crymes and mister meaners

Being a card-carrying Wile E. Coyote-grade Super-Genius™ is not all sunshine and lollipops, kids.

Yeah yeah, I avail myself of the complimentary "deep-muscle massage from over-busty lingerie models" service, and the all-you-can-eat pot pies are a plus, too, but still... with such honors come responsibilities. At least, I choose to act as if such is the case. Or at the very least blather on publicly as if it were true.

And one of these alleged responsibilites might well be the job of walking the blogosphere with my little yellow psychic hi-liter clutched in my hammy little fist, locating and identifying and offering color commentary upon episodes of abject unsmartitude, moments where someone says or does something so stupifying that all you can do is pause, hands on hips, and then scratch your head and slowly whistle.

And, friends and neighbors, I am here to report the sighting of just such a moment.

The place? A blogsite known a The Bag Means Your Mind.

The alleged perpetrator of the stupifaction? One "Thomas Crymes," a childish cowardly nom de plume if ever I heard one.

The comment in question?

"I’m doing it for the experience itself."

Now, far be it from me to ooze hostility and pissiness (and "fuck you, gomer" to anyone who suggests otherwise...), but surely this ranks among the dumber statements I've seen in the past 17 months.

Crymes (think about the ironic accuracy of that clearly fictional name for a moment...) claims that he will be taking a stab at stand-up comedy in the coming weeks. He has no experience with such, nor has he ever suggested that he has any interest in such, nor has he ever uttered anything remotely like a humorous comment or idea before.

(Note— Crymes once *did* draw some smattering of laughter when he uttered some still-undetermined four syllable sound in response to now-forgotten comment during a breakfast at the Austin Film Festival, but that was later re-classified as a misunderstanding when witnesses discussed the event and realized that Crymes had in fact NOT said "Fuck Bea Arthur as originally thought. That would have been funny, but that was not what he said.)

It is entirely possible that Crymes (again I point out how deliciously appropriate this obviously fictional alias is...) is an intelligent man. Yes, his blog postings and comments near-conclusively suggest otherwise, and the photo he chooses to use as a bio picture on that site helps the cause not one bit, but being the generous loving sort here we like to give the benefit of every possible doubt, so for now we'll claim (though not believe) that Crymes might well have a well-developed nervous system. But if such is the case—if Crymes (again, could he be any more obvious here?...) does in fact possess the ability to respond and react to simple stimuli—how could he have uttered such a strangely moronic concept?

Think about it (as Our Man Crymes surely seems to have not) and tell me what sense can be drawn from that statement: "I’m doing it for the experience itself."

Using the same logic described by this greasy fart of a comment, Crymes (OK, I'm hurting myself with laughter at the clumsy transparency of his intended canard...) surely will soon announce his intention to soak up many other novel and heretofore unexperienced yet equally pleasant experiences:

• french-kissing a wolverine
• giving himself an all-over body scrub using a Stanley SureForm "cheese grater" rasp
• subsisting for an entire week on only prunes and canned corn
• making hours of passionate love to a lamp socket
• volunteering as a human piñata at a party for a 12-year old team of Little League All-Stars
• calling an independent insurance agent and asking to hear details on all possible products the agent might have for a middle-aged man with income.
• having his fillings replaced with fresh amalgam
• simulating childbirth by having a ten-pound Butterball turkey forcibly pulled from any bodily orifice into which a ten-pound Butterball turkey might first be forcibly rammed

Clearly, "experience" is way-overrated, yet Crymes (seriously—I just peed myself a little...) understands that not one whit of such self-evident capital-t Truth. Instead he apparently insists upon getting his ticket punched by as many moments of undeniable unpleasantness and scream-inducing terror as can be managed.

"Good day, kind sir. My name is Crymes and I'd like to have a hernia installed!"

"Pardon me, but my name is Crymes and I'd like to experience a gun shot wound, please!'

"Hey there hi there ho there! Crymes is the name and unclear on what 'turkish revenge' is what I am. Can you demonstrate?"

"Happy Arbor Day! Call me Crymes and then usher me into the experiential world of blunt force trauma!"

"Guten tag, Frau Blucher! Ich bin Crymes and ich wanna stand in front of yon brickenwall and maken with zee badjoken, okee dokee, ja?"

-=-=-=-

So, for the above-cited remarks, on this the Twenty-ninth Day of September, in the year 2006 AD, I hereby welcome one Thomas Dalrymple O'Shaughnessy Gort Cudahey Cudahey Ingmar Crymes into the International Hall of Dumpth, conveying to him all rights and privileges attendant with such titles.*

Saaaaaaaaaa-lute.
.
.
.
Mr. Meaners B

* currently, "none"