Oh, politics. I can't explain how I hate you. uh. And love you.
There is this false perception circulating that I live an exciting life. Let me be clear. No. I vlog once a week. I work at Red Lobster. I watch Friends with Emily. Wash, rinse, repeat. Boring, right? It gets worse. I watch the news.
I hate the news. I mean I really hate the news. The news is the Janice to my Joey (God, I have to stop watching Friends). The reason? It wasn't made for me. There isn't a news station out there that produces a show for the viewer. They'd like you to believe that their purpose is to inform but in all likeliehood, their function is to persuade. Their opinion should of course be your opinion.
So now, I'm going to talk about politics while trying to avoid falling into the same annoying category as the news. YOUR opinion may be COMPLETELY different. I do not think you are ignorant. I do not think you are evil. Ok, deep breath. Let's go.
Mr. President. Stop being so whiney. I've been watching your speeches. Granted, you are an intelligent man and one of the best speakers that this nation has ever seen, but damnit are you whiney. Like spoiled, immature teenage girl whiney. Why is that?
What I am referring to is the president's remarks on "News stations spreading false information". Really? Are you at war with news stations? Are YOU complaining about the treatment you receive from the media? REALLY? I know Fox News isn't your number one fan. You probably won't invite Glenn Beck to your next barbeque. But aside from one station, you have been projected as the chosen one! Harry Potter! Neo! Why do you have this victim, "poor, pitiful me" mentality? Nobody is picking on you.
Look at your predecessor. That man was raped by the media. He could not scratch his butt in the morning without somebody analyzing and condemning him. Never has a Yale graduate (which by the way are smart) been made out to be such a blumbering idiot. Granted, it could have been deserved, but give George W. Bush some credit. He did not complain.
Look at your election rival's running mate. She had a funny accent! She must be stupid! Your running mate told a paraplegic man to stand up (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2mzbuRgnI4). Can you imagine what would have happened if Sarah Palin had asked a man confined to a wheelchair to stand?
So Barrack (can I call you Barrack?), I know you read college sophomore blogs all the time, and I'm sure you are a big fan of my YouTube channel. Want my advice? Answer questions. In the likely case of a shortage, how do we decide who gets healthcare? It's not unreasonable for me to want to know. If you don't tell me, than I have to find my own way of discovering how the government is going to handle one seventh of the economy.
The healthcare plan that has been proposed is over a thousand pages long and I have to drop thrity bones just to read the damn thing(http://www.google.com/base/a/5750429/D4625344597206707963). How could ANY American have correct information regarding this bill? We don't. So we turn to the news.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
If the Fur Ain't Flyin', You Ain't Tryin'
Not really an update on life or anything, just some of my favorite exerpts from an essay I wrote on being a collegiate mascot. Oh yeah, did I tell you? I used to be a collegiate mascot.
"It is a strange mix of relief and failure having given up this stressful double lifestyle. Do I celebrate my own collapse? Am I supposed to enjoy the post hours of my crash? How do I distinguish between the pride I take in my decision to quit, and the guilty disappointment silently torturing me? Many months ago, I would never have imagined that it would end like this. The confused reader should understand that I am not formerly a spy, nor was I caught in a scandalous affair. I, Chas Lilly, am (or more aptly was) a mascot.
Allow me to rewind. Showing off has never been a foreign trait of my personality. As a child, I had the uncanny ability to draw everyone’s undivided attention, regardless of the location (often inappropriate) or time (often more inappropriate). Whether it something as simple and harmless as popping bags of chips at the elementary school lunch table, or as humiliating as goosing elderly women in church, I made sure that a nervous eye was on me at all times. Some would say I had a passion for performing. Others had a much simpler explanation. I was a punk. Still, most adults found me an endearing character. I spoke respectfully, and often was trained well enough in my mischief that I avoided blame."
Blah blah blah. I attended mascot tryouts and was awarded the position. Blah blah blah.
" I am not aware of what I expected when I first donned the suit at the annual summer cheer/dance/mascot camp. I certainly didn’t anticipate being introduced to a new level of superficiality. Female cheerleaders are an interesting breed and fascinating to observe in social situations. Here is a community of women who are able to apply a thick layer of sweet compliments to a teammate only to turn around and critique every aspect of that same teammate’s personality, appearance, and most importantly, body. I cannot stress how many times I heard a female cheerleader curse one of their own for putting on two pounds or perhaps for just being spotted eating any food other than dressingless salad.
The male cheerleader on the other hand is a different, but equally as shallow class. A common high school stereotype of male cheerleaders is that one must be homosexual to participate in such a female-dominated sport. The collegiate male cheerleader will fight tooth and nail to shed this perception. I was greeted by the male cheerleaders with far-to-firm handshakes and deep, hearty voices. They made sure to work in their womanly conquests within our first conversation, telling me which girls were “easy” and which ones wouldn’t “put out”. Their cocky attitudes and rippling muscles screamed, “Go ahead. I dare you to question my sexuality”. I did not."
Blah blah blah. I perform at my first football game. Blah blah blah.
"Nothing compares to being on a giant football field in front of 68,000 insane fans after the team has just scored a touchdown. You see at this point, all the attention is now on the Wildcat, for it is time to honor an age old tradition that is considered sacred to current students and alumni alike. My adrenaline hits its apex, blood pumping through my veins at supersonic speeds, summoning strength I didn’t know was present in my right arm to perform an amount of one-armed pushups equivalent to that of the team’s total points. The student section counts every last, agonizing down and up, and celebrates momentarily upon their total completion. Finally I spring to my knees on the board supported by six burly cheerleaders and lead what is comparable to a decent town’s population in a synchronized cheer, “OHHHHHHHHHHH C-A-T-S! CATS CATS CATS!”"
Blah blah blah. Children attack people in big furry suits and here is an example. Blah blah blah.
"Once in suit (as it is referred), there was little that could get under my skin (no pun intended). This is not to say that aggravation was foreign. There were games in which it seemed every single demon child had been ordered by their parents to maim my poor alter ego. I received a new injury more or less every appearance. On one particularly strange occasion, I was approached by a mentally handicapped man, no less than twenty-five years of age, who was eager to give me a hug. I gladly accepted his embrace only to be betrayed by a bite wound on my shoulder comparable to that of an adult lion. It takes a strong jaw to break flesh and produce blood under an inch and a half of leather and fluff. "
Blah blah blah. The end. Blah blah blah.
"It is a strange mix of relief and failure having given up this stressful double lifestyle. Do I celebrate my own collapse? Am I supposed to enjoy the post hours of my crash? How do I distinguish between the pride I take in my decision to quit, and the guilty disappointment silently torturing me? Many months ago, I would never have imagined that it would end like this. The confused reader should understand that I am not formerly a spy, nor was I caught in a scandalous affair. I, Chas Lilly, am (or more aptly was) a mascot.
Allow me to rewind. Showing off has never been a foreign trait of my personality. As a child, I had the uncanny ability to draw everyone’s undivided attention, regardless of the location (often inappropriate) or time (often more inappropriate). Whether it something as simple and harmless as popping bags of chips at the elementary school lunch table, or as humiliating as goosing elderly women in church, I made sure that a nervous eye was on me at all times. Some would say I had a passion for performing. Others had a much simpler explanation. I was a punk. Still, most adults found me an endearing character. I spoke respectfully, and often was trained well enough in my mischief that I avoided blame."
Blah blah blah. I attended mascot tryouts and was awarded the position. Blah blah blah.
" I am not aware of what I expected when I first donned the suit at the annual summer cheer/dance/mascot camp. I certainly didn’t anticipate being introduced to a new level of superficiality. Female cheerleaders are an interesting breed and fascinating to observe in social situations. Here is a community of women who are able to apply a thick layer of sweet compliments to a teammate only to turn around and critique every aspect of that same teammate’s personality, appearance, and most importantly, body. I cannot stress how many times I heard a female cheerleader curse one of their own for putting on two pounds or perhaps for just being spotted eating any food other than dressingless salad.
The male cheerleader on the other hand is a different, but equally as shallow class. A common high school stereotype of male cheerleaders is that one must be homosexual to participate in such a female-dominated sport. The collegiate male cheerleader will fight tooth and nail to shed this perception. I was greeted by the male cheerleaders with far-to-firm handshakes and deep, hearty voices. They made sure to work in their womanly conquests within our first conversation, telling me which girls were “easy” and which ones wouldn’t “put out”. Their cocky attitudes and rippling muscles screamed, “Go ahead. I dare you to question my sexuality”. I did not."
Blah blah blah. I perform at my first football game. Blah blah blah.
"Nothing compares to being on a giant football field in front of 68,000 insane fans after the team has just scored a touchdown. You see at this point, all the attention is now on the Wildcat, for it is time to honor an age old tradition that is considered sacred to current students and alumni alike. My adrenaline hits its apex, blood pumping through my veins at supersonic speeds, summoning strength I didn’t know was present in my right arm to perform an amount of one-armed pushups equivalent to that of the team’s total points. The student section counts every last, agonizing down and up, and celebrates momentarily upon their total completion. Finally I spring to my knees on the board supported by six burly cheerleaders and lead what is comparable to a decent town’s population in a synchronized cheer, “OHHHHHHHHHHH C-A-T-S! CATS CATS CATS!”"
Blah blah blah. Children attack people in big furry suits and here is an example. Blah blah blah.
"Once in suit (as it is referred), there was little that could get under my skin (no pun intended). This is not to say that aggravation was foreign. There were games in which it seemed every single demon child had been ordered by their parents to maim my poor alter ego. I received a new injury more or less every appearance. On one particularly strange occasion, I was approached by a mentally handicapped man, no less than twenty-five years of age, who was eager to give me a hug. I gladly accepted his embrace only to be betrayed by a bite wound on my shoulder comparable to that of an adult lion. It takes a strong jaw to break flesh and produce blood under an inch and a half of leather and fluff. "
Blah blah blah. The end. Blah blah blah.
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