Bigger is NOT Better

No, I’m not talking about men’s love muscles; although obviously anything under 3 inches should be donated to science. I’m talking about the widening sizes of female butts. I get that Kim K caused quite a stir with her transformation into some kind of ass monster, but now that I’m seeing this trend in daily life from normal women not married to Kanye, I’m more than a little creeped out.

I see them at the gym, at the mall, sometimes they block the moon, and many seem to have their own gravitational pull because I just can’t pull my eyes away. The obsession is maddening. If you type “how can I get a big” in Google, the first suggestion is “bigger bum?” The methods are sickening. You can either opt for the healthy route and squat yourself into a slow herniated death, which is fine because at least once you do croak, they can bury you face down for the world to marvel at your luscious cheeks. Or you can go the artificial route and stuff your derriere with anything from silicone, fat, or little children’s dreams.

Either way, there’s a fine line between socially passable and downright cracked (couldn’t resist)-out. If you suffer from ass cheeks that are as limp as a comatose patient’s handshake, then it wouldn’t hurt society if you snuck in a squat or two. However if you have a behind that prevents you from falling into toilets, then opting for an operation to enhance it to the size of a prize stallion’s ass is just demented. Sure, beauty is the eye of the beholder but this trend specifically sprang up because of some lame-o makeshift celebrities and its hurting people; specifically me and my eyes.

Butt implants, aside from being terrifying to human eyes (especially ones connected to functioning brains) do carry some health risks. Sure there are risks with any normal surgery but I’m sure very few run the horrendous notion of ending up with an infected asshole. Yes, see they cut near your glory hole so that there are no scars. Of course this leaves one of your most important orifices for relief at risk of malfunctioning, which could land you in a pile of shit.

It takes about 6 weeks to recover from butt augmentation. For 6 weeks, you should avoid sitting, or your cheeks could either harden or shift (how great would that be; having your ass fat right under your boobs?). The recovery sounds so painfully ridiculous that I’m amazed at its popularity. It’s like waking up to a world where suddenly it’s trending to pull out your own teeth while sober because the geriatric look is dope.

When you have to physically change your body with surgery to (not) fit in, then you have crossed the line from weak willed to blatantly psychotic. Congratulations on your new large ass. Here are your pills, your extra-large thongs, and a husband who will cheat on you with the first Rhinoceros he comes across.

 

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Ode to Idiot

There’s a lot to be said about your inner idiot. It’s a side we all have, and one that society needs, really. Let me differentiate off the bat; I’m referring to the fun loving, let-me-make-an-ass-of-me-self, yes I’ll have 18 more shots, sure I’ll squirt lemon in that lion’s eye-kind of idiot. I am resolutely not talking about the authentic Grade A idiots; the ones that believe everything on the internet, think that a plant in the desert can cure cancer, or the ones that think that their face massager is fooling anyone. Clear distinction. An easy way to tell off the bat is that real idiots don’t laugh at themselves, take themselves more seriously than science, and generally illicit a lot of gore and violence in us awesome folks.

Now getting back to the former kind of idiot, here’s why society needs this awesome guy. I’m sure most of us agree that what we do during the week does not represent who we truly are. We work hard. We smile at people we fantasize about stabbing with pens. We show respect to people we wouldn’t pee on if they were on fire. It’s a five day cycle of repression and spirit breaking. Well maybe not all days and all weeks are like that, but a big part of it is.

Luckily these cycles of hell are dotted with 2 day breaks where you can escape the asinine meetings and bad breath to escape to a world of friends, intoxication and expression through dance. While I don’t condone destroying your health every single weekend, there is something to be said for the therapeutic value of indulging in your idiotic roots every now and again. I recently celebrated in the desert and I absolutely let myself go. I distinctly remember the moment. I was surrounded by strangers, I was way too many shots in to care and the tension I had been nurturing from the office was making the muscles on my back cramp. And I said to myself “tonight, I let go. Tonight I don’t give a fuck. Hide your kids.”

As soon as the decision was made, I descended into the abyss of madness. It was glorious. I spoke of STDs, I ran amok with dogs, I made racially questionable statements, I harassed the innocent bystanders, I flooded my vicinity with screams and howls and I let it all hang out.

The next morning, when I regained consciousness, I felt a tangible difference in how relieved I was, physically, mentally and spiritually. Sure I lost my voice and my dignity, but I was reborn, rejuvenated and ready to face more clashes with the Grade A idiots that I was bound to encounter.

Returning back to society was discernibly easier; it was akin to bursting through the womb. I had to gasp to take my first breath but despite being covered in amniotic fluid, I was physically ready to climb the ladder of life. It made me realize; we all need to nurture our inner idiots once in a while, for our own and society’s sake. You can’t conform to a dysfunctional societal structure without breaking the norm sporadically and mooning strangers. So in the interest of humanity, the next time you encounter an idiot raving about, give them a hug, and hide your butt while you walk away.

inner idiot

Running away from jogging

“Do you run or jog?” This is one of the most infuriating questions I get slapped with whenever I mention the sport I’m into. At first I used to answer “a bit of both” because frankly I didn’t know the difference and I didn’t care to ask. The question always annoyed me for several reasons, one of which was it seemed as imbecilic as asking someone “Are you a couch potato or a lazy lump of breathing mass?” or “Do you masturbate or molest yourself?” or “Do you breathe or live?” The list could go on, but I digress.

At some point into my craze, I looked up the difference between the two, officially. Many modern sources have stated that the difference lies in the pace, with running obviously being the faster of the two. However, an interesting source named the origination of the word “jogging “as a playful British term that entered the scene in the mid seventeenth century (http://runrunlive.com/the-difference-between-running-and-jogging), to describe movement.

In the 1970s, jogging became a term associated with non-competitive running, and the rest is history. Here’s my issue: when I think of jogging, I picture couples dressed in matching 80s track suits, flitting through park lanes, smiling and chatting about last week’s cocktail party. I don’t know where this comes from, but I have a feeling it all started with ads for track suits. So I blame the world of advertising for ruining the connotation of something that should be beautiful (not referring to track suits themselves; those belong in the past and/or hell’s fire). When I run/jog, I come back home red, sweaty and in pain, all of which don’t fall in line with the picture of the track suit wearing couple.

Even the sound of the word works against it. It takes your mouth longer to say “Jog” thank it does to say “Run”. Run is associated with so many states of emergency. For example, when you’re in danger, you ‘run’ for your life, hence the seriousness of the term. No one ever jogged away from a tiger or charging hippo. Let’s take another example: Diarrhea. We’ve all been there; don’t roll your eyes just yet. There’s a reason it’s called the “runs”; if it was a jog you would have time to stroll to the bathroom with your dignity intact, instead of charging like the previously mentioned hippo to avoid standing in the middle of your office, covered in feces, with everyone pointing at you, laughing and uploading your misery onto social media. Also, people don’t jog away from their problems; the expression is clearly “running away from your woes”.

Despite all this, it needs to be said that there is absolutely nothing wrong with jogging. As a term referring to movement for the movement’s sake, it stands for something great, and the only thing ruining it are the idiots that ask for the distinction. I am proud to say that while I do run, I will henceforth have no issue being labeled a jogger. However, if you do ask me which of the two I do, prepare to jog away for your life.

jogging