They’re pretty badass: tattoos. You are stabbing yourself with a plethora of needles, a thorn on a stick, or a screwdriver that was recently inside someone repeatedly until the ink penetrates deep enough into your skin. Unless you swim in the ocean right away or go through a phase of pyro-masochism, it’s unlikely your hues will ever disappear. Being tattooed is a permanent reminder of an interest you have, a memory of those you cherish, and/or a time you decided, in a drunken stupor, your body needed more glamour. However, the reasons people purchase tattoos have varied over the years.
Previous Tattoo Meanings Tattoos have been around for tens of thousands of years and were carved into skin for a saturated amount of reasons. They were usually associated with criminal and dangerous behaviors. For instance, one of the most common causes for a tattoo was to brand a person’s body. It announced to the world how absolutely violent they were. They didn’t need to tell people how much of a warrior they were, they just killed a guy and put the animation on their body to warn others of their completely unhinged behavior. Whether you were a Polynesian contender for conqueror status, a skinhead announcing their dedication to a homogenous singularity, or a seaman for the East India Company, you obtained ink to notify others of how far you’ve been and what you’ve done. Others marked their bodies to let virgin-skinneds know how much they were not to be trusted. Australians had these markings to holler their criminal record; the Japanese had these markings to yodel their criminal record; and the French had these markings to scream their criminal record. In short, tattoos were originally and mostly associated with sanctioned murderers and unsanctioned murderers. If you lived in the past and wanted a tattoo, you should probably follow the former’s route. However, there were some slightly different historical reasons why people paid money to have their bodies soiled. You might have become an adult and wanted to remind people how fuckable you were. You may have gotten a tattoo to notify everyone how unfuckable you were. You might have been honored with the prestige of commanding a community. You might have been a member of a clan who believed in complete, devotional fraternal and familial bonding. The past is filled with contradictory reasons to ruin your succulent flesh. Is modern-day tattooing that much different? The Hunger for Tattoos In the United States of America — the only country that matters — 32% of Americans have at least one tattoo. The rest listen to the FDA to prevent toxicity from entering their internal systems. The non-inked have faith their vanilla lifestyle will bring them an inner peace you won’t find were you to be tattooed. But why do 32% of Americans stain their porcelain human hide? Because they were neglected as a child? Maybe. But for the most part, it ultimately comes down to their hunger. Their horrifically insatiable cravings that will never disappear no matter how much money they throw into the hominid abyss. Hunger for Individuality Americans — the nationality with the best characteristics — have an unending hunger for being unique. They want to be the only notable person in the room among a horde of sheep who follow orders without any forethought about the consequences. They want a symbol lambasted on their moisturized leather to signify their importance; their strong desire to be the quirkiest person one may ever meet. These individualistic hungry individuals want their tattoos to identify them as individuals you will never forget; no matter how much you try. You will never discount their hometown area code, their last name, or their favorite bible quote. These simple identifiers will be cemented into your consciousness for an eternity. Even as your body decomposes, you will only think about Patricia’s original and metaphorical reason for living: Mickey Mouse. Hunger for Fame Many Americans — the strongest demographic of people throughout history — hunger to be known by all. Yes, they strive to be a unique individual you won’t ever replicate but they also long to be one of the many humans who are known and beloved by all. Their hunger for fame won’t ever be quenched but their belief their next tattoo will be photographed by their artist and seen by an agent who is casting the next Morbius movie is seasoned with lust. Seeing their tasty pin-up of Andy Dick will enlighten you about their craving for product deals and sponsorships you only find on TikTok. Next time they try to record a song at a concert, don’t shame them. They need this attention. Prevent another mass shooting today by remembering, complimenting, and sharing their colorful engraving on your social media handles every third Thursday of the month. Hunger for Vengeance Americans — the nation filled with excessively compassionate individuals — believe in equality to unseemly levels. They know how important it is for fairness to be present in everyone’s life, which is why so many of them devastate their organic coating with drawings of what they plan to do to the people who have wronged them. They need to avenge their fallen mother, their silenced sister, their eviscerated infant, their vanished best friend, their liquidated father. Should they be calling the police? Probably not if they are anything but a straight, white, neurotypical male. Sure, some change may occur but being invisible is even better. They will be able to perform their vengeance and won't be noticed by others. Having penetrated their crust with what they plan to do to this inconsequential heap of mediocrity is enough to keep them on track, especially if they have Alzheimer's. These images aren’t just a constant reminder of why they have been hunting down this abhorrence for years, but how they will also celebrate when they bring balance to the natural order of things. Hunger for Community Americans — the utmost infectious population — love to feel they are connected to one another. They want to be loved by all and want to be part of a neighborhood of like-minded cohorts who enjoy the same things as them. Conventions are constantly filled with men and women who have never showered, especially their special areas, but still enjoy each other’s presence. Game shops are popular locations for gamers to meet their next abuse victim. Even churches/mosques/temples are pivotal spots to meet other brainwashed congregates who long for death. Tattoos are nothing more than humane-billboards highlighting why they are someone you should engage in conversation with. Those with tattoos want people to know about their obsession for high school students with superpowers, a lion who was penetrated by a clock, or an offensive sport team name, so you come up to them and talk about their interests. This loneliness is obscenely powerful, which is why they degrade the quality of their meat for this companionship. Don’t Talk To Me About Tattoos There are all kinds of reasons people tattoo their bodies; primarily a hunger for individuality, fame, vengeance, and/or community. However, despite being an American, I have no cravings for these elements. Why do I have tattoos? It’s simple, I got them because [REDACTED]. But, this doesn’t mean I want to talk to you about them, despite how absolutely sick they are. This isn’t because I’m some kind of introvert who despises other humans. No, I don’t want to talk to people about tattoos after seeing mine for three incredibly pertinent reasons. First, it causes people to mansplain their lives to me. I don’t care that you haven’t gotten one because you don’t know what to get. It’s not hard to think of something to get. What are you scared of? It being permanent? It making you look like a sick ass elder? It becoming a problematic symbol later in life? None of that matters and talking to me about what you are potentially thinking about won’t convince you to take the leap. However, the people who do have something in mind but aren’t willing to spend money to fortify their look, most of the time, want something more basic than a rich white woman joining a fraternity/sorority at the University of Alabama. Oh, you’re getting an infinity symbol? Nice. Oh, you’re thinking of putting a heart in the middle of the infinity symbol? Cool. Oh, you’re going to buy an infinity symbol with fish imagery? Blitzing. It’s never something unique; it’s always the same tattoo everyone else has and I can’t care any more than 0.0000001. Is this saying I slightly do care? Shut the fuck up. Second, if you think I have cool tattoos, awesome, but don’t just start grabbing my body and prodding it with your gangrene fingers. My tattoos are not an open invitation to start analyzing my appearance as if you are a museum historian trying to decipher a code from the Sumerian Empire. It’s “Get Fucked” but morphed into an abstract painting, not a pathway to finding the elixir of youth. I get wanting to see what beautiful art looks like, however, my infatuation with the artform does not equal wanting my body to be the center of attention. There’s nothing on my body capable of helping you with your next design and nothing worth staring at my body for longer than five seconds. Treat my body you would an OnlyFans starlet; look from an appropriate distance but you have to pay an exorbitant number to touch. Finally, I know what you are truly hoping would come out of this exchange: the purchase of extracurricular motivations. I have no process or desire to illegally prescribe you a dosage of Xanax or water-solvent snow. The times have passed. People with body art aren’t ne’er-do-wells who thrive on the life of crime. We may have a hunger, but it’s not to cause havoc against the justice system. It’s already messed up as it is and the current stigmas toward tattoos still exist. This complication will surely result in parts of our lives being spent in the darkly tides of gangs, white supremacy, and nonconsensual power bottoms. These permanent pieces of work would only make it easier to identify us, why make it easier for the oligarchs to target us? We already don’t do well in normal settings; prisons would just heighten the discomfort. We just want to belong and feel loved, not be beat with a sock of soap bars. Let Me Be Inked In Peace I love tattoos and I love the different styles out there. Each one is filled with a long history and cultural messages. This does not mean I care about your hunger, though. I do not want to hear about your ideas. I am not excited to show you every inch of my skin. I am not a museum. I may have paid large quantities of money to layer my skin with various shades of paint, but I am not someone you can just walk up and tell your life story to. Those who are connoisseurs of permanent symbolism are polite but we are all thinking the same thing: “Let us live our lives without spit being spewed from your facial orifice.” We do not want COVID nor do we want to share the reason for our tattoos. Play it safe and just assume we had an extra $500 needing to be spent.
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As a man reaching 30, I should not be thinking about school uniforms anymore but here I am, lying awake and staring at the ceiling during the devil’s hour. School uniforms are not only great for fighting hazardous systems, but teaching beneficial morals to the future. Despite there being a variety of institutions mandating uniforms, I am solely discussing the period of elementary schoolchildren education. Why? For one, it envelopes the young with beliefs capable of dismantling one of the worst practices on our planet: classism.
Classism, the biggest cause for warfare, poverty, and Taylor Swift. A system completely ingrained into the fabric of detrimental societies with the purpose of eliminating the “less than”. This creed guarantees the existence of a demographic one can blame their problems on without reflecting on their own behaviors. It promotes the idea you can treat those who have less than you worse than animals. Slowly and surely, violence will ensue against the “less-thans” and cause massacres across world. The untouchables in India; the metaphorical red and green colors in North Korea; and the entrance to swanky nightclubs are just a few examples of this despotic ideology. But, how do children turn into material girls? Parents teach their children these rules and where they fall within these specifications, as well as the populations of those who don’t. Students will go through their life polarizing those who don’t conform to these specifications. Children will see those who only wear Kirkland and associate them as the “poors”. They will ostracize these victims until they start contemplating theft to fit in with the Pumped Up Kids. Gradually cementing a hierarchy of “less-thans” and authoritative “elites”. However, putting the elementary aged brood in school uniforms allows children to ignore these hateful patterns. Those who are more privileged won’t be able to enunciate how much wealthier they are than those who are forced to eat Arby’s; negating the powers of peacocking. No one will truly know how “elite” a classmate is because everyone wears the same school uniform. Sure, poverty is a systemic issue needing to be addressed at every structural level, incapable of being changed because you have a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps personality, but when everyone has to wear one outfit at an early stage of life it prevents them from making dangerous assumptions about their cohorts. They are forced to understand other younglings on a personal level, providing an insight on their character not their financial status. Having children relate to those facing this oppression will emphasize the need for communal augmentation, too. They will realize how important it is for everyone to be placed on equal footing because this means actual gumption is what is valued and not the lavish background one is involuntarily birthed into. Everyone will want to be their best self and not participate in a discriminatory system. It won’t create blind subordination; it will allow conformity to flourish. Children will want everyone to be placed on the same pedestal, creating a sense of equality among future adults. People will want to embrace the most positive aspects of the world and oppose the harmful oppression of loved ones. Societies will enforce progressive ideas and want to guarantee everyone is winning the game; not just an “elite” few who hold the fish at the end of the hook, forever out-of-reach to those carrying them around. Additionally, children are the most innocent individuals within every society. Kids allow us to relive nostalgic joy and be our best selves. They keep us happy and excited about what the future holds. When we erase the little details of a classist hierarchy, we are left with the fact our time is short and needs to be as enjoyed as much as possible. Why focus on obtaining an imaginary form of currency or impractical objects if we don’t have much time to live? This promise—everyone dying—-will persuade children to look at the long-term goals, not the immediate gratification of a paycheck. No one will see the ending of this planet, let alone the universe. We will just cease to exist and only our legacy will be standing. What will truly remain is how much better you made your community. Sure, there are going to be consumers of KFC who will want to limit others’ joy, but this should be put to a stop immediately. Once children understand life isn’t forever, the next phase of global jubilation will begin. How does school uniforms play into this? Were these kids to truly understand the message being conveyed, their next step in evolution is clear: child assassins. They have silently fostered the power to blend in with their environment and pinpoint identities needing to be stopped, it's only logical this would be their next step in humanity's progress. When everyone is the same, invisibility is truly capable. When everyone is the same, no one can cause problems for our neighborhoods. When everyone is the same, pretentious individuality abusing self-worth will be stopped. Communal discord doesn’t just promote individualism, but encourages dissenters to initiate insurrections. These skills the young ones foster and perfect will maximize their intellect of identity politics. Their prowess as chameleons secures our existence's mission: stopping hate with coordinated love. Kony was on to something, he just possessed complicated PR. Yes, we’re all equal humans, no one is better than another, but those who wish to regress into a society of bigotry will only worsen how we live our lives. We won’t be focused on having fun but how we can take away others’ happiness. Children have malleable brains, they’ll be able to easily understand the positives toward practical violence. For one, it’ll prevent intolerance from becoming the norm, as well as avoid the death of those who did nothing ethically wrong. Those who wish to ignorantly harm others are already promoting the eradication of populations “worthy” of this dessecration. Why shouldn’t the side with only love in their heart do the same? Without an equal force against hatred, the next KKK would slowly rise to power. Children are our future, let’s start guaranteeing we win. School uniforms are meant to show the cruciality of blending in with everyone else, but the deep education highlighting societally beneficial convictions will foster a progressive society. The love they hold for those who are the same as them—nothing more, nothing less—will push them to do what’s right. These child assassins will become friends and lovers of those their parents’ hateful views denigrate. This lesson on equality being taught to children at an early age will guarantee a seamless extermination of those who wish to do our society harm—familial or stranger. School uniforms teach us equality and progressiveness above everything else. It opposes the flashiness of designer clothing and financial bragging. Equality is kindness, hope, and power. Without these characteristics being built into the DNA of our being, there is no one capable of stopping hate with love. Prevent your children from hating one another; influence them to be the change you wished you could have been. Make the world a better place one repetitive outfit at a time. Have you ever tried going up to someone at a book store and asking if they would like to be your friend? Depending on your level of privilege, it can either go stupenduously well or disastruously wrong. Don’t be surprised if they scoff in your face, question your mental health, poke fun at your decaying financial stabilitiy, and proceed to kick you in the shin. But, if it goes well, then you have a new companion you can entertain yourself with when at a Shrek rave. Unfortunately, most of the places you meet someone like this are at bars or parties, which are rife with problematic conditions capable of festering into vile infestations wanting to eradicate your layers of skin. Let’s start with the bar setting.
Who doesn’t like going to a bar to pound seven shots of pure-grade agave tequila before driving back home to your husband and twins? Probably those in the AA cult but those cretins are just 100 percent bummers. We get it. You have a problem with alcohol. We understood this after the 17th story about your “lowest point in life.” But, those who actually enjoy the simple pleasures of life, will be ecstatic to receive a text from their friend(s) to partake in legal poison. However, trying to make more cronies while out with your current friend(s) is a tricky minefield to wade through because of the wide-range of emotions one may feel; from both friend(s) and/or potential friend(s). For instance, your present friend(s) may be upset you are “abandoning” them for strangers who don’t have telekinetic powers and will ruin any chance of a platonic relationship forming through belligerent intoxication. Examples include throwing cigarettes in their open mouth; bringing out a little baggy concoction of Krokodil and bath salts; discussing the amount of money they’ll make were the desired peers to invest in their one-of-a-kind food truck; and/or explaining why the Joker is the king of alpha male attitude. Although, while small, there is the chance your existing friend(s) may actually want to meet new individuals they can take aromantic body shots from but the people you are trying to engage are just not wanting to be part of a conversation. These future comrades may see your desire of interacting with them as an affront to their personal time. They may want to be left alone and not have a bunch of creeps try to ask them what their infinity tattoo means. You know what it means. We all know what it means. It’s a badge of basicness. Now, they may go the bland route and just tell you they want to be left alone to conversate with their present-day allies. However, were things to go completely awry, there is also the subtle chance they become enraged, throw their drink at you, put out their smoke on your forehead, bash your back in with a billiard stick, draw genitals on your unconscious body, steal your license, find your home, and steal your dog(s). So, to avoid all of this, try to avoid meeting new companions at bars. Parties, though, are considered the perfect place to meet lifelong coke runners. After all, it’s where you can exchange pleasantries with those who are similar to you or your friend(s) hosting the party. These individuals may have different occupations and hobbies, but they are most likely compatible with you because of your mutual peers. However, their priorities as to why they are there may not be perpendicular with your own motives. A lot of the times, these celebrations are a front for pyramid schemes. They bring you in with the promise of Molly and Ketamine, but, when you get there, they suddenly “can’t break the law.” They compensate this lie with gargantuan amounts of flirting and liquor, but they’ll make you sit down on their grimey couch they found on Martin Luther King Jr. Drive and explain why all of the weight loss tricks out there are inefficient in what they do because they don’t include a chemical they trademarked. Troboridine sounds like an authoritative word to believe in, but I’m pretty sure it’s from the language of Klingon. Don’t be deceived from their tricks of candy and party favors, avoid going to parties for the purpose of meeting people. Go to parties to steal. Have you ever been to an Apple store? Seeing all of those wealthy and privileged groups look at exorbitant machinery allowing seamless usability? Investigating the difference between each Apple Watch variation? Questioning why everyone looks so happy to be in an environment promoting both minimalism and maximalism? It’s wonderful. Don’t believe me? Go talk to an Appler right now. They will describe their iPhone as if the artifact is maintaining peace between Palestine and Israel, and, well, let’s just say one side isn’t going to be around for much longer. There is not one person in there who isn’t excited to open their new iPhone or type out a nonsensical article on their fresh 16” Macbook Pro. You start off asking your interactive display neighbor what their favorite iPhone color is and, next thing you know, you are watching a donkey show in seedier parts of your town. You might not even remember how you got there after a powder is blown into your face. It might be concerning to be in a fresh suit when you were originally in a tank top and luxury streetwear shorts, but you, most likely, shouldn’t panic since your new ally recorded the whole adventure. However, you must avoid mentioning Google in their presence. Despite the pleasantries of this exchange, this populace want to use the “new” iPhone features in the hope of highlighting their superiority over Andriod users. Regardless of your belief in hierarchies, there is a place where this concept is deeply ingrained into our society: police stations. “Serve and Protect”? More like “SEEEEEErve and Brotect”! They may be hired to keep our neighborhoods quiet, but their policing has only caused rowdier communities to appear. As a matter of fact, when collected for testing, you will find whole civilizations within their facilities. The pals within these installations desperately want to meet new folks with a desire to spice up their life. There is the coolest member of the group, the leader, then the person who the leader divulges all teachings and inspirational quotes to, the right hand man, then there are the people who ensure the leader’s declarations are carried out, the right hand man’s right hands, and, finally, those who hear the word on the street and report back what they find, the right hand man’s right hands’ left hands. These communities are explicitly only located inside police stations and you must have a strong determination to build brotherly bonds. They even provide friendship tattoos for their compatriots and group up to fight off ramen invaders. Plus, the officers frequenting these realms will treat you with the respect you deserve and ensure everyone is having the times of their lives. If not, the management of fun will agree to place the solemn in a room covered in mattresses so you can really go all out. But, if you want to avoid engaging with those who will never know the warmth of a weighted blanket, then, simply enough, consider talking to your neighbors. Before you start ranting contradictions about how your neighbor is a liberal communist, consider the chance of meeting someone who can completely change your life with interest, passion, and kindness. They are just waiting for someone to ring their door and introduce them to a night out or to stay inside and bond over each other’s problematic childhoods. Your neighbor can be your best friend. After all, you spend so much time sitting next to them, why not try to make it a little more fun during your day of relaxation? You know where they live so you don’t have to pull out any of your AirTags or tracking malware normally utilized. Just knock on your neighbor’s door, ask them for some sugar, and let the improvisation machine start working. If one doesn’t work, go to the other side. If that doesn’t work, go to the one in front of you. If that doesn’t work, go Northwest. If that doesn’t work, go Northeast. If that doesn’t work, go slightly more East when heading North. There is no shortage of neighbors. Think about it. Do you know of any streets where a person doesn’t have a neighbor? The last time someone was isolated from the rest of the world we were given Frida Kahlo and Nikola Tesla, and what have they done for us? Modernize unibrows and harness electricity? First off, unibrows haven’t been in style since we learned how to make fire. Second off, electricity was already invented by Benjamin Franklin. Isolation is an unhealthy habit capable of turning you into a faux celebrity who people secretly laugh at when you leave a room. However, if you want to meet a group of individuals who love extracurriculars than you should consider your grandma’s last spot in life: a hospice room. Those final breathes are crucial in forming core memories you can lay awake til 3 in the morning remembering, but you could augment them to be scenes you will share with future filmmakers eventually going on to win awards from unnecessary award shows. How is this possible? The elders in this facility are waiting for the sweet embrace of the frigid being transporting spirits to their new destination. They want to change up their daily routine in the hope of experiencing something enigmatically eye-opening. Plus, it doesn’t take much to get these old souls excited. But, this doesn’t mean you should be going for the bare minimum. Be a North Korean Ph.D candidate wanting to explain the importance of censorship in a community encouraging rampantly thoughtless free speech. Engaging. Creative. Persistent. Show these raisins what it means to be alive for the last time. Your interactive activity may only allow you to gain temporary compatriots, but, through networking at funerals, you may meet likeminded individuals who just want to explore the world and have fun. You may even land yourself a sugar daddy or sugar mommy. Put the fun back in funeral with a few quips, a lengthy eulogy, and a variety of one-of-a-kind props even Carrot Top hasn’t dreamed of. But, the biggest reason you should consider hanging around hospice rooms is because, with their last moments being restrained to these locations, they are more willing to share the horrible actions they did throughout their life. So many of those near-death have confessed to murders, robberies, assaults, and other abhorrent behaviors, which will make your brain, the sponge it is, an encyclopedia of original stories you can share with your future Hinge dates. I would say friends, but you’re here. While these are impressive locations for funtitude, there are other areas within your small town where the potential amigo population is rampant. But, these discussed locations are your best bets when it comes to meeting new and innovative playmates. Don’t freak out about not having a best man or groomsmen. Take the advice shared here to garner a laundry list of names you can title as friends. Trust me. I have a degree in communications. There’s nothing more upsetting than waiting for thirty minutes at a brassiere only to be delivered a meal disastruously lackluster. You are spending your hard earned money on a place you should be considering fulfilling; a place meeting your body’s quota for sustenance. However, despite the presence of Yelp, it can be hard to determine what to order when at a restaurant you have never been to before. Sure, you can look on Instagram to see what other people ate, but everyone’s taste buds are different. This lack of information may cause the customer to order something they despise—wasting dozens of dollars. Thankfully, there is an easy solution to this complication: try other people’s food.
I know. I know. It can be awkward to talk to strangers when you are trying to have a night to yourself at a new food establishment. But, take the precautionary steps to make sure you are happy with what you ordered or else what’s the point of even leaving your domain. Yes, cooking for yourself means you are going to be making something you know will make you content. But, what happens if you are tired? What happens if your high? What happens when you receive a discount on your next Uber because your previous driver tried hitting on you after your late night shift from Chuck E’ Cheese? People pay money to eat food you can’t find at home because no one has time to craft fresh pasta in their living room at 3 in the morning nor is there a reason to test the virility of your immune system by consuming expired ingredients. These professional meals are meant to bring about sensations of wonder and nostalgia of a simpler time. They are meant to satisfy your primal desire for not only consuming nutritious food but pushing the boundaries of what a religion is. Food is crucial to us surviving, yes, but it’s also what gives people hope. Tasting a dish so repulsive it makes you question your sanity shouldn’t be allowed. Restaurants should cancel the item from ever being chosen again. But, seeing as everyone has different tastes, this would be quite difficult to enforce. For most restaurants, it’s not uncommon to seat hundreds of people in one night. All of these people see other meals they want to try. But, because of financial burdens or appetite suppression, many choose to stick to one entree. People want to try everything but don’t out of financial or social politeness. If someone is asking to taste your food, don’t scoff at them. Consider giving them a small piece because, in the future, you may be in the same position. After all, they are taking a huge risk trying to enter your space, invade your time of delight, and see if you would be gracious enough to bring happiness to others. Don’t fulfill the stereotype of being an American. Go against the grain like so many other profitable nations. Taiwan, Sweden, Turkmenistan, they all think about the good of the community and you can see this with how prosperous they are socially and economically. A place anyone can feel safe and make memories. A region others would travel 1,000s for. A destination where the idea of another human being starving would be looked at with disgust and vitriol. Wouldn’t you love to try another person’s filet mignon, their lobster mac n’ cheese, or their soggy meatloaf? You will be able to make a final decision on what is going to be appropriate to your taste buds. Our taste buds are already sensitive enough to be able to differentiate the various nutrients within a meal, there’s no reason for your masticasm to be burdened with the bland creation an inept chef serves you. Stop giving your tongue filth reminiscent of a Taco Bell crunchwrap supreme and be prepared for something completely revolutionary when it comes to culinary enjoyment. You might have ordered the tuna tartare as an appetizer but noticed your neighbor devouring a lovely truffle bisque. Ask to have a little sip of their soup. Don’t just suck on the bowl like a baby using a pacifier, though. Consider getting a fresh spoon to lift a mouthful into your gnasher. It is hygienic and ensures you made the right decision. If it’s worth it, you can ask the waiter to tack it on to your dining experience. But, how can you do that when you already have something on your mind? This is why experts believe consumers should consider asking their table neighbor or other members of the Restaurant Visitors Association (RVA) what they are eating and if they would like to share with those who are vulnerable to hunger. Think about it. Your dad just ordered something he has been expecting for weeks, but, when it gets there, it’s nothing but a floury mush or a collection of incompetence making you question whether that DoorDash business you ordered from was as profitable as they claimed. The disgust one is forced to consume will only ruin generations of families. No one wants to associate themselves with those who knowingly ordered something absolutely vile needing to be dissolved within the appendage hanging inside our lip orifice. Think about ice cream parlors. They allow you to taste what you may want and they don’t charge a dime. They allow you to taste out the different treats on their menu with no financial regret being placed on you for incorporating these tastes into your dinner time routine. Wanna try chocolate? Sure! Wanna try pistachio laced whiskey? No need for an ID. Wanna see what’s the humbug over human breast milk? No one can stop you from tasting pure growth hormones. Why shouldn’t restaurants do this, too? As a matter of fact, asking your table neighbor to try their foods will provide you with an inexpensive tasting menu you won’t be able to try were you to be silent about your hunger. Have you ever been to a restaurant with a tasting menu or omakase service? They are beyond expensive—going as high as 1,000 USD per person. However, with many restaurants sitting over hundreds of people in one night, staying for a longer amount of time will ensure you create your own tasting menu capable of satisfying you completely. Most Michelin starred establishments give you unreasonably small portions—leaving you hungry after finishing the experience. Avoid this and make your own tasting menu through the kindness of others. I do understand the economic damage this can cause were restaurants to provide samples of their menu items, which is why I am adamant about putting this weight on the consumer again. Similar to the concept of tipping, being able to try other people’s food for the betterment of one’s community will allow all citizens of a village, town, city, and municipality to grow as one cohesive population capable of living in peaceful times. Each individual will know their neighbor, no matter how many houses down, will help them when they are in need of assistance. This small act of kindness will snowball into a life where everyone can live happily without wondering if what they are about to eat will give them inorganic food poisoning. Not only will you be bettering the culinary world, you will be gaining a friend you can eat out with in the future. You will be able to venture to new destinations with them because of this small act of desperation. Finding new restaurants to try may be intimidating for a single diner, but these friends you make along the way will drastically change this lonesome lifestyle you are afraid of. You will be able to make a friend and never have to worry about consuming something abhorrent. Sooner or later, with enough people on your side, you will never dine alone. You will always have someone to go on adventures with. Ultimately, making a best friend for life. Now, I know what you are thinking, “won’t this anger the chef?” Yes. Yes, it will. But, why should you care? Chefs think they understand food because they have spent so much of their life portioned out to making dishes but there is a reason Masterchef Junior exists. Cooking isn’t hard. You just need to know how flavors mesh well together, how long a piece of flesh can handle a scalding hot fire, and whether or not you need more or less salt. Chefs think they are so much better than others because they have a restaurant people want to visit, but this would change if Americans weren’t as lazy as Europeans know they are. If chefs actually cared about making people happy, they would encourage diners tasting each other’s meals so they can curate a thorough review of the eatery. Not only will this bring in more patrons, but it will set the brasserrie apart from other fine-dining canteens. Stop being introverted and be more extroverted. There is a reason extroverts are vastly more successful than those who are too shy to let someone know they are going into analyphalitic shock because their food allergy is kicking in. Don’t let extroverts run the world. Mask your shyness and ask your table neighbors if they would be willing to give you a little, itsy, tiny, insignificant bite out of their meal because this could completely change the pathway of your life. You may end up making a friend who may change your world. Plus, fuck chefs. Narrators, how pretentious of a job to have. Most of the time, they don’t even bring anything new to the conversation outside of stating the obvious. Good thing I’m here. I’m different. My name is Mr. N and I want to share with you a person who lives in one of the worst places possible. A region where residents are oppressed and violated in ways even the most tyrannical mercenaries wouldn't act on. In a land not too far away was a man named Dunither. These are his inner thoughts and, potentially, the worst days of his life.
After the 12th washing, it becomes more of a chore than a form of entertainment. It was started in the hope of teaching people to not besmirch the nation but it hasn’t really done much outside of causing people to be more secretive about how they conduct their treacherous activities. The only people who get caught these days are the rash, impatient and/or poor. If you are smart, you would bribe the officials since they, themselves, are also in a desperate position. They’re supposed to be given food and supplies first but this system had to be placed on hold since the locusts have been attacking our fields for the past several seasons. Now, these “peace officers” look for any opportunity to better their lifestyle and if people can’t, or don’t, pay up, they aren’t worth keeping around. Pulling out their nails usually leads to a bribe but, every now and then, a serious lesson needs to be taught to future criminals. Whenever we are in the plaza and the horns starts ringing, we know there is an imposed show about to start. They use an array of props to entertain us: pipes, bats, bamboo stalks, pretty much anything long and hard. But, this, too, stopped since people started heckling these times of boredom. The traitor would be begging for their life, asking for their friends and family to save them, but why risk our scalps. We all know why the Rubbers are missing body parts. They’ve already ruined their life, there is no reason for us to join them. After all, out of all of the citizens in this nation, the Rubbers are one of the lowest leveled citizens. They are as bad as the thieves, “freedom fighters,” wearers of jeans, animal lovers, rapists, and music aficionados. I can’t picture a person more dangerous than someone who wears jeans. It restricts movements and prevents the possessor from picking up their daily ration of grapes in the fields. You can’t run at the enemy when on the battlefield, increasing the chance of being mauled by the enemy forces. Worst of all, you are going to stand out in the crowd since you are trying to be “trendy;” going against pragmatic living. Could you imagine living such an impetuous life? I mean, Herbhash Smockins has enlightened us with lifelong living philosophies and he has never been wrong before. He wasn’t wrong about the selfish elite damaging our economy and way of living. He wasn’t wrong about the oversea threats stealing our children to use as sex slaves. He wasn’t wrong about the social degradation from the invention of anime. Ignoring the teachings of our prosperous leader would only cause more problems for our nation and I don’t want to be part of this regression. This is why I read to my children—when they were younger--The Book of Fulfillment whenever we relaxed at home and shared with them the philosophies from The Book of Growth before they went to bed. Now, both of my sons are law-abiding citizens who are advancing the motherland. Because of Grastroff’s commitment to the party, he was actually able to meet an exceptional woman capable of helping around the house and bolstering his social status. Daily, after Hondrita spends long hours on the beach looking for savory mussels, she makes us the most scrumptious dinners. She places them in a pot and mixes the broth with local herbs; tree bark, wheatgrass and corn are my favorite ingredients. The nutrients are so tasty, I smile louder than a child in a military shop finding the newest Imperialist Hole Maker. It doesn’t matter where you are in the village, the aroma wafting through each house causes people to flock around our home. Thankfully, they don’t attempt to do anything; partially because their muscles can’t provide the energy it needs to start a fight. I don’t understand how people can let themselves get that way. Aren’t they ashamed how they make our neighborhood look? We need to bring back the whippings for spoiling the scenery. If only people actually lived our nation’s motto: “Self-Reliance Ensures Longevity” My wife used to be able to make banquets this savory but she hasn’t been the same since her parents have passed. Throughout the Parade of Equity, they cried about not having enough to eat and, unfortunately, left our Earthly domain for the White Province. I tried comforting her, explaining how they weren’t helping our society, and, actually, bringing all of us down to a dangerous class. She only shed more tears. I’ve stopped trying to make her feel better. Working as a manure harvester may seem disgusting to some but this job is important to the general public. Without us, there would be no fermented onions to pair with our grasshoppers and I would become what our homeland claims are parasites, a choosing beggar. For instance, corn isn’t always digested on the first run-through and they are glaringly bright when mixed with the brown we leave. I have the honor of picking them out and rinsing them so our family can rest easy with food in our belly. You can’t even taste the difference between this and fresh corn. I don’t think we will ever stop eating corn. It can be made into all kinds of culinary masterpieces: bread, sugar, drinks, soup, porridge. Why stop eating something if it has been recommended by the Department of Truthful Living? The office’s whole purpose is to help us live a more honest lifestyle. They explain the best recipes to make for big and small gatherings, and what entertainment is becoming popular. Without their guidance, we would be stuck in the middle ages. Our books, tv shows and movies may have guidance from the administration but they aren’t involved with these works of art’s creation. They just provide guidance on what is proper and what should be avoided. There is no reason we should be subjected to offensive material or something making our home look bad. In all honesty, I actually enjoy their collaboration since I don’t want to watch the garish smut capable of infecting how I, or my child, thinks. It’s the government’s job to guide us through tricky situations and prevent the corrosion of our people. However, the main point of the Department of Truthful Living is to enlighten us of the lies being spewed from those past the waves. Our enemies are constantly trying to infiltrate our country to see what makes us stand out among the world. These cretins want to steal our secrets and burn us to the ground. When given the chance, they have even raped and murdered our infants. These “people” aren’t human; they’re monsters needing to be eradicated. If I had a chance, I would drop one of our many successful nuclear bombs on their capitol, neighborhoods and hospitals. There is no reason we should have to tolerate these ill-folk since they want nothing but our eradication. Oof! Who is teaching this guy history, ethics, and strategizing? He really has nothing else to do but contemplate genocide while on his walk home? What the hell does he think when he is forcing his wife to sexually serve him? But, this isn’t uncommon when you are beaten down by your own government in the name of peace and propserity. He thinks he is on the right and when people feel justified in this thinking, they will do anything to satisfy these whims. This reminds of the time a little girl was used as a suic—Oh! Wait. Looks like he has people waiting for him at his house. Where are my pickled onions? “Are you Dunither? Father of Grastroff and Wraken,” asked the man in an excessively clean yellow military uniform with accents of red. Either from the long walk back to his house or from anticipation of what this interaction could provide, Dunither replied, with a quiver in his voice, “yes?” “Come with us,” said the unreasonably immaculate man’s partner as he aggressively grabbed Duniter’s arms. “Where are you taking me,” Dunither asked with urgency. “Why aren’t you answering me? I am a member of the party. I AM A MEMBER OF THE PARTY! I have been loyal and never committed a crime! I am just coming back from work! Let me explain myself, I’m sure we can work something out. Please, just tell me where we are going.” Dunither never stopped screaming in frustration. The inadequately impoverished man would end up being taken to a facility you could find on any map of this city. It was painted in vibrant spring colors but the inside was nothing bright; except for the blinding lights hanging from each cell. What’s the point of these faux suns, you ask me? Well, to keep the prisoners awake for days until their exhaustion cleared their minds. This is when traitors are must susceptible to external persuasive techniques. Oh, you’re wondering what this place is called? The average citizen would label it the “Candy Factory” because of how much the enforcers would scream in delight as they burned, pulled, electrocuted and performed other forms of torture. For some victims, the torture would last a day. Others? Sometimes as long as a season or three. “Please. No more,” Dunither softly mumbled as his peace officers slowly unplugged the screwdriver. But, Dunither couldn’t stop thinking about how the pain didn’t cease. “Please. . . Please tell me why I am here. I haven’t done anything wrong.” The thinner officer wearing the classic outfit of an enforcer said, “you will soon.” “Why can’t I know now? I’ll help you all with your problem,” Dunither pleaded in an exhausted urgency. “I can’t take much longer of this. My body. . . is already broken.” “Not our problem,” stated the second peace officer. “We will do what is required of us to make sure we get the answers we need. You should be lucky it’s us doing this and not those across the waves.” The first peace officer, fashioning a strong jawline but gaunt cheeks, remarked, “do you want to know what those in the West or East do to their prisoners?” “Why am I a prisoner,” Dunither shouted in an inquisitive tone. BONK! The peace officers laughed in jubilation and the one who smacked Dunither with the tire iron continued on his diatribe. “Can you imagine losing an eye all because you didn’t answer a question quick enough or have your teeth rearranged because you “didn’t know why” you were called in for questioning?” Through a quietly hysterical tremble, “I’ll answer! I’ll answer with the truth! Just. . . let me know why I am here.” “You’re saying you don’t know anything your son has gotten into,” the second enforcer, with the incredibly smooth and vibrant sick, demanded. “He wouldn’t do anything to go against your hospitality,” Dunither hoarsely shouted as his body started to slowly and desperately recover. “Are you sure about that,” the first peace officer interrogated. “I promise, with my right hand outward, Grastroff wouldn’t do anything to displease the country,” Dunither begged. “Wow. I thought I was a bad father but to not know your own flesh and blood has been smuggling prisoners into our neighbors’ doors is astounding,” the first peace officer said with a hateful smile. “What,” Dunither pleadingly shouted in a depressingely sad tone. The second peace officer continued the conversation with a devilish grin on his face, “how pitiful. He “saved” all of these criminals but left his own father here to suffer his consequences.” Despite Dunither’s initial silence, he muttered out, “. . .what do you mean?” With a chuckle slightly coming out of the first peace officer’s mouth, “you haven’t noticed him not being here for the past two days? You really are a horrible father.” Between the gaps of tears flowing down his face, Dunither babbled “my own son wouldn’t abandon me for a “better life”?” Now an uproaring chuckle, the laughing peace officers replied with three words, “sucks to suck.” As Dunither was forced into the sitting position, the sounds of his knees popped, but he could only focus on the fact his first born and daughter-in-law left him. Their mom died to feed them. I’ve given them love and safety. Our homeland has given them everything. How could they do this to us? How could they betray us in such a heinous fashion? Now, I have to suffer because of their inability to think for the future. If I ever see them again, I’m going to teach them why they shouldn’t have done this and what it means to be a Hurshmann. The two officers came back into the room and the one who was more muscular spoke up, “are you ready to prove your loyalty to us?” Without looking up from the ground, Dunither sobbed, “I’ll do anything. Just. . . please. . . no more of the pain.” Oh, no. These don’t seem like the people to provide a good and safe option. These enforcers seem to thrive on the despair their “prisoners” radiate after being interrogated in such a dark fashion. I wonder where they are dragging his limpless body. Oh, wait. It looks like they are coming to a large arena within the building. It honestly looks like a basketball field but with higher walls and more vicious fans. They’re not even giving him a chance to speak or stand-up, they’re just towing his body against the rough ground. Oh! Someone else is being dawdled in, too. I love my home and the people who allow this place to thrive. I have no reason to complain. I can eat comfortably and sleep soundly at night because of those in charge. Just let me prove myself. I will do anything needed of me, Dunither despairingly thought. Wait. Who is that person sitting across from me? I recognize them from somewhere but there is too much blood across their face and body. It even looks like they have burn marks on their lower back and genital region. They must have done something terribly wrong for them to be abused in such a way. At least myself has underwear on, the peace officers are just letting this person hang loosely in front of everyone. “What you are here for,” Dunither quietly questioned. After a few more seconds of silence, Dunither pestered further, “Why were you sent here? What is this place?” Why are they ignoring me? How rude of them to just ignore me like this? “Answer me! I deserve to know who I’m sharing this room with,” Dunither aggressively shouted with all of the energy he had left. “Dad,” said the quiet person. “Dad? Who is your dad? Why are you calling me dad,” asked Dunither with a passion. Not a passion of inquisition, but a passion of fear of potentially seeing his child being tortured in front of him. “Dad. . . I’m sorry. . . I thought we could get away without anyone noticing,” said the naked and bloodstained individual. As Dunither stared at this person without blinking, his anger bubbling, he shouted, “why did you do this? Why did you risk all of our lives for this so-called “freedom”? You are my first born son! You should have known better!” The broken man in front of Dunither, didn’t move except to say repeatedly, “I’m sorry. . . I’m sorry. . . I’m sorry. . .” This must be pretty fucking awkward for Dunither. Wasn’t he just going on and on about his son being the most noble and loving cadre of the party, and country? Now, he’s facing his shattered kin in a pit of misery. I wonder what the enforcers have planned for them. “Hello, all! The party and country appreciate everyone coming to this lavish moment in our history. Sure, we host these battles frequently, as is tradition, but sometimes people just don’t think it’s important to show up,” said the colorfully dressed woman speaking into a microphone. “Today, we have two traitors in our midst. As a surprise, these two individuals won’t just be fighting each other for survival but as father and son.” These bastards are cheering this on?! They want me to fight my son and potentially kill him all to prove my loyalty to the party? I refuse! “Now, these two may refuse to annhilate the other. But, we have brought some reassurances to guarantee a lively bout,” exclaimed the energetically happy announcer. As her smile grew, she spoke more fervently. “Bring out the other traitors involved with this defection operation!” No. . . No they can’t bring them out. How could our glorious party do such a cruel thing as bringing out my other son and Grastroff’s wife? They would use them as hostages just to motivate us into kiling each other? There is no way we win. “We all know the rules to this engagement,” shouted the vivaciously gregarious woman. The more she spoke, the more bile was forced out of her muzzle, “Participants can use any weapon they find, nothing is off-limits, and make sure our audience is happy to come. Audience? Be as loud, spirited and inspiring as possible. We wouldn’t want our combatants to grow apathetic.” With the last sentence creeping off her tongue, she spoke in a stimulatingly volume, “Bring honor to the country! To the party!” I can’t believe this. What should I do? If I stay put, my second born and first born’s wife will be massacred. If I fight, I could potentially lose my son or my own life. Wait. My son is slowly standing up and looks like he’s coming to me. He sounds like he is muttering something. I can’t quite hear what he is saying. “Speak up, Grastroff,” Dunither pleadingly shouted. “You did this,” Grastroff sharply hollered at his father. With a defeated face and raspy voice, Dunither replied, “What? Did what?” “You forced us into this lifestyle! You bow before the party as if they fed you as a baby! You’re loyalty blinded you and led us to this nightmare,” Grastroff shouted with wrath. “If you had just listened to us and joined our expedition, we wouldn’t have been caught! But, you couldn’t hear us outside of your own reality! This. Is. Your. Fault.” With no energy left in him, Dunither only muttered, “I’m. . . I’m. . .” This is not my son. My son wouldn’t betray me like this. This. . . this is an imposter. I don’t recognize this “man”. Yeesh. What a heated exchange. But, it looks like it’s getting them going. They’re both standing and walking toward each other. Grastroff looks like he’s staring into Dunither’s eyes without faltering. Dunither, on the other hand, is scanning the room for something to finish this quickly. There are random shards of glass, broken pieces of metal and random collections of flower petals. That last one has to be a joke, right? Like, they’re making love but with the opposite emotion; hate. Looks like Dunither found something but it doesn’t look too sharp. Ohhhh, what a solid right hook from Grastroff but Dunither tanked it and sliced at the air with the tool in his possession. Grastroff launched a left hook and right cross. It connected! Dunither’s weapon went flying across the room and he looks fazed from this one. My son wouldn’t lay a finger on his dad like this man is doing. Grastroff loves me with the same vigor as he does his wife. I have shown him the way to peace and life. He wouldn’t willfully choose to end his dad’s life. This man. . . This person has decided to end me in such a detestable way. He must be one of them jean wearers trying to immobilze our society. I can’t let this stand. This. . . this is a test from the party. They want to make sure I’m fit enough to fight our enemies with frantic loyalty. I knew they didn’t do this to make my life worse. This is just here for me to prove my loyalty. I promise I will finish this and satisfy everyone! This guy can’t be serious, right? He thinks this is a test? What is he? American? Oh! Grastroff just mercilessly proceeded to kick his father in the chest, pushing him into the concrete wall surrounding the ring. He’s now lunging at him with a devastating combo of fists and feet. Grastroff isn’t letting up and Dunither can’t even process what is going on. Aaaaaand Dunither just slumped into the ground. Grastroff is standing over him, huffing and puffing, staring at the husk below him. He’s turning around. He’s walking away. No one else is moving, though. Wait. Dunither is slowly getting up. He just silently grabbed a sharpingly fierce shard. He’s running at Grastroff. Grastroff looks behind just in time to lose an eye. Grastroff is screaming. It sounds like a dying wallaby. The sheer desperation coming out is unbearable. How is the audience pleased from this? It’s piercing many of the cadres’ wives’ ears and themselves but they are just shrieking with joy. Dunither just pulled the shard out of his son’s eye, with the eye attached. Oh, my. He’s pulling the eye up to his face. Oh, lord! He’s eating it! “I haven’t eaten in a long time and having the party feed me proves their love for us,” Dunither spoke with a peaceful tone. Through the sound of soft tissues being masticated and his arrogantly loud munching, Dunither barked, “I knew you weren’t my son. He would never do this to us!” Wow! It didn’t even look like a second passed before Dunither thrust the shard into Grastroff’s neck, silencing him completely. As a narrator, I don’t think I could ever do this. I mean, I won’t. That’s the perk of being omniscient and omnipotent. You gotta try it out. Oh, Dunither is just hanging over his son’s body. Look at that. He’s copying that one Black Olympian during Hitler’s reign. Throwing his right fist in the air caused the audience to cheer on more hysterically than any lion could emulate. Oh! It looks like the announcer is about to speak. “What a fight! It didn’t last long but it was one of our favorites so far,” said the woman with a pleasing spirit. Disregarding the dead body in front of her, she went on to tell Dunither, “good job! You have proved your loyalty!” Looking at the guards on her sides, she whispered an order. Wait. What are they doing to Hondrita? I beat the imposter. They don’t need to try to trick me anymore. They need to leave her be! She didn’t do anything wrong! Why are they bringing her to the middle of the ring? With a sinister grin, the announcer spoke to Dunither without shifting her eyes from his, “you have done well.” As the guards dragged Hondrita into the middle, ignoring Dunither’s pleas, the announcer spoke with a firm, yet loving, tone, “but, we can not allow a traitor to stay. She will be sent to. . . the void.” “No, no, no, no, no, no,” Dunither shouted with urgency and desparation. BANG! “Noooooooooooo,” Dunither screamed. As Dunither crumbled into a ball on the ground, the announcer expressed her remorse for his loss with some choice words, “do not worry. She will not cause us any more harm or share our vulnerabilities to the enemy. She is in a place where no one comes back from and can live in peace. Her loss may be heavy on your heart but it’s for the greater good.” You know, that could have been real inspiring if it were not for the blatant disregard for human life. Dunither must feel conquered in every sense because he’s not even putting up a fight as the two guards who tortured him took him away again. I’m sure he’ll be let out soon. THREE WEEKS LATER They told me my old clothes were too bloody and they didn’t want me to scare any of my neighbors. They drove me in some random direction and told me to go home. Unfortunately, I don’t even know where I am. I’m sure the guards thought I lived near by. I may be lost but they wouldn’t do that on purpose. I’ll just walk until I see someone and then ask for directions. The good old nature of my brothers and sisters will lead me to where I need to go. All of this may be too much for the average citizen, but they knew I was a party member who could handle this. All of this. They knew I would be able to take down the traitor. They knew I would be able to live through my daughter-in-law’s washing. I may not like what they did, but it was for the greater good. I just wonder where my first-born went. Why did they have his wife, Hondrita, and my second born, but not him? Only an imposter. Who knows but I’m sure the Great Leader will speak to my soul and guide me home. Just like he will with Grastroff. Praise the Supremes! |
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