KARL DOBIAS

Baby Eyes

The other day, while making my bi-weekly Harris Teeter trip, I did something I try to make a conscious effort not to do: I made eye contact with a newborn child.  Now, the problem with this is that when I get caught up in doing something, I really get carried away with it.

So, I’m walking behind this mother who has a baby in her cart, and despite my best effort, I managed to make eye contact with this baby.  Now, the reason that it pains me to make eye contact with a newborn is that their eyes, much like mine, tell a story.  From the second this baby looked at me, it never took his eyes away.

So, the entire time that I’m walking behind this mother with the baby, it keeps making eye contact with me.  I’m just trying to buy myself a grapefruit and some turkey sausage, and this baby won’t take his eyes off of me.  I just want to shop in peace, and this douchebag baby just keeps staring.  I walk to a different section of the store to buy some whole grain Wheat Thins, and the mom and her fucking baby follow me.

At this point, my anxiety is starting to build.  I take my Wheat Thins and run to another section of the store, minding to cover my tracks.

“That that, you fucking baby,” I mutter underneath my breath as I pour a patch of rice in the middle of an aisle so as to trip up the mother when she takes the cart riding fiend through it.  “Follow me again, you stupid shit.  I fucking dare you.”

The tension built as I took more and more rice to create a buffer between me and that baby.  Sure enough, as I ran out of rice on the shelves, the mother and her insidious kin rounded the corner to stare at me.

“FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING BABY!  SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  LEAVE ME ALONE!” I shouted as I bolted out of the door with my various wares in a basket.  A manager followed me with haste.

“Sir, you must pay for those things!”  He shouted while following me.  I took a crumpled $50 dollar bill out of my pocket, threw it at him, and got into my car as quickly as I could.  He seemed pleased.

I looked towards the window of the store to see the mother and her baby staring at me with bewildered eyes.  I put my keys into the ignition of my car and, as I looked back at the baby once more, I saw him laughing as he lit a Marlboro Red.

The little bastard.

16 and Pregnant

I was watching TV last night, and I was astounded at how much trash I found.  I shouldn’t say I was astounded; I was mildly reminded.  It’s not that the television itself was trash (but really, that’s it), it’s a combination of the premise behind the shows themselves as well as the people involved.

One of my favorite shows of this nature is a little show on the MTV called “16 and Pregnant” or, as I like to call it, “Why I’m Pro Choice.”  I was uninterested in what I was watching and didn’t catch any of the character names, but underage pregnant girl and underage douchebag boyfriend with pierced ears seemed to have problems with each other!  I was shocked to find out that after the birth of their child, underage douchebag boyfriend with pierced ears (I’m going to start calling him Chad from here on out) started becoming distant!  Chad became increasingly distant from his lover and his “child” (bastards aren’t people when their births are televised).  By the end of the episode, the mother left Chad and took her baby who, I forgot to mention, was named Aydenn Anthony.

Yes.  Aydenn Anthony.

“Um, hi, yes, would you like Totinos Pizza Rolls or a Frito Pie at your trailer warming party?”

I can’t even say how much I fucking hate people who curse their babies with horrible names.  Nothing is wrong with Aiden, but even I, the first time I saw that name on screen said, “Ha Ha, you mean GAYDENN, right?”

Oh, and one more thing.  The knocked up girl’s mother from New Jersey wasn’t there for the birth, but as soon as the baby was born, they sent her a picture text of the baby.  The first thing the mom does is send a text back.  It reads, “Make sure to get him circumcised.  OH MY GOD SO CUTE I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!”

I wish I would have had parents who put hygiene over pride.

keep dem heads ringin’

majorlazer:

(Source: majorlazer)

Movies Suck.

This year, I came to the conclusion that I hate movies.  Maybe hate is a strong word, but after loving them for so long, I think that I have become bored with them.  For me, this year was the year of disappointment whenever I went to the movies.  My friends, knowing that I was ecstatic to see certain movies, would rush to ask me what I thought of them every time I saw one.

HOW WAS INCEPTION?! Eh, it was ok.

OMG, HOW DID YOU LIKE KICK ASS?!?! It was alright.  Not the best thing that I’ve ever seen, but it’ll do.

KARL.  YOU LOVE DARREN ARONOFSKY.  HOW WAS BLACK SWAN?!  Meh.

YOGI BEAR.  THOUGHTS?!  A fine piece of cinema.

Now, maybe I am just being disappointed by things that I wanted to love.  I’ll admit that I can have unrealistic expectations.  But I shouldn’t have to want to rip my eyes out during a movie.  This is the year that I decided to stop wanting to make things.

I’ll still write.  I’ll still act.  I’ll still perform.  But let me tell you this:  I can’t bring myself to want to make things that I can no longer stand.

I do, however, love the cartoons of late.

But live action can blow me.

Love, Right?

It’s funny right?  I don’t know what.  Love, maybe?

What is love?

Is it an emotion?  Is it a feeling?  Is it something for everyone or is it something that only some people can find harmony in?

I think that love is an inside joke that was placed on the planet earth by a group of aliens from a far off world.  An alien leader got together with his cabinet one day and said:

ALIEN LEADER: Hey, everybody.  You know what I think?  I think that we should go to that little Earth planet and find something fucked up for everybody to try and find.

The alien cabinet looks baffled by their leader’s statement.  A bearded alien by the name of Stripgar takes the floor for discussion.

STRIPGAR: My liege!  What do you mean by “something fucked up?”  Do you mean like a game?

The alien leader looks pleased.  He eats a feathered creature and suckles the bone for marrow and nutrients.

ALIEN LEADER: BA! Why yes, I mean like a game!  You see, these stupid humans crave affection like my smarglub craves gribbles. (This joke gets a good laugh from the cabinet because everybody knows that smarglubs cannot stand gribbles; aliens were far ahead of us in the craft of sarcasm.) I say we put on a ruse for them all!

A female senator from Chubulon arises.

CHUBULONIAN SENATOR: A ruse, you say?!

Excitement bubbles over manically in the room.  Two of the aliens take their clothes off and begin to pleasure one another’s crabgar glands (sort of like a penis but with many more veins).  The room erupts into a crazy sex orgy and the aliens rejoice at their plans.  The rest of the “Theory of Love” as it becomes known as is discussed in great detail until the Alien Leader decides to enact the practice on Earth as soon as possible.  They impregnate the idea of love into the human populous and rejoice as their theory of chaos is proven to be true.

That’s what I think love is.  Maybe I am wrong.  I’m a lover because the aliens made me that way.

McRib!

Something that I have found to be true in all of my travels and experiences is that women are insane.  I shouldn’t say all women, but I will say that the vast majority of them are.  Is it bad when girls are crazy?  Not necessarily, but it should be noted that lots of insane girls will cause you nothing but trouble in the long run.

Now for a story.  Once, I was in a nightclub and met a great girl.  Her name was Sheila; she was a brunette, had a beautiful body, and was wise beyond her years.  Things got pretty heated in the thumping air of the nightclub and we decided to go back to her place to see where things went.

We were having a very good time and it couldn’t have been better.  I was having fun and, of course, she was too (because I am basically the demigod of pleasing women).  Things got heavy and we had to move it to her bedroom.

Here is when things got strange.  She takes off my clothes, looks pleased, and walks over to her closet.  I see plenty of outfits, but what catches my eye the most are the whips and chains in her closet.  And the leather.  Oh, the leather.

A quick conversation and I learn that Sheila is into S & M.  Oh, Joy!

After deciding to go through with what could have been a fun night, she told me that we would need a safe word just in case things got a bit too rough.  At this point in the evening, I was incredibly hungry, and the first thing that came out of my mouth was “McRib!”

Yes, “McRib!”

“Oh, A man who enjoys a good meal!” Sheila said in a somewhat dominating tone as she struck my back with the cat o’ nine tails in her hand.  I gasped an she continued to go ahead with what she was doing.  She whips me again and then begins to “pleasure” me.

After what seemed like an hour (It was probably no more than ten minutes; I get bored easily) I shouted “McRib!” in a jubilant tone that would rival the jubilant tone of a Jewish child ordering their Chinese food on Christmas day.  It was THAT satisfying.

For the record, I am not a fan of S & M practices at all.  If you have never tried this sort of thing, it is WEIRD, but definitely not in a good way.  The only thing that I can easily compare it to is the idea of going to a Bon Jovi concert: it seems like a really good idea at the time, but then you realize that Bon Jovi sucks and you’d rather be buttfucked by a death row inmate with AIDS than go to a Bon Jovi concert, but your friends already got the tickets and they were just SO looking forward to you going with them.

Yes, S & M is worse than a Bon Jovi concert.  SO much worse; and Bon Jovi sucks.

Vegans

There is no belief I am more opposed to than veganism.  You could ask yourself, “But Karl, don’t you openly question religion and other similar belief structures?” to which I will reply “Yes, but I don’t have to debate about whether or not to put Jesus in my body.”

If you are unfamiliar with what being a vegan means, you have probably been living underneath a rock or have never shopped at Urban Outfitters.  Never fear; I have the answer for you.  According to the Merriam Webster dictionary, a vegan is defined as “a strict vegetarian who consumes no animal food or dairy products; also : one who abstains from using animal products.”  For the love of god, who the hell are you trying to please?  Most people don’t  realize this, but there are a lot of foods that are animal byproducts. “Do you like honey?  Yes?  FUCK YOU, no honey for you.  Eat this shitty artificially flavored paste in a tube that smells like an old hippie’s socks.”

Seriously.  I hate the idea of being a vegan.  What is the point behind it?  Sure, you can defend your beliefs with your religion or with some stance that is pro animal, but please, just shut the fuck up.  If you don’t eat animals, don’t tell me, because I love eating them.  Seriously, I love the feeling of a dead baby cow being cut up by my knife, put in my mouth, and swallowed.

Delicious.

Identity

I’m not the first person that most would think of when it comes to someone who is comfortable in their own skin.  Many of those who know me well are very familiar with my crippling fits of anxiety, my obsessive compulsive tapping of objects in rhythms of four, and even my staggering paranoia fits in response to such comments as “Happy Birthday.”

Yeah…  I know I need to see a shrink.

That being said, I don’t really understand how people can be comfortable in their own skin or, if they are, they are perfectly comfortable in being, for lack of a better phrase, lame as hell.

From my hours and hours of research, I have found that I tend to fit into a psychological phenomenon known as the “third cultural child.”  Now, what is a third culture child, you may ask?  Simply put and, without lines and lines of pretentious and contrived psychology speak, it is when someone is raised in different cultures and, when exposed to their own culture, they experience the lack of a feeling of belonging in this culture.

 Example:  I grew up in a military family and was predominately raised in third world countries and moved every three years of my life.  When I was forced to stay in one place, namely the United States, for over three years, I became incredibly wrought with anger, frustration, and anxiety not only with myself, but with my surroundings and society.

I sound really whiny, but I do have a point here.  I may seem to be a confident person and, though I am, that doesn’t mean that I’m not flawed.

Everybody has flaws.

Some girls eat too much and their thighs show this as such.

Seriously, stop eating so much.  It’s a total turn off.

I guess that I am comfortable enough in my skin to state that I am a flawed individual, but I will also go as far as to say that most people aren’t as comfortable in their skin as they think they are.

For example:  I don’t understand why people have dreams yet refuse to pursue them.  You want to be an actor?  THEN ACT!  QUIT SITTING BEHIND A FUCKING DESK AND FILING INSURANCE CLAIMS AND GO BE IN A FUCKING PLAY OR A FILM.  FOR GOD’S SAKE, NOBODY IS GOING TO DISCOVER YOU UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE FOUND.

And let me say this.  Everybody really just needs to calm down with feeling sorry for themselves.  I know that I have had my times where I do nothing but mope about what’s wrong in my life, but I also know when to stop, move on, and piss in the face of adversity.

I say that everybody just needs to start doing a little more pissing.

Monopoly!

October is a strange month for me due to the fact that I always tend to gain about ten pounds whether I want to or not.  It isn’t because my birthday is in October or because it’s the month that generally kicks off the holiday season for fat, white American people.  No, I tend to gain weight due to the scourge that is McDonald’s Monopoly.

Don’t judge me.  I’ve never won anything outside of the free food realm during this nationwide game, but I’m not complaining.  I do, however, find it humorous how I go from eating relatively nothing in the way of McDonald’s cuisine the entire year to making it a near daily purchase.

In October, I don’t think in ways of time and money.  All I can think about are game pieces.  One large cup of coffee is worth 2 pieces.  Even McGriddles get you game pieces.  With so many options to order from and a 25% chance of winning at least a free food item, how couldn’t you get addicted?!

Let me get this straight: in the month of October, I feel like a really out of shape heroin addict for 31 days.  I roll out of bed every day around 1:30 PM, put on the same clothes I’ve been wearing for the three previous days, and gather up small amounts of change from around my house in order to feed my addiction.  Seriously, I should be on that A&E show Intervention.  I don’t think any of my friends or family would cry while they were giving me an intervention, though.  I think they would probably just say various things such as the following:

My Father: “Seriously?  You couldn’t at least be an alcoholic or something?  You had to be addicted to fast food?  You’re such a fat-ass.”

My Mother: “I told you that you needed to exercise more!” (There’s always the one family member who doesn’t really add anything to the intervention outside of the support of being there)

My Ex Girlfriend: (There’s always an ex lover) “Seriously?  You suck.  Why am I here?  No, seriously, why am I here?  I really don’t care!  Get better, you faggot, but seriously, you need to lose weight.”

Me: (more than likely covered in mustard stained clothing and reeking of grease and milk) “Erghhhhhhh I want a cheeseburger.”

Only ten more days are left in my period of manic eating.  If you don’t mind, I have to go drink three cups of large coffee (6 game pieces) and eat two orders of large fries (8 game pieces).