Penguin Lust

I believe the term "I don't give a shit" comes from the way hate constipates people. I've written at least seven different journal entries tonight that I couldn't finish because I was writing from a place of anger. Each word popping the pimple of the huge ass that incited this seething.

No, that's not right. I like asses, and this person is definitely not something I like. He's not an ass, he's not a cock, he's not even a douchebag or a skidmark, he's a dingleberry: that little piece of lint and shit that sticks in a crack of what may otherwise be a nice piece of ass. Who cares about some scenester hanger-on-er who wants to instigate worthless confrontation? I shouldn't let something so insignificant piss me off. The next time someone mentions said dingleberry and what that dingleberry may or may not have said about me, I will smile and nod and busy myself thinking of something worthier of my time: amateur curling, the dietary habits of banana slugs, collecting Pez dispensers. Every time I have the urge to make a retort about what a talentless waste of sperm said dingleberry is I shall say only: Penguin Lust.

Everyone has their foils: Brain has his Snowball; Rush Limbaugh has his democrats (and sobriety); the Roman empires have their Goths. Mine is a Goth, as well. The sort of Goth who not only wears all black, but owns a scorpion, several pacifiers, and glow sticks. He lives for misguided confrontation. He's got a Livejournal full of stories about how the government is all mean and shadowy, and how he should be running the country. But really, he's just a coke addict from a rich family who has delusions of grandeur, and we already have one of those in the White House.

I'm sorry, what I meant to say was Penguin Lust.

I'm tired of reading things written by people with e-balls. The people who, a generation ago, wrote angry letters to the editor about how the kids these days don't understand the importance of seatbelt safety. These days, every one of these ultracrepidarianistic dingleberries has their own blog that they use to vent their frustration, and they take every "attaboy" directed their way by another delusional dingleberry as justification that they're right thinking, and.... Why are you all looking at me like that?

Penguin Lust.

I should be flattered that that dingleberry called me an asshole. I think assholes are hot. And maybe I am an asshole. After all, you are what you eat.

Penguin Lust.

Tomorrow afternoon, while said dingleberry is at his high paying, but admittedly high-stress job, getting frustrated because his life is just sooooooo hard, I'll be smiling and passing espressos to the same people that piss him the hell off. People who are angry at life, who don't know how to perform simple tasks so they take out their frustration on customer service people like me and the dingleberry.

But, you know what, they don't take out their frustration on me, because I'm not some ball of rage looking for any excuse in the world to have an argument, or write some shitty "poem" about how corporations are baaaaaad, or Dick Cheney is eeeeeeevil. Yawn.

People are generally nice to me because I've finally reached the Zen of Not Caring What Dingleberries Think. Non-dingleberries can tell that I'm not just smiling at them, but with them. And dingleberries know that while they can get my adrenaline rushing for a minute or two, in the end, I'll just laugh them off because...Penguin Lust.

I've wasted too much time on this. While I wrote this snarky entry, I could have been doing something more enjoyable like clipping my toenails, or writing a musical about foosball rage, based on the wit and wisdom of Anne Coultier. I shall devote no more time to this.

I'm sitting on my comfortable bed, listening to the soothing sounds of a cat being raped by a carpenter's belt full of nails on chalkboards. It's snowing outside, but I feel warmer than I ever felt when I lived in Pieceofshitdeserttown. I want to go outside and roll in the snow, bask in the glow of Penguin Lust.