Life is like being fast-pitched out of a vagina onto a softball that was thrown illegally. Like my baseball analogy, a lot of shit doesn’t make sense. Most people walk onto the field, and ask the coach where to stand. They take their places and gossip amongst each other. They come off as a team, but they all secretly want to be the star player. They will fuck each other over in a heartbeat to make the highlight reel. However, a few sit in the dugout observing how screwed up the team actually is. They tremble in fear that they may have to talk to the other players.  Doctors call this social anxiety. I call this spot-on instincts.

What the doctors breeze over, before they try to cure natural intelligence, are the possible side effects to the medications they prescribe. These are side effects, however rare, that I would like my doctor to shout from the rooftops.

Gaseous oily discharge. That’s a biggie. In fact, that’s a deal breaker. You finally have the confidence to enter a crowd, and you blow Quaker State down the back of your pants. At that point social anxiety becomes mutual. Noboby wants you around. You may feel like a million bucks, but you’re going to be feeling that way alone from your greasy recliner.

Tardive Dyskinesia. Another biggie. Also known as involuntary, purposeless movements. Also known as a smart way of calling you a retard. Tardive Dyskinesia can show up as spontaneous lip-pursing, eye-twitching, or my favorite, tongue-darting.

Tongue-darting is where your tongue jets in and out of your face like a reptile. The bitch about tardive dyskinesia is that even if you stop taking the SSRI, the symptoms can be permanent. Now, instead of  looking like a harmless social-phobe, you walk around tongue-darting, looking like a sexual predator.

Erectile dysfunction. At this point erectile dysfunction doesn’t matter. No women are going to sleep with you. You’re already walking around spraying oil and giving air-felatio. The last thing you want to throw in the mix is a boner. Here’s my advice. If you are having a hard time dealing with your social anxiety, stick with a medicine that’s endured the test of time. Vodka.

Matt Haught

www.guiltyhumor.com

Is there anything that takes more balls than a man who knocks on your door with the enthusiasm of Paul Revere, and tells you that he’s a Jehovah’s Witness. At first you’re confused. Is Jehovah in a witness protection program? And if he is, do you really want to testify against him? Isn’t he the ultimate mob boss? In that moment of confusion, they start talking faster than an auctioneer that’s selling soul soap.

At least when Mormons come to the door, you feel like you’re dealing with a brand you can trust. They have a company uniform, a company ten-speed, and a polished presentation like a Hoover Salesmen. The Jehovah’s Witness come to the door in trench coats like they’re selling shit they just stole, then leave you with a cheaply printed Watchtower pamphlet, as if it legitimizes their business.

This is an honest-to-Jehovah true story. A Jehovah’s Witness knocked on my door one day and asked if I had time to talk.

I said “Shit yeah, let’s start with the whole 144,000 spots in heaven deal (they believe that only 144,000 people get into heaven). If you believe that, why are you out recruiting competition?”

He said “The more people we convert, the better our standings are in the eyes of Jehovah”.

I said “Then I better get my shoes”.

He asked why?

I said “Because I need to beat you to that door, and that door, and that door”.

He promptly got the fuck out, in case I was serious.

I do have a modicum of respect for the Jehovah’s Witness folks. Not only does it take balls to knock on your door, and do the whole “I am God’s witness” thing. It also takes balls to run around on densely saturated Mormon turf and talk your shit. That’s why I’m siding with the Mormons when I die. Do the prison numbers. 144,000 versus millions. I’m gonna walk into the after-life with my Jesus underwear flying like a swastika tattoo. Safety in numbers people.

Matt Haught

www.guiltyhumor.com

Everyday science is moving us closer and closer to the day when making genetically engineered designer humans becomes a reality. We have already shown competency in cloning. We have tinkered with somatic cell manipulation. Now, to complete the trifecta, we are playing with germline manipulation. This one is the biggie. This is the one that makes building a human look like putting together a Mr. Potato Head.

Straight out of the gates genetic engineering will be used to cure diseases, heal the blind, and fix the crippled. It will be like a politicians first year in office. Then eventually it will sell out and become commercialized like everything else. This is where I want to be ahead of the curve. Consider this my poor-man’s copyright. I want the patent on Sea-Babies.

Imagine the joy on your child’s face when he finds his new biology set under the Christmas tree with a note that says “And you thought Sea-Monkeys were cool”. The possibilities become endless.

If your child hates his siblings, he can just make a Sea-Brother. He will have complete sovereignty over this new member of the family. His new brother will have to do everything he says because he retains the right to destroy him at any time. And as a bonus, he can genetically engineer him with tiny arms so that he will never beat him at sports.

Or here’s another scenario. Your kid shows up to school and get’s to introduce all of the bullies to his new Sea-Bodyguard. He can walk him out to the playground and announce “Hey everybody, this is my new best friend. As you can see he is seven feet tall with lion fangs. And by the way, under his mittens are two lobster claws, so don’t fucking try it”.

And Sea-Babies are the kind of gift that would inevitably keep on giving. Imagine the joy on dad’s face when next Christmas he finds a six foot tall box with a note that says “And you thought blow-up dolls were cool”.

Matt Haught

www.guiltyhumor.com

There’s a growing trend in the astronomy community that has geeks the world over glued to the skies, and it’s all about tracking space trash. Some of this space trash is an accumulation of man-made objects that stopped serving their purpose, such as old satellites. Other pieces of galactic garbage were left behind by space shuttle missions on purpose or not. These items include frozen human waste, gloves, rocket parts, cameras, and a large assortment of tools all traveling at twenty times the speed of sound. With an estimated one-hundred thousand pieces of space trash, Earth is basically inside of a giant Craigslist tornado.

The fact that humans would eventually make it into space and litter there doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is that people have turned following this trash into an obsessive hobby. Having a dozen high-powered telescopes makes you a nerd. Watching a big piece of frozen shit move across the sky makes you a hillbilly with a telescope.

What kind of knuckle-dragger do you have to be to follow space trash? Instead of gazing at the moon, the stars, or the planets, you spend the night tracking an old screwdriver. The rings of Saturn are nice, but nothing compared to that over sized floating bolt that you’ve had your eye on. I’m sure these guys are praying that it all comes down at once, like a rainstorm of gifts from that giant yard sale in the sky.

If alien life exists one thing is certain, they don’t want us to know about it. I’m sure they get together and gossip about the piece of shit planet on the corner of the universal block that is bringing down property values. None of them want to introduce themselves because they know we’re the types that would stop by in the shuttle unannounced with a six-pack. They’re probably surprised we didn’t plant a confederate flag on the moon. We have to look like the trailer park of the universal community with broken down vehicles floating around and tools scattered all over the yard. Not to mention the giant blocks of frozen shit.

Matt Haught

www.guiltyhumor.com

Have you ever heard the saying that we’re all two paychecks away from being homeless? It turns out we’re all two paychecks away from an all expenses paid Greyhound vacation. The Police Department in any given city will round up certain homeless individuals that they see on a regular basis, and buy them a one-way bus ticket out of town. It’s completely legit, and it’s incredibly rude.

First off, it’s a shitty thing to do to the homeless guy. “Hey homeless man, you say you’re down on your luck and people treat you like crap. Here’s a ticket to Billings, Montana, maybe it’s different there”. Second, it’s a shitty thing to do to the city you send them to. Sending your nuclear waste is one thing, sending your troublesome homeless people is another. It’s an act of civil war. At any given moment there could be a bus full of drunk bobble-heads aimed at your city.

If you want to attack another city, at least have the balls to say so. It’s a thin line between sending a drunk Darrell, and launching a missile.

On the surface, these are mere transients down on their luck. Dig a little deeper and you find that these are street savvy foot-soldiers who can endure weather that would reduce a marine to a shivering quitter. Not to mention that a marine usually has to muster that crazy look in his eyes.

I say the next time the bus rolls in with a fresh batch of vagrants, view them as gems. Play to their strengths. If you’ve ever had a conversation with a homeless man, you know they can talk. Teach them about local politics and send them back to the city they came from. Program them to filibuster every issue on the docket until the city comes to a stand still.

And when the fighting stops, give them a fucking sandwich.

Matt Haught

www.guiltyhumor.com