Get Back On That Horse

Two weeks have come and gone since my fall from grace.  I quit my job, I started working out, and I’m drinking again.  The cosmos have been set into motion and my universe has been chaotically shredded by the lawn-mower blades of fate.  The baby step I took to reclaim my life turned into a stumble that left the virtual pages of WordPress blank.  Aside from myself, the biggest losers in this mess have been all of those who look to these posts for motivation and an excuse to mock me.  I apologize to all four of you.  As for me, however, I made a mistake.  While I’ll never regret getting out of that soul-stealing, slave mill I called a job, I regret my preparation for the next step in my life.  My goals of becoming a comic/writer/chauvinist have fallen flat, but not for long.  I made another step.

I ventured out.  Money has been tight since I quit.  In an attempt to save on automobile gas, I journeyed by foot to the stable to see my sweet ponies, Success and Virtue.  Due to extremely long stretches of immobility indoors, my muscles and lungs had weakened and my tan had all but disappeared leaving my newly acquired bed sores exposed to the elements.  Regardless, I found motivation and made my way to the street.  I stepped out of my home only to feel my pasty skin bake from the torturous blazes of the autumn sun.  My heart rate surged creating a gentle sweat which, while cooling my skin from the sun’s intensity, stung my open bed sores.  The sunshine glistened off of my sweaty skin directly into my eyes.  As a result of the glare, temporary blindness caused me to see eye-worms; glowing dots in my retinas creating stabbing pain and tears.  The eye-worms took the form of Success and Virtue, the fore mentioned ponies I had started out to visit.  In all but five minutes in the real world, I had no choice but to second guess my actions.  I went back into my home.

Summoning the courage to leave my apartment after the solemn events I conjured, proved to be a difficult task.  The heavy burden of  taking on a new adventure was scary.  Attempting to find my own Success and Virtue caused blinding pain from hot flashes and sweat.  The real world’s sun is brutal.  Its warming light shines down allowing us to forge a path toward our goals.  However, the light can be intense and if a person is not prepared, his journey will be riddled with burn and eye-worms.  Ironically, the only way to prepare him is to set him on his journey in the sun’s blazes encouraging each small step forward.

My journey has just begun and there are many steps to be taken.  Although the latest action may have been a misstep, it wasn’t all bad.  My tan is back and my muscles and lungs are strong again.  The sores on my skin have healed (sans my genitalia…that’s right…Herpes).  Unfortunately, in the time it took me to build up my tolerance of the real world, my ponies died.  Oh well.  Success and Virtue don’t always take the form you first expected.  At least there will be enough meat to last through winter, thus saving money on grocery meats.  Now, I just have to go out there and retrieve it.  Ah, sh*t.

The Simpsons

Big deal Wolfy.  Marge is my soul mate. Now show me some inner peace or I’ll mop the floor with ya’.

 Sometimes I think I’m being really funny.  I’m engaging conversation with strangers and they’re thrilled and captivated; laughing at my every word.  And then it hits me.  Everything I’m saying is a recital of Simpson’s quotes and situations that I’ve stored away in my subconscious.  “Remember the episode when Bart was a baby and Homer wanted Bart to call him ‘daddy’ and after several tries he called Homer, ‘Domer’?”  I know that was a funny episode.  I know that was a funny event.  But in that instance I’m no more than a hack.  Simply put, I’m stealing material from other people in an attempt to prove my funniness.  The problem is that it works.  People love Simpson related stories and quotes.  “Do you remember the episode with the Bear Tax?  Homer and Lisa are standing in the front yard opening mail and Homer gets his pay check.  He’s wondering why his ‘pay is so low’ and Lisa says it’s the Bear Tax that Homer so triumphantly demanded. Then Homer outrageously exclaims something like, ‘I don’t want to pay the bear tax, let the bears pay the bear tax.  I pay the Homer tax.’ And Lisa responds by saying, ‘Dad, it’s the Home owner tax.’”  The Simpsons are so damn funny.  Do you remember how funny that was?  Well, I do.  And now, in some hacked up version of the real story, you’ll remember it, too.  I’m so funny.  You’re welcome.

The Old Man And The See Crack

Sage men open wide

Sometimes you see something that you’re not expecting and realize how unprepared you are for the unpredictable.  I was flashed by a set of old, wrinkly knockers on the interstate once and I almost ran off the road.  I feel that if the incident had taken place in a bar or a bedroom, I would have been less shocked.  The fact that it was outdoors really threw me for a loop.  More recently, I fell victim to another similar event and found myself mystified at my inability to react appropriately.

I went to the supermarket just a day ago and followed an older man in.  He was short and thin.  His hair was grey.  His broken and bent posture gave me the impression that he had been working his entire life.  As I followed him into the store, my gaze veered downward to see my next step.  As I began to look down, I noticed his brightly colored teal and red plaid shirt under a set of grey suspenders.  The suspenders were supporting his tarnished blue jeans.  My eyes lowered just past his shirt tail and stopped.  At his lower waist line, where a normal person’s shirt might have been tucked into his pants, I saw that this man’s bare ass was completely exposed.  It was as if his suspenders had grown as weak and weary as he had and had completely given up.  His shirt tail ended just below the top half of his butt and his pants hung just below his cheeks.  If he had bent over for some unknown reason I would have been subject to the gory sight of old man balls (sorry Grandma, I don’t know how you do it).

In an attempt to capture this moment in time for all eternity, I reached for my cell phone.  The man grabbed a shopping cart from the corral and I quickly followed.  As he began his shopping trip I trailed him closely all the while fumbling with my smart phone to activate the camera application.  By the time I was able to pull off a good shot from four feet away, the man had realized the breeze between his knees and had begun to correct his situation.  It must have been an interesting scene; me arms extended holding the camera following an old man who’s ass was clearly exposed.  Not the day I was expecting, yet still I was disappointed.  I didn’t get a shot on the camera.  I was only able to capture a mental image of an old, wrinkly, surprisingly hairless and tan, liver-spotted ass that will live with me for all time.  I left the old man and finished my shopping trip.  I gained some valuable knowledge that day: always be ready for the unexpected because that’s all there is.

The Last Time I Crapped My Pants

Yeah, I shard.  So what?  If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too.  Have you ever been on a bus?  This isn’t about that.  This is a story.  And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old.  It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon.  I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple.  At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers.  I was proud then.  It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos.  They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people.  I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.

My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age.  During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house.  There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two.  We never needed outfielders.  Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house.  Like I said, it was a defunkity sac.  We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp.  There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun.  Actually, it was a lot of fun.  Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.

At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues.  They had organized a game that we all knew well.  We got on to playing.  As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus.  I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt.  Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass.  It was coming on slow but steady.  I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.

So, like most people do, I weighed my options.  I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences.  Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat.  It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right.  For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy.  I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way.  After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”

I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch.  So, I sat on a pitch.  And another.  And another.  And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far.  The pitch came and I took a cut.  It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me.  Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed.  The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants.  As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete.  I did it.  I crapped my pants.  And the driveway, too, apparently.

You Kissed Your Step-Brother’s Sister?

It's Complicated. You wouldn't understand.

You’re 15.  You’re horny.  Your life is complicated.  Your mom says, “Hey, I know your father left because he loves his cheap trick whores better than this family, but I’m over it! Liberated!  This is your new step-father Rick or Tom or Gary or something similar sounding! and this is his son and daughter, the twins.”  This is what your mom says.  So you’re forced to move in with these douche bags.  You get the bedroom in the over sized laundry room near the water heater and cat litter box.  Your mom always barges in to do half a load of Rick’s softball uniform right when you’re about to jerk off.  That effin cat always ass dumps two pounds of post processed Friskies in the litter box at two in the morning and it smells like death.  You hate it.  Your mom doesn’t understand.  It’s complicated.  And that’s when you realize there are two other people your age living in the house.  “Finally,” you say, “someone to relate to.”  So you try to work it out with the twins, Skyler and Sophia.  It must also be complicated for them.  Skyler is cold.  Sophia is hot.  Smokin’ hot.  If only she weren’t your sister.  But technically, she’s not.  Physically, she’s developing nicely and evenly like a loaf of delicious 15 year old bread.  You learn over several short encounters she’s actually quite charismatic.  You start to fall for her.  You make every effort to talk to her and assist her and watch her shower.  You’re 15.  And in her young charming naivety, she begins to watch you and talk to you and fall for you, too.  Things are awkward for a while but she’s just as curious as you.  Then one night, after the cat dumps, she sneaks down to your room and confesses her confusion.  Your pants get tight.  She leans in and kisses you, hard.  It’s the seductive sh*t that the one porn you’ve ever seen that you stole out of Rick’s closet is made of.   Your relationship blossoms secretively as do Sophia’s young tender boobs (which you’ve touched).  You kids are hanging out and laughing and loving and touching and tonguing.  Everyone is getting along.  Mom and Rick seem to think everything is so healthy and the focus turns away from you to why Skyler is not bonding.  Rick thinks he’s gay.  Your mom thinks he’s a nice boy.  Unbeknown to you Skyler has been covertly watching your love charade.  He’s jealous.  That’s his sister your kissing…he wants that.  He tells your Mom.  Mom tells Rick.  Rick hits you.  Mom freaks out.  Restraining order.  Divorce.  With your pants still tight, it ends.  No more Sophia.  No more love.  Wow.

Lazy Is As Lazy Does Not

One of the best movies I've seen twice

Most people correlate half-assed behavior with laziness.  These people couldn’t be more wrong and, not to mention, insensitive.  I may or may not be making this up, but laziness is inaction derived from a lack of motivation.  You’re a lazy-ass when you have stuff to do and you don’t do it.  It’s like not calling your mother when she’s on her death bed to ask forgiveness for being such an awful person.  There’s no greater goal you want to accomplish in this scenario.  It’s an obligation you choose not to fulfill for no other reason than you’re a lazy idiot.

 Action derived from motivation to do something else is what half-assing is about.  You’re a half-ass when you’re doing it, but you’re just doing it like a schmuck.  See that’s the half part;  you made an attempt…you schmuck.  You’re half-assing it when you mopped the kitchen floor with your socks and Dr. Pepper instead of a mop and Pine Sol because you don’t want to miss a minute of Men In Black on TBS.  You gave it the old “college try” which is less than was asked of you.  (BTW – Will Smith is good; have you seen Hitch?  See it, I’m thinking you’ll love it.)

There is an additional qualification to be made here.  When a half-assed mentality is mixed with procrastination, laziness is borne.  To count as half-assed, you have to have attempted to perform the activity even if that means just showing up and throwing a conniption fit.   You’ll be tempted many times not to fulfill an obligation before moving directly to one of the pleasurable activities that you prefer doing.  That’s fine.  But know this:  Eventually, you will need to fulfill that obligation and when the time comes, you’d better man up and at least pretend you did something.  Otherwise, you stand being labeled a good-for-nothing lazy-ass (worse than death).  Wasting as little of your precious time as possible with the sh*tty crap is the mark of a true half-asser.  That’s all I’m saying.

Don’t Call Me Shorty

Just make sure the hole is clean before you put your mouth on it.

 

In life, you either have to get something done or you want to get something done.  (Do I go to work or do I go to the park?)  The trick is to learn the shortest time between what you have to do and what you want to do.  These are called short cuts.  Now, a common misperception is that short cuts incorporate poorly devised strategies.  No elfin way is this true.  How are you going to take a good short cut if you don’t know the outcome of said short cut?  You are betting on yourself to get lucky, which is a bet a sick whore on a toilet wouldn’t take.

More accurately, a good short cut is a calculated step that requires previous experience and knowledge of the situation’s outcome.  Unfortunately for all you rookies out there, this means you usually have to complete a task the long and difficult way the first time or two before you can implement short cuts.  Once first timers get the hang of things, they can cut out unnecessary busy work needed to complete that task until one day the task just does itself somehow.  The only exception to this rule is having sex for the first time but having needed something better to do (which I highly doubt, you virgin idiot).  You were probably able to skip out on all the hard work before finishing the job just in time for a nice nappy pooh.

Although they can be timely initially, short cuts are a half-asser’s wet dream come true.  Short cuts provide quick solutions to life’s questionably necessary busy work, allowing you to get back to what’s really important; putting your mouth on glory holes in public park restrooms.

Half-Assed Objective: Half Way Is Good Enough

Stop right there. It's good enough.

As a half-asser, your approach to life should always include an objective.  The reason for half-assing one project is to get to a more fulfilling endeavor as quickly as possible; moving from one point to another.  For this, some over achievers will carry on about how the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

I disagree.  Have you ever done the math?  Take a distance between point ”A” and point “not A”.  Measure that sh*t.  Let’s say it’s 1 unit of measure.  Quite a distance, wouldn’t you say?  I can barely catch my breath thinking about how to circumnavigate that span.  Let’s say you want to walk that distance but, because it’s such a lengthy trek, you decide to take your time and start by just traveling half the distance.  So, instead of the full 1 unit, you’re only going to travel 1/2 a unit.  Sure, it’s not as far as 1 whole unit, but it’s still an admirable distance to travel.  Well, your journey begins and you make your way to the halfway point.

You’re feeling lively and adventuresome, so you begin again; just like the first trip, you only travel halfway between your current location and the final destination.  You stop to really soak up your progress and notice that you’ve gone 3/4 units and have almost achieved your final target of 1 unit of measure.  Good for you!  Your accomplishment leaves you brimming with confidence and so you attempt another half, and another, and another and so on and so forth.  What you realize is that no matter how many halves you travel, you’ll never quite reach your destination.  And even though you’ll get closer with each half you take, your efforts will never successfully take you to the end of your journey.

Such is the way with perfectionism.  If you set out to finish a task fully, you’ll never do it regardless of how many attempts you make.  However, remember that first half you traveled?  You made it there in one try and you were full of energy and confidence!  (Fuzzy logic is a half-asser’s wet dream.)  Setting your standards to attainable goals, cutting that by half,  and avoiding the impossible task of 100% are the most important lessons of half-assing.  If you’re constantly striving to do things right, you’ll never get them done.  Focusing your efforts on the minimum that needs to be accomplished is a fine way to move from one point to another.  It might not be the point a perfectionist is trying for, but that’s his problem.  You’ve got better things to do.

Rough Guidelines to Half-Assing Life

Take it from a half ass, life is good here

In the before time, when I was young, I’d envisioned a rough set of guidelines that made the most out of life by doing the least amount of work.  Half-assing it, as it is known tends to be the straightest path between the points of most and least.  Half-assery allows a person to weasel out of life’s chores and move through them quickly to the things he’d rather be doing; his goal(s).  Even though I’ve given a lot of thought to these guidelines and have had enlightening experiences that have blossomed into great half-assed lessons, I’ve never put anything down on paper.   What I’ve learned so far is that life is a series of ad hoc, inconsistent, undefined, and wishy-washy events.  It’s to your advantage to learn how to manage the unexpected by getting it out of the way quickly.   When half-assing is performed correctly (or rather, a fast as possible), a person can reach his goals and occupy as much of his time as possible with the things that best suit his fancy.

What is half-ass?  When taken literally, a half ass is either a single rosy cheek amid a bunched up pair of undies or the ugly side of a mule (take your pick).  Literal does no good.  Literal leads to stagnation and boredom.  Half-assing is all about getting down and dirty, even if it’s with your cousin’s sister.  Loosely defined, half-assing is a set of fluid principles that make the most from the least.    By keeping an open mind to sloppiness and managing to have an always changing game plan, you will almost certainly guarantee your life is a slew of TV and sleep.

Half-assing is a lifestyle that you subscribe to like an interesting magazine or marriage in that once the dues are paid, the masturbation is endless.   With that being said, half-assery is not meant to be a limbo state where you just float around aimlessly with nothing to do (unless that’s what you want, of course).  The reason for half-assing is to accomplish a more meaningful goal or activity that you’d rather be doing.  We all have obligations and chores that coincide with activities that we yearn to be doing instead. For me, it’s needing to take out a bag of smelly trash while wanting to not to take out the trash.  For you, it might be the need to pay your phone bill while simultaneously wanting to keep your money.  A life lived half-assedly is the perfect way to get the best of two worlds; what you need to do and what you want to do.  Whatever the reason for leading a half-assed life, your reward will be time filled with the pleasures you desire.  Finally, there’s a way to have your cake and eat it, too (for free, if possible).

Adding to the last point, it’s absolutely ok lead a Hippocratic lifestyle.  You might feel obligated to attack task with great effort and vigor making sure that it’s done correctly the first time.  Your attention to detail and poignancy for work are fine attributes to boast but it’s not necessary to use them at all times.  In a half-assed life, your activities become two fold.  On the one hand, you want to rush through the boring stuff.  On the other hand, you have a passion for another activity that you want to care for and nurture.  If, for example, you love to work on cars but your wife wants you to mow your neighbor’s lawn because he’s incontinent and his kids are losers, it’s ok to just mow some of his front yard sort of enabling you to get back to your labor of love quickly.  Screw that douche bag, he should have been a better father or whatever; not your problem.  He can bag his own clippings.  Feel free to tell your wife so that you’re all on the same page.  The beauty of half-assing is that it’s a part time job.  It’s a tool that you use when you need to make things go away just like a hand gun and a shovel.  Keep in mind that consistency is overrated.

If saving time and killing multiple birds with one or less stones are idioms that you live by, then half-assing is certainly up your alley.  It may not be easy to determine what you want, but it is definitely easy to say what you don’t want.  When you’re faced with the tedious and down right difficult tasks of everyday living, just half-ass it.  You’ll find what you’re looking for faster than you ever thought possible.  Half-assing your way through life is one of the best ways to get it all in without getting stuck in the muck.  So, follow along, and for the next while, we’ll take a journey together down the road of passion and satisfaction, joy and love, success and fulfillment….when I get around to it.