GPOYW - I Ran 50 Kilometers And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt Edition

GPOYW - I Ran 50 Kilometers And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt Edition

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Dispatch PMO-481: Invader Sydney reporting from Planet Hurtling
Sydney to mothership. Come in, mothership. Major discovery to report. These humans have tennis balls. Their civilization may not be as primitive as originally believed. Further investigation required. Updates forthcoming. Sydney out.

Dispatch PMO-481: Invader Sydney reporting from Planet Hurtling

Sydney to mothership. Come in, mothership. Major discovery to report. These humans have tennis balls. Their civilization may not be as primitive as originally believed. Further investigation required. Updates forthcoming. Sydney out.

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Earlier generations have weathered recessions, of course; this stall we’re in has the look of something nastier. Social Security and Medicare are going to be diminished, at best. Hours worked are up even as hiring staggers along: Blood from a stone looks to be the normal order of things “going forward,” to borrow the business-speak. Economists are warning that even when the economy recuperates, full employment will be lower and growth will be slower—a sad little rhyme that adds up to something decidedly ­unpoetic. A majority of Americans say, for the first time ever, that this generation will not be better off than its parents.

New York Magazine

Generation X is sick of your bullshit.

The first generation to do worse than its parents? Please. Been there. Generation X was told that so many times that it can’t even read those words without hearing Winona Ryder’s voice in its heads. Or maybe it’s Ethan Hawke’s. Possibly Bridget Fonda’s. Generation X is getting older, and can’t remember those movies so well anymore. In retrospect, maybe they weren’t very good to begin with. 

But Generation X is tired of your sense of entitlement. Generation X also graduated during a recession. It had even shittier jobs, and actually had to pay for its own music. (At least, when music mattered most to it.) Generation X is used to being fucked over. It lost its meager savings in the dot-com bust. Then came George Bush, and 9/11, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Generation X bore the brunt of all that. And then came the housing crisis. 

Generation X wasn’t surprised. Generation X kind of expected it. 

Generation X is a journeyman. It didn’t invent hip hop, or punk rock, or even electronica (it’s pretty sure those dudes in Kraftwerk are boomers) but it perfected all of them, and made them its own. It didn’t invent the Web, but it largely built the damn thing. Generation X gave you Google and Twitter and blogging; Run DMC and Radiohead and Nirvana and Notorious B.I.G. Not that it gets any credit. 

But that’s okay. Generation X is used to being ignored, stuffed between two much larger, much more vocal, demographics. But whatever! Generation X is self-sufficient. It was a latchkey child. Its parents were too busy fulfilling their own personal ambitions to notice any of its trophies—which were admittedly few and far between because they were only awarded for victories, not participation.

In fairness, Generation X could use a better spokesperson. Barack Obama is just a little too senior to count among its own, and it has debts older than Mark Zuckerberg. Generation X hasn’t had a real voice since Kurt Cobain blew his brains out, Tupac was murdered, Jeff Mangum went crazy, David Foster Wallace hung himself, Jeff Buckley drowned, River Phoenix overdosedElliott Smith stabbed himself (twice) in the heart, Axl got fat. 

Generation X is beyond all that bullshit now. It quit smoking and doing coke a long time ago. It has blood pressure issues and is heavier than it would like to be. It might still take some ecstasy, if it knew where to get some. But probably not. Generation X has to be up really early tomorrow morning.

Generation X is tired.

It’s a parent now, and there’s always so damn much to do. Generation X wishes it had better health insurance and a deeper savings account. It wonders where its 30s went. It wonders if it still has time to catch up.

Right now, Generation X just wants a beer and to be left alone. It just wants to sit here quietly and think for a minute. Can you just do that, okay? It knows that you are so very special and so very numerous, but can you just leave it alone? Just for a little bit? Just long enough to sneak one last fucking cigarette? No?

Whatever. It’s cool. 

Generation X is used to disappointments. Generation X knows you didn’t even read the whole thing. It doesn’t want or expect your reblogs; it picked the wrong platform.

Generation X should have posted this to LiveJournal.

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I have two packs of Marlboro Lights sitting in my kitchen drawer. I haven’t touched them in exactly six months today. I don’t miss them at all.
Well, except when I’m watching “Mad Men.” But, otherwise, not at all.

I have two packs of Marlboro Lights sitting in my kitchen drawer. I haven’t touched them in exactly six months today. I don’t miss them at all.

Well, except when I’m watching “Mad Men.” But, otherwise, not at all.

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There’s no need to fear; Underdog is here!

Fans of other playoff baseball teams are making a case for you to support their colors, so I’ll make mine. It’s quite simple, really:

Total payroll of 2011 MLB playoff teams
New York Yankees $202,689,028
Philadelphia Phillies $172,976,379
Detroit Tigers $105,700,231
St. Louis Cardinals $105,433,572
Texas Rangers $92,299,264
Milwaukee Brewers $85,497,333
Arizona Diamondbacks $53,639,833
Tampa Bay Rays $41,053,571

How many Tampa Bay Rays players can you name? Two? Three? No matter.

As my pal notfunnyfunny said last night, Joe Maddon is the MacGuyver of baseball. Give him any nine guys and he’ll figure out a way to make them competitive.

How can you not like that?

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Queasy like Sunday morning

Dog’s sick. Woke me up four times in the night to go outside.

Actually, that’s not true. He only woke me up once. I never fell back asleep after the first one.

It’s maddening, and not just because I’d rather be sleeping. You wouldn’t believe how fickle the little bastard can be about when and where he’ll take a shit.

Not there. Not there. Not there. Not there. Maybe there. Hmm. No, not there, either.

Suddenly I’m Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets.” Don’t be like me, you little sumbitch. Don’t be like me!

“Do your business,” I say helpfully, because that’s what we say. And he looks up at me with the canine equivalent of an eye roll, and I imagine him replying in John Hillerman’s droll voice, “My dear man, would you hang the Mona Lisa in a frame made of popsicle sticks?”

So we move on. Him with his tongue wagging and tail bobbing. Me with my hair sticking up and eyes at half-mast. He looks happy and healthy. I’m the one who looks sick.

Which, naturally, is when the neighbor rounds the corner with his dog.

I groan a knowing groan. The neighbor’s fine. The neighbor’s dog, too. I don’t care what I look like. I just realize what this means.

Any sighting of another dog, a human, a bird, a squirrel, a lizard, a butterfly, a particularly charming stick or, apparently, the occasional ghost means that our quest for the perfect poop-site has been completely derailed. We’ll be starting over from square one. Eventually.

The neighbor nods. I mumble, “Morning.” The dogs sniff one another’s assholes.

They disappear inside, and for the next two, maybe three minutes, my partner glances repeatedly in the direction of their last known whereabouts. Just in case they’re coming back. He’s poo-shy, y’see.

Who isn’t, really?

“Do your business,” I say again helpfully. He shrugs it off.

What do I know about business, anyway.

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I feel like I’m talking about myself too much.
My girlfriend, while writing a cover letter to a potential employer

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**GPOYW** - American Drink edition

**GPOYW** - American Drink edition

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Unemployment: Day 100

I’m sitting on the couch (+2 comfort)

drinking a beer (+2 courage)

while drafting cover letters (+2 literacy)

on my iPad (+2 tech-savvy)

to make myself sound ideally suited (+2 cunning)

for jobs I don’t even want (-500 self-respect).

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