Today marks a milestone in my life—all my wildest dreams have come true. After five years of begging, pleading and offering up my first born child for a taser it took accompanying my mom to one of her usually boring work dinners to change her mind about bestowing me with a DEFENSE weapon. A guardian angel in the form of one of the guests informed my mom that he gave his wife, mother and sisters each a stun gun for Christmas as a means of protection against the crazies in this world. Ten minutes and a bourbon-spiked coffee later, my mom hastily scribbles down the address for a stun gun purchase. In the “ghetto” of St. Pete lies a delightful place where one can acquire 6.2 million wat stun gun in fashionable colors like blue, green, purple and pink. One hundred dollars and one stern conversation about what constitutes a “real emergency” and I’m now armed with not only my wits and some sweet tae kwon do moves, but also a chic electrocution device.
You may be saying to yourself why would anyone give this coconut a dangerous weapon? And I understand the reservations one may have regarding someone as mentally unstable as myself carrying around a torture tool, but I assure you, I would much rather keep the taser in the case than wind up in some Thai prison while an angry Asian man pries my fingernails off with sharpened bamboo sticks.
But procuring the weapon secures only half the battle. Now I must somehow get the okay from both Delta and Korean Airlines to bring my new toy with me to Thailand. Surprisingly, I somehow think Delta will be the ones to have an issue with the concealed weapon on the plane situation, what with all of the throwing stars and nuclear weapons Koreans surely conceal within their woven suitcases on a daily basis. For Delta I’ll spin the whole second amendment George Bush crap and for Korea I’ll probably bribe them with some tobacco or American porn. Either way, as long as the pink spark of doom in my checked bag doesn’t serve as catalyst for my indefinite stint in a Cambodian prison, we’ll be golden.
My only aversion to this pink life saver, is the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach every time one of my deranged family members walks by its storage area and momentarily pauses. A brief spark flickers across their face then curious hands reluctantly find their way into the safety of pants pockets, extinguishing the delusional notion that testing the powerful weapon on your kin wouldn't result in tears, possibly some foaming at the mouth and an all expenses paid trip to the psych ward. Especially considering the thing looks more like a lip gloss container than an electrical current strong enough to take down that mongoloid from the Green Mile.
|THE MUSIC IS INSIDE ME... no wait that's meth.|
Moving on, what is with this new fad of, I don’t know what to do with my life so I’m going to put on neon sunglasses, frat tanks with unoriginal tag lines and “let the bass take control.” I do not understand you. You mainline hallucinogens, go to music festivals and come back like you just found Jesus. The simple question, how was the concert almost always results in: I can’t even explain to you. It’s an out of body experience, the music just consumes you. You have to be there.
No you donkey sodomizer, the music just plays while the chemicals you’ve just ingested have inebriated relay races in your cerebellum, destroying what little brain cells you started with. Don’t get me wrong, I like techno, house and dubstep, but I’m not going to pretend that when a song comes on my soul is transported to another planet where David Guetta and I are holding hooves with a Unicorn and rolling around pools of Tapioca pudding. I just like the song. It’s less likely the musical magic causes your eyes to roll back in your head while your hands unsuccessfully try to catch laser lights than it is the bunker full of illicit drugs you’ve got back at the campsite. Scrubbing a toilet could be an out of body experience if I included a Mollie/Acid colada and some Skrillex.
I’m not knocking this lifesytle, once again I just do not understand the premise behind getting bat shit crazy and then hoolahooping for twelve straight hours to the beat of some Deadmau5 song. I could’ve funneled some absinthe and called it a day. What ever happened to rolling a joint, shotgunning some beers and lying facedown in the lawn at a DMB concert? I sweat enough as it is without ingesting something that’s going to speed my heart rate up to category Death while I dance out every electrolyte my body’s ever housed. But at least everyone else is less focused on your sweatstache than the neon butterfly painted on your face, which seems to be dancing as violently as the crazy bendy kid that may have no actual skeletal system.
I’ve had to hide people on facebook that feel compelled to post 308742987329 new techno songs to their friends with tags like ‘this will change your life’ or ‘let the beat find you.’ No, graduating college will change your life. That will keep you exactly where you are—50 credits short of being a 22 yr old sophomore and repeating remedial statistics. My issue isn’t with the whole mainstream hallucinogen trend, my issue is that you’ve fried your brain into thinking that the rest of the population 1. Cares and 2. Envies your drug-induced experiences. I could care less that these people drug their way into a break dancing sweatstorm; however, I find it mildly patronizing that these half-wits think that running around barefoot in some desert shouting a tune techno song gives their life some abundant meaning. No one is judging you for doing drugs, considering my future taxes will most likely pay for your vegetable ass to drool all over the craft table in the rubber room. We just want you to shut the hell up about it.