Armageddon

What with it being 2012 and all I was thinking about Armageddon the other day. The film, not the actual end of the world. Only Michael Bay could make a film of such depth and sensitivity and somehow weave tightly knit actions scenes and blockbuster special effects in between. The man is clearly talented. So overcome was I after my first viewing that against my better judgment I stood up and applauded with such enthusiasm and fervor that I was nearly arrested for inciting a crowd (I was 9 at the time so they let me go with a warning). It stars Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck and some pale elven broad. Any time this movie is on the television I drop whatever it is I am doing, prepare a fresh pot of hot cocoa (marshmallows included), grab a warm blanky and curl up in a tight ball readying myself for this rollercoaster ride of emotions, tissues near at hand. For experienced viewers such as myself, I have learned to prepare myself for the emotional wrecking ball that is about to crash into my fragile psyche. First time viewers be warned, it can be draining.

While the whole movie is a cinematic marvel the defining moment arrives in the climactic encounter between Willis and Affleck. These two heavy weights of the silver screen slug it out in the most significant roles of their careers and cement their statuses as legends. Ben Affleck is at raw, visceral best in this one. After having watched his entire repertoire, I do not believe that he has ever quivered his lip better. A stunning accomplishment given his body of work. Seriously, the lips are perfectly moistened to a point where it seems like he is on the verge of dribbling, pregnant with spit, but like a tight rope walker he balances it perfectly leaving you mesmerized, amazed and fearful in a gamut of emotions that you can’t quite comprehend. And you can tell that it’s not chapstick as well because it has that reflective sheen that only saliva can provide. I have had weaker moments where I watch him quiver this lip in slow motion.

If that wasn’t enough Bruce Willis sheds a tear. Just one, but you can see the pain as it rolls down his craggily cheek and that is enough to tug at the heart strings. So yeah, it’s a good movie. I am rather exhausted from writing this piece. The aftermath of a viewing usually lasts a couple days with the emotions lying just beneath the surface and whatnot. It’s pretty heavy stuff. But if you are in need of a good cry, looking to get in touch with your inner self then look no further than this exhibition of high drama. 

The immaculate fart

Flatulence. That glorious expulsion of sulfurous gases to the sweet symphony of organs, pipes, whistles and the rolling of drums, that causes one to sigh with immediate relief followed by almost equally immediate feelings of repulsion and self-disgust.

One lazy Saturday morning, as I lay in bed overcoming a vicious hangover, passing a stream of wind without much resistance under the heavy warmth of my goose down comforter my thoughts naturally turned to farts (for the lack of a better term). And as I am inclined to do, I dedicated the better part of an hour to these thoughts, every so often raising a cheek to cut one (I was unusually gassy that morning. This is not a Saturday morning ritual in case you are wondering). Alas this was not the best course of action, but really who is at their best on Saturday mornings? So anyway as I finally get up to take a leak, tossing the comforter off with a casual flick of my hand, I am hit with what can only be described as a fog of such palpable, suffocating density that my body instinctively recoiled at the first inhalation of this vaguely spicy smelling gas and my head snapped back in such a sharp manner that I banged it against my headboard.   

Having overcome my initial shock, I rubbed my head rather gingerly as I gathered my wits. Of course my natural reaction was then to let out a little chuckle and a shake of the head that could be translated to “you devil!” Well anyway, I aired out my room and all that and then went to prepare some food. Refried beans; Breakfast of champions.

A lament

So I am 23 years old at the time of this writing. I recently noticed a troubling trend in my life which needs to be eliminated or corrected at the very least. I have a feeling that this may be a pretty widespread problem mainly among men but I sure some women have experienced it too. Well to get to the point this blog is about t-shirts. And ex girlfriends.

Granted I have very little experience when it comes to relationships, I have only been in two, but for the life of me I can't understand why I keep losing my best t-shirts to these wretched, thieving whores. Okay, I exaggerate. Both these women were nice, well decent I'd say, or rather tolerable and that's a stretch. Now, normally I wouldn't care if they took any random shirt which has little value to me. However there are those shirts that just have a special place in your heart. And I have lost two of my dearest. And anyone who wears t-shirts on a semi regular basis knows how hard it is to find these blessed threads. My wardrobe has been robbed of two of its brightest stars. When I used to wear either of those t-shirts women would ogle me from across the street and rape me with their eyes. I am going to miss that feeling of being violated. Of course when I would approach them about this they would just play dumb, but I guess that's how the game is played these days.

Which brings me to my second point. These bleeding ex girlfriends. When a relationship is over, the respectful thing to do would be to return all personal effects especially if you are the breaker. The breakee needs something to lift his spirits after this woman with a black hole for a heart dumps this poor sap (me). I feel like the break up would go so much more smoothly if all my t-shirts and CDs were nicely packed in a box and gift wrapped. "I think we should break up, here is your break up gift". At least that way I would have something to rip open, and lo and behold, its my favorite t-shirt! "Aww thanks honey. You're the best"!

Anyway, I have thought about asking for these t-shirts back but I'm too nice (read: I'm a big pussy). So if and when I get into a new relationship I am going to be completely honest with the woman and tell her my closet is off limits to her. Or the more likely scenario where I am frantically searching for a hiding spot for all my t shirts worth retaining.

So yeah. Currently I am wallowing in self pity at the loss of these t-shirts. I am going to have to start aggressively looking for new favorite garments. Maybe a new girlfriend. But I'm not too sure about that. Which reminds me, I should probably never let these floozies see my awesome Pink Floyd boxers. I will jump out of my fourth floor apartment window if I ever lose those.