Noice: For When You Need To Sound Like You Care More Than You Actually Do.


Noice Start!

This year has been off to an odd herky-jerky, chuggy sort of start. Minor sickness, minor injuries, minor woes keep interrupting the routines. None of these are anything to get upset or worried about. They’re just preventing me from attaining a cruising altitude feel. The sensation of having enough momentum to plow through anything that happens to come along.

On top of all those numerous vague issues, I’ve also been far more sleepy than I have in past years. Falling asleep during a movie was never an issue. However, I would at least wake up early and grab life by the short and curlies. Now, I sleep in. I think I’ll chalk it up to a change that I’m able to recognize. I’m getting older.

Douchebaggery De Evolution

Another change I’ve recognized is my newly formed propensity for saying, “Noice!” Yes, that word that conjures images of bros and douchebaggery has found its way into my lexicon. The first time I said it, I nearly threw up in the back of my mouth. The second time I used it, I felt such shame. Now, I’ve said it so many times that I’ve lost count. That is, if I were ever counting at all. You see, in order to count, one has to give a shit. As I’ve come to find out and readers will soon discover, or are at least already somewhat aware of, people who use the word, “Noice!” do not give a shit.

Noice Brah, I Totally Care

What do they not give a shit about? Well, it could be anything, but it’s probably about whatever they experienced in the moment before saying, “Noice!” It’s kind of like that Meatloaf song, the one about doing anything for love, but not doing that. Where that is something that happened in the previous verse. Instead of not doing that for love, people are saying, “Noice!” for whatever happened the moment before. This version of the song could be called, “Well I Could Actually Give A Shit (But I’ll Choose To Say Noice!)”

For those singing or whispery mouth moving along at home, it kind of works doesn’t? For those who don’t know which song I’m talking about, go listen all eleven minutes and fifty eight seconds of it. Let me know what you think below. Noice!


Yanny or Laurel


Yanny or Laurel

I felt my blood turn to ice water when I saw Yanny or Laurel and read the brief description below. “It’s 2015 and that ghawddamn dress all over again!” I told myself. Which I followed up with “I’m not getting involved!” and “I’m not getting and will never listen to it.”

Life went on and I could for a great majority of the time forget about the whole thing. Every now and then I would happen upon some scuffle on the ye olde internet, but I would just pass by, leaving them to continue to pull hair and scratch out eyes.

I Was Blindsided

Then two days later. As I was listening to CBC, Tom – you’re on notice – Power played the damn clip before I realized what happening. I’d failed in my goal of avoiding. I didn’t take off my headphones or mute the audio, I just let it happen.

I Heard Laurel

As I am basically a curmudgeon with training wheels, it’s a fairly safe bet what I heard. I’m not some sort of out of control privileged millennial*. Nor am I accustom to hearing voices in my head. People from the heavens and pickle jars do not speak to me. I don’t nightlight as some urban avenger that can hear the conversations of criminals from across the park.

I heard laurel, of course I did. I couldn’t possibly have heard anything cool and been one of the ten percent of my facebook friends that heard yanny. Before anyone says they are lying, lemme say, “They are all reputable folks so I don’t think they are lying.” Of course they are younger than me so, they are definitely millennials.


*I’m looking at the camera this is such a joke. Millenial’s a great and depending on what page I pull up, sometimes I am one.

Crossing The Street: Take One Of These


Crossing The Street

Crossing the street is a dangerous thing many of us take for granted. We stop and wait for the little man to tell us to go, look both ways before crossing the street, and then we step off the curb and into the rest of our lives. Which honestly may not be much longer than the next split second. Some car could run a light or whip around the corner and we may not be the wiser.

This is something that happens at the intersection by my work all the time. It’s a weird spot where two winding roads cross and there are straight and left turn lane combos. There’s also not a lot of street lights and a merge lane. One more thing, it’s in the middle of a hill. Some people are climbing others are coming down. I’ve almost been hit by a left turner and a red light runner.

It’s Dangerous To Go Alone Take One Of These.

I have friend, Olympia Von Schuttlesqoot, she’s been nearly hit three to four times in the last year alone. That’s crazy! Someone should write the city! Hey, don’t look at me, I’m already doing my part.

Anyway, Olympia, tired of nearly being hit by a car to death, decided to do something about it. She went out and bought a glow stick that she wears around her neck as she crosses this silly intersection. Some people think it’s so she can be easily seen while crossing the Devil’s Gap. However, I believe it’s so she can squeeze in one last dance party while she lays in a broken heap. Let the beat drop.

No, No, One Of These!

Instead of a glowstick, I chose a much better and more versatile item, a good looking person. Another friend, MccLanahan McGoodlooks, and I were out walking our dogs one day when we happened upon the cursed intersection. We stood and the dogs sat while we waited our turn to cross. There was some chatting, but I was more concerned with taking in my surroundings. I looked from left to right and repeated. He didn’t seem to care and carried the conversation. How could he not be concerned? Maybe he didn’t cross at this intersection much.

My thoughts were driven away as I zeroed in on a left turner. A woman in an SUV sat with her blinker on. Her mouth in a chewing fashion as her hand moved away from her mouth. She looked down, was she looking at her phone? Was she aware of us standing on this corner?

The light turned green. With trepidation, I let the dogs’ feet and my own move forward. MccLanahan stepped out and continued his story. I looked once more and that was when I saw it. The double take followed by the lingeringly lustful gaze. At that moment I realized a cosmic truth. An answer to my questions. She had seen us. MccLanahan wasn’t worried because he didn’t need to worry. Good looking people are always seen, even when crossing the street. If they aren’t, their homely friends typically take the brunt of the attack.

 


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Portmanteau: When Used For Ill, Not Good


Portmanteau

A portmanteau is typically a pretty good time. Some can be pretty fun to say and they’re almost always fun to create. There’s just something about taking two words and cramming them together so hard that a few of letters from each respective word just shoot out to the side never to be heard from again.

Sexting, jazzercise, slanguage, Bennifer are all great examples of portmanteaus. With the exception of the last one, all are a guilt free good time to say. That last one however reminds me of dark times. People should never know that much about Ben Affleck or Jennifer Lopez, or was it Garner? I can’t remember.

Occasionally the power of creating a portmanteau becomes too much to responsibly handle. When that happens the portmanteau may not have the best environment to grow up in. Sometimes a portmanteau goes bad. Grows a ponytail and refuses to maintain it’s eyebrows. Basically, it becomes Steven Seagal. Subsequently, much like Steven Segal, it also quits being fun.

Portmanteau, I Want Your Gun And Your Badge On My Desk!

Also, like Steven Seagal – who is the constant good cop who’s gone above the law- when portmanteaus go bad, we need to demand they turn in their gun and badge. While Portmanteaus don’t actually carry guns, there is a metaphor here. For portmanteaus, their gun is that pop they provide when said. The way the tongue and mouth seem to move a bit differently and the brain calls you on it.

As for the badge, a little known fact is portmanteaus all come with a certificate that the creator can display on their wall with pride. A greater known fact is that people who create portmanteaus never have anyone over to see said certificate. Not just for the occasion of seeing the certificate, just in general. It’s sad*.

Even if they did have people over, sometimes that pride wouldn’t be deserved. Occasionally, some overzealous wordsmith goes too far in the creation of a portmanteau. Perhaps they think it sounds funny. Maybe they just got tired of saying two clunky ass words together. Whatever the reason, they’ve gone above the law.

The 1947 Incident

It was 1947 and three types of people were tired of saying two clunky uncomfortable words, funeral directors, cremation folks, and government types. After boozy lunch – like the kind seen in Mad Men – they took it upon themselves to create a portmanteau so foul and opposite day of all other portmanteaus, that it was the direct antithesis of what a portmanteau should be. This one isn’t a rogue cop, it’s a gawhddamn satan spawned evil entity! Like other portmanteaus, it intrigues people to say it. Which is the cruelest part. Yet, it’s dark subject matter and more than likely poorly timed usage turns one’s sense of humor against them at a vulnerable time.

Remains + Cremation = Cremains

Cremains, you can’t help but catch the intrigue, feel that slight giggle. Even after the initial encounter. The elation in your heart as a portmanteau is used. Oh, it sounds funny and seems like it would be fun to say. At the same time, some soft spoken guy has just handed you a bucket and said, “Here are your father’s…”

That’s when one might think, “Did I hear that right?” After hearing cremains another twenty times in the next week, there will be no doubt. It’s a fucking terrible portmanteau. Cremains, turn in your gun and badge. You’re through and will never work in this town again.


Hey, on a lighter note, you may think WiFi is a portmanteau. You’re wrong!

 

*I feel that’s it’s critical to note that this entire paragraph is not true. Except for the part about not having anyone over.

Shrugs: Why Do I Go To The Gym?


Shrugs, Proof That Humans Don’t Know They Are The Punchline

Shrugs are a silly exercise that requires humans to grab far more weight than they can comfortably lift and then proceed to repeatedly shrug. As if to answer the questions they silently ask themselves, “Why did I grab so much weight, why do I do this to myself, and wait, do I make that face during sex?”

In Order To Look Good, You Have To Look Stupid

This is essentially the gyms unspoken mantra. In order to look good, you have to look stupid. Cross your arms and fold in half! Squat then explode up while thrusting your pelvis forward. Heck, just lay on your back, put a weight on your hips, and thrust, thrust, thrust.

Things that come up, must come down. Something is always coming in or going out. Such is life at the gym. Shrugs are absolutely no different. If one does shrugs in front of the mirror, which surprise, everything is done in front of the mirrors – except for treadmills because gym owners don’t have an intentional sense of humor – one is in for a life-altering experience.

A Lovecraftian View of The Seven Faces of Orgasm, Yours Specifically

It’s like looking into the pit of madness itself. If you truly love yourself and are not in love with yourself keep reading. If this doesn’t fit your description, perhaps you should stop. You may not possess the mental and emotional fortitude to survive.

As any good narcissist can tell you, looking at yourself in the mirror during sex is interesting. Although, most of us don’t find it interesting in the same manner a narcissist does. Something also tells me that many of us don’t finish while looking our mirror-selves dead in the eye.

That’s why shrugs were invented. Faces change with each subsequent shrugging of shrugs. Like a skateboarder doing a different rad trick each time they come out of the halfpipe. All of the expressions you make during sex are there and you don’t know about a single damn one:

  • The Macho Teeth Grit
  • The Whimsical Smirk
  • The Look To The Left
  • The Ho-Ho-Ho, What’s This (interrobang)
  • Open Mouth McClosed Eyes
  • The Meaningful Tilt
  • The Hey There Lassie, or Laddie.
  • The Eyebrow Raise That’s Reminiscent of The Rock
  • The Eyebrow Raise That’s More Common and Reminiscent of Eugene Levy
  • The Very Special Episode
  • The Nyuck-Nyuck-Nyuck
  • And The Wakka-Wakka

While, in the heat of the moment, these expressions may pass quickly and can be easily missed. Mistaken for a trick of the eyes. All of your lovers have caught glimpses of them. Now, each expression is completely explorable and can be broken down on each agonizing shrug. If one isn’t driven mad and has an ounce of humility, surely, they will laugh. Then the biggest challenge is not dropping a weight or pulling something.

 


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I Bought A Mouse And Gained A Kindred Spirit Acquaintance: Chad


I Bought A Mouse.

I bought a mouse over the weekend. After six years, two of which involved a lot of false double clicks, I pitched my Razer Naga and bought a Logitech M720 A.K.A Triathlon. I realized that I wasn’t so much into gaming mice anymore. While I do play games on my PC, I don’t think I necessitate a mouse devoted to gaming. Basically, don’t require a mouse that resembles dung beetle Transformer named Shithouse* that was living proof that a disco ball fucked an Atari.

The Technobabble Was Free.

Back to my new sweet wireless mouse that has the unifying receiver and Bluetooth connectivity. First, the unifying receiver allows me to hook up six compatible devices to one receiver. That’s more than I need, but the ability to free up USB ports is always welcome. Then there is the Bluetooth which allows the mouse to be hooked up to three devices at the same time. With the simple push of a button, the active device is switched out and the cursor jumps to the next device’s screen.

The real kicker, files can be copied from device to device with the mouse. Make it active on one device, grab a file, hit the button, and hit paste on the next device. Done!

Then There He Was…

When I walked into the store I had two mice in mind, the Triathlon and the Marathon. Both were wireless and had years on one battery charge. The Marathon didn’t have Bluetooth, but it was cheaper. I found them both out on display where I could see how they felt and looked. I’d managed to check-out both before hearing, “Can I help you.”

My soul rolled it’ eyes. I figured it was some kid who didn’t really care what I said next. His manager had probably forced him to talk to me and was watching him. I turned around and there he was, Chad.

At Least That’s What His Name Tag Said.

Chad was excited and super helpful. He knew everything about the two mice in question and many things about everything else in that aisle. It should be noted that Chad knew all of this even though he broke his wrist and was now relegated to the exclusive use of mice with trackballs.

How do I know that he broke his wrist by falling down some stairs and that his brother sustained less severe injuries from a car accident? Do I really need to spell it out for you? Chad and I kindred spirits acquaintances on the same journey to find the input devices that best suit our needs!

Will We Meet Again?

While I don’t think Chad and I will ever meet on top of the Empire State Building at midnight with our favorite input devices** or anything. I think there is a chance that we will meet again.

You see, I think keyboards and mice are the bee’s knees. Out of those two, keyboards are the bee’s knees-i-est. I have several keyboards that I swap out from time to time.There’s my eleven year old main one from The Source and the gaming one. Plus a few randos, because you never know.

While looking at mice, I have to admit, I also stole a peek at keyboards. Chad told me all about them as well. Until the gentle nudge of a text saying, “Where are you?” brought me crashing back into reality from an input device euphoria.

I love my wife and my eleven year old Centrios keyboard, but man, those wireless, waterproof, multi-device Logitech keyboards sure did intrigue me. See you soon, Chad.

 


To my wife, I apologize. Not for Chad, but for wanting to buy another keyboard. Never for Chad.

*In all honesty, Shithouse would have been a Go-Bot.

**Hootie-hoo!

 

The Toiletfire Continues: 2018 Begins


The Toiletfire Continues

The toiletfire that will define 2018 is off to a roaring start! How could it not when 2017 went out in a blaze of glory? Might as well address that we all have the Bon Jovi song in our head at this point and if one doesn’t, then one is broken. Imagine those last few days of 2017, the final moments, set to that beautiful piece of music. Now imagine the version worthy of 2017, which is covered by a band of people who don’t know how to play, except for the oboe player – who’s just fucking on point, and said band is fronted by legendary comedian Gilbert Godfrey.

We’re halfway through January, which is a mixed bag of good news, bad news. Which means it all averages out to okay news! For instance, a good chunk of people have given up on their resolutions. Treadmills sit vacant, stairwells have tumbleweeds rolling down them, facebook accounts have been reactivated, and twitter is once again brimming with A-holes.

My Resolutions

As for my new year’s resolutions, I retroactively created two. The first one was, change a tire for the first time in over thirteen years. Completed and created on new years day, in that order. Crushed it! Boy did I feel great!

The next day, still high with accomplishment coursing through my veins and seeing an exodus of people, my second resolution was created, take the stairs at work less. If stairs are generally slower than taking the elevator, then the stairs at the first of the year are even slower. There’s a zillion people – each and every one of them with good intention in their hearts – shambling up the damn stairs, moaning, groaning, and wheezing.

So much so that nutter doomsdayers and fans of The Walking Dead get all excited because they think “This is it! The big one! The day uncle granpappy trained me for!” Grabbing duffle bags and cocking the guns they picked up on their way to work, they form a defensive line at the top of the stairs flipping over couches and plugging the gap between said couches and wall with the ficas*. Triggers squeeze, hammers rear back, and then, “Oh! Hey Bill from accounting! You look great! Did you get that fitbit for Christmas?” Bill can’t answer, he took the stairs. Avoid getting shot by the guy that thinks military boots are acceptable as “everyday wear.” Take elevator. Treat yo’self!

As For Other People’s Resolutions,

From what I see on social media, the resolution of be a better person was a fairly unpopular one this year and those that did resolve to be better people inserted “at holier than thou condescension” in the middle. For an example, of use, see the previous sentence.

That Guy On Facebook

The guy that’s facebook tile says he is unemployed and studied at school of the hard knocks ought to be a red flag. If that is a rando transient hobo bot 600, then the part that says he has a great sarcastic and ironic sense of humor, yet is angry at The Onion, well, he truly is a master of irony or an idiot.

Year of the Dick

2017 was the year of the rooster and as we should all know – without having to go to thesaurus.com – another name for rooster is cock. Under the guise of a big veiny bastard, 2017 starts to make a whole lot more sense. It flopped from left to right. It was hairy, stinky, and looked dumb. Then it ballooned for absolutely no freaking reason. People tried to run, but most just got pinned to the wall and had to stay there for four hours.

Of course, if one could reach their phone, those four hours were spent arguing with someone on social media. No one could tell if they were being yelled at by fake shitheads or real ones who think the pasty German Olson twins from The Matrix Reloaded are still cool and get raging four hour car door slamming boners each time they see a “What if I told you,” meme. Hell, no one seems to know anything anymore.

The Toiletfire Continues To Continue

Fires have a tendency to spread. Toiletfires are no different. Whether that toilet be in the boonies, the suburbs, or a prison, it doesn’t really matter. A toiletfire is a toiletfire. And a toiletfire doesn’t necessarily have so much to do with the contents of the bowl, but rather the amount of flammable material found in the water supply. Flush it once, avoid the backdraft, and now all the toilets are on fire.

At the moment, I’m joking about fire water. Yet I can’t help but think, that’s an all too plausible scenario. Hell, under an administration that seemed to give a shit, Flint had rusty water. Now we have folks that don’t give a flip about the masses water supply one bit. Not wanting to wear a tinfoil hat, but it could happen.

Especially with the repeals of laws and erosion of protection for the environment.

When laws were in place to protect water, land, and animals, they weren’t hurting us. Meaning it would be better to have them around than not have them. I mean, I’m not trying to bang my step-mom on the family yacht, I don’t need impress upon her how masculine my junk looks by cramming elephant tusks up next it. I also don’t have barrels of hazardous waste just sitting around that I don’t know what to do with. Nor have I ever thought, “this national park is way too big and would be improved by the addition of some fucking condos or a Wal-Mart.”

 


Only eleven and half months to go!

*What the actual fuck is a ficas? I hear it a lot. I say it a lot. It’s a funny word, but I don’t think anyone would know what a ficas looked even if it went all The Happening and head-butted them in the no-no’s.

 

2017 Ate All The Dicks

2017 ate dicks!

All of them. It was literally the worst fucking year of my life. It could be said that most years have been pretty great so that maybe 2017 isn’t all that bad. While the former is true. That latter isn’t. 2017 was terrible. 2017 sucked shit through a silly straw. Hey, 2017, I loathe you. I will look back at 2017 like the festering speed bump made gawhd god-knows-what organic matter – I swear I see severed limbs and a horse’s head sticking out of it – that it was.

There was a prologue to 2017 called 2016. As far as years go, it was kind of fucky. Until 2017 blew the doors off this muth and showed people what a terrible year looks like. From a statistical standpoint, the quality of years seem to be in a downward trend. Good news is, I’m not alone. Ever since that human toilet fire showed up on a debate stage, almost everyone’s quality of life has been trending down. Even if their head’s up are shoved up their racist uncle’s ass. It won’t grant them immunity as it isn’t the ring of protection the nerds are prattling on about. Now having their head up their rich as fuck racists uncle’s ass, well, that’s a different story.

It’s not just the politics though. It’s not the fact that I can’t go on social media without stumbling upon some trash heap post that’s somewhere between smoldering and five-alarm. Whether it’s from a friend or some troll bot 5000, it doesn’t matter. It’s sucked the fun out of social media. There’s a bit of anxiety. It’s like walking around downtown and happening upon a greasy back alley handy-j while someone is yelling “This is my opinion, my opinion is fact!” Let’s say, I’ve muted a lot of people this year.

Take A Break.

I’m sorry, that last bit was kind of gross. On a personal level though, I’ve been obliterated. Bad shit occurred. The kind of terrible real shit that we all eventually deal with and though many have, there’s no good way to deal with it. It’s rough, different. Lives have been forced to change and it can never be undone. That’s why, once again, I’ve vanished for a while. I wish it were because I was working on my novel for nanowrimo, but that has about one days worth of writing against it. In general, I just haven’t felt like sitting in front of the PC and tippy-tappin’ out the words. I’m basically forcing myself to do this right now.

Thankfully, I’m fuelled by rage and the need a laugh. Laughing hasn’t been as prevalent during the last few weeks. Which is too bad because I’m a fairly funny person. Although, since it’s taken me the better part of two months to write this, more laughs have occured. I like to laugh and enjoy making others laugh.

Back to the laughing.

2017 and to that end, life, are like a horse. But not just any horse. One of the big black evil bastards that bites everybody and kicked one of his trainers into a well. Of course that was when he was young and in a good mood. Now he is more days behind him than he does in front of him. The racing days are over due to arthritis. That’s why he started taking PCP*. And to support his cool habit of taking hard to come by drugs he had to get a job. So he hauls trash carts behind him. Basically, that brings him full circle on the hipster scale. Old drug, old job, old technology, in general being a drip with a penchant for black.

At any time did I mention that the trash cart is on fire? No? Doesn’t seem like I did. Well, it goes without saying that fire freaks horses the fuck out and makes them run in the opposite direction. That’s just a regular horse. Not a horse on PCP, hauling a trash cart that is perpetually on fire and four feet behind the asshole, both literally and figuratively.

In closing, 2017 sucked. Drive an oak stake through its heart. Chop off its head. Salt it. Burn it. Bye Felicia.

Can’t wait to see how fucky 2018 is!


Before the Chicken Soup for the Soul demographic get after me, there are plenty of things I’m grateful for. I’m just, pissy.

*PCP ( ) is a horse tranquilizer that was taken off the market in 1965. People took would become dissociative and feel nothing. Case in point, in the original Terminator movie, the police thought that the Terminator was on PCP. Turns out he was a time travelling killer cyborg from Austria.

Summer Flannelbane 2: The Revenge of Swamp Ass

Two years ago, Summer Flannelbane set the world on fire. Now it’s time for Summer Flannelbane 2! As I’ve gotten older and grumpier, I can say with nary a doubt that summer is my least favorite season. It’s hot, smelly, stuffy, smokey. I have the option to go out anytime because it isn’t raining. Unfortunately, if things aren’t already on fire, I will burst into flames unless I slather on enough sunblock that I look like a storm sewer dwelling rodeo clown.

Go ahead, freak out and yell at your screen. Stand up and pace around the room while scratching your head like a detoxing addict. Mutter questions as to why I feel this way. Call me names. Declare that I’m wrong. It’s okay, at any given time fifty percent of the internet disagrees with you.

Done? On a scale of one to stagnant and inexplicably immortal water puddle off to the side of a big box store, how wet are you? Getting worked up like that during any other season wouldn’t be an issue. You’d look fine and wouldn’t be the least bit glowy. However, in summer everyone can see you sweat. Unless said freak out took place in an air conditioned building and in the buff, at the very least, you have to be a little clammy.

Summer Flannelbane is hot. The environment is dry and the people are wet. I can’t remember the last time that I wasn’t moist. My dew point has been lowered, raised? Ah, I don’t remember how dew point works. Not that it really matters because it’s not droplets of water forming on the outside of a cold glass of ice water. It’s my sweat pouring out of me.

I’m soaked to that point that, if some crazed berserking bro-jock came at me with a wet towel, I could retaliate by removing any article of clothing. From as something as substantial as a t-shirt to something as minimal as a friendship bracelet. My weapon like vessel of vengeance doesn’t so much matter as much as the fully saturating sweat that it’s imbued with. The subsequent swipe would be so cruel, so violent. His final words, as his body is being liquified, limbs blasting off like rockets, head bouncing like a recently abandoned basketball, would be a simple and astonished, “Bro?”

Summer Flannelbane is the time of year where I begin to believe that I may have latent super powers. My inherent ability is to be varying degrees of moist at all hours of the day. While I haven’t tested my theory, I assume that I’m some degree of fire retardant at all times. With some points being near one hundred percent.

Perhaps Professor Xavier just hasn’t noticed me yet in his scans. It could also be that he doesn’t require the Human Slug on his team. Even if he did, yellow and blue spandex aren’t exactly in my wheelhouse. Not to mention that would wick the sweat away, thus nullifying my unique talents. No, I’m afraid I’d have to run around in a mesh shirt and fishnet stockings at best.


 

Darth Vader: Space Dick Head

Face it, Darth Vader was a bad dude. The mere mention of his name, if it were even spoken aloud, sent chills running down the spines of all that heard it. Made their b-holes shrivel like deflating balloon. He could lightsaber duel like no-one’s business and force choke people when he was feeling blah. When truly uninitiated, Darth Vader could order people to blow stuff up for him. With nary a care in the universe. He didn’t care about the people that he killed. They were vermin and beneath him. Darth Vader had no feelings. Well, not good ones that The Beach Boys liked to sing about.

Before becoming the love child of death and a badly in need of service vacuum cleaner, in a metaphorical “I hate Mondays” T-shirt, Darth Vader was known as Anakin Skywalker. A good looking, sniveling, whiny, business in front, party in back rat tail wearing douche which no one particularly cared for, except Padme and JarJar.

To the detriment of tension, he happened to be good at everything he did. Fighting, jumping, flying, sniveling, were all in his wheelhouse. Which happened to be the reason why Palpatine was interested in him. If one is going to play an intergalactic game of dodgeball, then one should pick the best person for one’s team.

That’s exactly what Palpatine did. However, he didn’t want Vader to be too powerful. To that end, Palpatine manufactured some restraints into that suit. This would hopefully prevent Vader from overpowering and killing his master. Something that happens to every single Sith Lord at some point in time. So much so, that it leaves one wondering why they continue to take on apprentices.

The biggest limitation though was the helmet. There’s no denying that it looked cool and threatening, especially with the skull like mask. However, it had a secret. One of those things that, once it’s seen, cannot be unseen.

Everyone was absolutely one hundred percent terrified of Darth Vader. That was the only reaction anyone could have. Terror. That is until a plucky rebel trooper Chet “Amazeballs” Phasall pointed it out. The thing that couldn’t be unseen. Darth Vader’s helmet looked like a dick.

That was the cherry on top of the black cowl 1970’s sweat suit combo. It looked like Darth Vader could run a 5k on Hoth and be ready to take a bullet. He had a dark lustrous voice that sounded like silk that’d been run through the wash a thousand times. Then there was his mask, both skull like and yet, very alien at the same time. Yet, none of it was worth a dime once people realized he looked like a space weiner.

On top of all the limitations of the suit that kept Vader’s power in check, he had to have phallic head gear. It was all too much. Eventually, Vader tracked down Chet and made an example of him. A year later Rogue One happened. You can see that Krennic still couldn’t unsee the helmet.


The first post after a break ain’t easy. Even if I started writing well before said break.