Essa Alroc's Blog, page 13

It’s Money or Love…But You Don’t Get Both

I think the answer to most people’s ‘meaning of life conundrum’ could be answered with the following question;

What do you think about when you masturbate?

Yes, I know it sounds weird, but I think there are some true psychological benefits there. Think about it. Anyone in the midst of an orgasm is at their absolute most vulnerable moment, both physically and mentally. When you are at your most vulnerable is when you finally realize your true desires.

Of course, you have to read the subtext. Do you dream about multiple partners? Then you are the kind of person who needs mass love and recognition. Do you dream about one person who understands everything about you and whispers sweet nothings into your ear? Then your main desire is the human connection. Are rape fantasies your particular brand of forbidden fruit? Rest assured, you aren’t a sicko. You’re just an overwhelmed person who deep down wants someone to take control for you. There is no such thing as a bad masturbation fantasy.

What’s mine, you might ask? Well, mine takes a bit more of a literal form. See, I get off best when I’m thinking about rolling around in giant piles of money.

So what, I had a little bit of an orgasm when posting this? Stop judging me.

I grew up poor, without a lot of extra cash rolling around. I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs and ate generic cereal. I never had the ‘new trendy thing’ and I watched black and white TV until I was 14. To me, there is nothing sexier in the world than frivolously spending your money.

“Why didn’t you just marry a rich guy?” This is a question I get a lot. I’ve probably had the opportunity. I could have married some well-to-do guys when I was in my twenties and much better looking. Hell, I’ve had recent offers where some Israeli guy promised me an island. But I’ve always turned them down. Yes, I could have been rich, but the giant pile of money wasn’t the goal.

My dream might sound like surface, materialistic fodder, but deep down, I’m a bit more philosophical than that.

To me, money represents the ultimate freedom. It means that you can decide what you do for a living, rather than working in a cubicle for forty years. It decides where you are allowed to live. Rather than moving to the place where the job market is best, you move to the place that is exciting and fun. When you have money, you are the master of fate and the captain of your own destiny.

When you’re poor, your shitty boat is piloted by your financial adviser.

I would never marry for money, because that is the exact opposite of the kind of freedom I want. When you marry money, you marry someone else’s money. You are expected to behave the way they want you to behave. You are nothing more than a bird in a gilded cage. So no, I will never marry for money. Instead, I will make my own.

I have a theory that is based on my larger ‘balance of the universe’ theory. You can have love, or you can have money. You can not have both. Of course, this doesn’t apply to happily married couples in Kenosha Wisconsin, who live on their retirement benefits of 40k per year.

I’m talking living extreme. I’m talking about having the kind of money where, when your neighborhood association doesn’t like the color of your house, you just buy the neighborhood association. I’m talking Justin Bieber money, where you can cause 20k in damages to your neighbor’s place because you hate them, write a check and walk away. I’m talking the kind of OJ money that gets you out of killing your wife.

That’s the kind of money I want.

You can have epic wealth or epic love. There is no in between. The universe will never allow one person to have the power of both.

I’m totally kosher with the idea of dying alone. As far as I’m concerned, I will never meet my soul mate because science hasn’t advanced enough for me to clone myself. Yeah, money doesn’t keep you warm at night, but money sure as hell pays the heating bills.

To all you idealists out there, soul mates die. But money? Money lasts forever.

I embrace your judgmental comments.

This is Why You Don’t Have a Girlfriend

A few days ago, I did a post entitled “This is Why You Don’t have a Boyfriend.” This post struck a chord among many of my readers. This weekend I went out. While I was out, I met an incredibly good looking man.

And the longer he talked, the less good looking he became.

See, his problem was that he had obviously read one of those ‘how to pick up chicks’ books and was working every bit of material he could. Around the 15th magic trick and the 17th time he light-heartedly touched my elbow, I was just about ready to punch him in the throat.

Instead, I took a deep breath and clued him into the following.

#1. You are asking way too many fucking questions.

Are you writing my damn biography? Look, I know that every single book you read about the opposite sex tells you women are vapid, self absorbed creatures who are desperate to tell you every single detail about themselves in the first 15 minutes of knowing you.

Granted, I am incredibly self absorbed, but once we hit question 15 in as many minutes, I decided it was time to start fucking with you to see if you were even paying attention to my answers. I mean Jesus, I told you one of my hobbies was collecting Nazi memorabilia…and you’re Jewish. You didn’t even bat an eyelash.

#2.  Ditch the magic tricks.

Yes, I know the guy in the fuzzy hat tells you that chicks love magic, but what he didn’t tell you is that those chicks are usually under 12. No, I’m not impressed with your ability to pull a quarter out of my ear. If my alcoholic, borderline retarded uncle Karl can pull that off, I’m pretty sure anyone can.

#3.  Never touch me without my permission again.

Yes, I’ve heard of kenos too. Supposedly, the more you casually touch a woman, the more she becomes used to you touching her and more willing to let you take it further.

Here’s the real deal. We are living in the age of date rape, stalkers and dudes who keep girls locked in their basement for ten years. When you touch me, I automatically assume that you’re testing my skin elasticity for a skin suit. The next time you lay a hand on me, even if you’re caressing my pinky finger, I’m going to donkey punch you.

#5.  Buying me drinks does not somehow ‘rent me’ for the night.

I’m not one of those idiot girls who goes bouncing around, demanding that every guy in the bar buy her a shot. I actually have my own money, and more than enough to keep me lightly buzzed. I don’t need you to ply me with alcohol in an attempt to get my inhibitions down. In fact, I’m almost sure I could drink your ass under the table.

Buying me drinks doesn’t somehow obligate me into sleeping with you. If you’re looking for a hooker, I suggest you just cut out the middle man and offer the money directly. Trust me; I am going to charge a hell of a lot more than $5.

#6.  Did you really just tear up when talking about your dog?

God, nothing kills my lady boner like man tears. Again, I’m sure those books are telling you that girls love ‘sensitive guys’. Here’s the thing…not all girls do. Especially insensitive ones like myself. Girls are like guys. We all have different desires in our men and there is no one-size-fits-all approach. Sensitivity is not on my list of nonnegotiables and the second that you teared up, my vagina actually sealed itself shut.

#7.  Stop following me!

I go outside, there you are. I go upstairs, there you are. I go downstairs, there you are. I go to the bathroom, there you are waiting outside the door. Damn it man, I could have been pooping in there! Do you know how creepy it is to think about you listening to that?

Following me like a tiger stalking a gazelle isn’t going to somehow make me cave in and go home with you. Instead, it’s far more likely that I’m going to call security…or donkey punch you…or both.

Listen, you can’t learn how to pick up girls from books. The only people who have any success from those books are the guys who wrote them. The only reason they’re successful is because they got rich taking all your damn money. Even the ugliest guy becomes much more attractive when he has a 7 figure net worth.

Ditch the books and be yourself. Yeah, some girls won’t like you, but no girls like you right now, because you’re coming off as phony and desperate. And phony, drunk and desperate is no way to go through life.

Best Service Request Ever

Recently, I had to request service from management at my apartment complex. Here is the actual text of the service request I sent. Enjoy.

 

This is Why You Don’t Have a Boyfriend

Occasionally, I do blogs about dating because I believe I have a unique perspective on the general human psyche. This comes from being a silent observer, and a crazy recluse who regularly listens to the people outside her window bitch and moan as they smoke weed.

No judgment people in apartment 241, but you should know that the Febreze isn’t covering up the smell. Move to the 21st century and get a vaporizer for fucks sake.

As I am a sucker for drama, I enjoy eavesdropping on their conversations. One conversation I hear a lot of is from a young lady who I will refer to as ‘Hopeless Hilda”.

Hopeless Hilda has a problem. She wants a boyfriend. I know this because it gets mentioned every twelve seconds, along with the phrase ‘what’s wrong with me?” Her well-meaning friends keep telling her ‘nothing is wrong with you. You’re beautiful. You just haven’t met the right man yet.”

Her friends, while kind, are 100% wrong. I will agree that Hilda is gorgeous. She is after all, a professional model. However, that is just about the only thing that Hopeless Hilda has going for her. So I’m writing this blog post, in the hopes that Hopeless Hilda will take to the internet and stumble upon my blog, so she can become a little less hopeless.

#1 – Never used the phrase ‘All men are (insert slur or generalization)” again.

Before you spit out the phrase ‘All men are assholes” I want you do something. Replace ‘men’ with any ethnic group. For example; “All men are assholes” becomes “All Hispanics are assholes.”

But you wouldn’t say the second one because that’s racist, right? Well, the first one is sexist. Stop being a sexist bitch. It is not an attractive quality. Not all men are assholes. Some men are assholes, as are some women. When you go around bitching about all men, you just look like a bitter hag. When was the last time you saw a headline on Match.com stating ‘desperately seeking bitter hag’?

#2 – Stop over-sharing

Hi Hilda. I’m Essa, the blond girl with the 9 pound dog. Seems weird that I’ve lived underneath you for like two years and you never even knew my name.

You know what else is weird? The fact that you just learned my name, but that I know you were molested when you were five, have an eating disorder, cut yourself when you’re depressed, have an abusive ex and you might be addicted to diet pills.

How do I know all this? Because you say all these things to every single guy you date. I know this, because you share it all, usually while breaking down in tears, right in front of my window.

Weirdly, the guys you say all this shit to never seem to call back, because I never see them again.

Here’s the thing Hilda, you need to work on your first date material.  Tears and skeletons in your closet should be saved for when you are actually in a monogamous committed relationship. I know you read a lot of romance novels, and you just want someone to rescue you, but trust me babe, it isn’t gonna happen. If romance novels were real, we’d all be married to handsome billionaires.

#3 – Stop over-complimenting

One compliment is nice. 2 is getting a little weird. 3 reeks of desperation. When you spend a night telling a dude how smart, handsome and strong he is, eventually he starts thinking ‘wow, I could have any chick I want. Screw this bitch; I’m gonna go find a rich heiress.”

Ok, so not entirely accurate, but think of it this way. Have you ever had a guy repeatedly tell you how pretty you were during one date? Was it flattering at first, and then started to wear thin? After a while, didn’t you start to think that you were too good for him? Trust me; he’s thinking the same thing.

Good rule of thumb? Return a compliment with a compliment. No more, no less.

#4 – He doesn’t care about your hair, shoes, makeup, etc.

Save the girl talk for your girlfriends. Just because he compliments your shoes does not mean he needs a 45 minute lecture on why you always buy designer because it pays off in the end, because the leather is stronger and the shoes last longer.

#5 – Getting a boyfriend should not mean getting any boyfriend.

Girl, you have brought some real prizes home. I especially liked the unemployed guy with the neck tattoo, who you gave money to so he could take a cab to Orlando and buy some meth.

I wonder why he never came back.

Oh yeah, because he’s an unemployed meth head. You should be glad he didn’t come back, rather than bitching to your friends that he screwed you and never called again. I know Cosmo tells you that you should be married by now, but you should never base you life on what a magazine says.

Next time you go on a date, do me a favor. Instead of falling all over yourself trying to impress the guy, actually pay attention to what he says. If it talks like a douchebag, walks like a douchebag and acts like a douchebag, it’s a douchebag. Stop trying to fake interest and instead fake food poisoning so you can end the date early.

Hilda, you seem like a nice girl. I’m sure that deep down inside, you don’t think that all guys are assholes. I’m sure deep down inside that you really know there is something wrong with you. In short, life isn’t a romantic comedy. Neurotic, high maintenance girls who complain about men all the time don’t marry Gerard Butler after getting proposed to in a hot air balloon. They die alone and get eaten by their cats.

You don’t need to change who you are. You just need to really consider the words that are coming out of your mouth before you state them. Because the real ugly truth is nobody wants a train wreck.

 

 

 

How I Accidentally Got a 5864% Return on an Investment

Bitcoins…if you know nothing about them, now is the time to start learning. Bitcoins are virtual money and for awhile, they were only popular among die hard gaming geeks, and paranoid libertarians like myself.

See, Bitcoins are pretty anonymous. It is very hard to trace the source of the money and they are a rapid way to pay online, without getting calls from your credit card fraud department.

I bought my first Bitcoin in January of 2013. At the time, I was just learning about the deep web and I wanted to try out some of their more discreet services. But I was nervous about spending a lot of real money to buy ‘pretend’ money. So I played it safe.

I bought 1 Bitcoin for $14, just to test it out.

At the time, I was using a place called Coinbase. Unfortunately then ( but very fortunately now) it wasn’t until after I had made my purchase that I realized that Coinbase has a 30 day hold on all new accounts. I rolled my eyes and moved onto a different site called VirWox (still a better option if you’re in a hurry, but the fees are heavy). Then, I forgot about my Coinbase account, deciding that I would just take the $14 loss.

That half-assed decision was probably one of the best financial decisions I’ve made in my life. To show you how my investment expanded, I present the following chart.

 

In January of 2013, my Bitcoin was worth $14. Today, it’s worth about $835. To think, it all started because I wanted to buy some weed on the internet.

In the financial market, I think the official term for this is “holy shit! I just made an assload of money for doing absolutely nothing. Let’s go buy some hookers and blow!”

Through 2014, the Bitcoin market is expected to expand. One good thing about Silk Road getting busted was that they shined a spotlight on the deep web, as well as Bitcoins. Once people learned you could buy weed on the internet, the market for Bitcoins exploded.

And made me a hundredaire.

Bitcoins are expected to expand in 2014, because they’re only really popular in the US and the UK. However, as other countries get on board, it is very likely that they value of the average Bitcoin will go up.

Me, I’m going to sit on this lonely little Bitcoin for a bit longer. As far as I’m concerned, the most I really stand to lose was the original $14 I invested. Everything after that is just gravy.

Essa’s Adventures – Essa Goes to Jail

I arrive at military lock up shortly after an incident that is too long and complex to get into in one blog post. Suffice it to say the charges were along the lines of ‘inciting a riot.’

I do indeed like to keep my Saturday nights interesting.

“Can I brush my hair before the mug shot?”

The cop snorts. “Why do girls always ask that?”

I shrug. “I just don’t want to end up as one of those ‘world’s craziest mug shots’ they put on internet slide shows.”

He gives me an appreciative once-over. “You look fine.”

“Seems odd that you’re flirting with me while booking me.”

He winks. “It was a slow night before you showed up.”

I stand in front of the height lines as he readies the camera that will take my photo. “Question on mug shot etiquette?”

He’s playing with the angle of the camera. “Shoot.”

“Should I smile?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s a mug shot, not a glamour shot.”

“Yes, but I’m worried about the image I’ll convey. See, I look nicer and friendlier when I smile. When I don’t smile, I look all criminally and scary.”

He crosses his arms. “Show me.”

I fix him with my best dead pan glare.

He flinches. “Jesus, don’t do that. You’ll break my camera.” He scratches his head. “Maybe a half smile?”

“I’m afraid that will look cocky.”

“You’re probably right about that.” He focuses his attention back on the camera. “I’d say smile, but not a huge ‘I just won the lottery smile’. More like a ‘Mona Lisa Smile.’

“I hate that movie, but I get your point.” He turns to the cop who arrested me, who is much less friendly than him.

“What’s the charge? Solicitation?”

“Excuse me?” I’m offended, and a little bit concerned about how much makeup I’m wearing. “I’ll have you know I started a bar fight.” I rethink my statement as the arresting officer smirks. “I mean, I allegedly started a bar fight.”

My arresting officer snorts. “They have a video of you hitting,” he checks his paperwork, “Sam McLarry with a chair.”

I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean I told everyone else to start hitting people with chairs. I can hardly be blamed for the innate human desire to give into mob mentality.” The cop behind the camera lets out a laugh before my arresting officer glares at him.

“Just take her damn picture, will you?”

I blink as the flash goes off and they have to take my picture again because my eyes were closed. It takes about four shots before they can actually get one of me not blinking. After that, my arresting officer leads me off to a desk, where he handcuffs me to a chair as he starts my paperwork.

I raise my handcuffed hand as high as I can. “Is this entirely necessary? It’s not like I’m going to go running out of here. You have my driver’s license and all my money.”

“And quite a bit of money it is too.” He takes a seat in his chair. “Where did you get $720 in cash?”

“You got me.” I let out a heartfelt sigh. “I’m an international drug kingpin who is responsible for half of the gross domestic illegal product of Columbia…and I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for some patrol cop and his incredible sense of intuition.” I narrow my eyes. If he wants to be a pain in the ass, so can I. “I mean, did they teach you such amazing powers of intuition in cop school, or is it a natural gift?”

“Ok…”

“Because seriously, it’s amazing that you managed to crack this case, just by pointing out how much money I have in my wallet. Why, you should be running this station instead of just acting as a lowly MP.”

“Enough…” I’m starting to piss him off.

“Why haven’t they made a cop drama about you yet? You’re like Colombo, without the awesome overcoat.”

“I said enough!” His shout is so loud that everyone turns to look at us.

“Hey, you’re the one asking stupid questions.” I toss back at him. “It’s payday. Everyone on base has money on them.”

He glares at me and completes the rest of my paperwork in silence.

Just as an aside here, generally, I’m pretty nice to cops, but something about this guy gets under my skin. I completely get that he has to arrest me. I mean, I did start the damn bar fight. But there’s no reason to be a dick about it.

Afterwards, he leads me to a holding tank with four other women in it, with a threat to call my sergeant, that I guess I am supposed to be afraid of.

Joke’s on him. My sergeant is in the cell too. She shakes her head when she sees me.

“Solicitation?”

I let out a huff of frustration. “Why does everyone keep assuming that? I mean, is my makeup that friggen heavy?”

“You did lay it on pretty thick.” She pats the bench next to her. “Guess we’re going to have a bit of explaining to do to LT.”

“Not really.” I smile. “He got arrested for whacking someone with a pool cue.”

Sergeant D laughs. “I have a feeling we’re going to be in here for a while.”

“Maybe we should start a prison gang.” I tilt my head. “You can be the muscle, and I can be the person who can get you things…like Red in Shawshank Redemption.”

“I like that.” Sergeant D lets out a laugh. “We can get matching neck tattoos with our prison nicknames on them.”

“I want mine to be ‘Red’.”

I get another once over. “Nothing about you is red. How is Red a fitting nickname?”

“Fine, what do you recommend?”

“Well, a prison nickname can be based on your looks, or your personality.” She considers the question. “How about “Pasty White Pain in the Ass?”

“Accurate, but seems a bit long.”

Our conversation is interrupted by our arresting officer. “Alroc, D your Captain is here to claim you.”

A man who barely comes up to my shoulder is standing in front of the holding tank, shaking his head. “How did I know your promotion party would get out of hand?”

“Bet you’re sorry you missed it.”

“That is not a safe bet to take. I hope you enjoyed this weekend, because you’re going to spend the next five waxing the floor in my office.”

Joke’s on him. There is nothing more fun than getting high on paste wax and then having an electric buffer rodeo. My best time is currently 35 seconds. “Sounds fair. So they’re dropping the charges?”

“Yes, but you’re never allowed in the officer’s club again.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t allowed in there in the first place.”

“Let’s not remind them.” The captain takes my elbow and starts to guide me out. “As far as I’m concerned, this weekend never happened.”

“Sounds good to me.” I pause at the doorway. “But I get to keep my mug shot, right?”

No Fat Chicks

Today I saw a news story about Alyssa Milano that just plain pissed me off.

To give you some background, I have been cyber stalking Alyssa Milano since the internet was invented. I watched her on “Who’s the Boss?” I called her teen chat line. I’ve seen every episode of “Charmed” ever made and I’ve even suffered through a few episodes of “Mistresses” just because I love her.

To me, Alyssa Milano is the ideal version of feminine beauty. I’ve never seen her during an awkward stage and even when she was pregnant, she was utterly adorable.

So when a dude who looks likes this;

has the balls to talk shit about her being fat, I think it’s time to say enough is enough. Alyssa might have the ability to keep her response classy, but I don’t. Hell, my lack of class is pretty much my trademark.

Enough is enough when it comes to women being held to some ridiculous beauty standard, while overweight, balding men who aren’t that attractive feel qualified to judge them. Life isn’t a fucking beauty contest. If it was, most of these guys would be losing.

Honestly, I was starting to hope we were getting past all this. I was starting to hope women were actually starting to get some damn respect for their abilities, as opposed to what they looked like.

I was wrong. Apparently Jay Mohr felt the need to comment on Alyssa’s weight because her fat might be …heard through the fucking radio…and offend potential sponsors?

Not that she’s even fat. I mean Jesus, if that woman is overweight, then I qualify for my own reality show where I get lap band surgery and 85 pounds of excess skin removed, while Richard Simmons and Oprah cry with me as they knock down a wall to get me out of my apartment.

Of course, if I did that, I would only weigh about 40 pounds, but at least then some balding, overweight, B-list has-been would think I was pretty…because that’s all that really matters when you’re born with a vagina, right? Being pretty?

Fuck all my degrees. Fuck the awards I’ve won for my writing and fuck the fact that I’ve published three novels. Fuck the fact that I write the god damn technical manuals most of these guys turn to for help when they can’t figure out lofty tasks like installing their antivirus software or backing up their hard drive.

Apparently, all I should have been doing was keeping my mouth shut and looking pretty.

Look, I’ve never considered myself a feminist, because I’ve always thought that women’s rights were synonymous with man hating. But when I see such an obvious double standard, I need to speak out. I need to hope that when my son reaches adulthood, he won’t turn into one of these people who think that all women outlive their usefulness after they are finished with their child birthing years.

I need to know that people understand that women have more to offer the world than beauty.

I’m tired of seeing women in political stations being torn apart by plastic faced Joan Rivers about what they chose to wear to the last debate. I’m tired of watching Hillary Clinton, a woman whose policies I admire, get torn apart by the press and called a bitch and a harpy.

When was the last time you saw Mitt Romney getting pissed on TV, and then had a bunch of snarky tabloid journalists talk about his PMS? Oh, never? I guess when men get emotional, they’re just passionate.

When women get emotional, we’re all on our periods.

Here’s the thing America; I was doing you a favor when I refused to be a feminist before. See, I have always had a tendency to get a little extreme in my opinion, so I’ve avoided taking sides.

But if you’re going to push me, then you need to know in advance; I’m not going to be the kind of feminist who pickets companies because they underpay their female workers.

I’m going to be the kind of feminist who castrates men with broken Coke bottles in empty parking lots.

Look, I’m not the overly sensitive type. I’m not even the type who regularly pays attention. But I’m paying attention now and I don’t like what I see.

When most of my hate mail comes from men who call me ugly, I get annoyed. Not over the ugly comments, but over the fact that they think that comments about my looks would be the most offensive in the first place. (They’re not, BTW. You should have gone after my writing)

When overweight, balding, unattractive men hold women to impossible beauty standards, I get annoyed. Sorry Jay. Alyssa Milano is an easy 9. You barely qualify as a 3. Shut your hole and go to the gym.

When a woman’s opinions are less important than her looks, I get annoyed. Sorry, entire world, maybe you all need to stop being such superficial bastards.

But as I sit behind this computer desk, in hopelessly out of date velour sweatpants, a face that hasn’t felt the touch of makeup in weeks, and two eyebrows that are dangerously close too growing into one, I can’t help but hope.

This evening, Jay Mohr was forced into an apology (but he still focused on Alyssa’s looks).

Funny, the second it becomes a ‘joke’ is when you realize no one is laughing.

Tomorrow, maybe some teenage girl won’t feel the need to shove her finger down her throat to meet unreasonable standards

And this weekend, Ms. Everything will be sitting in an empty parking lot, with a glass Coke bottle, just waiting for some motherfucker to give her a reason.

So I guess I’m a feminist now. Sorry world, you only have yourself to blame.

A Sound of Music Redux

Apparently, anyone is allowed to remake the Sound of Music. Based on that, I’ve decided to have my own go at the film. I’ve decided my version will star Lady Gaga in the lead, and Flavor Flav as the head of the Von Trapp family.

I have also rewritten the beloved song “My Favorite Things’ to go with the more urban theme I’m shooting for.

Getting real shitfaced while watching ‘Once Bitten”

The rush that you get doing something forbidden

Brown paper packages, filled up with weed

These are a few of the things that I need

A classy new vaporizer filled with hash oil

Falling down drunk in a soft pile of soil

A surgeon generals warning I can actually heed

These are a few of the things that I need

People who get it when I quote 80s sitcoms

A lower exchange rate when I’m buying my bitcoins

An already germinated opium seed

These are a few of the things that I need

When my car breaks

When my head aches

When I’m feeling mad

I simply remember the things that I need

And then I get even…more mad

Dear Hollywood, I swear to god, I will go through with this if you keep murdering my childhood favorites. Please stop remaking things. You’re only fucking them up. What’s next? Gone With the Wind?

Jesus, I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now they’ll do it and they’ll put Snooki in the fucking lead.

When Did Freedom of Speech Go the Other Way?

When did we completely confuse freedom of speech for people being required to agree with liberal beliefs?

I’m bringing this up tonight because of Duck Dynasty. First of all, let me say, I absolutely hate this show. While I might occasionally enjoy reality shows, I don’t enjoy staged reality shows. Think “Cops’ over “Lizard Lick Towing”.

Next, let me say, I absolutely think Phil Robertson is 100% retarded and that none of his opinions are valid and true. I think if you are lucky enough to find love in this world, then you should take it where you can get it and not be conflicted over what some 10,000 book recommends, especially when that book advocates stoning your slaves and whoring out your teenage daughters.

But regardless of how retarded I think Phil Robertson’s opinions are, he absolutely has the right to those opinions. I mean, are we honestly surprised that a dude who looks like this;

has a problem with gay marriage?

Phil Robertson voicing his opinion when someone asks him a direct question about that opinion isn’t a fucking crime. He might be wrong, but hell, with the exception of me, most people are wrong in this country on a daily basis.

No one is required to agree with you. That’s what freedom of speech is all about.

The world doesn’t change by suppressing someone’s freedom of speech. The world changes when citizens demand new legislation to protect freedom… period. When you oppress the opinion of one person because they don’t agree with your viewpoint, you actually go from being part of the solution, to part of the problem.

I think like this. Does anyone remember Loving Vs. Virginia? Back when it was illegal for black and whites to intermarry? Those laws didn’t go away because some reality show got cancelled when a died-in-the-wool bigot made their opinion clear to the news media. Those laws went away because two people who loved each other fought for love.

I.e. you don’t get your way in this country by suppressing the statements of the 1% of bigots. You get your way by making it clear to the other 99% of the public that what and who you love is right.

Eventually, gay marriage will be free and recognized. I think we all know this by now. But don’t undermine your opinions by becoming the oppressors you hate so much. That is not the way to do it.

A&E made a mistake when they cancelled ‘Duck Dynasty”. They didn’t make a mistake by canceling a sucky show. They didn’t make a mistake by trying to please their fans. Where they made a mistake was when they undermined free speech.

Let me remind you of a particular quote that is very important to me, by Mr. Martin Niemöller.

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out–

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out–

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out–

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me–and there was no one left to speak for me.

A long time ago, it would have been a danger to speak out regarding the rights of gay marriage. So few people did. Now, the majority of the American public supports gay marriage, and suddenly it’s not ok for people who don’t support it to speak out?

That’s not ok with me, and that was not what one of the principal beliefs that this country was founded on. Just because an opinion is conservative does not suddenly make it invalid. It just means someone disagrees with you.

Deal with it in your response, rather than trying to squash their freedom of speech.

A benevolent dictatorship is still a dictatorship. Refusing to allow people to say what they believe because ‘it isn’t liberal enough’ is still refusing to allow people to say what they believe. I don’t care how you try to pretty it up.

That’s oppression people.

Tonight I end you off with a quote from a kick ass chick, who often doesn’t get the credit she deserves, Ms. Evelyn Beatrice Hall;

‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it”

That’s what freedom of speech is about people. It’s not about only accepting the opinions that agree with yours. It’s about dealing with the fact that someone might disagree with you…but still doesn’t deserve to be ostracized because of it.

Essa Rewrites a Harlequin Romance…and Makes it Rock

I have a little trick I use whenever I start to lag behind on a novel. I start reading Harlequin Romances.

It’s not that I like them. Actually, I think they might cause brain damage. I’m also not a big fan of sex scenes in books. In fact, aside for a certain perk (that I’ll get into), I haven’t found one redeeming part to any of these books. I hate 12 pages of sex scenes. I hate weak virgin heroines and inexplicably mean heroes. I hate formulaic plot coincidences, hidden babies, sick parents and girls willing to prostitute themselves ‘for a good reason’. I hate hookers with hearts of gold, reformed bad boys, handsome billionaires, and any mention at all of ‘throbbing members’.

But they do come with one perk. ‘What’s that perk?’ you might ask. Simple; Harlequin Romances piss me off.

Personally, I think that every writer has an emotional period when their writing is strongest. Some writers write better when they’re happy, others when their anxious. Hemingway wrote better drunk and Steinbeck wrote better when he was intensely depressed. But me?

I write better when I’m furious.

As I’m reading these piles of drivel, I actually rework them in my head. See the below example;

The Hot Greek Billionaires Innocent Virgin Mistress Secret Baby Drama Super Romance Desire Special Edition

Alejandro Euless Eucalyptus Catamaran III stared at the plainly dressed woman who’d just arrived in his office, demanding that he not knock down the ‘Babies with Cancer’ ward he was planning on destroying in order to expand his conglomerate company. As a billionaire playboy, with no discernible career, and inexplicably giant piles of money (despite the complete collapse of the Greek financial market) he was not used to taking orders from anyone. Particularly plainly dressed women who showed up in his office unannounced…no matter how much they set his loins afire.

“Listen,” he glared down at the soft spoken blonde with a sardonic smile, watching her tremble “I’ve dealt with your type before. As a self made billionaire with an alcoholic step father and a whorish mother, I know that deep down, all women are whores. So I’ll make you a deal. Because no man wants someone more in their bed more than a woman with no idea what she’s doing, I’ll keep the ward if you agree to be my mistress for a month.”

Alexandra Virginia Angle Saint bit her lip as she looked down at the floor, unable to meet the man’s glittering eyes. Her breath caught in her throat at his shocking suggestion. Just as she was about to stammer our her hesitant answer…

A black combat boot came slamming through the door. It flattened the door to the ground and a smoking hot blond, wearing an eye patch and a lavender overcoat (this is how I always appear in my fantasies) came storming in, a bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from her hand.

“Ok, that’s about enough of this shit,” the new arrival snapped as the dust clear from where she had kicked in the door. “I’m Essa, and I’m here to fix your story.”

“Excuse me?” Alejandro stormed across the room, his eyes glittering with anger. “I’ll have you know I’m a Greek billionaire with…”

CRACK! Essa pimp slapped Alejandro with her pimping hand and he crumpled to the floor like a used tissue. She glared down at him.

“Can someone please fucking explain to me why it’s always cool for the hero to have a ton of baggage, but when the heroine has baggage, it’s a problem? When will women learn you can’t fix a broken man?”

Essa continued to glare at the man as he attempted to scamper away on his backside. “Look douchebag, you know what? This chick doesn’t need to accept your mistress offer because in real life, she’d just sue your douchey ass until you were fucking penniless.” The man started to speak and Essa put up a hand to cut him off. “And don’t start with how ‘rich and powerful’ you are. Here in America, we have a little something called contingency fees and I’m certain a whole army of ambulance chasers would be happy to sue you just for 30% of the profits.” Essa’s eyes bored holes in the now sputtering, helpless man. “Also, just because a woman likes sex does not make her a whore. It makes her a healthy individual with high self esteem and there is nothing fucking wrong with that.”

Essa spun around, finished with the man. “And you!” her wrathful, but incredibly beautiful gaze landed on Alexandra, “considering prostitution, despite the fact you’re a virgin.” Essa rolled her eyes as Alexandra continued to tremble. “Let me ask you a question…”

“Um, ok” Alexandra quaked in her boots under the awesomeness that was Essa.

“Would you still consider fucking this dude for money,” Essa snapped her fingers “if he looked like this?”

Alexandra looked over and where a once handsome Alejandro had been was a man who looked suspiciously like George Costanza from Seinfeld.

“Hell no!” Alexandra exclaimed.

Essa smiled in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to see. A little backbone in a woman.” Essa shook her head. “You know, you’re not entirely at fault for this. You’re just a carryover from the 80s, bred to be a cliché. But I think I know someone who could help you.”

Alexandra’s eyes widened uncertainly. “Is it another handsome billionaire? I’m getting a bit sick of those.”

“No, actually, it’s a woman…and she would fucking wreck this dude in a fight.” Both Essa and Alexandra tossed disdainful glares are the formerly handsome Greek billionaire, writhing on the floor. “She might not be able to give you an orgasm with just a look, but she could teach you how to make a flame thrower out of a fire extinguisher.”

Alexandra, tired of being the same old clichéd Madonna, finally grew a pair. “Ok, I think I’d like that.”

“Cool. We’re going to a bar called the Strangely Sober. The beer might suck. But the company can’t be beat.”

Essa and Alexandra disappeared, leaving Alejandro weeping on the floor.

Generally, I only have to get four or five pages into any Harlequin romances before I show up and start kicking ass. Then I move onto my own novels, making sure to kick a little more ass.

Honestly, I’ve been using this trick since I was a kid. However, if you’re an author who likes to write chicks with a backbone, there is no better place to start than at their polar opposite; i.e. the Harlequin romance heroine.

God, I feel bad for those chicks. It must suck so hard to not know how to rock out loud.