A few reasons why I am NOT a fuckingassholeAlphamale

Aw damnit, can you you blame me for wanting to be an Alpha male?
Everyone wants to be the Alpha, the jock, the stud. The guy who has the pick of the pussy litter.
Don’t lie.
I won’t. I’d love to be. But I’m not.

I didn’t have the slightest concept of “Alpha” until I started traipsing around the mansphere. Even then, it was a bewildering freaking concept. So Alpha is what exactly? And I can be Alpha how?

And why in the world would man want to be Alpha anyways? Women?

Alpha, the romanticized and fetishized carrot today’s breed of floundering and unlaid young guys wandering like lost souls through the current sexual marketplace seem hung up on. Alpha by its very definition is rare. Unique, prized. If everyone were Alpha we’d need a lot more space, wouldn’t we? And a lot more women.

Yet all these guys all want to be Alpha. Mimic Alpha. Ah.
The subtle wordplay here is not that you are Alpha, per se, but that you act Alpha. The thinking being that as your mind goes so does your body. And your affect and mannerisms. Thus you will embody Alpha if you act the part. Eventually you will fool yourself. You will convince yourself that you are indeed Alpha until the day someone bigger and better saunters in, fucks your girlfriend and then proceeds to pummel you into the ground. Yeah, Alpha this.

The Alpha concept is awesomely cheesy. I understand so little about it other than what I’ve gleaned over the countless references to it in this corner of the blogosphere. What I’ve read, for the most part, as written by young horny guys, sounds oddly self-aggrandizing and slightly delusional. Alpha has become the magic pill, the cure for the misery of loneliness and pathological virginity.

I’m not Alpha. Decidedly not.
There are aspects of my personality that may fit the Alpha category, but there are many important ones that glaringly refuse Alphaness. In fact, I would argue that I am the anti-Alpha.

You see, that opens up a new can of worms.
Beta.
From what I’ve gathered, I’m not quite Beta either.
What the hell am I?

Who knows. Does it matter?

I imagine there is a little of both in all guys.
Anyone who is fully Beta or fully Alpha must surely exude a comic and caricature-like air of exaggeration. Not to mention the dangerous slivers of fractured emotionality.
We all must contain a mixture of Alpha and Beta.

My indisputable rise to the top of the Alpha heap (and thus my pick of females to staff my humble harem) is kept in check by several personal qualities which I believe instantly disqualify me from Gold membership at Club Alpha.

These are some reasons why I am not a fuckingassholeAlphamale.

Women aren’t that important to me.

Hahaha. Don’t go there.

I say this in all sincerity.  
I mean, of course I love women, I love hot women with great curves and sparkling eyes and I love it when they decide to sit on my lap and wiggle their ass. I love their tight jeans and their silly giggles. I love it. But frankly, the procurement of such fleshy entertainment just does not rank high on my to-do list. I certainly don’t see the need to structure my entire life around piling on more notches in the greedy quest to get more and more. I’ve been there.  I’m 45. Running after every woman like a dog chases its tail really doesn’t appeal to me at this point in my life. Alpha is a sexual trait, essentially. Alpha speaks to a male’s ability to manipulate certain qualities and traits in measured doses that will allow him to mate with the most fertile females possible. I certainly don’t think an Alpha male has such a ho-hum attitude about females as I do.

I really have no ambition

At least not in the traditional materialistic and cumulative sense seen in the modern Western mind.  I have no longing to own any of the model status symbols which we slave ourselves to.  I have no urge to own any of the big-ticket items that require one to abolish all good monetary sense in order to attain. I’m not particularly sold on structuring my life around the path which will pave the way for their acquisition. You know, big money, big job title, big checkbook.  One of the master forces propelling the civilized Alpha is the exaggerated drive to build status and power through the display of material wealth.   Consequently, access to the most females.

I’m way too chill

Dude, just think Cheech and Chong without the reefer.  I rarely get riled up. I take things at 3/4 speed compared to most people.  I do things according to my own stopwatch which beats a little slower than civilization’s master clock. Intense would hardly describe me.  Alpha must possess a drive to conquer the environment, the elements. I lack it.

I’m too small

Isn’t an Alpha dependent upon the perception of physical might and power?  Maybe in the primitive jungle eras of yore, physical prowess was proven by actual combat, but in this modern world the perception is more important than the ability.  I don’t know any men who walk around challenging other men to random fights in order to uphold their Alpha supremacy. I don’t think the crowd at the supermarket or the subway platform would be terribly impressed. In the absence of such physically expressed displays of Alpha might, we are entirely dependent on physique to answer the Alpha unknown.   Simply put, big guys have a leg up in the display of Alpha by default.   Small men are automatically perceived as less physically fearsome, and physical fearsomeness is one of the key Alpha traits. Do you intimidate?

Yeah well, I guess it would be nice. If I had found this Alpha stuff like 30 years ago.
I could have been somebody!

Genderally, the Glass Ceiling is a red herring

I like to reckon myself a rather imaginative lad.  That’s why I’m taking great pride in a word I just designed.
Sadly, I’m sure someone, somewhere, has thought of it already and it would be presumptuous of me to stand on my podium and proclaim my trailblazing originality.

I was devising a warning / disclaimer which would preface tonight’s post.  I started with something like “warning, you will be assaulted by gender-based generalizations in this post” but it seemed too long.  If only I could shorten it…and that’s when the word popped into my head.

“Genderalization.”

WARNING: TONIGHT’S POST CONTAINS GRATUITOUS GENDERALIZATIONS!

Genderalizations are just that.  They are broad statements which purport to explain a diffused trait of the gender in question.  It’s a genderalization to say men like football and women like tea parties.  Could you argue with that?   But if you “go out on a limb” and state it as a fact, you’ll be taken to task by everyone and his (or her) uncle (or aunt) because they happen to know so-and-so who actually hates football or hates tea parties.  Human nature is such that it loves boasting of intimate and first-hand knowledge of exceptions in order to refute common sense.

All men like football and all women like tea parties.  Throwing the word “all” into this sentence tends to subvert its authority.  One is better off leaving the “all” out of the equation.  It’s less arguable as such.  Which brings me to a subject I’d like to chat about and in the process. probably rely on some genderalizations which some might find less than pleasing.  But whatever.  I’ve experienced many of these genderalizations first-hand, so I don’t feel guilty about resorting to them.

I was thinking about the magnificent, global Glass Ceiling.

The infamous Glass Ceiling, the discrepancy in men’s and women’s pay for similiar jobs.

First off, I’m not disputing the presence of a disparity in salary levels.  I fully believe that it exists and is born out by real-world statistics.

Men make more than women for the same duties.  Agreed.

I maintain however, that this is not the result of ulterior and rehearsed actions of maledom at large.  I don’t believe groups of men meet behind closed doors while they puff on cigars or swill martinis and structure a far-ranging and pervasive strategy of putting dents in the pay rates of women (price fixing if you will).  I don’t believe it’s quite so deliberate or consciously designed.

I think there is a reason women are paid less than men…I think it’s owing in large part to the failure of women, in genderal, to provide a viable and dependable workforce across its entire spectrum.

The business world, despite my cynicism (and antagonism) is largely a well-oiled and self-leveling machine.  With millions of employees contained within the payrolls of companies, large and small, across the country, there is ultimately an equilibrium that is essentially attained as salaries are rewarded over the long haul.  At that macro level perspective, there is very little conscious effort to be observed in the regulation of salary levels.  Salaries are determined by the omnipotent and everpresent laws of supply and demand and other quirks of a free market system in which prices (salaries) find a suitable level without any help or deliberate meddling by any of the parties involved.  Necessity and peformance ultimately provide a basis by which salaries rise or sink.

Yes, there is a glass ceiling.

No, it’s not fair…to women who work hard.

The Glass Ceiling is merely the free market concept’s allocation of salary resources based on an overall history of performance levels women have brought to the table…genderally.

Women are less likely to devote quality time to work.

This is a genderalization and I can point out several women I know first-hand who work just as hard as any man I know.  They take their jobs seriously, and uncharacteristically, do not bring their personal lives to work.  One of them is even punctual.  She takes her work hours seriously and does not assume they are a fluid set of criteria which can bend at her capricious whims.

Genderally, however, women are less dependable workers than men.

For every woman I know who brings a masculine simple-minded work ethic to the job on a daily basis, there are 5 or 10 women who are

  • consistently late
  • consistently out sick
  • consistently leaving early for family errands
  • so wracked with PMS or other maladies that they are a waste of skin for the day but they still show up because they are tapped out on sick hours
  • consistently on personal calls or texting at the desk all day long
  • consistently in a fluctuating state of sourness thus devouring any sense of good will or team work
  • consistently butting heads with anyone who intrudes upon her fragile sensibilities…thus creating a “walking on eggshells” atmosphere which also hampers productivity
  • a bit less analytical and hardy than her male counterparts
  • consistently cluttering the work day with family errands and using the desk as a home office

As promised.  Genderalizations.

These are all worst-case female scenarios.  The very worst embody these traits completely and should not even be allowed to have a social security number.  On the other end of the spectrum there are very conscientious women who are able to devote most of their day to the job.   Usually, these women are unmarried and unmothered.  Odd how that works.  It’s as if society is subtly dictating that even though women are still participating in the workforce, they are not able to participate on a man’s level due to motherly duties.  Hence, she is treated, across the board, as a slightly part-time employee.  With commensurate compensation.

The dynamics dictating salaries is under the strict guidance of market-driven logic which distills the performance and idiosyncratic nature of the female worker throughout history.

Millions of anecdotal exceptions don’t change or negate the widespread and genderal traits of women in the workplace.  Added up, blended and shaken through the great impersonal sieve steered by the machinery of American business, a pool of cold computations is filtered out which spell out a group’s monetary worth in the mammoth scheme of things. And it tells us that women have proven over time to be less reliable workers.  And money is society’s greatest symbol of human utility.

We’re trapped in this blog!! Lettuce out, please…

 

I had an oddly disappointing experience tonight after I ate my dinner.

 

On Saturday night I bought a bunch of produce at a farmer’s market I love because of its selection and prices. I bought a few crowns of broccoli, carrots, Brussels sprouts, a cantaloupe, and a head of cauliflower. I switch it around. I don’t always buy the same items, but this time I was in the mood for some good pale cauliflower goodness, the other white vegetable. I wanted some white plant meat!

 

As is my custom, I don’t deal with my fresh vegetables until Monday night. Sundays turn into a laborious lazyfest and yesterday was doubly laborious and unproductive because of Mother’s Day.

 

Tonight, after work, I cooked up a quick dinner which tasted 30 times better than it should have owing to the fact that I fasted today. Monday is my designated fast day, in case you didn’t know. I don’t eat between Sunday dinner and Monday dinner. I drink one 8 ounce cup of black coffee (3-4 calories, tops). Due to its negligible dietary content and caloric count, a small serving of coffee is allowed. Anyways, I made a cheese quesadilla with jalapenos in one of those wheat flour tortillas, the kind of stupid shit that leads people to think they are eating “healthy.” For a majority of Americans, the dietary intent is what counts, not what they are actually putting in their mouths. Regardless, I eat them too. I just don’t play the “wow, I’m eating a healthy tortilla” game.

 

After my quesadilla I set out on a grueling task which I really dread. Chopping up, cleaning and storing the vegetables. So damned agonizing. Still, it’s cheaper than frozen veggies and tastes appreciably better. Frozen veggies are convenient but they taste…off. First I washed the melon, washed it good with hot water, for I’ve read that melons are a common source of food bacteria since they grow off a vine and lay in the dirt. Because of our wonderful food manufacturing system, melons are frequently contaminated by animal feces in the midst of bountiful and profitable plants.

 

After I washed the cantaloupe, I chopped it open into eighths, seeded it and put the small pieces into a tin container for storage in the refrigerator.

 

Then I dug into the cauliflower.

Cauliflower comes in that snug plastic wrapping which you have to unwind and tear and cut in order to set the vegetable free and let it breathe. I snipped, tore, unwound, removed the plastic wrap. I thought to myself wow, this cauliflower is sure leafy. I peeled back the leaf and still no signs of the white bumpy martian surface of the evil-smelling cauliflower. Odd. I kept peeling until…I realized there was no cauliflower hiding here! This was a fucking head of lettuce. What the hell?

 

I thought back to Saturday night but I was shopping with half a mind. The other half was contemplating the gift and lunch strategy for Mother’s Day. I was not being mindful. I was distracted, scattered. I have no idea if I reached into the lettuce section and pulled out what I assumed was a head of cauliflower because I was too preoccupied to read the sign…or did someone mischievously place this lettuce in with the rest of the cauliflower? An impostor in the sea of cauliflower, its true identity hidden by the green leaves. Camouflaged by the green verdant mask. A head I picked which offered no white stinky goodness, only green bland leafiness once cracked open.

 

Shit.

Disappointed.

I don’t eat salad.

I think salad is really lame and I don’t see the point.

 

What the hell is lettuce all about? It is water and plant fiber. Rah rah. Exciting. Eating a salad is a half-hearted and very lazy attempt at eating healthy but it’s only healthy insofar and it is not fried, does not contain 80% of your daily carbohydrate allotment, and is not injected with growth hormone or other gonad-destroying chemicals. So yeah, salad is healthy by the process of elimination, for what it is not, but salad offers no nutrtional value. Fuck salad.

 

I’ve noticed a tendency on the part of many people to eat salads which really consist of nothing but many servings of bad food tossed in with a nutritionally inconspicuous item like lettuce. People wolf that stuff down and delude themselves with the notion that they are eating healthy. Nope. Sorry, you are not eating healthy. You are just not eating unhealthy. Dietary habits should include avoidance of bad food, granted, but they must also include a variety of aggressively good foods. Foods that contain an abundance of vitamins, minerals, anti-oxidants, all sorts of other beneficial chemicals your body needs. This is where many fall short. Forget the lettuce, buy a head of cauliflower. Peel back that lettuce leaf and behold the wonderful designs of nature’s harvest.

 

I’m disappointed. I won’t let it go to waste, I’ll give the head of lettuce away. Someone will want it, everyone loves lettuce because it’s so damned healthy.

 

 

Don’t forget to mark Parent’s Day on your calendar

Driving north on Atlantic Boulevard in East Los Angeles this morning at 11:30 was an agonizing adventure. Mind you, driving on that street any Sunday is typically trying…the crosswalks brim with sluggish pedestrians unmindful of red lights, gazillions of driveways beckon drivers at the last minute making you brake suddenly to avoid rear ending them, and there is an overall Sunday lackadaisical meandering driver vibe. If you need to get somewhere quickly, good luck.

Add to the usual snail’s pace of this traffic flow the fact that it was a hectic Mother’s Day morning, and you’re looking at a cascading parade of obstructions and barriers which conveniently spring to action in any way possible with the ostensible purpose of delaying your progress. Why is it every “holiday” seems to leave people in a state of confusion and bewilderment? Atlantic Boulevard was dotted with makeshift flower “shops” on most corners selling the obligatory Mother’s Day last minute potpourri of all things mother might love. There was one corner, I think it was in front of the closed Midas shop, that the outdoor temporary gift shop actually sold purses and clothes on a rack (in addition to flowers and balloons, of course). Really nasty-looking second-hand stuff that looked like it had been carted directly from the swap meet. Whatever, I guess it’s the thought that counts.

Mother’s Day is a big deal.
It is certainly a bid deal for the restaurants of the land. Mother’s Day is The day for restaurants. It’s the one business day that allows them to reverse 4 months of so-so business with a single burst of ceaseless waves of diners paying tribute the mother in their lives. Families in tow, children buzzing around playfully, it’s a lot of ado.

Funny, I don’t think about Mother’s Day much during the previous two-week lead up. When the alloted Sunday rolls around, I go through the normal mindless routine, the last-minute shopping, the pained strategic focused gift-shopping which involves choosing just the right item, the one suiting a Mother’s Day gift. An iron doesn’t cut it…a food processor, nope, doesn’t cut it either. Mother’s Day is the day of symbolic and useles bullshit gifts, the girlie stuff that no man in the world can comprehend. Gloves for the feet and toes, scarves, just a cornucopia of useless and self-pampering crap that affects a woman’s heart because it really places the value of utility far below the value of cheesy thoughtfulness. All Mother’s Days are like this. I don’t reject the day, but neither do I embrace it. I’ve never understood why it needs its own “day.” Shouldn’t the entire year mark an endless, daily tribute to the mothers in our life?

Anyways, this year I read assorted blog posts dealing with the forthcoming Mother’s Day.

I find the congruence of Mother’s Day within the realm of the MRA/PUA blogosectors quite fascinating and a bit curious.
Also, earlier this week, I received an email from a friend telling me that one of our mutual friends from days of yore lost his mother about 3 weeks ago. Three weeks before Mother’s Day.

In one of my solemn and introspective moods, I began thinking about Mother’s Day and the larger cultural dynamic which it symbolizes.

Mothers. In a healthy family, this is the one person, the one woman, who always has your back. How many times do we hear the axiomatic story of a mother who laments what a fine child her son is even though he is presently in jail awaiting arraignment on 6 counts of murder? A mother’s love is unqualified and flaunts its selflessness in the face of reason and good sense. When I contemplate the world and reality of motherhood which I view in such instances, I cannot separate it or distance it from the context of a group that includes my own mother. No matter how I try. The woman who defends her evil son is my mom, is your mom, is our mom.

And it follows that each time I am tempted to make a bitter or rash comment about females, a coldly designed observation about the curse of womankind, I find I must hesitate, for my mother is one of them. She is one of those people who belongs to the other half of the human species, the half which so many of the MRA devotees delight in condemning to subhuman status. I can never honestly and sincerely (or guiltlessly) damn the female species in one fell swoop. I have no problem damning specific women I’ve known who easily embody the trashy and self-obsessed feminine criteria which many of the MRA decry. Judging by the cold-hearted nature of misogyny I witness, I can only deduce that many of these guys are either soulless psychopaths who lack any connection with their mother figure or that they never experienced a normal relationship with their mother to begin with. I cannot believe a man who is close to his mother, a man who loves and respects his mother, is capable of misogyny if he’s completely sincere with himself. Complete hatred and distrust of women is only possible if a man’s relationship with his mother is non-existent or extremely diseased.

So yeah, I’m fine with Mother’s Day.
Of course it’s just another lame commercial manifestation of our money-hungry marketing culture, but I can live with that for a week or so out of the year. Consider it your opportunity to make right those other 364 days you are preoccupied with your life and mired in the midst of a passive laziness with allows you to take your entire life for granted; it’s a day you can finally be reminded to channel all the repressed and forgotten gratitude that you meant to express in the past year into one action-packed day of gifts, food and flowers.

As a father, I suppose it would be nice to be on the receiving end of that gratitude. But Father’s Day sorta lacks the same punch, doesn’t it? I hear a lot of fathers say their idea of the perfect Father’s Day would be the ability to go play golf or work alone and unencumbered in the garage for a few hours. These are usually the married fathers of multiple children and they merely seek the earnest escape from fatherly duties for just a short while.

Father’s Day, in this age of browbeaten and emotionally castrated men, of floundering fathers, is vitally important. We are at a historical moment when the father needs to be honored for the important and unique role he plays in the familial parenting design. The modern father has been neglected and discarded, he’s become an afterthought, a sitcom joke, an affront to the strong male and father figure which our children need. Shouldn’t fatherhood be celebrated and lauded?

Fatherhood has become a running joke, a self-referential comic escape in which fathers, rather than receiving well-deserved acclaim, seek only escape.

If you are a single father who is currently doing his best to raise a son part-time, you are abandoned. There is no flowery or honorable commemoration for your sorry ass. You are left to fend for yourself and develop your own fatherly schema to raise your son whilst also left simultaneously to impart masculine values in order to counteract and offset the influence of that other part of his life which usually involves a strong dose of feminine, “girlfriend-driven” values which the mother surely rakes him over. Us men do not generally talk about or share this child-raising stuff. You do the best you can and hope what you have molded doesn’t blow up in your face because that kind of damage is deep and persistent. It is expensive and agonizing to undo, if in fact in can be undone. And by the time it manifests itself, years have passed and you’re probably not going to be very well-equipped to handle the mess when it comes back to bite you in the ass.

I personally think we should do away with the Mother’s Day/Father’s Day matrix. It’s time to discontinue that shit like a rattly badly-made car. Close that assembly line and replace it with Parent’s Day. Let’s recognize the hard work and involvement all good parenting requires.

Matriarchy and patriarchy are equally important parts of a fundamental working system of family structure. Both should balance and complement each other based on the relevant gender qualities with a sharp delineation made between the two. Only then will a mentally healthy generation of children be possible. Which will in turn lead to ensuing healthy generations. Instead we are in the midst of a domino rush of faltering and unnatural parade of imbalanced offspring.

The Mexican culture from which I spring strikes me as strongly matriarchal. It’s that Catholic Virgin Mary thing. The Mexican family is strongly structured and guided to revolve around the dominant female mother figure who reigns over the household. This, despite the archetypal machismo that the Mexican man apparently possesses. Or makes a display of. It is a facade, it is the prize the Mexican matriarch has attained by default due to the absence of the the Mexican patriarch who typically recluses himself from the intricate workings of the family dynamic. The Mexican father and husband leaves it to the mother while he runs off and indulges in public acts of bravado. The mother, left alone with the task of socializing the children, ends up perpetuating yet another matriarchal-minded generation.

A father’s role involves…involvement, and laziness or strategic absence doesn’t cut it. For a man to leave the child-raising solely to the mother is to allow mother-driven values to infiltrate the brood. A cycle is reborn.

Today’s broken home breeds such a convoluted sense of generational posterity.

And we are left with…this.

Inappropriate Man

As I got ready for work this morning the television played in the background with the volume near mute, like “1” or something. I noticed as I passed back and forth that CNN’s news program was airing a short feature story about a woman with that disfigurement in which people are born with very short and undeveloped arms, the kind that look vestigial except for the full-sized hands which are usually a little gnarled. I didn’t stay to watch, but I was able to make sense of the nature of the feature. It was undoubtedly one of those feel-good stories about a handicapped person overcoming their life obstacle to accomplish the impossible. In this case, the girl was practicing martial arts, I think it was karate. The “wow” element of this story of course concerned her lack of arms, or lack of useful arms which might happen to come in handy if you’re facing a couple of attackers who you need to flip over your shoulder….

And it began, uncontrollably. A flood of really dark and non-repeatable humor burst out my mental orifice. It happens every damn time. The Thoughts.

I have this weird compulsive tendency of allowing my mind to be filled with tasteless and cruel thoughts. The more I tell myself it’s wrong, the more they return! The more they worm their stubborn way right into my mind. It’s like people who feel the need to count cracks in the sidewalk even though they know they shouldn’t. Put them on the sidewalk and watch the private battle that rages in their head as they try to will themselves not to count the cracks. It’s a tug of war. And always, the battle is lost. I assure you, they will begin counting the cracks while ignoring the adult squeaky voice in their head commanding “don’t!”

Beyond all my sick thoughts and obscene private observations, I am generally a very inappropriate-minded person. My manner of thinking, of expression…it’s not quite like anyone else. I’ve never fit the mold. I’ve always found myself stuck, half in, half out, one part of me in the normal world of society, the other mired in the stubborn lockjaw of the bizarro anti-world which I also inhabit. I’m not a team player.

I have the most unredeeming thoughts. The sickest notions. And they always strike at the most inopportune times. I can’t help it. I think the worst shit. As in those times I see a young handicapped girl prancing around in a karate uniform.

I’ve never joined, have I?
It’s jarring to realize this. You carry the burden day in, day out, all your life. This burden of alienation. Sometimes it affects me more than others. If your ego is spectacular, you can convince yourself that it’s everyone else who is abnormal/stupid/deluded/fill in the blank. Not you.

It’s a terrible way to exist in this world, really. The only way to cope is to delusion. Convince your mind that you do fit in and you need to suppress all the dark shit that bounces around that strange skull of yours.
Or you embrace it and just don’t give a shit.
Or maybe, there is a third option, the lunatic option. This is the one which leads loners and eccentrics to make headlines when they lash out in a hail of gunfire or other objects they can launch and take out groups of people.

I’m firmly esconced in the middle way, the path of defiance.

I realize fully that I’m not built like the rest, and I never will be. I gave up that fight long ago. On the other hand this has ceased to be a source of bitterness or anger. That is how I have escaped the third option (and most people who choose the third option do not become mass murderers…most of them just creep along under the radar leaving their slimy and unhappy trail spashed over everyone who stands in their way, leaving the essence of distaste in their smoggy wake).

I’m Inappropriate Man.
Laughing at the wrong things.
At the wrong times.

Thinking the most evil thoughts.
At the wrong times.

I’m Inappropriate Man, I lash out against your conformity, your sense of hallowed seriousness.
I lash out against your groupthink and your groupbehavior.
I’m Inappropriate Man and you disgust me with your falsity and mild-mannered professional bullshit demeanor.

I’m Inappropriate Man and I act how I want, say what I want, offend like I want.
I flaunt my unconventionality because it’s especially charming to witness when it is the cumbersome background noise which disrupts the even flow of your uptight radius.

I will never be like you, and you will never welcome me.

I’m Inappropriate Man and I take great pleasure in pushing your buttons and pissing you off for the hell of it.
Watching your face smolder, listening to your tired sighs, I delight in making you squirm.
Because I’m Inappropriate Man. And sometimes I get trounced; sometimes I get my ass kicked. But.
I’m Inappropriate Man and I will return.

I revel in the downfall of your treasured institutions.
Your treasured possessions.
I am secretly amused and offended by the carefully structured path of your life, future and past. I am amused and offended by your sense of civility and manners.

Self-seriousness brings out the worst in me.
Don’t ever take yourself too seriously in my presence. Especially if you’re a moron.

For I am Inappropriate Man. I cannot be serious.

Inappropriate Boy couldn’t even take a normal photograph when he belonged to the Cub Scouts. Everyone else except for one other boy looked the camera directly and did as they were told. They said cheese.

I was Inappropriate Boy and I never said cheese.
And I don’t say what you expect me to say.

I wiped my ass with the script long ago.

I’m Inappropriate Man and I am filled with revulsion at your artificial monuments of progress and global pretensions of might.

I’m Innappriate Man and sometimes I’m just angry and I would like to say Fuck You.