WHEN A MORON SURVIVES IN SPITE OF THE OBVIOUS

You have to seriously admire the moronic. I've come to the conclusion that people with that affliction are safe because they can do just about anything without worrying about injuries, emotional trauma, rules, regulations and so forth. If you are wondering whether or not this is some sort of dig and are offended by my language and approach, please feel free to talk to your own feces. This is me venting because the lack of common sense in some individuals is just incredible. No one is safe from this, let's face it we deal with it every day, on the roads, supermarket, work, just everywhere. When a moron survives it's actually almost inspiring because you wonder if that person knows something you do not, it's freaking crazy, some bullshit!

WHEN I DON'T ASK PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP

Have you ever dealt with a nosy person? Have you ever heard of someone you don't know giving opinions on your life? I have been a recipient of that a few times. I feel like bursting every time it happens, at least I did in the past. Today, whenever I hear unrequested opinions, I laugh simply because said opinions are an example of people's desires to live vicariously through others. Opinionated people are a lot like football dads, in that they all want to get their kids to do what they could not.

I have heard a million people say a million things and, as time passes, I find myself less annoyed by this occurrence. I do understand that it's human to have an opinion, I do think it's annoying to have more than one opinion on the same matter though. My reaction to this particular situation is simply to smile, nod, and think " I can't wait until a horny hippopotamus fucks you right up the ass." I know this is a little bit of a jerk attitude on my part but fuck it, life is short.

I LOVE PSEUDO INTELLECTUALS

To me reading is a joy, because it often times allows me the luxury of learning things I was not previously aware of. I like to learn from people whom I feel have something to teach me, and I think almost everyone has something of a lesson they can teach others. I want to emphasize almost, because there is always a group of people that have nothing but shit to impart. I am sure you are likely wondering what I am talking about, and I shall now expound.

There are often times people who think that their opinion is the only one that counts. I am talking of course about people that love to talk about the lack of reality in reality, the true ills of ambition, the prostitution of society by technology, the ills of modern medicine, and the necessity to bathe naked in the cleansing waters of a dirty, amoeba filled lake. If you don't get the sarcasm then you are one of them, a pseudo intellectual.

I find it easy to spot pseudo intellectuals, they look at you in a manner that spells their indifferent superiority and superior lack of real confidence. A pseudo intellectual will likely mix Nietzche with Sheldon Cooper and talk about atheism being a manner of scientific belief on the gods of science. Yes I love the pseudo intellectuals because they entertain me. A pseudo intellectual will find over 100 explanations to one lie, and over 100 answers to a yes or no question. A pseudo intellectual is a lot like stepping on dog shit, you know you hate it but somehow it makes you laugh.

A lot of times pseudo intellectuals come about as the result of youth without experience or praise without real merit. College, books, retention without understanding, and bullshit, will never give you practical intellect or common sense. True gifts do not come from unproven ideas, and nonsense, and certainly have no relation to veganism and under arm hair. I am not saying that vegans are pseudo intellectuals but I am stating that a lot of pseudo intellectuals are vegans. Perhaps I am tired of every hippy wannabe assuming that they know life when truly the know very little about a whole lot.

The world needs clowns and fools and who better to entertain us than the pseudo intellectuals who, like clowns, are truly just sad individuals crying soulful, interior tears stemming from fear.

THAT TIME I WANTED TO PRODUCE PHAT BEATS

I have always loved music but I know my limitations in so far as making phat beats. I think it takes more than four months of training and the love of shiny clothing to be a phat beats producer extraordinaire. I wanted to test my theory by getting info on a program that offered four months of training for a nominal fee of nearly six thousand dollars. I started by submitting my name in the "name here" spot of the online questionnaire.

I made sure to explain my love of the phat beat online and once I did that, I patiently waited for a call. I decided to engage the person on the other line in a conversation where I spoke highly of acts like Boney M. I recall that the man I spoke to referred to himself as one of the top producers in town and a real strong hand in the business. I got the address to the studio and decided to go on and take the tour.

I began to wonder if this guy was as good as he told me or just someone who carried bags for guys like Ozzy and polished cars for The Thompson Twins and Kajagoogoo, back before Limahl had his breakout one hit wonder rebirth with Neverending Story. I somehow felt that this meeting was going to be a landmark event in my life. When I drove up I saw two solid doors and walked in, knowing that I would be shaken to the core of my very being.

I stepped into a studio that I am sure had been run by Phil Specter sometime in 1964. I saw a few gold records of some boy bands that were made primarily by a scheming fat man. The studio reeked of mothballs and it looked like it hadn't seen a broom or orgy in well over 25 years. I sensed that the equipment was not in tip top condition because the studio had lost its will to live sometime during the drug, sex, and rock n' roll fueled bicentennial of 76.' I realized the studio was like a time machine type place so my visit there made me one of the few individuals to engage in time travel.

I was no longer someone looking to make a phat beat, I was someone making grooves. The great producer showed up and he was a Gary Spivey look alike, except his hair was like a vomit color. The man wore a paisley shirt and had what appeared to be a sort of pencil drawn mustache. This man was not a phat beats maker, this man was a legend. I knew that he could teach me the ways of the Louisiana music Jedi, more commonly known as the Ledi. The meeting was brief but I knew that if I capture this man's mighty genius I would be set.

I would leave my spot in the past far too soon and would find myself disappointedly wondering why my trip had to end. Eventually, after about one minute, I realized that some people are full of shit, but they are intelligent enough to see a jackass a mile away. Music is a form of art that you don't just master in a matter of months or minutes, it takes years. I was told that you just need to know what sounds good in order to produce, bullshit. In order to make something great you have to know more than just one thing. We live in a world full of idiots but there are some that are smart enough to take advantage of others, which is why I can be a producer of phat beats in three easy steps.