Pickles

While we're on the subject of sandwiches, why does the average person in our society tolerate pornography from a moral perspective, and not prostitution? The pornography industry, after all, trades in sex, and as such, pays people to have sex, only it is more 'degrading' than prostitution because everybody else gets to watch.

Getting paid to masturbate is about as good as it gets. Imagine someone purchasing your time, let's say at the rate of about 33 cents a minute, and then simply spending that time -- this time which belongs to somebody else -- on pleasuring yourself. Employers of unskilled workers tend to fail to account for productivity lost to secretive masturbation, and this is why so many small businesses fail. The practice is even more rampant in the office, but the owners of these larger corporations tend to assume that their minions all suffer from irritable bowel syndrome. And maybe they do, but colour me sceptical that four out of five white collar workers deal with this condition. No, they are committing onanisms (to use a biblically friendly colloquialism) on somebody else's dime.

The chance of these people washing their hands is not great, but they are not the sort that tend to be guilty of noise pollution.

This public nuisance is caused by many things -- motorcycles, sporting events, political rallies -- but the underlying theme connecting all of these sources of unwanted din is a pent up frustration. Whether it is long standing anxiety regarding the inadequacy of one's social status, or even just a proclivity to being bitten by mosquitoes, the solution for these obnoxiously loud individuals is clear: find a job, and start masturbating there. As long as it's not in a pornography studio.

Physical Intimacy

Mucus

There is something innately satisfying about the taste of mucus, and this factor may be responsible for my general unwillingness to take medication in response to influenza. A great sense of accomplishment comes with producing this substance, and it seems a shame not to recycle it, to enjoy its unique flavour and tongue-friendly texture. Incidentally, if one tires of consuming it, great fun can also be found in collecting it, such as storing it in a clear plastic bottle on one's desk, and watching the amount grow as the sickness progresses.

In good health, the dried contents of the nostrils are also a delicious treat, and strengthen the immune system. Many people feign intense repulsion at the mention of this activity, and some will even go so far as to claim they never do it, but in both cases they unintentionally demonstrate poor lying skills.

Skin

Everyone eats their scabs (although you have to pick them off at the right time, or terrible things may happen), and it is undeniable that the experience of eating dried blood is a real delight, but it is far more pleasurable to satiate one's appetite with other parts of the skin. Fun fact: the most effective way to prevent the recurrence of pimples is to eat them.

Of course, dandruff is the perfect item for people with long hair, short hair, and even baldness. Never again will you be tempted to have a few sips of shampoo when the aroma can simply be found with a gentle scratch and some light pulling, as the dried skin is painstakingly removed from your head so as to avoid crumbling (and resulting mess), only to be looked at with intense scrutiny ("wow, this was just sitting up there!") before being thrown down the hatch, like a piece of candy, but much better for your teeth, unless you end up gnashing them. This is the best part of your skin to eat, but there is also the skin around your fingernails, which brings us to...

Nails

It is obviously necessary to maintain the upkeep of your fingernails, so as to prevent them from growing too long. Some people neglect this basic hygienic task and end up being able to open cans of soft drinks without the assistance of their keys, and they are indeed mentally ill at best, but unfortunately the political will to mandate human declawment is sorely lacking.

After ensuring that your nails are at an adequate level of crawling back inside your hand in horror, it is time to get to work on everything else in the general area, as all of the skin around the nails and on the ends of your fingers is fantastic for ensuring a diet full of vitamins and nutrients. A good rule of thumb is to never stop chewing, and if you are lucky you may bite a little hole in your finger, which produces hydration in the form of savoury blood.

Feet

Eating toenails is not for everyone. It is not unreasonable, however, to clip your toenails and then eat the clippings to get around issues of flexibility or lack thereof. The distinctive flavour is best enjoyed sparingly, and this is where the risk of serious tooth damage begins to reach dangerous levels. To curb this reasonable desire, it is highly recommended that you
a. sleep in your socks
b. do not change them when you wake up

This presents problems in the odour department, but it is a small price to pay for the savings on dental bills and chewing gum.

Worth the Effort

We laughed all the way to the bank, and then we laughed some more.

It had been an eventful couple of weeks, as Rob and I had been planning, but the result managed to exceed our expectations. Now, a few years back, I used to set low expectations intentionally - a form of cynicism that was combined with a hint of fleeting optimism that I would be desperately attempting to hide - but those times were gone. Rob and I were wiser now, and we knew that the fruits of our labour would only be as satisfying as the confidence we poured into it, which is why, for our final hurrah, we went 'all in.'

It is said that people who try to scam others are more susceptible to manipulation themselves, and being aware of this, we took every precaution to prevent this from happening. As such, we both bordered on levels of extreme paranoia, relying on each other to curb certain thought processes from going too far. All in all, I'd say we did a pretty good job, which is why we are now sipping on Irish coffee, in a tropical paradise (yes, we drink hot beverages in an equatorial climate; screw convention).

Loneliness is not an issue when you have everything you could ever possibly want, which is why neither of us ever experience it. Whenever such emotions begin to surface, we must only observe how truly unfortunate our previous friends, family, and colleagues are now, continuing to toil at the hands of their masters for the minor privilege of being able to afford to live. No, we are better than them, and we have no use for their miserable company, either; who wants to be surrounded by a bunch of cretins complaining about their work lives? I can only sympathise with these ... these people for so long before enough is enough.

There is only one lingering problem, which is that I cannot trust Rob. Every so often, it occurs to me that he was willing to work alongside me in securing our fortune, an ethical horror show of epic proportions; the manifestation of the tired expression of taking candy from a baby. I would ask him about it, just in case this has not occurred to him, but he is a pretty intelligent fellow, and he probably doesn't trust me, either, which is another thing that I find annoying, because I happen to think that I am quite trustworthy. I mean, I trust myself, so why shouldn't he trust me too?

But everything is fine - really. If you see my friends, tell them that I was found hanging from a ceiling fixture in my uncle's house. The reality of our situation is something of which I'd prefer they remain unaware.

Scatological Studies

My experience in the bathroom just minutes ago gave me a new appreciation for that delightful colloquialism, the nefarious 'grog bog', as litres of this sickening fecal liquid exited my body for the promise of prosperity that our poor toilet bowl had to offer. Naturally, I brought this upon myself, and one should not expect to feel just fine and dandy after staying up till 4 in the morning to sit around drinking beers until there are no more. Washed down with the aid of sausages and fried onions, and a generous portion of bread to soak up the gratuitous oils dripping across the plate, I woke up with one of those deceptive hangovers that were perhaps best described by Dylan Moran as feeling quite adequate until making it from the bedroom to the kitchen, when the goblins come out of the woodwork to unleash their vengeance.

The famed 'clean wipe', once all too common after meals consisting of cardboard (think the blandest of fast food), becomes an increasingly mythical prospect as the diet of 'anything goes' continues to pace along, unchecked. A few years ago, I could scarf down cheeseburgers and gummy bears all day long only to calmly approach my bathroom, sit there for a minute or two, and use toilet paper that, for all intents and purposes, could very well have been placed back on the roll. Those were simpler times, and I am led to believe that this situation is only going to get worse.

Now, of course, the process is an event, often broken up into many different scenes, each one more frightening than the one prior. I arrive to the commode to make my deposit, and then fifteen or thirty minutes later, I realise that my work was incomplete, and so I must return, and spend slightly longer, and use considerably more tissue, and feel slightly more demoralised about my day, until the evening when I have lost any semblance of a will to live.

It's not just defecation. I have recurring nightmares about cracking my teeth, but that very well could be a blessing in disguise, as they would at least then get replaced with shiny new fake ones. Not even the most vigilant brusher of one's mouth is immune to the horrors of the constant bombardment of coffee, alcohol, and fried fat, culminating in what could charitably be described as chronic halitosis. On the most unfortunate of afternoons, it tastes and feels like a terrible chemical explosion in a chocolate and ketchup factory, as the workers run for their lives only to drown in a bloodthirsty pool of sugar. The plaque that accumulates on my gums could very well be used to produce yellow paint, if not for its fatal odour.

Yes, there are many things to look forward to as we age, and now, if you'll excuse me, I must dash to the W.C.

We Are Still Married

I stare blankly out the window, hoping for a car crash or a robbery, or just anything out of the ordinary, really. Excitement is a fleeting concept, and has been for years. It's not the sort of thing that I can pinpoint to any particular date in time, but rather a gradual slip downhill, the sort that cannot be recognised until it is too late to climb back up. Another day; another mundane collection of half hearted routines. Nothing short of a military invasion could quite rectify this suspended state of nothingness.

Long ago, I lost all of my friends so that I could focus on providing for my family, a group of people who I might be lucky if they call me because it is their birthday. Every few years, a comrade from the past would come knocking, barely able to string together a coherent sentence as they explained that their marriage had fallen apart and they needed somewhere to stay for a while. A few months of binge drinking on our sofa, and they would either clean up and move on with their lives, or, more likely, go back to the wife and children with a new appreciation for their loved ones. Either of these scenarios seems patently more interesting than maintenance for the sake of it, and yet I lack the resolve to do anything about it. How could it possibly be reasonable to run off if I have been willing to put up with it until now?

My oldest friend, Pete, had a similar crisis about two years ago, abandoning his wife and moving to the other side of the country. He and I did not keep in touch very consistently over the last decade, as we both became more withdrawn from anything that did not involve reading the newspaper. He described to me, shortly before his departure, a magnificent sob story of such incredible boredom that he had begun burning himself on the kitchen stove, with a set of accompanying repugnant evidence. Feeling as though his children were ungrateful and his wife had merely settled and made no secret of it, either to him or to her friends, he was left no choice but to run away and never think about any of it again. Though at first I was offended that he never contacted me or anyone else since, over time I became more upset with viewing the results. The way his wife reacted, he may as well have hung himself in their bedroom.

The loyal son had to move back to his paltry and decaying hometown to try and alleviate the ramifications, to little avail. Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for: this was no car crash or robbery, but far worse, a needlessly dramatic episode that lingers on even after the event is further distanced from the present.

People walk past them and smile; and though they may feel pity, or even anger with Pete for having run off like that, she interprets it as condescension, a sort of judgmental 'how could you screw up so badly for him to disappear' line of questioning that everyone is too polite to vocalise. She grows to resent their refusal to bring it up. Is everyone going to keep moving along as though nothing happened?

Unsatisfied as I may be, I am innately an uncourageous person, and so I will continue to read the newspaper each morning without absorbing any of it, and eat the same three meals each day, and leave the television turned on while nobody pays it any attention. If I continue to glance out the window for long enough, perhaps troops will arrive in our small town, declare victory as we all remain in our homes, scared out of our wits, and enslave us as hard labourers for a brutal regime. At least we are still married.

Ecosystem Fragility

It is difficult to explain my preoccupation with Mr. Doyle.

My relationship with him ended abruptly about two years ago. I saw him once after that, and quickly ducked into a crowd of people to avoid a non-acknowledgment that would have been awkward for both of us.

Rarely a day goes by that I do not think of him, however, and though I claim to despise every fibre of his being, surely this cannot really be the case. You see, we lived together, and the things I criticise him for are hardly exclusive to his character, and in fact are similar to my own shortcomings. How can one harbour legitimate vitriol towards an object that never escapes one's thoughts? It is possible, but it sounds very unhealthy.

I liked to pile disgust on his routine: he would wake up each morning, refreshed from a night of enforced celibacy and impassioned discussion about Star Trek with his girlfriend, come downstairs to prepare an English muffin, and return to his cave for several hours to read mainstream websites geared towards university students, a culture he did identify with at least in spirit if not in practice. He would again leave his lair to make a cup of tea, his first of two for the day, followed by another hour or two of online perusing, and then a light lunch. Finally, in the late afternoon, his girlfriend would return so that he could spend some time in the downstairs area, listening to her ramble about her ambitions and, on a good day, making casual conversation with the others who had the audacity to live in the same house as him. Dinner was the highlight of the day, and sometimes, if things were really looking up, they would watch something they had not yet viewed.

It was not always like that. Before my own routine began to wildly diverge from his, he was much more amicable. As the other members of the household also started to explore the outside world, Mr. Doyle was only more and more isolated, until the day that he disappeared almost without a trace, leaving only a brief note explaining how to set up the Internet connection, since he had taken his own router with him.

I never missed him after that, though I was fond of his cat. In fact, the Internet connection became significantly faster, and his girlfriend was the human equivalent of nails scratching a chalkboard, so it was mostly a wash.

If I were to run into Mr. Doyle now, it is indeed probable that I would avoid him with an even stronger sense of purpose than ever before; psychological wellness be damned.

Soulless Crematorium

My blood is boiling; the very nerve of this person... to suggest that I might enjoy myself if I were simply to stop whining. How irrational of me to not recall that everything is controlled by my attitude! Positivity must prevail!

The sort of person providing this type of advice is absent in credibility in the same way that my feet are lacking adequate circulation. Cheers for that one; if only everyone approached life with your carefree mannerisms, perhaps we would have made no progress as a species whatsoever. I'm all for appreciating the silver lining in a heinous situation, but at a certain point it becomes unreasonable to ignore the instinctual urge to completely alter my direction in the (often vain) hope of an improvement in circumstances. This isn't scouring through elephant shit with bare hands in the pursuit of diamonds; it is even more futile than that. Finding satisfaction in the utterly hopeless is not a sign of strength, but rather an indicator of dishonesty. Who lies to themselves like this?

This is not to say that I hold it against anyone. Maybe one has highly excellent reasons to pretend that all is well when the precise opposite is the case, and I am not here to judge, but merely reflect on the observations that I have been presumptuously given. After all, I am not the one sticking my nose into other people's business and suggesting that they need to quit complaining to enjoy the horrible things in life. I simply call the shots as I see them, and if you aren't willing to do that, what the fuck use are you?

There is no need to dance around a potentially controversial statement in fear of retribution, and decrying the present state of things is hardly malignant. Taking offense to such thoughts is plainly unnecessary at best and ruthlessly irritating in accuracy (to take a page from the 'silver lining' playbook). If this is some grand exercise to demonstrate your emotional sensitivity, save it for someone who does not possess any self-respect, as you will be peas in a pod.