THE MARRIAGE PROJECT

So since it dawned on me the other day that most of my friends are either getting married or already married I might as well get into the act as well. Now since I don’t usually leave my house to do anything other then go to work, get more beer, and sometimes kill a hippie or  drifter, I figured my best hope would be to take applications on my hate speech web site.

HERE IT IS LET”S START THE STUPIDITY!

Fist my good points:

1. I am gainfully employed.
2. I have never been convicted of a crime that involved, Murder, farm animals, rape, or grave robbing.
3. I have never had sex with Paris Hilton.
4. I am occasionally sober.
5. I can sit through a “chick-flick” as long as I get to treat it like Mystery Theater 3000.
6. I have invented over 500 new curse words.
7. I don’t own a T.V. so I might pay attention to you.  I got a T.V. but I don’t use it much, so I still might pay attention to you.  Unless I’m Playing the Yakuza video game series.
8. I know how to properly cook dog meat.
9. I shower daily.
10. I’m not a hippie.
11. I am in no way related to the following people, Al Gore, Hitler, Noam Chomsky, Pol Pot, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, George Lucas, Al Sharpton, David Duke, Brittany Spears, or the cast of “Rent”.
12. I don’t have any communicable diseases.
13. I’m good a drunken Karaoke.
14. I am not a communist (see #1).
15. I have life insurance (I don’t know why since I’m not married).
16. I don’t have any kids and have never been arrested for trying to sell them.
17. I don’t have a Facebook profile.  I didn’t at one point but if it makes you feel better I don’t really use it for anything other than talking to people I have know since high school.
18. I’m not a vegan and therefore healthy.
19. I have never killed a hooker for fun.
20. I have been told that I am at least moderately attractive, or at least not hideous.
21. I can get you a green card.
22. I do not now or have ever owned a Mariah Carey CD.
22. I will never ask for anal sex for either me or you.
23. I have seen the inside of a gym and sometimes do things there..
24. I promise that I will always put you first. Right after my collection of guns and Misfits records.
25. I know how to make a proper Martini.
26. You aren’t getting any younger and might want to lower you standards a little.
27. I know how to properly dispose of unwanted corpses.
28. I know the correct answer to the question “do these pants make my ass look fat?”.
29. I know the difference between good and bad techno (if it’s techno it’s probably bad).
30. I would be to lazy to kill you for insurance money.

So now that we see all of my fine points here are some of my requests:

1. Lower your standards you aren’t that cute (but I’ll tell you you are to get some).
2. You must hate “performance Art”.
3. Understand that Balzac is the Best Japanese punk band of all time.
4. Have minimal “daddy issues”.
5. Body description cannot include the words twig or marshmallow.
6. Understand some English or be really good at charades.
7. Have a job.
8. Not have track marks.
9. Be able to sit through bad Japanese Yakuza films.
10. Not currently in prison.
11. Not a hippie. must be showered/shaved.
12. Does not listen to emo, pop-punk, the Grateful Dead or Phish.
13. You can be bat-shit insane as long as it’s fun.
14. Must be Japanese.
15. Never mind #14. As long as you are a woman, and not if you got surgery to become a woman. That does not make you a woman, you have an XY chromosome you are a man no matter how many “alterations” you do. So stay the fuck away you freak.
16. Must understand that Budweiser is not beer it’s moose piss and rubbing alcohol.
17. Be able to hold your liquor because if you are going to be married to me you might need it.

RULES:

1. Lose most of you self esteem it will make this a whole lot easier on both of us.

2. Post things about yourself so we can build a relationship.

3. Please ask me for money due to some “strange circumstance” so I know you are really some dude from Nigeria trying to rob me.

4. Remember please be nice to the other girls they might have feelings, or guns.

5. Drink heavily.

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6 Comments

  1. Greetings kind sir.

    Due to strange circumstances, my goats, my Hoisky and my half-russian half-japanese half-korean sister in law were killed. My other half-russian half-japanese half-korean sister in law, who is a mixture between a twig and a marshmallow, is willing to make hand-party to you all night, every night, if you send a check addressed to:
    Nigerian National Lottery
    1 Bankruptcy Way,
    Satanville, Alaska

    In the value of ONE HUNDRED MILLION ZIMBABWE DOLLARS AND TWO WON, so that I may buy a loaf of bread and a new sister-in-law to have hand party with.

    Thank you please, and remember, we’re honest in Nigeria!

  2. You do realize that a hundred million Zimbabwe dollars worth less than 2 Won, and 2 Won isn’t worth anything right? Anyway it sounds like a good deal, the check is in the mail.

    Oh one more thing is it North or South Korean Won we are talking about here?

  3. North Korean of course, kind sir!

    Thank-you for your check, and please prepare to receive spam wives in T minus 10 days

    Yes, I am aware that the value of the Won is a pile of stinky Mugabe shit-but I like the sound of the Won. Also, A Hundred Million Zimbabwe Dollars is enough to buy me two new half-russian half-japanese half-korean sisters in law. Good Times!

    Spamming you and for always,

    –The Office of the Nigerian Finance Minister

  4. I’m sorry but I love good points #22 and #24. I know you don’t see me in the running as a potential prospect but I had to give ya that. Now there are other good points that you make, but as a friend/women I like them. F U Theefus and all your spam. Sorry had to add that, I’m tired of getting e-mail from you fuckers! I ain’t giving you shit but a delete to the messages you’ve been sending me. You are all corn holers and I hope you all die from the tainted water you drink. Have a good one rat bastards!!! lol

  5. I figure you and I are doomed from the start and should just skip to the end. I’m sure I would send something similar to you at some point. Anyway. Let’s do get married though.

    Sent To You, 52 Seconds Ago

    This is how I’d do it. I’d be there before you, before you get there. To pick the seats and get comfortable. Because you are not good at picking seats. It is among the many things you are not good at. But I am good at this so I will go early, before you. I will make sure you have the seat to my left. Will put my bag and my coat, scarf, in the seat to my right so that you have to sit to my left. You’ve probably never noticed this, that we have a better time–talk is easier, more comfortable–when you are to the left of me. I’m not sure why. I haven’t gone any further than just recognizing it, noticing it. The pattern. Except that a few months ago I saw this performance art piece on the brain. It was bad. The worst kind. You can imagine it. Flimsy, truly uninspired, even had some audience participation that made everyone feel silly, recoil into themselves, so that just under it all you could sense an individual and collective desire to rebel. At least I think it was collective. I felt the individual need for sure, even acted out at the end when large boxes with wrapping paper of the human brain covering them, pink, intestine-looking brain wrapping paper covering the tops and bottoms of the boxes so that you could lift the top off, open them without unwrapping them, were placed on the tables in front of each one of us.

    The boxes were hiding our shoes. I knew this before I opened the box in front of me, before I even had a box in front of me. I knew when they started handing them out. I thought, Oh God, our shoes are in these stupid boxes covered in disgusting brain intestine wrapping paper. It was obvious. They’d taken our shoes earlier, at the beginning because we were going to be walking on soft brain tissue at some point and we needed to have our shoes off. Lined them in rows with half our tickets torn and placed inside our shoes so we could get them back later, prove they were ours. And I thought then that this was not the real reason for taking our shoes because we could have walked on the brain tissue with our shoes on. It was really just carpet, just hot-pink slightly puffy carpet that was fine for walking on, but I didn’t suspect the box-ending at that point. I just assumed the point was to make us all feel trapped there so we wouldn’t leave, couldn’t leave really unless we were willing to leave our shoes behind when we realized how idiotic the performance was, what a waste of time it was, and walk out of the building into the parking lot and into our cars without our shoes. Because most likely we would not do this. Leave without our shoes. And I know this was part of the reason because right at the beginning, just before we were asked to take our shoes off, we were asked not to leave once the performance began. That if we had to leave early, if we knew we were going to have to leave early and not stay the entire two hours, we should tell one of the attendants now. Before it started.

    And later, not too far into it, I also thought that the reason might be to make us feel like a group. To make us feel closer because of this slightly vulnerable feeling of being shoeless, walking around a giant brain room together in our socks. Make us smile slightly at each other and the things hanging and spinning and beeping around us because we are adults used to walking around in the world with other adults with our shoes on. So we would feel closer, vulnerable and open to the things we would be asked to do later. Like yell things out in unison, and toss balls of red yarn to each other from across the room and wind it around each other, and then toss it again so we are all webbed together in stupidity. But we would do it because, hell, we already have our shoes off, were already in it for the long haul.

    I wonder now, too, if this was supposed to be slightly sexual, subliminal turn on, undressed and all orgiastic in our group undressing and red thread tossing and winding, and the shy vulnerable smiles we shared walking on hot-pink fabric, covering (now that I think of it) the entire room, floor-to-ceiling. Jesus. Yep. That’s exactly what was going on. Which is ironic because I can’t think of anything less sexy, more ridiculous and less sexy than complete strangers walking around in their socks in a room made to look like a human brain. And it’s kind of funny really because I went with Sarah, who as you might guess was mortified by the whole thing, the entire experience, but mostly the group participation part because she really hates that kind of gooky manipulation and also because one of the participants was this (really cute) lesbian Duke student who kept flirting with Sarah and trying to get her to participate, handing her props and saying encouraging flirty things to her to get her to join in. And Sarah, of course, would have none of it and kept her arms crossed and would look at me with big eyes like can you believe this, can you believe we are really here on a Thursday night, wasting our night here, with our shoes off. Trapped here. Doing this. Which was the only appealing part of it to me, her reaction to all of it, because well, first of all, Sarah does not like to take her shoes off. She wears two pairs of socks to feel how firmly she fills her shoes, how shoed she is, and it was funny, private-joke funny to have her take her shoes off next to me with this I cannot believe I am taking my shoes off with all of these other people taking their shoes off next to me look on her face. It was priceless. Adorable really. So except for my own initial annoyance at having to take my shoes off, I went into it with a mild amusementy feeling because of Sarah and her more violent reaction to this hostile taking of our shoes. Which makes it even more funny, more interesting and funny, that I was the one to act out at the end when the boxes were put in front of us and I realized our shoes were in them. And I remember at the time, thinking of you, how you would have reacted to all this.

    It didn’t feel especially like acting out at the time. I mean, my shoes, shoes that had been taken and kept from me for upwards of two hours had been placed in front of me, wrapped like a present, for me to open. So I opened it. I opened the box. Now I don’t remember what it was that the woman, the artist, yelled at me from the front of the room as she saw me opening the box, killing her cleverness, her surprise box ending, but I think it was something like, Can’t you people follow directions? Yes. I think this was exactly what she said because later, in the car, Sarah kept saying this and laughing. Directions or instructions, but I think it was directions. And I was so fucking mad at this point, as you can imagine, having done what felt like way too many stupid things semi-against my will for two hours, not able to leave unless I had told someone earlier that I had to leave before the two hours were up, and I still couldn’t leave until I had, in my possession, my own fucking shoes. And I was being yelled at for opening the box. For getting my shoes. And I was mad also in that way you get mad at some injustice that you can’t really name yet because it’s all coming too fast, fast and small and through a crowd, and you haven’t had time to catch up to what you already sort of know at some molecular level, so instinctively you blurt something out, some hot anger blasts out of you in the form of hot words and you yell back across the room, over the heads of people in socked feet, over boxes you and only you are certain are filled with shoes because you opened yours, you yell back, “We have our own neurons, you know.” And everyone around you is completely silent, no longer forced friends, people, who less than an hour ago you were wrapped symbiotically together with in red thread. And even the guy way across the room who made eye contact with you so you would be the one to catch the ball of string he hurled at you so you would be bound together in some order that made you and him closer from way across the room because you were now tied together, won’t look at you. And it’s understandable in a way. There’s not supposed to be a fight. No, outside the performance fight exposing the awkwardness of people, now-unfriendly shoeless people, trapped together in a room. No one is supposed to be yelling, reprimanding. And you’re not supposed to yell at the artist after she reprimands you. There are, after all, rules. And so you say then, backing off, finding your place again, but surprisingly, loudly, because the room is full, amplified by all that silence, “Sorry.” And even though it’s not exactly what you mean to say, wanted to say in the moment, it feels absolutely perfect in that natural, unrehearsed, unscripted and unrehearsed, not quite right way, because it says, somehow, what you really did want to say which is, there were no fucking directions. No one said don’t open the boxes we’re putting in front of you. No one said at the beginning when they were taking your money and your shoes and telling you not to leave until the entire performance is up that at some point at the very end, after you’ve been surprisingly compliant, generous even with your time and patience and participation, that a box will be placed in front of you and although you will know that your shoes, your own property, will be in this box, you must follow the silent blindly intuited instructions that you leave the box untouched until as a final humiliation you are told to open the box and with a simultaneous flourish of brain box opening activity you will be given what is rightfully already yours, released, and finally sent on your way.

    And even then. Even then, I gave someone more credit than they deserved because I thought the boxes would actually have our shoes in them. I thought we would all open our boxes and right there in front of us, in our own boxes, would be our shoes. Now, there is the hokey, playing along with the joke thing that would have happened if our shoes had actually been in the boxes because then we would all have gasped or laughed or done some equally appropriate noise to voice our individual and collective awe that somehow, magically our own shoes had been returned to us, and it would have tapped right into the rest of the hokeyness that we felt from the very beginning, from the moment of taking off our shoes together to the group chanting. The red string. But still. It would have been better to have opened the brain spattered boxes and to have found our shoes. Am I right? But, as you have probably already figured out, the boxes did not have our own shoes in them, but instead had someone else’s shoes inside. So that we had to walk around and find who had our shoes and give the shoes we had back to the person who was walking around looking for their shoes. And really, if you think about it, it was brilliant. Not because it’s brilliant to have people do all the stupid things you ask them to do because it is performance art, and because they paid to have you tell them what to do, and because it was all about the brain and mirroring and unconscious mimicry and as I ranted for quite a long time after we left the building wearing our shoes, mad that we hadn’t left without them much earlier just out of spite because it couldn’t have been a more obvious pedantic expression of brain science turned performance art–but brilliant because it meant that it saved the woman who had thought up the evening from the applause part. It ended with all of us on a mission to get and give so we could get the hell out of there and we were instead back to that slightly embarrassed shy smiling at each other part because we were still shoeless and vulnerable and add now, dependent on each other for feeling less vulnerable. And relieved, relieved and happy that it was almost over and we could go. Brilliant. No applause part. Applause part averted.

    But this isn’t why I brought up the performance art. It isn’t because of the shoes. It’s not about the shoes. It’s about you being seated to my left. And how for this final talk, the talk where you explain everything, the one where you tell me the answer to everything, finally, now that we are here, at the end of it all, how I wanted you seated to my left. To feel more comfortable when we talked. Which is initially what made me think of the performance because when I was walking around in the brain room, looking at the different parts of the brain which were designed to look like different parts of a community or a city and there were little signs up that described the areas as real estate and there were people, guides, who would explain the different areas like they were real estate agents (Really, I’m not kidding, this is how bad it was.) there was a section that explained why most people tilt their heads to the right when they kiss.

    There was this explanation about how it has something to do with babies, about mothers and babies and how babies are held, universally, on the mother’s left side so that as newborns, as young as this, we are conditioned to turn toward our right to receive and offer affection. And I remember thinking, well, that doesn’t explain it. Something else comes first. Something makes the mother hold the baby on her left. First. So that the baby will learn, be conditioned to turn to the right, to accept and give affection on the right side, and later, as an adult, to kiss this way. And the paper, the little square of paper that said all of this also explained that it had nothing to do with people being right handed, that this wasn’t the reason because of some number-thing, something about 4 to 1 and how this 4 to1 equation meant that it had nothing to do with whether a mother was left or right handed, but that it had to do with a mother, regardless of her left or right handedness, holding her baby on the left. So that, as a result, most people, an extraordinary 80 percent of the human race then learn to tilt their heads to the right when they kiss. And I remember wanting to scream something, out loud, to laugh and scream something about how this doesn’t answer it. About how circular this explanation is, how it folds back on itself, collapses and leaves you nowhere, back at the beginning, with no real explanation. And right then I wanted my shoes back. It was probably that very moment that I knew, at some molecular level, I was going to be handed a box, at the very end, at the very end of it all I would be handed a box, and that the box would be wrapped gratuitously in tacky brain matter, like a present, and placed in front of me. And that I would not be allowed (agreed to by silent contract) to open the box. And that when I opened the box, when I sent a silent fuck you, a silent I’m breaking the contract that gives you the right to hold something of mine hostage, to bind me to some ridiculous contract I never even really signed on for, that I would then be tricked, yelled at and then tricked for trying to get back something that was always rightfully, indisputably mine to begin with. That was mine and that I never, ever, should have given up, never willingly handed over in the first place. And that, Ha, even then, at the end of it all, when I was finally given the box to open, when it was placed there, sitting right there in front of me, open—there would be someone else’s shoes inside. And I would have to walk around, idiotically, duped; duped and idiotically walk around, like the punch line to a bad joke, the butt end of a really bad joke, in socked feet, looking for the person who was holding up my shoes.

    So I think I probably knew from the very beginning that this was how it would end. That really I saw it coming. From the beginning. So that maybe it is a little about the shoes. Maybe everything circles around somehow to the shoes. Circles around and back and becomes, suddenly, somehow and all of a sudden, entirely and inevitably about the shoes. But still also about you, sitting to my left. About getting there early. About being comfortable when we have the final talk that explains everything, provides an answer, for everything. With you sitting to my left. Because among other things, among so many other things, you are not good at picking seats.

  6. Um… Ah… Um… Yeah, well… Um… Sooooo… There is a really good punk show in Shinjuku on Sunday if you would like to accompany me?


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