Never Again Shall I Eat Of Foods That Begin With "Gor"

I am high minded. Yes sir, or ma'am. While my head may be here, my mind is up a few steps, floating above like a hat that I don't need to take off when I go to sleep. I use big words. These words have many syllables. Each word is like a sentence in and of itself. These big words also contain many odd pairings of consonants and vowels. You would be surprised to find these consonants and vowels in close vicinity to one another, but here I lay them out in this way as though it were completely commonplace. On top of that, the words that I use come completely naturally. I am of such a high-minded persona that the big words just come out of me without any particular attempt. Oh, believe me, there are times that I wish small words would be said in place of big words, but my vocal chords won't let this happen. They need to protude as much as they can, whenever they can. Because I have a high mind; it's way up there. You can't see it, you need special glasses. No, I won't tell you where to get them. No, I won't even give you a hint.

If you found a treasure map that told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it? I wouldn't.

Soup needs lots of crackers in it. But then can it really be called soup if the crackers outnumber it? I say yes. You still eat it with a spoon. You'd only eat crackers with a spoon if the spoon was really big. No, I'm talking REALLY big, like a hamper, only instead of clothes you'd put in crackers, and instead of not eating them you'd eat them.

Hey, look over there. Did you do it? Did you look over there? Be honest. I can't be sure if you actually looked over there or not. If you did, where did you look? You can't be sure which "there" I'm talking about. So I guess all you people who didn't look over there and just stared at the screen and read the rest of this can use the excuse that your definition of "there" was straight ahead. Fine. But you know in your hearts you didn't look over there.

Porn sites have really poor grammer. Maybe if they were stop having sex once in a while and pick up a book they'd know how to spell "come" correctly.

People tend to think they're special when someone famous went to their high school. People also tend to think they're special when they're famous. People also tend to eat, breathe, and put on socks. That's not very special.

I had a dream last night that Larry David was angry with his wife because she took "Highway 61 Revisited" out of its case, and you can only take it out of its case if you're going to listen to the album all the way through. I woke up chewing on my pillow. I wish I had had a dream where I was eating something so that the chewing on the pillow part were at least somewhat justified.

Sometimes when I'm eating chips I think to myself: "Whoah, I'm eating chips." Then I realize that this isn't something interesting and continue on as though nothing had happened. Sometimes when I'm eating Pop-Tarts I think to myself: "These don't look as good in real life as they do in the commercial." Then I realize if I wanted to have Pop-Tarts look as good as they do in commercials, I'd probably have to put up with those dipshit kids on skateboards they always feature in the commercials. I figure I'm better off with worse Pop-Tarts.

Lots of times when I hear a song, I think that it fades out too quickly. I think if I were making the song, I'd fade it out properly. Then I think I wouldn't have been good enough to make the song in the first place, and I'd be coke-addled. The last thing I want to be is addled. Unless it's addled with macaroni. That I wouldn't mind. I say that now, but who knows what the future may hold?

I'd like to teach the world to sing, because, man, they really suck at it now. Then maybe they can teach me something useful in return, like fishing, because I'm not very good at that. Then again, I'm not very good at singing either, which kind of makes this whole thing moot. Maybe the world and I can just get together and play Scrabble or something instead.

Boob. Fart.

My Main Reassurance Is That One Day I'll Be Hit By A Bus

For all you moon junkies, I hope you caught a glimpse last night. Yellow, bright, full, overcast by fast moving black clouds in the dead of the cold night... Full on werewolf style. I hope you mothers locked up your daughters, because I'm sure they all turned into rabid she-beasts out for human flesh. And daughters, I hope you woke up this morning and felt regret, or at least washed the blood stains from your shoes.

But I digress.

I have this feeling that everyone who reads this blog knows me better than people I've actually met. Good friends of mine know me pretty well because I open up to them and basically do a live-action verbal version of this blog in real time in front of them. But there are lots of people here in college who I talk to for a day at most and then move on, and realize they now hold this impression of me which may or may not be accurate. As I often tend to do, I could branch off into some bullshit self-questioning "Who am I?" hooplah, but I think I'll save that for later. I may not fully understand my person, but I understand better than the douche-holes I meet day to day. This is mainly because I cannot really translate my personality to other people beyond simply being. On top of that, why the fuck should I? I rarely want to see any of the people I meet ever again, and thus needn't go any further than a polite "Hello" and move on to more important things, like Swdish Fish and pornography. However, this blog is pure "self". That's what's here: Me. And I'm less inhibited here because this is text, who gives a shit. I've met very few of you people, and those that I have are already friends of mine and I have a comfort level already to express myself. It's not even a comfort issue, per se, because I'm plenty comfortable in front of people, but moreso the fact that there are many facets of myself that can get lost in a false first impression. I'm all about a mystery, too; I don't want to give myself away completely, or even at all to most people. But ya'll, ya'll know wassup. Maybe. I do only tell you what I want you to hear, and believe me, there's plenty cookin' in the ol' ticker that won't be served to the Oliver Twists that accompany this little section of the internet.

But this pontifcation on the bullshit of self is not what I'm going for here. I certainly don't actively try to keep things from people to make them think a certain way about me, I just roll baby. Like an eight year old who just came into contact with a hill. It's programmed into their nature, biologically, to roll down that hill. Fart. Anyway, the point I'm getting at is that first impressions blow, not to mention every other subsequent impression. Who knows if these impressions are correct? I hear someone say something douchy or see them wearing a trucker hat and I make immediate assumptions about who they are. These assumptions are often correct, but there's more going on behind these correct assumptions. These are superficial outlooks, and even though all these dumb motherfuckers are the same, there might be something underneath that I'm missing, and that I don't care to find out about because they're asshole plop butt nuggets. I don't like the smell of butt nuggets, so I try to keep my distance. But what mysterious elements of these individuals am I missing out on? Do I even care? Should I care, since I don't? Basically, I get a sense from certain people that they don't really know who I am. This leads me to think that I probably don't know who other people are. This also leads me to question if we can ever really "know" anyone. This also makes me wonder why I should give a shit.

My friends know me because I am myself around them. Then again, I am myself around everyone. There is a clear difference, however, between "myself" around my friends and "myself" around others. It's not intentional. Everybody does it. Everyone has a modified personality based on who or what is in the room. Or do they? Is that modifcation simply the same personality portrayed differently, like a movie being played on different TV stations? I don't even know what I come off as anymore and if that person is who I really am, until I consider it has to be who I am. I'm the one giving them the impression; no one's impression of someone can be wrong. They got that impression from some element of your person that made itself available to them. Your interpretation of it is different from theirs, but theirs is just as accurate because they have equal ability to perceive as you do. So, then, who am I if I am not who I think I am? If I am a composite of all these different impressions of myself filtered through different interpreting individuals, can I ever truly understand who I am? Why am I different in front of different people? There's a comfort level involved in everything: Text is unbelievably comfortable because there is no immediete personal reaction and every sentence can be carefully thought out and edited down to exactly what you want to portray. So if you say something to someone, it may not be exactly what you intended to mean, but at the same time the meaning is issued, despite initial intention, and this interpretation must be taken into account. Who you are to one person may be different from who you are to yourself or others, but it still manages to reveal something about you that may have gotten lost in the eyes of others. If everyone likes you except one person who hates you, that person is not wrong because no one else agrees.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to post this, because I didn't think it made any sense. But I'll toss it the dogs and see if they want to eat of it. If not, it'll rot here in cyberspace like so much Geocities fan sites.

Oh My God New Hat

The bracelet. God dammit, the bracelet. The entity that stares without eyes, bothers without intent, lingers without remorse.

My roommate uses a bracelet on the door to signify sexual deviancy occurances taking place within the confines of my room, as though the funky basslines and bed squeakage were not evidence enough. He seems to have his "funky time" whenever I need to get into the room. I swear, he gets off on my inconvenience. I'll bet he masturbates to thoughts of me missing the bus.

I realized today one of my many major flaws. Yes, grammar. That was already told to me. And speling. I alredy no thees. No, instead the flaw I shall focus on is that of adequacy. All my life I've been pretty good at school, you know, whatever. I get by. I never cared much for school anyway; it's all hornswaggle and pony spit anywho. None of this shit really matters that much, hence: FUCK IT. This has been my overbearing policy on life basically ever since I knew I could have policies on it. I do well enough, I'm not a bad student. I'm smart. Why bother?

Well, because of my lack of applying myself, I never really affected any desire or passion in anything I've done. Stagnating and getting by are all I really cared to do; I'm lazy, man. I'm realizing now that if I had worked harder or applied myself in school, I may not be in the ambiguous position of floating around in a collegiate atmosphere with no clue of what I want to do with my waste of a life. Everyone else seems to have this very specific life plan already in motion: "When I was six, I picked up a hammer and started banging it on the table. From this day forward, I knew I needed to be a judge." See? It's so obvious. Their lives are devoted to a singular area of study; they must be a carpenter or they must be a marine biologist or they must be an actor or they must be a chef or they must be a concert violinist. Their lives are devoted to this pursuit, and this devotion usually leads to some sort of retribution. I, however, don't give two damns. I don't want to be anything; I frankly want to avoid real life for as long as I possibly can. I have no passion in one particular subject, I have passion spread amongst several subjects, none of which will ever pan out financially or career-wise. This peanut butter method of interst limits me indescribably because I don't care enough about anything to pursue it to the point of being able to achieve it.

I always assumed this laid back "fuck it" personality of mine was a plus: I don't bother anybody, I'm not an asshole, I don't let lifes downsides get to me too much, you know, full on Tao shit (pronounced "ttt-OWWW". Be sure to really stress that T, as though you know exactly how it's pronounced and there's no way you could possibly be wrong). But now I'm starting to think it is this very attitude that is holding me back. If I don't care about anything, what is that going to mean for my future?

I'm basically not ready for adulthood. Fuck that balls. I never understood these dumbass "look at how fucking cool I am" dipshits who wanted to be an adult as soon as they could. Why? Adulthood fucking blows! You gotta... you know, do shit! Pay bills! Wash yourself regularly! Plan beyond what you're doing this weekend! Who wants any of that? Not I, said the fly, in this context the fly being me. But now, here it is, creeping up on me like a card carrying NAMBLA member. I don't think I can just let shit be any longer. But I really don't know how else to operate.

I want to just hang a bracelet on the door and hope opportunity gets the message and quits knockin'.

Just Put Quotes Around It

Hollywood sucks.

Now that that vividly original opinion has been sat in your ever-so-sensuous lap, I will say this: Really, it does. There are no original ideas left. Every fucking movie that comes out is a remake or a sequel or a prequel or from a book or from a TV show or a spinoff from some other movie or a series or franchise. Now, obviously there are some movies that have come out recently that I've enjoyed and do not fit tidily into the neat little generalizing categories I've set out. But that takes away from my argument, and if I have to include things that go against what prove my point, this will dwindle into some PC non-partisan both-sides-of-the-argument bullshit that no one wants to read. Now, obviously it's a generalization to say no one wants to read it, but to keep myself from spiraling further into this chaotic twist of logic and run-on sentences, I'll just continue on with my point. In fact, to prove my point here is a list of upcoming debacles sure to inspire a cringe in even the most jaded cynic:

- Where's Waldo: The Movie (Find him in theatres this fall)
- Tim Allen's Another God Damned Christmas Movie Where I Play The Guy From Home Improvement Again
- SNL's We Haven't Learned Our Lesson Yet
- Star Wars VII: Attack Of, Like, The, I Dunno, Aliens Or Something
- Big Tough Badass Ironically Looks After Little Kids
- Ashton Kutcher's How Many Romantic Comedies Can I Squeeze Into A Year?
- Jimmy Fallon's Won't Someone Please Think I'm Funny?
- We Fucked It Up (based on the popular book series)
- Superheroes Are Certainly In Right Now; Let's Just Do One About A Superhero
- This Movie Is So Fucking Indie; Buy The Poster To Prove You Like Indie Movies
- 2 Wong Fu: Still Draggin' On
- Casablanca starring Vin Diesel and Brittany Murphy
- Whatever Book Is The #1 Bestseller Right Now
- Some Dumbass Sports Movie starring Some Dumbass Comedian
- Rear Window: The Beginning
- Ben Stiller's Neurotic Guy Gets Into Awkward And Comedic Situations
- Lil' Jon's I Wanna Make A Movie, (Computerized Hand Clap, Computerized Hand Clap), Yeah
- Even Goner With The Wind

Why would I bother to make up fake movies to make fun of when these clearly real and clearly existant movies are bad enough? Ugh. Poo-poo on you-hoo.

Long Live The Gunt

Why is it that it's a penny for your thoughts, but if one desires to put forth their opinion it is referred to as their two cents? The price doubles based on who wants the opinion to be given? Sounds like a scam to me.

Why is it, also, that every time I type the word "why" with a capital W, it manges to capitalize the H as well? No other W word does this. That H really wants itself to be known, doesn't it? I understand: it's semi-silent in the word "why" and is not outspoken in several other words as well. It's too much of a sound qualifier, like in "ch" or "sh" and doesn't stand well on it's own. It's like a bit charecter in a sitcom: It may work in context with the other charecters, but the spinoff will never get off the ground.

Again, in case you couldn't tell, I really have nothing to post about. I had several ideas floating in my head, but they were mainly dumb and/or couldn't be expanded properly. And yet I felt I ought to post. Why? Boredom rearing its ugly head once again. I check my e-mail probably seven times a day. Occasionally I'll actually get one. I swear, I think the main reason I post is just to get some god damned e-mail. Why do I spend so much time on the internet? Obvious answer: I'm in college. Next most obvious answer: It's easy. Oh so easy. It's very low-level entertainment with little to no effort. I mean, I have to plug in my TV if I want to watch it. That takes, like, at least 15 seconds, and don't get me started on how much getting up from my comatose sitting position it takes. Here's a hint: More than I desire to do. This is my typical Monday. I'm usually better later in the week. I don't even understand why Monday; I never have anything to do. So why do I pick that day out of all of them to laze around? I dunno. Seems appropiate. Seems like the thing to do. Everyone else is doing it. I think later in the week, once I have some momentum and things start to progress and, hey, occur, I have a little more motivation to do something other than remind myself of how little I have to do.

Why don't I have any homework this quarter? Is there something I'm missing? Is something going to spring out at me when I least expect it, like some sort of jungle cat? I think having no work is more annoying than having work, because I always feel like I have something but I just don't know what it is. I would much rather have something to do and be sure of it. Yeah, I say that now, but when this whole school thing starts to actually take down its trenchcoat and show me the goods, I'll be longing for these days of sweet torpid lethargy (thank you, oh Thesaurus, for making me sound smarter than I really am).

I don't know if I can stand one ply toilet paper any more. Sure, it's free, but I might as well be wiping with a carboard box. My anus is starting to feel like an open wound.

Send me an e-mail if you have time. I get... so lonely...

Hair Dye, MySpace And Obscure Band Names

Statistics:

I've used the word "fuck" 237 times on this blog.

That's actually a lot better than I expected.

God, I have too much time on my hands.

Fuck.

Reference

When I was a kid, I used to look out the window during car rides and imagine a cross-country skier riding alongside us at the same pace. This skier would jump over any obstacle that came in his way, sometimes resorting to riding on power lines and hopping atop cars. Often he would get hit by things and get quite badly hurt, much to my amusement. But this wouldn't impede the intrepid skier; he would continue on as long as the car was driving. When we finally parked the car, he would do a little skid thing to stop and then sit down with a well-deserved cup of cocoa.

When I was a kid, I used to play with my hands and create characters by shaping them in different ways. It was quite extensive, with a cast of characters ranging in the hundreds. They would go on adventures that ranged from epic to mundane. It was done as a television program. I talked for them by speaking and lip syncing the words with my finger movements. There were heroes and villians and a wide array of finger arrangements, including the rock and roll horns (with optional pencil attachment for further display of evil) and the middle finger bird. I continued this for a good portion of my childhood life. The first thing I said to this kid on the bus on the first day of first grade was "What are your hand's names?". Somehow we stayed friends.

When I was a kid, my mom made me hang out with this kid that everybody hated because she wanted him to have friends. There was a reason he had no friends. The first time we hung out he made me spend all recess under the playground away from everyone. I really wanted to go out and play, but he made me stay there. My mom sent me to his house once and we played Mario. He killed off Luigi every turn so he could get this secret which he claimed existed, so I never got to play because he died every time he tried to get it. I never hung out with him again, disobeying my mom. Later in junior high he sat behind me and yelled the names of Pokemon.

When I was a kid, I watched the Simpsons special where they tell you all the behind the scenes stuff. I was big into Simpsons trivia, so I wanted to write down what I didn't know. I wrote "NRA4EVER" on a small slip of paper, because supposedly that's what the register said when Maggie is swiped. My mom found it and talked to me briefly about it. It was awkward. The actual message was $847.63.

Apparantly, the first album I ever bought was a cassette of Kriss Kross' Totally Krossed Out. I was six.

Something Blue Is Certainly Going On In There

I really hate the feeling of becoming a standard college cliche. It's happened quite a bit lately. I laze around outside, throw Frisbees around and get drunk on the weekends. It's all so... normal. Ugh. And so here I am yet again in a very typical situation, this time of money struggles. It's like my life was written by the writers of Full House. This cliche of living cliches is really bothering me, because I can't seem to think of another word for it than cliche. Plus these problems I'm having are just so... lame. Doesn't anybody get kidnapped by pirates anymore? What happened to people losing their homework in a sewer and then meeting the king of the crocodiles? No, everybody instead succumbs to typical college problems, like the he-said she-said gossip bullshit, poorly made college food, and having a teacher who doesn't give you the grade you want and it's of course all their fault. Yawn.

So here I am strapped for cash. Here I am buying really cheap food and picking up nickels on the ground. So technically, nothing has changed, except that now it's just so obvious. At one point I was comfortable enough financially to not buy bottom of the barrel products and go up to second-notch-from-the-bottom. But now the barrel has a hole and I'm leaked back down to the base. I grappled with the issue of buying laundry detergent today, after spending as long as I possibly could avoiding thinking about laundry altogether. I figured it was time to do it today, as I have no more socks or underwear. So here I am buying the trusty and reliable brand known as "Ultra". I've never heard of Ultra, but god damn was it cheap. But now begin my issues with Ultra:

1. First off, buying the cheapest thing on the shelves is not always beneficial. What, you ask? More expensive products are better than cheap ones? Yes, my silly ignorant questionierre, not all products are created the same. You may think to yourself: "I'll buy the Ivory, as soap is soap and brand doesn't make a difference la la la la." You could be more wrong, but for the sake of overdramaticizing the situation, surely you could not. Ivory is the White Castle of soap. I made the mistake once of buying it, it being the cheapest thing there. Bad move, bucko. Clearly, at the Ivory company, "soap" is another word for "not soap at all but rather a chalky bar of hazmat that melts when in contact with water and snaps when touched". I can see why they shortened it down to the word "soap", because that's a lot of words to put on the label, and it's difficult to market a product that points out it's deficiences so accurately. I figure this Ultra is similar in this regard, being the cheapest possible detergent, and will have to see how many termite nests are in my clothes when I get around to putting them away.

2. The name. "Ultra". Now, granted, I have a problem with most detergent names, but this is usually out of their sheer silliness. Ultra, however, goes deeper, I think. Other detergents choose nouns, like Tide, or verbs, like Wisk, to name their product. But Ultra is an adjective. This is tricky. Ultra is clearly describing something, as is the nature of an adjective, but what is it describing? One might venture the assumption of Ultra Cleanliness, or Ultra Satisfaction, or even something as lame as Ultra Cuddly Time Freshness. But the vague nature here tends to provide my conspiritorial mind with all sorts of other possibilities, like Ultra Unclean, Ultra Inability To Work, or even Ultra Neo-Nazi Underground Death Camps! Do I want my $1.94 to support not only a Neo-Nazi death camp, but an ultra Neo-Nazi death camp??? No sir!

3. Of the selection of fine Ultra products was the 32 load detergent and the 16 load detergent. Now, I'm no economist, nor am I able to tie my shoes without the help of a fireman, but I still somehow can make the assumption that the 32 load is going to be more expensive than the 16 load, right? Wrong! The 16 load was about twice as much as the 32. This dynamic has always confused me. Why would anyone buy the more expensive one that is smaller? It doesn't make any sense. I considered buying the expensive one, actually, because something seemed amiss and I felt like I ought not to buy the clear choice; it seemed to obvious. Something was fishy here.

4. "Ultra"??? I still can't get over that name. How lame and dumb. Both.

Needless to say, despite all these factors, I bought it and used it. I'm cheap, and probably will be until the day I die. Not cheap so much as ungenerously or pettily reluctant to spend money. I don't really spend money on anything anyway. Plus I don't really have any. It's a nice combination.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have Tootie Frootys and Best Yet to enjoy.

Support My Poops

While this blog never intended to either have the audience it does today or an audience at all, I appreciate the fact that people read it. Moreover, it bewilders me. What the fuck? Since when does anyone pay attention and/or care about anything I do? Wow. All these compliments on my writing... They can't all be some conspiritorial inside joke, can they? Does it actually mean I'm good at writing, or is this all pity or joking? I started this shit on a whim, a flight of whimsy, a lark. I love that people like it; I'm just shocked, really. No one read my comic when it was on the internet. No one listens to the music I have on the internet. People avert their eyes from me in the real world. If I were to get hit by a bus, the most recognition I'd get is the movement of the windshield wiper. But here, in the non-existant world of people I can only assume exist, I am loved and respected and popular and hit on. I'm not going to let it go to my head, because I'm probably deluding myself as to how much eveybody actually likes me. But it still is nice to think that something I've done is being appreciated and enjoyed by outside parties.

Which, sort of, brings me to my point. Though this blog began simply, and continues to serve the purpose of, alleviating my boredom to at least a moderate extent, another side goal (also on a lark. This is all about larks, people. Larks rule. Go on 'em) was to become one of the "Blogs of Notice" they have on the little side bar on the front page. I hate blogs and I hate Blogger and this is why I'd be perfect for this little sidebar. I'm getting noticed, just not be you asshole upper fucks in the administration. Unfortunantly, only movie stars and people traveling to foriegn countries get to be on the special little sidebar. Well fuck that. I think it's time for an angry young college student with nothing better to do than point out how much he hates insignificant things to step up to the ranks of sidebar fame. Come on, Blogger. I'm better than all the blogs ever, and you know it. Shit, it went to my head already. Dammit.

So I think I need to have some sort of stupid interesting quirk involved with my writings to validate. Like, maybe I'm a chef in some wacky restaurant chain, or maybe I'm working on some new movie that's coming out which coincidentally is owned by the same company that owns Blogger, or perhaps I'm in Belgium and everything is strange and different and I just need to tell everyone, or maybe I'm realizing that parenthood is an exciting new adventure and boy was I unprepared for the cute and sometimes difficult aspects of raising a child, or could be I'm an intern at some major company and I have slightly off-color views on some subjects, or mayhaps I'm someone who's pretending to be the family dog who somehow gained the ability to type coherently despite the lack of fingers or coherence with technology. Problem is, this blog has no underlying theme like being new to veganism or having cancer. My underlying theme is being bored. And pissed. And horny. And pissed. These are not popular themes for the front page; these are not things the good folks at Blogger want to portray for themselves. But I'm suggesting that perhaps it is a misrepresentation to put Blogs where people are coherent and good-natured on the front page. Most of the Blogs I read are riddled with grammatical and spelling errors, about people who's lives are both not important and not interesting, and are basically simplistic pieces of shit. The Blog of Notice section seems like an ill-fated attempt to make it seem like Blogger doesn't actually blow chunks. Chunks of what is yet to be determined, but be certain they will be lodged together in a chunk-like formation. Which is all the more reason to feature me in the sidebar: Let David Duchovny take a break and let my acid brand of vigorous cantankorisms take over. I don't know who's dick I have to fenagle to get myself amongst the ranks of Dunkin' Donuts employees with a blog, but consider it considered.

That half of the post was written earlier, then Blogger got a bitchy attitude. It didn't like what I was writing, apparantly, and had to shut it down. Well, bullfuggly, I say. They appear to have this newfangled "Recover Lost Post" function, seeing as how most of people's posts have been "F@#6ucking Blogger!" followed by a series of sailor speak. It's a nice gesture; we'll see how well it works. Somehow I have a sneaking suspicion Blogger will get just as much hatred from the underlings as it always has. Nobody on the Blogs of Notice ever complains about Blogger; maybe that's the key here. They want the conformists. The normies. Maybe I don't actually want to join these ranks, but rather be a crazy rouge working outside the system with his own set of rules! Back off, jag-butter, or I'll write something nasty about you and follow it up with a Photoshop picture of you saying "I'm a butt!"

So many Blogs of Notice I don't really understand why they've been noticed. I have my own set of Blogs of Notice; the one's I read. I read one's that seem like they have something interesting to say. If I stumble upon someone on a blog hop that seems coherent, I read on, and if they're coherent to the point of saying something enjoyable, I consider it noticed and add it to my little mental sidebar. Mainly I seek out the good writers. There's something very different between when good writers write about stupid shit and when bad writers write about stupid shit.

"so ok sven came up 2 me and was all sayin stuf bout how heeand dis girl like were talkiing... wtf???? whtvr....,,. so wejust watched sometv or whtvr... omg, then my mom like calleed and said some stuf bout 'hwo late werer u out last nigth? and im like god mom im like 16 i cnan tak care of myslef... god, i hate my parents!"

VS:

"Sven enters the room. My heart beat more quickly as he proceeded to tell me of his news. The woman. Sven was talking with this woman. I questioned the situation in my mind, four times over as a matter of fact. But to me this was nothing. There was television watching to be done. But don't think of it as though I held such great importance in this event. Oh, sweet Lord above from the center of Valhaala, the phone began to ring suddenly. There, a phone cord away, was the overbearing presence of my mother. She questioned my curfew habits, one acquisition followed another. I could not sit idly by and let my responsible edge be questioned with such voracity. I bellowed to her the years I had spent upon this Earth and that this time and experience had shown me independence. I would soon be a patron of the streets like my brethren. Mother, Father... Why?"

Alright, never mind. Stupid shit is stupid shit, looks like, which is why I'm so hesitant to just post things here when the masses clamor. I feel like I need something to write about. This post is what you get when I try to post without anything to say. Let me know if you like it, or hey, if you notice it, and maybe it'll move me to get over my anxiety about trying to please all of you. It's like Bill Cosby said: "If you try to please everyone, you will please no one; oh and by the way, I hate black people under the age of 30." You can't argue with that, he wears interesting sweaters for God's sake.

I had a very brief but somewhat meaningful moment of hesitation in whether or not I should capitalize God or not. My final decision came down to capitalizing, because I need some shift key practice. You can't just pick up how to use that key, people. It doesn't just happen. You don't just wake up one morning and scream to the heavens "I now have access to capital letters and the symbols above the main symbols!". No sir. It takes practice and effort, and it don't come easy. Or cheap.

Come on, Blogger, what's not to be of notice here?

Gumption

Thus ends another April Fools Day, one of the many holidays so insignificant that I flat out forget it's a holiday at all. I suppose that works to most people's advantage should they still be in the mode to play tricks on people. It makes that fly in the ice cube all the better when the individual has forgotten what day it is.

Do people even pull tricks anymore? The most I ever see is someone saying something so ridiculous that you wouldn't believe them anyway, but even less so upon realization of the significance of the date.

"The Pope died."

"Michael Jackson commited suicide."

"Hey, look, there's a dinosaur behind you."

"I'm not fat nor ugly, and I am able to hold a decent conversation."

April fucking fools.

Did the Pope die? I don't really trust anything anybody tells me today, because everyone thinks they're the fucking clown prince of clever that they can shoot a gun with a "Bang!" flag in it and have me extend some sort of verifcation of their wit. What, peanut brittle? Why, absolutely, I'd love some! But you know what I wouldn't love is some spring snakes to pounce forth at me! That'd be a surprise, and boy would I feel quite the fool! Thank god that's not going to happen and only delicious peanut brittle will come forth from this unsuspicious extension of good will!

Eh, Paul F. Tompkins already covered the peanut brittle debacle pretty well.

I like the word "gumption".

Nobody does that stuff anymore, but I'm tempted to not use the word "anymore", as I don't seem to recall when anyone ever did that stuff. I was tricked by the existance of "gag shops" that people actually took this day very seriously and plan to put fake poo in people's food very far in advance. Does anyone care? No one really cares when the prank is pulled on them. "Oh, your hand didn't really get severed and you didn't actually drop it on the ground just now? Boy, I feel the fool, I do. You pulled that proverbial wool over my eyes, yes indeed." I haven't seen anyone try a prank in... Well, ever frankly. No one gives two shits about April Fools Day. And why should they? It's just another bullshit holiday like Valentine's Day or Kwanzaa (if only you could hear my tone. I'm joking, folks! Ha ha, chuckle chuckle? Come on now). So, no pranks pulled by or on me, or anyone else that I've seen. April Fool's is dead.

But what a fucking bizarre day it was anyway. The absence of juvenile mischief and applied knick-knackery deterred not from the strangeness of the day itself. So many bizarre little things happened to me today; nothing too huge or notable, like a dead clown raising to life and preaching to me the evils of electric toothbrushes, but rather several little things that if pieced together like some morbid jigsaw puzzle could easily have been equivilant to just such an act. Most are too mundane to even bother telling you, but I assure you, the overall aura (yeah, I said it) of the day bewildered me and caused perplexity to eminate from my previously unperplexed persona. No full moon this time; hell, even if there were it'd be overcast. Perhaps just an overall sense of foolishness. Potentially the concept of the day seeped into everyone's soul and proceeded to excrete itself not in the shits of pranks, but in the more subtle farts of a general feeling of odd. Odd, odd, odd. You know how you can sense a day? Like when you know some sort of event you were unaware of is taking place? That's what it felt like: Like everyone was affected by something, though none of them knew what. Or maybe it's all in my head and everyone else was going about their regular life, not picking up on anything I was. Maybe there was fake vomit strewn around in a foolish manner and everyone was getting a good chortle out of the fact that they're so damn clever to spend $18.99 on a cheap, unsatisfying laugh. Maybe there were suckers who didn't realize the cap wasn't screwed on tight enough and would have to shamefully get another meal because of their gross miscalculation. And maybe everyone else but I is holed away in a world where these things are kept sacred, where this is a day people not only look forward to but cherish when it's here and remember it when it's gone, where all is well because, jeez, it was just a joke, dude. It's April Fools Day, lighten up. Where someone's banal actions are metamorphisized into "the funniest thing ever" and "you shoulda been there", eventually becoming "oh man, remeber that time when...". Maybe I missed out on all that am hereby stuck in my own world of bizarre attitude. Or maybe they're the same world, and I just look at it differently. Maybe what happened today wasn't weird at all. After all, now that I am thinking about it, I can't come up with one thing that I could write hre and have everyone go "Yeah, that's weird!". Instead, looking back, the odd disappears and I'm left with... what? At the time I said to myself "What a weird day..."; now nothing. Normal. Routine. Commonplace. Happens every day.

You shoulda been there, I guess.