Friday, May 25, 2012

How the Zombie Apocalypse Will Happen

Everyone has a plan for survival during the zombie apocalypse, but has anyone ever thought how the zombie apocalypse will start? Sure, but not many. It'll be tainted/infected meat, most "prophecies" say, but I have a different idea:

What if the zombie apocalypse starts by antibiotic-resistant e.coli transferred from smart phones due to people playing on them while pooping? 

I mean, it's a realistic cause. According to this article in 2005 in The New York Times, not everyone washes their hands after using the restroom. The article discusses that, in a nationwide poll of 1013 people, only 90% of women washed their hands and a sad 75% of men washed theirs. Gross, dudes. Seriously. Wash that shit. 

"But it's a study about public restrooms!" one may cry out in a stupid, whiny fat kid voice. I don't care - the fact is, you tend to wash your hands more when in a public restroom setting than when you're at home, taking a Sir Harrington and playing Angry Birds or browsing Reddit.

Consider this: we are more aware that multiple people use public restrooms, and the realization is obvious, because, well, other people are in there often while you are in there, doing your business. People you don't know. This tends to make that relentless echoing of your mother's voice saying, "You don't know where that's been!" sound louder in your mind, and not to mention, others are watching you to see if you wash your hands. The social guilt makes you intentionally wash your hands, as if proving to other strangers you don't give a shit about that you are a clean person and don't intend on walking around smearing your nasty poop hands all over everything.

Digression: I once overheard a big sister tell her younger sister to wash her hands in the bathroom, and she told her to wash them, because "no one wants you to touch them with your nasty vagina hands." I laughed my ass off. 

 Now, think about your bathroom. How often do you clean it? There isn't some guy waiting in the corner with a mop and a rolling trashcan to clean up the remnants of your bodily functions every day, like it's done in, say, a public restroom, and it's up to you to take the initiative to wash your hands after you do your "business." I'm not here to call anyone out, but I was married once, and I learned about some really gross behaviors of men.

He knows what everyone eats. Think about it.

Now that we've briefly discussed hand washing ex post facto, what about when you're pooping? Or worse, what about that in-between time? Do you wash your hands, then flush? Or do you flush, then wash your hands? How about that smart phone you've been holding the entire time? Where did you set it? Did you pick it up again after wiping your ass? 

Not to mention, when you flush with the lid open, poo particles fly everywhere, according to WebMD. Imagine those poo particles, freshly erupted from your toilet, floating onto your toothbrush, your bath towel, and that smart phone you've been playing on. Now imagine which one you never think about washing.

That's right. You never wash your phone. And someone is probably going to call you soon on that phone that you've been intimately and surgically attached to during your "private gaming time." 

Go ahead, throw up. I'll wait.

Now that you have that awesome taste of bile in your mouth, I want you to continue to think about this fact: what is a common bacteria that exists in our poop? Why, it's Escherichia coli of course! 

We live in your poop chute! 

According to that wonderfully often inaccurate website, Wikipedia, some strains - or serotypes - of e.coli cause food poisoning and other infections. And how awesome is food poisoning! But wait! There's more! Because you're technically inhaling poop particles by talking on your phone, you're also susceptible to these illnesses: meningitis, colitis, and - wait for it - WORMS. 

BOOM. THAT JUST HAPPENED. Now everyone thinks they have worms and they're probably afraid to scratch their asses. 

What's to say that these illnesses cannot become resistant to antibiotic and other medicines? Just recently, there was an article about finding more strains of antibiotic-resistant bacteria, which includes our favorite rod-shaped bacteria: e.coli. 

Let's review: 
- not all of us wash our hands after going to the bathroom.
- private residence bathrooms may be less than or equal to sanitary conditions of public restrooms.
- a lot of people admit to playing with their smart phones while worshiping Thomas Krapper. 
- if we don't put the lid down while we flush, poo particles fly everywhere, including but not limited to: toothbrushes, bath towels, and smart phones.
- no one washes their phones (admit it, you don't clean your phone every day or ever).
- our mouths breathe in poo particles (I'm coining the term 'shitacles') while we talk on the phone, including e.coli.
- antibiotic-resistant bacteria exist, and e.coli is one of them.

My conclusion? 

Avoid this: read shampoo bottles. 

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

My Imaginary Daughter Keeps Skipping School

What I imagine my daughter to look like.

For what seems to have been a few months, I have had a new phone number. And for what seems to have been a few months, I have been receiving - almost weekly - an automated message from Elmwood Junior High School in Rogers, Arkansas, that tells me that my daughter has been skipping school. This automated message is a tattle-tale of sorts, acting as a digital truancy officer that seems only able to operate a phone to alert parents that their children were absent for one or more classes for the day. Once, I received a phone call from the nurse at the junior high in regards to my daughter, and I told her that it was the wrong phone number. Alas, those weekly phone calls keep coming. 

That's nice, but I don't have a daughter, and I don't live in Rogers, Arkansas. I live in Savannah, and I'm twenty-six, which would mean that, had I been a parent to this mystery daughter, I would have been at most fourteen years old when I had her, which would make her twelve and very brave to skip classes. 

This causes concern. What the hell is a twelve-year-old girl doing skipping school? In my weird, somewhat depraved, creative mind, I imagined what my "daughter" was doing. I decided to name her Barbara, too. 

Barbara doesn't skip school to smoke cigarettes at pool halls with guys named Steve or Kevin, she wanders off into the Ozark Mountains and battles rogue sasquatches and lives off the land, making shoes out of snakes' skins and wears a cloak made of deer hide. She calls her self Skipping Stone, because in her grandiose thinking, she believes she is descended from Native Americans. But Barbara doesn't just defend the quiet, introverted people of Rogers, Arkansas from rogue sasquatches - she also distills moonshine (the finest moonshine in the mountains, she professes). This isn't just regular moonshine, either. Having named it Bobby Newton is the Cutest Boy in my Geology Class Moonshine, Barbara makes sure to put extra, high potent doses of glitter and perfume into every ounce of that white lightning. And she dyes it pink, so that everyone who buys it knows that it has been blessed by the Unicorn Gods of Sprinkletown. 

That, or she cooks meth. Being a native of Missouri, I'm aware of the epidemic of meth and religion that encapsulates the very large, engraved, brass belt buckle of The Bible Belt, and I bet Barbara loves Jesus so much that she wants his invisible bugs to crawl all over her body while she stays up all night watching The 700 Club and other Evangelical television shows. Jesus is in the ice, Barbara. You keep chasing that dragon to Heaven. 

Putting warped humor aside, the next time I get this phone call, I think I'm going to call the school and tell them the situation. I'm also going to tell them to call DFACS if this girl is skipping school so much. Clearly, there's a problem at home, and that should be addressed. For the sake of the child, talk to her while she's in school and help her fix what is probably not her fault. It could be her parents, someone at school, or that she's depressed. It doesn't matter; there's a problem, and calling the wrong number over and over isn't going to help. 

Thursday, May 10, 2012

The Bench of Existentialism

"Mama always said, 'Life is like a box of conscience. You never know what you're gonna perceive.'"

One day, while devouring what could be the world's most tasty ice cream at Leopold's Ice Cream, my boyfriend and I noticed a souvenir slate from the movie The Core affixed to the wall. In discussing the movie and how ridiculously unrealistic it was to think that, in the event that the world stopped spinning, a nuclear bomb set off in Earth's core would make magma flow in a different direction and prevent the world from stopping, the actual question arose: What would happen if Earth stopped spinning? 

Technology be hailed, we had the answer(s) at our fingertips. Our own guesses on the effect of this planet deciding one day to just say, "Fuck it. I'm dizzy, and spinning sucks," were a little off, but the answer was somewhat interesting. 

Apparently this happens.

According to Witold Fraczek, not only does this person have a very-hard-to-pronounce name, but also the water on the planet would shift to the poles, leaving a band of land in the middle, which caused the next following questions.

By the time we had come to the learned conclusion that we, as humans, might not be as fucked as primarily thought, my boyfriend and I had found our asses sitting on a bench in a square near the ice cream shop. As we discussed the end of mankind via destructive, unpredictable tempests and half-year seasons of summer and winter, the words "centrifugal force" emerged.

"There isn't such thing as centrifugal force," I told my boyfriend in a smart-ass voice. I wasn't being mindful of my pretentious tendencies, and I nearly immediately apologized for being an ass.

"Then what is it that keeps us from flying off the planet?" He asked out loud, not really to me, but more to his fingers, which were typing away on his phone to find the answer. 

The answer, of course, was that centrifugal force does not exist, but centripetal force does. According to Newtonian physics, centrifugal force is a false cause to the effect of centripetal force, meaning that, in the response to the mere belief that centrifugal force exists, masses press themselves against Earth so that they don't fly off. You know, like how as a kid, you clung for dear life on the bars of one of those spinning whirly-gigs at the park while your brother and sister spun it faster and faster, laughing maniacally and chanting, "YOU'RE ADOPTED. YOU'RE ADOPTED."

"Sororicide" and "Merry-Go-Round" are synonymous.

Well, boys and girls, this wasn't the end of discussion. In response to the idea of centripetal force equating to the effect of the mythological being named "Centrifugal Force," my boyfriend asked the question: "If something doesn't exist, but we apply a name to it and react to it, then does it exist?"

Great Poseidon's Salty Asshole, the man was starting to talk like a hobo hitching a ride on the 12:15 Express to Crazyville. He was instilling the idea that, even if something did not physically exist, if it had a name and an image or idea of what it could be, it existed. Just like that.

"While we go crazy, do you mind if I just stare at your tits for comfort?"

Say that I believe that there is a seriously power-crazed sea creature that lives under the sea and will one day surface and rule us with magical tentacle-y powers, and his name is Cthulhu. And because Cthulhu wants to enslave the human race, we lost our abilities to breathe underwater so that we were less susceptible to his hypnotic powers.  Guess what? By this premise, he does exist! BOOM. THAT JUST HAPPENED.

The question was discussed, and as we dug deeper and deeper to the core of knowing our existence, like that stupid drill in the movie The Core, we hit a crossroads of intellect. We had reached the argument where Descartes enters into the arena, which was a very good thing, because it served as a warning that, if we continued to discuss our existence or how we know that wind exists, our brains would melt into a puddle of gray ooze, bubbling with diseased bat-shit craziness and apocalyptic cardboard prophecies. If we stopped thinking about the ultimate questions to life and our existence, our minds would be saved by the thought-blocking power of Ignorance (now on sale in bulk at any Wal-Mart), and we could live a long, foil-hat-free life.

We opted on the latter, and to recuperate from our brush with shared brain-melting fates, we drank a few to come back down to the good-ol' Merry-Go-Round Earth.