Space Herpes Not Included

The Moon Beaver is highly prized among Earthmen.

------------------------
Half of all readers now feel that JP is immature. The other half already knew this.

The Displeasing Component

I was revising my links list (to your right) earlier today, and I got to thinking: I wonder if anyone has my blog linked on their website. I know Virgil and Batmite do, but I wondered if someone anonymous fan out there in the world put me in a list of favorite sites. So I Googled "The Undesirable Element" hoping to find some fans.

There was a surprisingly high number of results. There were several environmental websites about pollutants and contaminants as I expected, and I also found several disturbing sites that seemed to refer to undefined minority populations as "undesirable elements." It's nice to know that my blog bears the namesake of verbose racists with a penchant for euphemisms. But I also discovered the following excerpt:

"Muhammed Sule, author of The Undesirable Element, died in his sleep, Monday morning, 12th Feb. 2007. Not many people, even within the literary circle, knew him as a person."

The headline gave me pause. I didn't recall dying in my sleep last February. I know my life's been dull in the last year or so, but I thought I still qualified as, at the very least, "un-dead." However, the thing about dwelling in obscurity among the literary circle despite my dazzling prose and unbridled wit certainly seemed valid. And I don't remember being a large black guy wearing a powder-blue robe and kofia...

Though I'd probably look pretty fly in a kofia.

It turns out that The Undesirable Element is a relatively obscure book from a Nigerian author. I don't have a clue what the book is about, but the cover intrigues me. You've got a pleasant-looking woman standing next to a very disgruntled man smoking a cigar and what may or may not be a 70s pimp with an afro peering around the corner. This guy wrote his book when he was in high school, which means he has dibs on the title. As I said in my last post, I have a knack for plagiarizing even if it's unintentional, so it seems fitting that my title isn't original either.

The title for this blog can probably be traced back to my high school days as well. Back in my freshman year, when the net was in its infancy, I was in a chatroom. Remember those? Has anyone actually been in a chatroom in the last five years? Aren't you just dying to be asked "a/s/l?" by some random slob named "PussyLover69"? Damn, my internet handle was lame. But in any case, I was chatting with some kid from school (I still remember who, but I haven't even seen the guy in six years, so I'll leave him anonymous), and his screen handle was "The Undesirable Element." I rather enjoyed the name, so I stole it from him. No matter how you slice it, the name either comes from a dead Nigerian or a kid in Kittanning.

I used the name for those times when I wanted to be anonymous on online message forums... typically if the topic was something outrageously nerdy and pathetic. If I was in the mood to vehemently defend "The Squire of Gothos" episode of Star Trek or engage in a lengthy discussion on the probable spatial area of Klingon territory, then I would likely use "The Undesirable Element" as my online name.

When the time came to name this blog, I really liked "The Undesirable Element." It made me sound like some sort of internet maverick. "Look out!! He's an undesirable element. He's DANGEROUS!" That's right, bitches! The Undesirable Element don't take shit from no one!! Double negatives be damned!

---------------------------------
Mohammed Sule's Estate: Planning to sue JP for copyright infringement and take him for all he's worth. JP gets the last laugh when they discover that he has no money and owns nothing of value.

Dude, Where's My Carlin?

Carlin = Dead

Despite what some of my former professors and current blog comments may say (*cough* The Shit *cough* Aardvark Man *cough*), I fancy myself to be quite the funny man. Granted, I care very little if people are laughing at me or with me; all that matters to me is that you're making with the yuk-yuks.

Now I know what you're thinking. "JP, surely such side-splitting and raucous humor stems from a natural and original talent buried in your vast and sexy brain?" That's only partially true. What may be less obvious is that I take a lot of my inspiration from comedians that I admire. Hell, sometimes I blatantly steal from them. I figure if imitation is the highest form of flattery, then plagiarism must be the highest form of blowjobbery. Hell, that metaphor is probably stolen from somewhere.

In any case, when I try to make with the funny, I'm always looking to emulate those comedians that make me laugh the hardest. Lewis Black, Patton Oswalt, Christopher Titus, Jim Gaffigan, Jerry Seinfeld, Rodney Dangerfield, Richard Pryor, Bill Cosby, Chris Rock, (hmmm... I grouped all the black guys together) Jon Stewart, and Steven Colbert... I could only dream of being as funny as these guys. And they are all guys, which is interesting because I know I've seen funny comediennes, but dammit, they just don't have name recognition.

But there's one guy that was always on top of my favorites list. The late George Carlin. That's right... George is dead. Died of heart failure at the age of 71 on June 22, 2008. Ironically, Carlin would probably question the use of the phrase "the late George Carlin." What could he possibly be late for now? Surely he wasn't actually late to his own funeral?

That's what I love about Carlin. The man could make jokes about foreign policy, toenail gunk, road rage, and unusual word forms all in the span of five minutes. His most famous set involved the seven words you can't say on television (at least in the 1970s): shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tit. Now that's a usage lesson that people sat up and took notice of. Hell, the Supreme Court certainly sat up and took notice when it was brought to their attention as part of a hearing on obscenity laws.

It's almost scary how much Carlin's work speaks to me. I even made my students read some of his stuff about euphemisms (their favorite reading I might add). Carlin was a true cynic who knew the world was a fucking mess, but he didn't care. He preferred to sit back and enjoy the show. He was fascinated by bizarre human behavior. He didn't rant about the evils of war and torture... he just seemed interested in how there was always fun to be had in any given situation, and to him, war and torture were just a few of the many odd things humans do.

In his later years, Carlin really got a bug up his ass about religion. If you listen to his albums through the decades, you get a sense of how his feelings on religion evolved. In one of his earlier recordings, he says, "I have a good understanding with God: I don't understand him; he doesn't understand me." This later evolves into an argument that basically says "God doesn't give a shit." He finally just declares all religion to be fucking stupid. He finds organized religion to be completely ridiculous. One of my favorite quotes: "Suppose your prayers aren't answered? What do you do then? What do you say? 'Well it's God's will. Thy will be done'? Fine. But if it's God's will, and he's going to do what he wants anyway, why bother praying in the first place? Doesn't it seem like a big waste of time? Couldn't you just skip the praying part go straight to 'his will'? It's all very confusing to me."

Longtime readers can probably see why I like this guy.

But religious folk ought not to be offended (and if you are, you damn well shouldn't look back at my own religious-themed posts). Carlin takes shots at everyone. Hell, at one point, he even goes after children... "You know what I say? FUCK THE CHILDREN! And I know what you're thinking, 'Jesus, he's not going to attack children now, is he?'... Yes he is!! And remember this is Mr. Conductor talking; I know what I'm talking about!"

So needless to say, I was sad to see that George Carlin died. I think if there was one celebrity that I would have liked to meet, it would have been him. And now as any article about a dead comedian will do, I'm going to regale you will some of my favorite Carlin quotes (aside from those that I've already mentioned):

"The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, 'You know, I'd really like to set those people over there on fire, but I'm just not close enough to get the job done."

"Religion convinced the world that there's an invisible man in the sky who watches everything you do. And there's 10 things he doesn't want you to do or else you'll go to a realm of fire with burning and torture and pain until the end of eternity.... but he loves you! .... and he needs MONEY!!"

"Have you ever poured glue on a bird?........ Of course not, there's no reason."

"Honesty may be the best policy, but it's important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy."

"Swimming is not a sport. Swimming is a way to keep from drowning. It's just common sense."

"I never fucked a ten. But one night, I fucked five twos."

"Ever notice that anyone driving slower than you is an idiot, but anyone going faster than you is a maniac?"

"There's nothing funny about rape... unless you're raping a clown."

"That reminds me of something my grandfather used to say. He'd say, 'I'm going upstairs to fuck your grandma!' Well, he was an honest man. He wasn't going to bullshit a four-year-old."

"If God had intended us not to masturbate, he would have made our arms shorter."

----------------------------------
George Carlin: Not existing in an afterlife and probably damned happy about it.

Teacher? I Just Met Her!

My less than successful job search has me thinking about my most recent profession: apathetic English teacher. I have two years of experience teaching my own classes, two glowing reviews from my former mentor and my jackass of a boss, and more useless grammatical and literary knowledge than I'd care to contain in my incredibly sexy brain.

I'd probably make a damn good high school English teacher. But I just can't bring myself to want to do it. I know too much about high school students, school district administrations, and national education requirements to think of it as a positive career option. On the other hand, it's also the closest thing to a legitimate career path that I've had in my entire life. I've been told by many people that technical writing is usually a temporary job, since it's such a tedious and boring task that no one wants to do it for more than a few years (of course, if that's true, where the hell are all the available jobs?). So I can't really think of "technical writer" as a long-term career goal.

But I can't figure out what to do right now. I did NOT like grad school classes, so pursuing a doctorate in English is simply not an option that I'm willing to consider. I just don't enjoy the field that much. There's always the possibility of taking an adjunct position, but such jobs do not pay well, and you can lose your position at the drop of a hat. Teaching high school English brings all the burdens of the parents, administration, and standardized reading and writing requirements crashing down on one's head. But still, at least I'd be doing something that actually helps people (in theory, anyway).

What makes the option so appealing, however, is that all I would have to do is say the word and I could have a job. While at Penn State Behrend for my undergrad, I completed all the initial requirements for the Mercyhurst College teacher certification program. I even took the Praxis I test, which I aced. (That may sound like gloating, but in reality, the Praxis I could be completed by a maladjusted retarded spider monkey.) Hell, one of my professors nominated me for the Behrend Future Teachers Award. I haven't had the heart to tell her that I'm not teaching anymore. With two years of experience and a masters degree in English under my belt, I have no doubt that I could get through the certification with little trouble and land a job in no time.

For tech writing jobs..... I have nothing.

So what's keeping me from throwing my hands in the air like I just don't care and applying for a teaching certification program? Several things:
1. I can't get over the horrible lifestyle of the high school English teacher. English is a required course in high school, so you get EVERYONE taking that class. And just like with any large group of people, high school consists of a few winners and a whole lot of losers.
2. Money. I've already got a bag full of student loans hanging over my head. Another year of school to get the certification would not help matters. And that HUGE teacher salary would really make it go away fast.
3. As a single and unemployed man living in his parents' basement, I can't be sure that these are not the thoughts of a desperate man. I don't know if I'm considering this just because the job search has hit a slow spell or if I actually believe it. I can be REALLY self-deluded sometimes. That's how I ended up in graduate school.
4. I like writing and grammar and things of that nature more than poetry and literature; however, most high schools and even middle schools are geared toward literature.
5. It's a bit late to be applying to certification programs. Trying to apply to one in late June or early July could prove difficult or impossible.
6. Never having tried my hand at anything else, I don't know if I want to commit to teaching. Maybe I'll love tech writing. Maybe publishing is my bag. Perhaps I can make it as an editor, journalist, or even go to law school. Hell, I could end up throwing it all away to start my own successful Star Trek-themed restaurant called Deep Space Fried!

My mom has been giving me a bit of grief about me going to be a teacher again, so that's been getting my mind thinking about it; however, this is a mid-mid life crisis worthy of much thought and beard-scratching. In the meantime, I'm going to continue applying for jobs, but you never know what I'll end up doing... two women at once would be nice.

Wish I'd gone to more career fairs and applied to internships and things of that nature. Maybe I'd be more marketable that way. Curse the economy and its completely justified low pay for English majors.

-------------------------------------
3 out of 4 parental readers are concerned about JP being a role model for their children.

Now Now, Why Don't You Get a Job

"Yeeeeeeaah..."

The job search continues. I've been scouring the internet looking for any company that will hire a sarcastic English major with zero experience. Thus far, I've applied to eight technical writing positions. I was rejected by the one in Uniontown, PA, but the others are up in the air. Four of the jobs are in the Pittsburgh area. One is in Washington D.C. One is in Alexandria, VA. One is in New York City. And my most recent application went to a company in Cleveland, OH. I haven't heard back from anyone.

The Cleveland application gave this surly job-seeker some much needed entertainment. I churned through the usual tedious online application form: contact information, education background, resume, cover letter, signing away a kidney, etc. But then on the last screen, they prompted me for the following:

Original Poem: Write an original poem of 40 to 60 words about your most recent or current job.

After staring blankly at the screen for a few seconds, I naturally responded with several minutes of shouting "What the fuck!!??" to the screen and any small rodents that might be living in the wall while flailing my arms in the air and silently cursing the English gods for their delicious sense of irony. I certainly wasn't about to back down from a 40 word poem. I'd written a 20 page paper about 19th century sex organs... this would be cake.

As I set about writing this epic masterpiece, it began to dawn on me that I REALLY HATE POETRY! I don't like writing it, reading it, or reciting it for throngs of hipsters in a tea house filled with pottery and patchouli oil. But I also couldn't figure out the reasoning for this little requirement. This was a technical writing position. Tech writers do boring shit like proofread instruction manuals, write the warning labels for kitchen appliances, and ensure that the instructions for all automatic hand dryers are clearly marked... (Press Button - Receive Bacon.) Why would anyone care if I can write a poem?

I suppose there are a few possibilities. Maybe it's a way to make sure people don't apply to the position without giving it some thought. Or maybe they're trying to see if I can think creatively. I believe the most likely explanation is that the guy coming up with the online application was a failed creative writer, and this is his revenge for years of artistic failure that was dubiously described by his peers as "sublime."

So I struggled with the poem. I wasn't sure what kind of poem a software company would want. Maybe a stream of consciousness? Too weird. A haiku? Too short. How about a sonnet or a jintishi? I'd probably just embarrass myself.

I finally settled on a simple rhyming poem that's in something resembling a truly perverted iambic pentameter. It kinda sounds like a corny limerick, but it fits their requirements and, most importantly, it rhymes.

Teaching writing can feel like a thankless job,
With students that sometimes make me want to sob.
But demonstrating the importance of writing to my students,
Is an opportunity that took patience, dedication, and prudence.
I learned from my students as much as they learned from me,
About the importance of writing, researching, and a professional family.

All together now.... GRRROOOOOOOAAANNNN!!!

I know it's hokey. I flinch just looking at it again, but my usual self- and student-deprecating style probably wouldn't serve me well when trying to sound like a qualified candidate. A healthy dose of shmaltz can go a long way, though I think I was pushing it with the whole "professional family" thing. God, that just sounds cheesy.

I only filled out this application a few days ago, but I was sort of hoping for a response. I think I would have been happy to be denied the job if someone had simply emailed me saying, "That poem was so terrible that it made me cry. I'm going to go slit my wrists and dip them in salt. I hope you're happy!" But I've gotten used to a lack of communication now. I can't help but wondering how many of my resumes and cover letters are currently residing in some guy's Recycle Bin. However, the corporate world keeps on churning, and I still can't wait to get into it so that it can chew me up and make me its bitch.

At this stage, I don't even care what the job is. Everyone wants job experience and I don't have any. I'd love to call up one of these places and yell, "Look!! Where the hell did your current tech writers get their experience from? Because I sure as fuck can't find a company that's hiring newbies like me!" If I can get two years of experience doing anything (even "assistant genital waxer" at a company's men's room would probably help), I'll have a lot more options open to me.

In the meantime, my seemingly futile job search continues.

NOTE TO EMPLOYERS: If you have any modicum of intelligence, you hopefully did a Google search of the poem above to make sure that it wasn't plagiarized from the internet. I can assure you that my handle of "JP" is not a fiendishly clever cover for my real name. The application that you're trying to verify was, in fact, written by the same charming fellow who wrote this post (assuming that you are a Cleveland-based software company currently desiring a technical writer). I hope you are honored to learn more about this particular prospective candidate than you ever really wanted to.

SECONDARY NOTE TO EMPLOYERS: The sarcasm and apparent ill-will toward my fellow man found in this post (and on this blog in general) are not representative of my general working attitude. When money and my real name are involved, you can bet your corporate ass that I will be the most polite, polished, and professional sumbitch you ever laid eyes on. But give me an anonymous virtual forum in which to publish my tirades and vitriolic rants, and the inter-web will be ablaze with the fire of my words!

------------------------------
The Undesirable Element: Now joining Facebook and MySpace on the corporate list of websites that employers should check before hiring sardonic and acrimonious (but shockingly verbose) tech writers.

Me, Myself, and Eye

This is your eye on drugs... any questions?

I went back to the eye doctor today, and I found out that my eyes still haven't healed. This time, the doc gave me steroid drops that I have to put in my eyes three times a day for the next three weeks.

He assured me that there were no adverse side effects to using steroid drops in one's eyes for a few weeks, but there's still a part of me that wonders if I'm going to end up looking like this:
I personally think that the eye monster above is much cooler, but Aqua Teen Hunger Force demonstrated that having a body made out of eyes could have undesirable repercussions:
What was I talking about? Oh yeah. I have to wear my glasses for another three weeks. Fucking eye doctor!

-----------------------------
Editor's Note: Spending two posts writing about my eye irritation may seem unnecessary, but just wait until future posts cover my nose hairs, ear wax, belly button lint, and cuticle crud.

Eye for an Eye... Plus Interest

I've had to wear my glasses a lot over the last few months. My contacts were making my eyes itchy, irritated, and I think they may have given me temporary X-ray vision, which is not as cool as it sounds because it irradiated my retinas.

So rather than feel the burning and itching that can only come with extended contact wear or gonorrhea, I decided to wear my stylish glasses. For reasons I can't fully explain, my glasses seem to have a very scholarly appearance. At least, I think I look smarter when I'm wearing them.
Maybe I need a bushy beard to pull off the look rather than the slovenly five o'clock shadow that I'm sporting in that fine photograph. I don't mind wearing my glasses all that much, but I think I look better with contacts, so I made an appointment with my friendly neighborhood Kittanning optometrist. Believe it or not, he's actually a legitimate optometrist, and his tests involve something a bit more sophisticated than prodding me in the eye with a sharp stick.

It turns out that I had inflamed eyes from wearing my contacts too much. He told me to wear my glasses for a week and put medicated eye drops in my eyes four times a day. I thanked him and went about my business, but the more I thought about it, the more annoyed I became. The last time I was there, he gave me special "Day and Night" contacts that could supposedly be worn for 30 days straight without having to take them out. Nevertheless, I took them out every night because I don't like to have my contacts in when I sleep. I have this paranoid fear that my contacts will roll behind my eyeballs when I'm sleeping if I leave them in too long. But if the damn things could be in my eyes for a month straight, and I was wearing them for half that time, what was wrong with the people who actually wore them all that time? Are there people running around with their eyes on fire and bleeding from their pupils?

In any case, he told me to come in two weeks later so that he can make sure everything cleared up. He told me to use the drops for a week, and then wear these new contacts for a week. The new contacts were awesome. I haven't known comfort like that since I discovered the crotch-level water jets at the local pool when I was six. They even came with a special case that would clean the contacts by soaking them in hydrogen peroxide. Some sort of chemical reaction changed the hydrogen peroxide to water over the course of six hours. The nurse warned me that if I didn't wait six hours, my eyes would "burn like fire" if I tried to put the contacts in. I would have loved to see the scientists test the time limit on that little chemical reaction.

"All right Bill, hold still. This will be the four hour test."
"I don't wanna!! I can feel the blood pooling behind my eyelids from the last test."
"Don't be a puss, Bill! This is in the name of science!"

I know it didn't happen that way, but my version of scientific discovery makes for a far better made-for-TV movie than the real story. In any case, the doc's regimen didn't work, and my eyes were still inflamed. He charged me a 30 dollar co-pay to tell me that. I'm wearing my damn glasses again until Monday, when he's going to see me again and charge me another 30 dollars to tell me that I'm fine.

Fucking optometrists. They know they have you by the ocular balls because no one wants to self-diagnose their own eye problems. Everyone's afraid to end up blind. The optometrists even encourage this fear, because all of their offices are littered with those horrible posters of eye diseases and infections. I always wonder about the poor bastard who comes in with the bulging yellow eye that's leaking green mucus. At that stage, you just have to wake up and look in the mirror (if you can even see) and say, "I'm so totally fucked."

--------------------
3 out of 4 readers felt the uncontrollable urge to rub their eyes while reading this post. The last reader will be doing so right now.

Ice Ice Baby

As I've stated several times on this blog, I'm not a sports kinda guy. If left to my own devices, I'd watch a Star Trek: Deep Space Nine marathon over just about any sporting event. However, due to extreme summer boredom, I've been religiously following the Penguins playoff games this year.

When I last blogged about hockey, I pointed out that I knew next to nothing about the game. At the beginning of the playoffs, that was still true. The extent of my hockey knowledge was limited to a few basic facts:
1. Get puck in goal
2. Look good doing it
3. Beat the shit out of the first motherfucker to get in your way of accomplishing either one

When I saw the Penguins play in Buffalo back in January, I was too busy worrying about my nuts freezing to the bleachers to worry about the game, but even then, I seldom care about sports (though I do like to watch football games sometimes). However, as if planned as some sort of cosmic joke, all of my friends in Kittanning are hardcore sports fans. They typically drag me to all sorts of sporting events that I care nothing about, and I make witty (at least in my mind) comments about ugly spectators, seemingly random game rules, or the referee's exposed ass-crack (I'm very sophisticated). This summer, I've been heading to one of the bars in Kittanning every other day or so to watch a Penguins game, and what's incredibly surprising to me is that I got really into it.

Over the last month, I think I've been able to figure out how the game of hockey is played. It doesn't seem like random back-and-forth stick tapping anymore. I even understand most of the penalties, though I still don't fully understand how there can be a penalty for "roughing" in a game where it's legal to body slam a man into a fucking wall. It's an advantage for the team if a player bleeds, so who really gives a shit? I say the only rule should be to get the puck into the other net by any means necessary. Let them sucker punch each other, crack each other in the face with their sticks, or slice the thorax of another player with their skates. "Death Hockey" could really take off.

Unfortunately, despite my loyal following of all their games, the Pittsburgh Penguins lost to the Detroit Red Wings in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup finals. I was genuinely disappointed. I really wanted the Pens to win, but I have to admit that Detroit deserved to win. As far as I could tell (and just about everyone except Totos and a loud six-year-old who was sitting behind me last night agreed with me) the Red Wings played the game better. In the first two games, Detroit owned the ice; we were playing on their terms. Even when we stepped up our game in the last four games, Detroit was just bafflingly good. I was told that there can only be five men on the ice at any one time, the Red Wings could have had me fooled. It seemed that no matter where that damn puck went, Detroit had someone there. Even when it looked like they fucked up a pass or we knocked it away, there was STILL someone there. I suspect they have a Borg-like collective consciousness that they were using to communicate at key points in the game... but I think I may have been the only one in the bar who was thinking that.

The only goal that was a real kick in the nuts was the last one scored against the Penguins in tonight's game. Henrik Zetterberg shot the puck at goalie Marc-Andre Fleury, who stopped it, but the puck fell between his legs and came to rest about six inches behind him. To try to stop keep the damn thing from going into the goal, he flopped down, trying to sit on the puck. But against all laws of physics, his ass propelled the puck right into the goal. They replayed that moment at least six times, and I still can't figure out how it was physically possible.

It's a shame that it ended that way too, because Fleury is an amazing goalie. He blocked something like 50 shots in game 5 alone, which, I'm told, is incredible for a single game. Sydney Crosby may be the big name for the Penguins, but they would have been owned in four games flat without Fleury covering for them. I hope the guy doesn't have to take a lot of shit for what is essentially a one-in-a-million occurrence.

Side Note: I also can't help but love that an ice hockey player is named "Fleury." I guess it would have been equally amusing for him to be a weatherman, but I think the hockey angle works too.

So I guess I'm a fair-weather fan, but I'm sorry that the Pens lost. On the plus side, at least the Stanley Cup trophy is safe for another year. I'm told that the last time the Pens won the Stanley Cup, some guy jumped off a diving board with it in a moment of drunken revelry causing rather severe damage to said trophy. I can appreciate that because it seems like something that I'd be able to convince one of my friends to do for a Klondike bar.

--------------------------------
It's too damn hot for a penguin to just be walkin' around... so he better be skating.