Math Hates You 2

Me at the Blah Blah Blahg like to occasionally highlight a member of the community who has something to say. Me’d like to report that Todd, our last guest blahgger, is doing, um, well he hasn’t killed himself, yet, and he apologized for the vulgarity in his post. Me told him not to sweat it, that although it was quite awkward and inappropriate, it was no big thing. This week me present to you a special guest columnist, a friend of mine and a friend to us all. Please join me in welcoming Math!

Yeah, Well I Hate You Too

By: Mathematics

Hello, you fucks. This is Mathematics. But you all call me “Math”, since most of you can’t say  4-syllable words. Yeah, I’m the one everyone hates. Need proof? You seriously need proof? Here’s your fucking proof!: 

“If I have to divide one more Goddamn thing Imma kill a bitch.”

-Kyle Hansen, age 8, Eli, MN

“Anytime I hear ‘Pythagorean Theorem’ I like to imagine a python strangling Ms. Lindy.”

            -Makayla Watkins (age 13) in a txt message sent during math class, Nashville, TN

“Happy Easter, everyone! I want to let you all know that after I survive this year’s tax dealine I will be ending my life. Can you please pass the ham?”

            -Manuel Torres, 43-year-old accountant, Rochester, NY

“You slut! I have never loved you and if you keep making me do math you’re gonna find glass in your coffee.”

–Tyler Redding (age 6) to his mother at breakfast, St. Louis, MO

“How much is 20% of that? Fuck Math! Screw it. I’ll just give her 10%. She wasn’t that good, right?”

-Nearly every sloutch who has ever eaten out (and for the record, she was 30% good, 

            you lazy pricks)

How do I know people said this? Because I’m like Santa Claus, bitch. I hear everything! I see you when you’re sleeping (and it takes every fiber of my being not to slit your throats). I know when you’re awake. I know if you’ve been bad or good so be good for fuck’s sake, you whiney little cunts.

You’re damn right I’m angry. Why the hell wouldn’t I be? Here are a few scenarios that I have to deal with. Every time I see my doctor it’s, “Turn your head and cough. Whoops! Forgot the lubricant.” When I walk outside it’s, “Do you have some spare cha— Get the fuck off my sidewalk!” And every time I go to a liquor store to pick up my medicine it’s, “Hey you! Get the fuck outta my store, ya piece o’ shit!” 

I’ll be the first to admit that at some point in high school I become utterly useless. That happens with every old person. But there's not a single being besides myself that can say they’ve been involved in the production of nearly every man-made thing on this planet.

Without me, you wouldn’t be able to know how strong that mint shit is, the candy booze you’ve been sneaking into your coffee at work. Without me you wouldn’t be able to describe to your friends what size tits/cock that chick/boy you plowed has. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even be able to read this stupid fucking blog!

Oh, I’m sorry! It’s apparently spelled “blahg.” I wasn’t aware that Brad needs to go fuck himself!

See, now that shit's funny. 

I’m sick of it, people. “Did you know you can write "BOOBS" on your calc by typing in 80085?” Fuck you. “So, when do I carry the one?” How are you still breathing? “Where do you put the apostrophe when the word ends with ‘s’?” Wrong fucking subject, ASSHOLE! 

Breathe. Breathe.

I Wonder what Wendy has been up to? 

Oh, just writing NYTimes bestsellers about me. 

Boom and boom. 

Ahhh, much better. 

Look, I’m not gonna bite. I’m not gonna steal your husband or bang your dog. And I’ve been shooting blanks for over 5,000 years so I can’t exactly knock up your daughter. I may not like you, you may not like me, but I'm here to help. The greatest lie anyone ever told to you wasn’t that you’re attractive, it’s that “Math is hard.” So forget that and let’s do this shit!

Not when you're my age.

Now if you don't mind, Imma go carry the onie (if you know what I’m saying),

-Mathematics

And for the record, take the total of the bill, move the decimal one place to the left and double that amount. There’s your 20-fucking-percent.






Alright! Thank you, Mathematics? Well folks, I really didn't see that one coming so I apologize for any offense it caused. Stay tuned for another guest blahg entry in the future. Hopefully, um, it's something for the whole family to enjoy! 




Did this blahg make you reconsider your sexuality? Wow, that's never happened before. You're welcome? On another note, if you enjoyed it, pass it along to a friend. And you can catch the Blahg's first guest guest column here.

My Almost-Post Post

Ten dollars an hour to sit still was probably the best job I ever had. Sure, people were watching me, and sketching me out, and oh yeah, I was naked. But it was easy money.

Yes friends, I did some nude modeling back in college.

Now I’m not going to play like I have the most glorious body on the face of the earth. Probably the second most glorious body. But in seriousness, the third most glorious body. I was less shapely as I am now, standing around 160 pounds on the scale. I had less of a gut and definitely less fur (does it ever stop growing!?!?!?).

A friend of mine in the art department suggested I give it a shot. I had never really thought of it before, but figured (get it?) it’d be a good way to get over a fear of being naked, a symptom of being self-conscious about my body.  Let’s be honest, fatty, if you grow up in America while being able to see and/or hear, you’ve probably had body-image issues at one point in time.

       

                                 

So I figured (get it?), what the hell. An email landed in my inbox a week or so after I signed up. The director of the program wanted to meet with me. I envisioned her to be quite attractive. She would ask me to disrobe while giving in to her compulsive lip-licking problem, saying something like, “Let’s see what we’re working with here,” and then of course we would bang. I’m thankful the “interview” went a little differently because she wasn’t as beautiful as I had imagined the night before. But she didn’t even want to see me naked? What kind of crap-ass porn shoot is this?

She told me to show up in the art building next Thursday night at 5:50. The session would last two hours and I’d get a brief break in between poses. Twenty bones for waving mine around? Done.

I walked in and was delighted to see a group of around five people. I was nervous but seeing a familiar face, one of my professors, made me even more nervous. He was “teaching” Drawing II, and much like a lot of the art professors at my university, he was good at art, but sucked at teaching.

He liked it silent in the class while we drawed stuff, but didn’t have the guts to tell someone to be quiet. I, not one to be silent, talked with my best friend through the entire semester, while others drawed stuff in silence. We gradually found out that my fellow students despised me for being chatty, jovial, myself, but not a single person said a single word. Ahhh, Minnesota nice. 

Gov. Ventura: "You haven't hunted until you've hunted man."

But I undress —digress! I digress. The first session went well. The poses weren’t too difficult. I didn’t have to hold any fruit or my fruit or stick fruit near my fruit. Fruit. My professor approached me after the session and expressed his surprise that I could sit still that long. I smiled.

The second session was different. It was in a different, brighter room, and there were a few more people. And something else happened: it moved.

Posing technique: you find a position that’s bearable, your eyes lock onto a spot on the wall, you stare at that spot, remain perfectly still, and get lost in your thoughts. If you’re anything like me your thoughts tend to gravitate to women, their bodies, what you’d like to do with those women and to their bodies, writhing, grinding, thrusting, sounds of heavy breathing, sounds of pleasure, the sound of the refrigerator opening, sounds of making and eating a sandwich. You know, the usual thoughts that plague my kind.

What do you mean by “my kind”?

Oh hey random person who often pops into my blahg! “My kind” are the people that—

Who are you talking about when you say “the people”?

I’m racist. Is that what you want me to say?

Yes.

Alright, I’m racist. Can I move on to the rest of the story?

Say it one more time, please.

I’m racist.

Clearly.

Anyway, I’m sitting there, perfectly still except for my penis. For those of you reading this that don’t have a penis, know that it is incredibly hard to stop it from growing once it starts.

“Are you fucking kidding me? This can’t be happening. Not now. No. NO! NO NO NO NO NO! Think of a chair. Chairs. No. Don’t do that. Don’t think of naked women sitting on chairs. Think of just chairs. There we go, chairs. Don’t think of sitting on naked women. Why would you even think of that? That’s ridiculous. Chairs! Hair. Hair down there. No! Think of stone. Stone, yeah, stone. Rocks. Rock hard —NO! Stop being stupid. Oh no, not the stupid woman you met at the bar last night. Don’t think of her naked. No. Bad idea. Bad bad bad idea. Naughty! You deserve to be punished! Nooo! “No” means no. STOP IT!”

Thankfully, I did stop it from reaching a full on, rock hard, sitting-on-naked-women erection. But I admit that I was flying at half-staff, enough that the trained eye would notice a difference.

The thing that you should know about artists is that they’ve been training their eyes for their entire lives. The room that day was filled with trained eyes, all looking at naked me and my me-ness gaining girth and length. 

I was never asked to come back. No calls. No emails. They used me for my body and didn't have the common decency to even call me a cab. My perfect job had come to an end and though I was never told why, it’s easy to imagine the reason.

I was too fat.






Did you enjoy this blahg post about my almost post? Well doesn't that make me feel all warm and —DON'T THINK OF THAT! But hey, do pass this along to all your friends and family that may get a kick out of it. 

Beast Have Mercy

As I've mentioned before, when I smoke marijuana I change. A being takes over-–one that I am virtually powerless to—and starts pulling the strings, ordering me to pillage and consume anything with calories. And I don’t use the term “pillage” lightly. Follow me.

I want you to close your eyes.

Now open them to read the rest of this blahg.

Open? Good. Imagine a party. It’s several months ago and I’m there with a slew of friends. Many people are laughing. Everyone is having a good time. Marijuana is introduced.

“Hello Marijuana, I’m Brad. Lovely to see you again. You look scared. You’re being chased? Maybe you should hide out in my lungs for a while. But not too long, otherwise I’ll start coughing and give us both away.”

“Oh Marijuana, you’re so funny! You make me feel like a kid again. I feel like I’m sinking, like this chair is swallowing me. I can’t stop licking my lips. My hips are numb. Remember, Marijuana, the time we hung out and I… completely forgot what I was going to say! Oh, Marijuana, how you distract me so!”

I died a little when it was canceled.

Fast forward. But not the DVD 10x fast forward. I’m talking VHS fast forwarding. (Whistling). Dum, duh-dum. Almost there. Wait, did I go too far? Nope, here it is.

“So one testicle decides to—“

Whoops! That’s not it. Didn’t go far enough. Here it is!

“Hey, Brad. This is Beast. You need to go into the kitchen right now otherwise babies will die.”

“Babies?!”

“Yes, Brad. Babies.”

“Yes, of course I will go!”

"Marijuana is not a drug. I used to suck dick for cookies. 

Now that's an addiction. You ever suck some dick for marijuana?"

“O.K.,” Beast says as I enter the kitchen. “I lied about the babies. But since you’re here, you should eat something. You look famished.”

“I am quite hungry.”

“Yes,” Beast says. “You are hungry. And you should eat.”

Creamy seven layer dip? Yes. Baked ham? Of course. A slice of baked ham placed on a cracker with a dollop of Ranch salad dressing topped off with another slice of ham and cracker to make a divine miniature sandwich? Oh, you are good!

“Beast, I’m sleepy. I think we should go to bed.”

“Are you sure? I’m fairly certain there’s more food in here somewhere.”

“Yes, Beast. I am sure. I’m powering down.”

I strip down to my boxer shorts as if my clothes are suffocating me. I crawl into one of the beds in one of the rooms of the apartment where said party is winding down. I am fading into dreams when Beast hears three words out of the mess of chatter. 

“Blah blah blah carrot cake blah blah blah fridge.”

“Brad! We need to go into the kitchen or else all the babies, even the dumb babies and the ugly babies, will die right now! There are puppies, too! Babies and puppies! Get up! Get up! You need to save them!” 

“Of course, Beast! I will be the saver of the babies and puppies,” I say as I climb out of bed. “But let me put some pants on.”

“There’s no time, Brad! The babies! The puppies!”

“You’re right,” I say while making a beeline to the kitchen.

“Alright, I’m here! Where are the babies and puppies?”

“I lied again,” Beast says. “But there’s some carrot cake in the fridge and you should eat it because you really, really love carrot cake and pssssst, you’re still hungry.”

“You’re right, I am. You’re so smart, Beast.”

So there I stand, wearing only boxer shorts, eating carrot cake that’s not mine. Two friends enter the kitchen to watch the spectacle. They are two of the most beautiful human beings I know and both are giggling at me. Soup is the host of the party. She’s an amazing cook with an amazing heart, but has been known to accuse her coworkers of stealing her soup when she actually forgot it in her car. B’Dazzle is a lady of the cloth and will be the source of my bankruptcy as I try everything known to man to get her to like me sexually, or men in general.  I am facing them as they watch me engulf the delicious conundrum (who would’ve thought that vegetable + cake = glory?).

My good friend, HotMom72, comes in the kitchen, loops around behind me, and with one swift motion pulls my boxers down to my ankles. He bobs and weaves through the laughter and ducks out of the kitchen.

“That’s my cue,” B’Dazzle says, admitting that the party is over the second she sees a penis. Both her and Soup make an exit.

“Maybe I should pull my boxers up, Beast,” I say while standing completely naked in the kitchen.

“But think about the babies, Brad.”

“There are no babies, Beast.”

“Shut up and eat!”

I ignore any embarrassment and obey. HotMom72 swings back into the kitchen, thinking that by now I have embraced the shame of man and covered myself. Man is he wrong! 

“Jesus,” he says while turning and walking straight back out of the kitchen.

The party is over. My boxers eventually find themselves around my waist, the carrot cake (or what was left of it) finds its way back into the fridge, and I catch a ride to passed outville. 

In the morning I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rub my bulging stomach, and pray. “Beast have mercy on me.” 




Did you enjoy this entry? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you over all the chewing. Well, if you did don't miss the Beast's latest chronicle of gnawnia. And if you missed the his debut, you can read more about it here.