The Onion's Michael Jackson Joke
A headline:
Enchanted By Own Innocence, Michael Jackson Molests Self
* * *
I was thinking more about my denuded toilet dream, and I've come to the conclusion that I may have the opposite anxiety, that no one gives a damn about anyone but himself. It's true: one could be bare-assed in the middle of a public square, and as long as it isn't he who has to suffer, every passer-by wouldn't even mark it on his radar. Even mocking it would deflect his precious attention away from himself.
My brother criticizes Sex and the City as being unrealistic because none of the main characters seem to communicate as friends - so busy are they obsessing about their own lives. One of them will say, "I have such and such a problem," and her friend will reply, "No way, that totally reminds me of something that happened to ME..."
To which criticism I replied: as in art, thus in life. People LOVE to talk about themselves. I think I may be getting a little tired of it, because like everyone else, the only life I really care about is my own, so it's exhausting to feign interest in anyone else's. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, it isn't necessary to pretend - if the life is genuinely, objectively interesting, or if the storyteller has an entertaining style. But other times, I feel like I'm in hell, when I have to listen to some monotone account of how such and so found a certain friend attractive, and of this friend's subsequent sexual conquests, all involving people I don't know, or care to know ever, or have the least bit of respect for - for this monotone tale would have established only one strong impression in my mind, and that is that all these conquests are singularly douche-bags...
Don't worry, if you're reading this, I'm not talking about you - because clearly you can take an interest in a life that isn't yours, right? And to a reasonable extent, I do think I'm interested in my friend's lives, at least more so than the Average Joe (for I read friends' blogs; though this is not to say that I'm any less egotistical than said Joe). I'm actually thinking of a specific friend whom I visited recently, and who has many other endearing qualities to make up for his/her utter boringness. My dealings with this person have become a kind of symbol for my more general exhaustion with humanity, overwhelmingly characterized by solipsism.
So much for the poo chapter. I still haven't thought much about the vampire-rat chapter.
Enchanted By Own Innocence, Michael Jackson Molests Self
* * *
I was thinking more about my denuded toilet dream, and I've come to the conclusion that I may have the opposite anxiety, that no one gives a damn about anyone but himself. It's true: one could be bare-assed in the middle of a public square, and as long as it isn't he who has to suffer, every passer-by wouldn't even mark it on his radar. Even mocking it would deflect his precious attention away from himself.
My brother criticizes Sex and the City as being unrealistic because none of the main characters seem to communicate as friends - so busy are they obsessing about their own lives. One of them will say, "I have such and such a problem," and her friend will reply, "No way, that totally reminds me of something that happened to ME..."
To which criticism I replied: as in art, thus in life. People LOVE to talk about themselves. I think I may be getting a little tired of it, because like everyone else, the only life I really care about is my own, so it's exhausting to feign interest in anyone else's. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, it isn't necessary to pretend - if the life is genuinely, objectively interesting, or if the storyteller has an entertaining style. But other times, I feel like I'm in hell, when I have to listen to some monotone account of how such and so found a certain friend attractive, and of this friend's subsequent sexual conquests, all involving people I don't know, or care to know ever, or have the least bit of respect for - for this monotone tale would have established only one strong impression in my mind, and that is that all these conquests are singularly douche-bags...
Don't worry, if you're reading this, I'm not talking about you - because clearly you can take an interest in a life that isn't yours, right? And to a reasonable extent, I do think I'm interested in my friend's lives, at least more so than the Average Joe (for I read friends' blogs; though this is not to say that I'm any less egotistical than said Joe). I'm actually thinking of a specific friend whom I visited recently, and who has many other endearing qualities to make up for his/her utter boringness. My dealings with this person have become a kind of symbol for my more general exhaustion with humanity, overwhelmingly characterized by solipsism.
So much for the poo chapter. I still haven't thought much about the vampire-rat chapter.
posted by Rex at 11:15 PM
3 Comments:
Obsessed with Michael Jackson? Sensitive about her short legs? Totally faithless in the future of humanity? Yea, I guess we all are, but hey, that's what blog's are for right? Excelent work, and great writingm keep up the good work!
I'm not the boring friend, am I? Remember, though, I defy the rule about people talking about themselves... you still know nothing about me!! ;-) Just kidding. But I still defy the rule, I think.
Would you condescend to mock me if you found me taking a shit on an open toilet? God bless!
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