I Think I Finally Learned To Can’t Even

CantEven

For the longest time, I had no idea in what context, exactly, I could say that I can’t even. Or, more precisely, in what context I could can’t even.

Since, you know: to can’t even is to do something. It’s like a verb now. Just like because is a preposition to lead off a fragment; and on that note, fragments are totally acceptable now. Oh, and literally has lost all its meaning.

Because illiteracy. I literally can’t even.

Not only is it grammatically incorrect, it makes no sense. What do you mean you can’t even? Can’t even what? Can’t even believe what you’re seeing? Can’t even understand what people see in One Direction? Can’t even justify buying bananas over 19 cents a pound?

Just what the fuck does it mean to can’t even? And, worse: to literally can’t even? And disastrously: because I literally can’t even.

Actually, because wouldn’t work there since “Because I literally can’t even” is – in some bizarre, fucked up sense – a complete sentence and because as a preposition needs to be in a fragment. I think.

Because stupidity.

None of that even matters anymore, though. I am happy to announce that I think I finally learned to can’t even.

Possibly, even, to literally can’t even.

Today I was sitting in my living room, looking on Sears’ website at refrigerators. A bizarre series of events then took place that taught me how to can’t even.

First, my father – who lives with us now – hobbled out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. After a few minutes, I realized he was sawing something with a steak knife.

Although I had prepared no steak.

After several minutes of him sawing away, cursing under his breath, my eleven year old walked out of her bedroom and asked what he was doing.

He was sawing off parts of a chocolate bunny. With a steak knife. To eat, I assume.

Just then, the floor started shaking. I mean shaking and booming, and I realized it was because the guy that lives next door was working on a car and playing some booming bass rap shit so loudly that it was rattling our walls and floors.

So the ground was shaking, it sounded like the apocalypse was starting outside, and my dad was in the kitchen sawing off and eating individual body parts of a chocolate bunny.

Nothing unusual. Just your average day.

I was too overwhelmed to continue looking at refrigerators, so went onto Facebook and the first thing in my feed was an update on this Chinese panda who is shocking the world over his involvement in a breeding program. In short: he is super horny and lasts for an obscene amount of time while doing his panda deeds.

He’s apparently so virile that they have named him “Enduring Brother.”

So the walls and the floor, and the couch I was sitting on, were all booming to the sweet sounds of the end of the world; my dad was continuing his harvest of chocolate bunny body parts; and on the screen of my MacBook was an article loaded with photographs of Enduring Brother having crazy long panda sex with a female panda who, quite frankly, should be ashamed of her behavior.

This was precisely when I learned to literally can’t even.

And I know that I learned to do it, because without even realizing what I was saying, my daughter came up to me and asked if she could have a snack and I said “I literally can’t even right now …do whatever you want.”

To literally can’t even, or to can’t even, is to be so shocked and overwhelmed that you can process nothing else. No requests for snacks. No responses to questions. No critical thinking at all. To literally can’t even is to live in a perpetual state of being overwhelmed by the shaking of the apocalypse, the disturbing chocolate bunny eating habits of an old man, and the sexual activity of a horny, Chinese panda.

Now, it’s your turn to literally can’t even.

Because dirty panda sex.

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Probe Me, Alien Life Form … Probe Me

I wrote a post quite a few years ago about reasons I’d want to be abducted by aliens, but then deleted it after some creepy Internet trolls commented that they were whacking off to the thought of me getting anally probed by an alien life form.

Well, now I say: whack away. I’m pretty sure I saw a UFO last night, and I need to talk about it.

So I was driving last night. It was pretty late and we were on a stretch of road that runs between two farm fields, heading East. There isn’t that much land in California that is undeveloped, but when you hit it, there’s always an eerie feeling. A couple of times I’ve seen people walking in the pitch black. Once there was a truck driving through the fields.

Now I have driven through this stretch of road probably a million times. I know all the ins and outs of it. I know where the broken stretch of farm fence is. I know where the cell phone tower lights hang.

I do not, however, recall ever seeing – in all the years I have been here – two lights from a round disc, hanging in the sky over the mountains.

I thought that must be an airplane; but then the lights never moved. I thought it’ll disappear in a second; but then I drove around for an hour and it continued to hover. I thought I must be the only one noticing this, but then Pookie saw them too and freaked out, and some people at a stop light were looking in the sky, videotaping it with their cell phones.

So I’m pretty sure it was a UFO. There was apparently a sighting a few nights ago around the same area as well. And when I Googled it, I found this video from a couple years ago in the same, exact spot over the mountains.

Now I could freak out. I could think that the aliens are finally coming to destroy the human race so that they can have our resources (what remains of them). I could break out my tin foil hat. I could start researching conspiracy theories and reading books about alien cover-ups.

I could also consider this my last stop to Crazytown, USA, and start getting fitted for my straight jacket. It’s most likely this last one.

Instead (for now), I will leave it with my words. Those words?

Probe me, alien life form … probe me.

Article 1: I am married, which means that if an alien life form probes me, I’ll actually get some action for once.

Article 2: I wouldn’t mind being selected for an alien insemination program. Marge Simpson did it. The chick from Earth Girls Are Easy did it. Babies act like aliens 90% of the time anyway – why not?

Article 3: I’ve always wanted to go into outer space, but don’t trust the faulty intelligence of humans to do one of those future “fly into space” things we’ve all been promised to see in our lifetimes. Anything that has mastered intergalactic travel, though, is alright by me.

Article 4: I find scientific experimentation sexy.

Article 5: Did I mention I’m married? It’s worth reiterating.

When I was little, my father thought he saw something like a UFO. He became obsessed with it for a while – he even bought one of those UFO tops that spun on the table with the lights. He never mentioned a wish to be probed by them, though, so I would say I’m just furthering the family obsession with extraterrestrial life forms.

Taking it much, much further.

Okay, now that I’m done with that, I’m going to legitimately go fit myself for a straight jacket and try to figure out whether or not that really was an alien. If aliens do exist, why would they visit Earth? And why visit Earth so frequently? I mean, it’s pretty obvious we’ve fucked this place up beyond repair at this point. It seems as though if anyone should be doing the space travel and the searching for resources, it should be us. That leads me to believe they really want the probing.

But that’s all too much thinking. Now I have a headache. Or maybe I already was probed…