Sunday, December 6, 2009

Teaching Sponges About Drugs.

Before I got into comedy I was going to college to be a teacher. At the time I thought it’d be the best job for me. I’d spend nine months teaching and influencing future generations while spending the summer eating handfulls of LSD and streaking through nudist colonies…fully clothed, ofcourse.

I wanted to teach Kindergarden cause I thought it’d be easy. I’d show up in the morning throw a coloring book in front of ‘em, tell them to stay in the lines, and then go smoke out with the janitor. Show up a couple hours later, eat some animal crackers, do an eight ball, and go to recess. I’d be the cool teacher that could keep up with them on the playground. And when it was nap time, I could sniff all the glue I wanted. Ya know, to make sure it was safe for them to eat. It’s like handing out needles at a free clinic. They’re gonna do it any way. There were a lot of things we had as kids that later translated to drugs. I got my first bag of cocaine at the age of 6. It had Fun Dip written across the front and came with the little dip-stick so you could duck out into the bathroom and get a little bump before P.E. By age 7 I was speed ballin’ that shit with Pixie Stix just so I could finish my sit up test.

But after a while the whole college thing didn’t make sense to me. I mean if getting a degree was such a great thing, why was it gonna take me 4 years of college to learn what it takes a 5 year old one year of grade school to learn? That’s not right. For one, I’ve already gone through Kindergarden…a couple of times…I don’t need my students coming up to me at the end of the year, “Uh, well, that was easy. What took YOU so long, dumbass?”, their snotstreaks flaking off into my Bailey’s and coffee.

So I’m tellin’ my mom this and she says to me “Well, Jason. You know their minds are like sponges, they just soak up everything.”

Their minds are like sponges? I’ve never understood that expression. All that means to me as that you have to hold them down to keep them under water. AND YA’ DO. They’re fighters.

That’s just a weird expression to me because we’re talking about “the children” here. They’re minds, the most precious commodity known to man, hold they key to the future of our planet. And for whatever reason we want to compare them to the dumbest animal in the ocean. I mean I know a sponge can look like a brain but they don’t have brains. Which is probably a good thing because if they did, they’d have a terribly low collective self esteem. You’d have a bunch of sponges at the bottom of the ocean crying “I’m never gonna soak up all this water!!!”.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

You Can't Scratch Off at the Front Counter

Recently the state of Arkansas added a state lottery to it's secret list of "things we can do to make our good citizens act like idiots in public". Now I think it's good that our education system is supposed to benefit from this. And I think it's good that, real soon, we'll get to see some half witted knuckle dragger from Possum Grape talk about what he's gonna do with his winnings. "I'm gon' have my lifetime disability check I git from the railroad for injuring my thumbnail, airdropped to my house every month by a Blackhawk Helicopter!!! Then, I'm gon' put spinners on every tractor in this county!!!! Cowboy UP mutherfucker!!!!" What I have the most problem with is the outright rudeness of a lot of people when the possibility of never having to work another day in their life is dangled in front of their noses like a dope sprinkled carrot (they're good for getting really good eyesight really fast!!!). I've never seen more people cut in line than at a gas station with a giant box of scratch tickets sitting on the counter. People are so obsessed with WINNING that they're willing to act like complete jerk offs with no tact whatsoever. "Forget diapers and baby wipes!!! I don't want cash. Jest give me 20 more $1 scratch offs. Mama's gonna let it ride!!!" Not to say that gas stations are the most pleasant places to be anyway. But now they're starting to resemble something not unlike a crowded methadone clinic. Doped out zombies hangin at the "win a bunch of quarters by losing a bunch of quarters not gambling machine", fumbling for chance to SCRATCH another one. SCRATCH another one. SCRATCH another one. It itches!!! So SCRATCH another one. And when they're out of change you can always tell from their gray fingernails; caked up with whatever flaky crap they use to lure you to the illusion of another temporary victory. SCRATCH another one. I heard a gas station attendant reprimand a jonesin' scratcher the other day. "You can't scratch off at the front counter!! Go to the back counter to scratch off!!" They're like drug dealers now! "You can't push off in my living room, dude. My girlfriend is bringing her kids home soon. Go to the bathroom!!!" I'm sorry if I'm coming off overly bitter and mean. But it just sucks to see people get lured into a new wave of "fix-it-quickedness". Compromise everything for the likely odds of nothing. We're losing one of the things a lot of people admire about the south. I can't pinpoint what that thing is but it's what makes us open doors for people and let them go first in line. It's what makes us INSIST that the guy to the left of us at an intersection go first. Even though the guy on the right has the right of way. And it's what makes us wave at that guy like we know him, even though we've probably never seen him before. Charm? Consideration? Grace? I don't know. We're just cool like that. I love it here. And I love being from here, regardless of the crap I get from people when I'm in another region of the country. "In the South, the breeze blows softer...neighbors are friendlier, nosier, and more talkative. (By contrast with the Yankee, the Southerner never uses one word when ten or twenty will do)...This is a different place. Our way of thinking is different, as are our ways of seeing, laughing, singing, eating, meeting and parting. Our walk is different, as the old song goes, our talk and our names. Nothing about us is quite the same as in the country to the north and west. What we carry in our memories is different too, and that may explain everything else." --Charles Kuralt in "Southerners: Portrait of a People" But you lotto whores are fucking it up and making us look bad!! So if quick money is what you want, go back to the truck stop parking lot and "let it ride"!!!

Friday, September 4, 2009

Our New Pet

My daughter has been buggin me for a dog so, on her birthdy, we went to the animal shelter to pick one out. She found one she liked and when we found out he was already an emergency rescue dog, I felt like I had to return the favor somehow. "Thank you, Lincoln, for rescuing all those missing persons. I know your talents, for the most part, weren't utilized on missing children and were mostly wasted on rich skiiers trapped in snow banks. But get in the backseat and have a Snausage big guy."

Turns out he was also one of those dogs that could detect cancer in people. He could actually sniff out cancer in humans, which had to make the doctors feel really stupid. All this advanced cutting edge technology and the best thing you have to detect cancer barks at the microwave and falls for the laser pointer trick every time!! Every time never fails!! You know Pavlov's dogs are rolling in their graves right now. "That damn bell!! I knew it sounded familiar but i never wanted to say anything!!" Dogs are famous on YouTube for being dumb but all they have to do is a little sniff sniff here and there and bam! Cancer.

And this dog greets me at the door every day in normal dog fashion, by sniffing my crotch. Now that I know his expertise it makes me a little nervous. Cause he'll look up at me like "I know this is a no no but I'm a dog. I kinda have to." And I'm like "No no get in there. Have a look see. Figure it out".

I get a free screening every day in the comfort of my own home. And there's no copay. Happy birthday honey.

Jason Thompson

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

A Hooter's Christmas and a Handout

I'm sitting in Hooter's waiting for my mom and my sister, Juli. Their idea not mine. I'm surrounded by a bunch of "good ol' boys" who, apparently, don't know that hitting on a waitress with big titties (most of them actually aren't that big) is about as cliche as their taste in polo shirts and pleated khakis. Oh well, I'll sit and visit, eat, hug necks goodbye, and throw myself into the bowels of the Christmas mall across the street and forget about these average tittied, flat assed, suburban hookers....sorry..."Hooters" girls and their good old Duke Boys sittin' around feeling like they're in a real life country music video. "This is tha' life!" painted on their faces and stitched into their ball caps. That's enough. I'm being mean and it's not very Christmas of me.

I really have to start showing more gratitude in my life; focusing on positive and clear pictures for my future. I'm very fortunate in my place in life. But I need to fill more than just my place. I will start preparing myself for a bigger place to fill. And when it comes I will fill it with gratitude. Thirty two is a bit too young to turn Scrooge, just yet.

And I will leave the Hooter's girl a good tip. Not because of her average "hooters" and washboard booty; but because she has to walk around work all day knowing that guys like me are writing about those boobies in our fancy iPhones and posting it to our status on every "ME! ME! ME!" website on the internet, while we sit all alone in a Hooter's corner booth, waiting for our mom to show up....

Jason Thompson
12/22/2008

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Senior Citizen Felines and a Stab at Blogging

I'm sitting here on the porch as it rains watching the cat licking a cardboard box. She's old and senile so maybe she thinks she's licking her foot. Or maybe she's just not that smart. She's so old her meow doesn't sound like a meow anymore. It's more of a hollow whine that sounds like an old rotary phone ringing from inside a toilet. It's very close to the sound of those dogs that you see on YouTube that can supposedly talk. I know she's missing some teeth so that might have something to do with it. I'm more of a dog person so it's easy for me to speak of her in the third person while she sits right here next to me being a dumb cat, oblivious to her deteriorating state. To her credit she can still kick any cat's ass in this neighborhood. Her toothless meow probably scares other cats into thinking she's crazy. She is licking a cardboard box so maybe she is crazy. This old, haggard, lesbian, box licking cat's got street cred and she knows it. She could win a fight by just licking a garden gnome's asshole. I wouldn't fuck with anyone crazy enough to lick a garden gnome's asshole....EVER.

Jason Thompson
5/2/2009