#Racism Is A Trending Topic.

It does matter if you're black or white. (Sup girl?)

**Disclaimer** I believe there is only one race, the human race. And that's why I am racist.

Yesterday, an old (white) friend of mine who I haven't spoken to in months texted me this: "As someone who hates white people, what is your honest opinion on Ferguson?"

I think White Guy Wilson needs to be put on trial. The majority of white people are racist. Actually, pretty much all people (that aren't children) are racist in some way. (Personally, I hate the human race. Seriously. Especially the little old Chinese female ones.)  I feel like I don't know anything that actually happened between Michael Brown and White Guy Wilson. The facts are "facts." Why were there so many autopsies? Why is there information being withheld? Why the hell isn't White Guy Wilson being put on trial?!

That's my entire opinion on the case. I could write novels on racism (and why it's my favorite and least favorite thing) but I'll leave that to all the guilty people that are constantly updating their social media feeds with examples of racism, and #iloveblackpeople hashtags, and videos of other black people robbing old ladies while simultaneously saving them from burning buildings, and then long-winded opinions, and excuses, and manifestos about their own beliefs. Because that's what I took away from all of this.

More than anything, I think both the Michael Brown and Eric Garner cases have shown us just how selfish we have become in The Golden Avatar Me Me Me Me Me Me Age. I don't want to take anything away from the people who are having healthy dialogues about racism, classism, and are marching in the streets for a better United States of America. They're better than I am. But that's the minority. Stupid fuckin' minorities.

I've been in Chile for the past few weeks so I haven't been as in-tune to my powerful online presence (all lies) as I usually am. Every time I opened Facebook, I saw links to articles about racism, and non-racism, and post-racism, and videos of a random black guy punching a cop, or a white guy kissing a black toddler, or a black guy feeding the homeless, or all kinds of bullshit that has absolutely nothing to do with an unarmed dead teenager in Ferguson, or a harmless dude selling loosies in Staten Island. Because it's not about that. It's about what I think. And about what I want you to think. Too often, these major fucked up situations lead to each one of us pushing our own agendas (see: RIGHT HERE). Sure, examples of racism are important in the broader discussion, but when you're only posting them because it's popular to do so, you might not be being a racist but you're being an asshole.

The reason I don't believe most people's intentions are honest when they post anything about racism is because I know they don't care. Sure, they care about it now. But as soon as Kim Kardashian gains a few pounds (which should be any day now) they'll care about that. Or when new emojis come out, they'll care about that. (Can we at least have one more brown face? Please!) Or when Instagram lets you zoom into pictures, they'll care about that. I mean seriously, why can't you zoom in? I need to zoom.

The main argument (which I don't care about) against everything I said will be: Well what are we supposed to do? Not talk about it? You're right. We have to talk about it. But let's talk about it when we actually give a fuck. Let's begin to question the foundation of everything in our own lives. Listen to your friends and families, watch your favorite shows, look in the kitchen of a fancy restaurant, then look at the patrons around you, look at the person driving your taxi, or the ones singing your favorite songs. Look at them and listen to them and begin to question where racism actually exists. Where it's cold, and shitty, and fucked up, and in your face. Then let's talk about it. Until then, don't waste anyone else's time with your agenda.

Racism is a trending topic. But it should just be a topic. A serious one.

Leaked Nudes. Leaked Dudes.

I scrolled through the pictures of the naked female celebrities. I'll admit it. I actually woke up this morning to a text message from a friend that brought me to a website with a few of the celebrities naked pictures on it. Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton were the only ones I knew. The rest, no clue. I glanced at them, closed the website and got on with my day. Didn't think anything of it. Then of course came the shock and awe on Facebook of people posting what Lena Dunham had to say and how women are constantly targeted by hackers trying to get their cum-soaked hands on nudes and naughty videos, and that's when I really started to wonder what was going on. And I have many problems with it.

How much time did all of this take? I've read different articles that said some celebrities claimed many of these photos were deleted off of their phones long ago, so it must have taken work to retrieve them. I recently accidentally deleted the hundreds of pictures I took on my trip to the south of France. I was furious at myself for hours. But when I got home, I downloaded software that retrieved all the pictures. Simple as that. But this hacking shit, there is no way it was that simple. These losers must have spent weeks (months? years?) retrieving these pictures from so many women. Pathetic. I mean seriously. But isn't this a good snapshot of our culture? People will spend an ungodly amount of time, and talent (computer hacking, not pervertdom) for what? To retrieve some pictures of asses and titties. I'm not even saying these virgins should be out solving the world's problems, solving the energy or clean water crisis. BUT surely there is a better way to use time and effort. It doesn't have to be Help The World related. Maybe some of that time could be spent learning another language or developing a personality, skills that might make it easier to meet a woman in real life. Sigh. Obviously I'm using stereotypes. I'm sure these dudes who hacked these pictures are unhappily married, raising little shithead kids that will grow up thinking, "Well fuck these celebrities, they have all the other advantages in life, I DESERVE TO SEE THEIR NIPPLES!"

I never understood the naked selfie. I'm an extremely lonely guy. I look at videos and pictures of random naked ladies online. I know it won't fill the overwhelming emptiness I have in my life. I know that. But I don't understand the naked selfie. I'll be the first to admit that I'm insecure about the size of Little Marty. So maybe that's why I've never had the compulsion to put my iPhone down my pants, fight through my pubic hair, and zoom in, all the way in, and take a picture of my enemy. Maybe if I was as beautiful as Jennifer Lawrence I'd get it. But I'm not, and I don't.

Sure, I understand, when you're in a relationship with someone, you're feeling good and good-looking, and want them to see you naked. So you take a picture, you send it, and you laugh about it later, or get turned on, or whatever. I get that. I've just never had the desire to do it. Let's say it's Tuesday afternoon and I (Marty) am dating a beautiful girl (obviously a hypothetical), and I'm out grocery/underwear shopping at Target. All of a sudden my phone buzzes and I see a picture of my [obviously hypothetical] beautiful girlfriend posing naked in our bedroom. How would I react? If I'm being completely honest, I would probably laugh, both at the idea she probably did so because she knew I'd think it was funny, but also that she physically took the time to stand in front of a mirror, make some ridiculous face, and snap a nude selfie. There is almost no way I envision myself sprinting to find a Target sales associate, frantically asking them where the nearest "little boy's room" is, then fighting my way through sale shoppers to the empty stall to jack off at a picture of my girlfriend. Seriously. I mean, if she sent me a picture like this, a more honest reaction would be, "Bitch, don't you got something better to do? How bored are you? Do you want me to stop by the library on the way home?!"

Wait a minute, I just realized that I assumed all of these women were sending these pictures to boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, or wives (if they're lesbians, which is perfectly fine of course...especially for the fantasy). What if Kate Upton is sending pictures like this to random numbers? What if she hired a nerd to find numbers of lonely losers like me and is sending pictures to them, hoping they drop dead of heart attacks? If that's the case, well then shit, that's genius. Wipe out the lonelies of the earth, the only way they deserve it.

In all seriousness, I don't know how to feel about looking at the pictures of these women. I originally did it out of curiosity. I do think this is a breach of these ladies' privacy. It's despicable. In no way, should anyone be allowed to rummage through any person's, celebrity or not, private life. What they do in their own time, in their own homes (or not, it doesn't matter), is none of our business. And I was being honest when I said I didn't dwell on the pictures. Maybe I've become numb to naked pictures because of all the porn I've already been exposed to. I just don't care. Great, I saw Jennifer Lawrence naked today. But I'm a 5'6" balding "bachelor" with an unbelievable imagination, I already saw her naked in Winter's Bone. She had clothes on in that movie? Really? And in Hunger Games? And in Hunger Games 2? And Hunger Games 3? Is that one even out yet? Ah, it doesn't matter.

I'll forget every nipple as soon as I'm done writing this. And this is what pisses me off the most. And I'm being completely serious. I can't stress that enough. Why do these hackers prey on these women? Every single day, a new woman that I don't give a shit about has pictures leaked on the internet against their wishes. It's wrong, it's stupid, and it's a waste of time. Can't we just run out of women? Can't we just run out of titties? Can't we just run out of coochie pubes? In a perfect world we would respect each other's privacy. This isn't a perfect world. And that's why I don't understand why there are never naked pictures of MEN! And I'm not talking about the Leonardo DiCaprios or David Beckhams or any other dudes that don't know what a dry penis feels like. Why aren't there pictures of Louis CK, bending over, red asshole hair steaming up the camera lense? Or Larry David, with his long balls, circumcised pecker, and insecure Jewish face? When are we getting the picture of Jonah Hill moving his speedo to the side to reveal a soft-as-marshmallow dong? WHEN?! I would be talking about this for weeks, months, years. Comparing notes. Have better, more interesting conversations with my friends. "Louie is really packing some thunder, does that make his insecure comedy less relevant?" "You think Larry David gave it a few pumps before he took that picture? Who was he sending it to? Why? I thought people his age barely knew how to use technology. Isn't it great? Linking one senior citizen to another, one semi-limp dick at a time!" The possibilities...

But nope, no one is interested. Here come the titties, and the pussies, sigh, I already forgot what any of these women looked like naked. Now all I want to think about is Zach Galifianakis' dick. And the hair around his asshole.

- Marty

My Titties.

Trudy. Photo courtesy of Gio Parkaia aka "MDNA"

My biggest insecurity in life, besides the size of my penis, or my height, or balding, or how much shit I talk behind my friends' backs, or my ACT score, is my man-cans. My chesticles. My titties. Somewhere in this world, there is a picture of me with my shirt off at a water park, probably 12 years old, with a set of knockers that would make the cover of the SI swimsuit edition. What was I supposed to do? I was eating 3-5 packages of Ritz mini cheese crackers, french fries, nachos, and pizza every single day for lunch. But I was also 12 years old and didn't know what was best for me. I think about that picture every single day.

Fast forward 17 years, and here I am. I'm not overweight, I'm not underweight, but I have titties. I admit it. A few years ago, it would have been unthinkable of me to even acknowledge them. Not because I didn't know I had them, I've always known, but because I didn't want to draw attention to them. It's not like I walk down the street and guys stare at my cleavage before they even acknowledge I'm a human. That's what we do to women. But when I used to substitute teach, I remember walking into a 6th grade classroom, introducing myself as Mr. C, and hearing a girl in the back whisper to her friend, "Oh, he got titties."

Over the years I've learned how to hide them, somewhat. I say "somewhat" because, well, you ever see a woman with really gigantic boobs that doesn't really like them? She wears baggy black blouses (alliteration), walks with a curved back, never shows cleavage, and has a whole game plan to make sure they go unnoticed. But it never works. Everyone knows they're there, and everyone knows that even the best attempts won't tame those monsters. 

I never wear white t-shirts. White t-shirts show the outlines of titties perfectly. Stay away. I envy guys that are confident to walk around with polo shirts that barely fit. By the way, polo shirts, are a tittyman's (a tittyman is a man who has titties, not a man that likes titties, a man that likes titties, is just a man) biggest nightmare. If you have titties and wear a polo shirt, you might as well walk around with your shirt off and a big neon sign that reads, "Check out the knockers on me, even though I'm male and not supposed to have them!" Instead, I wear big baggy tees with distracting graphics. I mean, if I'm walking into the wind, you can still see the outline of my titties perfectly. But I try to avoid the wind. I walk close to buildings, I draft behind really fat people, and I'm constantly throwing grass in the air like a golfer to see which way the wind is blowing. I'm always prepared. In the colder months I'm sure to wear a double pocket button down. Not because I have enough things to fill two chest pockets, I don't even know what chest pockets are for, but because I have 2 titties, and need a pocket to cover each one.

The problem with having titties from such a young age is that there is no one to look up to. Tittymen don't have support groups. There are celebrity tittymen like A-Rod and Simon Cowell but what's to learn from them? They're assholes. So we have to go around walking with arched backs and one too many pockets on our chest.

And of what use are they? Can I go through a drive-through and get a couple extra chicken nuggets by pulling down the neck of my shirt and revealing succulent cleavage? Can I titty my way out of a speeding ticket? Is it a good thing to acquire more beads than all the women at Mardi Gras? Can you turn those in for some therapy sessions with a good psychoanalyst? They're useless. The titties, not the psychoanalysts.

And this is why I can't enjoy the beach. Besides all the other fatasses, women and men, making me sick to my stomach because their bodies barely look human, I'm afraid I'll scare children. I was in the south of France a few weeks ago and dreaded taking my shirt off in public for weeks before I got there. I could picture it, my pale titties out, kids running to their moms, grown men crying for their moms. All because of my titties. Lives ruined. An optimist would say, "Well maybe those kids will be motivated to not grow up and have titties, maybe they'll reach higher, achieve more, dream bigger, with no titties." But I'm not an optimist. There is a humanitarian disaster going on in the south of France right now. A titty can never be unseen. 

I'm only sharing this with you because I feel like you deserve to know. I can't lie to myself anymore. I know you know about the titties. But I want you to know that I know you know. And I want to tell you that for those of you who still love me, like me, or simply tolerate me, that I appreciate it. I love you. 

"Oh, he got titties." Yep, I sure do, sorry.

Pug!

Titties.

Eyelids. Gross.

I came home today motivated to sit down and write something really funny and clever. I couldn't come up with anything. So instead I looked at pictures I've taken of myself when my eczema looked terrible. This is from 2 weeks ago when I was in France. I was on my way to Aix-en-Provence to visit my friend Kim who I haven't seen in 8 years. Look at my eyelids, don't they look they might peel off?

Today some Scandinavian girl asked me where Broome street was. I told her, but her and her friend didn't believe me. She had really, really, really, really big boobs. They were cool. The boobs, not the girls. Well, they might have been cool too but we didn't really talk about anything other than directions.

I've noticed that I like to keep in touch with anyone that doesn't take themselves too seriously. Last year I approached a girl on the train and asked her for her phone number. Obviously, I was shitfaced. Is shitfaced hyphenated? Shit-faced. So yeah, I asked her for her phone number and she actually gave it to me. She was Argentinian and so was her friend. I never hung out with either of them but we chat through Facebook sometimes. Should I not be doing that? When you hate as many people, and types of people, as I do, you tend to try to hang on to the people that aren't fuckfaces. Is fuck-faces hyphenated? They were cool. The girls, not their boobs. Actually, their boobs are probably pretty cool too.

My apartment is a total mess. I think it might be a metaphor for my life. It's perfectly OK, it could be amazing, but I'll never get around to cleaning it up and putting any effort into it.

But lord knows I'll sit back and say I will, tomorrow.

Dating Websites.

There have been far too many mornings where I have waken up (woken up, awakened, what the fuck is it?) with an unused Kleenex in my hand. For you innocents out there, this means that I was preparing to masturbate in my bed, with my computer next to me, not my iPad because it doesn't have Flash, and apparently you need to have Flash to watch a lot of the videos of naked girls I have found that are satisfying (enough) but then fell asleep before I could do it, because I walked too many dogs. That's not a euphemism for boning too many willing women, it's my job. Walking dogs is tiring. And I had Kleenex because it's the perfect way to clean up the millions of baby Martys that don't really deserve a place in this world anyways. I mean seriously, do we really need a more entitled, bitter, ill-peckered, dickhead roaming Mother Earth coming up with out-of-place dick jokes and trolling the internet, all while telling the whole world wide web every single pathetic detail of his life? No, we don't.

OkCupid. Tinder. Should I do it? I've never really put serious thought into joining a dating website. And contrary to what some people might think, it's not because I think they are lame. I get it. Life is lonely. You're born alone, you die alone. Why not use a tool that's available to possibly make life a little less lonely? If that's by combing through potential matches of pictures of people you might spend the rest of your life with, on your phone on the subway, while trying to ignore the 2Chainz songs coming out of the Indian kid's, who keeps saying "nigga" to his do-ragged Indian friends, cellphone. Then so be it. I wish you well.

The truth is, I've never considered getting on a dating website because I'm not exactly sure I'm in the mood to meet new people. Do I need more "friends"? Do I really want to talk about what I majored in college? Or what ethnicity I am? Or why I moved to New York City? Or why I have a mid-life crisis every 4-6 days? Or why I wear button down shirts with two pockets on the chest to hide my man boobs?

And do I want to ask those questions, and then listen to the answers to those questions?

Sometimes I wonder if my quaint free time spent taking guitar lessons, working out, trying really hard not to eat cookies, trolling the internet, is really just a guard I've placed against fears in my life. Maybe I'm avoiding dating because I'm afraid of being disappointed when nothing but trolls, whales, ghouls, and goblins show up on my e-dating match list. Or maybe I don't want to go on a bad date and have to awkwardly shake hands with some girl that started a statement with, "I don't want to sound racist but..." Or maybe I'm not in the mood to explain why I have a "pecker" and not a "penis."

"Penis."

If I'm being completely honest, I actually think I'm more interested in learning new things, about the world, about myself, about life, than I am about getting blowjobs. Is that weird? Am I doing it wrong?

If I do decide to join one of these sites, a friend has provided me with a strategy that I'm starting to think is a bit genius. He told me to use Tinder, download an app that Likes everyone, and see what connections are made. If there, for some totally fucking strange reason, are cute girls that I'm interested in meeting, I could invite them to a night out and let them know I'll be with a couple friends. This way, they can bring a few friends, and there is a lot less pressure than going out for dinner and having to worry about paying for several entrees and making up interesting things I haven't done. At the very least, we'll be at a bar with our friends meeting new people, wondering if I just tried to set up some sort of weird orgy. Maybe it's the pussy way out. But it's a pretty good idea.

Unfortunately, all of my friends are taller, better looking, and funnier than me. I'm usually used as the bait. Sometimes I'm the bitter guy that has Kleenex balls under his bed that can be cracked in half. And sometimes, I'm a walking aphrodisiac...for other people. I butter the biscuits but I never get to taste them. There have been quite a few times where (I thought) I've charmed a lady only to find out she's got a boyfriend that she's now rushing home to go to after laughing at all the lines I've practiced for hours and stolen from people a lot cooler than me. So that leaves me with a new problem. I have to find new friends. Friends that are lame, lack fun facts, under 5-foot-6, and hopefully more Asian.

OkCupid? Tinder? Interested in: Friends.

- Marty

Give Up.

"I want to work in comedy."

I think this is the biggest lie I've ever told anyone. And I've told almost everyone. What the fuck does it even mean? Every single day I think about writing on this blog or going to try some of my terrible standup material. And every single day, except for a few, I don't do it. I wander around, I watch a TV show, I complain about entitled people, I exercise, I think about money, I laugh at white people, I call the dogs nerds, I make fun of everything, I think about going on dates, I question my insecurities, I wonder if I'll die alone, and I think about eating cookies, and then I eat cookies. But I don't write and I don't do standup.

For as long as I can remember, making people laugh has always been the most important thing in my life. Not Michael Jordan. Not learning new things. Not looking at the stars. Not having children. Not having sex with beautiful women. Not traveling. Not pizza. Not the superiority of black people on the dance floor, and most other cool things. Not my mom. She'll die at some point. Probably relatively soon but hopefully not for a long time. Not any of those things. Ha. Ha. Ha. That's what is important to me.

But let me be honest. I always try to be. What I should have said is this: I want to be as successful and funny and as respected as Larry David. Or Louis CK. Or Dave Chappelle. Or whoever else is totally awesome. Because I don't want to work in comedy. I don't want to put the work into embarrassing open mics. I don't want to write clever blog posts, especially if I'm trying to force myself not to make a jackin' off joke. I don't want to spend any more lonely hours in my head. I don't want to come up with any more lies on what I'm doing to pursue a career in comedy. I just want to complain and get a trophy.

And that's never going to happen.

So that's why I'm giving up on the dreams I never had.

And let me tell you...

...it feels amazing.

I mean seriously, could you imagine if giving up on your dreams was hard work? If you had to finish an obstacle course, or take a standardized test, or listen to a Coldplay album all the way through? What agony that would be! Nope, none of it. You don't have to do a fucking thing! I mean seriously. Nothing. You could be walking down the street, stressed out after a recent mess-up at your last breakdancing "battle." I don't know, maybe you didn't do as many headspins or some other lame-ass shit like that. I mean seriously, if breakdancing is your dream, just give up. It's lame. Nobody is impressed when you clear a space at a party where people are having fun and not busting out pre-rehearsed dance moves, nobody cares. You should have given up on that dream a long time. You shouldn't have had it in the first place really. I mean, breakdancing? C'mon. Anyways, you could be walking down the street thinking about how tough of a breakdancing struggle your life has been. How everyone has always doubted you. No matter how right they were. And they probably were right. And you can just stop what you're doing. Give up. That's it. How amazing is that? Be free, bboy! No letter to your congressman. No phone-call to the girlfriend you don't have. Nothing. How does it feel? Completely amazing, I know. I just gave up on my dreams. And I feel the same way!

Read all of these quotes about Failure.

They're all wrong.

“You’re not obligated to win. You’re obligated to keep trying. To the best you can do everyday.” 
― Jason Mraz

Yep, even Jason Mraz. He's wrong.

"Failing is awesome. Giving up is awesome. It means you don't have to try again."
- Marty C.