THE JMAC TIMES

If you’re under the age of 30, chances are you haven’t forgotten what it’s like yet. Some of you may have, and I assume that’s due to a stressful job or a crippling relationship, or maybe you just never knew what it was like to begin with.

You ever get asked by a significantly older person how school is going? Or how work is going? Or how whatever endeavor you’re on at that point is going? Your answer to that older person is going to be really fucking different than it would be if you were talking to someone your age.

“School’s going well. I really like my classes, my professor’s are cool. Been having a great semester so far.”

as opposed to

“School fucking sucks, dude, but I’ve been getting really wasted lately. Oh, and I’m fucking this wicked hot sophomore chick.”

Now imagine you switched those answers up when talking to those two groups of people. If you tell your mom’s friend that you puked in a crowded bar, she’s going to look at you like you just ninja kicked a puppy. And if you’re talking to one of your friends and gave them the straight, polite answer, they’d probably look at you the same way.

It’s like when certain older people look down on you for screwing up real bad, whether it be academically, socially or with the law, they act like they have no idea what it’s like to be that age. You got drunk on a Tuesday!? You don’t have any money!? You skipped classes!?

Um, yes. What’s the big fucking deal?

I think if faculty, teachers, parents, advisers, etc., just tried to remember what it’s like instead of looking at it through the lens of an experienced adult, communication might get a little easier.

Afterward: What does it say about my maturity level that I’m still drawing lines in the sand like this? Or for that matter, what does it say about my disdain for authority? It could also be my secret dream of moving to Never Never Land and becoming a Lost Boy, but that’s a whole different kind of delusion.

Facing another eight days of Hanukkah celebration was apparently too much for the now infamous actor this year, as he was found in his hot tub early this morning, dead from several self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the dick. Gibson, who always seemed to be getting tortured in his movies, in fact had a real life affinity towards pain, and therefore chose to blast away at his dick for a while instead of just shooting himself in the head.

The actor was best known for his movies Braveheart, the Lethal Weapon Series, and that one about that guy who can hear what bitches are thinking. Known anti-semite and raging alcoholic, Gibson tarnished what credibility and dignity he had with several drunken tirades against the Jews, finally reaching his pinnacle of insanity with a number of vitriolic and hate-laden messages to his former wife, that foreign chick.

As per Gibson’s wishes, he will be buried in the authentic SS uniform he purchased in a German historical auction last year. Just as his films will not be soon forgotten, neither will the irony that the sadistic and certifiably insane actor made his fortune in a business dominated by the very people he loathed.

Short answer: yes.

Hey, here’s an idea. The day after Thanksgiving lets start playing Christmas music on our radio station 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Forget the fact that we’re a classic rock station. From Thanksgiving until New Years Eve, we’re going to play nothing but Jingle Bells and Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer and that Bruce Springstein cover of Santa Claus is Coming To Town which may very well be the most overrated and overplayed rendition of any major American song in the short history of this country.

Thanks a lot, radio stations. You’ve successfully jaded me and every other sane person within broadcasting range to the should-be-joyful, but now torturous and aneurism-inducing garbage that passes as “quality” music. Seriously, if you can listen to Christmas music every day for a month, then you are nuts. Certifiably insane.

Everybody knows there’s only one good Christmas song, and that’s James Earl Jones’ rendition of The Grinch song. Fact. The rest of it might as well be U2: untalented, boring, lyrically and instrumentally insufficient, and for some reason loved by the masses.

I’ll never figure you people out.

Only 15 hours after the world finished celebrating World AIDS day, Earvin “Magic” Johnson, legendary basketball player and ESPN analyst, has died of AIDS. Strangely, the HIV virus, which was untraceable in Johnson’s system up until yesterday, woke up when it heard the entire world talking about it, transformed into full blown AIDS, and sent the one-time womanizer to the eternal locker room.

“It’s really sad news,” commented ESPN analyst Stuart Scott, “but to be honest, I was always a little uncomfortable shaking his hand.”

ESPN has not yet announced who they plan to hire as Johnson’s replacement, but it will almost certainly be another bald black man, or possibly an extremely ugly and bald white man, like Jeff Van Gundy.

“I feel bad for his family and everything, but that guy just won me a ton of money,” exclaimed Tony Kornheiser, host of “Pardon the Interruption” who happened to have Magic Johnson in his 2010 death pool. “Everybody loves a sleeper!”

Cryptomnesia occurs when you believe that an idea is genuine and new, but in reality it’s an old memory that you just don’t realize as such. A person will falsely recall generating an idea when really they’ve seen, heard or read the idea in the past. In essence, it’s unknowingly plagiarizing something.

The other day I had the greatest idea in the world: an iPhone app that tells you where the best public bathrooms are in whatever city you’re in. Gold, I thought to myself. Fucking gold!

Because how many times have you been in desperate need of a toilet out in public and not known where to go? You probably went into a Legal Seafoods or something, acted like you were waiting for the rest of your party, peeked at the specials, then casually strolled into the bathroom and ruined the place. Afterwards, there’s a good chance you pretended to be talking on your cell phone when you walked by the host to try and ease the awkwardness. It’s a scenario that’s been playing out since time immemorial.

Well what if you knew that there was a luxury bathroom in the lobby of the office building next door, just waiting to be destroyed? That’s what my iPhone app would tell you. It would solve all of the awkward public shitting problems that plague us every day of our lives.

But then I watched the Seinfeld reunion episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm again and realized that I stole it from George Costanza.

The iToilet. The fucking iToilet.

So this begs the question: how many other ideas have I stole? How many ideas have you stole? Chances are you’re a disgusting, low-life thief, but I guess if you never realize it, it doesn’t matter, right?

Either way, I don’t have time to think about it in any more depth right now. I have to go back to developing this online, social network I created.

Just days before he was due to check into a Pennsylvania prison on charges of tax evasion, Wesley Snipes was found dead by Kris Kristofferson in the underground, vampire hunting lair that the two men shared. At approximately 9:38 am today, Kristofferson returned with groceries and parts for a new vampire death ray he was planning to build, when he told investigators that he smelled a strange stench coming from Snipes’ room. Upon entering the room, Kristofferson discovered that the stench was coming from the dead carcass of Snipes’ career. Snipes’ body was later discovered in the living room.

Snipes will be missed by everyone except the IRS.

There are few things that piss me off in real life. I might get a little frustrated at a long line, or when someone cuts me off on the road, or any time I see George Lopez’s face. But in all honesty, not too much really bothers me.

Except one thing.

I do have a soft spot. And no, it’s not the soft spot that’s popular in prison. It’s a pet peeve that I have – something that if I witness in action, I immediately know the individual perpetrating the crime is not a good person and can never be real friends with me.

If you are in any way, shape or form rude to a waiter or waitress, then you can drive a Segway off a cliff for all I care, because in my mind you are the worst thing on the planet. Worse than cancer (you lose some weight, at least), worse than politicians (we can make jokes at their awfulness), worse than accidentally hooking up with a transvestite (head’s head, right?), worse than any other type of scumbag in the world.

If you’re rude to a waiter or waitress, you are a bad person at heart. Period.

And this isn’t like being an asshole who lies to girls just to sleep with them and then never calls them again. No, this is much worse. Being rude to the person serving you shows stupidity and pretentiousness that is unmatched by any other type of human gaff.

If I was president, I’d bug every restaurant in the country, catch people being rude to their waiter or waitress, arrest them and send them to some sort of work camp where they’d be fed only bread and water and forced to crush batteries while wearing striped pajamas of some kind. Definitely not cotton pajamas, either. Something itchy and not breathable, like wool.

Is that what you people want? Do you want to crush batteries in wool pajamas? Of course not. Nobody wants to crush batteries in wool pajamas.

Just the worst kind of people.