Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Open Mick Night

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mick Dickinson" *pity applause*

     Hey everybody, my name’s Mick and I’m here to say jokes at you. You know, writing isn’t that easy. Well I mean, it’s not that hard, it’s not like being a firefighter or something. Plus if you have to work super hard at making people laugh, maybe writing jokes for others isn’t exactly the best idea for a hobby. But still, finding the jokes to tell isn’t a walk in the park. One trouble is the temptation to repeat certain jokes. It’s hard, well, I mean, not as hard as being a firefighter or anything…  Some of the best jokes I come up with are on Twitter. Well hey there!
     Not only was that a shameless plug, it’s also a great segue into my next line of jokes!
     Twitter is an amazing invention. My thoughts are almost always simple enough to sum up in 140 characters. Plus, I’m just egomaniacal enough to believe everybody wants to hear my genius jokes about how bad my farts are, but this time, I write it in less than the 1,000 words I use on here. My favorite place to use Twitter is at lunch. You might say I’m tweating. Tweating. Moving on… If I had to sum up Twitter in one example, it’d be that not only can I tell complete strangers how big the poop I just took was, but if I was so inclined, I could show them a picture of it.
"No." -The Internet

     That kinda sums up what our culture’s become. We’re so wrapped up in ourselves that we think people want to see how big of a crap we took, and that it’s totally okay to go ahead and show it to them. I’m serious; it’s really troubling me how the world is teaching us that everyone wants to hear about the stupidest, most meaningless details in our lives.

This picture has also made it
into one of my dreams.
     So this one time I had this dream where I was playing basketball with Conan O’Brien against Arnold Schwarzenegger and the kid from Home Improvement in basketball. The one with three names, you know. That guy. Arnold kept boxing me out but luckily Conan was rainin’ threes. I want to see Sigmund Freud analyze that one. Did anybody stop to think that maybe it was just Freud that was so crazy? That he was the one with the messed up relationship with his mother, and not all of us? How would you react if I was a psychologist and I told you every single person, including me, wants to have sex with barnyard animals. Would you say “Huh. Guess it’s buried away pretty deep,” or would you nudge the person next to you and be like, “Uh… I think this guy has a hankerin’ to bang some chickens, and is willing to go to med school to legitimize it.”

"You seem to have an inferiority complex  stemming from
your cigar smoking and resemblance to George Carlin." - Sigmund Freud
     I really don’t get how we take a 19th century coke-head psychologist seriously. He figured out that by saying the most outrageous things he could get humongous amounts of attention. Freud was like the 1800’s version of Glenn Beck, but with cigars and cocaine. Moreso. But there’s a lot in this world I don’t get. Like pralines. Say that word out loud. Pray-leens. Now, do you really want that in your ice cream? A praline is most certainly a fish. A cold water, Alaskan, freshwater fish. Now we’re throwin’ that in with some pecans and frozen milk and calling it dessert? “Ma’am, can I get some tartar sauce with my frosty tasty treat?”
     I should know a little something about fish. I mean, I don’t want to brag, but I was in the Boy Scouts. Yeah, no biggie. Just kidding. Well, I was actually in the Boy Scouts, it’s just a real big biggie. I hated it. Hated it. I spent the entirety of my career in the Scouts waiting until I was allowed to start a fire. But there was always that kid with like, the bandolier of merit badges that would start bragging he could start a fire without matches. He always came around when I had this huge can of gasoline and a Zippo (just kidding, we didn’t get Zippos in Boy Scouts. Not until we killed us some Nazees) and he’d be say “Psh, I could start this with a magnifying glass.” And I’d say “Well that just means you didn’t pack well enough to start a fire. Always be prepared, holmes. Now stand back, I’m going to set this puppy off!”

    For all I’m knockin’ on it, Scouts does teach you to respect nature, and how fast a canvas tent can start on fire. You know who else really respects nature? The people we’ve named after the country we stole from them, Native Americans. They’re cool enough people, just don’t date one like I did. There are too many white-guilt moments. I mean, everyone has their comfort sections for racial guilt, but when you end up in a strange family member’s basement inside his Indian arrow-head collection room surrounded by pictures of white people being scalped, you have to fight not to just yell out, “I’M SORRY, OKAY?! IT WASN’T ME, IT WASN’T MY IDEA!” But you can’t yell like that, of course, you have to be more polite, like “Do you have any black friends who build models of slave ships I can meet?”
    I broke up with that girlfriend in a way going down in the record books. I asked her over for Thanksgiving with my family dressed as Pilgrims, and we kept trying to sell her blankets.
    That was a lot of history packed into that last made-up joke. You don’t even know how much I’m a huge history nerd. It’s going to be my job for goodness sakes. That is to say, if this whole “blog writing” thing fails to materialize. (3000+ views, dawg). But seriously, history is pretty great. How can you not be interested in the study of 16th century kings? I mean, right?
    That’s, after all, what I’m going to college to study, history. College is an interesting place. It’s like the final step between childhood and adulthood. Especially for freshmen. One great example of adulthood: “Psh, what are they going to do? I know all my rights, man.” But then later that night, “Mommy, I’m in jail and I’m scared! Please come get me!” Freshman regress that quickly. I couldn’t pull that with my parents. My mom would be like “Why were you breaking the law?! I’m so disappointed! You get yourself out of this mess.” And my dad would probably say something like, “If I were you I’d still be running! You’re 19, how can you not outrun a cop?” “Dad, I had sandals on, I wasn’t prepared to deal with that situation!” “Well shit, didn’t Boy Scouts teach you anything?!”

He may not have a big stick, but he'll speak however he darn well pleases,
Mick Dickinson

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