Hiiiiii Jeff" ... (collective greeting...)

Thanks for the welcome to your club.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Yelps from the Closet: You, Me and We makes All.

Yelps from the Closet: You, Me and We makes All.: I'm not a proud man. I consider myself just an everyday schmo with a slightly twisted perspective and a middle toe unusually longer than the...

You, Me and We makes All.

I'm not a proud man. I consider myself just an everyday schmo with a slightly twisted perspective and a middle toe unusually longer than the rest of the toes onboth feet. Oh yeah, I also am a bit of a visionary with a penchant for being quite the procrastinator.

Yet, despite my procrastinating tenedncies, I think I need to make a few things clear to you, the reader. These things are quite obvious to some, horrendous to others and worthy of judgement to eternal damnation to a few. Yet, here I am. Fingers pecking away... one broken and deformed, the other a leader, two-finger typing away at 2:39 in the morning with yet another thought that has crossed my mind and will remain there unless I dismiss it upon the world.

Know what? I have a few things that need to be said, expressed, shouted and verbalized to those who know me and those who don't. Some know me as Jeff. Some know me as Jeffrey, son, husband, brother, *ahem" father, bartender, asshole, loudmouth, .... whatever. Call me what you will. I don't care. I really don't care at all. But, if you must call me a word, call me 'you'. Because 'you' is what I am. 'You' this... 'You' that.... I'm just 'you. Nothing more, nothing less.

I'm not an 'I' because 'I' would suggest I'm better in some way that 'you'. I'm just 'you'. Like it or not.
I say things that piss people off. You will think before doing that type thing.
I consider myself one of you. You wouldn't dare dream of that.
I dream big, fail often and admit my failures. You would rather die than admit failure.
I like hotel sex. Okay, so do you.

I make mistakes seemingly every moment of every day. In thought, action and speech. You would never admit to such a thing, would you, you?
I can never realize my potential but you.... you... you do everything right to make your potential a reality. Don't you?

I'm you, right? Just call me 'You'. Because I fail. Because I can never be who 'You' are supposed to be. Because 'You' is a misnomer and is nothing more than a title given to another who isn't 'me'.

But 'we' .... we all like hotel sex. Yes. Yes, 'We' do.

'You' had better damed believe it.