Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Interesting MM Quotes from His Editor

Morb has been very occupied with work as of late, and, in order to create the illusion of activity on this blog, asked me to post something. I asked him what, exactly, he’d like me to post, and I believe his exact words were, “I don’t know. Fuckin’ something, stupid.”

Since none of you, his readers, will ever get to meet him personally (be grateful, very grateful), I thought it might be kind of interesting to post some things that I’ve heard him say while interacting with people on a day-to-day basis. Yes, he really hates having to deal with people, but he’s accepted the fact that, short of growing a beard and living in a cave, he’s never going to escape the human interaction modern life demands. Also, because anything he’s written but decided not to post on this blog is utterly useless and unreadable, posting a few of his more coherent quotes was an easy way for me to fulfill my contractual duties with minimal effort.

Because Morb has resigned himself to the fact that he can’t escape dealing with people, he’s completely stopped censoring himself in any way. I mean, honestly, he just doesn’t care what he says to people; it’s like he has no indecency filter. While nearly everything he says is terribly hurtful, much of it is also very funny—or at least he thinks it is (as his editor, I sometimes agree). I was present for many of the following gems, some of them he text-messaged to me right after they happened (often prefaced by, “Hey, you’ll never guess what I just said to this retard who was bugging me”), and other phrases I learned of indirectly from the offended people at whom he initially spat them. The parenthetical italicizations are my simple situational explanations for the quotes. Enjoy … or don’t. I don’t really care as long as Morb agrees that I’ve done my job and lets my kitten, Mr. Camew (Get it? Camus + mew [kitten sound] = Camew. Adorable, no?), live one more day.

(To an annoyingly festive coworker on Saint Patrick’s Day)
“One, I’m not Irish; two, I can’t drink alcohol; and three, if you pinch me I’ll kill you.”

(To a coworker he had to ask for directions)
“Other than my personality, my only flaw is my terrible sense of direction.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“Of course the crux of my humor is self-deprecation. If I went around deprecating everyone else all the time, people would think I was a total dick. By the way, that shirt looks crappy on you, tubby.”

(To a fellow metal musician at a record store)
“Anyone who tells you being a musician is only about getting chicks is a fucking asshole … he’s probably up to his lungs in pussy, but he’s still a fucking asshole.”

(To the pretentious, faux-intellectual lady clerk/artist at the book store who used the wrong words to say something really stupid)
“There’s a painfully obvious difference between ascetic and aesthetic, Miss, and if you don’t understand that, you ought to abstain from talking and just occupy yourself looking at pretty pictures in the dipshit aisle.”

(To a hoard of environmental activists protesting in the town square)
“When you hippy bastards immolate yourselves in protest of America’s use of fossil fuels, try not to use any gasoline. You wouldn’t want to look foolish or anything.”

(To annoyingly religious coworker reading about a conjoined twins operation in the newspaper)
“Don’t feel too bad about that twin not surviving the operation: she’s the one that didn’t love Jesus.”

(To me during a discussion regarding something he was writing)
“If you can think of a better non-scientific name for cystic fibrosis than cumlung, I’d certainly like to hear it … Are you seriously offended by that? Faggot.”

(To an old lady in the Marie Callender’s parking lot making loud coughing noises in response to Morb’s smoking)
“Oh, fuck off already. Look, if the fifth piece of banana cream pie you swallowed whole tonight didn’t stop the ramshackle hunk of baboon meat and chewing gum you call a heart, I seriously doubt a whiff of quality tobacco is going to free you of the mortal-fucking-coil.”

(To an old man at the supermarket checkout who was jamming his cart into Morb’s calves)
“I’m going to have to point out what a bad idea it is to fuck with a person who places absolutely no value on human life when you’re old enough to die from getting pushed down a stair.”

(This is an e-mail Morb got from someone asking him a stupid question and his response, which was sent but never posted here before)

Dear Morb,

I recently took a new job. Everything has been going great, but now I think I am falling for my manager. She’s really pretty—although I think cute is a better word to use to describe her—and I think she really understands me. We have the same sense of humor and she gets all my jokes. Maybe I fall in love too easily. I really am a hopeless romantic. Should I tell her how I feel about her? I’m worried it would cause problems at work, or, even worse, she wouldn’t have the same feelings for me that I have for her. What should I do?


Anonymous Reader

Dear Anonymous Reader:

Dude, if you had ever read this blog before, you’d know better than to ask me a gay question like that.

Seriously, you have the spine of a washcloth. “Maybe I fall in love too easily.” How can you even say something so utterly epicene? Were you raised by a single mother or something? Did a little too much of mommy’s stray estrogen find its way into your undoubtedly pointy head? You’re probably the kind of priss that likes buying tampons for his heavy-flow girlfriend when she’s too crampy to budge ass off the couch and go to the store her own goddamned self.

Fuck, dude, I seriously don’t even know where to start making fun of you. “A hopeless romantic.” You’re like the Holy Grail of spineless, potpourri-scented, emasculated modern males. Just how much of your chemical makeup is low-fat, sugar-free Jell-O, anyway? Give me a close estimate, because I want to know how easily I’ll be able to put my foot through your torso when I try to kick the lisp demon out of you during what could only be compared to a hilariously violent blunt-force exorcism performed by a meth-spun Viking covered in rabid raccoons.

I could go on. Seriously. I could tear into your powder-puff emotional state like a 500-pound Cajun attacking a turducken after an especially long and fat-free Lent. But, because I’m feeling especially nice today, I’m going to let this pass. I’m not even going to post this crap. I’m going to spare your lady feelings and just ignore this chance to kick you around for a while.

I’m totally kidding. I’m not nice at all. The only reason you’re off the hook today, Sally, is because the 7-11 down the street just got a shipment of these coffee energy drinks that taste like they have vodka in them, and I’m going to buy them all so I can remember what alcohol tastes like. I do, however, suggest you try to grow some nads, though. Because if I ever see you and you’re still a little bitch, I’m going to kick you into traffic just so I can watch your ovaries get wrapped around some tires.